By Chance Alone Page 16

  CHAPTER 25

  Prague

  After our arrival in Prague in October 1948, we asked around about cheaper hotels. Our funds were limited, and we rode the tram to an area of fleabag joints, a level of accommodation that would have to suffice for now. The country was a virtual police state and a new law limited people to only one night in a hotel; after that, you would be reported to authorities. To work around this restriction, we split up into twos and rotated every day to different hotels. Every morning, we met at Wenceslas Square, where we could mix in with the locals. We could never be sure when a plainclothes policeman might stop us for identification. There was a movie house in the square that played newsreels twenty-four hours a day, and we spent many a night there to avoid going back to our bug-infested rooms.

  We went back to our document fixer on numerous occasions to see about the progress on our papers. He had a dingy office in the old city of Prague. The weather was turning cold, and we walked briskly with our collars up and our heads down, hoping not to be noticed. Each time we went back, we were told our papers were not yet ready. Some of the other boys were getting antsy and began looking for other ways out. We were now down to four, and I was getting very concerned about how long we could hold out.

  On our fourth visit, we were met not by the forger but by several detectives who immediately asked for our identification papers. I presented my official papers, but the detectives also had my false documents and we were caught in the deception. One officer asked me which papers were genuine, and I told him I was a Slovak. He asked how my picture had appeared in the false document, and I told him I didn’t know. He said I was under arrest, and it felt like a death sentence.

  A van pulled up to the door, and the four of us and the fixer were shoved in and taken away. After a short while, we came to a stop and they ordered us out again. As I emerged from the van, I could see that we were inside an enclosed courtyard within a massive building with barred windows. This was a prison known as Karlovsky Vezeny. I was booked, searched, and asked for my last residence. I gave them the name of my hotel and told them I had nothing there but a small suitcase containing some clothing. The four of us were separated, and I was taken to a cell holding some scary characters. It seemed like the whole underworld of Prague was there: criminals, pedophiles, and thieves. These prisoners frisked me for cigarettes even after I told them I didn’t have anything. I was in shock and feared for my life.

  Hours later, a guard called my name and removed me from the cell. I was taken to the courtyard again, where a larger van was now waiting. There was a solid divider down the centre of this van, so I couldn’t see or communicate with the other passengers. In prison parlance, it was termed the Black Maria. Talking was prohibited, and I didn’t know where I was being taken or what had happened to my friends.

  After a lengthy drive, the van came to a halt. A metal gate opened, allowing us entry, and closed behind us again with a loud bang. The sound sent shivers down my spine. The van doors opened and we were ordered out. My first impression was that we were inside a very large prison. It had high walls topped with barbed wire, guard towers, and a large centre building radiating wings in the shape of a star. I saw many cell windows. Each one had a number printed on the wall below it, and the guards used those numbers to identify prisoners who looked out the windows—a strictly prohibited activity. This prison was called the Pankratz, and it was a maximum-security facility exclusively for political prisoners. I was booked in, and my belt and shoelaces were removed, then I was taken to a room to be interrogated. I could see my documents in a file folder in front of the two detectives. They told me that I had committed a serious crime against the state, and that I would spend many years in prison unless I told them how I got the false papers and who else was involved. They said I would never see daylight again unless I came clean. I stuck to my initial statement: I didn’t know why my picture was among the false documents, and I meant no harm to the government. I was handed a typewritten sheet and told to sign it. When I said I had to read it before I could sign, they kept telling me that it was only a formality. But I realized that in signing that sheet, I would be admitting to severe charges. It stated I was complicit in a subversive act against the government. I refused to sign. The interrogator was very angry and said, “I’m putting your file at the bottom of the drawer and it will take fifty years before anyone will look at it again.” I knew that I was in big trouble and well over my head. I felt utter despair that, having survived the ordeal of the camps, I was now caught in this mess. I didn’t know how, or even if, I was going to get myself out.

  One of the detectives called for a guard, and I was taken to the fourth floor of the building. There were many cells on both sides with an empty central area between them. The cell to which I was taken had a large red circle painted on the door. I didn’t see any other cells with this same symbol, and I didn’t know what it meant. Was it a good sign or a bad sign? I later learned it was there because one of the occupants was under a death sentence.

  The guard opened the door and ushered me inside. There was a three-tier bunk bed on each side of the room, a narrow table, a bench in the middle, a steel toilet, and a small window with metal bars. Five people sat on the bench staring at me, trying to assess what crime I had committed. When the guard left, I introduced myself and they asked why I was there. I told them I’d been framed with some false documents. I was eager to know who these people were, because they didn’t look like criminals to me. It turned out that three of them were top officials with the Democratic Party and had been arrested by the Communists on the first night of the coup; one was a lawyer; and the fifth was a young man in his late twenties, a lieutenant in the Czech army. When I shook hands with him, I realized that all his fingers were disfigured and I worried that I might end up with a similar affliction. All five had been incarcerated for at least four months. I could feel they were distrustful of me, possibly because they suspected I was an informant. Placing a snitch was a common practice in the prison.

  I was the youngest person in the cell and all the others were connected to the political arena. It took a few days of questioning before they were convinced that my story was true. It felt good to be accepted by them, and I felt that we could now coexist as a group. The men immediately explained to me how we would all live together in such close quarters. The toilet, I learned, was also used to wash clothes and bodies, and as a source of drinking water, so it was kept in pristine condition. The pine flooring was scrubbed every day. A schedule of duties was prepared weekly so that everyone knew their responsibilities. Four of the men were married and had children, but they had not been able to see or write to their families since the day they were jailed. The young man, whose name was Pavel, was single. He was head of security in Jachymov, a town near the German border where uranium was mined, and he had been arrested for allegedly supplying the Americans with maps of the mines and details of the refining process. He was constantly interrogated and tortured—all his fingers and toes had been crushed by the KGB—and he was the one sentenced to be hanged. He and I became very close.

  Our cells were heated by hot water radiators, but these served another purpose as well: each evening when the lights went out, prisoners began tapping on the rads to send messages via Morse code. The sounds could be heard throughout the building, and yet the guards were helpless to do anything about it. Each morning, the inmates of individual floors were allowed out for a fifteen-minute walk. We were ordered to walk in a circle and not to talk. It was an eerie feeling to walk quietly in circles. When we got back, we realized that the guards had completely overturned our cells, searching for contraband. We were allowed to read books that orderlies brought around on carts; the selection was limited, but we just read and reread the same titles to keep our minds occupied. They also provided pencils and paper for us to write our thoughts.

  Lieutenant Pavel and I became good buddies. I respected him because, despite his death sentence, he was very focused on the here
and now. He and I made a chess set out of bread, and I taught him how to play. I also taught him about Judaism and the Hebrew alphabet. In the evenings, my cellmates often wanted me to tell them about my family and my experiences in the camps. Although they had heard of the camps, they had no idea what they were really like and they were shocked to learn the details. They realized that I had already served time under much harsher circumstances than they had in this prison, and they ceased to complain about their experiences as political prisoners.

  We worked out a schedule for exercises, and every day we did a certain number of push-ups and sit-ups and walked two hundred times around the cell. Our diet was ample: porridge for breakfast with tea; soup for lunch with a piece of bread; tea, bread, and cheese for supper. I recall that my first Saturday evening meal was bread and a foul-smelling cheese called Quargel. I wondered who could possibly eat this malodorous mess, but I eventually developed a taste for it. The daily routine was liveable, but it took a greater toll on the men with families.

  The orderlies, who were also political prisoners, ladled out our food and tried to keep us informed of events on the outside by passing us information when the guards weren’t watching. We found out this way that three generals had been hanged in the yard. I had no communication with anyone outside the prison, and no one had communicated with me from the prison office either. I became deeply concerned that I would spend the rest of my life here and simply disappear.

  One day a guard came to the door, called my name, and gave me a document stating that I had committed a crime against the government and would have to serve ten years in prison. This was “justice” without a trial. How could anyone survive ten years in this hole? My cellmates told me not to worry and assured me that the Americans would soon kick out the Communists. Sadly, I knew that was not going to happen, but I didn’t want to crush their hopes. It was March 15, 1949—my twentieth birthday—and I was in a state of despair. I knew I’d need a miracle to get out of my current predicament.

  Our other daily pastime was to induce hyperventilation, then hold our breath while someone else lifted us off our feet from behind. This would bring on a trancelike state and cause approximately twenty minutes of dreams and hallucinations. Afterward, we would discuss our dreams and try to decipher messages or signs of our salvation. These sessions always reminded me of the biblical story of Joseph, who was jailed in the Pharaoh’s prison in Egypt. Like my bunkmates, Joseph was pretty good at deciphering the Pharaoh’s dreams, and interestingly in mid-April, the best interpreter in our cell suggested that one of my dreams was a sign I would soon be released from prison. It was a delightful thought, but I didn’t give it much credence. My cellmates, however, took the interpretation seriously and started writing notes to their families. They hid these in the lining of my shoes and made me promise to deliver them once I was free.

  Days later, a guard opened our cell door, called my name, and told me to follow him. Everyone looked at me with surprised expressions, but I didn’t know whether to say goodbye. I really wanted to give my friend Pavel a big hug, but it wasn’t possible. The guard led me to the director’s office, where I saw my friend Mike and a civilian I didn’t know. The director announced that the civilian had guaranteed we would leave the country within twenty-four hours. Mike and I had to sign documents agreeing to these terms. If we didn’t leave the country within that time and were rearrested, the director said, it would mean an automatic life sentence.

  I was happy as punch to sign anything, as long as it got me out of prison. A guard returned my belongings, my belt, my shoelaces, and the few Czech coins I’d had in my pocket. We were taken to the main gate and let out. Freedom was an amazing feeling, and I felt sky-high. It was May 1, 1949. I had been in prison for six months, and I could now hear May Day celebrations and music in the distance. It was wonderful. We asked the man who’d liberated us where he was taking us, but he simply told us to take the train to Košice and left. We were stunned. We looked for a small restaurant to gather our thoughts and make our plans for the trip. I headed for the washroom to extract all the messages from my shoes. While I had a coffee, I checked the addresses and asked the waiter which one was closest to me. We had approximately four hours before the train departed. I didn’t have time to deliver all of the letters individually, but I did take one to the wife of one of my inmate friends. I also knew that I would have to spend some time telling her about her husband after all the months they’d been apart. Mike and I decided to split up. He went directly to the station, and I planned to meet up with him in a couple of hours.

  I found the address closest to me and rang the bell. A lady opened the door, and I told her that I’d just been released from the Pankratz, and that her husband, the lawyer, and I were cellmates. She was speechless at first, and then she peppered me with questions: “How is he? How is he doing? Is he well?” I assured her that he was well both physically and mentally. I tried to give her as much information as my time permitted. I handed her the letters and let her read her husband’s first. Tears rolled down her face. I waited until she was done, and then I asked her if she could deliver the letters to the other wives because I had to leave town as soon as possible. She promised she would and asked if there was anything else she could do for me. I told her that I would appreciate a few sandwiches, and she obliged. I advised her to keep writing to the prison authorities, then I said goodbye and quickly left, feeling good that I had kept my promise to her husband and the others.

  I got on the tram and headed for the railway station. I saw Mike at the spot where we had agreed to meet, and we bought our tickets and waited for the boarding call. It was a long journey from Prague to Košice—the train left at 5 p.m. and didn’t arrive until the following morning. I was concerned about the police who frequently came through the cars and asked people for identification and the reason for their travel. I hoped we could avoid that situation. Once we’d passed through Bohemia and Moravia and entered Slovakia, I felt a sense of relief because the Slovakian police wouldn’t be aware of our circumstances and we wouldn’t be facing as much risk.

  CHAPTER 26

  Return to Košice

  Once back in Košice, I went to stay with the Gottlieb family and Mike stayed with his father. We had a limited amount of time to find a way out of Czechoslovakia, and we looked at many possibilities for escaping the country. In the spring of 1949, an influx of Hungarian Jews had come across the border to flee Communism. A large number of them were sheltered by the Jewish community in Bratislava. We learned that the Slovak government would allow these Hungarian Jews to leave for the American zone in Austria because they were considered foreigners, and we figured this would be our opportunity to leave the country as well.

  Mike and I packed up our suitcases and took the train to Bratislava, registering as Hungarian Jews at the community centre. The place was crowded with people and there wasn’t much room. We found some boys and girls our age and joined up with them. We all spoke Hungarian, and it felt good to be a part of this group. We shared a feeling of excitement about our journey, but none of us knew exactly when we would depart.

  The group we’d joined had come across the border from Hungary with small backpacks, whereas my friend and I each had quite a large suitcase full of belongings. We realized this obvious disparity could jeopardize our chances of getting to the American zone, because the authorities might realize that we were not really Hungarian refugees. We distributed most of our clothing among the other boys and reduced our belongings to the bare minimum. I packed my remaining clothes into a small discarded backpack that I found among a pile of empty suitcases from previous transports. Once that was done, I felt better integrated with the group, which included a beautiful red-headed girl named Tova, also a Hungarian survivor. She and I became good friends, and eventually she became my first girlfriend. I had spent my teenage years entirely with boys and men, and this was a new experience for me.

  We were told by people in charge of the Jewish community that we
must not leave the premises in case the police stopped us; if that happened, nobody would be able to help. Two days later, it was announced that the transport would leave that afternoon. Border police set up long tables in the community yard, and we lined up single file and put our backpacks on the table to be checked. One officer stamped the false registration paper that I had received when we arrived. After the police check, we climbed into the boxcars and the doors were closed. I wasn’t afraid of this train—it was my ticket to freedom. When the train started to move, we all began singing and laughing. We knew that our destination was Vienna, and that we were leaving the Communist state behind. We had high hopes of finally making it to freedom.

  Approximately two hours later, the train stopped and the doors were opened. We got out of the boxcars and saw a number of large American army trucks waiting for us. The drivers belonged to a Jewish organization called the Bricha, which was dedicated to taking Jewish teenagers out of European displaced persons camps and getting them to Israel, America, and elsewhere. Less than two weeks earlier, I’d been sitting in a prison in Prague, and now here I was on the road to Vienna.

  We arrived at the American sector of Vienna and were taken immediately to a large building called the Rothschild Hospital, which was actually not a hospital at this time but a processing centre for refugees. It was the main transit point for all refugees from Vienna to different places in the West and to displaced person camps located in the American zones of Austria and Germany. We were registered and told to find a spot in the building, which was almost impossible given that people were practically hanging from the rafters. There was no privacy, and a huge number of people were packed in together. We were strongly encouraged to move on from the building to make room for others who would be coming from the east. Many people—including my girlfriend, Tova—headed by train to Genoa, Italy, to board ships bound for Israel. My friend Mike was heading for Australia, and I was planning to go to Canada.