Liselotte Židová

“And the first what happened was that Arthur Lipschitz and Bohumil Trubač packed their stuff and went at our German granny, Czesch granny, at Rázová. It was sometime in June, which was a month later. It was somehow obvious at that time that people were counting with that displacement. Yeah, 'displacement,' it was the most tactful name for it. Well, I don't know, it didn't give the horrible impression that followed afterwards. So they went there and tried to manage the whole situation in some ways there. For example in the way that they tried to get various certificates about our Czesch granny's behaviour, how she helped, how anti-Nazi oriented she was. They tried to do the same with my aunt Ema who was also anti-Nazi oriented; her husband was in the Wehrmacht, it was the same with another aunt of ours. She was worried about him so she couldn't approve that of course, could she... In the end they gave it up with the aunts and wanted to protect at least our Czesch granny from the displacement. It was simply impossible for the reason that the major argument of the decisive organs was: 'What, you as a Jew who came back from the concentration camp are standing up for Germans?' And it was the major argument against which you were helpless as an ordinary person. And my dad had no more contacts or chances to intervene at some higher places.”

“In 1938 my dad decided that he was in such a danger just because of his Jewish origin that we had to leave. I remember those times. When they were making the decision at that time I knew that there was something wrong. Well, you for example overheard a dialog of adults and then, in comparison with the previous times, you had such a funny feeling of insecurity. You could get on well with everyone before. I remember that we were packing our stuff a few days before mobilization already. Then a lorry came and we simply took down our stuff, our suitcases, boxes and furniture then. And our mood escalated so much that we even couldn't load it all. Suddenly we got in and set off. And I remember that there were so many people in front of that lorry. I had no idea what they were shouting but they were shaking their fists at us. It was really scary. It was definitely no waving good-bye. Our departure took place on October 3rd in the evening. We went to Beroun, the soldiers unloaded our furniture and some other stuff in the square. We were allowed to sleep over there. We went to Olomouc. We stayed there in some lodgings for about three weeks. And I was attending school there as well. It was always like that. When we came somewhere I always had to go to school immediately. But it was still a German school there. Then we went to Frenštát... From there we went to Trojanovice, which is a large submontane village where my mum's sister lived. Her husband was a Czech. It was still quite common at that time... nobody demurred at that. So we went there as at some kind of a refuge. I started attending Czech school in Trojanovice. I had attended German schools by then. Neither my parents nor I knew a Czech word and my mum didn't understand a Czech word either.”

“I'm sure you've heard about the reservoir Slezská Harta. It is all under water. Leskovec as well. Half of Leskovec, a part of Rázová, a part of Dlouhé Stráně where my relatives lived. And I perceive it all as a symbol that the water thwarted it all. It covered the imperfections, the bad that had been there. You can see it as a romantic place in the photograph and it is beautiful. The moon is out, lovely, there is Roudno above that, it is a hill of volcanic origin. And I can see it all how it was under the water.”

“My aunt Mici took me with her to Leskovec in about 1942 and there was the border there. My granddad and aunt Herta lived there too. So I visited them and it was truly wonderful because it was when I saw them last. Shortly after that my Lipschitz granddad was transported to Terezín, he died there in 1943 then. Just before my dad got there. And my aunt Herta disappeared completely scentless. They came to pick her up one day. We think they were the Gestapo, the nearest one was in Opava. But we have never managed to find out, not even by repeated attempts with the help of the International Red Cross, where she was taken and where she ended up. (...) My mum still had her youngest brother and he had to join up the Wehrmacht. He was born in 1922 and he loved my dad above all because his own dad died when he was three years old. My dad was replacing him in a way till we were in Leskovec – he taught him to play the violin for example, he also lathered him, though. But he also bought him some sweets when he felt like having some, which his mum, Czesch grandma, didn't want to buy. And my uncle Richard came on holiday from the front just before my dad went to Terezín. And he came in the Wehrmacht uniform to Trojanovice – at the Trubačs. Those were my aunt, she was German and he was Czech. My dad was a Jew, my mum was a German Catholic. And then there were the sister of my uncle Bohuš and her husband, both the founding members of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia. It was such a get-together in one house during the war.”

“My dad got his draft notice to Terezín in September 1944. I was just about to complete my school attendance and the Labour Office gave me the chance to choose. Either to go to work in a munition factory in Vsetín, which was unimaginable, or to go to get my training as a men dressmaker. I didn't want this very much either. But it was where I lived and it was the lesser of the two evils. So I learned to make men trousers in that year. Well, it was good in some ways. And my daddy left, those were the most hard times. I still keep a whole bundle of our correspondence. Thirty words and each word was numbered. Sometimes they didn't do it and it got away, sometimes it didn't. Then allowance stamps for parcel postage and so on. My father was transported to Terezín around Christmas then but we could always send him a parcel. But then towards the end of the war we were not receiving any messages from him. When the front was approaching from all directions we were horrified what would happen, of course. But we had something settled with my dad. It was every evening when the sky was clear that we were watching the Great Dipper thinking of one another. (...) He came from Terezín on May 15th. He had to walk most of the time as there were either no trains or there were some but in irregular intervals... I absolutely vividly remember how I went for lunch from the dressmaker's where I worked on May 15th, 1945. I met one of the militiamen who were making themselves important there. And the guy shouted at me all of a sudden: 'Hey, run home. Your father is on his way home.' Well, I took to my heels then. And I was coming down to our cottage. And I saw my dad so heavily breathing up the hill. It was one of the happiest moments. He came from Terezín and had to walk most of the time as there were either no trains or there were some but in irregular intervals. His weight was forty-five kilo.”