Zdenka, photographed by Lotar, 1939
As happy as they were, May 1939 was not a time for romantic trips, not if you were Czech, and particularly not if you were Jewish. By then Jewish lawyers and physicians had had their licenses revoked, and a law had been passed in March banning the sale or transfer of Jewish property.
Life seemed to be pressing in on them in other ways too. Shortly after the wedding, Zdenka’s grandmother had been taken to the hospital with acute pains and was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Zdenka adored her. Her grandparents had raised her for the first five years of her life, when her mother had moved to be with Zdenka’s father, a soldier for the Austro-Hungarian Empire who was stationed near Budapest. Zdenka had a difficult relationship with him, absent as he was from family life, and while she loved her mother, the strongest family bond was undoubtedly always with her grandmother. It was she who had taught Zdenka to sing, empowered her to manage her own finances from a young age, given her the responsibility of freedom, and later encouraged her to study law. She had also, of course, been the one to throw them their wedding party. Zdenka wanted to stay close to her, especially now that she was suffering. It made sense for the newlyweds to stay in Prague, taking care of her, working and hoping that their papers for emigration to America would come through.
Ella had already decided to spend her days at the house in Libčice. She had always found Prague overwhelming, but now, with the arrival of the Germans, everyday life there had become torturous. Hans was still studying at the Technical College and lightening the gloom by attending Prankster Club meetings and spending weekends playing at the Libčice house with his beloved Jerry and Gin, the new fox terrier puppy. Family correspondence reveals that in addition to writing poems, Hans had also decided to try his hand at sculpture. He wanted to be an artist and attended school only to appease his father. He spent most of his free time in the city with Zdeněk and Zdenka’s sister, Marie, who was a few years younger. Together they formed a little gang: making their own movies, discussing art and books, cycling everywhere, and playing pranks. Zdeněk and Hans deployed their knowledge of chemicals to create sulfur bombs and firecrackers to startle German soldiers in the crowded main streets.
In the meantime, Otto and Lotar were busy trying to keep Montana afloat as the threat of a Nazi takeover loomed. Otto, Hans, Lotar, and Zdenka made an unlikely foursome and spent most weeknights in the apartment by the factory.
Oskar, one of Otto’s brothers, had been fired from his job and had to leave his rented home, so Otto and Ella had suggested he move with his wife and little boy to their house in Libčice. Oskar commuted daily to Prague to help in the factory. Each passing week brought news of the difficulties affecting family members and friends. By July 1940, more than half of the Jewish men in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia had no income. And so it was that Ella managed a full house in Libčice while Zdenka managed one in Prague.
Zdenka, it transpired, later wrote down her recollection of the first morning in the Prague apartment with the family. Breakfasts were always early—so early, in fact, that even the punctual housekeeper arrived after they had finished. Zdenka, independent and resourceful as she was, had never been in charge of a household, and certainly not one catering to the needs of three men who were used to being taken care of. Her mother and grandmother had always overseen such matters and had staff to help, so Zdenka had never had to think about practical details. So, when Otto stepped into the dining room at seven sharp the first morning, the breakfast table was not set. He was unimpressed. Otto disliked change, and his morning routine had hitherto been inviolable. He prized punctuality. He had expected Zdenka to be up before he was to prepare things, so he haughtily left her to do so while he listened to the radio in the living room. Zdenka set the table a few minutes later, boiled water, and sliced some bread. When Otto returned to the table and asked Zdenka for his tea, she cheerfully handed him a cup of plain black tea. Now, Otto took his tea with lemon, and he scanned the breakfast table for the small plate of lemon slices that Ella always ensured was there. Otto liked to choose his slice with care and use the spoon to squeeze a little of the juice before allowing the lemon to float in his cup. That morning, there was no plate. Worse, he soon found out, there were no lemons in the kitchen.
“Ella must have told you that I have lemon with my tea in the mornings?”
“She must have and I must have forgotten,” replied Zdenka too gleefully. “Would you like some milk and sugar instead?” Her charm unfailingly got her out of trouble. As she smiled broadly at her severe father-in-law, she suggested that perhaps what was needed was a bit of sweetness. But her charm did not work here, and Otto left stony-faced to have his breakfast at the Café Svêt on his way to the office. When a startled Lotar joined her in the kitchen, they laughed so hard at Otto’s bad temper that they woke Hans. Zdenka, instead of being cowed, took her relationship with her father-in-law as a challenge.
The next morning, when Otto emerged, a surprise waited for him: Zdenka had laid out a feast on the polished wooden table. She had arranged a platter with cold meats, cheeses, and Otto’s favorite pâté, next to which she had placed a basket with warmed rolls. At Otto’s usual place, she had set out a plate of lemon pieces, some thinly sliced, some quartered. As her father-in-law entered the room, she pronounced formally: “Here, dear sir, is your breakfast. And, of course, your lemon selection.” She bowed slightly.
Otto could not help but smile back. “Oh, I know what you are doing. You are trying to fatten me up to kill me,” he returned, completely deadpan.
That was opening enough for Zdenka to tease him about his previous outburst. It was unusual for anyone to joke with Otto. No one dared. Up until that day, his wife, Ella, and his brother Richard had been the only ones in the family brave enough to do so. For the next few months, until the family was forced to move to the house in Libčice, Otto came to cherish his chats with Zdenka while he had his breakfast. It must have been during those early breakfasts, as he sipped his lemon tea, that their bond was forged. It was then that Otto, just like Lotar, Hans, and Ella, began to love Zdenka.
I have a letter written in two parts by Otto and his brother Oskar in August 1939 to their eldest brother in America. It describes the family’s new conditions.
Dear Victor and children,
I wish to thank you so much for all your efforts so far on our behalf despite the lack of success. The point is to request a visa from any overseas country. It is only once this has been obtained that one may apply for a departure permit from the Gestapo, requiring certain formalities to be met—a return is, of course, out of the question. It is best if the person wishing to depart has in hand or receives a travel ticket from friends abroad, given that one is not allowed to purchase them here. The process on this side is nearly insurmountable.
I continue to work in the family business, albeit with some limitations, so our income is taken care of. Living is really only a question of strong nerves. I do not know in which conditions you will receive my letter. After all, in the insanity of the Europe in which we live, anything is possible.
It is also very hot here. We leave every afternoon for Libčice, where we recover soon but only to be able, the next day, to face all the unpleasantness and attacks upon ourselves. So far, this is bearable and you do not need to worry. Nevertheless, it is interesting how different people deal with their fates in very different ways. The carefree type seem to fare the best but, unfortunately, the Neumanns are not of that disposition.