Yours,
Otto
Dear Victor and boys,
You cannot imagine how often, in the past days, we have wondered if there would be a letter from you. I have wanted to write before, but I have not been in the mood for it. Please don’t think it is out of laziness.
Today, your letter finally arrived and we are writing back immediately. First of all, thanks for your efforts. One day, I hope I have an occasion to reciprocate. Also, thanks for the holiday postcard, the effect of which you cannot imagine: your freedom makes me envious! It just seems incredible, for instance, that one can travel freely to the seaside without having to take into account the religion of one’s grandparents!
It seems there is going to be a war. Staying here, under the current conditions, unless things were to change, will be impossible for Jews. So far, we all have something to make a living from… we are therefore lucky and can wait.
Next Monday, I will move with my whole family into a one-room apartment where we will wait for things to come. I am not sure whether our boy will be able to attend school but will find out in the next days. I thought you would not be familiar with the definition for “Aryan,” but I see from your letter that the word is even known to you. That is something, isn’t it? It’s the kind of world we live in.
With war in the air, sadly all is irrelevant. We are going to have to wait and see what the future brings. I can only say that I could not consider waiting somewhere abroad for my turn to emigrate; I need to earn something. Whereas, for the young men it is different, I have a family to support. One’s love for family is all-encompassing… how would I feel if I could not feed my own boy? My son is a beautiful six-year-old boy and I would do anything to keep him safe and fed until he is at least older or able to earn a living on his own. Still I remain optimistic and hope that all turns out well for us.
You are correct when you say that, so far, we have somehow managed and hence we will continue to do so. So far, and I hope this remains true for the future, we have not lost our nerve. We have been living quietly and have been lucky. I hope this luck holds.
I wanted to let you know that the newly married Lotík and his young bride, Zdenka, are very happy, they have a really beautiful life together. She is very kind, sweet, clever and beautiful. It’s a joy to watch them together! They are only, like all of us, longing for a little peace. I do not know when, or if at all, it will be possible to write to you again. Just know that we will not give up easily and that I hope that we all meet joyfully in the New World.
Victor, stay healthy and well along with your sons.
Goodbye for now,
Oskar
As it became apparent that migrating to America would prove difficult, Richard and Victor traveled to Cuba numerous times in 1939 and 1940 in a futile attempt to organize visas for the family to escape Europe via the Caribbean. Their efforts are still visible today. A file stored in the Czech Ministry of Exterior Affairs discloses that the consulates of the Czechoslovak government in exile in both America and Cuba requested information about the Neumann brothers from Prague.
Every week that passed brought more laws against the Jews. As I read them now, I am struck by how petty and arbitrary some of them were. As one apparently ridiculous order was added to the last, the process of separation and dehumanization emerges. In dizzying increments, the rules become devastating in their absurdity, in their horror.
In May 1939, Jews were banned from holding gun licenses; in June, Jewish pupils were expelled from German schools; and by July, there were laws stating that Jews were banned from the judiciary, from being lawyers, teachers, or journalists. In that same month, a decree was passed that non-Aryans must register their belongings: their houses, their cars, their bank accounts, their gold, their jewels, and their art. In July, laws were passed restricting Jews to restaurants with separate Jewish areas. In the coming weeks, they were excluded from swimming pools. They were not to enter parks, cinemas, or theaters. They were not allowed to travel without a permit. They had to surrender their driver’s licenses—and, eventually, their cars and bicycles. Their radios. Their cameras. Their stamp collections. Their sewing machines. Their umbrellas. Their pets.
The family was not just affected by professional and logistical restrictions created by the laws. The consequences went far beyond the multitude of everyday activities that they specifically forbade. The laws emboldened those with a racist agenda, who were now organized into groups like the Czech fascist association, Vlajka. Individuals too were now empowered to voice their hatred and to act, unpunished, on their prejudices. Racism and violence were being normalized. Every day of May and June 1939 saw the burning of a synagogue in the Czech Protectorate. The laws had another, subtler effect. They generated an enormous amount of paperwork and bureaucracy that increasingly wearied the thousands affected and served further to alienate and differentiate.
The restriction on Jews in schools impacted the Neumanns’ younger cousins on both sides of the family. Věra Haasová, Ella’s niece, was eight years old in 1939. Věra was the daughter of Ella’s brother, Hugo, and his wife, Marta Stadler. Věra and her parents lived in Roudnice, above a shop owned by Marta’s father. They hosted Haas family reunions and usually visited Libčice in the summer to spend time with the Neumanns.
An only child, Věra had attended a German school, and now she, like the other Jewish children in the town, was banned from attending classes. The Czech schools would not accept Jewish children, so Marta’s parents put some wooden chairs and tables in a few unused rooms at the back of their shop and created a clandestine place for the children to learn. Marta’s father, who had retired, taught math, science, and German, while others volunteered to teach geography, poetry, and the humanities.
At the beginning, the children were taken outside to do sports, play, cycle, and have picnics, but by 1941, laws had forced them to stay indoors. Nonetheless, the school seems to have been a refuge for the children. In a picture taken in the summer of 1941 that I found seventy-five years later, all the girls hold hands as they beam at the camera. Věra is the tallest, wearing a chunky necklace. Mr. Stadler, Věra’s grandfather, stands by the doorway in the back with a serious expression. The tiny school likely preserved a little peace of mind for these children, providing a haven of normalcy until 1942, when the Roudnice Jews were deported.
Children at the clandestine school behind the Stadler shop in Roudnice, 1941
We know all of this today because one of the pupils in the clandestine school later gave an account that can be found in the archives of the Jewish Museum in Prague. She donated notebooks and other pictures of the pupils. One of them shows children around a table covered with books and pens. In another, boys and girls are sprawling on picnic rugs in the grass. Bicycles lean against trees, and a guitar lies on a blanket at one side of the picture. Everyone seems relaxed. There is nothing that could lead the viewer to think that these photographs were taken during a war, during a persecution.
The woman who gave the account and donated all the documentation is named Alena Borská. Just like my cousin Věra, she was born in 1931. Alena is now eighty-eight years old and lives in Roudnice still. She does not use a mobile telephone or the Internet. Alena can be seen in the photograph. Dressed in white, she smiles broadly as she stands to the right of Věra.