Police registration of Jan Šebesta in Berlin, November 1943
For Jan, scrupulously maintaining the appearance of a mildly disrespectful yet compliant stranger to the city was a constant burden. Daily life was an extraordinary struggle, and as the war came to Berlin, it was indifferent to his personal loyalties.
Since May 1940, the British Royal Air Force had attacked targets that were considered valuable to the German war effort, including many sites in Berlin. Warnecke & Böhm, which was developing products for the German military, certainly would have made a worthy target. While no air raid siren had sounded in Berlin during the first few months following Hans’s arrival, August 23 marked the beginning of a concerted bombing campaign.
That day I oversaw distributing tasks to my colleagues in the lab. The blond German chemist reminded me of an albino rodent, enthusiastic with twitchy hands. Her short and rotund assistant was another Czech. I knew she was miserable even if she did not say a word. Each time I tried to catch her eye, she looked down at the floor.
Dr. Högn called me into his office. He looked like a goose with his wide-set blue eyes.
“Šebesta, you’ve impressed me. Your ideas have allowed us to improve our processes. Of course, I have had to present them as being from our investigations team.”
I looked straight back at him. “Thank you, Herr Dr.”
What he didn’t tell me was that he had presented my ideas as his own. He was an ardent Nazi, toiling to climb the political ladder. I detested him. He had even started to wear a little mustache, like the führer, a blot of darkness on his idiotic round face.
He used to boast that he was so important for the Nazi Party that he was even allowed to skip the compulsory military service. He had told me with great pride that he was one of a handful of Austrians who were engaged with Hitler before the Anschluss. His role in this company was not that of a scientist but of a political emissary. He was useless as a researcher. That is why I was useful to him. He resented the fact that I had more imagination, simply because it contradicted his view that as a Czech, I was a lesser being than he was. If only he knew that I was even lower than that, at the bottom of his fabricated hierarchy, in fact, a stupid, lowly Jew.
“I wanted to tell you that I am going to get you involved in higher-level, important, and confidential research,” he announced. “You should be proud. I asked the Gestapo for clearance to promote you. Yesterday, I received the form authorizing you. There is nothing in your past precluding you from access to confidential documents. Congratulations, Šebesta.”
I could not answer, appalled at the idea that he had requested the detailed Gestapo review of my file that a promotion likely entailed.
I dabbed, I hoped discreetly, at the perspiration on my brow. I tried to keep eye contact. I could not stop my knees from shaking. I shifted my weight from one leg to another, pretending it was excitement.
I was shaking.
“I must go home, it’s late, Šebesta,” he announced. “You must go too.”
I think I must have smiled feebly at him as he waddled from the room.
It was not until a month later that after careful half-inquiries at the factory, I tentatively reconstructed what had happened. Dr. Högn had referred the matter of my potential promotion to the Berlin Gestapo. The Berlin Gestapo had written to the Prague Gestapo, submitting a lengthy list of questions. Had Šebesta ever been involved in student protests? Had Šebesta ever been on any list of politically active students? Had Šebesta ever done anything in opposition to the interests of the Reich? Did Šebesta have a police record? Had Šebesta ever expressed any opinions that were critical of the Reich? Was Šebesta ever involved with anything arousing suspicion of any of the above? So the list must have continued.
The list had omitted one question. Had a Jan Šebesta, born in Alt Bunzlau on March 11, 1921, ever existed? This question had never been posed in Prague or in Berlin and was thus never answered.
Dr. Högn had been duly informed by the Berlin Gestapo in Berlin that no criminal file existed for Jan Šebesta, against whom nothing negative was known. He could proceed.
Once again, the unfortunate boy from Prague was saved by luck. The phrasing of a question and the rigidity with which it had been answered had allowed him to remain undetected in Berlin. My father had once told me that his life had been saved during the war by others’ lack of imagination. I had not known what he meant precisely until I read this account.
* * *
Lotar was no longer permitted to assume any position of responsibility at Montana, so Zdenka had, as always, stepped in. After the first Reich-appointed treuhänder had departed in 1942, the factory continued operating under Alois Francek, another Reich-appointed treuhänder who had written a letter in support of Otto’s work. Like all other Jews, the Neumanns never received any payment for the “sale” of their business to the Nazis, but Francek, at least, always stayed sympathetic to the family. He was happy to involve Zdenka, who was capable and knew the inner workings of the factory. It was an unusual place for a female lawyer, but the men had been deported or sent away to work or fight for the Reich. Over the years, Zdenka had engaged in many a business debate with the family, listened patiently to Otto’s anxieties, and faithfully counseled Lotar. She knew what needed to be done. There was little for the dwindling factory staff to do, as materials were almost impossible to come by, and private orders were few and far between. Nevertheless, in an attempt to salvage whatever she could of the business, Zdenka worked in Montana every day. Yet the couple’s focus continued to be on the growing challenge of keeping Otto and Ella supplied with letters and goods while the shortages and threats increased and the carriers became less and less reliable.
Otto marveled at Zdenka’s indomitable optimism, which lifted his own spirits. Do not worry about us my darlings… we know you have all done all you could have for us and the rest we leave to fate… hopefully a favorable one.
Zdenka worried, though, and determined that it was time to take the enormous risk of accessing Terezín again. Understandably, her memoirs dwell on her emotional response to the situation, and it is not clear from them precisely when she snuck in. It must have been during the early-autumn months of 1943, when getting parcels through was becoming impossible, that Zdenka entered the camp a second time.
Once more, she dressed like an inmate and tagged along with the “country unit” working in the nearby fields. She searched for Otto in the Hannover barracks, and there she found him, on his shared wooden bunk. She had stitched hidden pockets within her shirt and skirts, inside which she carried tins of shoe polish for his hair, money, and other small items of value to him. Above all, she brought him hope.
One of the items in Lotar’s box is an unusual-looking ring, made in metal that is colored in bronzed pinks and dark grays. It seems to have been carved by hand from a piece of copper pipe. It is not delicate or pretty. The ring is arranged around a curved, bordered rectangle with the letters ZN intertwined. They are Zdenka’s initials.
Madla explained to me that her father had told her once that Otto made the ring in Terezín. Grateful to Zdenka for the parcels, for the letters, for her help and what seemed like unconditional love, he had stolen some metal from one of the workshops and molded it himself. Otto was an engineer, not an artist, and was unused to fashioning things using his hands. And yet somehow he managed to make this ring, which now sits on my desk as I write. Otto must have loved Zdenka very much. Perhaps it was during her brave incursion into the camp that a grateful Otto gave her the ring. Maybe he sent it out with one of their trusted couriers. Either way, this simple, essential symbol of love and gratitude made it out of Terezín. Zdenka kept it and wore it throughout the war.