I have some letters from the second half of 1943, but very few. Ella was convalescing, having been bedridden again in the hospital and unable to write much. The grapevine in Terezín worked efficiently, and Otto must have heard that Mussolini had been ousted and that the Russians were driving back the Nazis on the eastern front. Their optimism rekindled as the news spread through the camp. He wrote to Zdenka and his boys: I think of you night and day. Slowly I am starting again to make plans for our future. My only worry is that your mother and I stay here until the end and there is hope of that given Ella’s malady. One of the many paradoxes of life in Terezín was that, for a while, at least, Ella’s sojourn in the hospital protected her from being sent east.
In Berlin, Hans was also beginning to allow himself to think of the end of the war:
The noise of the dining room was overwhelming. The sound of cutlery, plates, people talking, laughing, shouting. It was so normal, so chaotic, and so mundane. There must have been 500 people having lunch. The high-ceilinged room used to be a depository for raw materials. Nothing needed to be stored any longer, all materials that arrived were immediately transformed into products and the workforce had grown so quickly that a new dining place was needed. So here we were.
Conversations were being held in German, Russian, French, Polish, Dutch, and other languages that I could not easily identify. At our table we spoke Czech. The majority of the workers were people from occupied countries. They were not the scientists, those were usually German. We, the others, were the ones made to perform the most dangerous tasks, handle the corrosives and the explosives. Many had the scars of scalds and burns on their hands and arms. They had been forced to leave their countries and work here for no real pay and no safety regulations.
Posters everywhere threatened us that this new Reich would span the globe and last a millennium. Images of Hitler were everywhere. He seemed perpetually to observe us all, unthinking and pitiless. A poster above us bore the words: “One nation, one people, one Führer.”
We all devoured the food even though it was disgusting. As I cut the meal on my plate, I realized that there was a high likelihood that the brown concoction I was ingesting consisted of cows’ lungs and rotten potatoes.
As I cleared my tray, I noticed a man wearing the hallmark blue overall of a forced laborer standing slightly too close to me. He whispered with a Dutch accent: “Šebesta, right? I have been watching you. I am a friend. I will wait for you by the main exit tonight.”
And before giving me time to get a proper look, he walked away. His broad shoulders, too big for his uniform, disappeared amid the blue and brown herds filling the corridor. That evening the broad man waited for me by the gate as he had promised. He looked straight at me and without hesitation said, “Šebesta, let’s walk.”
It was early autumn and the evening was filled with auburn light. I followed him, partly out of curiosity, partly because there was something familiar and compelling about him. As we turned the corner onto Gustav-Adolf Strasse and approached the cemetery, he spoke calmly.
“Let’s go in here.”
We meandered among the ancient trees and tombs, taking our time and idly perusing the inscriptions.
“You are like me. You don’t want this war to go on longer than is necessary.” I did not say anything. Tombstones have always made me nervous. He continued.
“The Nazis will lose sooner or later. You and I can do our best so that it is sooner.”
We stopped near a mossy cracked headstone, its engraving erased by time.
I looked at him, unsure whether I should try to hide my surprise. This could easily have been a trap. Perhaps it was some sort of test, but something about him reassured me. He smiled and said, “It is okay. This seems unreal, I know, but then don’t most days?”
He started to walk again. I caught up with him. I let him lead the way.
“I dislike the war. I mean, who doesn’t?” I said carefully.
He paused and looked at me. For a moment neither of us spoke. He seemed assured for a mere laborer. He looked out of place in his overalls and thick gray jacket. I could tell by the way he spoke that there was a sophistication to him. He could not be much older than I was. He spoke German fluidly, with just the smallest hint of a Dutch accent. As I examined his face, I realized that I had seen him before at the factory and that I had heard him chatting in French as well. I no longer hid my surprise. “Are you some sort of academic?”
I pulled a crumpled pack from my pocket and offered him a cigarette. We headed to the exit as the light faded.
“University student,” he replied. “But that was another life.”
Looking around him, he spoke quietly and deliberately now.
“You have the opportunity to obtain information that could be interesting to the Allies. If you get the papers to me I will ensure they fall into the right hands. Just make eye contact in the lunch hall and I’ll wait for you by the gates. I’ll be in touch, Šebesta. I trust you.”
He stared straight at me.
That was it. He didn’t ask for an answer or a promise. Nothing. He was measured and determined. He didn’t waste words. He seemed to know what he was doing. Or did he? He left me on the side of the street, didn’t turn around, didn’t say goodbye.
I was not sure what to do. I couldn’t ask anyone’s advice. Not Zdeněk. Obviously not Traudl. There was no one I could trust with this. The decision had to be mine. I could not get anyone else involved. It would have been a risk for me and could also be their death sentence. I was utterly alone. Alone in a ridiculous situation. I had a false name. Hunted by the Gestapo, I had come to the center of their world. Pretending to be a technical specialist, I was working in a factory for the very people who were starving my parents, torturing and killing my family. I was living with a German war widow. I was in a city that was constantly being bombed by the people whose side I was on. As my new Dutch friend had remarked, it was all entirely unreal.
And it wasn’t really a choice. There was only one thing to do. The longer the war went on, the less tenable my situation. My odds of survival were minimal anyway. The sooner this war ended, the more chance I had of coming out alive and seeing my family and my friends again. The Dutch student was right. I wanted to help end this war. I made up my mind as I walked the few blocks back to Traudl at 48 Wigandstaler Strasse. The next day I would find the Dutch student and tell him that I would do it. I would find him at the lunch hall and just say yes.
That night I had to drink three cupfuls of my revolting alcoholic mixture to fall asleep. I had made it to barter for supplies, but that evening I was thankful to have not traded it all.
I will probably never find out who the Dutch student was. My father’s writings are filled with names, most of which I have been able to verify either from Warnecke & Böhm’s employee records or from the old Berlin phone books. But the name of the Dutch student is never given. I wonder if my father even knew it. Perhaps he had never been told for reasons of security. Maybe he thought that omitting the name was the correct thing to do.
Instead of the Dutch student’s name, my father left me a document in the box, stolen from the factory, which details the kind of work that he carried out. This document, dated December 14, 1943, was signed by Dr. Högn and marked Sebesta/3. It detailed research that had been undertaken to assess the effectiveness of sealing lacquer that was being developed for Messerschmitt, the aircraft manufacturer.