The first day I called the two suppliers and explained that I had just arrived from Berlin and fallen ill. I asked them whether we could deal with our business over the phone and offered to send my assistant to their offices to collect any paperwork or materials that needed to go back to Berlin. They both agreed. Míla, always helpful, played the part of my assistant and went to their offices to collect the papers and chemicals.
I stayed a week in the apartment without taking a step outside. I barely dared to look out of the window. I longed to walk along my old streets, visit my parents’ house, see Lotar and Zdenka, but even thinking about it made me nervous. Míla came only at night, to minimize the chances of running into acquaintances along the way who may ask too many questions. She brought me food that she’d prepared at her parents’ apartment. She left some pâté, bread, and her rohlíčky sugar cookies in the shape of crescent moons. I could barely touch them, and they had always been a favorite. The constant knot in my stomach left no space for food. I was careful that there were no smells or noises to create any unnecessary reminder of my presence. We moved around barefoot, spoke in hushed words as we played cards and shared stories. We wanted to spend time together, but I was an anxious wreck. I tried to remain positive to get through it. Things in Prague did not seem to be worse than in Berlin. At least there were no bombs and one could sleep, albeit fitfully, at night.
I read and reread the dozens of letters from Terezín that Zdenka had given me. I imagined my parents’ tones and voices and was happy to feel them with me despite the conditions they described. They knew I had left Prague and had only been addressing the letters to Lotar and Zdenka. But I knew they were for us all. My mother’s letters were usually addressed to “My golden ones.” She had always called us that. One of my earliest memories was of falling down the stone steps at Libčice. My mother had cleaned my cuts, and as I flinched at the sting of the powdered antiseptic, she comforted me with murmurs that I was her golden one. My father, as I expected, filled his letters with lists and detailed descriptions. Stern as always, he had decided that my mother was having an affair. He had always been enraged by the fact that men adored my mother. It seemed to me that men couldn’t help but be happy in her presence; all men, that is, except my father.
I spent the noiseless, lonely days writing letters that I hoped would reach my parents. I played solitaire with the old deck of cards and peered out of the window. I tried to write poems, but nothing came out. Jan was not a poet. I felt like a prisoner caged in the apartment. At least I was able to see Míla and hold her. She was so gentle and thoughtful, it almost made me forget what was happening around us.
The night before I was due to return to Berlin, Míla and I went over my documents as we ate dinner. I thought my eyes were failing me as I stared in horror at my permit. Dr. Högn had said that I could take a week. In my alarm, I had failed to check my papers. My permit was not valid for a week but for four days. I should have returned to Berlin three days earlier. How could I have been so foolish and not checked it before? Travel was restricted, and Jan’s permit to be in Prague had expired. I was there illegally.
Legally, I was required to seek an extension of the permit from the Gestapo, but that would have been suicide. Míla agreed. She tried to calm me and said we’d come up with a plan, but she too was frantic at the discovery. She left me with a plate of half-eaten food and said she would find Lotar and Zdenka to get their advice. She didn’t feel the phone was safe. She promised to be back as soon as she could. She left and I grew more desperate. In a complete panic, I decided to alter the ink on the permit and change the date from a 24 into a 29. Once done, there was no reason to wait around in further agony, there was nothing to do, no point in putting it off or saying goodbyes. I penciled a short note for Míla, telling her not to worry and that I would write from Berlin.
I pulled the brim of my hat down low and walked quickly to the station without glancing up at the streets I knew so well. Once again, I took my seat on the night train and braced myself. This time I put the cyanide capsule in my breast pocket and eventually transferred it to my mouth. Then I waited.
After a while, the inspector came. He asked to see my permit and began to study it with care, turning it in both hands. He looked at me without a hint of humanity in his eyes. Then he walked away. I pressed the tiny vial in my mouth nervously with my tongue until he came back.
“Your return date is irregular. The authorities need to check your document. Come with me.”
Numb, I climbed down from my carriage and followed him into the border station. The train sat entirely silent on the tracks, as if asleep. The world around me seemed frozen. Another guard on duty pointed me to a room. I went in and stood against a wall, frail with fear. Too weak to bite into the vial.
The second guard asked where I worked and why I had been in Prague. Before I could answer, he looked steadily at me and asked why I had altered my permit. I pushed the capsule to the side of my mouth. I started to tell him the truth.
“I was sent by Warnecke & Böhm, where I am employed, for a week to fix some matters with suppliers back home.”
Much to my surprise, he seemed to believe it. I nudged the cyanide with my tongue and spoke slowly and more nasally. “The company organized it all. I had not read the date until tonight and I just panicked.”
It was always hard to speak while holding the vial, but I’d had a lot of practice by then.
“And you’ve taken this opportunity to see your girlfriend, right?” He winked at me. I tried to smile weakly, unsure of him, careful not to commit to a response. He continued. “I know how you feel. A few extra days with your girl, and she makes you brave enough to change the date. You rascal!”
Still in shock, I realized that he almost approved, as if he would have done the same. And then I saw that he was my age and had no wish to be stationed there. He probably missed his home too. He laughed as he filled out a form. Reassured, I coughed the vial out into my hand and pretended to laugh too. I pocketed the poison. When he looked up at me, he seemed to have cheery tears in his eyes. I smiled back at my fellow conspirator.
“Unfortunately, this is a matter for the tribunals, not for us. Get back on the train and go to your job. I am sure they’ll need you there. The authorities will get in touch with you in due course to sort this out.”
The incident must have taken less than five minutes, though it felt like hours. I ran back and was taking the seat in my carriage as the train started to pull out. The journey was sleepless, there was only adrenaline running through my arteries. I was so relieved to arrive in Berlin that the incident seemed a faraway dream.
I told no one about this other than Zdeněk. We convinced ourselves that the whole thing would be forgotten in the chaos of the war, but a few weeks later a letter arrived from the Czech police. The usual bureaucracy: forms to fill out, a description of my offense. When I read the last part, my heart stopped. I was summoned to appear in front of a tribunal in Prague in three weeks.
After another sleepless night, I figured that approaching Högn was my only hope. Hoping that he’d remember that he had told me I’d have a week, I walked into his office and confessed the whole thing.
“I got carried away by seeing my girlfriend and didn’t check the documents until the last night. You remember, Herr Dr., you told me I had a week?”