In what was by now a characteristically careful way, Jan Šebesta approached the question of a transfer to Prague with complete professionalism. He made an official application for permission to return home so that he could apply his talents there and even obtained a letter of reference from Warnecke & Böhm.
Dated April 5, 1945, the document from my box was printed on official company letterhead and read:
Mr. Jan Šebesta, born on 11 March 1921 in Alt Bunzlau, was employed as a chemist in our laboratory between 3 May 1943–5 April 1945.
Mr. Šebesta successfully performed all tasks assigned to him which spanned the fields of synthetic lacquer chemistry, analytical chemistry, the development of special lacquers and sealing materials. Endeavoring to keep up-to-date with the latest scientific advances and continuously inspecting industry publications relating to synthetics and the specialized lacquer sector, Mr. Šebesta acquired sound professional expertise. He distinguished himself by his exemplary diligence and a deep enthusiasm for the work entrusted to him. Mr. Šebesta was highly regarded by his co-workers due to his helpful and friendly nature.
Mr. Šebesta is leaving our company at his own request in agreement with the employment office in Berlin in order to return to his home country. We wish him all the success for the future.
Warnecke & Böhm
I was struck by the phrase exemplary diligence. It was exactly the language that anyone would have used of the father I knew, but not of Hans the happy-go-lucky boy from Prague. If Otto had read this reference, he would have been surprised. He also would have been proud.
The boy who had come to Berlin in the spring of 1943 was not the man who, two years later, fought his way through the crowds to leave it.
The journey began in Berlin. I had managed to get on board outside the main station as the carriages were being prepared. I boarded an hour before the scheduled departure and I wasn’t alone. There were many who, like me, had thought to do this. I was prepared to bribe the conductor and the cleaners, but I didn’t have to. We fought our way up the step to the door of the wagons. No one really seemed to care too much about the rules anymore.
Nothing mattered. Everyone wanted to escape.
Everyone expected the Russian army and the Americans and their allies to meet and defeat the Nazis in a matter of days or even hours. The Germans had lost the war. Everyone knew it by then. Rumors of extreme cruelty by the Russians were everywhere. We were all scared that they’d speed up their advance and stop our train. I prayed it would not be the Russians.
The train was packed. It was the second week of April and outside you could feel that spring was approaching. The carriages were not heated, but it was swelteringly hot inside the train.
It was evening and there was no light inside the carriages. Lights attracted attention, made trains and stations easier targets from the air. Our periodic stops were pointless, as no one could get on the train. There was simply no room. In the dimness, you could see the desperate faces on the platforms, the shoving, the fights for a small space. Everyone wanted to get out of Germany.
Only a handful made it into the carriages and, then, only when another handful had disembarked. The movement of the train didn’t affect the passengers at all, as we were all closely wedged together. We were a dense human mass with no air in the gaps, composed of hot, malodorous bodies that seemed to melt into one.
In front of me in the throng, a man stepped on my shoe. He turned to apologize, his breath full of onion, garlic, and weeks without toothpaste. I could not escape the smell. I could not kneel to tie my shoelace.
I was wearing an old striped shirt, an even older pair of trousers, and tennis shoes. No socks and no suitcases. Just a small valise with my papers, the case of cyanide, some Reichsmarks, and Míla’s good-luck doll. Everything else had stayed behind in Berlin. Not that there was much.
One of the later bombs in the recent raid, one that caused destruction using air pressure, had razed the building next door. It half destroyed ours too. I took it as a warning and had been lucky to escape before a second bomb fell and caused our building to collapse into a pile of dust. No one from our building had died. For one more day, we were the lucky ones.
This was still Germany, of course; there were formalities even to escape. I still couldn’t believe that I had managed to get the paperwork from the bureaucrats in the Ministry of Labor. I had walked into the hall and picked the person who looked the most terrified, a fidgety middle-aged man. I watched him as I awaited my turn and then told him, “I have been in Berlin for two years. I have my papers. If you give me a permit to return to Bohemia, I will not forget you and will report that you have helped me.”
He had a nervous tic that made his eyes blink repeatedly. He carefully explained that they were only issuing travel permits for exceptional cases, cases of importance to the Reich. I looked at him and focused my eyes intently on his. I said in a hushed tone,
“This is not a matter of importance for the Reich. This is a matter of importance to you. If you deny me the permit, I will remember you and you will regret it.”
I continued slowly to ensure he heard my every word.
“I will remember your name and your face. If you give me the permit to go back home to Bohemia, I will give you my address and you can find me. If there is a case against you, I will be a witness to your kindness when the Reich falls apart.”
This was a risky approach, but it was the only leverage I had, my only hope. If I didn’t leave now, I might not be able to do so later. I looked at his face as he blinked furiously back at me. He looked around, sweating copiously, and stammered out something unintelligible. He cast his eyes downward and nodded. He had filled out the permit.
No one bothered to check the tickets or the permits in the chaos. Twice during the journey to the border, the engines of approaching planes terrified us. The noise made by the aircraft outside and above us was overwhelming and seemed to seep into all in the carriage. We froze. We held our breath. During the second approach, we heard explosions and gunfire. From a corner, there was a sob. For a moment, we all thought the train was under attack. And then, as we neared the Czech border, the noise receded and disappeared. All fell silent, and once more, all I could hear was the sound of the incessant rumbling and churning of the wheels of our train.
We crossed the frontier and the first colors of morning started to light up the train. I tried to imagine the smells outside, the flowery breeze of the Bohemian countryside in spring. The man next to me started retching. I could not move away, and he stained the shoulder of my only shirt. I had never stopped to think before about how sour the smell of vomit is.
The metallic screech of the brakes heralded our arrival into Prague. The hordes started to sputter from the wagons, each person eager to get off, to flee.
Míla had been waiting for me at the station. I locked my eyes on hers as I pushed through the crowds. Even from afar, I was grateful for their blue beauty and their peace. I could barely speak as she held me.
“You are home, Handa, we are together, it is safer here.”
We walked through Prague to Lotar and Zdenka’s apartment, where I would hide again, hopefully not for long and for the last time.
It was a beautiful morning. I felt the familiar uneven cobblestones through the thin soles of my shoes. Míla and I walked side by side, one small hand around my waist, the other clasping my hand. I was so tired, so hungry. I just wanted to feel the sun on my face and eat and sleep. There was so much to tell her, but I had no words.