As I began to explore the memorabilia my parents had somehow salvaged through the ravages of war and our escape, I had no idea of some of the hardship they had endured. Although I was a part of this during the first years of my life, it seemed strange how little I was actually able to remember.
Her handwriting back then, some sixty years ago, seemed somehow different. More diminutive than what I remembered. This was one of those moments, when I wished I had more answers; answers to questions I had never bothered to ask. In part because the postwar years had been a time of recovery for my family, not one to ask questions. Recovery at every level – physical, emotional, not to mention our daily fight for mere sustenance. It was a time when I had struggled to form my own identity. When the mere presence of parents had often felt like a burden.
I began to leaf through the pages of my father’s manuscript. The pages were not numbered; there was no title nor date, just my father’s voice.
In the 1920s and 1930s, Reichenberg became the unofficial capital of Germans in Czechoslovakia, a position that was underlined by the foundation of important institutions such as the ‘Buecherei der Deutschen’, a central German library in Czechoslovakia, and by efforts to relocate the German (Charles) University there from Prague.
In the twenty years between the two World Wars, Czechoslovakia had become one of the world’s most advanced industrial countries. In fact, it was among the ten richest nations in the world at that time, as it had inherited much of Austria’s industrial base. My father Hugo Jahnel had been part of this prosperity. Not by good fortune - but through diligent hard work. By the early thirties, he had helped my grandfather build up a thriving electrical supply business. It continued to prosper well beyond the borders of our town into the early dark days of the Great Depression.
By the middle of the 1930’s, the Czech economy with its textile, carpet, glass and other light industry, was devastated by the world financial crisis; more than one million people, one in five, were unemployed. Fearing for their and their children’s future, they were disillusioned with the government in Prague. Hardest hit was the border region with Germany, known as the Sudetenland; its German majority led to the flash rise of the populist Sudeten German Party, founded by Konrad Henlein born in the suburbs of Reichenberg.
The Depression and the growing influence of the Nazi movement in Germany served to politicize the ethnic Germans in Czechoslovakia. Many of them had joined the Sudeten German Party, increasingly identifying themselves with their neighbours in Germany. I knew my father certainly had. Mother usually remained silent during political debates, but I suspect she could sense the growing rift.
Some months earlier, Count Freiherr von Schoenerer had purchased a villa at the edge of town among rumors that funding had come from Berlin. It quickly became known as ‘The All-German home’ and served as venue for his followers and their families, where heated pronouncements about ‘the Grand German Idea’ had become common fare. Von Schoenerer, whose aristocratically nationalistic Germanic demeanor had found an increasing number of followers, had formed ‘Bund Germania’ and was passionately following Hitler’s ascent.
The ‘Schlaraffia’ chapter of the Order of the Free Masons were among the few organized, but covert opposition groups in Reichenberg. In fact, left of center, they were a voice, perhaps the only, among the upper middle class bourgeoisie, warning of an increasingly dogmatic Germany to the west.
I was asked to join the ranks of the ‘Schlaraffia’ order by Otto Louschek. So as not to risk outright alienation from my father, I declined membership, but was allowed to attend their meetings as an observer. The men assembled at the ‘Goldener Loewe’ hotel on this late summer evening in 1936 knew the personal risks they were taking. Dusk had begun to settle over the city. A faint glimmer of orange and yellow remained on the upper windows of the five-story building across the street from the hotel.
A steady trickle of middle-aged men entered the hotel, among them Georg Rus, better known in the community as publisher of the ‘Reichenberger Tagesblatt’, the city’s daily. Professor Goldberg, one of the city’s university luminaries, accompanied him. They were ascending the wide staircase to the right of the lobby.
“There are growing concerns but hardly enough for us to feel panicked,” Rus said.
“It’s not like you to trivialize matters. I can’t imagine you could sell papers that way.
“Was meinen Sie, Herr Goldberg?”
“What I mean is that it’s like a snowball gathering speed. Starts in the family, moves into the pubs and public assemblies and before we know it, it’s an avalanche.”
“Spoken like a true academic, who doesn’t like the least bit of change.”
Franz Ehrlich, the hotel’s owner, was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. The ‘Schlaraffia’ Masons worked to a tight script. Eligibility for membership was scrutinized under a microscope. Both ‘Juden’ and gentiles were welcome but screened carefully for their support of the order’s manifesto. Those considered worthy in this exclusive circle were prominent civic figures, professionals in medicine and law, the clergy and members of the artistic and cultural community. As ‘brothers’ of the Order, they met every third Wednesday of the month.
Punctually at 20:00h, Goldberg carefully closed all entry into the cavernous room and blocked the main and side doors with strong inside cross bars. He then made his way to the podium, placed some papers on the rostrum and glanced across the room.
“Good evening, my fellow Schlaraffians. We only have one issue on our agenda today, and I am talking about the escalating propaganda emanating from Berlin.”
There was an uneasy shuffling and mumbled voices of acknowledgment.
“Richter, whom you all know, has made some recent utterings, giving the “J” word a whole new meaning,” he continued.
I had heard rumors to that effect myself. Richter, dispatched personally from Berlin by Goebbels a few months earlier, was the new face of nationalistic propaganda. His inflammatory oratory reminded me of the labels on our gramophone records, ‘His Master’s Voice’.
“And we should be surprised”, a voice called up from the floor.
“We could have told you that from the start,” another chimed in.
Goldberg paused, until the interruptions had died down.
“We have all been witness to growing intolerance and slurs toward our Jewish and Slavic friends and neighbours,” he continued.
“Hear, hear.”
“This assembly has tried to deal with the fear and frustration faced by so many of us, our friends and colleagues. We all know it’s out there and growing.”
He looked at the two dozen middle-aged men seated before the speaker’s podium to acknowledge their nods and murmurs of approval.
“It is absolutely essential, therefore that we remind ourselves of the ‘Schlaraffia’ manifesto crafted by the membership and passed by the Executive Committee of our Order.
Since there are a number of newcomers – and I heartily welcome you to The Order on behalf of the Committee – it may be appropriate to review what we have accepted as our credo.”
“Hear, hear.”
Again came voices of acknowledgement from across the floor.
“I am now going to call on Herr Neusatz, our Master of Ceremonies, to remind everyone of what it is we stand for.”