The musty smell of old bookshelves and well worn carpets, the creaky wood and the tarnished brass elevators Veronica had shown us were in stark contrast to the gleaming surroundings of now. I had felt comfortable and safe in the old place, though. I could not remember, whether I had actually spent any time in the old building prior to our escape. Yet family photos and my uncle Heinrich’s painting of our building in the town square, still in my possession sixty years later, had left a strong mental image of having come home when I had first returned with Edi and Simon.
My recollections were interrupted by the arrival of the librarian, who carried another arm full of reference material.
“Thank you Ms. Trojanova, this is very kind of you.”
“Most welcome.”
Katerina Trojanova, the research librarian at the ‘Ståtni védeckå knihovna’ in Liberec, still Reichenberg to me, had left a large stack of papers neatly organized in several piles on the table in front of me.
I had spent part of the previous day randomly browsing through some of the material Katerina had left. What I had essentially come for – Czech eyewitness accounts of what had occurred during those dark days so many years back – had eluded me thus far. But I had only managed to make a small dent into the stacks of paper she had placed in front of me. At one point, I had simply put all of it aside and returned my attention to the personal documents I had brought with me in the hope of finding some further clues.
Before returning to the new library building the next morning, I stopped at the ‘Café Smetana’ across the street. The dark oak floor, large brass railings, the massive chandelier in the centre, the leather couch and arm chairs in the vestibule had been the favorite watering hole for the city’s artistic folk – writers, poets, painters and the odd patron from the old library.
I checked the time. Ten minutes after nine. The library would not be open for nearly another hour. I reached into my briefcase for the documents I had brought and turned my attention to another chapter in my father’s manuscript.
Time marched on. So did the military machine from the neighboring West. Elections came in the spring of 1938 under anything but free conditions. Germany had already invaded Austria. No clairvoyance was required to know Czechoslovakia would be next. All the bourgeois German parties supported the Henlein ticket. Socialists and communists were the exception. Konrad Henlein, Hitler’s ‘Gauleiter’ for the Sudeten territory since 1935, had ensured that the Nazi dogma had infiltrated the last vestiges of underground resistance.
Voters could feel the breath of the German military monster on the back of their necks. They did not have to look at violent police terror in Austria in order to be intimidated; violence was practiced daily by Henlein’s henchmen on the soil of Czechoslovakia. Surprising, under these circumstances, was the fact that 10 per cent of voters had the remarkable courage to still vote Social Democratic or Communist. Among those 10 per cent was the fading presence of the ‘Schlaraffia’ Order in Reichenberg.
Under the Munich Agreement of September 1938, Britain, France and Italy, with tacit support from America through U.S. ambassador Joseph Kennedy, had given Henlein and Hitler what they wanted. To the consternation of the Czech government, the border area with a majority German population was handed over to Hitler.
From the Louscheks came news that meetings among members of the Schlaraffia Order were now few and far between. They had long ago left Ehrlich’s ballroom at the ‘Goldener Loewe’ for safer surroundings in one of their private homes. Indeed, the group was a shadow of its former self. Many long-standing members no longer were active participants.
It was cold and dreary that late fall evening in 1938, when they agreed to meet for one last time. They had walked around the back of Ehrlich’s two-storey stucco home in one of the more affluent neighborhoods at the outskirts of town. A steep staircase led them down to a rectangular room in the basement. A large round table in Ehrlich’s den could now comfortably hold what was left of them. Newspaper publisher Rus was chairing the meeting. He looked across the table at the remnants of the once proud and growing brotherhood.
“Who is reporting on recent developments?”
His question was met by clearing throats and nervous shuffles.
“Anyone?” Rus insisted.
Finally, Ehrlich spoke up.
“Herr Hert was in Berlin for several days; officially to meet with the curator of the National State Art Gallery.”
Hert was the Director of the Museum of Civilization in Reichenberg, a pudgy, bespectacled man, with a round and shiny face. Bowing his head slightly toward the other men, he managed an awkward smile.
“And unofficially?” someone wanted to know.
“Well, as you know, the National State Art Gallery is right across from the ‘Reichstag’. Some party offices have moved over to the Gallery. Men with the feared ‘SS’ on the collar of their black uniforms walk in and out of the gallery all day long.”
“And how would Herr Hert have accessed....?”
Ehrlich waved Rus off before he could finish.
“He has some contacts inside the gallery. Understandably, he also doesn’t want to compromise their identity.”
“And what are we hearing?” Rus asked.
The question was directed at Hert, who appeared anything but comfortable with his task of disseminating intelligence to the gathering. He pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket to wipe his brow before addressing the group.
“There has been little news in recent days. It’s a sign that the regime is tightening its grip on all of our usual communications - courier, telegraph, ordinary mail.”
If anyone in the group had questioned it before, it was clear now; this was their final meeting. It could only be a short time before the invasion by German troops.
“We have placed ourselves into increasing peril by continuing to meet - be it here or anywhere else,” Rus added, as if it needed to be said.
Of all the men assembled in the room, he ought to know. Representatives of the National Socialist Party Press Agency from Berlin had paid his editor a visit some weeks back. They were told bluntly that any form of public utterances against the regime would shut down the paper and lead to personal indictments. The fact that Hitler had named himself ‘Honorary Patron’ of the Agency didn’t help matters. On the other hand, Berlin’s field agents would favorably notice the ‘right kind of coverage’.
Rus had lamented to the Order that he had essentially been rendered irrelevant at the paper. What was left of the Order had been his intellectual refuge, he told them. In exchanging underground common ideologies with his companions, he proclaimed some remnants of meaning to his life - at least for a few hours every month. Yet the risk had simply become unacceptable.
After a pause, Ehrlich spoke again.
“The other night, my serving staff had some interesting guests in our main dining room.”
The room felt silent in anticipation. Ehrlich had never been one to dramatize matters.
“Henlein and two high ranking military officers, who just made a name for themselves.”
The Order had taken to speaking in code from time to time to lessen their risk of exposure.
“Would there be any connection to