“They put forward as a reason that they had rifles. But they didn’t find any at their place. The Mastný family had been already locked up for three weeks and they said that they’d have to let them go. Because they couldn’t find anything. So they were searching for a balloon. Our acquaintance went to feed their livestock. He said that they had searched everything, even removing some heavy furniture, but that they were absolutely unable to find anything to compromise them. There was no balloon or anything else there that would serve as evidence for their prosecution. Thus, finally, they had to plant something in order to get them nailed. They went to their orchard and put some rifles on the hay stack. It was really stupid as it looked rather unnatural. As if a hen had laid them there. So uncle had hunting rifles buried in the ground in the garden underneath the bee house and army rifles were suddenly found on the hay stack, together with a sack full of ammunition. It was a putsch. They simply planted it there.”
“They didn’t admit us to the JZD in 1948, as they were afraid of the big landowners taking over the lead. These were stupid people who maybe had a hectare or a hectare and a half of land and worked in the forest. They saw this as a way to free themselves. They thought that they’d have a lump of gold, that others would work for them. The 14 big landowners, us included, were not admitted to the JZD. Word started spreading that we would finally come around, begging for admission. But we didn’t. My dad used to say that he wouldn’t go and beg for impoverishment.” Interviewer: “Did you want to join the JZD?” “No, we didn’t. But they said that they’d deport us from our farm. After they had arrested the Mastný family (1952), the other big landowners convened and agreed to join the JZD. They were scared to meet the same fate as the Mastný family had. My aunt was chopping wood in the courtyard, just in her sandals. They took her to prison just the way she was. They did the same with my uncle and the lads, too.”
“When they labeled us as kulaks, we were baffled. We had no idea about what was happening. They came to us, demanding a signature on the levy order on the sugar beet. It stated how much of it we had to turn in. There were two more farmers in the village, who had the exact same acreage as we did. They were required to supply 23 quintals of beet. We had to give them 27 quintals. as my husband was signing the document I told the mayor: ‘hold on a second, let me see what it says. How is it possible that they have to give so and so much and we so and so much?’ I took a closer look and noticed the letter ‘K’ in red ink on our paperwork. I asked: ‘Mr. Hrbáček, what’s this? What does this red K stand for? And why do we have to turn in more sugar beet than they have to? Are we kulaks?’ The mayor stood and stared at me. I told him: ‘Don’t stare at me. Tell me yes or no’. He said: ‘Yes, they made you kulaks’. I said: ‘You made us kulaks’.”
“Suddenly, so many Germans flocked into the village that you couldn’t see from one end to the other for them. The village was crammed with cars and soldiers. An officer, who had roved about our kitchen, went to the church and talked to them. We hid behind the wall and listened to what he was telling them. He said that the war was lost and that this was the end. He called on them not to resist and to put down their arms. Any resistance would only make things worse. He calmed the soldiers. Suddenly, they jumped into the cars and drove off. Three days later, we were told that the Americans were about to arrive in the village. We spent the night before their arrival baking cakes for them. They came on May 5 or 6 in the direction from Kdyně. Foot soldiers were marching through the village. We put our traditional Chodské koláče cakes on big plates and distributed them among the soldiers. They were given away by young and pretty girls. Passing the school building, the soldiers had to slow down so they all stopped and took a cake from our girls. They would even jump down from the tank. They took a cake or two and marched on.”
“They didn’t take away our cattle, they left it with us. Our stables were full of cattle. We didn’t know where to tether it to. We had two piglets and they told us they wouldn’t take them away from us. They said they only wanted from one sow because we were supposed to only have one. We had twenty piglets so what were we supposed to do with them? The buy-up representative told us: ‘so you’ll have to graze them on the balk’.”
Vlasta Hynčíková (née Suchá) was born on April 23, 1928, in Úboč in a farmer’s family. She was the only child. In the course of the war, their vast estate with a tavern became the shelter for Polish German women, retreating Germans as well as the American liberators. The farm, which had traditionally been run by the family for generations, often had to come to grips with a shortage of male family offspring. Even the husband of Vlasta came to the family farmstead through their marriage in 1949. The farmstead was among the 14 largest estates in the village. Unlike many of their neighbors and friends in the village, they were lucky, evading prison and forced deportation in the era of the agricultural collectivization. They tried to remain their independence but their efforts were thwarted by ridiculously high levies and fines that were impossible to meet. They were labeled as kulaks and in 1957 they were finally forced to join the farms collective (JZD). In 1960, Karel Hynčík, the husband of Vlasta, was put in charge of the JZD. In 1969, they left the JZD but had to join it again in 1976. After the revolution in 1989, they were finally able to return to independent farming. The youngest son of Vlasta is currently running the family farm and is preparing his adoptive son for a takeover of the farm in the future.
