Maria Pekařová

“I remember the time when I was already attending school in Černá pole. That was on the hill and Husovice were down below. Whenever there was an air strike, they had already known from the radio. When airplanes flew from the direction of Vienna, the Viennese radio said that they would come and it started doing a ‘kuku’ sound. ‘Kuku’ meant an airstrike was about to take place. They probably also followed that radio at school. We also had one at home; my father constructed it himself. Back then in Brno, a bomb hit a school. All of the kids suffocated in the basement. Everyone was there – the whole school got killed there. And so they asked us… We were asked to bring to school a statement whether we’d go home or stay in a basement in case of an air strike. My parents wrote that I should go home.”

“I contracted dysentery, and I wouldn’t have survived. The conditions were horrendous, it’s hard to describe. But Auntie said she’d take care of us, so Mum wrote a letter in Pohořelice. Mum signed [a statement] wherein she as if disowned us and sent us to our aunt, who was to bring us up in the Czech spirit. ‘Dear Mimi, do not be angered that I am sending you the children, but they told me at the national committee that if you adopt the children and bring them up in such a way, they can stay with you. The hardships of the journey to Pohořelice have exhausted the children. Our little one kept crying for you to come for her soon. She is too small for such a long journey and such hardships. It might be the death of her.’ So she sent that with us... [Q: And that actually saved you...] Well... she disowned us. Later, she said when she came to the border, there was a sign there that said she’d never be allowed to return. And when you realise you’ve left your children there, whom you love, and that you might not see them ever again, it was dreadful.”

“In the meantime, he was telling me that he had to go on foot for a while. No trains were running so they walked and walked. He could walk no more because he was sick. He had a friend there who told him: ‘You mustn’t sit!’ Whenever someone fell, they shot them dead and left them on the spot. He propped him up and took his luggage. In effect, he saved his life because he didn’t fall down and eventually made it to the train which brought him back to us. He rode on that nearly-empty train through the places he knew. He hiked a lot and knew the surroundings of Brno. When they got to Obřany where the train stopped, he knew he was practically in Brno. It was early in the morning, around 4 a.m. He jumped off that train and ran to Husovice.”

“It was terribly hot. We were awfully thirsty and there was nothing to drink. When we came to Rajhrad, that was the second day, we called out to one lady there, who was in her front garden, watching us, and asked for some water. She took a bucket and brought it full of water and stood on the side of the road. We took out our cups, we had these tin cups, to scoop up the water, but the boy [the guard] came and said: ‘Not for Germans!’ And he kicked the bucket and knocked it over. That was awful. When you’re thirsty and you can’t have a drink. Then it started to rain, and I licked the drops from my hand, that’s how dreadful my thirst was.”

“My mum was happy for me not to see whenever something ugly was taking place. She always hugged me hard so that I wouldn’t see anything. She protected me. For instance, when that lady could walk no more, they began hitting her and saying she had to walk on. It was still so-so there. Or those old ladies who could no longer carry their bags and so they were emptying them. There were piles of things put aside by those elderly people who were no longer able to carry their possessions. Even the most basic ones. Then behind Brno, an old lady fell down. She couldn’t go any further. She kneeled on the ground with her hands clamped, asking that young buy to let her rest for a bit. He took a rifle and hit her in the head with the butt, full strength. She rolled down. I know nothing more because mum dragged me along.”