The bus moved at a steady pace along a country road lined with flowering chestnut trees. Farms appeared on the horizon and disappeared, as did the villages. The whitewashed walls and red-tiled roofs were a picture of peace. Nothing changes from generation to generation. The farmer plants and harvests in war and peace.
I’ve been on this bus for two hours now. Soon I will arrive at my destination.
Doubt begins to trouble me. Why am I returning? What will it be like? It is too late. The bus is turning into the station. I arrive in Trautenau, or Trutnov as it is now called.
Outside the station in the square, a Soviet tank is perched on a pedestal with “1945” written in big red letters on it. A number of wreaths with red ribbons lean against it, with fresh flowers strewn around. Forty-three years ago, these tanks rumbled down the road, bringing with them freedom, the most precious gift. The war was over.
For three years we were slaves of the Nazis, fighting daily for survival, hoping and dreaming while wondering if rescue would ever come. So many years have gone by. Standing here now, my memory takes me back to an awful night: The sound of boots crashing into the door, the screams, “We give you five minutes to get out.” My parents standing by helpless, tears in their eyes, as they watched their child being led away. The shock, the pain of separation from my parents, the fear of what tomorrow would bring caused us to lose touch with reality.
How did I arrive here? I don’t remember.
Now I am on the way to Oberaltstadt, or as it is now known, Herne Stare Mesto. After a 20-minute walk, I arrive at the factory. I walk over the bridge and am stopped from entering at the gatehouse by the guard. One must have permission from the authorities to enter the factory. When I tell him that I worked here while imprisoned in a nearby concentration camp, his stern face changes. Yes, he remembers those awful times. So do I. The people one could trust and those one could not. The Czech women who would leave pieces of bread and walk away. The partisans who would spend the nights on rooftops, watching the camp, when word got out that the Nazis planned to blow it up before the Allied troops had a chance to free us. They were determined to cut the wires to save us.
I take some pictures of the factory and begin to walk toward the camp. Over three years we walked this road daily to and from work, at 6 a.m., or after midnight, freezing in the winter, soaking wet in the summer rain. Hungry, tired, frightened, clinging desperately to the only thing that sustained us – hope. There are apartments now where once the barracks stood. The only reminder left is an iron post and some barbed wire lying in the grass.
The trees on the other side of the river have grown so tall. I can see the rock where we spotted the body of my best friend. Poor Peppi, 15 years old, could not face the world without her parents. For her, as for so many others, it was easier to die than to live.
I close my eyes, and for a brief moment I feel the pain of hunger, the cold winds blowing through the crevices in the barracks, the line for soup after a long day’s work. I can hear the orders of the guards. Is this a terrifying nightmare? Or is my freedom a beautiful dream?
It is time to go. I cross the road, get on the bus, and go back to town.
Back in town, I am told that there is a grave in the Christian cemetery where Jewish girls are buried. We never knew where the dead were taken and no one dared to ask. A kind woman leads me to the grave. The Nazis dumped the bodies and left the graves unmarked. The Czech people would take note of the different locations so that, in case the grass grew over, they would know where to find them.
After the war, all the bodies were taken and buried in one grave. A monument was erected with the following inscription: “People be vigilant! In this place 41 Jewish girls are laid to rest – victims of Nazism – Honour their memory!” A Star of David covers the ground, there are fresh flowers in glass jars. I am told that the local school children committed themselves to bring flowers throughout the summer.
And so my visit ends. I returned to relive over a thousand days of my life. A thousand days of my teenage years, which should have been filled with the excitement of growing up and the discovery of the beauty of life, but instead were filled with indescribable suffering.
I am free now. I’ve built a new life in a new country. I have children, grandchildren and great- grandchildren, but forever I will remain a prisoner of the memories. Forever I will remember those who found a resting place in so many nameless graves all over Europe and those whose ashes were strewn over the fields. And forever I will ask: Why ?
Excerpted from I Kept My Promise, by Gerda Frieberg, published by Malcolm Lester.
