In September 1938, with the new school year, I began again commuting to school in Domažlice. Our little group of commuters saw an increasing number of Czech and Jewish families with trunks, bales of bedding, and baby buggies heading toward the interior of Bohemia. My mother was afraid to let me ride on the train, because there were rumors of clashes with Germans, but I had my way. The attitude of the German population toward us was changing. One day the wall of our garden was defaced with swastikas. Another day when I sat down on a bench in the railway station, one of the girls from a poor family that had been given lunch at our house several times a week got up and spat on the ground in front of me. On our farm one night, forty newly planted cherry trees were broken.
In Domažlice my friend Iva Běláková and I walked in the park while eating our lunch, when we had classes in the afternoon. We idealized the simple life as propagated by Tolstoy and as depicted in Kaethe Kollwitzs art. Iva sympathized with me when I had conflicts with my mother, because I did not want to wear a bra or a permanent wave in my hair. Like many Czechs, we talked about our allies, the French who, in contrast to the Germans, were a cultured people who would not leave us in the lurch. We were glad, and I still am, that we had grown up in Masaryks Republic.
During this time Marianne was sent to a gardening school in Krč near Prague. The decision had been made under the pressure of the prevalent opinion that Jews should turn to practical occupations.
My father returned from France with great enthusiasm. He and Walter had been offered the rental of a farm in Calvados on very good terms. They also liked the apple brandy that was produced there. “And when Hitler is finished, we can be at home in an hour.” However, this time he was outvoted, and Canada remained the destination.
Our actual flight came suddenly. Strangely, none of us remembers the exact date, but it may have been on September 15th, when Joe (then “Pepi”) Loewith, a member of our group who was in the Czechoslovak army, knocked on our window about 4:30 am to tell us of a rumor that the Nazis were planning something against the Jews that day. It was clear that Mr. Stirba, the only local policeman, would not be able to protect us. We hurriedly packed everything we could take along in our little Praga Piccolo. I had my last Teinitz fight with Mother that morning, because I wanted to take along all my photo albums and books, while she thought warm clothing was more important. We drove to central Bohemia, to Walters farm in Svinaře near Beroun. My most vivid memory is the last trip made with my father to Nový Dvůr, our farm. After he said his goodbyes to the workers, he stopped the car outside the farmyard, put his head on the steering wheel and cried.
When we arrived in Svinaře about seven o’clock in the morning, other relatives were already there from the border area and from Vienna, and more came. At least five families had to be housed and fed. I slept on two easy chairs.
My father had to obtain airplane tickets to somewhere beyond Germany. We could not travel through Germany because a 10,000 Reichsmark reward had been promised to anybody who would deliver my father dead or alive.
Source: Wilma and Georg Iggers, Two Lives in Uncertain Times, New York: Berghahn Books, 2006, p. 15