Peace in Our Time [Volume: 7(1988), pp. 417-426]

PEACE IN OUR TIME
423
One day, determined to turn over a new leaf, I warned my roommate, John, that on the morrow I intended to get up early to go to Professor Horak's class on comparative literature. Since John had also been
missing classes, he decided to follow my example.
Prague had been full of rumors for days, rumors that the Germans
might take over the entire country. We were going to ignore the rumors,
although they were not unfounded. Hitler had not ceased agitating for
complete control of Czechoslovakia. Benes had resigned as President
shortly after Munich, and for months the newspaper had published reports
of the efforts of his successor, Emil Hacha, to resist pressure from Berlin.
It was the morning of March 15, 1939. We left the "Y" about 8:30,
heading on foot for the university. The streets were jammed with people.
Seeing the agitated crowds, we were sure the worst had happened. We
went back to get Bill and the three of us together pushed our way down
Na Pfkope, on which the "Y" was located, to a comer of Vaclavske
Namestf, the center of the city. By this time, a column of trucks, loaded
with German soldiers, was turning into the square from October 28th
Street. There was no resistance; no scuffles, no loud shouting, only the
sounds of the Czech anthem, "Domov muj," mingling with the rumble
of the vehicles. With tears in their eyes, the Czech crowds gave vent to
their grief by singing their national hymn.
The capital swarmed with German soldiers. Long lines formed in
front of stores, particularly those selling clothing and shoes. The shelves
of the large Bafa shoe stores were almost empty by late afternoon. We
wandered into a millinery shop simply out of curiosity, and watched a
German officer buy three women's hats. The cafes were overflowing with
customers, both native and German. A Czech friend who was with us
leaned over to a soldier, touching the sleeve of his uniform, and said, in
Czech: "Ty vole!" meaning "You stupid fellow!" The German soldier
thought he was saying: "Die Wolle," meaning wool, and that he was being
complimented on the material of his uniform. From many such incidents,
jokes evolved which gave the Czechs a way of blowing off steam.
Under the circumstances, we dropped all pretense of finishing the
school year. We never attended classes or saw our professors again. Czechoslovakia as such had ceased to exist. It was split up into its three component
parts: the so-called Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, a nominally
independent Slovakia, and Ruthenia, again a part of Hungary. With the
Gestapo installed in the country, the apprehension of Jewish refugees
obviously grew. Our friend Hans came to us often, with more urgent requests
for promises of dollars. We obliged when we could.
With crowns bulging in our pockets, we decided on a sight-seeing trip
to Moravia, at the same time giving Bill a chance to visit his relatives in
that part of the country. His grandmother lived in Hrabuvka, a village
about ten miles south of Moravska Ostrava. A little wooden church with