Jarka

Darling Jarka my half-brother.  Friend and ally of my former Touškov years and left behind in our mad exodus to Britain.  This was whom we were visiting on that day, at his army barracks where he was doing his National Service.

Kisses, cuddles and tears all round and a walk through a lovely park where Jana and I had a dip in a little swimming pool, I recall. Then off to visit what we thought was some kind of military museum, but we were never given the slightest hint of what was about to come.

We tagged on the back of a little knot of people walking through big iron gates. Dad and Jarka being upfront with the main drag, we were left to our own devices.  We lingered thinking perhaps this was some old building related to a historical event and, in a way, it was. We came to a halt by a huge open door and peered inside.  It was a long sort of washroom with a row of overhead shower nozzles. Immaculately tiled and very fit for purpose it would seem.  Little sis immediately picked up that there was an echo to this room so we pushed the big door closed and set about experimenting.  She down one end me down the other.  Oh, it worked a treat and recalling a stupid song about an echo we experimented even more.

Mr sir Echo how do you do?

Hello.

Here the second singer would reply:

Hello

You’re a sweet little echo

and we love you

Hello

Hello

We were in full throttle when the door burst open and dad stood there.  He had a temper when called upon and it was called upon now. “Stop it,” he roared “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Playing at being an echo dad,” volunteered little sis.

“Get out, get out now!” he yelled. “What do you think this place is, for crying out loud?”  By this time the small group had u-turned back and were congregated to witness the scene. I, seeing the situation was rocketing, took a stride forward.

“It’s a shower room daddy, that’s all, we were just playing around with the echo in here.” He swelled up looking fit to burst and then uttered “Shower room. Yes, that’s what all those poor souls thought as well, but it’s not, it’s a gas chamber.”  We shot out like rabbits ducking past the onlookers.  We were full of shame and fear.  What on earth had he meant by calling a shower room a gas chamber? Then, in nightmare fashion, we realized that we were running alongside a wall pock-marked with bullet holes. A firing squad wall.  Next, a glass-sided room filled from floor to ceiling with adult shoes and one the same filled with children shoes.  Worst of all, a room glass-sided again filled from floor to ceiling with hair.  Hair of every colour and texture under the sun.  Straight hair, curly hair, plaited hair.  Blonde, brown, red and black. Some still bearing a small bow a ribbon tied on by a loving mother for a trip to a death chamber. 

To say that Jana and I never recovered from that experience is an understatement.  It was certainly the stuff of nightmares for years to come.  It stripped us of our belief in fairy stories and magic forever.  The last petal on the halo of childhood dropped.  It was done.  We knew now of the horrors of a concentration camp.  In later years, Jana and I would discuss the handling of these sort of situations by our father.  His view was the truth at any cost; a sort of ‘throw them in deep water and let them learn to swim’.  I suppose he had a point, but we agreed that this trip was much too much for two youngsters of ten and eight years old and we would never in a thousand years do it to any child of ours.

We clambered onboard the train in Plzeň.  We had said our goodbyes but dad jumped out one last time to embrace his mother again.  Crying like a baby and calling her “Miminka,” the childish term for mother.  “Prominte, Miminka, prominte”.  Sorry mummy, sorry. Unable to withstand the sadness a moment longer, Jana burst into tears followed by myself.  There was the heart-wrenching scramble as dad tore himself away and half ran and half hopped towards the handrail, only just managing to grab it and pull himself aboard.  The other occupants of the carriage were on their feet as the tension of the scene unfolded, and, when at last we were finally seated we looked around and saw that every single person in the carriage was crying also.

We crossed through the iron curtain many times after that.  Sometimes on our own as teenagers and right through until the era of communism was over, but it was on this trip that our greatest joy and sadness were experienced.  The Czech Republic is now a tourist destination and open to anyone who wants to visit, and visit they should for it is a stunning country steeped in incredible history.  But, when all is said and done, I was the very first child through the iron curtain and I shall never forget the privilege of that.