Border Crossing

Border Crossing

I was the very first child through the "iron curtain", or so my father assured me, and I believe it to be the case. The "iron curtain" was a term used by Churchill after the Second World War when it became obvious that the Russians, who liberated the Czechs after the Nazi invasion, were not going to give up their hold on the country. The Czechs, having suffered under the horrors of Hitler, now faced a forced communist regime that would go on for fifty years. The country, which had hitherto enjoyed one of the highest economies in Europe, now found itself a closed society, of which little was known. Shut off from everything and deprived of news from the rest of Europe, they had little idea of what was happening in the outside world.

On the other side, we were equally clueless as to what had become of loved ones trapped on the inside. Behind this "iron curtain" lived my grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles and a long list of greater family. They had no freedom of speech, no ease of movement to travel abroad, endured shortages and banned literature, and received doctored news. It was hard to keep contact with loved ones: letters rarely arrived and, when they did, their content had to bare out the communist party line of how healthcare was bearing up, and what wonderful cherry crops had recently been harvested.

The Czechs were now a kowtowed and dispirited people, with little of the Bohemian flamboyance, for which they were formerly known, evident in their existence. Most of all, they were frightened of the dreaded knock on the door in the dead of night, which would whisk away a family member for little more than a slight misdemeanour, to territories unknown. A few years later came the Berlin Wall where once again those in the Eastern Sector were under communism, while those in the West had been put to the task of getting their country back on its feet again, repairing bomb damage and getting their economy back in order. My name, at that time, was Mařenka Anna Novotná, the love child of Josef Novotný and Valerie Neil; two young people in the RAF, who met during the War, and fell in love. But back to that eventful, and for me, historic moment in time when I crossed behind the Iron Curtain.

            It was with great excitement that my Father heard of a trip being organized for Czech ex-servicemen to return for a holiday of sorts which, on this occasion, permitted family visiting rights. This, hitherto, had been unheard-of and indeed represented a kind of warmth in what was became later to become known as The Cold War. We packed a few things of our own and filled our cases with gifts of clothing, knitting wool, tea and coffee – all items that were difficult to obtain in a country that had remained in stasis since the end of the War. The communist authorities knew full well that any one of these items might be traded in return for free accommodation with a Czech host. In order to prevent this happening, and to ensure that visitors spent money in a country where very little was on offer, tourists were required to spend an amount per day in the form of pre-paid Tuzex vouchers, which could only be used in Czechoslovakia.

With new windcheater jackets (the precursor to the anorak) bought from the local camping shop, my ten-year-old self, eight-year-old sister Jana and our father Josef, set out on the journey to the Česká Socialistická Republika (ČSR), formerly known as Czechoslovakia; the country most beloved of my earlier years; the place I yearned for; the missing piece of me.

My dear mother, being a hopeless cook, and therefore not tuned into the aspect of food for a journey, had failed to provide us with a snack of any sort, let alone a drink, fizzy or otherwise. Alas, it was not long into the train journey before my sister and I were asking for a drink and something to eat. Our father, busy talking and smoking with fellow passengers on the same journey back to their native land, was too enthralled at the rare chance to speak in his mother tongue to attend to us. We did not forget, though, that he had promised us something when we were on the ferry to France. Soon, my little sister Jana began her usual wailing, and I my usual role of looking after her – a duty that my loved-but-lackadaisical parents were more than happy to leave to me. Whilst my sister grew languid with the severity of her condition, I tried to imagine how food could be available on a ship. I could not imagine the enormity of a continental ferry, being only familiar with the Gravesend paddle steamer, the “Daffodil”, which was too small to offer its passengers anything in the way of food and drink. This was the fifties, and apart from the little machines where one could buy a bar of Fry's chocolate or packet of chewing gum, there was little else in the way of eateries, except for old station cafés offering tea in thick old cups alongside a curled-up apology of a sandwich. I wondered how long it would be before we perished with hunger and thirst, and so I decided to go on some sort of food forage. Nowhere near Dover yet, I entered the smoke-filled compartment and searched for any sign of food. Nothing. As I turned about to leave, a young man, with a smile, offered me a stick of gum. Gratefully, I rushed back to my sister whereupon we gingerly cut it into two equal parts and proceeded to chew. This, of course, only had the effect of making our stomachs churn even more.

At last, we were aboard the cross-channel ferry and, being children, ran around exploring jubilantly, the starvation being temporarily forgotten. Now and then we would pause to hang over the side and look at the churning foam in wonderment discussing how long it would take us to drown should we take a topple and the suchlike. Hunger soon brought us back to our senses, however, and our minds wandered back to food and water.

We began a normal scan of those lounging on the deck. Since it was warm there were many and our walk soon developed into a sort of canter as we went down inside the vessel. Not seeing a familiar face in any of the passengers, we began to panic and were, by now, charging at a full gallop scanning faces as we sped by like horses in a race. Drawing a complete blank, we reached the heart-breaking conclusion that our father must have fallen overboard. We hastened to the back of the ferry gawping over the rails into the churning foam below. We were certain, on more than one occasion, that we spotted his bald head bobbing up and down. By this time, abject with thirst, hunger and, by now, grief, we were on a mission to find the captain. Spying a man in uniform, I grabbed his arm and blurted out my story. He kindly escorted us to a table where he brought us over a drink and sandwich since I had put great emphasis on the severity of our hunger… as much as that which I placed on our supposedly-perished father. It was at this point that I scanned what I now realise was a dining area and caught sight of my father in the midst of a full English breakfast, with coffee and toast. We fell upon him laughing and crying to which he smiled and said he knew we would find him when we were truly hungry.

Having disembarked, full of breakfast and juice, we boarded a train bound for Nuremberg just this side of the Iron Curtain. Dad was, by now, so well immersed in the company of other travellers that he had set up a sort of gaming carriage for the playing of cards. One of the players suggested my sister and I have his empty compartment in the more upmarket part of the train towards the back. We would be much more comfortable there and out of the thick smoky atmosphere of the casino carriage. Reluctantly we agreed and again pleaded hunger as a means of delaying our banishment, much preferring the gaming carriage full of bonhomie and beer. On hearing this, and the train coming to a shuddering halt, he suddenly got up and jumped down on to the platform of an unknown station. Looking out of the window, we saw a funny kind of trolley with a man enveloped in a great deal of steam. These were the days before burgers and fast food in England… little did we know what a treat we were in for! However, as we saw him chatting amiably to the vendor (and taking his time about it too) the train gave out an ominous, but very definite, shudder. We stood on the seat and stuck our heads out of the window yelling caution. He gave us a backwards, casual wave and continued his social enquiries. The train began to move, imperceptibly at first then very definitely so. By this time, Jana and I were hanging half out of the window screaming at the top of our lungs. For one ghastly moment, and almost in slow motion, we passed face-to-face in front of dad, squeezing sauce along his burger bun, before he was gone forever. We collapsed to the floor of the carriage, hugging and sobbing, quite sure we would now have to go it alone. Several long minutes past when suddenly the compartment door slid back. There was our dad, wreathed in smiles, carrying steaming hot milk and frankfurters in long rolls. We greeted him with utter relief and joy and pure wonderment. How on earth was he back on the train when we had most definitely passed him on the platform? He explained that the train was long and he had simply jumped on in the last carriage as it moved off slowly; a habit of his we grew accustomed to over the years. With salted cheeks and smiles, we forgave him once again and bit into our steaming hot dogs. Memory bells exploded in my head as I recall that burst of flavour from my baby days.

I had lived in Czechoslovakia for four years and well-loved my frankfurters and sauerkraut. The taste of ghastly English school dinners of grey mince and watery pale cabbage disappeared with each mouthful, as I relished every memorable bite. Oh, to be back in the land of tasty food with the scent of coffee mingled with garlic in the air!

At some point in the night, I awoke needing the toilet. I had no idea where it was or if indeed there was one and decided to ask dad down at the other end of the train. Leaving my sister stretched out on the opposite seat asleep, I began wobbling down the dimly lit and empty corridor. It was not long before I encountered an obstacle. In those days train carriages were joined in a terrifying manner. Whilst the carriage in front swayed one way, the carriage adjoining seemed to be rocking the other. Gaps in the metal floor showed up which closed and opened revealing sparks and racing clinker. The sides of this conjoined contraption were a sort of concertina affair through which one could view the darkness whizzing by. All was black outside and I caught a whiff of pine forest and smoke. Mustering up all my courage, I leapt across the opening and closing gaps into the other carriage. Along the dimly lit gangway, I wobbled peering into slumbering carriages of unknown people trying to find dad or perhaps one of the party he had joined. Finally, and with panic mounting, I spied him laughing and still playing cards. The carriage was now full of beer bottles and dense with cigarette smoke. I whispered into his ear my need and he immediately took my hand and steered me still further down the train until we came to an area near another concertina contraption and flooded with water. Some young people were sitting on their cases here and singing some Slavic songs. They were blind to my embarrassment in that continental way of accepting all creature habits as quite unremarkable and even going as far as to push the door wide.