Marketa Goetz-Stankiewicz

This was also one big – not adventure – that´s a word fit for a film – it was, it went so deep for me, all that I have been through there. That was then. And the next time I saw him, he was already the President. Well. This is a wonderful thing. He was always very nice to me, he hugged me. Maybe it was me who hugged him first, because he was a hero but also a shy person. Vašek. He was a shy person. Yes.

My father came from a Jewish family so we were the so-called Mischlings. I was a Mischling of the first grade but I didn´t care. I used to say: I have the best parents, the best father anyone could wish for. But my father suffered a lot because of this. They were collecting Czech mixed families, not only mixed but Jewish men. They took them or they had to walk to the station, there they took their names and some Gestapo man asked: Is there anyone – of course in German: Ist jemand ein Jude hier - whose child is in a German school? I didn´t say before that when they didn´t accept me to the Czech gymnasium, I had to study at the German gymnasium in Ostrava. I commuted. I had to leave home at 6 in the morning, walked to the station, travelled by train for an hour and then in Ostrava went on foot three quarters of an hour to school. I always had a strange feeling but it was a good school. We also had a little bit of English there. So, I was in a German school. My father said so, they took him out of the group and the other people have never been heard of afterwards. My father was not allowed to work, to leave the town, we had to move out of the flat upstairs in the Savings Bank building, well, it was terrible. But my father survived. He had to go to a concentration camp but survived. His parents, sister, cousin – none of them survived. My father did and was in Canada with us. This was the greatest happiness.

We also took photos. We had there – I can´t find the word – some 500 German soldiers – somebody will help me? – yes, a garrison. They used to come to have their photos taken to the Foto Doda. I had to speak to them as I could speak German. So, the horrible German language was of use now, in different surroundings. The soldiers came, of course I saw enemies in them, but we still took their photos. Then something strange happened. Somewhat later, in the years 1943, 44, letters arrived from little villages in Austria.Reading the letters, well, we, Doda too, we both started to cry. The parents wrote in them: Our beloved son is no longer alive. He was killed in the war – ist gefallen in German. You can say it in the same way in Czech. And I saw: Please, make four large photos and about a few dozen small ones for me, so I did. And some were framed. I saw the faces of the boys. They were boys, almost children. And this somehow burned out the hatred I had felt to the soldiers.