Memory of a Tragic Event: Lidice

A few months after the end of the Second World War, I sat proudly next to my war-hero father as Czechoslovakia’s President Eduard Beneš dedicated a memorial to the victims of Lidice. It was a simple cross with a circle of barbed wire, yet its symbolism was overpowering. Three years earlier, Reinhard Heydrich, the Nazis’ Deputy Protector of our country, had been mortally wounded by Czech paratroopers who had been flown in from their base in England as his open car rounded a curve. Heydrich – Hitler’s favorite henchman whose cruelty earned him the moniker, “Butcher of Prague” – survived for several days, but died of blood poisoning brought on by fragments of upholstery, steel, and his own Nazi uniform. 

As the Germans staged an elaborate funeral in Berlin, Czechs celebrated, albeit privately and secretly. Their elation did not last long. The Gestapo and the SS hunted down and murdered more than a thousand resistance members and ordinary citizens--anyone suspected of involvement in the assassination – and they deported 3,000 Czech Jews for extermination. 

 Then, in further revenge, the Germans committed one of the greatest single atrocities of the war, outside the death camps. They concocted a story that the citizens of the small village of Lidice, located near Prague’s Ruzyně airport, had provided assistance to the assassins. This was an outright lie. Lidice consisted of 503 people, 106 houses, a school, a small baroque church; no one in this farming community had a clue about the plot. On June 10, 1942, the Germans shot 172 men and seven women in Lidice. They burned the entire village to the ground, and they shipped 196 women to the Ravensbrück concentration camp, where most died. Most of Lidice’s 96 children were murdered in gas chambers and a few, those who were lucky enough to have Aryan features – blond hair, blue eyes – were put into German orphanages, there to be raised as good Nazis. 

On that day in 1945, with returning soldiers who had defeated the Nazis seated with their families in special accommodations, we honored these victims of Lidice. The raising of a stark, simple cross and crown of thorns affected me deeply. The Lidice memorial has the same effect on me today.  I am drawn to this place by some invisible magnet each time I visit my native country. There are few visitors to Lidice. Whereas one must fight his way through throngs of tourists armed with cameras at Prague’s castle, Charles Bridge, and Wenceslas Square, a person can find solitude in Lidice. Solitude, and the opportunity to wonder how such cruelty can continue in this world. Will we never learn to live together in peace?

The martyred children of Lidice

Writing my long journey home

At book signings and in various social settings, I am invariably asked: “What made you decide to write your book?” It’s a simple question without a simple answer. I began to give it passing thoughts in the early 1990s when I began an emotional journey of reconnecting with my native country of Czechoslovakia. My father had passed away and my mother was frail and often ill. It was then that I began to appreciate the horrors and unspeakable hardships my parents had endured during their lifetimes and the incredible courage which had pulled them – with me in tandem – through it all.

My initial intention was to record the saga of our family for our son, his children, and those who will follow them in the future. But, as I began to read vignettes from my journals to teachers and fellow writers, colleagues who assured me that they were not merely stroking my ego, repeatedly said to me: “Your story isn’t just for your family; it has important historical value.” One even told me: “Anne Frank was the most important child of the 20^th century. She died. You managed to survive, and your story must be told.” When I spoke with young people and discovered how little they knew about World War II, I was swayed even more. Reading the venomous words of Holocaust deniers who are determined to make the world forget six million murdered souls sealed the deal for me. I had to bear witness.

Writing had been my hobby from the time I fell in love with the English language. While pursuing my multiphase career as an engineer, an academic, an entrepreneur, and a venture capitalist, I always wrote on the side. I was a newspaper columnist and a magazine freelancer, and I even authored a small technical book. But, I had never written anything resembling a memoir. To my astonishment, the journey toward becoming a memoirist has taken ten years. It has consisted of taking tens of classes, consultations with accomplished writers, suggestions and encouragement from my writers’ group, and reading a ton of books. And, of course: writing, rewriting, editing, rewriting, and more rewriting.

My first breakthrough came when Mladá Fronta, one of the largest publishers in the Czech Republic, published the Czech translation of my memoir, titled Dlouhá cesta domů, in April 2011. Now, finally, English speakers are reading Prague:My Long Journey Home. They tell me they like it. I am elated.