Edith Hofmann - Unshed Tears: A Novel...But Not a Fiction

Unshed Tears

EDITH HOFMANN

A NOVELBUT NOT A FICTION

Nook Edition

Copyright Edith Hofmann, February 2012

First published in England, February 2012

Book jacket design Ray Lipscombe

Memoirs Books

25 Market Place, Cirencester, Gloucestershire, GL7 2NX

info@memoirsbooks.co.uk

www.memoirspublishing.com

ISBN 978-1-908223-91-3

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of Memoirs.

Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct when going to press, we do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. The views expressed in this book are purely the authors.

To my parents

and all the children of Prague who did not return

Authors Acknowledgement

With special thanks to Stephen Smith

and all those involved in bringing this book to publication

Introduction

When Edith Hofmann sat down to write this book, she was a 19-year-old coming to terms with the fact of her own survival. It is a story which describes a struggle; the struggle to come to terms with a haunting past, the struggle to survive, and the struggle to unburden a broken heart. It also embodies a struggle to form, in language, that which at times all but defies linguistic form. When Hofmann started writing this book she had only been speaking English for two years, and yet she wanted to convey her experiences, in English, to those with whom she had made her home.

The cruel reality was that no one really wanted to hear. She poured out her soul, only to be told that no one was interested in the war any more. This was 1950. Some fifty years later she brought the manuscript to me, wondering whether such a text would have any value. For fifty years her text had lain in her drawer, waiting to be read. Her story is a novel, but it certainly is not a fiction. Scared for her own safety, Hofmann chose to write in the third person rather than pen a memoir. Every page is bound up with the intricate details of her life, those whom she loved, and those whom she lost; the echoes of those terrible years, and the memory they imposed. In compiling this text, we decided neither to change it, by removing discrepancies or updating anything which Hofmann wrote in the late 1940s, nor to improve her English, but rather to leave it as a raw and indelible testimony not only to her survival but to her bid to survive survival. You will be moved; not only by what she has written, but by the fact that she wrote at all.

Stephen Smith, August 2000

Chapter I

The place was Prague. The time was five oclock in the morning on a misty October day in the year of 1941. The streets were quiet, the city still asleep. The capitals picturesque buildings and its hundred spires rearing up proudly towards the sky, were surrounded by peace and darkness, unaware of the thousand souls for whom this hour meant the beginning of a journey into the unknown. Even the Germans who have changed the gay and prosperous city into a place of fear and hatred, were still tucked under their heavy feather beds, dreaming of a greater Reich.

The winter had come in exceptionally early and the north wind that had been blowing all through the night was bringing with it gusts of sleet and snow. A bird rising to great height could have perceived a thousand little specks weighed down by heavy loads, struggling against the weather and darkness, making their way from all corners of the city to a strange meeting place.

Among them were three silent figures: a man, a woman and a young girl. Their steps were heavy, their backs bent under huge rucksacks. From time to time they halted, leant their rucksacks against the wall of a house in an effort to gather new strength, wiped the slush off their faces, and resumed their journey. They passed the Old Town with its narrow streets, churches and antique shops, and crossed the river Vltava by a bridge that linked this historic part of the capital with the spacious modern one. On the bridge they paused for a moment and looked left where the silhouette of the castle, high upon a hill overlooking the river and the ancient quarters of the town, stood majestically as it had stood there for several hundred years, watching history go by.

This was Prague the river, the fairy-tale-like castle, ancient but picturesque buildings. It had seen victories, great kings, glory and also defeats.

This was the time of submission, of defeat, but also of quiet fight, resolution and hope

At last the man beckoned them to continue their journey. Time was passing and they must not be late. A little reluctantly they detached themselves from the parapet on which they had been leaning and directed their steps towards the embankment on the other side of the river.

They turned right and for about ten minutes made their way along the embankment, bordered on one side by the river, on the other by the wooded hill whose wet autumn-coloured leaves were gradually covering the ground, leaving the twisted branches dark and naked. The first tram, almost empty, lighted by small blue lamps, hummed by and disappeared in the distance. The three people gave it a glance, and a look of wrath crept into their faces. For them there were no trams. They were different a yellow star that was fastened onto their coats told of their creed they were Jewish, and Jews had long since been deprived of all luxuries.

They plodded on and at last entered the wider streets of Letna. For the following ten minutes the man led them through a labyrinth of side streets and then suddenly they were there. Their steps slowed down and eventually they stopped, gazing with slightly troubled eyes at the scene across the road.

On the pavement in front of the huge, famous Exhibition Hall, a bewildered crowd was being whipped into lines by tall, self-possessed men in the grey-green uniform of the German military police. From all directions dark figures were approaching and looking uncertainly around them, slowly, hesitantly adding themselves to the murmuring crowd.

This is the end, the woman of about forty said, quietly. She stared in front of her with a pale and clouded face.

Judith, a girl of almost fourteen, slipped her hand into her fathers. He was tall, well-built and had an air of culture, intelligence and self-confidence. He pressed her small hand reassuringly, then lifted his wifes chin, forced an easy smile into his face, looked into her eyes and said confidently, gently, We must have faith and courage, and above all we mustnt show them that we are afraid.

Suddenly the girls face brightened and an optimistic gleam appeared in her gaze.

Dont worry Mummy, you never know what good may come of it all. Here we have to be so careful and afraid all the time, the Germans threaten us on every corner. Perhaps they will send us to a town where all the Jews will live together and nobody will bully us. Maybe there will even be a school. It could not be much worse than it is here, anyway, could it? Judith looked up at her mother, anxious to see her sad look vanish. As if to emphasise her argument she added: What can we lose, tell me?

The woman, who had a very beautiful and kindly face, stroked her hair tenderly and said softly, Perhaps you are right.