Milan Svanderlik - Sketches from Childhood

All this was happening at the same time as Czechoslovakia was embarking upon a coordinated effort to rebuild its cities, revive its industry, and replace the housing and infrastructure lost to the conflict. To achieve this, the country needed a legion of professionals, labourers and other energetic young workers that Czechoslovakia simply did not possess. Thus it was that the Government appealed to the Czech minority in Yugoslavia, beseeching them to return to their ancestral homeland and to help with the post-war reconstruction. To enhance the response to this plea, returnees were offered attractive incentives by the Government - resettlement grants, housing, and farmland were all offered as inducements. In a country that had lost around 2.5m of its German citizens, there were plenty of employment opportunities and almost all returnees were exempted from paying any state taxes for several years.

Many responded, mostly idealistic young men and women, eager to make their way in the world. They were drawn from the first generation of Czechs born in Croatia to parents who had themselves migrated from the old Bohemia and Moravia and who had retained nostalgic connections with their original homeland. Life for Czechs in Croatia had not always been easy and it must be acknowledged that not all Czech settlers felt entirely comfortable as a tiny minority in the new Yugoslavia. Records indicate that several trainloads of Czechs from the region around Daruvar took advantage of the Czech Government’s attractive offer and moved to Czechoslovakia. These new arrivals came, as settlers often do, filled with optimism, hope for a better future, and in the expectation that their new life might be easier, both for them and for their children. It is hard to imagine that any of them foresaw the dramatic regime change that, but a few years later, was to have such a profound and dismal effect on all their lives.

Like lots of others, my own family relocated to Czechoslovakia immediately after the War. They settled in a small town called Jiřikov, in the extreme north of Czechoslovakia, close to the border with what was then East Germany (DDR). The state border actually ran through the town itself, dividing it into two. Not surprisingly, as Jiřikov was in the region known as the ‘Sudetenland’, it also had a German name, Georgswalde. In other ways an unremarkable place, Jiřikov was unusual in having several very well-known factories producing luxury goods - pianos, chandeliers, carpets and bone china - and these well-established enterprises provided most of the employment for the local populace. There was even a railway station, although the line terminated there. My parents and their two teenage children settled into an imposing house, surrounded by its own gardens, set amongst tall trees, and with extensive land and coniferous forests behind it. That was where I became a late and, I suspect, rather unexpected addition to the Švandrlik household.

By unhappy coincidence, I was born on 27 February 1948, a date forever remembered as a momentous day in the history of Czechoslovakia, for that was the day when, in a Soviet-backed coup d’état, the Czech Communists overthrew the legitimate, democratic government and took over the state. A little longer was required to gain absolute power but after the last minister from the old regime, Jan Masaryk, was killed and his body flung from a window in Prague, the takeover of power was complete. As we now know, Communist rule in Czechoslovakia was to prevail for the next four decades.















CHAPTER 2

My very first childhood memory dates from when I was still in the pram: I remember experiencing great pleasure as my mother drew on to my tiny foot a newly-knitted sock, trying it for size. The warmth and softness of the new wool generated such an intense feeling that it has stayed with me for all these years. I was later told that I protested vociferously when the sock was slipped off my foot, in order to be finished. I just never wanted that exquisite pleasure to end and, apparently, I kept poking my foot out of the pram for days afterwards, no doubt in the hope that such a delightful, comforting experience might be repeated. It is surely strange how such small, almost insignificant experiences can stay lodged at the back of our minds for a lifetime, when memories of much greater importance seem almost carelessly discarded.

I also remember quite distinctly my first Christmas - a roaring fire, a beautifully decorated tree, lit with real candles, and dressed with glinting pendants and chocolates wrapped in colourful tinfoil. For many years afterwards, I associated the magic of Christmas with the excitement of presents, a warm, comfortable home, and the smell of cinnamon, vanilla and oranges. This wonderful, cosy interior contrasted markedly with the inhospitable world outside, where the air was biting cold and the garden was thickly blanketed with snow.

While Winters in that part of Czechoslovakia were bitterly cold, usually with large amounts of snow, Spring and Summer were generally warm and beautiful. I have a lucid memory of being taken to a nearby pine forest, to collect the blueberries that grew there in profusion. To me, the trees looked gigantic, and the smell of resin and pine needles was almost overpowering. I simply ate most of the blueberries that I managed to collect, and I still have a distinct recollection of how delicious they were and how dramatically they stained my lips and tongue a ghoulish purple hue. They tasted so good to me that to this very day, whenever I eat blueberries, which is quite often, I find myself transported back to sunny days spent in Bohemian woods. Sadly, today’s blueberries never seem to taste quite so good as they did then; doubtless the newly-experienced tastes and smells of childhood are registered with an intensity that can never be surpassed.

Once I’d graduated from crawling and was up and about on my own two legs, I remember exploring our cavernous house - for that’s how it seemed to me - with its wide, unforgiving, marble staircase that proved such a cruel obstacle to my little legs and knees. I have a clear picture of the grandeur of my father’s library, with its dark, heavy, leather furniture and the books that lined the walls. I also recall sunny days in our garden, a safe space filled with trees and shrubs; it was almost our very own miniature arboretum. I well remember playing inside the garden’s gazebo, in the shade of large trees, and that life there felt secure and good - there were high walls all around, with an impressive, wrought iron gate to keep us safe from the world. Little did I know that these walls, gates and fences would soon acquire a quite different function, to keep us all locked in.