The scenes from the bombed-out buildings, destroyed cars and buses, and citizens fleeing for their lives in Ukraine remind me of the bombings in Prague during World War II and what I saw three years later in the city of Dresden, Germany.
I was nine years old on February 14, 1945, when wailing sirens announced the day’s air raid. For months, our teachers had been having us rehearse what to do if Prague was bombed. The main goal of these exercises was to move us quickly to the school’s basement. We third graders did not mind because the air raid drills, usually in the afternoon, meant less time to learn German. After Nazi Germany lost the war, Czechoslovakia became a Communist satellite of Russia, and all students had to learn Russian.
But that day was very different—Prague was actually being bombed. There were louder and louder explosions, an eerie silence, then the wailing sounds of fire engines. As one explosion followed another, our teachers hurried us to the basement. We were being bombed, and I was scared. The younger students started to cry—while I felt numb, clenching my fists and biting my lips, determined not to cry.
We heard the sounds of ambulance sirens in continuing waves. We wondered what had been hit: military targets, civilian targets, our homes? Our school was located in downtown Prague with no military installations nearby, so why were we a target? I suddenly thought about my mother and worried about the factory where she was working. Could it have been hit? Was she alright?
About a month later, on March 25, we endured a second bombing. It targeted the industrial area, including factories and a munitions plant in northeastern Prague across the Vltava River from our apartment house.
That night, I awoke to loud blasts and vivid colors that seemed to be painting the sky. The window of my bedroom faced the river and beyond that the area being bombed. I rubbed my eyes and witnessed a stream of yellow, red, and gray smoke moving across the river. I jumped out of bed and got close to a large window that was shaking. I stared at the wave of bright lights and the distant flames—not knowing what was happening. I heard sounds of rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat and saw traces of white bullets streaming from the ground up to the sky. The shots must have come from German anti-aircraft guns shooting the American and British bombers.
Mother rushed into the room and grabbed my arm. “Get away from the window,” she insisted. We headed for the kitchen on the other side of the apartment, away from the river. I clutched her hand as the blasts continued to light up the sky. Finally, there was an eerie silence followed by the wailing sirens of fire engines and ambulances racing in the direction of the bombed area across the river.
My cousins Gerti and Robert lived on that side of the river, but mother reassured me that their home was not near the targets and that they would be fine. I felt relieved when mother said that the bombing was a sign that the Allies were getting closer to Prague. For me, that meant my dad would come back sooner. That happy thought relieved my tension. Much later, I learned that three waves of more than 500 Allied planes had pummeled the area that night, destroying factories and homes and killing almost 400 civilians.
I continued to witness the impact of political struggles on civilians after the war. In October 1948, more than three years after World War II had ended, Dad, Mother, and I tried to board a train from Prague to Amsterdam. It turned out to be a very sad day for me—my father was stopped by a train conductor because he did not have a Communist-approved passport necessary to leave the country. I was confused and shocked having to leave my father behind. It brought back a painful memory of an earlier separation when he had been mobilized to fight the Nazis. In a week, that fight was over, and we were reunited. So, why was I being separated from my dad again? I started to weep not knowing whether I’d see him again. Through my tears, I tried waving goodbye as positively as I could.
After a long argument between Dad and a train conductor, my mother and I finally boarded the overnight train. Trying to calm me, Mother unwrapped one of her homemade egg salad sandwiches, with plenty of mustard. With a full stomach and with my head resting on her shoulder, I fell asleep. Eventually, when I opened my eyes, I was shocked by what I saw.
The train slowly passed rows and rows of bombed-out houses. External walls of people’s homes looked as if they had been ripped off, exposing many inner rooms, some intact, others torn in half. Light fixtures dangled in destroyed rooms, bathrooms were exposed, and piles of doors were stacked in front of buildings. Mounds of dirt and debris rose up everywhere. Further on, I saw several destroyed rail cars, a mangled German Army truck, and an overturned streetcar.
Mother was also appalled by what she had witnessed. She explained that we had arrived in Dresden, Germany, which had been heavily bombed by American, British, and Canadian Air Forces in February of 1945. She said we were in the railway yard, near the center of the city, which had suffered very high casualties.
My parents had visited Dresden long before, when, she said, it had been a beautiful medieval city with gardens, fountains, statues, museums, and historic palaces. Her voice quivered as she spoke about the good time she and Dad experienced in Germany before Hitler came to power.
I wondered why the Allies would destroy such a historic place? Mother said that terrible destruction happens during wars and that the Allies wanted to beat the Nazis as quickly as possible. Although the targets were military and industrial, up to 25,000 Dresden civilians died. It troubled me then and continues to depress me today. Will we ever value human life and peace over destruction?
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