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WHEREVER THEY MAY BE
© 1972, The
Beate Klarsfeld Foundation
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[demonstra…] tions from the International
Communist Youth Congress that was being held in Bratislava.
Wiesenthal
approved of my project, but worried about what might happen to me. "It isn't
like other countries," he said. "The police are much stricter there, and you
might very well be detained a long time."
I already knew that. One of
the defendants in the trial was a twenty-four-year-old West German named
Sybille Plogstedt, who had been arrested back in December 1969, for having
allegedly brought her Czech friends "subversive" books. She had already been in
a Prague jail for fourteen months. More than anything else, I was afraid I
might be arrested and "disappear" without anyone hearing about it. Of course I
had the addresses of press correspondents in Prague, but I still had to get in
touch with them without arousing suspicion. I had told Serge that if I
succeeded in reaching any of them by Sunday night, I would wire him in Paris
that I was going ahead with my protest on Monday. The code we had agreed on
was: "Arrived safely. Lovely city."
So on Sunday I took my train. I hid
my three hundred pamphlets, which were printed on thin paper, in the lining of
my flight bag, which was filled with food, including a very ripe Camembert
cheese that I hoped would be smelly enough to discourage any over-conscientious
customs officer. I had also brought a big bunch of flowers to distract prying
eyes. I did my best to appear frivolous; in a word, I was beyond suspicion.
Everything went well. The young police officer was so busy smiling at
me that he hardly looked at my passport. He gave my suitcase a cursory glance
and didn't even bother opening my flight bag.
I still had to get rid of
an Austrian architect who was determined to show me around Prague and who would
run the risk of including a visit to a Czech prison in his tour if he were seen
with me.
I took a taxi from the Hotel Flora to the home of the German
Press Agency correspondent, who lived quite far from the center of town. It was
already growing dark by the time I reached the row of gloomy buildings where
his apartment was. I climbed to the fourth floor and rang the bell. No answer.
I sat on the staircase to wait. An hour later I left. I couldn't waste any more
time because I had to get a release to the press that very evening.
I
then went to the Reuters' correspondent, who lived on a wide street in the
center of town. He opened the door to me, and I saw
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WHEREVER THEY MAY BE
© 1972, The
Beate Klarsfeld Foundation |
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Page 131 |
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