If you've gotten this far in the blog, then you know that the main reason for the whole genealogy project was to uncover my mother's side of the family and get to know the people who, for good or ill, had such an effect on that family that it's still being felt over a century later. I knew there were things that weren't going to be pretty, and given that the whole Lihl family was kicked out of the region that had been their home for centuries, I thought I had a fairly good idea what I was getting myself into. It seemed I had prepared myself well enough, at least while searching through the parish records and finding the children who died young, the women who died in childbirth, and the usual difficulties in centuries past. Finding the letters from Emma's family members who hadn't emigrated with her, however, blew the idea of 'prepared' all to hell.
For years, I had known about the Sudeten Germans being forced to leave their homes after 1945 as a result of post-war Czechoslovakia's unabated anger over Hitler's annexation of the Sudetenland, and as Germany had just lost a second war, I knew the economy had tanked and food was probably still rationed. What I didn't know was where they went after leaving Bohemia or what life outside the Sudetenland was like for those expelled, and thus finding the letters was my biggest genealogy (and yes, on a personal level, too) wish granted, though I quickly came to realise that maybe some prayers are better left unanswered. Transcribing the first letter from Daniel to Emma, I was also translating as I went, and while the the letter starts off fairly normally, even somewhat amusing as he wonders if the people in Saxony even know how to wash their hands, it quickly goes down-hill from there. Daniel describes tiny cottages as the best available for the Sudeten refugees, and not everyone could even get one of those, though it seems he was able to buy one with money Emma was sending. He also talks about making their own soap from lye and ashes, as well as making some kind of coffee with the ashes (I think mixing what coffee they did have with the ashes to make it last longer), but the worst was when he talks about the food shortages. A tiny piece of uncooked meat was a luxury, rice was the main source of food, and even that was strictly rationed. This was from people who had always been poor, though back in Bohemia, they wouldn't have considered themselves that way. They had their own homes, could provide for their families, and if they didn't have much money, they could make what they needed and made a life that was at least rich in happiness. I was already choked-up reading about what little food they could get their hands on, and quickly progressed to full-on crying when Daniel expresses his hopes that the troubles will soon be over, that they may even be able to go home someday. From the dates and return addresses on later letters, it looks like they moved from Saxony to Bavaria, but I don't think they ever managed to return home.
I don't know what my family's politics were. I don't know if they were among the Sudeten Germans who supported Hitler or not, and though I can't believe I'm saying this, I don't think I care. Considering in the 1930s when he was annexing the Sudetenland, the Nazi movement was more about improving the economy and rising from the ashes of the post-WWI devastation than anti-Semitism, I could certainly understand why it might have appealed to them. While I won't deny that the Czechs had the right to be angry that part of their country was taken from them, it doesn't justify the expulsions after the war. An entire region of people was forcibly removed from their homeland, Czechoslovakian citizens as much as the people expelling them, for no other reason than that their territory had been annexed by Hitler and the Czechs outside the Sudetenland wanted revenge. These weren't firebrands or even anti-Czech, just humble people who wanted to live out their lives in peace, and instead bore the brunt of Czechoslovakia's hatred of Hitler and anything at all linked to Nazism. No matter how hard I try to imagine how I'd feel if it happened to me, I still don't think I can comprehend the extent of the devastation my family must have felt. My Sudeten fairy-godmother was among those expelled, a teenager at the time, and when she talks about what she and her family went through, it rips my heart out, but hearing the same kind of stories from my own family hits even harder. Their sheer determination to survive and even thrive is overwhelming, and I wonder if things like that are passed through DNA, because that kind of courage and strength seems bred into the bones of my family.
While I have every intention of sharing with Oma the later letters and the places the family went after leaving Bohemia, I don't know whether or not to pass along the contents of the earlier letters. Part of me feels she has the right to know, but the other part thinks it might be too much for her and not worth upsetting her over what happened almost seventy years ago. It's difficult enough for me to hear about all these years later, so how much worse would it be on Oma, who actually knew and loved them? She still remembers Hannelore fondly, even if she found Johanna too stand-offish to be close to, so while I don't want to hurt Oma with the knowledge of what they suffered, I also don't know that I have the right to keep it from her. I'll have to run it by Pop-pop. For myself, I'm glad I have the letters as a way to get to know the people I've been curious about my entire life, but at the same time, like so much of this project, it came with an emotional cost I wasn't entirely expecting.
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