Lidice and Terezin

As a junior in high school, forty seven years ago, I listened intently to my English teacher read a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay that affected me, and I believe the other students, profoundly, which I never forgot. THE MURDER OF LIDICE was published in 1942, a year after an unspeakable atrocity, perpetrated by the highest echelon of the Nazi murder machine, obliterated all life from the peaceful Czech village of Lidice. This act was Hitler's revenge for the 1941 assassination by British trained Czech partisans of Reinhard Heydrich. Heydrich had been instrumental at the Wanasee Conference to determine the final solution of the Jews with Eichman, and when the Nazis conquered adjoining lands by force, he became the hated imperial ruler sweeping into Czech territories demanding cooperation and loyalty. So why select this little village? It was fairly arbitrary. The Nazis needed to act swiftly and zeroed in with some false suppositions to make an example of their power in case there were any resistance sympathizers.

The poem describes the plight of the ordinary people; fathers who used to be children playing in the streets, mothers concerned for the children and the little ones ripped away from their parents. Even the dogs, who lay alongside their dying masters, licking the blood draining from the bullet riddled bodies, were savagely massacred. Under premeditated instructions from Hitler, the troops went into Lidice and lined the men up against a farmer's wall and shot them in cold blood, transported the women to a concentration camp, and disposed of the children, most by gas chamber, except for a few "suitable" ones adopted out to SS families.  The only survivors at war's end were 17 out of 105 children, and 153 women. 1,300 died as a result of this purge, including relatives of suspected partisans and others caught in the dragnet.

The small museum at Ludice is stark, dark, and uncomfortable. The space is divided into subject sections by grey concrete walls. Each section displays a different aspect of life before the atrocity and some of the historical setting through photos, films and objects. One area showed a heartbreaking photo of the smiling children outside their small school. Another display was a little girl's embroidered dress. Nancy was struck by the very large hem, doomed to never be let out. 

The most poignant corner for me was the film footage of Heydrich delivering heady speeches to the Czech people amidst huge crowds in beautiful Prague. Against his severe dictatorial decrees to his newly conquered subjects, and inflammatory patriotic rhetoric for he real fatherland, individual headshots of the children taken from the school photo were flashed on the nearby wall. There were even snapshots taken by a Nazi soldier of the events. No sign if life remained. Even the trees, foliage, and farm livestock were destroyed. And to finish the deed, cemetery graves were unearthed and decimated. Moving video testimonies by women and children still alive were shown at the end of the exhibit. You couldn't watch with dry eyes.

The place where the town had been is a beautiful, peaceful memorial park. There are a few individual memorials sprinkled throughout, but the most visited is the bronze sculpture depicting the likeness of each child from the village.

 Just outside this area is a lovely tree lined boulevard with homes built after the war for the few survivors who wanted to come back. A group of British miners pitched in to help construct these homes in solidarity with Lidice's miners. A very positive contribution in this sad place is a beautiful art exposition building where children's art is displayed. Every year they sponsor a challenge open to children from any country in the world in any art medium. It is juried, and I must say the hundreds of selections this year on the theme of
 "objects from my home" was enthralling. We only had a few minutes to view it, but I could have stayed for hours enjoying the sparkling creativity. 

After the crushing intensity of the visit in Lidice, it was a sprig of hope.

Theresienstadt

Terezin looks looks like a small US liberal arts college. No wonder they were able to fool the Red Cross into thinking the inmates were cared for and happy.  It was quite the opposite. There was a grand facade of normalcy perpetrated, of course until the unfortunates were put into cattle cars to be shipped to their deaths in extermination camps. In spite of the hardships, the human creative spirit soared. Music, theater and visual arts thrived.. The museum there, too vast to explore in one day has so many examples of musical compositions, portraits, graphic arts, creative writing, dramas, etc. It is amazing what humans are capable of under stress.  The barracks were crowded and sparse, and still, the social organizations of school and mutual aid were established.

  Children who perished

The memorial field near the crematorium is a dramatic testament. Once more we left stones from Jerusalem on an outside stone marker and on the trolley that wheeled into the crematorium.

The original Theresienstadt (small fortress )  built by Maria Teresa in the 1790s was built as a fort. It is just outside the place used for processing the Jews in the closed off town. The depraved, barren small fortress was used to torture and starve political prisoners. Allied POWs were also sent there who had made attempts to escape other camps. Their transport and their internment there was considered a war crime. Max and Karl were the lucky ones.

At last, Linda

 Mid September, 2013

I was running out of time before leaving Milwaukee. The path to the right Linda was not settled, but I hit the jackpot with a call to the town of Brand-Ebirsdorf, the larger municipality of which Linda is a village. The town employees luckily related to the mayor that an American woman had emailed and called with some unusual requests, and they had no idea what to do. The mayor, Mr. Martin Antonow, took on the "problem." We exchanged some emails and I felt that the explanation, photos, Linda inheritance document sent by Chuck Kirschner, and book website link would be enough to set him on the trail to answer my requests. They were: locate the property where the farm had been, see if there were any older neighbors who could tell me anything about the time of the American prisoners, and arrange for a book talk with a translator, if anyone was interested.  Mayor Antonow is a gem.  Not only did he tackle the "problem" I believe he actually embraced it. He could communicate in English, and enthusiastically arranged a "program" for our visit Oct 15. After arriving in Berlin, I mailed him a copy of the book and confirmed our hotel, the Bander Hof, and our arrival time.

October 15, 2013

An hour outside of Prague, a startling reminder of what happened to too many, including political prisoners, hits you as you pass the exit for Terezin. Another hour is our destination. What might have happened to Max and Karl had they been caught? 

The drive from Prague to Brand-Erbisdorf takes you through some varied and spectacular scenery. Leaving the highway E55 and traveling northwest of Teplice, there are storybook ski-country towns, dense pine forests sprinkled with brilliant yellow turning leaves, and big-sky rolling hill farm country dimpled with small farm villages nestled in the convergences of gentle valleys. We had to stop the car a few times to marvel.

The appointed time to meet the mayor was noon. Martin Antonow is a cheerful, personable, and obviously capable man. With him was an older, dapper gentleman, Mr. Splindler, our translator.  As he explained it, he is "more Oxford than American," which proved to be true. His simultaneous, thoughtful, and patient  translation throughout the day was not only absolutely necessary, but lent a calming effect. He stuck by my side and was a great asset, in part because he grew up near the Fischer farm, and knew Karl's parents and grandparents. When his mother didn't want to cook on Sundays, the family would walk from their village an hour away to eat at the Fischer's Gasthof. At the end of the day, he readily assented when I proposed that I would like to adopt him.

I rode in the car with the two gentlemen while Rich and the Youngerman's followed. A few minutes away in Linda itself we went to a lovely country restaurant, Oelmiihle.  A table was set up for us, and two gentlemen were seated at it. This was a surprise arranged by the mayor; Mr. Immo Fischer, age 84, and his son Hans-Jorg, had driven from Dresden to meet us. It took me a few minutes to register that they were Fischers.  Could they be related to Karl?   I believed there were no relatives in Linda, as I had questioned Chuck on that point, but it did not occur to me to ask if there would be any fairly close by. I recalled what he had told me about a female cousin in Frankfort, and I didn't remember any other families, but at the time I asked I was only focused on Linda, so I may have forgotten other information.  When I finally asked the elder Mr. Fischer if he was related to Karl, he pulled out a dense page of detailed genealogy. 

 He spoke of his grandfather Reinhard and the grandfather's brother, Karl. Then Karl's daughter Susan with her husband Rudolph Kirschner. So I  inquired about Susan's son Karl.  He didn't know anything about a Karl, but thought he could possibly be a brother of Eberhard.   I was shocked to hear that Karl could have a sibling. Immo continued that Eberhart became a doctor after the war and immigrated to California in the early 1950s. The ah-ha moment.  Karl's birth name was Eberhard, and Karl was a nickname after his grandfather! My father often called Karl "Ted", a third nickname.  Immo came well prepared, having also printed out google earth maps of the Linda properties and gave them to me. What a sweetie! He told us he has been working at the genealogy since 1990. When I looked at it, I was able to fill in some information for him about Karl's California family. Hans-Jorg of course was a cousin too, but let his father shine in the spotlight of the genealogy findings. Hans-Jorg did tell s a chilling story though. As this area was under Soviet domination for 40 years, he was expected to become a soldier in the Soviet army. He refused, and spent 20 months in prison. 

Fischer cousins Immo and son Hans-Jorg who live in Dresden. Immo grew up in Linda.

 

While I was glued to the story of the Fischers, Nancy and Jim enjoyed speaking with Martin. He is an intelligent and interesting man, a Dr. in geology/mining, an academic, and a writer. He presented me with a recent book he edited about the end of WWII in the area. I am most anxious to know its contents so will have to figure out how to get it translated. All enjoyed this delicious meal of local dishes, although I could only handle soup because i was so excited. This meal ranked #1 on Jim's list of top ten meals of the trip.

 

Mayor Martin Antonow signing the book he edited

We drove a short way to a quiet neighborhood and parked. A small crowd of people were there welcoming us. Immo and Mr Spindler immediately started talking, and these neighbors offered their hands warmly. Among them:

Elise and Siegfried Kiank

Petra and Klaus Irmer

Harold Richter ( owner of the pension)

Karla and Mr. Schehack

Mr. W....    Weiland?

  and others

Mr. Kiank, Mr. Spindler (translator), and Nina

At the end of the driveway was a familiar building in shape and size. It was the Gasthof Linda! And to the left, across the street stood the lower, white house I knew so well from the photographs my father had from Karl! What a shock. I did not expect to find any remains, and was only hoping to walk in the plot of land, imagine Max walking there, take in the horizons, and pick up a few stones for my siblings.  The Kirschner's said the farm had been destroyed by the Russians. Maybe they meant the farmland ? Did they not know the two main structures existed? This was a thrill. I felt like I had found a long lost treasure.

The owners of the buildings, Karla  Schehack and her husband bought them (I forgot - I think one in the 70s and one in the 90s) from owners after the Kirschners, and remodeled them. The Gasthof's main room, where the restaurant was is a hobby room for Mr. Schehack who has kitchy vintage items from the East German days. 

The kitchen behind this in the middle of the structure, is according to Mr. Spindler in the same place as it was in the Fischer days. Now it is mostly not used but available for the employees of the Schehacks      who run a trucking business. The earlier photos of the Gasthof have an extended portion towards the rear, along the street which made the building about a fourth again as long. That portion was taken down, as was the door on the long side. Mr. Spindler said that door had been the main entrance. Inside there had been some lodging rooms. On the short side, where the beautiful tiled or painted? decorations were is now an overhead garage door, and only two of the three upper windows remain. The lower structure across the street is the home of the couple. Karla showed me a photo album of the buildings as they were when purchased, and the in-progress renovations. 

                                                             

The questions most interesting to me were: where did the American soldiers live, where was Karl's barn, and what was the perimeter of the fence Max crawled through to get to the barn? As the group walked along, everyone added their comments, discussing, pointing and conferring.

   Nina and Paula

    Mrs. Kiank, Mr. Spindler, Nina, Paula Schehack, Martin Antonow

Someone ( I will have to track that down ) produced a partial photo of the Gasthof from the side away from the street. Attached was a low white farmyard structure with a few windows. That is where the Americans lived. Someone said there had been barbed wire on the windows then. The structure is no longer there. Karl's barn is also gone , but we were told by Mr. Spindler it was in the spot to the right side of the low house where an iron gate now marks a yard. So now I know that the darker wooden barn in the back and to the left of the Gasthof was that barn.

But these positions do not answer the fence question. From Max's descriptions of walking the perimeter fence to be alone and not be forced to socialize with fellow prisoners, I drew the conclusion, perhaps erroneously, that it was a fence more than just around the three close structures of the Gasthof. I say this because if Karl was visible and approached him, others would have seen him too in a small fenced in area. Also, to "get away" the area inside the fence would have to be larger.

And didn't the prisoners need to be contained when they worked in the fields?

The villagers all said there was no fence, and that the Americans were "free," others said the were just "arrested." Max had a mind like a steel trap. The fence story was a constant throughout my life. I do believe if he recalled one, it was there.  I will listen again to the joint interview the two friends recorded around 1990 to hear the story from both. Also, since the time of the prisoners was less than a year, possibly there was a fence for a short time, then taken down. Another point, while talking to Immo Fischer, he said that during the war his brother, age 12, threw potatoes over the fence to the prisoners in exchange for a pen. It was a dangerous thing to do, but the lure of an American pen was irresistible!

Older photo from the rear of "Karl's barn" with the Gasthof on the left. The smaller house would be on the other side to the front of the barn. The barn is no longer there.

The assembled group, including Immo with his cane walked a few hundred feet to a former crop field. It is now the soccer field, with a small sports building. On the same plot is the fire station.

Previously there had also been a sport shooting club where they shot birds. There is a photo someone brought of the club members. Mr. Kiank, probably in his mid 80s, pointed out his father, a 20 year old? in the front row, and also pointed out Karl Fischer, our Karl's grandfather. I see where Susan resembles him. I estimate the photo to be somewhere around WWI?

Mr. Kiank and Mr.Spindler

The man in the dark suit, second from the left in the second row is Karl Fischer.

The man third from the right in the first row with the black hat is neighbor Mr Kiank's father.

We all ambled back down the road together, as a cohesive unit of history detectives with a common purpose. I gazed again at the surprisies revealed to me in Linda. I only wish Max, Karl and the families were here to share them, and feel the warmth of the people here.

Linda is a tight, picturesque village exuding calm. A few steps away from the Gasthof is the church/school combined in one building. Max never mentioned it, nor the town around the farm. Nearby I briefly noticed a small four sided obelisk type monument, which by the formal German lettering may have been a WWI memorial, but we didn't have time to look at it. We were invited to get into our cars for another ride and the next special surprise organized by Mayor Martin. 

Linda reception

A minute down the road from the former Fischer property is a small pension run by Mr. Harold Richter. Mayor Martin arranged a beautiful coffee and cake reception for us and invited neighbor guests! Every seat was taken in this bright and airy garden dining room, set with flowers and candles and filled with delicious looking cakes, pies and tea sandwiches. I was delayed for a few minutes in another room by a reporter from a local newspaper for an interview with the aid of the interpreter.  

With the newspaper reporter

Upon rejoining the assembled group already savoring the delicacies, Martin began a speech in German, part of which was translated, but I think the jist was: a warm welcome to all, Mrs Edelman came to see the farm where her father had been, and was happy to meet the neighbors. I was seated between cousin Immo Fischer, and Mr Spindler who did his best to keep up with the many conversations. Mr. Spindler petitioned me to decide which cream cake was better, the local Freiberg version, or the Dresden creation. Plying my plate with the contestants, why would I be so impolite to refuse such a challenge?

Which cake is the best?

Rich, Nancy, and Jim took photos and videos with the cameras, iPads and phones. Two of the women, Petra and Mrs Kiank bestowed me with a most generous gift of two books recently printed about Linda. One is about the old houses, the other about the village.  If I understood correctly, Martin was involved in this writing project for the several surrounding towns under his jurisdiction. Of course they are in German, so, will need to be translated. The Fischer farm is included.

Mr. Spindler, Petra, Nina, Immo and Hans-Jorg Fischer

The atmosphere in the room was comfortable, celebratory and jovial. The neighbors chatted and laughed, and seemed to enjoy the speeches by the mayor. It was unclear how many of them knew him previously, but by the end of the afternoon, all were friends. Immo knew two of the older gentlemen, but not many of the others, I believe. I am not sure Mr. Spindler knew, or remembered any of the guests, as his career as an academic translator took him other places. In fact, Mayor Martin had only met him recently. As explained to me earlier, the fact that almost no one knew English was due to the fact that Linda was in what had been East Germany, where Russian would have been the second language. But we know that before the war, as Karl told Max at their first meeting, everyone learned English in school.

Then it was my turn to book talk. As Mr. Spindler was the only one who had read the book, and the mayor was the only one I had related the outline of story to, the others really had no idea of the events, except that I was the daughter of one of the Americans. It was important to me that they knew I felt positive about seeing the farm, and that the book was about a special friendship between two young men, one a German, and one an American and a Jew. This may have been a surprise for some.

I soon realized that interpreting a reading would be cumbersome. I  selected the pivotal paragraph, how the two friends met for the first time, for Mr Spindler to translate. I thought I heard a few chuckles at how Max described seeing a "Teutonic" looking young man. Then I slowly told the bare outline of the next events; the invitation to play chess, lifting the fence at midnight, and Karl's idea to escape together. I told them how Karl's grandmother kissed Max and told him to take care of their son. I love that part of the story, and I felt the guests did as well. I continued to relate how the two remained friends over the years and showed them the photo from my IPad of their last tearful meeting.

There were a few questions, some about Karl's plane crash, and how Karl ended up in the barn. The mayor tried to formulate their questions in English, but because of the language barrier, I was not sure if all their questions were answered.

I relayed Tom Kirschner's sentiments at how pleased he was to know there was a soccer field on the former farm field, and that his son is an avid soccer player and would someday love to play there.

Mr. And Mrs. Kiank

The lovely afternoon continued for hours. More cake, more tea, and then the round of beer, of course. People did not want to leave! I had time to enjoy Karla's photo album which contained pictures of the buildings before, during, and after renovation. I had one she didn't have, the one of the group of little boys in lederhosen in front of the house, which I will email to her. Slowly people started leaving, and we realized it was getting dark. We might have enjoyed each other's company into the night, but even if the mayor didn't have a meeting to attend, we had been sitting for hours. The innkeeper and his wife were most accommodating throughout the afternoon, and I suspect that they too enjoyed the out-of-the-ordinary gathering. 

It was hard to say goodbye amidst hearty handshakes, hugs, and spirited good wishes ( emphatic "gutta, gutta") until the last person to leave was the mayor. We tip our hats to him. He took this extracurricular project on without hesitation, and creatively fashioned his "program" to offer what he could to fulfill my requests. He was under no obligation to respond in any way, but did so with panache and enthusiasm, which helped touch all of us. It would not have happened without him. Everyone he involved will no doubt be talking about the visit by "the daughter" who came back to see where her father met his friend from Linda.

Richard and Nina Edelman, Mayor Martin Antonow, Nancy and Jim Youngerman

Prague

How in the world did we end up ON the Old Town Square in beautiful apartments with breathtaking  views at night of the spired church lit up like a fantasy castle? The answer, again, is the travel team of Jim and Nancy. The large square , the jewel in the crown of this very pretty city, is host to thousands of people from all over the world gawking at the famous mechanical clock, snapping photos, lounging at heated outdoor cafes, traveling in tourist packs, and sampling wood roasted offerings to wash down with beer.

Our first tour was of Jewish Prague. In all of these Eastern European cities, the Jewish tours are taken by all kinds of people, not just Jews. Those sections of town are often the most interesting, and offer historical perspectives on the history and society as whole. The recommendation from many sources pointed to the tours of the company run by Sylvia Whittman, a local expert. We arrived at the meeting place and were pleasantly surprised to learn that she herself was our tour leader. She is a human dynamo, who, again, after the fall of communism, pursued her jewish roots, educating herself about her heritage.

She offered not only in depth knowledge about each of the old synagogues and graveyards, but historical perspectives, anecdotes and current considerations from all points of view.

An excellent teacher, she reminded me of a favorite Milwaukee educator, Ateret Cohen, although much younger. 

At the Old New Synagogue, Nancy was thrilled to finally see the location pictured in a photo hanging in her grandmother's house. Supposedly this is the place where the GOLEM was created. A three times great grandfather taught Hebrew there to the young boy who became the famous American reform rabbi, Issac Meyer Wise. The Pinkas Synagogue has been turned into a unusual and sacred memorial. The walls in several large rooms have the names painstakingly painted of every individual holocaust victim from the Prague area.

I found Neubauer and Taus among them. When the communists came, they whitewashed these walls, and when they left, they were repainted.

The old cemetery was vast, but in much better shape than the one we saw in Krakow, even though it was five hundred years old. Workers were busy fixing interior areas, and there was no overgrowth. Sylvia pointed out the grave of Rabbi Lev, the famous rabbi of the Golem tale. We remembered to bring a few of the stones from Jerusalem, which we left on a very old mossy marker.

We enjoyed the first tour so much, that we signed up for a second tour for the next day, this one of the main sights. Our guide, Margareta, was a  youthful 40ish woman who when pressed, described growing up under communism. Her father was an intellectual who lost his job at the university, and like many, did not fit into the new society. The living conditions were harsh.   

Partly in a van and partly walking we saw the castle areas. Standing outside the castle was a group of musicians, which we recognized from the DVD on Prague by Rick Steves.

  We also walked past some buildings in the Old Town, including the municipal library,where there is a beehive like sculpture of discarded books.

 She also took us to a location next to a newer Jewish cemetery on the outskirts where there is a monster of an ugly concrete tower built by the communists. Odd black babies also made of concrete crawl all over it. This tower was used for spying or intercepting radio.

Nancy, in her genealogy quest was put in touch with a local genealogist, Julius Muller. With some advance information trading through emails, Julius was able to have results for her. We met him one afternoon in a cafe. It was fascinating to observe him imparting details of her ancestor's lives. I typed notes on the computer, knowing she was too excited to remember details later. Julius not only found names and dates, but the addresses of the houses lived in. Then we took a long walk as he pointed out the buildings, many around the Jewish quarter, but several a good walk away.

 He explained that as restrictions were eased, Jews could move out of the confined areas. Therefore several synagogues in town are situated away from the old neighborhood. One, the Jerusalem Synagogue, near the train station, is a magnificently painted moorish style building, when lit up at night was stunning.

Julius kindly helped us locate the car rental place at the station so we would not lose time before our trip to Linda early Tuesday morning. He also walked us to a favorite restaurant, Kolkovna, where we said our goodbyes. His story is similar to the others we have heard. As an eight year old in 1968, his father, a doctor left their vacation home to report to his national guard post because of the Russian invasion. Because of his position, he was fired, and did not work for years. Then as the son of a "traitor" Julius had a difficult time entering high school, but finally found one out of town. The same obstacles prevented him from going to medical school. Through connections he found a college that accepted him for agriculture, and he eventually succeeded in becoming a researcher in molecular biology. That is, until he discovered genealogy. After investigating his Jewish roots, he became so passionite about the process, that he quit his job to start a business helping others. He is a speaker at the international conference every year.  

One evening we experienced a delightful marionette theater production of Don Giovanni. No English necessary. For some reason the audience was mostly Japanese. Inbetween the scenes a puppet maestro, disheveled  Mozart himself, came out of the pit to provide comic antics , directing music and creating mischief. The puppets were about four feet high, beautifully dressed and obviously well constructed for all the bashing about on stage. We could see the puppeteers , arms covered in velvet sleeves,masterfully manipulating multiple strings to allow their charges to fight, kiss, bathe, dance and run in all directions. A gold star for this production.

We discovered that Sylvia Whittman was a founder of a progressive synagogue one block from our apartment, so we went. We were buzzed in to an apartment/office building and found the small "progressive-Recontructionist "congregation in a basement room. The service was cantor dominated, mostly in Hebrew, but men and women sat together, which I assume defined the label of "progressive." An Israeli rabbi gave a very short sermon in Hebrew, Czech, and English. Then we were welcomed to join everyone around a large table for wine, challah and fruit. We spoke to a middle aged man who was a fairly new convert who found a welcoming community there.

Feeling energetic we decided to take a long walk across town to the New Jewish Cemetery to find Nancy's relatives.Assuming it was the small one we had seen near the tower, we headed in that direction. We got lost until opening the Google helpers to discover that the cemetery was not there at all, but luckily in the same direction a mile or so ahead. This was the most organized cemetery, being only 100 years old. The attendant was able to give Nancy a computer printout, and we found a few of the graves. One was not there, but may have fallen and been buried by the rampant growing ivy.

The churches and synagogues around the Old Town Square offer musical performances in the evenings for those tourists who are not the all night beer drinking crowd. We were fortunate to happen upon a Gershwin concert in The Spanish Synagogue. The music was delightful, but having the hour to gaze at the beautiful, ornate painted surfaces was a bonus. I especially loved the hanging chandelier of the star.

Every visitor to Prague takes a stroll over the Charles Bridge. Our outing happened on a Saturday, which meant it was extremely crowded, but colorful. Musicians and artists lined the walls,tour groups in many languages ambled, and everyone tried to get that perfect shot of their companions without too much interference. Nancy spied the booth of a jeweler where her daughter bought her some earrings a few years ago, so she purchased a pin to match. 

At the end of the bridge we spied the Franz Kafka museum.it has a most unusual courtyard. There is a modern moving sculpture of two men urinating. I won't describre he antics of the Scandinavian tourists trying to get into the act. The museum was well put together, but frankly depressing. This brilliant young man had a very unhappy childhood, and continued to lead a difficult existence. We left Nancy and Jim to wander on that side of the river, and we headed back to the Old Town to catch a museum show of Kokoshka's prints.

This city must have had some part in the inspiration for Harry Potter. The spires in the Old Town church (Hogwarts?), the narrow Golden Lane in the castle complex where alchemy was practiced (Diagon Alley?), and the wood lined pubs all brought to mind the Rowling books.

Leaving our lovely apartments very early in the morning, we passed the crystal chandelier outside public art construction we had observed being installed over the days before. An elegant coda to beautiful Prague.