“When we came to school on 15 March, the teacher told us: ‘Children, we won’t be having classes today. Now, stand up and let’s sing New Life together, do you know it? The new life will only begin after that. If your mums are at home, return there so that they are not worried about you. And don’t stop on the way. If your mums only expect you at noon, you can naturally stay here.’ I set out home and remember not understanding people who were speaking Czech to each other waiting in a line at a kettle from which German soldiers were giving away some mash. As a child I was horribly offended and I ran from there as fast as I could.”
“President Hácha attempted to push for the release of the Sokol’s from Terezín concentration camp. But by that time, Heydrich was already in full control and managed to stop it. Some seventeen hundred people were arrested that night – officials from local and regional units and the headquarters. Instead of releasing them – as they had released my dad and about five more people – in January they transported them all to Auschwitz. Around sixty-five of them had returned.”
“When the occupation began with a gradual annexation of the Sudetenland, my dad brought in a large map. It was as big as the table and all the districts were drawn on it. I found it interesting that it was all white, with letters only. There were no mountains, rivers, colors. Every day when they announced on the radio which municipalities we had lost, my dad marked them in the map. And as I saw our country shrinking, it felt as if they were stealing my mum from me, or a part of my body. As a ten-year-old I was terribly sad about it… It was the result of my upbringing.”
“Uncle Láďa, my dad’s youngest brother, worked at the forestry in Liptovský Hrádek back then so me and my mum went there. I was very unlucky because as I walked into the classroom, the teacher called me up to the podium and started interrogating me. He asked me about my nationality and when I replied: ‘Czech,’ the whole class began screaming: ‘Yuck, a Czech!’ Then he asked me about my religion. Back then I was irreligious so I said that and those kids ran out of the classroom shouting at me: ‘You, pagan, what do you sacrifice? Do you also sacrifice children?’ It is because in their religious education they were just learning about the pagan god Baal. The teacher told me: ‘Go sit back there, there is one Czech girl already but at least she is a catholic.’ As we walked out of the school, the kids grouped up and threw stones at me. I remember that I cried mostly because they tore out my laced collar from a blouse which my mum dressed me into to look fancy during my first day at school. I returned home trembling and never set foot to that school again. My uncle taught me what was necessary at home after work.”
Dagmar Evaldová was born on the 31st of March, 1928. Both of her parents were keen members of the Sokol movement. Her father, a judge by profession, took part in the anti-Nazi resistance during World War II. He was active in the illegal Sokol organization Jindra but was arrested and in 1943 he was executed. His older brother faced an identical fate. Dagmar was sent to do forced labor in an arms factory in Vlašim. After the end of the war she enthusiastically participated in Sokol’s restoration. Following its ban by the communist regime, she worked in several factories because she wasn’t allowed to study. Later, she got a job as a caretaker of blind children and at the same time participated in a project called SOS Children’s Villages. She remained active in the field of blind children’s education up until retirement. After the Velvet Revolution she was one of the main figures participating in Sokol’s renewal. She died on April 25, 2022.
