“And another time he came again, Honza Schuler - that was the name of that Swiss youngster - and he said that the Red Cross needed our help with something. That [Mr Montadone] sends word by his dad for us to come. We set off for Prague. At the time the Red Cross was based in the former German embassy below [Prague] Castle. When we drove by the old palace stairs, a group of Czech boys appeared, youngsters who said: ‘Come with us, we’re going to attack the Castle!’ But we didn’t have any weapons. One of them was Mirek Sommer, a friend from our street. They set off up the Deer Trench to reach the Castle and avoid any guards who might still be there. We continued to the German embassy. The attack on the Castle was a disaster. There really were guards or a patrol there, and they shot them all with a machine gun. Including Mirek Sommer. They still have a small memorial there, on Prašný Bridge, when entering the Castle. All their names are there. We came to the embassy. Mr Montadone welcomed us with open arms. He led us into the lobby. On one side there were German soldiers, on the second Hungarian, on the third English, and Mr Montadone said: ‘I’m expecting more of them now. Could you take them into families? Otherwise I’ll just have them scrapping together here.’ The Germans were in elegant uniforms, probably high-ranking officers who didn’t dare run with the army, so they fled to the shelter of the Red Cross. And so of course, we said: ‘Yes, Mr Montadone!’ He brought cigars, cigarettes, he feasted us. We then piled into the German car, a Dolch cabriolet. We sat and stood on the edges. There were five or six Englishmen, and we really did take them to Libeň. They were taken in by the local population there. All the ladies and girls were greatly interested in them, so we divided them up among the families.”
“One young friend came from the factory, he was the chauffeur of Hauptmann Tham. That was the military commander of ČKD. He came in [Tham’s] car and said: ‘Tham’s legged it already, so I’ve taken his car and I’m off home. But I can’t get through, the barricades are everywhere.’ And we needed to distribute the lunch. There was freshly cooked stew in buckets, and bread. Everything for free. So he says: ‘Come on, I’ll distribute it with you.’ We loaded it up and drove round the barricades. And that’s how it was for the next few days. He knew where the food stores were. We loaded up cigarette at the port in Maniny, and we distributed them; cans too. There were several of us youngsters. One was Swiss, his father was a chauffeur at the Swiss embassy. He attended Czech school together with his sister Eva, so he came and said: ‘I’ll bring a signboard of the International Red Cross and we’ll go all over Prague and see what all’s going on.’ And so he did. He brought a big poster with Comité international de la Croix-Rouge. Back then the Red Cross was headed by Mr Montadone, who later became president of the whole Red Cross. So we pasted it over the German car which that Honza Pašek had obtained, and we really did drive round all the barricades supplying them with food.”
“I was near the English boarding house, which stood on the edge of Libeň opposite the football pitch, and I saw some workers arrive there from Českomoravská. I followed them. The boarding house functioned as the headquarters of the Hitlerjugend. They wanted to assault it to gain weapons. There was some gunfire, but when hand grenades started flying, the Hitlerjugend surrendered. They put out a white flag and negotiations began. That they would surrender if they would be released and allowed to join the barracks in Karlín, where there was a German military garrison. They agreed to that, but first the wounded had to be tended to. They were children. And so we created a medical facility in our street, where Dr Svatoš lived with his wife. They saw to the boys, and then, because barricades were being built all over the place, they were allowed free passage to Karlín to their military unit. The medical facility remained there and we helped build barricades and supply food. There was stew and soups, and we distributed it.”
“There was a meeting in the factory, and we had already agreed with a number of workers that with regard to the Russians’ arrival we would quit the party. We were all young people, some five or six of us. The party organisation had about ten fifteen people. We were afraid that if one person quit by himself, he might be punished. But we reckoned that if half the organisation would quit, it would be okay. So the meeting took place, and when we had discussed everything on the agenda, I stood up and addressed the chairman: ‘I would like to quit the party. Here is my membership card.’ And now the others were supposed to do the same. But of course that didn’t happen. Everyone sat on their bum and stared out at the factory roof. No one said a word. And so he looked around, I won’t say his name, and he asked: ‘No one else?’ Silence. No one else. So he took the membership card and said: ‘Fine. Does the plenary agree to him quitting the party?’ Everyone raised their hand, everyone agreed. And then I was fired.”
“The air raids were every day, but not always with bombing. So we wouldn’t hide in the bunker. Not until later, when they started proper, we’d leg it to cover. Everything shook, and suddenly it was dark. That was back at our house. We’d legged it to the cellar. Suddenly - darkness. It lasted maybe an hour, I don’t know exactly. When it finished, they called the all clear. We came out. The sky was black, burnt pieces of paper were falling gently like snowflakes. Burnt bank notes. It was before pay day. Invoices, all sorts of paper documentation. Machine drawings, everything had burnt. Because there was a paint factory close by. It’d blown up and the blaze had spread, ’til it was all one torch. The wind blew it for kilometres around. We didn’t go look until morning; it was unbelievable. There was one engine, a locomotive that is - locomotives were also made there. Everything was made there. Just imagine, the rails were twisted like this, standing tall like trees. There was a row of tenement houses opposite the factory, they only had their windows broken. They were almost untouched, so it shows they had it targeted accurately. Except I left one of my friends there, Milíč was his name, he was on duty. There were anti-air patrols in the streets, and it happened to be his turn on that Sunday; he hid in the concrete bunker [of the ČKD factory]. But that all disappeared, him too, everything.”
Pavel Hejcman was born on the 23rd of March in 1927 in Prague as the third child of Karel and Marie Hejcman. His father was a head of the machine refurbishment workshop in the ČKD factory in Libeň, his mother was a homemaker but she died early due to severe illness. Pavel went to elementary school in Libeň and continued at a secondary school but he was expelled during the war and started working in the ČKD factory where he apprenticed as a machinist. The factory was damaged in an air raid in March 1945 and Pavel was transferred to a secret underground facility, Eulálie, in Prokopské údolí [Prokop Valley]. During the Prague Uprising in May 1945, he participated in building barricades and in supply runs organised by the Red Cross.
After Prague was liberated by the Red Army, he drove British officers escaped from concentration camps to Plzen to the headquarters of General Patton. After the end of WWII, he enrolled to the newly established College of Political and Social Sciences to study journalism, history and psychology. Towards the end of his studies, he was diagnosed with tuberculosis but despite this illness, he was able to graduate. To aid his recovery, he and his wife moved to Bystřice pod Hostýnem. Both of them gained employment in the TON (Factory for Bentwood Furniture). Pavel Hejcman became the editor-in-chief of the furniture-makers’ journal, Our Work. He also devoted his time to writing. His first book was published in 1959 and since then, he published about thirty historical or adventure novels and mystery books. In the autumn of 1968, he rescinded his membership in the Communist party and consequently, he was fired from his job and remained unemployed for three years. He was also banned from publishing. His works came out under various pen names, which later lead to feuds over autorship, mainly of the memoir of Gerard Fráňa, Farewell Seas, Farewell Oceans. In the first half of the 1970’s, he got a job as a machinist in the Lidrukov factory in Bystřice. During the normalisation, he was under surveillance of the State Security. He claims that his mail was checked and his phone was tapped, that he was interrogated several times and there were attempts to persuade him to cooperate with the secret police.
The Archive of Security Services holds a log, according to which Milan was recruited as an agent of the State Security and he is listed as such until 1974. The events of November 1989 brought him to public life, he was one of the co-founders of the local organisation of the Civic Forum in Bystřice. He became head of the re-established town council in Bystřice in the late 1989 and in the 1990 elections, he became mayor of the town. He got a negative lustration certificate – meaning that his cooperation with the State Security was not proven. In 1992, the list of members of the Journalists‘ Syndicate who collaborated with the State security was made public. Milan Hejsman was listed in the Cibulka Lists (*) as well. He defended himself in the book Osočení [The Accused] written by Zdena Salivarová-Škvorecká (published by the 68-Publishers in Toronto in 1993) and he managed to get his name erased from the list by a court order. In 2006, he was awarded the Pro Amicia Musae award for important and considerable input in cultural development of the region, which raised a few controversies. Articles casting doubts on his authorship of the book Farewell Seas, Farewell Oceans came out but it was rather a manufactroversy stirred by the heirs of Gerard Fráňa. Witness’ last book was an autobiography, [Grass Blades in the Windstorm] which was published by the town of Bystřice pod Hostýnem in 2008.
Pavel Hejcman died on the 17th July of 2020.
(*) No official list of agents and collaborators was ever issued, the Cibulka Lists were a private activity and they are considered a rather reliable baseline.
