Olga Glierová

“(Our) sow died. We had to slaughter her. So we had smoked meat and everything. And they stole it all from us. They even took our laundry. Mom wanted to give the boys clean shirts on Sunday, and they took the laundry right out of the closet. And it was wartime, so there wasn’t much to begin with. Only a few items were left there. They just stuffed it all into their backpacks. They didn’t care if they were putting bacon in there or books. Those boys worked at the printing press, so they had various printed materials. As for the books, they were all greasy. I’m telling you, they took everything with them. As a kid, it wasn’t a pretty sight—what I saw that night until morning.”

“When it started, a rocket-propelled grenade exploded in our yard. As they were driving down the alley toward us. And Drahomír, in particular, was sitting on the toilet. It was an outhouse, and he couldn’t get back into the house from there, so he crawled along the ground. Dad wasn’t home. He was up at the Skopals’ place. As soon as it started, the bell started ringing, and our neighbour, Mrs. Vrzalová, banged on the window: ‘Fire! Put it out!’ Mom didn’t want to let the boys go. ‘Well, we have to go put it out; we have to go help.’ So they went to put out the fire. That was around ten o’clock. And they didn’t return until morning. Dad came back first; they let the men over fifty go home first. He asked Mom, “Where are the boys?”—“They’re putting out the fire.” Dad clutched his head and said, “That’s bad.” Only after they were taken away did the boys come back home. The other one (Zdeněk) was sitting next to the footbridge. But Drahoš was covered by that coat, so he was saved.”

“A sort of partisan unit formed among those trench diggers, and they were causing trouble. They broke their pickaxes and stuff like that. They’d dig for a while and then stop. But they did work—they had to—because they had overseers watching them. And a group formed among them. The commander’s name was Juraj. I know what happened from what people have told me. When it was all over and they stopped digging those trenches, they took in seventeen Soviet prisoners of war who had escaped during a death march from a concentration camp. They were traveling somewhere by train, and if they had somehow sabotaged the train to escape, they hid in cottages and then joined the partisans. A few of them were also hiding in our barn. My mother went into the barn and heard the straw rustling. She came out startled, thinking someone was there. My father reassured her that they were probably just cats, but my brother Drahomír knew the truth. Because he was the one hiding them there, too. He helped along with Uncle Jenda Ohera. They supplied them with food. That group then established contact with the “Juraj” partisan unit and later with the “Murzina” partisan group from Wallachia.”

Interviewer: “Why do you think the Cossack battalion raided the village on April 18?” – O. G.: “Because those Vlasovites used to come here to listen to foreign radio broadcasts at the Pláničeks’. They listened to foreign radio at the Markůs’. And the partisans went there, too. Or rather, they sat on the ditch. It was in the village. They were sure no one was there, and among them were the Germans, the SS, and these guys. Because my father—during that incident on the 18th—Mr. Ohera was shot, and he told one of the Vlasovites that it hurt and that he’d like a cigarette. And the Vlasovite told him, ‘Suffer! Yesterday you gave bread to the partisans.’ So the day before, they had been listening to the radio with them—those Vlasovites.” – Interviewer: “Do you think one of the reasons for the raid by the Cossack battalion was that the Wolf family, who were Jewish, was hiding here?” – O. G.: “Definitely. There were partisans here, but there were four people who used to go for a walk every night toward the forest. Maybe it would have happened even without those Jews. But I think that was the icing on the cake, as they say.”

“It was quiet everywhere here. There was shooting at the far end. Three Russian soldiers were wounded there, and one was killed. So he was buried in our garden, under a spreading pear tree by the road, with military honors. We used a sheet; he was wrapped in a sheet. No coffin, nothing. We didn’t know—and still don’t know—his name. That soldier lay in our garden for two years. He was surrounded by flowers and had a wooden Russian star. The residents of Zákřov made that for him. We honored him with the flowers we placed there. A candle was lit there during the Mass. Well, we simply paid our respects. Two years later, they dug him up and transported him to Olomouc. We don’t know his name; we know nothing. That’s how we experienced the liberation.”