“It was the harvest time and the policeman who was working with us then told my father-in-law that something aimed against us was underway. My father-in-law didn’t take it seriously though. I could blame him, but I don’t. It was his conviction and I respect that. He thought that the regime would be over by Christmas. It wasn’t. The policeman had warned him. We noticed that the people from the Municipal State Committee began acting in a strange way. We tried to persuade my father-in-law. My husband even reproached him a little for having brought the garden-cutter to our house. It came very handy afterward, because we came to this house after it had happened. It was on December 3, while I was teaching at school. When I came home, two Black Marys were standing in our yard. Our parents-in-law lived downstairs, and when I wen into our flat upstairs, I couldn’t recognize it. Everything was scattered all over the place, but they had not stolen anything. They were looking for some evidence. By coincidence the firearms were not in our house. Believe it or not, but two months before it happened, my husband had told Slávek (Stanilav Svozil) to take them away, because something was going to happen…”
„Nám ukradli auto. Manžel říkal, co blbnu. Přišel na dvůr a ptal se, kde je auto a já mu odpověděla, že je pryč. Zase jsme měli štěstí. To ukradli sovětští vojáci. Oni tam v Náměští měli udělaný bunkry, zničená příroda. Strašný, ale to je další kapitola. Oni byli pod parou a vyvrátili vrata a ukradli auto. Ona naneštěstí nebyla zamčena garáž. My jsme jen slyšeli, jak odjíždí. Teď si představte, že jeli směrem na Loučany. Teď to vzali rovně a dostali se ke škole a viděli, že jsou v koncích, otáčeli se a znovu autem narazili do dveří a vyvrátili vrata školy. Pak se lidi smáli. ‚Jarmilo, oni tě hledali.‘ Protože já jsem kdysi v té škole bydlela. Chytli je.“
„Já jsem neměla na vlak. Čekala jsem, že nasednu do vlaku bez jízdenky a když na mě příjdou a vysadí mě, že počkám na další vlak a tak se dostanu do Náměšti. Nebylo to potřeba, protože na mě za dědinou čekala paní a říkala: ‚Paní Nohavičková, já vím, že nemáte peníze.‘ A dala mně dva tisíce korun. To byly tenkrát hrozný peníze a já jsem si mohla koupit jízdenku. Tehdy jsem učila v Uničově. Rodina Nohavičkova s tím nebyla moc srozuměna, ale já jsem nechtěla učitelské povolání nechat. A dneska vím, že to byla dobrá věc, protože já jsem potom z platu živila celou rodinu. Učila jsem v Uničově, když u nás udělali tu čistku. Druhý den jsem jela do školy. Učila jsem a najednou se otevřely dveře a ředitel školy povídá: ‚Vemte si své saky, paky a ať jste ze školy venku.‘ Já jsem věděla proč, ale děti nevěděly. Vzala jsem svoje saky a paky a šla jsem k těm dveřím a těch třicet párů očí se za mnou dívaly, jak odcházím ke dveřím. Oni nevěděli proč, já jo. Došla jsem ke dveřím a ještě jsem se ohlídla. To mě ředitel chytl za rameno a capl se mnou: ‚Ať jste ze školy venku‘.“
„Když nás vystěhovali, tak nám dovolili vzít nějaký nábytek, ale věřte nebo ne, jen to, co nám dovolili. ‚Tady tu židli si můžete vzít, tohle si můžete vzít, tohle si vzít nesmíte.‘ Na jeden vůz naložili ten náš zbytek majetku. Ostatní tam všechno zůstalo a my jsme se přestěhovali k odičům do Náměšti na Hané. Ti nadšeni nebyli, protože jsme u nich bydleli rok v jedné domácnosti. Já jsem měla dvě malé děti. Taky mám na to vzpomínku. Odcházela jsem poslední. Do auta se vešel jen manžel a zhroucená tchyně. Tchán už byl zavřenej. Toho odvezli napřed do Šternberka a později ho převezli do Brna. Já jsem z toho domu odcházela poslední. Nikdy na to nezapomenu. Jaruška měla čtyři roky. Bylo to v prosinci, hrozné počasí. Dvouletého Jiříka jsem měla v náručí a ještě jsem měla v krabici kočku. A když jsme vyšli z dědiny, čekala tam na mě jedna paní odnaproti, která všechno, co se tam dělo, sledovala. A věřte mně nebo ne, já jsem neměla ani na vlak. Když nás stěhovali, tak ukradli, co se dalo. My jsme měli i obrazy šlechtických předků. Všechno tam muselo zůstat. To, co nám dovolili vzít, bylo minimum. Dokonce nám sebrali peníze. Já jsem neměla na vlak.“
“I graduated in Kroměříž in 1942. I was studying at Koménium, which was an institute for teachers. But in 1941 they arrested our principal. His son then came in February, informing us that he was dead. They had received a letter saying that he had died in a prison in Brno. He had been probably been executed. Our institute was closed down and our devoted teachers and professors traveled all over the Protectorate, trying at least to find placement for us in other schools. Eventually, the institute in Kroměříž agreed to take all of us. There were two classes, the boys’ class and the girls’ class. Local families invited us to live with them there because we had no place to stay in Kroměříž. They offered us housing out of their patriotic duty. I was there together with my friend, who has accompanied me throughout all of my life, and we also graduated there together. Our graduation took place three days after Heydrich’s assassination. The situation was very tense. The teachers were begging us: ´For God’s sake! Don’t come all here! Don’t go visit each other!´ At that time, even three people standing together on the street were at risk. As you can imagine, we were not responsible, and we did all this anyways. We went on a trip to the Lysá Mountain. I wonder that nothing happened to us.”
“He always used to say that politics was a dirty affair, even back then. But he was a strong patriot. For instance, he served as a mayor during the occupation era, and he was desperate because of that. But he was the only one in Loučany who was able to speak German. They simply appointed him mayor, and Daddy was very unhappy, because he knew that these people would then condemn him one day. And they did. But these people didn’t even know what Dad had done for them. For the whole village, for every person there. They didn’t know that.”
“The Nohavička family owned a family house in Loučany, with a shop downstairs. My father-in-law had returned via America as a legionnaire – he also fought in the battle of Bakhmach. It was a very tragic story. His father had four beautiful sons. The eldest died at home from war injuries. The other did not return at all – missing in action. The third son was my father-in-law Jiří. And the last one was Mořic, who was some twelve years younger than my father-in-law. When Jiří (father-in-law) didn’t return from the war, their father thought that Mořic was missing as well. He couldn’t bear it. He took his own life. Mořic and my father-in-law were thus the only ones who remained of that family. And we keep saying that this was well, because Mořic then died in Breslau, when he was executed during WWII. My father-in-law was thus the only one still living. And later, when he was discussed by the Municipal State Committee, they said of him: "When we do away with J. Nohavička, we will turn his farm into a unified agricultural cooperative.´ And that was when our ordeal started.”
“My husband left with a small truck. A driver was sitting there, with grandmother, who was on the verge of collapse, and my husband, he was there to unload it afterward. I was walking with the children in that terrible weather. Little Jiří was two years old. I carried him under my coat. Four-year-old Jaruška carried her little suitcase and her doll. She walked all the way, three kilometres to the railway station in Uničov. She kept walking. I held her hand, and I used my other arm to hold little Jiří. I did not have any money at all. An old lady was waiting for me behind the village of Brníčko and she gave me two thousand Crowns. She said,´Mrs. Nohavičková, I know that you have no money. You don’t need to pay this back to me.´ I took the money. I had been thinking that I would just sit on the train, and when the conductor came and found out that I had no ticket, he would make me get off at the following station, in Náměšť. So I would have to get off and wait for another train. But now, since this woman gave me the money, I was able to buy the ticket. I thought I would arrive some time in the evening. Then on December 31, I went to the school for my last salary. The principal who had kicked me out of the school didn’t want to give me my pay. He said: ´But you’re not teaching here anymore!´ I told him: ´I have my salary here.´ - ´Well, you do.´ - ´And you will pay it to me. I’m not leaving without it.´ He was making it complicated for me. He eventually gave me the money. I immediately paid two thousand Crowns to that lady, even though we didn’t have anything.”
“When my father-in-law was taken away, I missed one day of school. I was in Šternberk. I went to the court in Olomouc that day, but I went to school the day after. Just one day, that was nothing unusual. But the next day I was teaching in my classroom and all of a sudden the door opened and there was the principal and he remained standing in the door and told me: ´Pack your stuff and get out of the school right away!´ I knew why, but the children didn’t. I took my things and went. And the children – I can still see their faces, their eyes. There was the unspoken question: Why?! I stopped in the door, but the principal grabbed my arm and pulled me out and closed the door. I went to the staffroom, where I had my clothes, and a colleague of mine came to me. I was crying so much and she told me: ´Jarka, don’t cry! Don’t show it to them. They are idiots. Please, be brave!´ I had to leave and then I stayed at home till the fifteenth.”
Suddenly the door opened and the principal ordered me: Pack your stuff and I get out of the school right away!
Jarmila Nohavičková, née Chytilová, was born in 1923 in Ústín, near Olomouc. Her parents were both teachers, which was probably why she also chose the teaching profession. During the war she studied at the Koménium Institute in Olomouc, but the Nazis closed the school in February 1942. She eventually passed her graduation exams in Kroměříž in the tense atmosphere of terror following the assassination of R. Heydrich. In 1946, already working as a teacher, she married Jiří Nohavička, who was from an old farmering family, originally of noble descent. Her husband‘s father, Jiří Nohavička Sr., had been a legionnaire in WWI. In 1945 the family obtained a farm in Brníčko, which had been left in a desolate state after Russian soldiers had been quartered there. The newlyweds lived and worked on this farm as well. In 1951, under the Kulak Action, Jiří Nohavička Sr. was arrested and sentenced unconditionally to six months of imprisonment. Jarmila was dismissed from school and the whole family had to move out of the district. With the exception of some furniture, which she had received as a dowry, they had to leave all their property on the farm. Following their displacement, Jarmila and her husband lived in Loučany with her parents. Jarmila Nohavičková was then teaching „illegally“ for several years in Drahanovice, until later when she recieved official employment in a school in Náměšť na Hané. Her husband Jiří had to go to work in a factory, which for him, a farmer by nature, was very difficult to bear. The work in a lathe workshop damaged his lungs and he eventually would spend the last years of his life attached to a breathing apparatus. Her father-in-law Jiří Nohavička returned from prison after half a year, but the StB continued his surveillance for more several years. Furthermore, in 1961 communists dispossessed his native house in Loučany, which was turned into a Jednota grocery shop. After 1990, during the restitutions, the family was returned their estate in Brníčko. In 2009-2010 a trial was held for the former chairman of the Municipal State Committee, Ladislav Nakládal, who probably shared responsibility for the family‘s persecution. In April 2010, Ladislav Nakládal, the first communist official involved in the forced collectivization in the 1950s who has ever been brought to trial, was sentenced by the District Court in Olomouc to a suspended sentence of two-year imprisonment.