Hotel Sroubek,
Prague
Two Englishmen were standing at the window, overlooking the centre of Prague. The hotel room was furnished in the standard way, bare of all essentials except for the narrow bed, a small table, chest of drawers and a writing desk. A single, black telephone stood menacingly on the bedside table, its brown thick cables twisted together in a confused state of readiness for when the call would come.
One man was smoking, sporadically flicking ash into a cheap, metal ashtray provided by the hotel, as he looked unseeingly out of the small, sash window. The other was of slight build, wearing a striped tie at his throat, and studiously puffing away at a pipe. Every so often, he would remove the pipe from between his lips, search for a crumpled pack of tobacco in his jacket pocket before refilling and tamping down his pipe. His black-framed spectacles gave him a studious look, belying the fierce intelligence lurking behind the thick, myopic lenses.
Both men were agitated, every so often walking this way and that as they explored every avenue available to them in this foreign country.
Outside was bleak, great flurries of snow lying heaped on the roofs of neighbouring buildings. Down below at street level, a few passers-by hurried along, heads bent against the elements and the rigours of life.
Nicholas Winton and his friend Martin Blake had been friends for decades. Both had grown up politically motivated by the many injustices in the world, but had been drawn together also by many shared interests. They both loved skiing and had enjoyed many winter holidays together, indulging in their favourite sports. As such, they were very much of like mind.
“It’s clear that Chamberlain’s stance at Munich was a complete disaster for the world,” said Martin.
Winton concurred. “Yes. Instead of appeasing Hitler by handing him the Sudetenland on a plate, it’s encouraged his aggression even more. Now, I fear for the whole of Europe, including Great Britain. Unless something is done, nothing will stand in his way.”
Both men stood silent, gloomily surveying the scene out of the window, the intermittent swirls of snow and ice matching the vagaries of the political storm brewing and building all around them.
Turning his thoughts to the plight of the many local people in Prague who were suffering from the political climate, Winton recognised the achievements of his friend. He already knew that Martin was a special emissary for the British Committee for Refugees from Czechoslovakia, known as BCRC. “What plans do you have for these people?” asked Nicky, as he liked to be called by his friends.
Martin turned away from the window. “Well, the brief from my committee is to try to get as many adults who are in the greatest danger, out of the country as possible. But, as you know my friend, it won’t be easy. We need to somehow get each of them a permit, a job and a personal guarantor.”
Nicky scratched his head. “But what of the children, Martin? What can we do for all those innocents, caught up in a war they can’t possibly understand? My heart grieves for them.”
“I know, I know,” replied Martin. “Our records show that there are many children whose parents were either forced to leave them behind, or cases where desperate parents felt unable to leave without them so sought a safe refuge for their children…”
Nicky interrupted. “Yes. That all tallies with my own findings. I know for a fact that those people who apply for a job in Britain are more likely to find success if they don’t apply as a family unit.”
Martin was thinking frantically. Both men were united in their quest for a solution, but somehow the question of the defenceless children had risen higher up the agenda.
Since the infamous Munich agreement had been signed three months earlier by Great Britain, Italy, France and, of course, Germany, the BCRC had opened an office right there in Prague. Turning to Nicholas, Martin promised to contact the very next day his colleague Doreen, who headed the committee’s office. Quickly, he described Doreen’s efforts to Nicholas. It was clear that Doreen was working night and day to help the adult refugees to safety as quickly as possible.
“Yes, but what of the children, Martin? What of the children?” Already, Winton’s pipe needed refilling as he searched anew for his tobacco pouch.
“Well, I know there are a few people who are trying to help them, but as far as I know there’s no-one drawing all the threads together to make the kind of difference we need,” replied Martin.
Listening to all this, and watching the night sky darken still further, Winton came to a decision.
“Well, if no-one else is going to do it, it had better be me.”
Martin turned. “Do you realise what you’d be taking on, Nicky? You’d be the focus for the hopes of thousands of parents.”
Winton smiled, feeling a surge of adrenalin as it fired his belly and flooded every ounce of his being. He thought back to his own childhood where he’d always been sympathetic to anyone in trouble. Even back then, he remembered the sneers from other boys, who thought it was somehow less manly to show compassion for others. He’d always shrugged the other boys off, nevertheless. His innate self-confidence enabled him to be adventurous and to always attempt the impossible by any ways and means available to him. So it was now, as he watched his friend nervously smoothing flicks of hair away from his creased brow. He was only twenty-nine, fortunate to be a British stockbroker. His parents were of German Jewish descent. Winton realised how fortunate he, himself, had been in life. He felt that the least he could do would be to help others who were suffering through no fault of their own. There and then he decided he was going to give it his best shot.
The plan that was forming in Nicholas’s head seemed simple enough, but in truth was very dangerous. “Don’t you see, Martin?” he told his friend. “To be successful in this world, you have to have a mission that overrides all others. You must think large, my friend, and be as positive as humanly possible.”
Martin sat on the edge of the bed, watching Nicky snatch a small hotel notepad from the bedside table and jot down some indecipherable scribble. Outside, a sudden flurry pushed a ton of snow off the hotel roof to land in an enormous heap on the silent pavement below. It was an avalanche of predestined proportions, heralding something amazing.
“So, my foolish friend. I take it your answer is yes?”
……
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