The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

food and medicine. Beneath the veil was her attempt to create the burned face. She had heated the gelatin, had glued the silk strips onto her face, and with a depression stick—also taken from Dr. Tauber’s office—applied the warm gelatin to her face. After it had cooled, she began applying the makeup. The rouge, the lipstick, and the black kohl that she rubbed along the edges of her face wound to make it look like seared skin. She had to be careful that the whole thing did not peel off her face. Working with the compact mirror had been a challenge, but Magda again went with the idea that all she had to do was create the effect, not perfection.

She then wrapped the bandage around her head, covering her masterwork, and donned the nun’s habit.

That half hour on the road to Litoměřice was a battle waged between Magda’s conscience and her heart. She stopped several times, holding the sack cinched at her side, and asked herself, really, what was the right thing to do? Renata claimed that she and Aleš were sure the medicines would not get to the Taubers, but how could they know that if they had not even tried? Whom had they asked? Magda was not satisfied with simple assumptions—she wanted proof. And she told her nagging conscience that was all she was going to do—go ask, get proof. And hope that Aleš, Jakob, Renata, or the Jewish boys did not notice that the medications were all gone. When the group left her alone at the bunker, she took the opportunity. They offered to take her with them—a meeting with another group that was banding together with the R3—but Magda feigned illness and said she wanted to catch up on sleep.

Aleš and Renata were running the little group of partisans like a small army. And Aleš made it absolutely clear that he expected obedience and that his word was an order not to be disobeyed.

She could not have involved Karol in her insubordination either. Like the others, he was taking the organization much more seriously as well, reminding Magda that he had served in the Czechoslovak Army, and he did not feel Aleš was taking his job lightly. In the world out there, Karol had explained to her, Aleš was his superior officer, and what Aleš said, Karol had every intention of following. Karol had also added that he was relieved that there was a concerted effort to organize themselves.

“Be careful,” Karol had warned. “Partisans can be tougher—more strict. They won’t tolerate any bullshit.”

So everyone seemed to be all right with this, except Magda, and she reminded the nagging voice in her head that she had never signed up for this army. Besides, she was only going to the post office to see whether she could get a parcel sent to Theresienstadt at all. Then she would make up her mind. She would be in and out in a heartbeat. And if she had the proper information—if she could prove Renata and Aleš wrong—what harm would she do?

Magda could get discovered, that was what.

The post office was in the town square, and the closer Magda neared Lidická Road, which would lead her there, the more she hesitated. She could just duck into the corner pub outside the castle walls. Wait a little. Maybe get some information as to what was going on in town. Two police officers on motorcycles turned the corner, and Magda watched them drive by. In each of their sidecars was a trunk of some kind or metal locker. They took the left fork into the town center. This was soon followed by a motorcade, and Magda stepped back. Gestapo. One, two, three vehicles. And a truck, the back flaps sealed tight.

She halted to watch them pass. Something was happening. She turned to face the road where she had come. Maybe she should come some other time, another day. If the square was going to be swarming with Gestapo… She stared at the next car heading her way, two swastika flags on either side of the front hood. She stepped away from the curb and pressed herself up against the wall of a building. The car sped by on the cobblestoned street, Koenig’s profile in the back was, however, unmistakable.

Now more than ever was a good reason to run back, to return to the safety of the tunnels. But something was telling her to move forward. Now it was a contest between her will and her gut instincts—a whole different field upon which to do battle.

Magda’s instincts won. She slowly moved forward, the clock tower ahead of her. It was two in the afternoon. As she entered the square near the baroque fountain, she halted once more. Banners hung across the streets. Opposite the long rectangular square, and draped with large swastika flags on either side of the building, was the Reichskanzlei. In the center, where the busses and parades took up space depending on the day, was a high wooden platform—like a stage—with wooden crossbeams and one beam across the entire length of the stage. Two policemen—she spotted the two motorcycles and the metal lockers thrown open upon the stage—were tossing ropes over the beam and tying them. The Gestapo had built a gallows. For whom?

The motorcade inched its way past a growing crowd of pedestrians before parking between the Reichskanzlei and the gallows. Magda walked along the left arcade, trying to avoid the people stepping out of shops and taking positions beneath the arches to look upon the grotesque display.

“Sister? Are you all right?” A young mother, a small girl attached to her hand, had stopped in front of Magda. Both had neat blond hairdos and wore clean white blouses beneath their coats. The mother’s eyes darted along the left side of Magda’s face. “You’re…” The woman made a face, swallowed. “You’re not looking… Do you need a hospital?“

Magda shook her head. “No. I’m just…I’ll be fine.” She touched the side of