“…The text was written on a German Perkeo typewriter, on this atomic machine, which filled Egon Bondy, the poet, with an immense fascination. I purchased the machine from my classmate Bureš, who had a shop in Nymburk, on the Great Ramp. I fell in love with it at first sight, but I had no three thousand crowns in old banknotes, so I kept returning to take pleasure in it, until I could buy it. It was a tiny machine, from around 1905, the roller could be tilted down, and I carried the closed up machine on two straps, like school books were carried under the Monarchy. I was amazed by this machine, I wrote on it merely for pleasure. The accents were missing, so that each typewritten page caused a smile and a laugh. I learned typing on it so brilliantly that I was able to write on it a night, too, as blind pianists play their instrument.”


The birthday dawns with drizzling rain, but in the morning the sun already comes out at random. I return to Libeň, just like I did twenty years ago. On the corner of the house that I was looking for then, in place of the scrap heap, now stands a little column, and the murals on the outer walls of Palmovka subway station, built on the site of the house, have since been described by many authors.



“«Ya come to Libeň fer this? Fer Mr. Hrabal?» He swallows scratchily, in his parched mouth the saliva is milky gel. «I knew Mr. Hrabal, he loved beer. He paid for mine a lot, too.» Now it is sure that he wants money. «Ya speak Czech?» No, I nod reluctantly, I’d rather get rid of him, I am rummaging in my pocket, but I have no change, only banknotes, and we are poor people, too. «So ya don’t know what’s written here?», he points on the fresco. No, not really. Tady stojím, čelo mám korunované deseti vráskami, tady stojím jako starý bernardýn a dívám se do veliké dálky, až do svého dĕtství… He eagerly starts to translate: «I stand here … crown of ten wrinkles on my forehead», he sweats over the effort. «I stand here, I look like … a St. Bernard … rescue dog … yeh, yeh, St. Bernard’s dog … I look far, very far, to when I was a child.» I’m pleased to recognize the text. I reach into my bag for a lukewarm Soproni beer, perhaps I will get rid of him with that, when I catch sight of the tears on his face. We catch each other’s eyes with Anna. We feel ashamed. «Thank you, Hungarians, that you came. To see Mr. Hrabal, my friend.» I feel obliged to shake his outstretched grimy hand.”


On this today, on the birthday anniversary, there is no event in Libeň, only the schools are celebrating Hrabal Day. On Monday night there will be a commemorative evening in the alternative theater of Libeň, and an exhibition entitled “Closely Observed Hrabal” will be opened, I will report on both of them. As a private remembrance, I sit in the “U Horkých Beer Sanatorium”, the last surviving house of the Jewish quarter of Libeň, the terminus of Hrabal’s famous Grand Slalom. I ask the experienced waitress, which was the favorite haunt of Hrabal, to publish from there this post.

«…El texto fue escrito en una máquina de escribir alemana Perkeo, esta máquina atómica que llenó a Egon Bondy, el poeta, de una inmensa fascinación. Le compré la máquina a mi compañero de clase Bureš, que tenía una tienda en Nymburk, en la Cuesta Grande. Me enamoré de ella a primera vista pero no tenía las tres mil coronas en billetes viejos, así que seguí yendo a disfrutar de su vista hasta que pude comprarla. Era una máquina pequeña, de hacia 1905, el rodillo se podía trabar hacia abajo, y así llevaba la máquina atada con dos correas, como se llevaban los libros escolares bajo la Monarquía. Estaba entusiasmado con aquella máquina, escribía en ella por puro placer. Carecía de acentos, por lo que cada página tecleada causaba sonrisas y alguna carcajada. Aprendí a escribir con ella tan brillantemente que era capaz de hacerlo hasta de noche, como los pianistas ciegos tocan su instrumento».


El cumpleaños amanece con una suave llovizna, pero por la mañana el sol ya luce y se esconde caprichosamente. Vuelvo a Libeň como hice hace veinte años. En la esquina de la casa que en aquel momento estaba buscando, en lugar de un montón de chatarra ahora se levanta una pequeña columna, y los murales en las paredes exteriores de la estación del metro de Palmovka, construida en el mismo solar, han sido ya descritos desde entonces por muchos autores.



«"¿Tú viene a Libeň para esto? ¿Para el señor Hrabal?" Traga ásperamente, en su boca reseca la saliva es un gel lechoso. "Yo conocí al señor Hrabal, amaba la cerveza. Me invitaba muchas veces, también." Ahora ya estoy seguro de que quiere dinero. "¿Tú hablas checa?" No, cabeceo de mala gana, preferiría deshacerme de él, estoy hurgando en mi bolsillo pero no encuentro cambio, sólo billetes, y nosotros también somos pobres. "¿Así que tú no sabe lo que está escrito aquí?", señala al fresco. No, la verdad es que no. Tady stojím, čelo mám korunované deseti vráskami , tady stojím jako starý bernardýn a divam se do veliké dálky, až do svého dĕtství... Empieza a traducir: "Estoy aquí... corona de diez arrugas en mi frente", suda por el esfuerzo. "Estoy aquí, me veo como... un San Bernardo... un perro de rescate... Sí, sí, un perro de San Bernardo... miro a lo lejos, muy lejos, cuando era niño." Me complace reconocer el texto. Meto la mano en mi bolsa por una cerveza Soproni tibia, tal vez logre deshacerme de él con eso, y entonces alcanzo a ver las lágrimas en su rostro. Cruzo una mirada con Anna. Nos sentimos avergonzados. "Gracias, húngaros, por haber venido. Para ver al señor Hrabal, mi amigo", me veo obligado a estrechar su sucia mano extendida.»


En este día de hoy, centenario de su nacimiento, no hay ningún evento programado en Libeň, sólo las escuelas celebran el Día Hrabal. El lunes por la noche habrá una velada de recuerdo en el teatro alternativo de Libeň, y se inaugurará una exposición titulada «Hrabal rigurosamente vigilado», informaremos de ambas cosas. Como conmemoración privada, me siento en el «Sanatorio de Cerveza U Horkých», la última casa superviviente del barrio judío de Libeň, estación terminal del famoso Gran Slalom de Hrabal. Le pregunto a una camarera con aire experimentado, cuál era el rincón predilecto de Hrabal para publicar, justo desde ahí, esta entrada.

Already the owl staring down at the street in daylight in the doorway of the Platýz is striking enough, but three houses away, at Národní třída 37 it becomes undeniable: the doorways of Prague have been invaded by birds assimilating themselves to the urban way of life.



The pigeon, having built its nest on the stretched cables of the tramway’s wire, just avoiding the spikes to keep the pigeons away, tries to pretend as if it were just another of the many gags of Prague, but after a few minutes of photographing it nervously glances from side to side. I could not forgive myself for breaking such a promising evolutionary chain, so I go on my way.

The catalog and essay volume were published a few weeks ago, and the poster is already hung in the Alt Wien coffee shop, where the public is informed from the wall about the most recent events of Vienna’s cultural life. The author, sitting under the latter, leafs through the former contentedly, with good reason. Yesterday evening, at the opening of the gorgeous exhibition Weltuntergang. Jüdisches Leben und Sterben im Ersten Weltkrieg (Doomsday. Jewish life and death in the First World War), the great hall of Vienna’s Jewish Museum was completely packed. Aside from museum director Danielle Spera, exhibition curator Marcus G. Patka, and president of the Raiffeisen Bank, sponsors of the exhibition, a speech was also given by Prince Ulrich Habsburg-Lothringen – the great-grandson of the same Archduke Frederick, Commander-in-Chief of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy’s army, who a century ago met the Jews of Podhajce–, and Professor Oliver Rathke, one of the foremost experts on 20th-century Austrian history. The latter, in his overview of the history of the Monarchy’s Jews from the late 19th-century golden age until the 1920s, recalled that Franz Joseph was also called “Jewish Emperor” by the contemporaries, because he rejected anti-Semitism, and created much legal certainty for his Jewish subjects, later unkown in the successor states. It is no coincidence then, that Jews from Austria to Galicia were among the most loyal supporters of the Monarchy. Their participation in WWI as soldiers was 10%, which exceeded by far their 4% ratio in the complete population. But they also did their share in the support of the hinterland, the underwriting of war loans, and providing for their 80 thousand Galician fellow believers fleeing from the Eastern front to Vienna.


The exhibition also begins by recalling the memory of their loyalty to the ruler and Austria. From the images of the family celebrating Passover under the image of the Emperor and the rabbi giving New Year’s blessing to the Jewish recruits, we gradually come to the outbreak of the war and the massive joining up of Jews, while a large digital map in the background shows second by second the day-to-day changes of the war fronts.


Although not specifically Jewish-related, nevertheless one of the recently rediscovered topics of WWI, posters of war also receive a separate small room. The exhibition almost randomly selects from the wartime production of several thousands, also with an abundant selection of posters of the Entente, which represent the Central Powers as bloodthirsty Huns and the rivals of the devil. A small, but more depressing corner looks over the ads of the artificial limb dealers and war plastic surgeons.


The second largest front of the war, the Galician front, which was almost forgotten after the 1920s, and has only recently received a new focus, fundamentally affected the Jews of the Monarchy, many of whom lived here. Thus the exhibition devotes a separate room to Galicia and the war-torn Galician Jews. They present their pre-war life, the images of the theater of war, the refugees, the affiches of the authorities, and illustrate with many new images the event about which we have writtentwice already: the Habsburg commanders-in-chief visiting the Eastern front and encountering there the Galician Jews.


However, the highlight of the exhibition is clearly Jerusalem. Not as if it had been the center of gravity of the Monarchy’s Jews during the war, but because research in recent years has produced the most impressive result in this field, due to, inter alia, the co-authors who penned the Holy Land chapters of the catalog and essay volume, Robert-Tarek Fischer and György Sajó, río Wang’s Két Sheng. The presence of the Austro-Hungarian and German troops at the front in Gaza in alliance with the Ottoman empire gave a new emphasis to Franz Joseph’s title of “King of Jerusalem”, inherited by the Habsburgs from the early 13th-c. crusade of the Hungarian king Andreas II. The large number of Galician Jews – Austrian citizens – then living in Palestine also welcomed them as fellow citizens. This central hall of the exhibition enriches this aspect with many new contributions and objects exhibited for the first time concerning this little-known chapter of the history of the First World War and the Jews of the Monarchy.


A short movie is screened at the back of the hall, in which our friend, the physician Norbert Schwake, curator of the WWI German military cemetery of Nazareth, and the chief expert of the German and Austro-Hungarian soldiers’ graves in Israel, presents  the WWI military cemeteries in the Holy Land. Here is buried the commander-in-chief of the Austro-Hungarian artillery division in Palestine, Captain Truszkowski, about whose troubled fate after death and his four other graves we have already written.


Time runs unobserved, while we browse among the objects of Jerusalem, reviving the anecdotes connected with them. At 10 p.m. the attendants, apologizing, start to urge the still numerous attendees toward the exits. We barely have time to look around in the last three exhibition halls presenting the role of the Jewish soldiers in British service in Palestine, the work of the Jewish women in the hinterland, and the post-war emergence of Jewish organizations in Vienna and the strengthening of Zionism. However, about all these we will write soon, in a detailed review of the catalog and essay volume.

El catálogo y el volumen con el estudio salieron hace unas semanas, y el cartel está ya colgado en la cafetería Alt Wien, donde el público se informa mirando las paredes de los acontecimientos más recientes de la vida cultural vienesa. El autor, sentado bajo el póster, hojea su obra satisfecho –con todo motivo–. Ayer tarde, en la inauguración de la magnífica exposición Weltuntergang. Jüdisches Leben und Sterben im ersten Weltkrieg (El Día del Juicio. Vida y muerte judías en la Primera Guerra Mundial), la gran sala del Museo Judío de Viena estaba completamente abarrotada. Además de la directora del museo Danielle Spera, el comisario de exposiciones Marcus G. Patka, y el presidente del Banco Raiffeisen, patrocinador de la exposición, también intervinieron el príncipe Ulrich Habsburg-Lothringen, bisnieto del mismísimo archiduque Federico, Comandante en jefe del ejército de la Monarquía Austro-Húngara –que hace un siglo se reunió con los judíos de Podhajce– y el profesor Oliver Rathke, uno de los mayores expertos en la historia de Austria del siglo XX. Este último, en su recorrido por la historia de los judíos de la monarquía desde la edad de oro de finales del siglo XIX hasta la década de 1920, recordó que Francisco José también fue llamado «el Emperador Judío» por sus contemporáneos porque rechazó el antisemitismo y contribuyó cuanto pudo a la seguridad jurídica de sus súbditos judíos, más tarde eliminada por los estados sucesores. Así, no es casualidad que los judíos desde Austria a Galizia se encontraran entre los más fieles partidarios de la Monarquía. Su participación en la Primera Guerra Mundial como soldados fue del 10 %, muy por encima de la ratio del 4 % de la población total. Pero además colaboraron en el apoyo a la zona de influencia con la suscripción de préstamos de guerra y auxiliando a los 80.000 judíos de Galizia que huyeron del frente oriental hacia Viena.


La exposición comienza también recordando la memoria de su lealtad al gobernante y a Austria. Desde las imágenes familiares de la celebración de la Pascua bajo la imagen del Emperador y con el rabino dando la bendición de Año Nuevo a los reclutas judíos, llegamos poco a poco hasta el estallido de la guerra y la masiva leva de judíos, mientras que un mapa digital grande al fondo muestra, segundo a segundo, los cambios sucesivos de los frentes de guerra.


Aunque no relacionados específicamente con los judíos, uno de los más fascinantes temas de la Primera Guerra Mundial ahora redescubiertos, los carteles de la guerra, tienen dedicada también una pequeña habitación. La exposición selecciona casi al azar entre los miles que se produjeron durante la guerra, con una abundante selección, asimismo, de carteles de la Entente, que representan a las potencias centrales como hunos sedientos de sangre y émulos del diablo. Un pequeño rincón, bastante más deprimente, observa los anuncios de los comerciantes de prótesis y de los cirujanos plásticos de guerra.


El segundo mayor frente de guerra, el de Galizia, casi olvidado después de la década de 1920 pero que en los últimos tiempos ha recibido nuevos enfoques, afectó fundamentalmente a los judíos de la Monarquía, muchos de los cuales vivían en aquella zona. Así, la exposición dedica una sala aparte a Galicia y a los judios galizianos afectados por la guerra. Presenta su vida antes de desencadenarse el conflicto, las imágenes del teatro de la guerra, los refugiados, los affiches de las autoridades, e ilustra con muchas imágenes nuevas aquel evento sobre el que hemos escrito ya un par de veces: los comandantes en jefe de los Habsburgo visitando el frente oriental y encontrando allí a los judíos de Galizia.


Sin embargo, lo más destacado de la exposición tiene que ver con Jerusalén. No se trata de afirmar que fuera entonces, durante la guerra, el centro de gravedad de los judíos de la Monarquía, pero las investigaciones de los últimos años han descubierto aspectos muy interesantes gracias, entre otras personas, a los co-autores de los capítulos sobre Tierra Santa del catálogo y el estudio: Robert-Tarek Fischer y György Sajó –nuestro Két Sheng del Río Wang–. La presencia de las tropas austro-húngara y alemana en el frente de Gaza, en alianza con el imperio otomano, dio un sentido más amplio al título de «Rey de Jerusalén» que ostentaba Francisco José por herencia de los Habsburgo desde la cruzada del rey húngaro Andreas II. El gran número de judíos de origen galiciano –ciudadanos austríacos– que por entonces vivía en Palestina dio la bienvenida a aquellos ejércitos como auténticos compatriotas. La sala central de la exposición enriquece esta parte poco explorada de la historia con muchas contribuciones nuevas y toda una serie de objetos expuestos por primera vez para iluminar un entresijo fascinante de la Primera Guerra Mundial y sus vínculos con los judíos de la Monarquía .


Al fondo de la sala se proyecta un cortometraje donde nuestro amigo el médico Norbert Schwake, cuidador del cementerio militar alemán de Nazaret de la Primera Guerra Mundial y principal conocedor de las tumbas de los soldados alemanes y austro-húngaros en Israel, presenta los cementerios militares de la Primera Guerra Mundial en Tierra Santa. Aquí está enterrado el comandante en jefe de la división de artillería austro-húngara en Palestina, el Capitán Truszkowski, sobre cuyo ajetreado destino después de morir, con sus otras cuatro tumbas, ya hemos escrito.


El tiempo vuela mientras nos sumimos entre estos objetos de Jerusalén reviviendo las anécdotas que esconden. A las 10 de la noche los conserjes, pidiendo disculpas, comienzan a instar a los numerosos asistentes para que vayan saliendo. Apenas tenemos tiempo de echar un vistazo a las últimas tres salas donde se expone el papel de los soldados judíos en el servicio británico en Palestina, el trabajo de las mujeres judías en el interior del país y la aparición de organizaciones judías en la Viena de la posguerra, con el fortalecimiento del sionismo. Lo contaremos pronto, después de haber estudiado el catálogo y el volumen de ensayos.

In the crowded market, there is no respite. The endless scurry and buzz of the buyers and sellers flies in the face of the dusty heat of mid-afternoon, which commands lethargy. Scarved women move through, wearing long dresses of printed fabric in screaming loud colors, their ready smiles revealing walls of golden teeth. Stocky men in long overcoats and four-sided embroidered caps clasp their hands together in the small of their backs and study the goods with a wary eye and a practiced indifference, ready to haggle for even the smallest reduction in price.

Young men, some of them boys really, watch over stalls selling tape cassettes of unclear provenance, with photocopied insert cards but no labels. Other boys man stalls that offer cold drinks mixed on the spot, dribbling candy-colored syrup from racks of glass tubes into carbonated water. Butcher stalls reek in the heat from the blood of freshly slaughtered animals as shoppers inspect the offerings and argue for a better cut for their money.

No respite, that is, except for the tea houses, where people sit in the shade, sometimes on elevated platforms with divans and low tables; at other times around western-style tables and chairs. Placed before them are pots of tea — green or black? with milk or without? — sweetened with golden nuggets of grape sugar. Almost invariably, the tea comes to the table in simple ovoid teapots glazed in blue, gold, and white with the stylized image of the cotton boll, representing the major cash crop of the region.

We order our tea — зелёный с молоком, пожалуйста— and consider the journey we have undertaken, to this far side of the world, this most landlocked of places, this Andijon, in the cornucopious and fabled Fergana Valley of eastern Uzbekistan. Here, the foreigner is always watched and cannot rely on the crowd for anonymity. Eyes follow us everywhere, sometimes wary, sometimes curious or bemused, perhaps wondering why we have come, of all places, to this corner of the globe.

We slowly sip, and give our swollen feet a few minutes to shrink a bit from the confines of our road-weary boots, and we watch the baker as he supervises his young assistants, who are loading ball after ball of raw dough into a traditional pit oven, each one destined soon to become today’s fresh bread.

Album de famille: • Alba 1867 • Hong-Kong, 1897 • Marseille, 1900 • Paris, 1904 • Valenciennes, 1918 • Buenos Aires, 1930

Ce n’est pas une photo de l’album, mais une de celle que je tire de la boîte. Une photo avec un timbre et une lettre au dos.

Impossible de déchiffrer la date sur le timbre mais, du contenu de la lettre, on peut supposer qu’elle fut écrite peu de temps après la naissance de ma grand-tante — disons vers 1904.

Je ne sais pas non plus où la photo a été prise ce qui fait que ce que je vais reconstituer n’est sans doute que pure imagination.

Disons que j’ai retrouvé un endroit qui pourrait avoir été, il y a plus d’un siècle, ce lieu.

Un endroit aujourd’hui désert, déserté en fait depuis la mort du vieux forgeron il y a trente ans. Sa veuve a fermé alors la maison et l’atelier, et puis elle est partie.


Le forgeron pourrait-il être l’un des enfants sur la photo ? Non, il était trop jeune lorsqu’il est mort, il n’a pas pu naître avant 1910, le fils peut-être de l’un de ces hommes qui nous sourient.

Et les deux petites filles, alors ? Nées vers 1900 ?
Je ne sais rien d’elles.


Elles me font penser à deux de ces petites filles du village, deux sœurs orphelines, qui ont grandi grâce à la charité publique, ne se sont jamais mariées mais sont restées servantes jusqu’à leur mort. L’aînée, plus âgée d’un an, se nommait Louise, la cadette Blanche.
J’ai connu seulement Blanche dans mon enfance, Louise était déjà morte depuis des années mais mon père se souvient encore comment elle l’avait pourchassé en le fouettant avec des orties dans un accès de colère. La Blanche que j’ai connue était une grande femme farouche, ses cheveux blancs noués en arrière, qui poussait une brouette chargée de linge en parlant toute seule. Elle avait avec elle un vieux chien noir fatigué qu’elle appelait continuellement en passant par les ruelles du village « Allez viens, Gamin ! ».
Une vieille femme très impressionnante — mais elle aussi avait dû être un enfant longtemps auparavant, comme tout le monde. Un jour, comme elle remontait la colline depuis le lavoir, elle rencontra ma mère sur le chemin et, alors qu’elle ne parlait jamais à personne, elle s’était arrêtée, elle avait plongé la main dans son panier pour en tirer une botte d’oignons qu’elle lui avait offerte : « tenez, c’est pour vous ». Et j’espère que, pour cette botte d’oignons, elle a gagné un petit siège au Paradis où se reposer.

Quant à l’atelier déserté, j’imagine que c’est le même que celui sur la photo. L’artisan était un modeste métallurgiste qui fabriquait des grilles d’entrée, des gouttières, des garde-feu, des chaînes, des tirants métalliques, pour les maçons et les charpentiers du village — dont certains attendent encore de servir, posés contre le mur. Et derrière les vitres poussiéreuses du hangar, l’atelier apparaît si tranquille, fantomatique, avec toutes ses machines prêtes à reprendre du service.

Koží, that is, Goat Street, the former Ziegengasse in the old town of Prague preserves, like a geologic fossil, the traces of where the asanace– the rehabilitation, that is, the complete elimination of the crowded poor district, especially the Jewish quarter, which began with seismic force in 1893 – ended in the 1920s. The left side of the street was raised to the level of the newly erected Neo-Renaissance and Art Nouveau palaces, which lies, like a smooth-surfaced lake, above the vanished crooked streets of the former Josefov, enclosing the negative island of the lower-lying Jewish cemetery and the two surviving synagogues. The right side of the street, however, remained at the pre-rehabilitation level, and its winding streets also continue the missing tissue of Josefov.


I am rambling in the quarter of Saint Castalius, which goes for only a hundred meters, but at least a hundred years away from the palaces of the Art Nouveau Prague, when in the Street of the Sisters of Mercy, on the back wall of the deserted and decaying medieval Gemeindehaus, I catch sight of a curious plaster ad.


The ghost ad promotes Otta Soap. Its logo, the crayfish (in Czech, rak) suggests that the company was founded in Rakovník, that is, Rakonitz, by Joseph Otta in 1869. But when did they paint it here? The time delimiters are sufficient, as the Otta company, albeit nationalized, was still a going concern after the war, up until the 1990s, when it was acquired by Procter & Gamble.

I am researching in the library the traces of a disappeared inn of Prague, the Golden Angel in Smíchov, on the other bank of the Vltava, when among the old photographs of Smíchov I suddenly stumble upon this one, which depicts the building Štefánikova 9/57:


The adjacent number 10/53 was built in the 1920s, leaving the firewall of number 57 free and suitable for advertisements. This photo was made in 1935. The ads change rapidly, for their effectiveness is contingent on novelty. Therefore the plaster ad in the Street of the Sisters of Mercy probably also comes from that period. In this way, it has advocated for Otta Soap for at least eighty or ninety years, since the end of the rehabilitation of the Old Town, already in its fifth generation. Time has really stopped on Koží Street.

The Golden Angel stood in the center of Smíchov on the spot where the main road, named for the local garden of the Kinsky Princes (and since 1920 after the Slovak general Štefánik), comes from Prague’s Lesser Town through the Újezd Gate, and then crosses the other main road coming from New Town over the Palacký Bridge, which was named after the historian František Palacký (and since 1945 the martyred town of Lidice). It was a squat, one-story house, but its low tympanum proudly proclaimed that this is the most upscale restaurant of the town – because, until 1921, Smíchov was an independent town! –, the first to be encountered, both when just arriving at the Smíchov railway station two blocks away, and when coming out of Prague to look after your job in the dynamically developing industrial quarter.


In the restaurant, founded in 1869, they first served the beer of the nearby Action Brewery (from 1911 Staropramen), but nine years later they opened their own brewery in the back wing of the building. The 10° Angel beer, a “desítka” in local parlance, though brewed only in quantity of 8,400 hectoliters a year, only a quarter of the Staropramen’s production, became famous even outside of Smíchov. Until the early 20th century, by which time the Staropramen brand had become so prominent that the small breweries of the neighborhood could not compete with it any more. Nevertheless, the Angel restaurant, even without its own beer, remained an important reference point of the small town, which later became the 5th district of Prague, so that also the intersection and the surrounding area was referred to as “the Angel”, křižovatka Anděl.



The 1920s and 30s were the golden age of the middle class of Smíchov. Czechoslovakia finished the war on the side of the victors and, thanks to them, it received independence, new markets, and customs sufferance. Czech heavy industry flourished, the Ringhoffer-Tatra wagon and machine factory devoured entire blocks of houses in the area opposite the Angel, and glory winged its way also to lower social strata. In the downtown of Smíchov there was not a house without one or two stylish shops on the street front, and a few more in the courtyard.


The expansion of the Ringhoffer factory also laid claim to the former site of the Jewish community of Smíchov. It was for this reason that the community moved into the center, in the block of the Angel, where in 1927 they built their new synagogue at the factory’s expense, and in the new Functionalist style, fashionable throughout Czechoslovakia, about which we will write more later.


The golden age came to an end in 1948. The shops were nationalized, and in the following decades, slowly eroded. Anyone who came to Smíchov in the late 1980s was greeted by the sight of a once prosperous little town left to decay for forty years, a familiar situation throughout the Eastern block. On the majority of the once elegant houses on the main street were signs reading: “Pozor, padá omítka!”– “Caution, falling plaster!”, complemented by the folk graffitti that read: “V sobotu a v neděli též kominík!”– “On Saturday and Sunday the chimney sweeper, too!” Although Jan Čech’s 2009 blog entry lists with a profound nostalgia the small pubs and dingy canteens of Smíchov in the 70s, it is probably the magic of time which lends enchantment to the view. Nor did the Angel restaurant escape its fate: it became an eating house, “Bufet – Smáženka”, where, you remember, one could have a greasy fried sausage and an early morning beer standing at the small round tables in the unheated room on a winter morning, before beginning the sightseeing tour.





Then in 1980 this also came to an end. The Smíchov stop of the underground’s B line was placed in the block of buildings where the Angel had stood. The Golden Angel was pulled down on 16 January 1980, and the metro station, as well as the junction – for, of course, such a sacerdotal name could not be tolerated – were rechristened Moscow. Only the emblematic angel mural on the facade tympanum, the work of the eminent late 19th-century historical painter Václav Brožík (1870) was saved by the restorer Olga Beránková. And above the station they begin building the Moscow department store, which, however, was never completed. For years, from the partly finished walls of the ground floor loomed up the stumps of the iron girders of the concrete monster, planned to be five storeys.



But Smíchov did not fully remain without an angel even after 1980. In 1929, they had transported over and, in the Kinsky garden, installed the wooden Greek Catholic church of St. Michael the Archangel from Nagylucska – Velyki Lučki – in Subcarpathia, which had been carved out of Hungary and awarded to Czechoslovakia by the 1920 Treaty of Trianon. The Czech public at the time cherished a kind of romantic image of the tiny, archaic and unspoiled Slavic villages in the Carpathian mountains, and they enthusiastically received this exotic ambassador from the remote province, officially a gift of the people of Rusinsko to the new capital. The archangel has ever since kept guard over the quarter from the Petřín hillside. From under the church tower an excellent view over Smíchov can be seen, as well as Vyšehrad Castle on the other side of the river.


After the Velvet Revolution, the rehabilitation of Smíchov, where the proportion of the industrial areas which was outdated or ruined during the socialist period was particularly large, took place quite slowly. Development was given a great impetus by the fact that the ING Group Real Estate chose Smíchov as its center in Bohemia, precisely because of its major brownfield areas just some minutes away from the center of Prague. In the first phase, by the autumn of 2000, they built the New Smíchov shopping center – about which we will write later – on the site of the massive Ringhoffer-Tatra factory, decaying in the center of Smíchov; and in place of the torso of the Moscow department store, that is, of the former Angel, they built the Golden Angel office building.

The architect was the Frenchman Jean Nouvel, designer of iconic buildings, such as Vienna’s Gasometers, Barcelona’s Torre Agbar, Paris’s Musée du quai Branlay, or Copenhagen’s Koncerthuset. No wonder then, that Prague’s Golden Angel also has become an emblematic building. It floats over the neighborhood like a blue ship, its stern rising up precisely at the spot of the old Golden Angel, on the corner of the block. Beneath it, at the corner of the reconstructed metro station – on the upper floor of the Colosseum pizzeria, to be exact – the angel mural saved from the tympanum of the old restaurant was exhibited. The tower is decorated with quotes from great Prague authors, such as Kafka, Rilke, Gustav Meyrink, Konstantin Biebl, and Jiří Orten. And above them, as for the third in a row, the angel who became man from Wim Wenders’ Wings of desire keeps guard over Smíchov.

“Христос воскресе!– Christ has risen!” From this nigh’s resurrection service in the Orthodox Uspensky church in Lemberg.

In nineteen-sixteen, when Makovsky painted this picture, it was war, East and West clashed on the territory of present-day Ukraine, just like today. As a rarity, in that year the Easter of all the Christian denominations of present-day Ukraine coincided with each other, just like in 1942, or today. This night every church of Lemberg/Lwów/Lviv/Lvov is full, Polish Catholic, Ukrainian Greek Catholic, Russian Orthodox and Armenian Catholic believers celebrate together the resurrection of Christ.

The crowds in the Osh market jostle and push, always moving on to the next thing, as perhaps they have always done in this 3,000-year-old city at the eastern end of the Fergana Valley, near the Kyrgyz border with Uzbekistan. A restless flow of handcarts, women with bags, and men with burdens of heavy sacks on their shoulders pound the ancient fragments of stone and dust that pass for pavements here. The aromas from the smoky shashlik grills mingle with the odor of sweat and the steamy tea houses, serving greasy bowls of laghman heaped with fresh dill, or piles of manty covered in sliced onions. In addition to these are a startling array of other odors, activated in the heat, and too numerous to remember, much less describe. The sunlight and dancing colors, and the local popular music playing everywhere from portable casette players, as Tajiks, Uzbeks, Kyrgyz, Russians, and no doubt others, each in their own variant of local clothing and headwear, all commingle here.



Sherali Joʿraev, Birinchin mukhabbatim

Awnings of bright fabric provide some shade for the thoroughfare that wends past stall after stall of local produce, cheap clothes from China, handmade hats, fat carrots and potatoes, huge open sacks of rice and other seeds, all the staples and sundries of a Central Asian life. People grin and scowl, sit sullen, laugh boisterously, stare, avert their eyes, and with a word that sounds like 'boosh' urge the crowd to part so their heaving loads can pass.

There is a blinding flash of sunlight as bodies sway first apart then again together, walking in halting streams, glimpses of floral fabric and black-haired children, women in scarves and printed frocks that reach to their shoes, and serious men with faces neither Asian nor European, but something in between.

We stop at a stall selling cassette tapes, watched over by a boy with a strange haircut, long in front but very short in the back. He seems baffled by my request for “traditional music,” which I phrase as best I can, considering my inadequate Russian. “Disco? Hip-hop?” he probes, not quite getting the gist. He pops a few cassettes in his portable machine and I hear brief passages, rejecting most of them outright. Finally, he puts in a cassette by Sherali Joʿraev, and I purchase several by this artist, and we part, both satisfied with the transaction.



Sherali Joʿraev, Olis yullar

I ask a particularly picturesque elderly gentleman if I may take his picture. He agrees, and when I show him the image on my digital camera, he insists that I print one for him on the spot. I explain to him delicately that it is not possible, and I am only permitted to leave once he has fetched a young boy with a pencil and paper to write down his postal address for me to send it once I arrive back home.  Shoving the note into my hand, he reminds me, “Do not forget!” And I did not forget, but unfortunately the scrawl is completely illegible.


We are stopped by a man in policeman’s uniform, with an extavagantly broad Pershing-style policeman’s hat. “Come with me,” he says to us. We are lead to separate rooms. After a close inspection of my passport, he takes the small shoulder bag I always carry and begins to take items out of it, one by one.

“What is this?” he inquires, holding up an asthma inhaler.

“It is something against asthma,” I reply, in my limited Russian.

Tsk, tsk. His hard face softens as he expresses sympathy. He goes on to the next item.

“Where are these from?” He holds up a few Czech banknotes. “They are from Czechia,” I reply.

“Where is that?” “Near Germany.” He nods, understanding.

“How much is this worth?” indicating a 200-crown note. “About 10 dollars,” I say, without excessive precision.

He suddenly appears to lose interest, and concludes the interview. My companion is already waiting for me outside, and we continue on our inspection of the Osh bazaar.

Las multitudes en el mercado de Osh se empujan y zarandean de un puesto a otro, tal como llevan haciéndolo en esta ciudad del confín oriental del valle de Fergana, casi en la frontera de Kirguistán con Uzbekistán, desde hace 3.000 años. Un trajín sin descanso de carretas, mujeres con bolsas y hombres con pesados ​​sacos apresurándose sobre los antiguos fragmentos de piedra o en el polvo seco que sirve de acera. El aroma de las parrillas humeantes con shashlik–pinchos de carne– se mezcla con el olor a sudor y con el humo de las casas de té donde sirven tazones grasientos de laghman rebosantes de eneldo fresco y montones de manty cubierto de cebolla a rodajas. Pero también se multiplica, avivada por el calor, una sorprendente variedad de olores, demasiado numerosos para recordarlos o intentar describirlos. La luz del sol y el baile de colores, las músicas populares de la zona que suenan en todos los rincones desde infinitos cassettes portátiles: tayikos, uzbekos, kirguises, rusos, y otros, cada personaje con su variante particular de ropa y sus tocados para la cabeza, todo se presenta revuelto ante nuestros sentidos.



Sherali Joʿraev, Birinchin mukhabbatim

Los toldos de tela brillante dan algo de sombra en la vía que serpentea enhebrando puesto tras puesto de productos locales, ropa china barata, sombreros hechos a mano, zanahorias y gruesas patatas, grandes sacos abiertos de arroz y otros granos, todos cuantos materiales y bienes variopintos puedan imaginarse en la vida del Asia Central. La gente sonríe y frunce el ceño, se sientan hoscos, ríen a carcajadas, miran fijamente, desvían la vista, y con una palabra que suena como 'boosh' instar a la gente a apartarse para poder pasar con sus pesados fardos.

Hay un destello cegador de la luz solar cuando los grupos apretados se disgregan para volver a juntarse enseguida y avanzar como una riada, ondear de telas floreadas y niños de cabello negro, mujeres con pañuelos y vestidos estampados que llegan hasta los pies, y hombres serios de rostro ni asiático ni europeo, algo como intermedio.

Nos detenemos en un puesto de venta de cintas de cassette regentado por un chico con un exraño corte de pelo, largo en la frente y muy corto en la nuca. Parece desconcertado por mi solicitud de «música tradicional», que intento pedir con mi mejor pronunciación, salvando mi mal ruso. «¿Disco? ¿Hip-hop?», indaga , no alcanzando a entenderme. Pone varios casetes en su propio aparato y oigo breves pasajes que rechazo por completo. Por último, pone a Sherali Jo’raev y compro varios de este artista. Partimos satisfechos con la transacción.



Sherali Joʿraev, Olis yullar

Le pregunto a un anciano particularmente pintoresco si se me permite tomar una foto. No tiene inconveniente, y cuando le muestro la imagen en mi cámara, insiste en que imprima una para él de inmediato. Le explico delicadamente que no es posible y sólo me permite salir después de haber encontrado a un chico con un lápiz y un papel que anota su dirección postal para que le envíe la foto en cuanto llegue a casa. Apretando la nota en mi mano, me insiste, «¡No te olvides!» Y no me olvidé, pero por desgracia el garabato era completamente ilegible.


Nos detiene un hombre con uniforme de policía, con un extravagante sombrero ancho al estilo de la policía persa. «Vengan conmigo», nos dice. Nos introduce en unas habitaciones separadas. Después de un examen minucioso de mi pasaporte, toma la pequeña bolsa bandolera que siempre llevo conmigo y empieza a sacar las cosas una por una.

«¿Qué es esto?» Inquiere, sosteniendo un inhalador para el asma.

«Es para el asma», respondo en mi menguado ruso.

Tch, tch. Su rostro duro se suaviza a medida que expresa simpatía. Pasa al objeto siguiente.

«¿De dónde son?» Sostiene un par de billetes de banco checos. «Son de Chequia», le contesto.

«¿Dónde está eso?» - «Cerca de Alemania». Asiente al entenderlo.

«¿Cuánto vale?» Señala un billete de 200 coronas. «Unos 10 dólares», digo sin demasiada precisión.

De repente parece perder todo interés y concluye la entrevista. Mi compañero ya está esperando afuera y podemos seguir con nuestra inspección del bazar de Osh.

Almost a year ago I already wrote some apologetic rambling on why I do not write so often. One justification is that too often while collecting materials for the next story I stumble upon many side stories. Following a new thread you collect more information, more images and documents, as well as make new inquiries. As a result, similar to Achilles in Zeno’s paradox, you never seem to catch the end of your journey for the ultimate story. Here is one of such side stories, which emerged with a wartime photo I found while preparing the story of soldier letters sent in 1941 that never made it home.

Who is on the photo?

I came across this photo almost two years ago, in a German photo-archive just by searching for “Aserbaidschan” i.e. “Azerbaijan”. The photo by a world famous author of many iconic World War Two photos, Yevgeny Khaldei (1917-1997) has a short title – “Berlin”. The date indicated is July 1945 – the time when American, British and French troops were let into agreed sectors of Berlin, captured by the Soviet Army.


If you pay attention to the uniforms, it is obvious that the image is a mirror inversion. The description reads as “Zwei Soldaten, ein amerikanischer und ein russischer aus Aserbaidschan.” i.e. “Two soldiers, one American and one Russian from Azerbaijan”. It does not reveal the names of the two soldiers, so in this case it is hard to say if “Russian” should be read as “Soviet”.

Searching internet you will find the same photo, accompanied by two different captions that contain exact names of those who are on the photo.

The Soviet soldier is described as Ivan Numladze, bearing a Georgian surname. The online database of documents on Great Patriotic War awards and battle documents of the Ministry of Defense of Russia did not return any result on my search for this surname. It is not strange since the database is not complete yet. But their online archive of “irretrievable losses” returned one person: Grigoriy Numladze, who was freed from captivity in Romania in October 1944.

Confusion starts with the name of the American soldier indicated either as Buck Kotzebue or as Byron Shiver. But the date and place are the same – April 1945, somewhere near Torgau, Germany, where 1^st American Army and 5^th Soviet Guards Army linked up at Elbe River.


First Lieutenant Albert L. ‘Buck’ Kotzebue of the Company G of the 273^rd Infantry Regiment was leading one of the three American patrols that made contact with the Soviet troops on 25 April 1945. The above map shows roughly the place and time, when the second patrol led by 2nd Lieutenant William D. Robertson of the same regiment met the Soviet patrol led by Lieutenant Alexander Silvashko (1922-2010) of the 58^th Guards Division – on a damaged bridge over the Elbe in Torgau. By a twist of fate, back then exactly this meet up became the ‘official’ one in the West, and a photo of these two officers, taken by an American photographer, became the symbol of the Elbe linkup. The same image was chosen for the cover of the book published in 1988, both in the US and the USSR, with different titles. “Yanks meet Reds” in English and “Встреча на Эльбе” (Meeting at the Elbe) in Russian contains recollections of veterans from both sides of the Elbe. There was also a third patrol led by Major Fred W. Craig, which was sent to find out what is up with Kotzebue’s patrol that left a day earlier.


So, later investigation showed that the first contact was in fact made by Kotzebue’s patrol. On their way from Kuhren to Strehla, at around 11:30 they met a “Russian” cavalryman at a farmhouse courtyard in Leckwitz. This was actually an ethnic Kazakh, Private Aytkali Alibekov conscripted in 1943 from Tashtagol District of Russia. The patrol got some directions from him, he also advised to take a freed Polish prisoner of war as a guide. The major encounter happened some hour later with the Soviet company under command of Lieutenant Grigori Goloborodko of the 175^th Guards Rifle Regiment.


Apparently there is no publicly available photo evidence of this first meeting. But US Army artist Olin Dows (1904-1981), who later witnessed the meeting of allied forces, depicted the moment in one of his paintings with this not quite accurate description of the event:

“At 11:45 on the morning of April 25, 1945, from the Strehla bank of the Elbe River, Lt Kotzebue fires two red and green flares from a carbine as a signal of identification to the Russians on the opposite bank. Below is the boat which he and five men from his patrol used to reach the Russian side. In the background is the drifting German pontoon bridge which has been knocked away from its moorings by shell fire and the mixed German military and civilian convoy which was trying to cross the Elbe when destroyed by Russian tanks.”


Going back to the initial photo of two soldiers, the American depicted on it apparently is not Kotzebue. First, because he is not a lieutenant, besides on other rare photos Kotzebue looks quite different with his binoculars, wearing a jacket and smoking a pipe.

So, the young American soldier with a shining smile is Private Byron Shiver, native of Florida, from the same company, who was part of the Kotzebue’s patrol. He appears in some other photos, taken during the subsequent meetings the day after.

It seems that the cause of this confusion is the photo caption that appeared in the 29 April 1945 issue of the official newspaper of the People’s Commissariat for Defense of the USSR Красная Звезда (Krasnaya Zvezda/Red Star). The bottom photo at page 3 obviously shows the same scene with two soldiers from a different perspective. The caption read as: “THE LINK UP OF THE TROOPS OF THE 1^ST UKRAINIAN FRONT AND ANGLO-AMERICAN FORCES. On the picture above: Soviet and American officers chatting. Below: The Red Army guardsman Ivan Numladze, a native of sunny Georgia, and the American soldier Buck Kotzebue, a native of sunnyTexas. Pictures by our special photo-reporter Captain G. Khomzor.”


Indeed, Lieutenant Kotzebue was native of Houston, Texas. An interesting fact is that he believed that his ancestors were loyal subjects of the Russian Empire, ethnic Baltic Germans. Captain Otto von Kotzebue (1787-1846) was famous for his explorations of Alaska – there is a city and a sound named after him there. Perhaps, Kotzebue was chosen for the caption because of the familiar ‘sunny Texas’ cliché, and Numladze may well be a curtsey to the Comrade Stalin, also ‘native of sunny Georgia’.

That would not be strange – for a long time official Soviet version credited Georgian Jr. Sergeant Meliton Kantaria and Russian Sergeant Mikhail Yegorov for raising the first Soviet flag over the Reichstag. In fact, a red flag was raised as early as the night of 30 April by a small group of volunteers, which included Sergeant Mikhail Minin, Sr.Sergants Gazi Zagitov, Alexandr Lisimenko, and Sergeant Alexei Bobrov. The papers show that they were recommended for the Hero of the Soviet Union decoration, but got a lower rank Order of the Red Banner.


Poemas del río Wang already wrote in the “Soviet Capa” about the iconic photo “The flag of victory over the Reichstag” by Khaldei. For a long time it was widely unknown that the photo actually is staged and people on the photo are Private Alexei Kovalyov from Ukraine and Sergeant Abdulhakim Ismailov from Dagestan. Now it is also known that the photo was retouched to remove a ‘second watch’ from Ismailov’s right wrist as this could cause questions about looting. By the way, apparently the Soviet soldier in the ‘two soldiers’ photo has got two rings on his left hand.

All in all, the question was still open for me – is it ‘Numladze, a native of sunny Georgia’ or a soldier ‘from Azerbaijan’? On 4 February 2014, I finally thought why not to send an email and ask the photo agency.


I received a short answer the day after:

A man with a camera

Further explorations revealed that my question may not be the right one. It seems that the meetings initiated by Robertson’s patrol are covered solely by American photo-reporters, while Soviet photographers were shooting mainly the meetings at the East side. Who were these photo-reporters, was Khaldei among them?


One was obviously the special photo-reporter of Krasnaya Zvezda Captain Georgiy Khomzor (1914-1990). The photo of ‘two soldiers’ is most probably taken by him, since a very similar photo above is also credited to him. It is strange though that Khomzor’s photo, published in Krasnaya Zvezda with the caption that mentions Kotzebue and Numladze, was taken from a totally different angle.

Actually his surname is Khomutov, but during his early career as a retoucher he was signing his works with “Хом. 30 р.” meaning “Khom(utov). (Price: )30 r(ubles)”. This looks like “ХомЗОр” i.e. “Khomzor”, so this pseudonym stack to him. This frontline photo-reporter quickly earned great popularity during the war. Executive editor of “Krasnaya Zvezda” David Ortenbergremembers that when in May 1945 he was recommended for Order of the Patriotic War 2^nd class decoration, the commander of the 1^st Ukrainian Front Marshal Ivan Konev (1897-1973) corrected the list and changed it to a higher rank Order of the Red Banner. The section titled “the brief, concrete description of personal feat of arms or merits” in the decoration paper mentions that “At the Elbe River, he was photographing the historical meeting of the troops of the 1^st Ukrainian Front with the American Army”.


Despite of this, today there is not even a Wikipedia page dedicated to him or a photo of him in the Internet to identify if the man with a camera on the picture below is Khomzor. Judging by his decoration he is not, it is not clear either if he is Captain or Sr. Lieutenant. The decorations on the person’s uniform match better Captain Alexandr Ustinov (1909-1995), photo-reporter of Pravda newspaper, who by July 1944 was already awarded Medal “For Courage” and Order of Red Star. But unlike this man Ustinov had a splendid chevelure, and his medal must have been of old 1939-1943 version with a short mount.



This photo was in the album Ustinov presented to the veterans including Silvashko, who after the war was a village school director and history teacher in Kletsk district in Belorussia. Silvashko later presented it to the Kletsk city museum and the scanned images appeared in the Internet.

Kotzebue in his recollections mentions that one of the first three “Russian”s they met at the Elbe River was a photographer in the ranks of Captain, who took their photos. This must be Khomzor, since Ustinov writes in his memoirs С «лейкой» и блокнотом (With ‘Leica’ and notebook) that he arrived at the Elbe River crossing only on 26 April. He also mentions that “Later a large group of American journalists, cameramen and my colleagues – photo-reporters got over to our side. Among Soviet reporters were Konstantin Simonov, Sergey Krushinski from Komsomolka, and Georgiy Khomzor– photo-reporter of Krasnaya Zvezda”. Interestingly, many sources, including Ustinov’s daughter claim that Ustinov was “the only Soviet photo-reporter, who witnessed the meeting at the Elbe”.

By the way, the title of the book “With ‘Leica’ and a notebook” is taken from a popular “Song of the war reporters”, written by Konstantin Simonov (1915-1979) and composed by Matvey Blanter (1903-1990) – the composer of the famous “Katyusha”.Simonov wrote it in 1943 as “Reporters’ drinking song”, but some words were censored for the popular official version.

От Москвы до Бреста Нет такого места, Где бы ни скитались мы в пыли, С “лейкой” и с блокнотом, А то и с пулеметом Сквозь огонь и стужу мы прошли.	From Moscow down to Brest There is no such a place, Where we did not wander in the dust. With “Leica” and a notebook, And sometimes with machine gun The fire and the frost we passed through.
(Жив ты или помер – Главное, чтоб в номер Материал успел ты передать. И чтоб, между прочим, Был фитиль всем прочим, А на остальное - наплевать!)	(Be you alive or dead – Main thing: for this issue You would pass materials on time. By the way, let it be A wick to all others, As for other things - don’t give a damn!)
Без глотка, товарищ, (Без ста грамм, товарищ,) Песню не заваришь, Так давай за дружеским столом (Так давай по маленькой хлебнем!) Выпьем за писавших, Выпьем за снимавших, Выпьем за шагавших под огнем.	Without a toothful, comrade, (Without a half-pint/100-gram, comrade) A song one would cook hardly, Around a friendly table let us have (Come on, let us gulp down it bit by bit!) A drink to who were writing, A drink to who were filming, A drink to who were marching under fire!
Есть, чтоб выпить, повод - За военный провод, За У-2, за “эмку”, за успех... Как пешком шагали, Как плечом толкали, Как мы поспевали раньше всех.	For drink we have a reason To military farewell, To U-2, to the “M’ka”, to success… How afoot were marching With shoulder we were pushing, And how we were on time ahead of all.
От ветров и стужи (От ветров и водки) Петь мы стали хуже, (Хрипли наши глотки,) Но мы скажем тем, кто упрекнет: – С наше покочуйте, С наше поночуйте, С наше повоюйте хоть бы год.	From the winds and the frost (From the winds and vodka) Started singing we worse, (Our throats became hoarse,) But we shall say to those who blame us: – Roam as much as we did, Overnight as we did, Fight as much as we did just a year.
Там, где мы бывали, Нам танков не давали, Но мы не терялись никогда. (Репортер погибнет – не беда.) Но на “эмке” драной И с одним наганом Мы первыми въезжали в города.	There, where we have been, Tanks we never did get, But we never ever lost our heart. (A reporter would be killed – so what.) On an “M’ka” tattered And with one revolver We were those who enter cities first.
(Помянуть нам впору Мертвых репортеров. Стал могилой Киев им и Крым. Хоть они порою Были и герои, Не поставят памятника им.)	(We need now remember Also dead reporters. Kiev and Crimea are their grave. Although they were sometimes They were sometimes heroes, One won’t put a monument up to them.)
Так выпьем за победу, За свою газету, А не доживем, мой дорогой, Кто-нибудь услышит, Снимет и напишет, Кто-нибудь помянет нас с тобой.	So, let’s drink to the victory, And to our newspaper, And if we don’t live to see, my dear, Somebody then will hear, Will then film and will write, Someone will remember us with you!

In short, the ‘two soldiers’ photo is almost certainly not taken by Khaldei. But it well may be that he took another photo of ‘two soldiers, one American and one Russian from Azerbaijan’ in Berlin. The “Spiegel” article, the “Soviet Capa” refers to, mentions an exhibition “Yevgeny Khaldei – The Decisive Moment. A Retrospective” shown at the Martin Gropius Bau in Berlin from 9 May to 28 July 2008. An old blog post by one of the visitors of this exhibition mentions this photo caption, but unfortunately the image links are broken, so we cannot check it visually.

Our hope is that knowledgeable readers may help with additional information in finding answers to the questions that still remain open.

I could stop my story right here, but while reading through the articles and books about the historical meeting at the Elbe, I came across a story I never heard before.

Oath of the Elbe

The historical link up was widely known to citizens of the USSR and “Встреча на Эльбе” i.e. “Meeting at the Elbe” was a catch-phrase in a popular Soviet culture. But I doubt that many heard about the Oath of the Elbe and a small group of veterans, who have been faithful to the memory of their first meeting during the Cold War years of distrust.


The above mentioned book, Meeting on Elbe collected mostly first hand, sometimes slightly conflicting accounts of the link up on 25 April 1945. Kotzebue gives dramatic details of their first encounter at the Elbe. They saw people wandering among the debris of destroyed column of cars on the other side of the river, next to the blown up pantone bridge. Judging by their decorations shining in sunlight, Kotzebue guessed that these are Soviets. On his command Private Ed Ruff fired two green rockets as an agreed identification signal. Their Polish guide, who joined them in Leckwitz, shouted “Americans”. ‘Russians’ got closer and shouted back calling them to the other side. This meant a lot for ordinary soldiers – the soldiers in front of you are not your enemies anymore – the war is over.

But six joyful Americans and their Polish guide witnessed a dreadful scene at the East side: to reach the coming down Soviets they had to get through heaps of charred bodies of German refugees, apparently killed when the bridge was destroyed. “Suddenly I realized that among all the rejoicing we were standing in the midst of a sea of corpses” remembers Private Joe Polowsky, who was among the Americans. Most of the killed were civilians – elderly, women and children. Polowsky recalls that Kotezbue asked him to translate “Let this day be the day of remembrance of innocent victims”. This is how they took the Oath of Elbe – a promise to do everything to not let this happen again. And quite symbolically the allies were communicating with each other in the language of their enemy – in German.

The dreadful scene of killed refugees in the background could be the reason why photos taken at this first meeting by the present photo-reporter, apparently Khomzor, are not public. Another reason may be the fact that Kotzebue later continued his careers in the US Army. He fought in Korean and Vietnam proxy wars with the Soviets, retired as a lieutenant colonel in 1967.

It seems that none of the photos in the Soviet newspapers are taken on 25 April, rather on 26-27 April, when official meetings between the allies continued. There were also many unofficial meetings – soldiers of two countries with hostile ideologies were spontaneously meeting and fraternizing for several days.




The front page of the Komsomolskaya Pravda from 28 April, shown above, features official letters of congratulations from the leaders of the three allied nations – from Stalin, Churchill and Truman. Before this, goes the order of the supreme commander-in-chief Stalin to fire a salute of 24 salvoes from 324 cannons on 27 April 1945 as a tribute to the participants of the historical event – 1^st Ukrainian Front and Anglo-American troops.

But in fact, both Kotzebue and Robertson’s patrols met Soviet troops despite the order not to leave a 5-mile zone from their positions at the Mulde River. What saved them from a tribunal is that the commander of the 1^st American Army General Hodges was very positive when heard the news and congratulated his generals. Both Major Larionov and Captain Neda, who together with Liutenant Silvashko and Sergeant Andreyev accompanied Robertson’s patrol to the headquarters of the 273^rd Infantry Regiment late on 25 April, were soon after expelled from the Communist party and the Soviet army. Many participants of the link up recalled that after few days the troops that made contact with Americans were send back.

The members of Kotzebue’s patrol including Shiver appear on many photos in Ustinov’s album. It is easy to distinguish Americans – they all have got steel helmets. Soviets have not; instead they have got all their decorations on. Interestingly, the Soviet troops on the potential contact line received a special order to have a neat outfit, on meeting Americans to act friendly, but reservedly.


Judging by numbering, these photos apparently are taken on 26 April at the East bank of the Elbe, sometime around the official meeting between the commander of the American 69^th Infantry Division Major General Emil F. Reinhardt and the commander of the Soviet 58^th Guards Division Major General Vladimir Vasilyevich Rusakov. By the way, documents show that later in May Rusakovwas awarded the highest decoration of the Soviet Union, Order of Lenin. But the only fact I could find about his subsequent fate is that he passed away in 1951 at the age of 42.

So the scene at the ferry-boat crossing is probably a ‘reenactment’ of the meeting, which happened on 25 April, an hour after the initial meeting at the pontoon bridge.







The photo above shows also one of our heroes – „Numladze”– the rightmost standing, he looks exactly as on the ‘two soldiers’ photo. But the hero of the story about the Oath of Elbe is the American standing on jeep – Private Polowsky, native of Chicago.

The outburst of positive friendly rhetoric between the Western powers and Soviets quickly faded away. Few years later Mosfilm film studio was already shooting propaganda movie ‘Encounter at the Elbe’, which portrayed Americans as capitalist occupants of Germany in contrast to humanist Soviet troops. Victorious allies quickly became insidious enemies in the Cold War for decades.

But it seems that all these years for Polowsky the hunting image of killed children was a reminder of the Oath of Elbe – the promise to not let this happen again. Back at home he started a small American Veterans of Elbe Meeting / Veterans for Peace organization, keeping in touch with fellow veterans including some of the ‘Russians’ he met at the end of the war. Polowsky was sending petitions and open letters to world leaders, urging them to stop spreading of nuclear weapons and was campaigning for recognition of the Elbe Day as the day of peace and remembrance of all innocent victims of war. It seems that he succeeded in making his voice heard as the minutes of the UN General Assembly 197^th Plenary Meeting, dated 25 April 1949, include the following statement by the President of the General Assembly:


A small footnote to this note reads “No official document issued.” It is evident from the rest of the minutes that the General Assembly was captured rather by political ‘exchange of fire’ between the West and the Soviets. Later that year Germany was divided, as the western occupation zones were merged under the Federal Republic of Germany on 23 May and the Soviet zone became the German Democratic Republic on 7 October. A year later, in 1950 a war broke out in divided Korea, brining the USSR and the US to an indirect military confrontation.


In the heat of anti-soviet propaganda Polowsky continued sending his open letters calling to “Renew the Oath at the Elbe”. He reportedly wrote down the formal version of the Oath in 1947, but I could not find its text in the Internet. One could ask if the oath was actually written on paper and signed. Short news from Associated Press, dated 22 April 1950 and entitled ‘Veteran Tears up the Elbe Peace Oath’, suggests that it was. The news quotes Polowsky’s companion in arms Ed Ruff saying “It’s not worth the paper it’s written on anymore… Instead of living up to that oath, the Russians have done everything to provoke another war”. It was probably at that time when Polowsky was prosecuted for ‘un-American activities’.

On the tenth anniversary of the Meeting at the Elbe the Americans sent an invitation to their fellow veterans from the USSR, but the ‘Russian’s declined it, some say because they were asked for fingerprints to get the US visas. Instead an official invitation came from the Soviets to visit Moscow on 9 May 1955 for the Victory Day celebrations. It seems that this was considered as a good occasion for normalizing relations between the two countries.


A group of some ten American veterans, including Polowsky and Shiver, got together in New York on 3 May. They have got their visas, but were short on funds for return flights to Paris, where Soviets were planning to meet them and bring to Moscow. To raise the required money Polowsky appealed to media, but without any response the group decided to break up and go home the next day. A telephone call close to midnight changed the situation – they were invited to a CBS television charity show “Strike It Rich”. Polowsky said that “they intended to represent the American point of view and be a credit to President Eisenhower and the American people”. The viewers from many states called the show to support the veterans. Eventually the sponsor of the show offered to underwrite $5,580 veterans needed and they started their journey on 6 May.

They arrived in Moscow late in night on 9 May. The following days they met the Soviet veterans, toured places of interest in Moscow, visited a kolkhoz farm, and had few official banquets in the US Embassy and the Central House of the Soviet Army. Interestingly, as a decade ago Ustinov was there with his camera and at the end of the visit he presented each of the veterans an album with photos from 1945 and 1955.





Three years later, in 1958, five Soviet veterans, led by writer Boris Polevoy (1908-1981), who was a frontline reporter of ‘Pravda’ during the war, were on a reciprocal visit in the US, touring New York and Washington. Polowsky and his friends had to borrow money for entertaining their guests. Without official support from the US government this visit went unnoticed for public. With one exception: The Soviet veterans were invited to a baseball match at the Griffith Stadium between the Washington Senators and the New York Yankees. When the commentator announced that there are World War Two veterans in the stadium, more than 10,000 spectators applauded as the guests were brought to home plate to meet slugger Mickey Mantle.

Another reciprocal visit followed next year, and there were few reunions in 1970s.

For a decade, every 25 April, loyal to his oath, a Chicago taxi driver Joseph Polowsky held a personal vigil to commemorate the Elbe Day. On Michigan Avenue Bridge he would tell passer-byes the story of friendship at the Elbe River, call for stopping spread of nuclear weapons and for peace in the world. Polowsky’s last vigil was in 1983, he died of cancer in October that year. Knowing that he is terminally ill Polowsky made all arrangements for his last will – to be buried at the Elbe River in Torgau, East Germany. All permissions were granted and Polowsky’s funeral once again brought together Yanks and Reds at the Elbe in November 1983.


Visiting Polowsky’s grave became an important part of the annual Elbe Day celebrations in Torgau. He became a symbol of loyalty to the Oath of the Elbe, to the spirit of friendship. An American activist and songwriter Fred Small dedicated the song ‘At the Elbe’ from his 1988 album ‘I Will Stand Fast’ to Polowsky. I also came across an award-winning 1986 documentary ‘Joe Polowsky – An American Dreamer’ by West German director Wolfgang Pfeiffer. Unfortunately, I could not watch the film online, but the film still used for information page the image of two soldiers, my story started with.


On the photo above Sylvashko pays tribute to the memory of his companion in arms. Probably the last Soviet survivor of those historical events, he passed away in 2010, at the age of 87. The American, shaking hands with Sylvashko on the famous photo – Robertson passed away back in 1999. All people, who took the Oath of the Elbe 69 years ago are no more. But the Cold War is still raging over the planet, spreading around the hot zones of many regional conflicts.

Other interesting links

“Встреча на Эльбе” (Encounter at the Elbe) – the 1949 Soviet propaganda movie in Russian that depicts the link up at the Elbe and subsequent division of Germany to occupation zones: https://video.yandex.ru/users/cuvschinov-a/view/2478/

A 1980s interview with Joe Polowsky by American prize-winning author and radio personality Studs Terkel: http://studsterkel.org/results.php?summary=PolowskyPart 1 and Part 2.

“Встреча на Эльбе” (Meeting at the Elbe) – this 1990 documentary in Russian features the 45^th anniversary celebrations of the link up in Germany: http://net-film.ru/film-20264/

“Алтарь Победы: Встреча на Эльбе” (The Altar of the Victory: Meeting at the Elbe) – this 2009 documentary in Russian from NTV series interestingly follows the criticism line of the movie released 60 years ago: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DB4Rj3EoIhI

“Встречи” (Meetings) – this 2011 documentary in Russian is about Igor Belousovitch, born in Shanghai son of Russian emigrants, who was part of the Craig’s patrol: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQDcJG-ms2o