I was born in 1950. My mother, known throughout her life as Anka (Anna Hyndráková — editor’s note), was only twenty-one at the time, and just five years had passed since the end of the war. Four years later, my brother was born. We have always been very close. He and his family now live in France and are among my dearest relatives.
Since childhood, I have sensed a certain difference in our family — a deep sadness in my mother that was always present. Gradually, we learned that she had spent her youth in concentration camps. She bore a tattoo on her left forearm. Occasionally, strangers would ask about it — some with genuine curiosity, others impertinently. For a long time, she was unable to speak about her experiences in the camps.
At our urging, she eventually wrote down her story, which was later published in the book Svět bez lidských rozměrů (A World Without Human Dimensions). In that publication, three of her friends also shared their memories of wartime.
I was an exemplary girl — I studied diligently, earned praise, and got straight As. I did it primarily to make my mother happy. Mom didn’t trust herself and had no one to guide her. Father had never been much help. During the communist regime, she believed that nurses and teachers could take better and more professional care of my upbringing. As a result, I was often placed in nurseries, sometimes briefly in weekly nurseries, kindergartens, or schools with all-day care. I believe what saved me from deprivation was always feeling that I was loved. When I grew older, I sometimes held this against Anka, but she later made amends by lovingly caring for my daughter and devoting much of her time to her. She had learned her lesson and matured. My brother, on the other hand, had it easier. He himself claims that he battled with “biological weapons” — whenever and wherever he was left in someone’s care, he immediately fell ill.
As a very young girl, I had the amusing idea that I would become a singer — but only in the role of Libuše at the National Theater. My brother, on the other hand, wanted to be a garbage man. These childhood ambitions of ours (fortunately for the National Theater in my case) never came to fruition. Very soon, however, I fell in love with flowers and nature, and I wanted to become a biologist — which, ultimately, I did. After graduating, finding stable work was nearly impossible. Both of my parents had been expelled from the Communist Party, and my father had signed Charter 77. I was only able to secure short-term positions, filling in for absent colleagues. My situation was temporarily stabilized by getting married and having a daughter, Anna.
My husband and I were part of a circle of friends who shared similar anti-communist views. We attended secret lectures and discussions and pursued education and intellectual growth together. Many of these friends have remained close to me throughout my life. We enjoyed a very happy marriage. In the 1980s, I finally obtained a permanent position at the 2nd Faculty of Medicine of Charles University, working in the hospital in Motol. I was employed in the laboratory and also began lecturing medical students, leading practical exercises and other courses. After 1989, I was able to attend seminars and international congresses, which broadened my professional horizons.
Those years were not without hardship — my husband became seriously ill — yet I also experienced many blessings. I have always been passionate about my profession and found great joy in my work. In 2007, together with two colleagues, I founded IMMUNIA, a medical center dedicated to the prevention and treatment of allergies and immune disorders. I am deeply pleased that IMMUNIA continues to flourish even after my retirement.
For the last ten years of my mother’s life, we lived together. I was widowed, and my daughter was grown, so it was just the two of us sharing our days. We sometimes argued over trifles, but we never disagreed on what truly mattered. Anka had a unique sense of humor. Her friends often gathered in our garden — women we both affectionately called “the girls.” They shared a similar fate, having also endured years in concentration camps. In the 1990s, Anka, together with Mrs. Anda Lorencová, devoted themselves to collecting the memoirs of survivors. Their work resulted in a rich archive of invaluable documents. From time to time, someone reminds me how deeply the Jewish Museum and the Terezín Memorial value their efforts.
Anka — like many other survivors — never turned down a request to give a lecture. She saw it as her duty or a debt, as a way to honor the memory of those who did not survive, and to help prevent such horrors from ever happening again. She worked actively with the Terezín Initiative, the Auschwitz Committee, and the Terezín Memorial. Together, we also took part in various educational and commemorative projects, including Playing Drums in Bubny and similar initiatives.
I am convinced that our mother never truly left the concentration camp. It is understandable that her trauma was passed on to us, her children. I often wonder what she would say today, knowing that I continue her educational work. I belong to the so-called second generation, deeply marked by the trauma carried by our families.
Why do I take part in discussions with students? Because I want them to be informed and to develop critical judgment — so they will never be drawn to racist ideologies in the future. Anka devoted her life to ensuring that such evil would never happen again, and for the same reasons, I strive to continue her mission.
Alena Lehovcová
