THE controversy surrounding Madeleine Albright's unawareness of her family history, which broke out last year when President Bill Clinton named Albright Secretary of State, touched me intensely. We come from the same country, Czechoslovakia, and we experienced devastations wrought by two successive totalitarian systems. Our experiences were different in some significant respects: Albright is about a decade younger than I am, and she spent most of her childhood and adolescence abroad with her family. She probably has little memory of pre-war Czechoslovakia. I spent my first ten years in the bilingual, multicultural setting of southern Moravia; the memory of that time sits like a glowing jewel at the core of my being. Negatives I might remember about that time or might have diligently reconstructed during conventional psychotherapy lose their definition in the surge of intense love and longing that any mention of those years produces in me.
That first segment of my childhood ended in an unforeseen, surreptitious way: A customary summer vacation with my mother's family in Switzerland in the summer of 1938 was marred by the rising threat of war between Germany and Czechoslovakia. My father wrote a letter to my mother telling her to "come back but don't bring the children." Gratitude for shelter left no room to mourn the absence of good-byes. I spent the second decade of my life as a refugee in Switzerland, living with my grandmother, my uncle, and my aunt, who had been summoned from her job as a teacher in a girls' boarding school to look after her older sister's children. My brother, nine years my senior and about to start his university studies, became my parent, albeit a neglectful one. His left-wing politics and philosophically sophisticated atheism formed a counterweight to the old-fashioned Orthodox Jewish household that was our wartime home.
The wider Swiss culture was not welcoming, to say the least. We were temporarily tolerated. At one point the Swiss foreign police demanded that I get a German passport, since Czechoslovakia was no longer a country and its passport was therefore invalid. The notion seemed preposterous: Germany was persecuting Jews, not issuing passports to them. My uncle accompanied me to the consulate, a forbidding building with a swastika on its door. I was afraid that I would somehow be spirited away from that building and not come out alive. I received a passport made out to Kitty Sarah Fischer, "Sarah" being the name attached to all female German Jewish subjects. This document was accepted by the Swiss while they considered deporting me to my home, or at least pushing me across the border. A few weeks later, luckily, that passport was revoked, easing my fears.
During those years I made close friends among my Swiss classmates, with whom I am in touch to this day. They remember that time differently. One of them wrote to me recently, when the role of Swiss banks during and after the Second World War hit the papers, "Was it like that for you? I guess I was too young then to put myself in another person's shoes." I remember being uninvited for an after-school visit by a classmate whose mother told her not to bring a Jew home. In school Dr. Matzig, our philosophy teacher, often wondered out loud how long I would be allowed to stay in Switzerland: "Here you sit safely in class while our German brethren are being slaughtered by the Asiatic hordes." Sometime in 1943 my mother was able to join us, and was eventually followed by my father. In 1939 my mother had managed to obtain an exit visa from the German Protectorate Bohemia-Moravia and an entry visa to France. She was allowed to visit us for one week each year, because she had been a Swiss citizen before her marriage to my father. This ruling did not apply to my father, who owed his miraculous rescue from a deportation train headed for an extermination camp in Poland to the persistence of my mother, the help of influential Swiss friends, and incredible luck.