When Mrs. O. arrives at the hotel, she orders salad with a comment, “I’ve got to lose some weight.” She suggests she will begin with her childhood, informing me “What I am going to tell you is what I heard from my grandma. I don’t remember because I was a baby when my dad, as a forester, found a wounded man who was shot by the security police. He gave him shelter at our home. Then he brought in two young physicians to treat the wounds. The two physicians, for that medical emergency care, were arrested shortly after and hanged.”

When I was in first grade, I saw a photograph of a girl who looked to be about seven. She had blond curly hair and Stalin was holding her next to him, dressed in his generalissimo uniform, with many medals on his chest.

Mrs. F’s house is near the center of this quaint village. The door is flanked open by a smiling middle aged woman, welcoming me warmly and leading me to a large light kitchen. A cross decorates the wall opposite the door. As we enter the kitchen, Mrs. F. tells me her husband is going to be with us while we talk.

After Mrs. H. read about this inquiry in the political prisoners organization’s newsletter, she offered to participate with a letter that reflected her skepticism on anyone willing to hear their voice. In her opinion, few parents who have a daughter of the required age for this study are still alive. Only a few widows and their daughters are members of the organization and receive the aforementioned newsletter. Even fewer of the prisoners’ daughters would be willing, for whatever reasons, to reply to my invitation to participate in the study. She points out she would be very surprised if more then ten women responded.

This interview takes place in one of Prague’s most famous cafés.  Mrs. D. and I find a place away from the window tables occupied by tourists, speaking many different languages.  I remember the times of my youth here.  During the years of Stalinism, one would turn when hearing someone speaking a foreign language.  Now it is almost the reverse.

Mrs. G. waits for me at the railway station of her beautifully renovated holiday resort town. We agreed that I would recognize her by a white envelope in her hand. I knew about some of her experiences from her letter she sent after reading my advertisement in the newsletter. I am not sure why but I have a hard time not crying when I see her waiting eagerly. Although her story is moving, there is something else about her. Perhaps she represents to me the “typical” Czech woman I remember from my former life in Czechoslovakia. She is of small stature, with blond and gray hair, dressed in a sleeveless…