BY the turn of the year into 1938 we knew as well as the rest of the world that things were going badly around us, that we were living in a steel trap. The true meaning of the Spanish War was plain to us, even though it remained obscure to Mr. Stanley Baldwin. We looked on with rising apprehension as cabinets changed rapidly in France and hatred showed itself in new forms in Germany. Austria’s professional tears fell as steadily as ever until she was occupied. In England, the coronation of George VI had mobilized emotions if not troops, and Russia remained the enigmatic bear. Refugees flowed into our midst from across our borders and we saw the expressions in their eyes and the lines about their mouths. The last time I visited Warsaw I observed the disdain with which I was treated by Polish officials because I was a Czech, and I remarked the new impertinence of Hungarian customs officials.

Yet with it all I remained completely absorbed in my work. In fact, my own personal happiness colored my mind to such an extent that I refused to believe everything would not in time be well. I had many acquaintances, some of them reaching the border of friendship, among citizens of German descent who lived in Prague or in the border sections of the country. In rare moments of relaxation we had been in the habit of talking about relations between their national group and ours. Some of these men were wealthy industrialists in Silesia. At no time in the past had I felt a stranger among them, nor were they ever loath to talk about the rich possibilities in Czechoslovakia for making ours a working democracy.

But by 1938 a change had come into these conversations. My old acquaintances were using words and a tone of voice that were new, phrases which could not have been their own because they came out so hesitantly at first, until gradually they were accepted as their own ideas. They couldn’t seem to realize how easy it was to recognize the similarity between their new words and the harangues which we all heard on the radio in Goebbels’ voice. Before long even their behavior took on the color of their second-hand ideas.

When waiters and chambermaids in Carlsbad hotels began to tell every foreigner who would listen how unhappy they were under Czech domination, as though they were repeating lessons they had learned by rote, I began to wonder if democracy was an idea that could ever be given to any group of people, even by the best of examples. It was something which they must want enough to build for themselves. No one could give it to them by all the good examples and precepts in the world.

As early as the beginning of 1938 I could see that the lines were drawn. Once awake, it was impossible to close my eyes again. Too many industrialists and prominent members of society in Czechoslovakia were sanguine. Only the working classes (excluding such people as the servants in Carlsbad) seemed to realize fully what they were in for and how inevitable was their doom.

One evening in February I happened to be dining with a young English couple who had been our customers and my personal friends for some time, John and Pamela Wood. They came often to Prague, for they had a host of friends in the city, and each time they were received by officials of the Foreign Office. They were as delightful as possible, both writers of sorts, and I understood they were people of considerable property in London. We had been brought together by our common love of fine glass, which led us eventually to wider fields of discussion. They had a fair knowledge of European affairs, and our discussion on this particular night of the new trade treaty which Czechoslovakia had recently signed with the United States was prolonged.

As so often happened, Pamela Wood drew us off from the main theme of our talk. She said, “Look. You ought to open a showroom in New York. Just like the one you’ve got here.” The waiter poured clear hock into our glasses and her eyes followed his movements. Then she went on. “It could be a tremendous success, really. If you managed it.”

I smiled because I knew her words were not meant to be taken seriously. They seldom were, in spite of the intensity of her manner. I tried the wine. But apparently she was gripped by this sudden new idea of her own contrivance. “No, but really,” she said. “It would be a wonderful thing for Czechoslovak industry. Look how Americans buy your glass and china when they come over here. Why not open a fine shop on Fifth Avenue?”

I explained that it would be a costly undertaking; that I had no private means with which to finance it; the factories could hardly be induced to spend money on such an undertaking; there were strict laws which forbade the sending of funds out of Czechoslovakia without a special permit. Also, I was doing quite well where I was. I thanked her for the flattering suggestion and changed the subject.

But John Wood wasn’t ready to drop his wife’s idea. We tossed it back and forth some more. He said he would be willing to put a considerable amount into a New York showroom on the provision that I managed it. Still I considered the suggestion nothing more than an evidence of friendship, and after awhile the conversation drifted into other channels.

Why I chose to repeat the Woods’ idea to Antonín Hardt the next day when we had lunch together I don’t know. I meant only to indicate how well two English people thought of our products.

His reaction was electrifying. He wanted to know if the Woods were serious. I shrugged my shoulders and told him what I knew of them. Would I arrange a meeting for him? I had known Hardt a good many years, but I had never seen him respond so quickly to a new idea. I agreed to bring them together.

After this was accomplished I did nothing more to promote the fantasy. In fact, I was entirely skeptical. But the wheels had begun to turn and whenever new cogs were added, they fit. The machinery expanded and turned and produced new ideas and expanded and turned. And all the while I sat in my office on Příkopy and attended to my own work. After everyone concerned had disposed of my future to suit their combined pleasure, I was called in and told what they wanted.

John Wood had agreed in all seriousness to put up ample funds to open a showroom in New York for the promotion of our products in America. The bank was delighted to see new expansion taking place without having to furnish the funds. The two factories were pleased to have me off their combined board of directors and yet not beyond the limit of service to them. The Ministry of Trade, when it was approached, expressed enthusiasm because they saw in this venture a seal for the new trade treaty, an effective evidence of Czechoslovakia’s good will. The Foreign Office urged that everything possible be done to open the showroom as quickly as possible; they were convinced that the resultant business would help appreciably in the tender political area of the Sudetenland. New orders would create more work, and more work would perhaps lessen internal unrest.

For the first time in my life everyone concerned with my fate was agreed in an effort to push me forward. For once, no one tried to hold me back. The bank, factories, Ministry of Trade, and the economic division of the Foreign Office were all in agreement about letting me go.

But I was not so sure I wanted this change as much as they did. Czechoslovakia was approaching a crisis and I knew it was not going to blow over quickly. There was never a moment’s fear in my mind that any but a few small groups in the country would fall under the influence of Germany, but I did realize that we had a long struggle ahead to reach clear weather in Europe. Until the trouble was over, I had no wish to leave.

Then it developed that I had nothing to say about it. The Foreign Office made it plain that I would be doing the country a far greater service if I went to the United States at once than if I stayed in Prague. On that basis, I finally agreed to accept the terms of the Woods’ agreement.

Once the decision was made, developments piled on top of each other rapidly. The American consulate went out of its way to facilitate passport visas and entry permits. The National Bank allowed me to take out of the country a certain amount of money in my personal account to bridge the gap until my salary began in New York. It was to be the highest sum by far that I had ever received, and it was guaranteed in the terms of the contract.

All the seats I held on chambers of commerce, juries and a variety of committees were liquidated with mutual good will. Finally I went to each of our two factories to sign contracts for the exclusive rights to their products in the United States, based upon the contract which stipulated that I was to hold the combined offices of vice-president, permanent manager and partner in the new American firm of Rieger, Inc. In lieu of stock, my partnership was credited to my presence as manager of the American company and my own hard work.

On the twenty-fifth of April, Milada and I went to the lovely chapel in our historic town hall, and at eleven o’clock in the morning we were married. Antonín Hardt served as my best man. According to our custom, the bride must have a best man as well as the groom, so Karel Berounský attended Milada. Standing a little back in the shadows of the thirteenth century chapel were Milada’s brother, Miroslav Novotný, and the old guide who had brought my first customers.

It was a gray morning when we went into the town hall, but as we came out to the street the sun was beginning to show through breaking clouds. Milada was radiant and gay and utterly lovely. We left our wedding party and drove straight to Barandov. We ate our wedding breakfast alone and sat on in the sunshine until nearly four o’clock. Then we went back to Příkopy and to work.