Milan Píka

“On June 20, it was Monday afternoon, when suddenly telephone rang in our flat in Prague: ‘You should arrive in Pilsen tomorrow in the morning, your father wasn’t granted clemency, so he will be executed tomorrow.’ It was dreadful. I was really horrified. I can’t express how I felt back then, it was a long time ago, but I was surely hopeless. What should I have done? It was five in the afternoon. At six in the morning my father was to be executed. Well, I had to get to Pilsen quickly. I had a lot of acquaintances then but just a few friends. I would say that after February I had less than three real friends. So finally my former classmate, the only one truehearted friend, my classmate from the grammar school in Křemencová, freed himself from work and drove me and my wife to Pilsen. We arrived there at some point in the evening, it was dark already. I found accommodation for my classmate and we went to Bory prison in Pilsen where they knew that we would come. It was about midnight. Well, they led us, I vaguely remember that way; however, I came there also after the year 1989, they guided us there, showed everything to us and I was even in that cell where my father spent the rest of his life, his last days and I recalled everything he had to experience there, so now I know exactly how it looked there. So, when we came to that cell, my father was sitting at the table in his civilian clothing, yes, they permitted him to change into civilian clothes. It was gloomy inside, there wasn’t much light. He was writing something at that small table. In the corner there were sitting two guards, warders or somebody wearing uniforms. I don’t know now who they were indeed. We greeted one another and the longest night in my life was about to begin. I didn’t know how to console him or if I ever could. I cried and wept almost all the time. However, he was really calm and absolutely even-tempered like a person who was about to leave for a long trip but who yet had to settle something. I can’t understand it now. Back then I had only perceived that situation, though I wasn’t able to see it as a whole. Now I am sure it had to be very hard for him. Dr. Váhala was present in his cell that night as well. He was my father’s ex officio lawyer in his first secret trial where no witnesses were allowed to testify. They didn’t accept any witnesses, any of our proposals, so the trial had been definitely prearranged. Dr. Váhala had merit also in reopening my father’s case and in clearing his name, too. As I previously said my father was calm and even-tempered; he emphasized that I should concentrate on my family, family life, and that I shouldn’t take revenge. He said I had to try to forget all these things but work as he had worked his whole life for the nation, for his homeland. I didn’t understand it at all. I didn’t comprehend why a merited officer who had fought in two wars for freedom of his nation and state ended up here; he who helped with formation of the first Czechoslovak army, a French legionnaire, why he had to depart from this life, die this way. Though I wasn’t familiar with the heart of the matter, with the accusation, with anything, I knew, that it suited the purpose to say that general Píka was pro-Western oriented and it meant that he betrayed his homeland. It was not so much but enough for son who knew it was really untruth but who didn’t know what to do. Somehow the morning came; it was the first summer day, June 21. The chief of general staff said it on the button during one of the memorial meetings in front of the general staff residence, I couldn’t recall the year but it was surely after 2000: ‘It was the longest day for us but the shortest for general.’”

“When we saw him for the first time in his cell, he was writting something. It was his farewell letter that was not only the last letter to our family, but also to all the people. I’ll read at least one passage. He wrote it between 4:30 and 5:40 in the morning and at six he passed away. ‘My beloved and dearest, though I am facing frightful and tragic moments, I stay calm and even-tempered with the clear conscience because I know that in spite of many mistakes I carried out my duties as conscientiously and honestly as I only could. I am sure this is not a judicial error; it’s obvious that this is a political murder indeed. And yet I will be glad to make this forcible sacrifice, if it calms down and unifies the nation. I don’t feel malice, hate or vindictiveness; I just regret and feel heartache about the fact that justice and truth have disappeared and only hate and revenge are spreading everywhere. The sense of tolerance, freedom of thinking and speech already vanished. How easy the truth can be twisted, reversed to it’s exact opposite, without any opportunity to call witnesses or give evidence to protect it. I am sorry that fear rules people’s lives, sorry that they don’t have enough courage to tell the truth or at least not to tell the obvious lie. Either the compulsion or opportunism is the reason. Where has the honesty and courage disappeared? Where has our credo which we inherited from Ján Hus and T.G. Masaryk gone, when we used to remind it so proudly to ourselves and to the entire world as well? Truth? It is twilight of the national conscience or even darkness descended on freedom of human rights. No, I can’t believe it because the nation’s genius is eternal and it will withstand even the storm and won’t let you decease.’”

“It was about November 11, 1948, when I had a visit in my office at the Ministry of Defence. It was like in a film. Two men in leather coats came and said: “Captain Píka, come with us.” I went and they took me to the general staff at the fifth floor, there were small rooms and one of them was my cell. There they began with interrogation. They were convinced that I had prepared my father’s escape abroad and that I wanted to deliver him to Anglo-American Secret Intelligence Service. I had denied everything; however, they showed me the protocol written together with the general Rásek, my father’s good friend. We have already recalled that I talked about it with him back then. Well, he wrote there that he had spoken with the son about that abduction, that he had really prepared it. They made a criminal case of it, although nothing had happened indeed, no preparations, it was just a discussion.”

“I have to cast my mind back to that fateful and most terrible night in my life. At that night I had to say goodbye to my father. Except from me and my first wife, also father’s lawyer and a priest were present there. My father wanted to meet the priest before he would depart from this life. His name was father Doležal and he celebrated the requiem mass in the near church in Bory. Many years later, after the year 1989, father Doležal called and gave interview to our magazine Reportér. I knew he had emigrated shortly after those events. Well, it was in 1990. Reportér magazine was published on October 30, 1990. Please, let me quote at least some words from the article where he described his last meeting with general. I will read in Czech: ‘It was about the St. Alojz holiday, June 21, indeed. This year, 1949, at about midnight I was waken up by the warder. He pressed me to go with him quickly to Bory prison to bring religious relief and holy sacrament to one prisoner. I found it weird when the prison administration was so eager, mainly in case no holy masses had been celebrated for prisoners since March. Nevertheless, I took my briefcase and the Eucharist as well and warder himself drove me to the prison. It was strange because in similar cases I used to go there by foot. At the prison door director Šafarčík received me and with undue courtesy accompanied me to the prisoner’s cell. He was fawning and pretended good manners, I would say, he behaved like a Gestapo member. I entered the room. The prisoner introduced himself to me: General Píka. In January I was sentenced to death and today at six in the morning I will be executed. I wanted to see the priest. Warder and general’s son with wife followed my instructions and went out. Wife of the condemned man wasn’t there. General devotedly got the Eucharist, worshiped the Stations of the Cross and prayed with me. He was prepared to die. Calm and even-tempered.’ He continued writing: ‘He cast his mind back – as a father – to his childhood. He recalled his mother. Then he suddenly said: Give my regards to the archbishop Beran. Do you know him? I asked. No, not very well. We entered into courtesy conversation when we met at several receptions. I appreciate his anti-communist attitude and I wish he would hold it on. I know best what the communism is and what it would mean for us in the future. Then he continued: All the representatives of the State Court came to Pilsen to see me. At eleven in the evening they notified me that I will be executed at six o’clock in the morning. They kindly allowed me to change prison clothing for the civilian and they also permitted my son and daughter in law to visit me. And my lawyer is here as well. Well, both French and English ambassadors are interceding with the President Gottwald; however, I know it is a mug’s game. I am ready to pass away.’”

“Clearly, when I was in prison I got some messages from my father. Of course there were messages sent verbally; however, he sent me also two written messages that are now historical evidence and serious documents in the case of General Píka. Let me quote two sentences from one of them connected to our “communication” when I took some exercises in the yard. It was on February 12. On February 12, my father’s trial had already been ended. From January 26 to January 28, he was tried and finally sentenced to death. My trial was held on February 16. ‘My dearest son, I am convinced they will release you, so I want to say good bye to you. You can’t imagine how much you meant for me. You were a star, shaft of light and calmness and in recent time, you were also my biggest moral support. When I saw you through that window I forgot about everything. I didn’t feel the fright that is tormenting me. Be happy with our beloved. Got bless you for everything I could draw from you. I repeat I am absolutely innocent. I want to emphasize that all the protocols were false, written by doctor Vaš. He rewrote the facts. Covering, meaning and formulation were tendentious figments of doctor Vaš.’”

“Interrogations had finished and they brought me to the State Court in Pankrác as well. The next day, because the news usually spread around very quickly in prison, one warder told me: ‘Your father is here as well.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Well, in the same building but on the first floor.’ It was in the block A, I was in A 77 and he was in A 134. We were in one building, just couple of meters away from each other, but actually we were very distant. The situation had changed and finally, as I cast my mind back, I was really happy to be there in that quod. And why? Although I couldn’t meet my father and speak with him, I saw him every day. How? We were allowed to walk in the yard of Pankrác prison every day. And all the windows were oriented to that yard. Of course I mean the cell windows. The first cell on the ground floor situated next to the stairway which led to prison’s yard was my father’s, general’s cell. They let him know as well that his son was there, so he could look at me through the window. He had to step on something, because the window was quite high. So he used for example table or something similar and looked at me every day for more than one month, he was there every time I was walking in the yard.”

“Once when I was on a visit in hospital, just before they took him [my father] away, the situation in the state culminated so much that many well known people left the Republic and emigrated abroad. As for our social class, namely army, for example general Ferienčík and general Hasál with family emigrated as well. The news spread very quickly back then; it had taken only one or two days since we came to know about it.”

“The dawn broke, sun was already shining when the guards came and told us that it was time to go. We embraced one another and kissed for the last time. Of course I was shattered, unable to do anything and he was still calm and even-tempered. The last look, wave and they took him away. We left the room through another door. We went to the near church where father Doležal, a priest who was with my father in his last minutes, celebrated the requiem mass.”

“In years 1946 and 1947 I studied hard, attended lectures, passed exams and I even got to the sixth term at the Faculty of Law. At the end of the year 1947 I had already comprehended the entire political circumstances and the situation as well and I suspected and supposed that events were not being developed as we could probably wish.”

“Well, thanks to the President Gottwald it was said in my case that: “We have to release him, younger Píka, to avoid that the west could think we punish the whole families.” They released me from prison; however, I was given a ticket to Jáchymov mines, I was also demoted from captain to common soldier and I was dismissed from the Charles University. It means that though I wasn’t sentenced to imprisonment, I was punished the other way; I lost my civic pride and the chance to assert myself in life.”

“When coming home in 1945, in September actually, I stayed soldiering and became the career soldier. While being employed, I started to study law at the Charles University. I worked, in reality I was assigned the post at the air force headquarters, at the airport in the town Gbely. Lastly, as an officer in the Czechoslovak army I worked at the Regional Military Court on Kapucínska street in Prague. I asked for support because while being employed, I was also a student of law and I wanted to take advantage of my knowledge I had gained thanks to my studies, I wanted to get closer to the law issues, so they agreed and assigned me to work at the Regional Military Court.”

“It’s necessary to look back at the beginnings. Actually at the beginning of life we and he lived. We need to identify with it and see the history from the perspective of the given period. We had to identify with the fact that he came from very poor family, was one of nine children, grew up without father and had to help mother to care for younger siblings and support the family. He lived in borderland where the strong German influence was evident. In Silesia, in Opava. He attended the only Czech grammar school in Opava what predestined him to have a bit more different relationship to his homeland than the present young generation has today. And he had something to be really proud of. He wanted to preserve it for the next generations and it was what he had pursued for his whole life. Our young generation, our children who were born in virtually free state, they didn’t experience all those influences and worries. It’s a pity because it could be the reason why they aren’t proud of their origin, of their nation, that they are Slovak or Czech nationals. This is what the generation of our fathers surely felt. And my father laid down his life for retrieving these values. He sacrificed himself with little regard for his own family and hardly anybody would guess what he had told or written to me: ‘My conscience is clear, so in case my sacrifice brings peace and bright future for our people, I gladly die.’”

“When my father said good bye to us, they took him away, to the yard where gallows was prepared. In Bory there hadn’t been execution for a long time. For many years. It was the reason why we stayed relatively calm when they notified us in March that my father was transferred from Pankrác, Praha, to Bory prison. We took it as a good sign; we thought father wouldn’t be executed. However, the reverse came true. They did it with the intent to divert attention. After all, anything could happen in Prague. On the contrary, Pilsen prison was guarded very well, so nothing like a kidnap could happen there. The dust settled and those who had prepared his death made use of it. And here it was said about his last moments: ‘Execution was performed in one corner of stellate building plan. In the corner of patio there were about fifty people. Court, guards, executioner. The State Court consisted of high officers, I saw two generals there. I didn’t know their names. I knew just one colonel, doctor Rajman from Pilsen who was supposed to certify death. One of the colonels read the brief verdict: Heliodor Píka, divisional general (ret.), born …, who committed the crime of high treason by committing acts in accordance with constitutional law and so on and is sentenced in compliance with penalty of Law for the Protection of the Republic to death by hanging. Petition for clemency was refused and verdict is valid. I deliver the defendant. For the whole time general stood there whey-faced and seemingly calm. I held his sweating, icy hand. His eyes were cast down. He looked at cross in my hands and prayed. Then he pronounced three sentences worded like these: I am innocent. I have always wanted the welfare for people. As God is my witness I don’t desire revenge for those who are responsible for my death.‘ I would add that he was called on to say his last words: ‘I wish for nation to stay unified and for people without difference to work together for unity of our people.’ Then the general was in executioner’s hands. The hangman wore big artificial moustache and his skin was red to avoid being recognized. It was general’s last battle in his earthly life. When it was over, I took the rosary from hands of the dead and gave it to his family. Immediately after the execution, the lawyer asked for giving the body of deceased to his family. The court needs to consult it, was the cynical and laconically refusing answer of the colonel, chairman of the court. And then the court was dismissed. Family was present at the requiem mass, which was held half an hour after the execution in Redemptorists’ church in Pilsen. Then they left. In spite of many requests and supplications, they didn’t deliver the body of deceased to his family. It was hatred going beyond the death.’”

“At the beginning of year 1948, when the communist takeover and coup d’état were drawing near, during one journey with my father there was an intimate moment, because, you know, we used to talk about official issues very rarely. Ultimately, we didn’t see each other very often. His obligations and my interests differentiated a lot. So once when we travelled by car through Prague, I said: “Dad, what do you think about it? How is the situation developing? Aren’t you supposed to do something in the situation like this when it comes up to the change that needn’t be the best?” And he said just one sentence I remember till today, though I couldn’t recall other circumstances connected to that statement. He responded: “Milan, you know, when it finishes, I will be hanged on the first lamppost.” This is what I remember, what is branded on my memory.”

“My trial was held since February 16, 1949, and I was tried within the group because then it was usual to include every accused person in some group, namely in an anti-state one. I was included in the group of general Mrázek, first lieutenant Púza who was my colleague at the Regional Military Court, colonel Jandera, Táborský and one more. Then at the court I realized that it ended up quite well for me because together with doctor Púza and colonel Jandera, we were dismissed for lack of evidence. It meant that our guilt was obvious but there was just the lack of evidence. Surely, many years later it was proved that our trial was a political one in which the sentence had been predetermined for everyone involved.”

“As for our social class, namely army, for example general Ferienčík and general Hasál with family emigrated. The news spread very quickly back then; it took only one or two days since we somehow came to know about it. When I had found it out, I visited my father in hospital and it was the last time I saw him and talked to him when he was at liberty, if I could call it that way, because some undercover agents guarded him there. I told him: ‘Dad, people, our friends flee, can I help you somehow? Do you want to go abroad?’ And he answered: ‘No. Milan, I don’t want to flee abroad, I will stay here with my people, in my homeland because I have to prove my innocence here, not abroad. Please, do nothing, I don’t want to escape.’ Those were his last words as for this topic.”