We arrived in Prague by armored train, its brass pistons hissing as it slowed beneath the great iron canopy of Wilson Station. Even the station is an artifact here — Secessionist curves crowned with the Reich’s eagle, the old Czech ornamentation left in place but gilded with our banners. The city seems less conquered than preserved. That is its genius.
From the first moment, I felt I was walking through a city of ghosts. Not for lack of life — the streets are busy with trams clanging on their brass rails, steam-driven carriages puffing down the avenues, and patrol automatons clanking in the sun — but for the sense that everything old has been arranged like an exhibition. Our Führer said it rightly: Prague is to be a museum of what once was. A Wunderkammer of a people now erased.
The Jews who built much of this city are gone — the Endlösung has ensured it. Yet their quarter remains, untouched, each synagogue catalogued, each street preserved like a diorama. Our guides say it will be the “Memorial of a Lost Race,” the proof of German triumph. Tourists like myself may wander those cobbled lanes, gaze upon the preserved stones, and marvel at a culture now consigned to history. It is unsettling, yes, but also magnificent: a lesson carved in brick and brass.
Elsewhere, Prague glows with life. The Charles Bridge is lit by gaslamps that burn with a faint electric filament, their glass panes etched with Reich insignia. Automatons in black-lacquered armor guard its arches, steam sighing from their vents into the night. Beneath them, couples stroll, their reflections scattered in the Vltava, while zeppelins drift slowly above the castle spires.
At Hradčany, the castle is reborn. Its gothic towers now bristle with antennae and pneumatic tubes. Within, our administrators and SS offices hum like engines, calculating machines ticking away the future. Yet from the ramparts one still sees the fairy-tale city below: red roofs, domes, and the winding river, gilded in the sunset. A perfect balance — the beauty of old Prague harnessed by the order of the Reich.
Cafés remain open, though carefully monitored. I sat at one near the Old Town Square, where a brass samovar hissed steadily and an automaton waiter delivered black coffee in porcelain cups. The Astronomical Clock still turns, but now its dials gleam with new brass fittings, the Reich’s eagle perched among its saints. The locals gather to watch as they always have, but it feels staged — as if we, the victors, are the true audience.
Prague is a jewel, perhaps the most beautiful city I have seen in our dominion. It is a city where the past has been embalmed, made permanent, like an insect in amber. Our Führer’s vision has made it eternal: not living, but displayed. A reminder of what we have triumphed over, and what we must guard forever.
I will take a postcard home: Gruss aus Prag – Die Ewige Stadt des Reiches.
Field Journal of Gefreiter Otto L., July 1954
