To be certain that there would be no backsliding in the final days of the war, Masaryk chose, on October 18, to issue a declaration of independence. The document was released in Washington with a dateline in Paris, where the rebel government was based. The decisive action, however, was on the battlefield, where Allied forces routed what remained of the enemy armies, and in Prague, where Czech politicians invited their Austrian overseers to leave and ushered the new state into existence.
This was the day, October 28, 1918—the Czech equivalent of July 4 or Bastille Day—that those on the scene would not forget. In my garage, among my father’s papers, I came across an account written exactly half a century later:
I was just nine years old. On the preceding night, I was awakened by patriotic songs coming from the lips of a happy group who were on the way to the railroad station of our little town, Kyšperk, to tear down the emblems of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I watched them from the window with a sense of self-importance, feeling that I was participating in something extraordinarily significant.
The following morning, Mother dressed me in my Sunday suit, gave me a double portion of butter for breakfast, a rarity in wartime, and sent me to school. The whole village, some 2000 people, was in an uproar. They embraced each other, sang and shouted, put up Czech flags and cleaned in front of their houses. In school, the teachers rejoiced and the principal delivered a speech about the greatness of Czech history, the dissolution of the hated Habsburg monarchy, the victorious struggle for freedom, and the promising future that lay ahead. In the afternoon, we marched to a park to plant a linden—a linden of freedom.
Shortly before Christmas, Masaryk returned from his triumphal diplomatic mission to face new responsibilities in Prague. Riding from the train station to the castle in an open-topped car, he was serenaded by the republic’s newly organized army band and showered with cheers; the aging president with the snowy beard and old-fashioned spectacles responded with a jovial wave. After centuries of subjugation, his country had won its freedom; it even had a national anthem, or rather two (“Where Is My Home?” for the Czechs, and for the Slovaks, “Lightning Flashes atop the Tatras”). The dream of independence had come true; the question that nagged was: What next?
THE BORDERS OF Czechoslovakia were delineated at the 1919 Paris Peace Conference but only after a prolonged wrangle. Masaryk and Eduard Beneš, his thirty-five-year-old foreign minister, entered the negotiations with the obvious advantage that Germany and Austria-Hungary had lost the war. This, combined with the saga of the Czechoslovak Legion and Masaryk’s personal stature, assured them a fair hearing. According to the British historian Margaret MacMillan:
Beneš and Masaryk were unfailingly cooperative, reasonable and persuasive as they stressed the Czechs’ deep-seated democratic traditions and their aversion to militarism, oligarchy, high finance, indeed all that the old Germany and Austria-Hungary had stood for.
On February 5, 1919, Beneš rose to present his case concerning the country’s northern border. He had been preceded by the loquacious delegate from Poland, who had spoken for five hours, beginning, in the words of an American observer, “at eleven o’clock in the morning and in the fourteenth century.” Beneš then took the chair, “began a century earlier,” and talked an hour longer. As he was at pains to make clear, Europe would be stable only if Czechoslovakia had defensible borders. He found a receptive audience, especially among the French, who wished to create as many constraints as possible on German power. Sadly, many Central Europeans live in what mapmakers find are inconvenient locations. Thus, when the new republic’s southern border was drawn along the Danube, three-quarters of a million Hungarians were included in the country’s Slovak region. Further to the east, Carpathian Ruthenia was added, contributing half a million Ukrainians. In the north, a bitter compromise was worked out around the coal-rich railway hub of Tĕšín, leaving Czechoslovakia with less land than it wanted but also jurisdiction over 100,000 unhappy Poles.
In the end, the tireless Beneš achieved most of what he had sought: mountains, forests, and rivers would separate the 54,000 square miles of the new and fragile republic from its neighbors. Still, the Czechoslovak borders would be hard to defend because of the state’s tadpolelike profile, running from west to east: Bohemia, Moravia, Slovakia, and Ruthenia. Eight hundred miles long, the country was but 150 miles wide in Bohemia and barely half that in Slovakia and Ruthenia. Enemy tanks would have a rugged time penetrating the wooded northern hills; however, if they did, they would then have little trouble slicing the country in two. Worse, the nation was hemmed in by its historic rivals—in the west Germany and in the less protected south by Austria and Hungary. Because of the dispute over Tĕšín, relations with Poland would also be strained.
The thorniest question was how to incorporate three million ethnic Germans who were concentrated in the Sudetenland (or Southland)* region of Bohemia and Moravia, thoroughly mixed with the Czechs—this out of a total population of roughly thirteen million. German attempts to declare the region independent or part of Austria received no international support and were promptly and in one instance brutally suppressed by the Czechoslovak army. The leaders of the Sudeten population responded by refusing to participate in drafting a constitution or forming a parliament. Masaryk did not help matters when, in his inaugural address, he characterized “our Germans” as people “who originally entered the country as immigrants and colonists.” Surely it was wrong to assign second-class status to a people that had lived on the land for centuries. Stung by criticism, the new president promised respect for the rights of all who demonstrated loyalty to the state. He considered it vital that the minorities participate in building a united and prosperous country. This vision was embodied in the 1920 constitution, which guaranteed women’s suffrage, freedom of assembly and speech, and the equality of citizens before the law.* Still, Masaryk was realistic, telling advisers that to build a true democracy would require fifty years of undisturbed peace. All he could hope, in what remained of his life, was to make a good beginning.
Czechoslovak Republic, 1919–1938
Laura Lee
And he did. Much about that first decade was promising. Political parties were formed in which Czechs, Slovaks, and Germans were all able to participate. Ethnic Germans were included as cabinet ministers, making Czechoslovakia the only country in Europe where a minority was so represented. Elections were held at every level, with the balloting open and fair. Because the press was independent, citizens could vent their opinions without fear. There were no political prisons, torture, or officially sponsored disappearances. Legislative power was exercised by parliament and guided by the Committee of Five, an informal body consisting of the heads of the leading parties. There were so many factions that none could dominate; this encouraged moderation. Communists, fascists, and separatists enjoyed legal status but operated at the margins of public life.
The new regime began by translating into policy the egalitarian spirit of Czech tradition. Under the old empire, three wealthy families had owned as much property as the 600,000 poorest. In the republic, German and Hungarian aristocrats were stripped of their titles, imperial estates were carved up, and the size of property holdings limited. Nationalized lands were sold to independent farmers at a nominal price.
Meanwhile, in urban areas, workers benefited from the introduction of modern social legislation, including an eight-hour day, disability payments, health insurance, and retirement pensions. Masaryk, the old professor, emphasized education from first grade to university, especially in regions, such as Slovakia, that had previously been underserved. Economically, Czechoslovakia was a success. The currency was stable, budgets were balanced, and exports of textiles and glassware flourished. The innovative spirit that had emerged in the nineteenth century continued to blossom. By 1930, the country ranked tenth among the world’s industrialized powers. Well-known Czechoslovak brands included Škoda automobiles, Pilsener beer, Prag
ue ham, and Bat’a shoes—whose corporate headquarters in Zlin was 250 feet high and featured an air-conditioned elevator complete with washbasin.
The Czechoslovaks were also respected in world affairs, having earned a reputation for supporting disarmament, international law, and peace. It was said of Masaryk that, if there were such a post, he could easily have been elected president of Europe. With his erect bearing, handsome features, and silver beard, he certainly looked the part. His energy astonished as well—he played tennis, rode horseback, and swam long distances. One afternoon, the president invited the swashbuckling actor Douglas Fairbanks to join him for tea in the garden outside his country home. Masaryk challenged Fairbanks to demonstrate his athleticism. Fairbanks briefly surveyed the scene before rising from his chair, hoisting his cup of tea, and leaping over the table without spilling a drop. “Very good,” said Masaryk. “That’s not something I can do with a cup of tea—but as for jumping the table, just watch.” And at seventy-seven years old, he was as good as his word.
IT WAS IN that heady environment of national optimism and pride that my parents came of age.
My father, Josef Körbel, was the youngest of three children. He had been born on September 20, 1909, in the farming community of Kyšperk (now Letohrad) about ninety miles east of Prague. Early in 1997, after learning of our family’s Jewish heritage, my sister, my brother, and his wife visited the town. In August, joined by my sister and daughters, I retraced their steps. We were shown the trim row house across a maple-lined street from the train station where my father had grown up. The mayor and some of the older residents helped to fill us in on the history. The Kyšperk of 1909 had been a village of two to three thousand, predominantly Czech but with a smattering of German speakers. Although merchants had previously advertised in both languages, the trend at that time was to favor only Czech. My grandfather, Arnošt Körbel, operated a modest building supply shop out of the first floor of his house. Among the firm’s customers was the local match factory, which Arnošt had helped found and which employed many in the village. Typical for a Körbel man, he was of average height, with a handsome roundish face and cleft chin. He was personable and viewed by the community as thoughtful and kind. In 1928, he and his wife, Olga, moved closer to Prague, where he was a manager in a firm that built some of the city’s most ambitious construction projects, including the cross-Vltava Jirásek Bridge.
In Kyšperk, which had no synagogue, the Körbels did not attend religious services; they did participate in Saint Nicholas Day, Easter celebrations, and other community-wide festivities. Such disregard for cultural boundaries was typical of many nonobservant Jews. For them, as for many Czech Christians, these occasions—with their songs, pageants, decorations, and special foods—had more social than religious significance. Easter was as much a rite of spring as a testament to resurrection, and Christmas trees were not only for Christians. When I was young, my father often told the story of how he and his brother had fought over and broken a washbowl one Easter morning; the message of the story was entirely secular: if I misbehaved, then I—like them—would be punished.
Kyšperk was not large enough to have its own secondary school, so at the age of twelve, my father began attending class in the nearby town of Kostelec nad Orlicí. He was an excellent student who took a prominent role in school plays, chafed at boring teachers, and found himself in trouble for shooting the hat off a stranger’s head with an air gun. According to a letter he would later write to members of his high school class, he loved to stride along the trails that snaked their way through the foothills of the Orlické Mountains. He also began spending time in the town square, which had broad sidewalks lined with roses of all colors and dense forests of red and white carnations.
One of the local boys’ favorite games was to spy on the village policeman, a man so fat that his “trousers hung like an accordion.” The moment he looked away, the youths would leap from the sidewalk to a flower bed, plucking a rose or carnation to give to a girlfriend. In my father’s case, the flowers he liked best were near the town’s leading wholesale food store. There he was able to catch sight of Anna Spiegelová, the young woman who would become my mother.* The Spiegel family ran a company that sold flour, barley, spices, jellies, and other foodstuffs to shops throughout the region. Anna’s parents, Růžena and Alfred, were proud of their products, especially a sweet homemade liquor called Asko and freshly roasted coffee beans that Růžena insisted were the most flavorsome in the land. In later years, after a large meal, my father would say that the reason we had so much food was that my mother had come from a wholesale family.
Interviewed in the 1970s, my mother recalled:*
I had a very nice childhood. In the spring and summer my older sister and I would go out to the forest and pick mushrooms, blueberries, and wild strawberries. On a rainy day we went to see a silent movie if our teachers let us. In the winter we went skiing and sleigh riding or, when older, cross-country skiing. I enjoyed reading the books my sister had read but did not care so much for having to wear her hand-me-down dresses.
Between my parents, it may not have been love at first sight, but pretty close. My father, who was never shy, simply walked up to Anna and introduced himself: “Good afternoon, I am Josef Körbel and you are the most talkative girl in Bohemia,” whereupon she slapped him. Anna’s nickname was Andula, but from her time in high school she was known as Mandula, a contraction of “my Andula,” an endearment supplied by my father. She called him Jožka and said yes when, in 1928, he proposed. He was nineteen, she a year younger. Her parents counseled patience and shipped her off to a school in Switzerland to learn French, secretarial skills, and other social necessities.
If they thought that distance would put an end to romance, they were wrong. My mother, writing after my father’s death, recalled, “Joe was certainly a man worthwhile waiting for for seven years.” She then added—and crossed out—“but I was not always so passioned. Couple times I was thinking of leaving this.” (Even after decades in America, my mother’s English remained heavily accented and governed by her own rules of grammar.) She continued: “Very often I was wondering what was I admiring most in his personality. Was it his perseverance which he probably inherited from his father . . . [or] did I love him because of his good heart, gentleness, unselfishness and loyalty to his family, which he inherited from his lovely mother?”
Mandula Spiegelová, later Körbelová, was pretty and petite; she wore her brown hair short, flapper style, and had hazel-green eyes and dimpled cheeks. My father referred to her in a letter as “a person of rather unruly inclinations,” by which he meant that she had a mind of her own and was not afraid to speak it. As for my father, he had a strong, serious face and wavy hair; my mother said he grew more handsome as the years went by. What they shared from the beginning was an exuberant desire to explore the possibilities of life. In my father’s case, that meant completing his education as rapidly as he could with an eye to becoming a journalist or, in the manner of Masaryk and Beneš, a diplomat. To acquire the necessary language skills, he studied German and French and later spent a year in Paris. At the age of twenty-three, he received a doctorate of jurisprudence from Charles University. He worked briefly for one law firm, then another, on either side of a period of obligatory military service. In November 1934, he achieved his goal of joining the Czechoslovak Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The time had finally come to take Mandula up on her promise.
The wedding, a civil one, was held at the Old Town Hall on April 20, 1935. As at any Czech wedding, there would have been a lot of singing, led no doubt by the groom, who had a wonderful tenor voice and knew all the traditional songs. On the marriage certificate, my parents were identified as bez vyznáni: without religious confession.
Wedding, Josef and Mandula Körbel
Alena Korbel
My mother, typical of women in that era, lacked a university degree. However, she fully supported my father’s professiona
l ambitions and was pleased to accompany him from the countryside to the sophisticated capital of Prague. My father’s recollections show their happiness:
As other European countries went through political and social upheavals, unstable finances, and one by one succumbed to fascism, Czechoslovakia was a fortress of peace, democracy, and progress. We . . . gulped the elixir of liberty. We read avidly national and foreign literature and newspapers, attended every opening night in the National Theatre and Opera; and wouldn’t miss a single concert of the Prague Philharmonic Orchestra.
In that first year together, young and unburdened by children, Josef and Mandula lived in an apartment done up in art deco style, all black and white. Eagerly, they took their place in café society, patronizing the restaurants and strolling through the parks and squares. Several times a week, women of my mother’s generation went down to the Old Town market, which bustled with peddlers selling meat, vegetables, sweets, baked goods, and fruit. Large canvas umbrellas in various hues provided protection from the sun and rain. Purchases were wrapped in newspapers and collected in large net bags. Especially on Saturday, the market was scented with the mingled fragrances of flowers, fruit, and fowl. Street musicians, almost invariably men, competed for attention and tips. On special occasions, they were joined by dancers in the Czech national dress, their torsos twisting and skirts flowing as their feet pounded the pavement.
Old Town had always been filled with markets. New Town, so called because it was not settled until the fourteenth century, was more residential and greener, with ample space for forested groves and parks. Prague’s past is written in the statues, synagogue walls, and church spires that are visible from everywhere except its darkest and narrowest streets, but in my parents’ time the preoccupations were distinctly modern. As I learned when doing research for my PhD on the role of the press in Czechoslovakia, Prague at the time had 925,000 residents and no fewer than ten important newspapers, most owned by political parties. City shops also sold the leading journals from throughout Europe—French, English, and Russian as well as German and Czech—giving cafés the appearance of reading rooms. Public policy was a subject of constant discussion. My father was among the officers of Přítomnost (The Present), a civic affairs and debating society centered in Prague that attracted ambitious young professionals working in government, journalism, and academia. It was through this club that he came to know Prokop Drtina, its president and a man whose career and life would intersect with my family’s throughout the decade to come.
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