Prague Winter

by Madeleine Albright

  The prospect of such a romance stirred little excitement in Great Britain. The Foreign Office wasn’t overly concerned about the future of Czechoslovakia, but Poland, much larger and possessing a 200,000-man exile army, did command attention. If the Soviets and Czechs arranged a separate peace, where would that leave the Poles? Like Beneš, the Polish leaders wanted to restore the prewar boundaries of their country. The difficulty was that although Czechoslovakia had been occupied by Germany, Poland had been gnawed on by both sides. The Germans, when beaten, could be forced to give back what they had taken, but the Soviets were allies and would have to agree voluntarily.

  To complicate matters further, in April the Nazis discovered the bodies of four thousand Polish military officers in Katyn Forest near the Russian town of Smolensk. The Wehrmacht blamed the killings on the Soviets, who indignantly denied the allegation and blamed the Nazis. This dispute between the kettle and the black pot inflamed the curiosity of a junior British diplomat who investigated and then informed his superiors that the Germans, for once, were right; Moscow had been responsible for the Katyn executions and for many others. Privately the English agreed that Stalin was an appalling butcher but one who had murdered so many of his own people that doing the same to a few thousand Poles should not be considered a shock; publicly they said nothing for fear of offending him. Across the Atlantic the Roosevelt administration refused even to evaluate the evidence.

  Squabbling allies are a threat to any war effort. Beneš, at British urging, hoped to quiet matters by endorsing the idea of a postwar federation that would tie his country and Poland together and that would also have the diplomatic blessing of the USSR. To that end, early in 1942, he signed a statement of principles and began a series of discussions with his Polish counterparts. The project stalled when the Soviets refused to consider returning any of the territory they had stolen, a position the Poles found impossible to accept. As the weeks slid by, Beneš became anxious. He did not want his country’s security held hostage to a negotiation that would never succeed; instead, he would make his own arrangements based on Czechoslovak interests.

  About that time, Beneš considered and rejected an invitation from Stalin to transfer his base of operations to Moscow. The Soviets hinted that Beneš should move if he wanted to accompany the eastern contingent of the Czechoslovak army when it liberated his homeland. According to Soviet propagandists, this force was expanding rapidly and would soon reach 20,000 members; in fact, it was still modest and of little military value.

  The Soviets sought to control Beneš, hence the welcome mat in Moscow, but the president could not have made such a shift without betraying his London-based democratic supporters, including my father. Because of the war, the rivalry between members of the Communist and other parties was subdued; everyone was fighting on the same side. However, within the exile community, there were two broadcasting centers, two sets of soldiers, and two groups of politicians trying to position themselves for the future. Back home, there were vastly different ideological tendencies within the Czechoslovak underground. Competition between the factions was inevitable. Beneš, who was now acknowledged by all as the nation’s rightful leader, was determined to preserve his status by positioning himself above the fray. He decided to go to Moscow, not to remain but to sign a treaty of friendship that would secure one pillar of the diplomatic structure he wished to create.

  THE FOREIGN POLICY of every small country begins with one question: how can we survive? The issue is particularly acute if the country is in possession of resources that others prize or is located in a place of interest to larger powers. This vulnerability explains why smaller states are often the most vocal in supporting institutions—such as the United Nations—that are designed to protect the rights and sovereignty of all. Beneš, in 1943, could not rely on the hope that the UN of the future would succeed; he had just seen the League of Nations fail. Instead, he had to cope with the reality that preserving a small state often requires at least a limited dependence on a major power. In Czechoslovakia’s case, it demanded even more: a friendship with the USSR that the West would not find threatening and a warm relationship with the West to which Russia would not object.

  Having decided to go to Moscow, the president needed to forge a parallel bond with the West—and by the West he had in mind more than his ambivalent relations with the British. One did not need to be as keen an observer as Beneš to know that the United States would have greater postwar influence, even in Europe, than would the overstretched authorities in London. He did not want any misunderstandings with Washington to arise and so thought it prudent to reintroduce himself and explain his intentions to officials in that capital. Never before having flown across the Atlantic, he summoned his nerve, wrote a new will, and boarded a plane headed west.

  Four years earlier, when Beneš had arrived in the United States, he had been the deposed leader of a disintegrating country. Now there was a war on, and he was a significant, if not a leading, member of the Allied team. On May 12, 1943, he was received at the White House with elaborate military honors. At a reception on the South Lawn, he was treated to the Marine Band’s rendition of “Where Is My Home?” and after an official state dinner, conferred privately with President Roosevelt until 2 a.m.

  In the words of a U.S. intelligence report, FDR found his visitor’s plan for the future of Europe “right interesting.” Beneš foresaw “a Russian sphere of influence in East Europe and . . . [another] in Western Europe under the leadership of England.” He offered himself to Roosevelt as someone who could serve as a courier between Moscow and Western capitals. He also made plain his desire for friendship with Stalin, pointing out that his country and the Soviet Union would be neighbors. It was therefore inevitable that the Soviets would have extensive influence in the postwar period. Beneš assured the Americans that the Czechs, although Slav, were basically Western in culture. They would not become subservient to the Communists but would seek to have cordial relations with both sides.

  Beneš and Roosevelt, Washington, D.C., 1943

  CTK PHOTO

  In a victory of pragmatism over principle, the two men agreed that Poland’s attempt to blame the Soviet Union for the Katyn Forest killings was ill advised and that the Kremlin’s territorial demands in Poland would have to be honored. FDR encouraged his visitor to develop strong ties with the Russians and asked whether he, too, should meet with Stalin. After a lengthy discussion that touched on France, postwar institutions, and the future of Germany, Beneš pressed for and was grateful to receive implicit U.S. support for his goal of expelling Sudeten Germans from Czechoslovak territory at the war’s conclusion.

  In succeeding days, Beneš had a series of meetings with immigrant groups, held long discussions with legislative leaders, and addressed a joint session of Congress during which he referred to his country as a “godchild of the United States.” He also spoke to enthusiastic audiences in New York, Detroit, and Chicago and to an emotion-filled gathering in the recently renamed town of Lidice, Illinois. Before leaving, he was told by Harry Hopkins that “Roosevelt esteems your sound advice and judgment on European matters. Although he himself carefully follows European affairs, he cannot know all the details and he would appreciate keeping in constant contact.” Beneš returned to England satisfied that Roosevelt both endorsed his policies and valued his role. He felt that he could go to the Soviet Union without fear of alienating his democratic friends.

  ON THE NIGHT of November 23, Beneš began an eventful pilgrimage to the East. Like T. G. Masaryk in World War I, he would visit Russia in aid of his country’s independence and freedom. Due to poor weather, his plane could fly no further than the picturesque Black Sea port of Baku, from which the president embarked on a four-day train ride across the Caucasus to Moscow. As the countryside flashed by, he had an opportunity to view what little was left of cities and villages that had caught the brunt of the German invasion. “I passed . . . demolished hamlets, railway
lines and stations, bridges and roads,” he wrote later, and “endless dumps of destroyed tanks, motor cars, planes, railway wagons, and of weapons of all kinds. One beautiful bright night I went through Stalingrad and saw the incredible destruction wrought by the Germans; demolished houses of which only the four main walls were left pointing to heaven like dreadful and warning fingers.”

  Beneš believed he was on a mission of historic importance and was therefore eager to return with news that would validate his trip. That impulse, along with a lack of negotiating leverage and his decision to travel without senior advisers, made him an easy guest for the Soviets to handle. It didn’t help that Zdenĕk Fierlinger, his ambassador in Moscow, cared less about defending Czechoslovak interests than about currying favor with the Soviets.

  After being received by the Kremlin with highest honors, Beneš engaged in wide-ranging talks with Stalin followed by a VIP tour of factories, scientific institutes, military installations, and theaters. Like many visitors to Moscow, he was lured into adopting a favorable view of the Soviet system in part because he felt among friends. Wherever he went, he came across hardworking citizens who seemingly adored communism and—in contrast to Londoners—were well informed about the Czechs’ plight. He was genuinely impressed by the USSR’s resilience in rebuilding rapidly despite the massive blows it had endured; the Red Army had lost half a million men in the fight for Stalingrad alone. He also credited the revolution with transforming the country from a nation of illiterate peasants into a modern industrial society. “Masaryk refused to accept that the Soviet regime would last,” he remarked to one of his advisers. “I wonder what he would have said now. A regime that can improve the living standards of 90 percent of the people is bound to maintain itself. That is what so many in the West fail to realize.”

  Beneš was convinced that countries and their leaders could be transformed by events. He saw that happening with Stalin and Russia. In his view, the Soviet strongman was devoted entirely to the defeat and dismemberment of Germany, goals that were also paramount to Czechoslovakia. Given the modest nature of his own postwar ambitions, Beneš felt sure that the spirit of cooperation would continue. He assured the Soviets that, once restored to office, his government would conduct foreign relations in a manner fully acceptable to them and that he envisioned close, even intimate, economic and military collaboration. He asked only that Moscow support his desire to expel Germans and that Stalin refrain from interfering in his country’s internal affairs. To those requests, the dictator agreed without a moment’s hesitation. On December 12, 1943, the two men signed a treaty pledging mutual nonaggression and friendship for a minimum of twenty years. Beneš delivered his speech in Russian with a skill in pronunciation that Stalin joked was at least “better than yesterday.”

  The Czechoslovak leader’s pride in a job well done was evident in the cable he sent back to London: “I consider all our negotiations as wholly successful. . . . It can be regarded as certain that all [Soviet] treaties and agreements not only with us but also with the British and with America will be kept.” He was convinced that “a new Soviet Union will come out of the war,” one that would be more tolerant of others and cooperative in dealing with the West.

  Before leaving the Russian capital, Beneš met with the Czechoslovak Communist exiles who had gathered there, among them their leader, Klement Gottwald, whom he had not seen since the contentious days of Munich. Gottwald, forty-seven, had been trained as a toolmaker and immersed in party dogma and discipline since his teenage years. His life mission was to achieve a workers’ revolution in his home country. Short and stocky, with dark hair and a broad face, Gottwald was known for wearing caps instead of hats and for his affinity, hardly uncommon among his peers, for strong drink. A self-educated and often wily tactician, he was deeply attracted to power and would never intentionally deviate from the Soviet line.

  Beneš and Stalin, Moscow, 1943

  CTK PHOTO

  The circumstances of exile and war had left the president and Gottwald sharing the same political boat, a reality that pleased neither of them. Beneš was loyal to a nation, Gottwald to a doctrine that—at least theoretically—despised nationalism. The former was a committed democrat; the latter considered democracy a trick employed by the bourgeoisie to deny laborers their rights. Beneš was disciplined and meticulous to the point of being fussy; Gottwald was bombastic and undiplomatic, almost a lout. Yet they had no choice but to conduct business because, at the time, each needed the other.

  During their meeting, the two were able to agree on the primacy of the war effort, punishing collaborators, and sharply reducing the number of Germans in their country. Gottwald insisted that the first postwar prime minister come from one of the leftist parties, and the president, having just met with Stalin, felt in no position to object. Both took it for granted that the new government would be led by the exiled leaders—that is, by themselves—in preference to the resistance fighters who were struggling to survive at home. The harmonious atmosphere dissipated, however, as soon as discussion turned to decisions made before the war. Gottwald blamed the government for capitulating and ridiculed the contention that subsequent events had shown the prudence of that judgment. When Beneš asserted that the nation would “survive the war better than anybody could have imagined,” the Communist leader pounded the table and denounced “the evil moral consequences that Munich has had for our people.” Beneš replied by asking him to consider what would have transpired had the Czechoslovaks gone to war alone. “I claimed the merit,” he wrote with a touch of smugness, “of having foreseen in 1938 that certain things would happen and that other things would not.”

  Few temptations are more damaging to a leader than to act on hopes instead of facts. Chamberlain had put his trust in the reasonableness of Hitler, Daladier in the supposed invulnerability of the Maginot Line. Stalin had thought the Germans would not dare attack him; Hitler fancied himself an agent of destiny. Beneš, the leader of a small country in a dangerous neighborhood, yearned to believe in Stalin’s capacity for intellectual and moral growth. Thus he regarded the treaty he had negotiated as a landmark in his nation’s diplomatic history. He claimed it would safeguard Czechoslovak security, dissuade the Soviets from intervening in his country’s affairs, and create a model for relations between the USSR and the rest of Central Europe. These were lofty expectations.

  In his defense, Beneš knew that, after the German defeat at Stalingrad, Hitler’s best chance for survival was to divide the Allies. Thus Nazi propaganda was increasingly built around the idea of saving civilization from the Bolsheviks. Beneš worried that anti-Communist passions would undermine Western unity in the final stages of the war. He thought it important to counter that sentiment by defending Stalin’s trustworthiness and by envisioning a future in which the West need not fear the East. It was sound strategic thinking, provided Beneš did not fall too deeply under the spell of his own words.

  20

  Cried-out Eyes

  Summer 1943. The cellar of the girls’ home at Terezín (L-410) had become a rehearsal hall for concerts and plays. The residents, who included my ten-year-old cousin, Milena Deimlová, often found time to go downstairs to listen and watch. This was where the girls’ choir practiced and the ghetto’s productions of The Bartered Bride, The Magic Flute, and Figaro came together. A number of girls from L-410 also appeared in Brundibár, a children’s opera. That work, written in Prague, had been performed there the previous winter by a cast of Jewish orphans. When the composer and many of the singers found themselves in Terezín, they revived the show, holding rehearsals in the attic of L-417, the boys’ dorm. The opera’s libretto depicts a battle of wits between an evil organ grinder (Brundibár) and a pair of impoverished siblings who sing on street corners to raise money for their bedridden grandmother. With help from some musically gifted animals, the children ultimately win out. The final song,
“Brundibár Is Defeated,” was especially popular among the many prisoners who sang of Brundibár while thinking of Hitler. Beginning in September, the opera was staged fifty-five times, always before a full house.

  Like a desert oasis, culture and the arts enlivened the ghetto’s landscape. There was a constant menu of lectures, readings, and plays, while musical performances were hostage only to the scarcity of functioning instruments. Residents were eager for diversions despite the physical toll of their daily routine. Even relatively humble troupes issued invitations so that crowds would not exceed the capacity of their “theater.” One read, “The Cleaning Service . . . takes pleasure in inviting you to a cabaret evening on January 12, 1943 at 8:00 p.m. in the potato peeling room of HB [Hamburg barracks].”

  Terezín Memorial (a poster for Hans Kráza’s children’s opera, Brundibár, PT4010, Hermann’s Collection, © Zuzana Dvořaková)

  Gerty Spies, a prisoner who had in happier times sampled the cultural life of Berlin in all its diversity, wrote:

  Performances multiplied [, becoming] . . . more varied, more comfortable both for performers and for the audience. . . . One could choose concerts, theater (without scenery, of course), travelogues, scientific and literary lectures, evenings of ballads, and who knows what else.