To the extent that I had playmates in Belgrade, they were from within the diplomatic community. I went swimming at the home of the British ambassador and developed my first crush on the son of a French diplomat. He was much taller than I and very good-looking. We didn’t see each other again for fifty years, at which point he had shrunk to my size and we both had wrinkles.
During the summers, my family spent July in the Croatian beach town of Opatija, where I must confess that we stayed in the Hotel Moscow, so named to honor Stalin. We didn’t go out on boats because the Adriatic had been mined during the war and no one was sure whether all the explosives had been removed. In August, we went to Bled, Slovenia, where we lived by a lake. There I made friends with a boy, who also disappeared from my life for fifty years. When I was in government, I received a picture of the two of us in Bled accompanied by a note saying that he had grown up to become the coroner of Jacksonville, Florida.
The author with Nidza Jankovic and Kathy Korbelová, Belgrade
Back in Belgrade, I was always supervised even though I had reached the age of ten. My behavior was, in Goldilocks fashion, neither perfectly good nor perfectly bad, keeping me out of serious trouble except for once when I was at a party that ran much later than expected. My parents, in the dark concerning my whereabouts, were frantic, and when finally I arrived home, my father was angrier than I had ever seen—sentencing me to my room for three days except for studying and piano. Throughout my unjust ordeal, he kept a stern expression on his face; my mother, meanwhile, smuggled in raspberries.
In June 1947, my father was awarded a medal, presented by Jan Masaryk, for his contribution to the liberation of the Czechoslovak Republic. By that time he was deeply engaged in the challenge of preserving its freedom. From our perspective in Belgrade, there seemed ample cause for worry. In March, the United States had promulgated the Truman Doctrine, which vowed to aid countries threatened by armed subversion, thus spurring an influx of military assistance to Turkey and Greece. For several years, Stalin had provoked the West without getting much of a response. Now Truman was making some moves of his own, and the Kremlin seemed likely to push back.
Politically, my father considered himself “a man of the Left.” He was a democrat to the core but also believed that governments should be active in helping the disadvantaged. This was such a part of his identity that years later, when I was about to wed, he insisted playfully that we begin our walk down the aisle with our left feet. However, he was never tempted by the siren call of communism. His skepticism deepened in Belgrade, where a close-up view convinced him that the Soviet system had serious design problems. First, the economics didn’t work because people needed incentives to be productive. That explained why perfectly good Yugoslav grapes and Albanian oranges were allowed to rot on the way to market; there was no reward for efficiency. Second, Communist leaders insisted that class warfare provided the answer to every question, even to the exclusion of such other factors as religion and national feeling. Finally, Communists were overly dogmatic, lacking the kind of intellectual creativity that my father prized. They were trained not to think for themselves but to memorize and, like parrots, repeat only what they were taught. This led directly to the kind of excesses that plagued any one-party system: centralized control of every institution, indoctrination of the young, and the elevation of a single collective goal above every other value.
My parents had been raised in a tradition that emphasized curiosity and humanist thinking. One of their favorite writers was Karel Čapek, who popularized the word “robot” and whose work made fun of precisely the kind of automaton-like behavior that communism encouraged. In Čapek’s view:
The strangest and least human element of communism is its weird gloominess . . . there is no middle temperature between the freezing bourgeoisie and the revolutionary fire. . . . [For them] the world contains no lunch or dinner; it is either the moldy bread of the poor or the gorging of the overlords.
My father worried that Stalinists throughout Europe had their eye on Czechoslovakia. A senior Yugoslav army officer told him, “I do not agree with the policy of your government . . . you have too many parties. . . . [In my country, the Communists] lead in parliament, in the army, in public administration, on the collective farms, in industry—everywhere. As they act on behalf of the nation . . . it is a dictatorship of democracy.” My father saw how that peculiar system worked when he tried to persuade the government-controlled Yugoslav press to report on events in Czechoslovakia. He thought it part of his job to promote an awareness of what his country was accomplishing and so had his staff transmit a weekly summary of information to the local news agency. When this approach bore no fruit, he complained to the minister of information, who apologized for the neglect and promised to expand coverage. Several weeks later, the minister returned and, with a grin, handed my father a package; inside was a fat file of clippings and quotations—all expressing scorn toward the Czechoslovak government.
DURING THE WAR, Beneš had sought to persuade the West that Stalin could be trusted and that, over time, the Soviet Union would begin to change. In mid-1947, his memoirs were published and became a best seller. Typical of Beneš, he included words of praise for Moscow, which irritated the West, and for the West, which angered Moscow. The president had not lost his sunny outlook nor the hope that his country’s mediation might prevent relations between the two sides from deteriorating. He had, however, become less certain of his analysis. Late the previous year, he had undertaken what he confided to the U.S. ambassador, Steinhardt, was a “major fight” to purge Soviet agents and spies from his Defense Ministry. By the end of 1947, he had concluded that Stalin was not mellowing and that the Communists were unlikely to evolve into just another party. This didn’t mean that a Marxist takeover was inevitable; it did mean that the democrats would have to engineer a revival at the ballot box. The elections of May 1948 would be crucial.
Beneš himself had only a diminishing level of energy for the struggle. In July, he had suffered a stroke, and he would limp for the rest of his life. That, plus the symptoms of arteriosclerosis he had exhibited for some time, contributed to personality changes that would make him less decisive and more stubborn. In keeping with the practice of the era, information about the president’s condition was withheld from the public.
As the two sides continued their maneuvering, the Communists had multiple advantages: superior organization, clear objectives, control of most major ministries, and the unambiguous backing of the Soviet Union. Most important, they had the power of intimidation. Whether one was a cabinet minister or a village clerk, a Communist in good standing had protection; if trouble arose, the alarm would spread and the party activists would mobilize. Democrats pleaded with their countrymen to open their eyes, to see that the Communists who had bragged about opposing fascism were now aping its techniques. Portraits of Stalin had been posted where pictures of Hitler had previously been; the hammer and sickle had replaced the swastika. The Communists, like the Nazis, were manipulating the press, smearing political rivals, demanding total loyalty from their members, and threatening anyone who stood in their way.
Still, that autumn there were positive signs. A Communist-backed proposal to increase taxes was defeated in parliament. In nationwide balloting for student leadership positions, the Communists finished a well-beaten third. Gottwald’s own surveys showed his party losing ground, and as for the cultural battle, democrats were winning hands down. Western film
s, books, magazines, and newspapers were far more popular than their Eastern counterparts. More young people were learning English than Russian. Travelers to Paris and London returned home loaded down with clothes, radios, and household goods that could not be obtained in local stores; 80 percent of the country’s trade was with the West. The events that brought the country together were those that celebrated local artists, honored veterans, or showed off the athletic skills of the nation’s youth; it did not seem like a society ripe for a workers’ revolution. Steinhardt reported to Washington:
As far as can be judged from constant observations of the people’s reactions since May 1945, they have no particular liking for Soviet methods. They regard the Soviet alliance as an unpleasant necessity. They continue to prefer western business methods and . . . standards. They are still rather skeptical about the postwar nationalization of industry. They have no real liking for Marxist doctrines which in any case are not openly advocated by the Czechoslovak communists.
Two dramatic incidents further undermined the Communist position. On September 10, bombs hidden in boxes marked “Perfume” were delivered to the offices of three democratic cabinet members: Drtina, Masaryk, and Petr Zenkl, a deputy prime minister and former mayor of Prague. None of the explosives ignited, but the subsequent investigation turned into a media free-for-all as Communists scrambled—despite damning evidence—to steer the inquiry away from their own bumbling functionaries, among them Gottwald’s son-in-law.
The second development was a rebellion among the Social Democrats. For two years, Fierlinger had kept his party subservient to Moscow. This was fine with some, but others desired a more independent voice or, at minimum, a less craven one. Fierlinger was renowned for being obsequious to the powerful and rude to everybody else. In November 1947, party leaders assembled in Brno for their annual meeting. Ignoring the Communist threats, they voted to replace the incumbent with a more conventional career politician. Fierlinger’s defeat transformed the electoral arithmetic. If the Communists could not count on the Social Democrats, their ability to win a controlling majority in parliament would be very much in question.
These setbacks added to Gottwald’s mounting frustration. When he traveled to neighboring countries, his Communist colleagues reminded him that while they wielded absolute power, he was forced to pander to public opinion and to defer on many occasions to Beneš, who remained a better-liked and more internationally prominent figure. Unlike Tito in Yugoslavia, Gottwald was not a war hero; there were no children singing songs about his bravery. His position was made more difficult by his incumbency; as prime minister, he was poorly positioned to denounce the government or to demand change. Beneš had done little to oppose him on social and economic policy; Masaryk, aside from the occasional sarcastic comment, had done nothing to give offense in foreign affairs. The Communists had few planks with which to build a platform for their campaign. But the darkest cloud on the horizon was Stalin. Not only was the Soviet leader still unhappy about the back-and-forth over the Marshall Plan, but he also disliked Gottwald’s references to a special Czechoslovak path to socialism and was in no mood to hear discouraging news about the Communists’ electoral prospects. If the balloting went poorly, Gottwald would not only be defeated; he would almost surely be shot.
I WAS TEN years old when my parents concluded that our governess had taught me all she could and that it was time for me to receive a more comprehensive education. I was too young to enroll at the gymnasium (high school) back in Prague, so they proposed to send me to a Swiss boarding school. I reacted as most ten-year-olds would—with anxiety, tears, and feigned illness. Having heard that Zurich was a center for treating polio, I claimed upon arrival that my legs hurt so much that further travel wasn’t possible. My mother, who was not easily deceived, found a doctor who pronounced me well. There was nothing left but to go unwillingly to school, in nearby Chexbres.
The Prealpina Institut pour Jeunes Filles was as horrible and unfair as I expected, at least at first. Upon arrival, I was given to believe that one couldn’t obtain anything except by asking for it in French, of which I knew little. Not only would I flunk but I was convinced that I would also starve. But within a month, I began to pick up the language, make friends, and do well in my studies. My room had a view of Lake Geneva; we were allowed into the village to buy chocolate on Saturdays; I was still studying piano and learning to skate and ski. I had fought the decision to send me there but now had no brief for complaint. That didn’t stop me from yearning to join my family in Belgrade when the school shut down over winter break. Instead I was sent to its sister institution, where everyone spoke that dreaded language, German, and where I was as bewildered and miserable as I was lonely. The only solace came via the Christmas service, with its festive lights, beautiful music, and the text in the neutral tongue of Latin. Not until years later did I grasp the reason behind my desolate holiday: my parents, as always, were trying to protect me from what had become throughout Central Europe an uncertain and increasingly perilous political situation.
28
A Failure to Communicate
Years ending in eight have an outsize role in Czech history. Charles University was founded in 1348; in 1618, Habsburg emissaries were thrown from the castle window, triggering the Thirty Years’ War; in 1848, the first pan-Slav congress convened in Prague; the Czechoslovak Republic was founded in 1918; Munich occurred twenty years later. In its first three months, 1948 would earn a place on the less fondly remembered side of that list of milestones. In January, my father went to Prague for a consultation with Beneš. Having witnessed the cutthroat proclivities of Communist leaders in Yugoslavia, he hoped to find the president fully aware of the danger that democratic forces faced and in possession of a clear strategy to fight back. When he entered Beneš’s office in Hradčany Castle, he was greeted by an intellectually alert but ill man. Beneš had been a major world figure for three decades and the leader of his strife-torn land for a dozen years. The stroke (or strokes) he had suffered caused him to drag one leg slightly but did not prevent him from striving to work, as he always had, twice as hard as other men.
For four hours on January 12, two in the morning and two in the afternoon, the president and the ambassador reviewed the world situation, with the former exhibiting his characteristic doubts about the West but now reserving his strongest criticism for the aggressive policies of the Soviet Union. My father finally succeeded in shifting the discussion to his own primary concern: the internal situation in Czechoslovakia. Was Beneš prepared to defend the Constitution against the Communists? Did he have a plan for uniting the democratic forces? Did he realize how extensively Gottwald’s men had infiltrated the army, police, trade unions, media, and even the Foreign Ministry?
Few words could have been more alarming to my father’s ears than the Panglossian ones offered by Beneš. “As much as I am pessimistic about international developments,” he said, “I am calm about the internal situation. The elections will be held in the spring. The communists will lose and rightly so. People understand their policy and will not be duped. I just don’t want them to lose too much. That would arouse Moscow’s anger.”
In Yugoslavia, my father had seen the brutal pressure that Stalin could place on local leaders. He expressed his fear that the Czechoslovak Communists, faced with the specter of electoral defeat, might try to engineer a coup as the sole way to save their necks. Again, Beneš said not to worry:
They thought of a putsch in September but abandoned the idea and will not try any more. They found out for themselves that I enjoy certain authority in the nation. And not only that. They know that I have numerous su
pporters among the working class, even among many Communist workers. They have come to realize that they cannot go against me.
Still anxious, my father asked Beneš to comment, individual by individual, on the loyalty of senior defense and military officials. The president vouched for most and was astonished to be told that the commander of the air force was a Communist. When my father raised doubts about General Svoboda, the minister of defense, Beneš replied that he was a reliable man. “Don’t be worried, Ambassador,” Beneš said as the meeting drew to a close, “return to Belgrade and carry on.”
On that same trip, my father joined Gottwald for lunch at his villa. The conversation inevitably turned to a comparison between the situations in Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia. Perhaps unwisely, my father could not resist taunting his host. “The communists in Belgrade don’t think you know what you’re doing,” he said. “They say that you’re nothing but a slow coach and that you’re going to lose.” Fueled by a combination of anger and brandy, Gottwald shot back, “I’ll show them how we will win. And it will not be with the comical ballot as they do in Belgrade.”
EVERY CABINET MEETING from mid-January on was marked by bitter arguments. With an election but months away, the rise in partisanship was natural, but Czechoslovak democracy had become like a rundown car with overused shock absorbers; every bump was felt, and the next jolt might be the last. Still the car kept rolling and the potholes kept appearing. The democrats demanded that Communists be prosecuted for trying to blow up three of their ministers; the Communists accused the democrats of plotting to expel them from government. Each side warned that the elections would be unfair because of the underhanded tactics of the other; both declared indignantly how unjust—when directed against them—such allegations were. As January rushed headlong into February, the evenly divided ministers fought over tax and economic policy, the pace of nationalization, and the wages of civil servants. The only respite came courtesy of a commission established to clarify Slovakia’s status within the country. According to its report, “Czechoslovakia constitutes a State, one and indivisible, formed of two inseparable nations of equal rights.” This was sufficiently confusing that no one knew how to argue about it.
Prague Winter Page 37