Czechoslovakia and historical vinegar

Czechoslovakia

A chequered history

Nov 19th 2009
From The Economist print edition

Czechoslovakia was born out of trickery and died in failure. Only up to a point

Czechoslovakia: The State That Failed. By Mary Heimann. Yale University Press; 406 pages; $45 and £25. Buy from Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk

OUTSIDERS tend to have a soft spot for Czechoslovakia. Poignant music by Leos Janacek, Antonin Dvorak and Bedrich Smetana recalls the struggle for nationhood that culminated in the creation in 1918 of a commendably decent country. Western perfidy at Munich brought its dismemberment at Nazi hands. Stories of courage and anguish leap out from the pages of novels by Milan Kundera (“The Unbearable Lightness of Being”), Josef Skvorecky (“The Engineer of Human Souls”) and Ivan Klima (“Judge on Trial”). Vaclav Havel, the dissident playwright turned philosopher-president, exemplifies the magical triumph of the Velvet Revolution, 20 years ago this week.

Hooks for outside affection abound. Czechoslovaks were strongly Atlanticist. The country owed its existence to President Woodrow Wilson, and Tomas Masaryk, its first president, had an American wife. The combination of high culture and glorious architecture reminded Westerners that it was communist captivity that made “Eastern Europe” backward and miserable. Guilt chipped in too. The West betrayed Czechoslovakia in 1938. It stood by as the Soviet-backed Communists seized power in 1948, and again when Soviet tanks crushed the Prague Spring in 1968. And Czech and Slovak dissidents were far more agreeable than their weird and prickly counterparts elsewhere.

Mary Heimann’s scalpel shreds this uplifting version of history. Inter-war Czechoslovakia was essentially a fraud, she argues, both in its composition and its reputation for liberalism. The wily duo of Masaryk and Eduard Benes (the dominant politicians of the years that followed) duped the victorious Western allies into agreeing to the creation of a new country. Named after only two of its ethnic groups, it ignored the interests of all the others: chiefly Germans, who outnumbered the Slovaks, and Hungarians. Its unjust treatment of the Sudeten Germans, stranded by the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian empire, ultimately caused the first Czechoslovak republic’s downfall.

After pointing out the intolerance, censorship and semi-authoritarianism of pre-war Czechoslovakia, Ms Heimann, an American-born historian at the University of Strathclyde in Scotland, then highlights the anti-Semitism and autocracy that followed the Munich agreement. Sympathetic observers have tended to blame that on Czechoslovak disappointment with the West; she suggests that it was a culmination of existing tendencies. The Nazi occupation that came next met minimal resistance. Her vinegary attention then turns to the diplomatic manoeuvring of exiled Czechoslovak leaders such as Benes and Jan Masaryk, son of Tomas. History normally portrays them as exiled patriots engaged in a gallant struggle. Ms Heimann, however, sees a story of Czech guile and Western gullibility. How was it, exactly, that a bunch of failed émigré politicians were able to gain the status of a legitimate government-in-exile, she asks?

The three post-war years before the communist seizure of power in 1948 come across not as a blessed breathing space between two totalitarian regimes, but as a horrible period of racial revenge: rape, robbery and deportation inflicted on guilty and blameless Germans alike. The Communists then created what she rightly calls a “Stalinist hell”—but with the support of quite a large chunk of the population.

Nor is Ms Heimann fooled by the Prague Spring: not an exuberant experiment in creating “socialism with a human face” but the by-product of a factional fight in the Communist Party. Even the 1989 revolution, she argues, only accelerated the changes already being planned. Soon after, the invented country of Czechoslovakia fell to pieces; the reader can almost hear her applauding.

Myth-busting is fun but it can easily become tiresome.

Ms Heimann ably highlights the holes and contradictions in Czechoslovak history. Her archival research and attention to detail is exemplary. But she spoils her case by sounding spiteful. The story of the revival of the Czech language in the 19th century deserves more than mockery. Although she pays fleeting tribute to Mr Havel she cannot resist qualifying it by saying that he “appears to have had” moral courage in addition to “an idiosyncratic brand of ambition”; that, she argues, fooled the West into seeing post-communist Czechoslovakia more favourably. This approach shamefully underplays the gritty determination of the Communist-era dissidents and of their friends in the West, who often felt they were fighting a hopeless battle.

Ms Heimann is right to highlight the messy opportunism that surrounded the break-up of the Habsburg empire. Czechoslovakia was an artificial creation. But so, in the end, are all countries. Inter-war Czechoslovakia treated Germans badly. But it was still a far more attractive country in terms of civil rights (for example in the treatment of Jews) than any of its neighbours, especially Hitler’s Germany. The post-war punishment of the Germans was indeed deplorable—but the aftermath of wars is often horribly messy. Czechoslovak communists may have been exceptionally revolting; but the democrats were often magnificent. Clear-eyed historical reminders are always welcome. Like everyone, Czechs and Slovaks have plenty to be ashamed of. But they have plenty to be proud of too.

Havel to Habermas

Europe.view

From Havel to Habermas
Nov 27th 2008
From Economist.com


Central Europe's missing political philosophy

THEY gripped the world, but left political philosophers yawning. According to Jürgen Habermas, a German philosopher, the revolutions that overturned decades of totalitarian rule in central and eastern Europe in 1989 were marked by a “total lack of ideas that are either innovative or orientated towards the future”.

In a sense that was right. One of the most memorable images of the extraordinary “Velvet Revolution” in what was then Czechoslovakia in November 1989 was a map showing a ladder, reaching from the depths of central Europe up a cliff, to the heights of the western part of the continent. “Zpět do Evropy” it read: “Back to Europe”.

For millions of people behind the Iron Curtain, abstract political philosophy and grand schemes had brought nothing but trouble. Vaclav Havel, whom the revolution propelled into Prague Castle as president, said his dream was to live in a “small boring European country”.

But actually Mr Habermas is wrong: a revival of the spirit of 1989 is just what both old and new Europe need. A Czech-born scholar from Harvard, Paul Linden-Retek, has recently finished a fascinating philosophical comparison between Mr Habermas and Mr Havel.

At first sight, it’s a stretch: Mr Habermas epitomises the German academic stratosphere; put crudely, his main idea is to revive and correct the Enlightenment by reviving the “public sphere” (in other words, getting people talking about decisions that they can influence). Mr Havel’s thinking is more literary than academic. He had no formal higher education (although he is much influenced by Jan Patočka, a Czech philosopher who died under secret police interrogation).



Yet both men have written powerfully against totalitarianism. Both deal with the influence of impersonal systems on modern life. Both deal with language and its uses. Both have little time for the contortions of structuralists and the like.

Mr Linden-Retek’s study shows that Messrs Havel and Habermas essentially share a critique of post-1989 politics in central Europe. Totalitarianism is gone, but milder doses of repression, apathy, injustice, and alienation remain. But Mr Habermas misses the big lesson of 1989: that politics need not be just the boring business of elites and insiders. It is, at least potentially, an exciting affair in which outsiders, even against great odds, can make a difference. Those who took part in the Orange Revolution in Ukraine or in the wild enthusiasm of Barack Obama’s campaign for the American presidency felt something of the same (regardless of the disappointment that the first has delivered and the second may bring).

Mr Linden-Retek’s mother, Daniela Retkova, was an admired aide to Mr Havel in the early 1990s. Her son’s work is well aimed and well timed to prompt an overdue discussion about the legacy of 1989. Having swallowed (but not wholly digested) a Western menu after the collapse of communism, might east Europeans now be ready to take a critical look at the political model that resulted? It is tempting to hope so.

As Ivan Krastev, a Bulgarian pundit, has noted, the model of elections contested by parties with mass membership and historically defined positions didn’t work very well even when it was braced by the cold war need to compete against communism. Twenty years on, amid huge technological, social and economic changes, it looks threadbare in both east and west: money matters too much, ideas too little. What, for example, does e-democracy (for example, wiki-style public input to lawmaking) mean for Mr Habermas’s deliberative model? Those planning next year’s anniversary festivities in Prague could do worse than to invite Messrs Havel and Habermas to a public discussion.

Kundera: feet of clay?

Milan Kundera

The unbearable weight of history

Oct 16th 2008
From The Economist print edition

A long-buried scandal may taint a giant’s reputation

MILAN KUNDERA’S poignant novels epitomised the tragic division of central Europe from the rest of the continent. Works such as “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” told of lives clouded or ruined by totalitarianism.

The story of Miroslav Dvoracek, a Czech spy for the West, would fit well into a Kundera novel. Caught by the secret police in 1950 while on an undercover mission to Prague, he was tortured and then served 14 years in a labour camp. He was lucky not to be executed. He has spent nearly six decades believing that a childhood friend called Iva Militka betrayed him; he had unwisely contacted her during his clandestine trip. Similarly, she has always blamed herself for talking too freely about her visitor to student friends. Now a police record found by Adam Hradilek, a historian at the Institute for the Study of Totalitarian Regimes, in Prague, suggests that it was one of those friends, the young Mr Kundera, who was the informer.

Mr Kundera, a recluse for decades, insists that he had no involvement in the affair and is baffled by the document. Communist-era records are not wholly trustworthy. But a statement from the Czech archives says it is not a fake; the incident (if it happened) could help explain why Mr Kundera, then in trouble with the authorities, was allowed to stay at university even though he had been expelled from the Communist Party.

True or not, the story echoes themes of guilt, betrayal and self-interest found in Mr Kundera’s own work, such as “unbearable lightness” (dodged but burdensome responsibility). In “The Owner of the Keys”, a play published in 1962, the hero kills a witness who sees him sheltering a former lover from the Gestapo.

As Mr Kundera himself has written so eloquently, “the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.” Under totalitarianism, fairy tales good and bad often trumped truth. Some heroes of the Prague Spring in 1968 had been enthusiastic backers of the Stalinist regime’s murderous purges after the communist putsch of 1948.

Mr Hradilek surmises that Mr Kundera probably acted out of self-interest, not malice or conviction. Millions faced such choices in those times. Some have owned up; many have not. Countless episodes like that linger over eastern Europe like an invisible toxic cloud.

Book Review: Nazi Radio

Radio propaganda and 1938 

Chequered airwaves

Oct 9th 2008 
From The Economist print edition

Battle for the Airwaves: Radio and the 1938 Munich Crisis By David Vaughan Radioservis/Cook Communications; 110 pages; £20 Buy it at Amazon.co.uk

RADIO created the Third Reich’s ethnic battering ram: the Sudeten Germans, stranded in Czechoslovakia under the Versailles treaty. As David Vaughan recounts in his meticulous and poignant study of the war on the airwaves, Czechoslovakia’s own German-language programmes were hopelessly outgunned by the quantity, quality and audibility of the Nazi propaganda effort. Patriotic Czechoslovak journalists argued that it was the national radio’s job to broadcast in the national language: if their fellow-citizens wanted to hear programmes in German, they could tune in elsewhere. They did.

What Prague did offer was sometimes magnificently erudite (Thomas Mann, the exiled German literary giant, was a contributor) but had little appeal to skint, resentful German-speaking workers: they were easy prey for made-up stories of atrocities, discrimination, and conspiracies. That forged the crucial link in the Nazi argument: that ethnic Germans, around a quarter of Czechoslovakia’s population, wanted—and deserved—to join the Reich.

The BBC comes off badly too. Like this reviewer, Mr Vaughan is a former BBC man in Prague; he is pitiless in his analysis of its pusillanimity. It banned its best experts on Czechoslovakia from the airwaves. The broadcasts to occupied Europe that won the BBC its reputation were to come sooner and in more ghastly circumstances than even they foresaw.

Some stars pierced the fog. American broadcasters, such as Edward Murrow, brought the drama of Czechoslovakia’s impending vivisection with language that crackles: “fast and dramatic news from Europe tonight, tense news that makes your spine tingle and your heart stop cold”, was how the now-defunct Mutual network opened its broadcast on September 13th, 1938. Sydney Morrell described Czechoslovak policemen listening to a Nazi radio station. “I was accustomed by now to the ‘Czech Terror’ broadcasts, to the rapid voice of the speaker, calculated to whip up mass feeling, the stories of ‘Red troops’ running riot in the Sudeten villages, firing at random, of mass arrests of Sudeten Germans, and tales of sadistic torture in some dark Czech prison cell. The policemen…talked among themselves with the helpless anger of men who are caught up in some movement beyond their control.”

But America was too far away. With even one local ally, Czechoslovakia, the region’s only democracy, would have fought. Betrayed by Britain, France, Hungary, Poland and others, it had no chance.

That is topical as well as tragic. You could read Mr Vaughan’s book, substituting ex-Soviet countries such as Estonia for Czechoslovakia. With Kremlin talk of “privileged interests” in Russia’s neighbourhood, and a litany of real and imagined grievances there, it is easy to imagine a resurgent Russia whipping up its millions of compatriots, living in foreign countries thanks to the collapse of the Soviet empire, into a frenzy while the outside world stands aloof. These stranded Russians tune almost exclusively into the Kremlin-run electronic media, not local stations, which broadcast poorly in Russian, if at all (the same mistake that Czechoslovakia made with German). The lesson of the 1930s is that once you lose hearts and minds, and malefactors gain them, everything else usually goes too.