Looking for Mr. Glasnost: Scenes from Today’s Czechoslovakia, Where Everybody Waits, and Hopes

Empty your pockets, please!” the khaki-uniformed customs officer demanded after he recited the number, section, and name of the law which gave him the authority to do so. I was relieved that he was apparently not going to strip-search us in that forbidding back room. “Only 50 feet to freedom,” I thought as I threw my wallet, comb, and a pair of tissues on the coffee table before me. My companion from Bratislava likewise emptied his pockets and handed his jacket to the officer to feel for any contraband (although I could not imagine what). After the officer also felt my jacket pockets, he said “Very well, you may go.” I breathed a sigh of relief as his police colleague handed us our passports. We started up the car and slowly, while meekly waving at the machine-gun- toting border-guard as he swung the heavy cantilevered steel barrier open, made our way into Austria and freedom!

This was the fourth time that I had crossed the Czechoslovak border at Petrzalka since 1968 and had taken a deep breath of free air. As we sped into neatly-kept Hainburg (near Vienna), I began to reminisce about the trip, and the many friends and family members I had left behind that barbed wire and those border guards. How strong and brave they are to tolerate such a life, and how little we appreciate their daily sacrifices.

“Is your father still crapping into that Canadian newspaper?” the Communist Boss had asked me. “Yes, he’s still writing, and will probably do so until he dies,” I answered, somewhat surprised at the crudeness of the question. But when the Boss began to complain about his kids, and how they were forever pestering him for money, I could see that he was drunk, and could forgive his lack of tact. Secretly, however, I was pleased that he knew about my father’s writings. His articles must have hit home if the Boss knew about them.

“Our police are a little conservative,” the Boss continued. “They use old lists. We are constantly after them to keep up to date. But it’s a large and lumbering bureaucracy.” This candor amazed me, especially as I recalled how the border guards had kept me standing and waiting for two hours the previous day, before they granted me entry into the Republic. His bloodshot blue eyes, fortified with alcohol, seemed almost apologetic, and I felt a twinge of pity for him. He was reduced to criticizing his main source of support, and seemed to know it.

We have made great strides in providing housing for our people,” the Madame Boss boasted as I looked out of the window of Bratislava castle at the monotonous high-rises of Petrzalka across the Danube. “The U.S. government is presently blowing up such projects in St. Louis,” I mused as I viewed those drab pre-fab complexes. The Austrians had sold to the Czechoslovak government a license to erect low -rent projects all across the Socialist Republic, an architect whispered into my ear, although the government did not volunteer that these were buildings designed to house the poor. No sir. The government was erecting “quality” housing for the people, even in picturesque villages where the locals soon dubbed their silhouettes as the “Chinese Walls” of their localities.

“I’m sorry, we’re out of beer,” the head waiter announced as he shut the doors of the bar in our faces at nine o’clock that evening. “But this is an Inter Hotel for tourists! You can’t be out of beer,” I stammered in surprise. “We can be out of many things,” the waiter retorted impatiently, as he finished locking up, completely oblivious to our shock and surprise. Fortunately, our local friend knew the maitre d’hotel and the latter “found” some beer in a special refrigerator in his office. Armed with several cold bottles, we repaired to our warm room (there was no air-conditioning either) and reminisced about 1968, before the invasion, when Alexander Dubcek promised to bring a “human face” to Czechoslovak socialism.

“Have you heard that Dubcek denounced Vasil Bilak on the Voice of America, and later on Viennese television?” our friends asked us incredulously. “No, I had not,” I replied, but I was not surprised because Dubcek had attacked Bilak last year in the Italian Communist newspaper after the latter had deliberately falsified events surrounding the circumstances leading to the Soviet-led Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. It turns out that in June of this year the chief ideologist of Czechoslovakia had decided to publish his memoirs in the Bratislava daily Pravda. Once again he lied about 1968, and once again Dubcek denounced him. What was amazing, our friends explained, was that Pravda published only two installments of Bilak’s memoirs. No more appeared after Dubcek went on the air… Someone higher than Bilak among the Party boss, had put a stop to the articles. Dubcek’s rejoinders had apparently struck a nerve. And, since Bilak’s articles were not published in the Czech lands, it was rumored that one could hawk copies of them for 100 crowns each on the streets of Prague (the average daily wage is 150 crowns). Once again the Slovaks had something that the Czechs could not get.

In this respect times have changed. Now the Czechs are complaining that the Slovaks, under Party Boss and President Gustav Husak (himself a Slovak), received too much in the last 19 years. “Fifty thousand apartments in Prague are reserved for Slovaks,” the Czechs are said to complain. “They were built by Slovaks for Slovaks,” is the rejoinder. While both ethnic groups have suffered from the repressions that followed the Soviet-led invasion of 1968, the Slovaks did manage to salvage one aspect of Dubcek’s program— federalization. Since 1969 the Czech Socialist and the Slovak Socialist Republics have been getting more equitable shares of the economic and political pies. “That’s as it should be,” the Slovaks proclaim. “The Czechs got the lion’s share ever since the country was founded in 1918, and it’s time that the Slovaks received equal treatment,” everyone told me. “Affirmative action” has arrived in Czechoslovakia, without benefit of the United States Congress, I concluded. It’s good to see the shoe on the other foot.

Watch out for that mosquito,” I heard someone shout as we climbed the steep hill towards the stone table surrounded by benches. A dozen actors and singers crowded around, eating meat-filled strudel, drinking white wine, and singing folk songs in between swatting the hordes of mosquitoes that the overhead lamp attracted. “I bring you an American Slovak,” my friend announced. “His family hails from the Kysuce region. Let’s welcome him with a song!” At that they all began to sing “Kysuca, Kysuca, the River Kysuca,” as my eyes began to tear. Never in all my years of growing up in Canada and the United States had I experienced such a welcome. Here were some of the leading actors and singers of Slovakia serenading me, a perfect stranger, and asking nothing in return. Forty years of Communist rule had not erased their solidarity with their cousins in the West. I felt at home again.

“How does one make it as a writer in Slovakia?” I asked as our car sped towards the nineteenth-century castle, near the White Carpathians, now owned by the writers’ union. “One has to have two books accepted by one of the government-owned publishing houses, and then one applies for admission to the writers’ union,” my friend answered. “If you are accepted, you get all the perks, including the right to vacation in Count PaIffy’s former castle,” he continued. “Of course, if you write something that the government disapproves of, you lose everything, and have to find another calling,” he cautioned. “That’s why, since 1968, most of our writers have been very careful,” he added.

“What about Ludovit?” I asked. “Ah, he’s impossible! He wants to establish a new monthly, similar to Kulturny zivot, which started the ferment in the 1960s, and which was shut down by the government after the Soviet invasion of 1968. We keep telling him that he is being foolish, that he will lose his job, but he won’t listen.” I looked at that scrawny body that passed for Ludovit and could not help admiring him. It would be great if the Slovaks began the criticism of the government in a literary journal again, just as they had in the 1960s. “Good for you, Ludovit,” I whispered encouragingly in his ear.” “Someone has to do it!” he answered defiantly.

“Will Gorbachev’s perestroika have any effect on your government?” I asked a group of intellectuals. “We doubt it,” they answered. “Are any of your leaders following Gorbachev’s lead?” I pressed on. “We don’t know,” came the reply. “Why don’t you want to talk about it?” I queried. “Because we have been deceived by the Communists too many times. We don’t trust them. They purged all the liberals in 1969-70 and all those left are Stalinists. They don’t want to change the system because it would mean giving up their power and perks.” “What about Dubcek, he’s speaking out,” I continued.

“He has no power base. All his people were purged. What can he do?” they answered. This pessimism was everywhere. The people are completely disenchanted with the Party, they see no prospect for change, and don’t want to rock the boat for fear of losing their jobs. And yet, they admire Dubcek for speaking out and eagerly listen to the Voice of America, or Viennese television, lest he appear again. It’s amazing how many heard his broadcast and talked about it. He still electrifies them.

“Knock on the door again, perhaps he doesn’t hear us,” one of the party chimed. “No, no, maybe he’s asleep,” another cautioned. Finally, just as we were about to leave Pezinok and head home, a friendly face atop a very wide body appeared at the door. “Who’s this, disturbing me so late at night?” Mr. Ursus inquired. “It’s us, your friends from Bratislava. We’ve come to taste your famous wine!” they retorted. “Then come in and taste,” he beckoned, and we all trudged down the stairs into a magnificent cellar. I could not believe my eyes —large casks, medium ones, small ones, even large bottles all around me. Before I could take it all in, Mr. Ursus appeared with his elongated flask with a narrow neck and proceeded to pour us each a thumbful of white wine into a narrow glass. “Excellent, excellent,” we joyfully proclaimed as we sipped who knows how many kinds of wine. Later he switched to red and the delight continued.

Finally, everyone bought a liter and prepared to 11 leave. My eye caught a magnificently carved walking stick at the top of the stairs, and, as I stopped to admire it, Mr. Ursus asked, “Do you like it?” Before I could answer he said, “It’s yours.” Once again I could not believe the generosity of a people who have so little compared to what we have, and who are so willing to part with it. It made me feel ashamed of our materialism in the West.

“Be careful, you’re speeding!” he warned me as I drove towards the city of Trencin. “But I’m only ten kilometers above the limit,” I replied.

“It doesn’t matter. The police look for any excuse to stop you. They can force you to take a breathalizer test and if you have only the slightest trace of alcohol on your breath, you lose your driver’s license for six months. Furthermore, they’ll inspect your car from stem to stern and will fine you for the smallest thing: a burned-out signal light, leaking oil, anything. Every time you drive you are at risk of being fined. We have so many police that they have to find new ways of increasing state income in order to cover their salaries.” I could only shake my head in disbelief. Now I know why a friend in Bratislava told me never to ask a policeman for help or directions. In Czechoslovakia the police are not there to help you. They are there to harass you. The border crossings should have taught me that.

“I can’t sell you any toilet paper,” the stocky, middle-aged woman shouted as I entered the washroom. “Why should I buy toilet paper?” I wondered, as I entered the stall. The empty roll answered my question. “And why can’t you sell me toilet paper?” I asked, as I returned to confront her. “Because I don’t have any more,” she answered. Annoyed, I returned to the fancy restaurant in that exclusive Hotel Laugaricio in Trencin, and complained to the head waiter as he was adding up our lunch bill. “I’m not surprised,” he answered nonchalantly. “We can’t even buy it in the stores.” Fortunately our friends had come prepared and one of them blushed as she reached into her purse and handed me some. “Now I’ll have something to write about when I return to America,” I told the stocky keeper-of-the-John as I passed by her desk. “Another example of the worker’s paradise,” I mused, as we left that luxurious hotel. “I wonder what it’s like in the lower-class hotels?” “You don’t want to know,” my friends volunteered.

Dr, Vaclavsky isn’t here today. He’s conducting a tour of Olomouc for a group of tourists, but he’ll be back tomorrow,” his pretty assistant volunteered. “You know, of course, that he isn’t the Director any – more. He was demoted in 1979 because he wasn’t a Party member. Twenty years he served them and they demoted him for a Party hack. What gratitude!” she lamented. She could be frank with me because together we had experienced, and survived, a visit by the secret police in 1970. Dr. Vaclaysky greeted me with open arms the next day. We reminisced about our previous meetings, about the pace visit, and about his job. “If only she did some research and published something,” he complained. “But all she does is attend Party meetings. Oh, well, I’m going to retire in a few years and then the whole rotten gang of them can go to hell for all I care.”

I didn’t really believe him. I knew that he was too good a historian to stop his research and writing. But I did feel sorry that his demotion also carried with it a diminution in salary, and that meant a smaller pension. “The apparatchiks sure know how to take care of themselves,” I thought as we left his office. “They’re almost as good at it as certain unscrupulous capitalists who love to cut costs by firing older employees.” Lenin must be turning over in his grave.

Of course, the apparatchiks aren’t the only ones who have learned how to beat the system. Certain sharp non-Party members have also devised a trick or two. My friend Jan told me of the time that he had received permission to travel to Vienna for a few days and how he couldn’t be bothered to turn in his military-service booklet. I didn’t understand what he was talking about and he proceeded to explain.

“In Czechoslovakia two years of military service is compulsory for all able- bodied males. Once you have fulfilled this service, you automatically join the reserves and can be recalled to active duty at any time until age 50. That means that you have a military identification book listing your name, rank, serial number, etc. The state considers this book, along with official maps of the country, and the location of military installations, and a lot of other nonsense, as state secrets. Therefore, if you leave the country for the West, you must surrender this military booklet to the local army commander, and he must give you a receipt. Of course, this all takes time and is a tremendous hassle. Therefore, the last time I went I simply sat at my typewriter the previous evening, typed myself a fake receipt from the local army commander, forged his signature, gave it a smeared stamp and presto, I had my receipt.

“When I arrived at the first border checkpoint (there are three gauntlets at the border if you leave by ground transportation), the policeman asked if I had turned in my military booklet. ‘Yes, Sir!’ I replied. `May I see your receipt?’ he continued. ‘Certainly,’ I said, and whipped out my fake receipt. He glanced at it and waved me on to the next checkpoint. All those dummies at the border want to see is some kind of paper so they can cover their asses if something goes wrong. They know the whole thing is ridiculous too.” I was amazed by his daring.

Meanwhile, something else puzzled me. “Why do people retire so early in Czechoslovakia?” I asked. “What do you mean early?” Jan replied. “I mean that here women retire at age 55 and men at age 60. In the United States both sexes work until age 65 or beyond, if they can.”

“Ah, but they want to keep working here as well, except that the government won’t let them.” Jan added. “The government guarantees everyone employment but doesn’t have enough jobs to go around, so it forces people into early retirement.” That made sense. “Besides, we don’t live as long as you do in the West. So, perhaps it’s good that we don’t have to work until we drop,” he added morosely. I could only stare into the distance after this dose of reality and marvel at his candor.

Did you hear about the religious protest in Bratislava on March 25 of this year?” I asked the Catholic activist. “I was in it,” he replied. “What happened? All I know is what was reported in the Western press.”

“It was all very simple. We, the church-going Catholics, finally got fed up with the government’s interference with our lives and beliefs. We were especially angry that for years the government had blocked the appointments of bishops to our dioceses. So, a few of us decided to call for a protest in front of the National Theater on Good Friday. Nothing drastic—just a group of believers lighting candles and praying for religious freedom. When the authorities heard about our plans they went bananas. They closed the schools early, sent the students home, blocked all the streets leading to Hviezdoslav square, and rushed in over 5,000 riot police. About 2,000 of us gathered as planned in the early evening and lit our candles and began to pray. At that point the police tore into us from all sides, sprayed us with water cannons and beat us with truncheons. We could smell the alcohol on their breath as they lunged at us. While being beaten, we could see representatives of our glorious government watching the massacre from the Hotel Carlton. It was one of the sorriest chapters in the history of the Slovak nation.”

“Apart from the publicity you got in the Western press, do you feel that you accomplished anything?” I asked. “The publicity was the whole idea!” he continued. “We knew that the Western press would be there, and we were willing to be beaten for our beliefs. What good is faith if you’re not willing to suffer for it? Besides, we accomplished our objective. Even though we were beaten, it was the government that received a black eye in the world’s press. The net result was that the government not only allowed the appointment of the Bishop Sokol to the Trnava Archdiocese, but for the first time it allowed the pilgrimage to Levoca, in that it did not try to prevent it, and it even reported it on television. We paid with our blood for these achievements, and we may have to do so again in the future. It would be better if we didn’t, but we are ready. We have had enough from this government.

We know that those fools,” he continued, “whether in Bratislava castle, or in Prague castle, are shaking in their boots over glasnost. It’s ironic that the Russians, who engineered the Communist takeover of our country in 1948, are the ones now worrying our Bosses so much. I can’t wait for Gorbachev to show up in Prague one day and say. ‘What’s going on here? Why don’t you get with it? Don’t you know that the old ways are finished?’ I’d love to be there when that happens! That will be poetic justice for our Party bosses.”

“Justice, indeed,” I mused as we parted with the forbidden S Bohom (“God be with you,” or, as it has been corrupted down through the ages in English, “Good bye”).

“Now we’re going to drive through the most picturesque part of Slovakia,” my companion enthusiastically remarked as we left the eastern Slovak metropolis of Kosice towards the Ore Mountains and the Low Tatras. “We’ll even pass through Slovensky raj” (Slovak Paradise), he added. “Shouldn’t we buy some gas before we embark on such a hard trip?” I asked, as I noticed that we had only a quarter of a tank left. “No, that won’t be necessary,” he replied. “There are plenty of gas stations on this route because it is a recreation area,” he reassured me. The scenery was, indeed, spectacular, as we drove through the valleys of the Hnilec and Hron rivers, past neatly whitewashed log cabins. We even saw a Slovak Baca (shepherd) with a flock of white sheep slowly moving up the lush, green hillside. The needle of the gas tank kept falling, however, as we climbed and then descended several switchback-passes through very dark forests.

“Don’t worry,” my friend tried to reassure me. “There are four gas stations between Kosice and Banska Bystrica according to my map of Czechoslovakia. The first is at Nalepkovo.” It was there all right, but it was closed. Now my friend started to worry as well. We were in the middle of nowhere (al – though it was beautiful) and in real danger of running out of gas. Our little Skoda kept climbing and descending the switchbacks and the gas needle kept dropping, with the yellow warning-light flashing. According to our map, three more gas stations were on the way, and, they, too, were there, as indicated, but the first two were closed. To make matters worse, it started to rain, and the Low Tatras disappeared under the clouds.

Our last chance was the town of Brezno, and, as the yellow empty light flashed brighter, we wondered what we would do when we ran out of gas. Fortunately, the

Skoda took us to the only open gas station we found since we left Kosice; we bought 33 liters, two less than the car could hold. It had been a close call in a country that does not have an AAA, where the police do not help but harass you, and where gasoline stations are few and far-between. “I guess they don’t care about tourists in Czechoslovakia,” I remarked to my traveling companion.

“I guess they don’t,” he sourly replied.

“Why is nobody working?” I naively asked as we entered the Skanzen (outdoor museum) at 1:30 in the afternoon. “It’s Friday,” my companion jokingly remarked. “The weekend is upon us.” We found the director, along with some of his workers, in the re-created village saloon, drinking beer on that hot summer’s day. “Would you please show us around?” I asked the boss with great eagerness.

I don’t have the time,” he remarked as he swigged I another beer. “When our student volunteer arrives, she will do it. Meanwhile, feel free to look around.” While I took pictures of some excellent village architecture, a buxom student with red bandanna, tight red jeans, and matching shoes showed up and started the tour. “I don’t know much about the individual structures,” she confessed, “but I do know the overall plans. We hope to find and reconstruct 200 huts and barns from all regions of Slovakia so that, in the future, when one wishes to see what life was like in the Slovak village, one will be able to see it all in one location.”

“That’s an admirable goal,” I replied. “When do you hope to complete the project?” I asked. “Well, we started (I mean people before me) in 1967, and they hoped that it would be done in ten years. It’s now been 20 years and we are only one-third finished. We’re now projecting to finish by 1992, but I doubt that we’ll make it.” I put the same question to the project director after we finished our tour and joined him in the saloon. He, too, could not give us a definite answer. “Why can’t you be more specific?” I asked. “Because,” he said, “our people have an expression: the government pretends to pay us and we pretend to work.” Now I understood why it had taken so long to build only one-third of the Skanzen, why no one was working at 1:30 in the afternoon, and why the city of Bratislava, the Slovak capital, always looks so torn up.

One part of Bratislava is a showcase—the Old City, with its narrow cobblestone streets, ancient houses, historic churches, and many courtyards. But some-thing in it doesn’t fit —the hundreds of Gypsies and otherwise poor people. “Where do these poor people come from?” I asked my guide. “From here!” he angrily answered. “What do you mean?” I asked. “They live here!” he shouted at me. Finally, seeing that I still did not comprehend, he proceeded to explain very carefully. “See these palaces all around you?” he asked, as I looked up and down the narrow streets and marveled at the Baroque and Classical architecture. “The Gypsies and poor people live in those palaces!” he exclaimed. Seeing my puzzled expression, he explained that the Communists had seized those opulent buildings from the rich, broken them up into small apartments, and then given them to the Gypsies and the poor.

“That’s why you see these kinds of people in the heart of Bratislava and Kosice, and in all other beautiful town squares across the Republic. It’s official government policy. Furthermore, the poor and the Gypsies don’t know how to care for these former palaces, so they eventually destroy the insides. The government, in order to cover up its mistakes, regularly repairs the outside of these buildings, but the insides are a shambles.” Now I understood why none of the top government, bureaucratic, intellectual, or cultural leaders lived downtown. The elite doesn’t wish to live in the “poor” section of town, even if it is full of palaces. So, they seek better accommodations “among their own kind” in the outskirts or suburbs, just as do the wealthy in America. What irony!

White icebergs drifted in the ocean below my airplane as we crossed the tip of Greenland at 40,000 feet en route to New York. It was a marvelous sight as I took a break from writing about my experiences in Slovakia. “Perhaps if I can acquaint some people in the West about the true conditions prevalent in my native land, then somehow, with some luck, things may change,” I thought. Like Ludovit, who is determined to establish that dissident newspaper, I had to get the story out.

Author

  • Leo Carpenter

    Leo Carpenter, a native of Czechoslovakia, was living in America at the time this article was published.

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