Thursday, April 26, 2012

Czech and Slovak Resistance to Communism: An Individual Matter

Poster calling for the dissolution of People's Militias, Prague 1989

In the last of our series of posts from Utah State University, Recording Voices & Documenting Memories presents the work of history student Kate Rouse DuHadway who, in this essay, reflects upon Czech and Slovak resistance to communism:

When we in the United States think of political or military resistance, especially resistance to communism, we might think of stone-faced fighters, governments-in-exile, or clandestine opposition groups. Not all resistance to communism was so brazen, however, nor typical of what we in the United States might normally associate with resistance. By analyzing a few of the oral histories collected by the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library, I will show how many acts and attitudes such as religious and individual expression, which we in the West today may consider passive or harmless, became a means of resistance for ordinary Czechs and Slovaks during the years of what Vaclav Havel refers to as “post-totalitarianism” in the former Czechoslovakia.

Susan Mikula with her mother, sister and father Jozef

Even before Victorious February and Czechoslovakia's official transformation into a communist state, Susan Mikula said her father, an exiled member of the Tiso government, began working with the OSS (the forerunner of the American CIA), to oppose communism and undermine the new regime in whatever way he could. Headed by Catholic priest and right-wing politician Jozef Tiso, the short-lived government of Slovakia proclaimed its independence from the Czech half of the republic in March 1939, under pressure from Hitler.  After the Nazi defeat, Tiso was tried and executed in Czechoslovakia in 1947,  while many members of his former government fled to Austria, including Jozef Mikula.  As the communists rapidly gained political traction in post-war Czechoslovakia, Mikula founded the Biela Legia around that time with Jozef Vicen. The Biela Legia, or white league, was an underground Czech and Slovak resistance organization based in Austria, which gathered intelligence for the West and arranged for the escape of political prisoners,  and through which Susan Mikula, her mother and sister also escaped through Austria to the United States.  Jozef Mikula's was a bold and brazen form of political resistance, for which his wife and daughters suffered dearly under the regime, and would have suffered more had they not escaped.

 Helena Fabry at Ludwigsburg refugee camp

Helena Fabry, a journalist in Prague during the early years of communism in Czechoslovakia, exercised a more subtle form of resistance as the ethics of the new regime conflicted with the ethical considerations of her job. Before the end of WWII, while the Nazis still occupied Czechoslovakia, Edvard Benes' government-in-exile had predetermined the exile of ethnic Germans and Hungarians (all except the ones who had openly resisted the occupation) from the country. In order to punish “Nazi criminals, traitors, and their abettors,” Benes issued a decree in June 1945 establishing “Extraordinary People's Courts,” comprised of a professional jurist and four lay associates. Because they were nominated by the national committees, which were highly influenced by the Czech Communist Party, the People's Courts became a means by which the communists conveniently disposed of political opponents, and protected party members who had been true conspirators and collaborators with the Nazis.  

Fabry described her direct experience with the so-called People's Courts in her interview with the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library.   After a year living in Prague and writing for the Czech newspaper Svoboda Slova, Fabry was sent to the small town of Louny to supply content for the localized last page of the Slova. As part of her job, she attended many of the People's Court trials, where she said local farmers were being handed harsh sentences for so-called “crimes against the republic,” which could constitute anything from “having one more goose than they were supposed to have,” in Fabry's words, or because “they didn't return the proper amount of grain which they were supposed to give to the state, to the supply office.”

“It didn't need to be true,” Fabry said in her interview. “It was strictly political abuse, ... making the people afraid. And the judgments were swift and fast, and sentences were harsh and immediate. Even prison terms, the forfeiting of, confiscating of the property, or at least harsh fines. I could not believe that something like that, such abuse of power, was possible, and abuse of people. So I wrote article after article about it, and that, of course, didn't please the communists really at all.”

Because of her articles, Fabry said she was told by the city of Louny to leave town and never come back. Upon her return to Prague, she received a notice after a few days that she was officially expelled from the association of journalists, and her professional license was revoked. When she had first come to Louny on assignment from her editor-in-chief in Prague, Fabry did not say that she set out to actively resist communism, but as her experience with the communist-controlled People’s Courts increasingly soured her view of the party and its actions, she became one of the first to resist in the way that Vaclav Havel described in his 1978 essay: she sought to “live within the truth. ” As the local communist leaders sought, in Fabry's view, to create a facade of intimidation, to create the “crust of lies” that Havel described within their own town, Fabry's actions became a real threat. She was attempting to break through the facade, to tip the row of carefully placed dominoes that posed as an iron wall of repression. Later, she resisted by learning code and passing along secret messages for an underground group, but she began her dissent as a natural reaction to something she perceived as inherently unjust. Unarmed and initially apolitical, she resisted by choosing the value of truth above the value of “building socialism.”

 George Mesko's wedding photo, 1960

George Mesko, a medical doctor raised in the Catholic church, resisted the establishment in communist Czechoslovakia simply by choosing to get married in the Catholic church, and by having his children baptized in secret. According to him, “in secret” meant traveling to Budapest in the case of his wedding, or to a small town in the countryside in the case of his children's baptisms, finding the church and knocking the priest's door, then having the priest perform the ceremony with the priest's  housekeeper acting as godmother. As a student living in a Catholic boys' dormitory in 1950, Mesko witnessed first-hand the infamous raids on nunneries and monasteries, where thousands of nuns, monks and priests were imprisoned or sent to labor and internment camps.  In his own dormitory, Mesko said two priests, a brother and the nuns were removed over a period of two to three years, and he described the dorms as gradually being “infiltrated” by “Martians,” his term for both communists and girls. He said some of the clergy chose to assimilate to the communist party and its views in the interest of self-preservation, in the same vein as Havel's green grocer, who decides to display a “Workers of the World, Unite!” slogan in his window to protect himself within the system.  But Mesko had very little respect for those clergymen, and he claimed that students did not listen to them because of their communist sympathies. Like Jozef Mikula and Helena Fabry, Mesko was a communist resistor. Instead of working for the CIA or passing along secret messages, however, Mesko's resistance was comprised of the simple and seemingly unassuming acts of having a church wedding and having his children baptized. By displaying his individuality and belief in something outside of a system that allowed for neither individuality nor allegiance to groups or organizations outside of itself, Mesko was as much a resistor and a perceived threat to the system as Helena Fabry.

Although it placed him outside of the established system, which at that time provided sustantial benefits for those who would simply play the game, Mesko pursued his religion because it was an integral part of his individual identity. To give that up would be to give up an important part of himself. “It's difficult to say, but when you're growing up with this heritage and you see the morality which originally comes with that, you know, it's part of your ego that you are trying to be a decent human being,” Mesko said of his Catholic background. “I'm not saying that who(ever) is not a church-goer is not a moral person, … but I felt that it's kind of very important that we stay with our tradition.”

From the oral histories cited in this paper, one can see that individual Czechs and Slovaks had many reasons, and many methods of resistance to the “post-totalitarian” regime. In a political ideology that denied individuality, the very expression of that individuality became, in Havel's eyes, one of the primary means of resistance.  From the interviews of Susan Mikula, Helena Fabry, and George Mesko, one can see that for each of them, the means of resistance were highly individual. For Jozef Mikula, it was political and public. For Helena Fabry, it was ideological and subversive, and for George Mesko, it was personal and private. Each individual, especially Fabry and Mesko, seemed to start down the path of resistance with a value (such as truth or tradition) that they deemed to be more important than the ideology of communism, and which, to them, superseded the social pull to conform. If placed in a political environment that would have tolerated extra-political values and loyalties, their actions do not seem revolutionary or clandestine. In a system that aimed to “subordinate society to the state, ” however, even simple acts of free expression and individuality became genuine threats to the regime. Just as Havel's green grocer, who, by refusing to display the party slogan in his window, refused to play into the facade, and by so doing, undermined the very core of the regime's legitimacy.

- The National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library would like to thank Utah State University, and specifically Dr. Shawn Clybor, for making this project possible.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Oral histories Shed Light on Immigration

Article written for the Grinnell Herald Register on Thursday, April 19, 2012:



How can personal stories add to our understanding of immigration? This is one of the questions being posed on Tuesday, April 24 at Drake Community Library as part of On the Record: Oral Histories at Iowa Institutions.
The National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library (NCSML) has been considering this very subject for more than two years now, through its oral history project Recording Voices & Documenting Memories of Czech & Slovak Americans.

For the project, NCSML staff have interviewed over 200 Czechs and Slovaks who immigrated to the United States during the Cold War era. Interviews have taken place from Chicago to Cleveland, from upstate New York to downtown San Francisco.

Throughout these interviews, perhaps the most important question asked is ‘Why?’ Why would someone choose to leave their homeland and set up a new life halfway around the world? For the overwhelming majority during the Communist period in Czechoslovakia, it was not a question of trying one’s luck in the United States and returning home should things go wrong. Emigration was, in most cases, considered a form of treason by the Communist government and those who left illegally, or overstayed their visas abroad, were often sentenced to prison terms in absentia.

But it would be too simple to say that those the NCSML has spoken to left Czechoslovakia to escape communism. Of course, this was a major factor in many people’s decisions - Jan Kocvara describes his family’s tipping point coming when he and his wife took a walk down the street with his young son: “There was a big poster of Lenin and he said ‘Look Mommy - Comrade Lenin!’ My wife said ‘I don’t want this anymore. They put this into the children. We have to go.’”


Peter Vodenka dressed as a Native American on horseback, Czechoslovakia, 1970s

There were other reasons to emigrate too. In his interview, Peter Vodenka discussed his fascination with America growing up in the heart of Europe: “I was always dreaming about being a cowboy. And I wanted to be in America.” And John Kyncl referred to the professional opportunities the United States offered him: “I was born and I knew that I was going to the United States. I went to be able to continue with my own work. I had to be in those institutions doing those experiments.”


Announcement of Zdenka and Bruno Necasek's wedding

Eva Derman says her family left on account of being Jewish: “we felt we don’t belong to that part of the world anymore.” Zdenka Necasek, meanwhile, fell in love with an American: “I went to the Embassy and they said ‘If you love him, stick to it… There are many girls coming here just to marry foreigners and get out, and they don’t make it.”

Both Necasek and Derman’s stories are intensely personal. The NCSML is honored that they shared such details of their relationship and faith. Peter Vodenka spoke to us of his dreams, and John Kyncl of his ambitions. Jan Kocvara’s story reflects his concerns as a parent. Altogether, these stories present a complex tableau of why one might chose to leave one’s country – and this is only one of the dozens of questions that the NCSML has been asking Czechs and Slovaks who settled around the United States. Hopefully this article opens the discussion on how personal stories add to our understanding of immigration; the panel and audience at Drake Community Library on Tuesday will contribute more to this topic.

Rosie Johnston is one of four panelists speaking at On the Record: Oral Histories at Iowa Institutions on Tuesday, April 24 at 7:00pm.