MARCH 23, 2022 – My Czech friends were dissenters. Their opposition to the regime was reflexive and constant—often expressed with caustic humor. Not only were the Soviets and their enablers oppressive, I was told; they were also inept and stupid.
In the Old Town quarter of Prague, Magda explained the scaffolding—blackened by time—that encased the landmark, 14th century Church of Our Lady Before Tyn. No sign of construction activity appeared anywhere. “It’s been this way for eight years,” she said. “Under our beautiful communist system, there’s a ministry of scaffolding and ministry of restoration, and the two have nothing to do with each other.” Magda was joking, of course—about Communism being beautiful.
Along our return to Prague from an outing in Karlovy Vary, I noticed many faded billboards. Pavel and Magda translated contemptuously the tired propaganda. One sign, I remember, promoted peace; more than promoted: “It says, ‘Fight for peace,’” Magda explained. “But how is that supposed to work—fighting for the opposite of fighting? Stupid Communists!”
Dissent had its price. In a letter home, I wrote: “Some months ago, Magda’s theater had been banned from Prague. Two days ago she was informed she wouldn’t be allowed to perform anywhere in Czechoslovakia. At the same time, an old woman in the employ of the Party demanded entry into the apartment. Magda was questioned as to her social life, her work, etc. Pavel too has been given trouble. On May Day he was arrested (but released without further trouble) for not standing at attention when a band—across the park from where he sat—played the national anthem. When his registration papers weren’t in proper order, he was called a ‘hooligan.’”
In another letter, I described further loathing of Soviet rule. “Pavel was 16 when the Soviets invaded in 1968 . . . He told me about confrontations on the street; how Czech students tried to persuade Russian soldiers that ‘It’s not what they tell you!’ –‘The Russians were hopeless,’ Pavel declared. ‘They were so stupid; so brain-washed. And imagine us Europeans trying to talk to a soldier from the Russian Far East. They were barbarians. They’d shoot without thinking.’”
My letter continued: “One day, while Pavel was at work, “Magda showed me more sights in Prague. We ended our tour at the glorious Gothic cathedral near Hradčany [“Prague Castle”]. We took a pew together and talked for close to two hours. Magda poured out her emotions; her anger and frustration. She told me how difficult life had become and how much harder it could be. That night, after Magda had fallen asleep, Pavel and I talked more about their situation. His final remark was saddest of all: he didn’t think it was responsible to bring children into the world of Communism.”
It wasn’t safe to discuss such things in public, but my friends had no fear of talking at home—or in a hushed voice inside an unoccupied, cavernous cathedral. While spending six months in Russia, Magda had acquired the habit of tapping to interfere with any hidden microphones.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
