Police Day

When it was all over (except for some tears and a little killing), the victors celebrated. Last Saturday was proclaimed "Police Day" in Prague, to honor the men who had made the victory possible. Spread in massive ranks across the old town square stood thousands of policemen and militiamen, agents of the force which hoped to celebrate Police Day the world over. Before them, amid Prague's grey and ancient statuary, sat Communist Premier Klement Gottwald, surrounded by his new cabinet, a smug, squat figure of triumph.

The first Police Day speaker had barely begun when an unexpected incident occurred. From the gauntly Gothic cathedral, past the huge monument of John Huss at the stake, rolled organ music. Policemen soon silenced the inappropriate sound, and the celebration continued. But throughout the world, people with an ear for the rhythm of history knew that what happened in Prague last week had happened before and would, quite possibly, be repeated in capital after capital.

The First Day. The classic Communist plot begins, formally, with an announcement that anti-Communist parties have been caught in a conspiracy with foreign powers. The interval between this announcement and complete Communist victory took seven months in Rumania, five in Hungary, four in Bulgaria. In Czechoslovakia, after a clever build-up (TIME, March 1) which forced the resignation of twelve anti-Communist cabinet members, the crisis proper took only a week.

On the first day, when Communist Minister of the Interior Vaclav Nosek "discovered" the National Socialist Party's conspiracy against the state, Prague shivered with cold and fright. Truckloads of armed police with brand-new automatic rifles rumbled through the streets. Opposition leaders were arrested and Parliament, scheduled to meet next day, postponed the session indefinitely. Archbishop Beran of Prague was refused permission to pray for peace on the Communist-controlled Prague radio. In the streetcars, which used to be favorite political forums, passengers were silent. President Eduard Benes' executive office announced that the President "asks all citizens to maintain calm." Late into the night dense crowds surged through the streets, shouting confused slogans.

The Second Day. Communists paraded, crying: "Away with reaction!" Anti-Communists paraded, crying: "We will uphold party democracy! London is calling at 9 o'clock!" (This was a bitter reference to the days of Nazi occupation, when BBC broadcasts brought Czechoslovakia's only hope of freedom.) Mass arrests continued. Premier Gottwald's "action committees" seized most factories not yet nationalized; they occupied all the ministries not yet in charge of Communists. President Benes wrote a letter to the Central Committee of the Czech Communist party: "I have been thinking ... I am trying to see clearly. ... I feel the people's will is to achieve a progressive and really socialist life through peaceful and orderly means. . . . You know my sincerely democratic creed. I cannot but stay faithful to this creed even at this moment. ... I beg of you ... let us all together begin negotiations again."

"The Central Committee," read the reply, "cannot enter into negotiations."

The Third Day. At 9:30 a.m. Premier Gottwald called on President Benes at Hradcany Castle to present a list of the new cabinet ministers (twelve Communists, two Socialists and eight miscellaneous "safe" men). Ninety minutes later, the Czech radio triumphantly announced that the President had accepted the new cabinet. The President's office promptly denied this. The fake radio news was enough to frighten Socialist Leader Bohumil Lausman, a middle-of-the-roader, into resigning. Loudspeaker trucks proclaimed that his pro-Communist rival Zdenek Fierlinger had resumed leadership of the Socialist Party. This meant that the Communists could now control a legal majority in Parliament. But Benes still held out.

At 3 p.m. a group of anti-Communist students began marching to Hradcany Castle, Benes' residence. Running a gauntlet of police who belabored them with rifle butts, they managed to get across Jirasek Bridge (though their ranks were thinned). Police with Tommy guns emerged from the shadows of the massive castle walls. An officer ordered the students to step back ten paces; the students fell back. "Twenty paces!" cried the officer. This time the students did not budge. They started singing the Czech national anthem.

"Where is my home? Where is my home?" they sang. (The watching crowd bowed their heads; many wept.) "Fair Bohemia is my home! Fair Bohemia is my home!" (The police stood ramrod still; one reporter noticed several of the policemen weeping too.) "Thunders crashing wild, over Tatras' dark main. . . ."

When the song was finished, the police came to life once more; they advanced on the students, fists and rifle butts flying. Someone drove a bus into the students' ranks. Shots were fired, at least one of the students killed. They were finally pushed down Hradcany Hill toward the gentle Vltava. "Where is my home?" they sang as they retreated. "Where is my home?"

Two Europeans. Up in his study, within earshot of the singing students, was the man from whom the country expected an answer. For a long time President Eduard Benes had thought he knew where his home was. He was a European and a democrat. All his life he had believed in "synthesis." It was a faith, shared by millions of liberals everywhere, that the 20th Century's clashing opposites (even Communism and democracy) could be reasonably reconciled.

In 1943 he had signed a pact with the Soviet Union. "Mr. Stalin," he had said, "I have complete confidence. . . . We have signed an agreement for non-intervention in domestic affairs, and I know you will keep it." Only a few days ago, he had again summed up his faith when he told a workers' delegation (which demanded the exclusion of anti-Communist parties from the government): "I strongly deprecate the exclusion of anybody from anything."

It was 4:30 p.m. when Premier Gottwald again called on the President.

Klement Gottwald was a European too, but of a different cast. He had been raised in the iron Kinderstube of the Comintern. In 1929, when he first appeared in Czechoslovakia's Parliament, he said: "You, gentlemen, are asking me what we are here for. My answer is simple. We are here to break your necks."

Few had heeded the warning. In recent years, Gottwald carefully fostered the illusion that he was a "good Communist," by revealing his jolly personality to the press (he loved Moravian folk songs and played "horsie" with his granddaughter on the living-room carpet). Benes and many other men of good will preferred to believe in the jolly Gottwald of 1948 rather than in the candid Gottwald of 1929.

As Gottwald now confronted Benes, his purpose was again clear: to break necks. He led the ailing, frail old man to the study window and pointed at the intricate baroque splendors of the city below. Benes saw thousands of Communist demonstrators in St. Wenceslaus Square. Beyond Prague's gilded spires, Benes could glimpse his country's fertile hills, and beyond them he sensed the inescapable proximity of Russia. Gottwald said bluntly that unless Benes gave in, there would be a general strike and bloodshed.

Benes flared up: "You are talking to me like Hitler!" he shouted.

Then his will broke; he signed the document accepting Gottwald's cabinet, while burly Communist Deputy Premier Antonin Zopotocky looked on (see cut). Said Benes: "This government will only have evil results."

Dusk began to shroud the castle and the city below. In St. Wenceslaus Square, Prague's Communist Mayor Vaclav Vacek was addressing the crowd. Suddenly he spotted Gottwald's familiar Russian Zis limousine speeding into the square between its motorized police escort. "And there they come now on their shiny red motorcycles with the blue headlights!" he shouted. "They are guarding Comrade Gottwald who is bringing us new and joyful tidings."

Comrade Gottwald made his way to the rostrum and told the crowd what had just happened in Hradcany Castle. "The decision," said Gottwald, "was not an easy one for President Benes."

Benes had been scheduled to speak over the radio at 7 p.m. He remained silent.

The Fourth Day. Police began to disappear from the streets. There was no need for them any more.

The purge continued smoothly. Action committees took over breweries, the movie industry, the national soccer team, the table-tennis association. Even the Boy Scouts had an action committee. All public officials suspected of being anti-Communist were dismissed. The director and chief physician of the state prison in Mlada Boleslav were removed and punished "for overfeeding collaborationist prisoners."

But most men left their offices without protest. People who had bitterly denounced the action committees a few days before were now happy if they were allowed to join them. Throughout the country there was an unseemly rush.to join the Communist Party; district party workers labored over piles of applications. (Gottwald announced that party membership had risen to 1,400,000 from 1,250,000.) There was no resistance because there was no hope. The people might have resisted had Benes moved; Benes might have resisted, had the people moved.

What had happened to Czechoslovakia was symbolized by Jan Masaryk, the great Thomas Masaryk's well-meaning son. He assured the Communists that he was not against them; he assured the West that he was his father's democratic son. He talked wittily and well of "bridges" between Communism and democracy. When the hour came last week, Jan Masaryk was the bridge: he lay down and the Communists walked over him. He stayed in his job as Foreign Minister after the coup. He had a cold, and refused to talk to newsmen on the telephone. ("His voice is very bad," said a secretary.)

The Fifth Day. At the Hradcany, attendants rolled out the red carpet (literally). Premier Gottwald called to present the new members of his cabinet to the President. Said Gottwald: "I request you to accept my assurance that we are truly grateful for the fact that you have aided this victory of the people and of democracy." President Benes still wore the garments of diplomatic dignity--morning coat and striped trousers. Said he: "You want to conduct affairs of state in the new way. . . . For you and the nation I wish that this way may prove a happy one for all."

Then Eduard Benes swore in the new ministers. When the President and the Premier started to shake hands in parting, they found that they stood quite far apart; they had to bend over a long way to make contact.

The Sixth Day. Said Gottwald: "If anybody thinks that an exchange of leaders is enough, and otherwise everything may remain as before, he is mistaken. .. ." The Communists proceeded to consolidate their victory. The Central Action Committee formally declared itself "the center of all public life." The purge of "negatively disposed" politicians, judges, editors and teachers continued. Zdenek ("the Red Grandfather") Nejedly, the new Minister of Education, declared: "Stalin's picture will return to the classrooms. This is not merely a matter of a picture, but a conception of national life." The newspaper Svobodne Slovo (meaning "Free World") was retitled Nova Politika ("New Politics"). Foreign publications (including TIME & LIFE) were banned. The Ministry of Information instructed foreign correspondents to stop "malicious distortion of news." When asked whether the Ministry was to be the only judge of what constitutes distortion, a spokesman replied with genuine wonder: "Who else?"

The week beginning March 7 (the anniversary of Thomas Masaryk's death) was proclaimed "Gottwald Week." The government proclaimed two days of veselice (general rejoicing) "to give the people a chance to express their gratitude." Flags were flown from all public buildings. Brass bands played in the streets for dancing. Movie houses stayed open all night and admission was free.

The crowds kept surging through Prague. They were dazed. The loudspeaker system installed by the Germans blared martial airs and Communist communiques from every streetcorner. A snatch of music or a few glibly triumphant phrases would suddenly hit people as reminders of the thing that had just happened, so quickly that they still could not grasp it. Men wept convulsively and uncontrollably.

A middle-aged lady expressed the meaning of Police Day when she approached a U.S. correspondent who was waiting, in his U.S. car, for the light to change at a Prague streetcorner. "You are an American, aren't you?" she asked. "Please ask your government to do something. We suffer so much."

Then the light changed and the correspondent drove off.

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