State and Society in Communist Czechoslovakia: Transforming the Everyday from World War II to the Fall of the Berlin Wall 9781350988200, 9781838609115

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Roman Krakovsky´ is Lecturer at the University of Geneva. He received his PhD in 2012 from the Universite´ Paris-Sorbonne and won a number of awards for his doctoral thesis, among them the Prix d’histoire sociale and the Fraenkel Prize in Contemporary History.

‘This is a refreshing new approach to east European communist regimes. While most work concentrates on economic weaknesses and political oppression, this book has an innovative focus: the relationship between state and society and the regimes’ attempts to control the citizens’ private sphere, the failure of which was a major contributing factor in their collapse. I warmly recommend it!’ Iva´n T. Berend, Distinguished Research Professor, University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA) ‘Why and how were communist societies attractive to those who lived in them? Why and how did they become less and less attractive and eventually intolerable? In his remarkable study Roman Krakovsky´ offers what he calls pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which help us answer these questions but also highlight the need for further research. With originality and wit, he analyses the changed social construction of time and space under Czechoslovakian communism – initially inspiring hope in progress but eventually triggering disillusionment as the promised progress was not sustained. The imposition of ‘too much order’ began to produce its opposite, until the last great attempt to reinvent the world collapsed. Krakovsky´’s jigsaw is rich and suggestive and very rewarding.’ Ben Barkow, Director of the Wiener Library for the Study of the Holocaust and Genocide ‘In State and Society in Communist Czechoslovakia, Roman Krakovsky´ considers the heart of communism: its desire to master time and space. This book’s revelations are very often groundbreaking and their implications go far beyond communist Czechoslovakia. This is important reading for all scholars of twentieth-century Europe.’ Paul Gradvohl, Junior Professor, University of Lorraine ‘One of the finest examples of a younger school of French studies on the social history of communism distinguishing themselves from the international mainstream by their unique blending of history in the tradition of the Annales school, socio-anthropological (Bourdieu) and (post-)structuralist thinking (Foucault). English readers will have the opportunity not only to learn a lot about how communist rule and its ideology functioned on the micro-level of everyday life but also to get acquainted with the specifically French epistemological “idiom” in contemporary history writing which deserves a broad reception in the international community of scholars of modern history.’ Thomas Lindenberger, Director, Hannah Arendt Institute for Research on Totalitarianism, TU Dresden

STATE AND SOCIETY IN COMMUNIST CZECHOSLOVAKIA Transforming the Everyday from World War II to the Fall of the Berlin Wall

ROMAN KRAKOVSKY´

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain by I.B. Tauris 2018 Paperback edition first published by Bloomsbury Academic 2020 Copyright © Publications de la Sorbonne - Paris, France, 2016 English translation copyright © Jennifer Higgins, 2018 This book was published thanks to the financial support of the LabEx Tepsis Project supported by the Pres Hesam (ANR 11 LABX 0067) and the French National Research Agency (ANR 11 IDEX 0006 02), as well as the Centre national de la recherche scientifique (CNRS) – CERCEC Lab (CNRS-EHESS). Roman Krakovský has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xix constitute an extension of this copyright page. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-7845-3914-6 PB: 978-0-7556-0013-7 ePDF: 978-1-8386-0911-5 ePub: 978-1-8386-0910-8 Series: International Library of Twentieth Century History, volume 104 Typeset by OKS Prepress Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

In memory of my mother

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations Preface Acknowledgements

ix xv xix

1.

In the Land Where Tomorrow Was Already Yesterday A New Horizon for a New Society Deploying a New Temporal Structure Maintaining the New Temporal Framework

1 4 18 30

2.

The Lord’s Day, the Worker’s Day Breaking Down the Conventional Time Cycle Giving New Meaning to an Old Rhythm On the Success of the Project

46 50 60 70

3.

Constructing the Idea of the Common Good Relationships between Public Actors Conflating Common and Private Interests Closing the Gap between State and Society

79 82 96 102

4.

Complaining, Talking about Yourself Socialist Vivre-Ensemble A ‘Space of One’s Own’ Reconquering the Private Sphere

113 117 130 141

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‘One Day, Our Streets Will Be a Festival!’ Forming a Socialist Community Creating Social Ties Maintaining Social Ties

157 160 196 213

Conclusion Reinventing Space and Time From Control to Autonomy in Space and Time Disenchantment Continuity and Rupture

244 244 250 255 257

Notes Selected Bibliography Index

259 303 316

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures Figure 1.1 Float belonging to the aircraft manufacturer Walter, May 1948. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

2

Figure 1.2 Poster for the first Five-Year Plan, 1949: ‘The Five-Year Plan, the path to socialism [. . .] Let’s get going!’ Source: Author’s private collection.

13

Figure 1.3 Poster for the second year of the first Five-Year Plan, 1950: ‘The second year. We are increasing the pace. Onwards towards socialism’. q Moravska´ galerie v Brneˇ.

15

Figure 1.4 Poster for the counter-plan for the first Five-Year Plan, 1948: ‘We will get there! We will complete the two-year plan by 28 October 1948, thanks to the counter-plan!’ q Moravska´ galerie v Brneˇ.

27

Figure 1.5 An allegorical float in Prague’s May Day parade, 1968. The sign dates from the 1930s and reads: ‘We urgently demand immediate wellbeing. Deadline: 2 May 1968’. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

45

Figure 2.1 The city of Zˇilina and the surrounding area in northern Slovakia. q Laurent Tournier, Publications de la Sorbonne.

47

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Figure 2.2 A Soviet factory calendar from 1930 which combines the Gregorian calendar, the traditional seven-day week and Soviet and nepreryvka public holidays, with the first day of each cycle marked in a different colour. q History Today.

49

Figure 2.3 A Soviet calendar from 1933 which shows the Gregorian calendar, the traditional seven-day week, five national public holidays and the chestidnevki six-day week. q History Today. 51 Figure 2.4 The National Work campaign, 28 October 1946. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog.

52

Figure 2.5 The National Work campaign, 26 October 1947. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog.

62

Figure 2.6 Poster for holidays in properties owned by a trade union, 1949: ‘Holidays with the union, reserved for the best workers’. q Moravska´ galerie v Brneˇ.

64

Figure 2.7 The National Work for Victory campaign, 1948: ‘It was just like a story . . . The worker pulls the beetroot [which carries the phrase ‘Our work’], and pulls again, but cannot move it. The transport worker comes to his aid. He pulls and pulls but the beetroot does not come out. The baker, the student, the soldier, etc., join them. They all pull together and . . . and the work for victory was a success’. Source: Rude´ pra´vo, 21 March 1948.

65

Figure 4.1 Cartoon of petty-bourgeois chalet culture: “At home” (top) and “In the countryside” (bottom) published in Chatarˇ a chalupa´rˇ, a magazine devoted to holiday chalets, 1969. Figure 4.2 Floor plan of a typical three-bedroom apartment (74 square metres) in which the children and parents have separate rooms, 1980. Source: Lada Hubatova´-Vackova´ and Cyril Rˇı´ha (eds), Husa´kovo 3 þ 1, Prague, VSˇUP, 2007: 110. Figure 5.1 Allegory of national unity, Prague, 1 May 1946: ‘The strength of the nation is in unity’. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

144

149

162

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

xi

Figure 5.2 Allegory of national unity, Prague, 1 May 1947: ‘Strength is in the Communist Party!’ The text on the banner reads: ‘Traders of Vysocˇany at the workers’ side’. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

163

Figure 5.3 Allegory of unity, Prague, 1 May 1950. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

164

Figure 5.4 The start of the May Day parade, Prague, 1950. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

165

Figure 5.5 Fac
ade of Prague’s National Museum, featuring portraits of Gottwald and Stalin, 1 May 1952. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

168

Figure 5.6 Pablo Picasso, La Colombe: Congre`s Mondial des Partisans de la Paix, Salle Pleyel, Paris, 20 –3 April 1949. q imageArt, Claude Germain.

171

Figure 5.7 Poster for the Polish Congress for Peace held in Warsaw and Wrzesnia, 1950. Source: Author’s private collection. 172 Figure 5.8 Allegory of the war camp, Prague, 1 May 1957: the limousine, guarded by US policemen, is driven by ‘Revived German imperialism’ in the form of General Hans Speidel. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

173

Figure 5.9 Allegory of the war camp, Prague, 1 May 1957: General Speidel raises his hand in a Nazi salute. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

174

Figure 5.10 The hydra of capitalism, Prague, 1 May 1950. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

175

Figure 5.11 Allegory of the war camp, Ostrava, 1 May 1951. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

177

Figure 5.12 Allegory of the peace camp, Ostrava, 1 May 1951. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

178

Figure 5.13 Allegory of the burial of reactionary forces, Prague, 1 May 1951. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

179

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Figure 5.14 Allegory of Wall Street, Prague, 1 May 1950. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

181

Figure 5.15 Allegory of the two camps, Prague, 1 May 1950. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

182

Figure 5.16 Allegory of the burial of the atomic bomb, Prague, 1 May 1950: the open coffin containing the bomb carries the inscription ‘Rest in peace’. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

182

Figure 5.17 Allegory of the burial of NATO, Prague, 1 May 1957. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

183

Figure 5.18 Allegory of the burial of NATO, Prague, 1 May 1957. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

184

Figure 5.19 The processional order at the start of the May Day parade, 1955.

187

Figure 5.20 The start of Prague’s May Day parade, 1953: in the first rank are pictures of Antonı´n Za´potocky´, Klement Gottwald, Joseph Stalin and Georgy Malenkov. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

188

Figure 5.21 The start of Prague’s May Day parade, 1954: Gottwald’s picture has been relegated to the second rank, with Lenin and Stalin on either side. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

189

Figure 5.22 The official stand in Prague, 1 May 1950: the central platform is reserved for the first circle of power, five members of the Politburo. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

192

Figure 5.23 The official stand in Prague, 1 May 1956: members of the Politburo and Party officials are all on the same level. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je. 194 Figure 5.24 The May Day stand in Prague, 1963: beneath the slogan ‘All together for the development of socialist society’

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

xiii

there are pictures of Marx, Engels and Lenin and the slogan ‘Proletariat of all countries, unite!’; the central section of the stand, reserved for members of the Politburo, is at the same level as the side stands, but slightly further forward. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

195

Figure 5.25 The May Day stand on the Letna´ Plateau, Prague, 1986. Source: Author’s private collection.

196

Figure 5.26 Walter Crane, A Garland for May Day (1895). Source: Author’s private collection.

203

Figure 5.27 May Day poster, 1954. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

205

Figure 5.28 At the start of the 1955 May Day parade, pioneers present a bouquet of flowers to President Za´potocky´. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

210

Figure 5.29 The women of Zˇizˇkov’s allegory, representing the emblem of the Five-Year Plan, 1949. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

212

Figure 5.30 The first secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, Alexander Dubcˇek, is handed a message by marchers during the 1968 May Day parade in Prague. q Czech National Archives, f. Centra´lnı´ katalog, heslo 1. ma´je.

225

Figure 5.31 The official May Day stand on Letna´ Plateau, Prague, 1975. q CˇTK.

233

Figure 5.32 The Czechoslovak Television delegation at the May Day parade on Letna´ Plateau, Prague, 1976 (censored photograph). q CˇTK.

238

Figure 5.33 People waving in front of the May Day stand on Letna´ Plateau, Prague, 1987 (censored photograph). q CˇTK.

239

Figure 5.34 People waving in front of the May Day stand, Wenceslas Square, Prague, 1989 (censored photograph). q CˇTK. 240 Figure 5.35 The only authorised image of the May Day parade, Wenceslas Square, Prague, 1989. q CˇTK.

241

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Figure C.1 ‘The promised land of socialism’, published in the Viennese social democratic newspaper Glu¨hlichter, 1891, and reprinted in Figaro-Graphic, May 1892. q Gallica.

245

Figure C.2 German poster: ‘The future is in your hands’, 1946. Source: Author’s private collection.

246

Figure C.3 Communist Party of Czechoslovakia election poster: ‘With the Communists towards a better era’, 1946. q Moravska´ galerie v Brneˇ. 247

Tables Table 1.1 Relative salaries in industry (in percentages), 1948–70. 40 Table 1.2 Average monthly income (in crowns), 1963.

40

Table 2.1 Shifting Sunday in Czechoslovakia, 1968–70.

56

Table 2.2 Participation in Corpus Christi celebrations in Czechoslovakia, 1954–5.

69

Table 4.1 Complaints received by the city of Prague, 1977–84.

151

Table 4.2 Complaints received by the city of Prague according to subject, 1979.

152

Table 5.1 Participants in May Day celebrations, 1948–54 (thousands).

234

Table 5.2 Participants in May Day celebrations, 1948–54 (percentage of the population).

235

Table 5.3 Participants in May Day celebrations in the Czech Lands, 1969– 70.

235

Table 5.4 Participants in the national parade in Prague, 1949–83.

236

PREFACE

The great change we are calling for is within our reach; people can change the conditions under which they live, and through this change man himself will eventually be transformed. Heda Margolius Kova´ly, Under a Cruel Star: A Life in Prague, 1941– 19681 We urgently demand immediate wellbeing. Deadline: 2 May 1968 Slogan on an allegorical float, Prague, 1 May 1968 It is difficult today to comprehend the enthusiasm and widespread support for the communist project in the aftermath of World War II – enthusiasm based on the promise of a new society for battered and disillusioned populations. This last great attempt to reinvent the world was driven by the faith that a revolution could transform society, creating new power structures and new modes of community life. How was this project able to take root in Central Europe so quickly, in the space of just a few years? Once the initial charm had worn off, what made it last? Besides the now well-documented instruments of coercion and force, other mechanisms were at work. This book sets out to analyse some of these. The communist project aimed to create a new order, encompassing people’s relationships to themselves, to the collectivity and to power. This order was, on the face of it, less clearly defined than communism itself, but all the more effective for being applicable to everybody: it was

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the product of a structure of time and space intrinsic to communism and to the society and power structures that engendered it. How to define this temporal and spatial structure, which was present everywhere and nowhere, like a sort of ‘plasma surrounding all phenomena, making them intelligible’?2 The parameters of space and time are traditionally defined as physical or biological elements. As such, they impose themselves on us, whether we want them to or not. We may not be able to master them, but we can at least contain them – by inventing the ruler and the watch, for instance.3 However, space and time are also social constructs, the products of individual and collective actions. For Max Weber, time is an expression of the need for social organisation at a given moment.4 According to E´mile Durkheim, the notion of time and space corresponds to the most universal properties of things: ‘They are like solid frames enclosing thought, and thought does not appear to be able to break out of them without destroying itself, as we do not seem to find it possible to think of objects which are not found in time or space.’5 He concludes that their shared ideas are at the root of social institutions: without general agreement about the order that time and space help to shape, no human cooperation is possible. Norbert Elias defines ‘social time’ as the expression of a certain social sensibility and mode of behaviour that allows us to perceive ourselves simultaneously as individuals and as parts of a collectivity.6 As such, every society constructs the time structures that best suit it at any given moment.7 All of these ideas apply equally well for the concept of space.8 Historians have long been interested in the parameters of space and time. Time, it is true, has always been studied more than space, especially by medievalists,9 but specialists in the modern and contemporary world have also contributed much to this field.10 This book seeks to define the spatial and temporal horizon of the individual under communism. This horizon established frameworks of family, friends, work and community, and created a structure that contained individual and collective values and beliefs. It encompassed concepts of duration, limit, compression and expansion, order and disorder, regularity and irregularity. There is a parallel aim to reconstruct the mindset and thus the way of life of a generation marked by postwar reconstruction, the violent installation of one-party regimes, Stalinism and Khrushchev’s thaw, the

PREFACE

xvii

hope of the Prague Spring and the humiliating normalisation that followed until the dream died and was buried under the rubble of the Berlin Wall. But to do this is also to reflect on how people experienced the acceleration of rhythms of production, industrialisation and urbanisation that overturned their way of life, their conception of themselves and their relationships with others. How did the perception and experience of time and space create order? How did they organise the socialist community? Analysis of social categories of time and space opens up the question of the life and survival of a community. Time and space determine the formation, deterioration and destruction of any society. They are both the form in which it exists and its boundaries, determining its deterioration and death: anything that comes together is continually under threat of coming apart; the necessary coexistence of individuals may disintegrate at any moment under the weight of internal and external tensions and contradictions. In order to last, a society must exist within – and despite – time and space. The perpetuation and reproduction of these social categories is thus at the heart of political action: if power fails in this, it risks the explosion of society and its own death.11 How did the socialist community protect these categories from the corrupting influence of time? Answering these questions is a way of grasping the originality of the communist project, its actions and its compromises, and of reflecting on the idea of ‘Stalinism as civilisation’, proposed some time ago by Stephen Kotkin.12 Although communist regimes – as they so often reiterated – did want to construct a new society, this enterprise also entailed a new relationship with time and space. Examining this relationship allows us to explore whether this desire really existed; and, if it did, to determine the extent to which it was fulfilled. It is also a way of setting the communist experience within a broader reflection on the postwar reorganisation of European societies, of which the Eastern European experience is an essential component. The nature of time and space under communism will be studied using the example of Czechoslovakia as a starting point. When World War II ended, Czechoslovakia, along with the German Democratic Republic (GDR), was one of the most developed countries in Central and Eastern Europe: it was modern, industrialised and urbanised, except for its eastern region. The Communist Party had been legal since 1921, which

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is why the transition from the Soviet model after 1945 occurred differently in Czechoslovakia compared to other Eastern European countries. Attitudes towards space and time are by definition subjective. This leads us to seek out the stories of unknown individuals who did not have an exceptional destiny but who, at some point, took up a pen and recounted their experiences or whose actions were recorded and filed. By bearing witness or providing an example, they contributed to creating the story that we sometimes rather glibly call ‘communism’. Telling this story from the perspective of the individual is a way of giving a voice to those who lived through it. The situation in a specific place is also a microcosm of wider issues, and thus facilitates broader analysis of the production of temporal and spatial structures under communism. Given the vast nature of the subject, it has been vital to limit the focus of this study. Rather than attempt an all-encompassing analysis of the social structures of time and space under communism, I have employed several case studies. The category of linear time structures society and gives it direction. In communist regimes, the construction of this category is bound up with the idea of economic progress, guiding society towards the future. Linear time is closely linked to cyclical time. The latter is a more traditional concept because it is rooted in the rhythm of the seasons and secular customs, and it is necessary for creating a sense of security and continuity as the cycle recurs. As far as space is concerned, the dichotomy of the public and the private has structured contemporary society since at least the eighteenth century. Finally, it would be impossible to analyse regimes in which politics infiltrates every aspect of life without tackling the question of the specific relationship between temporal and spatial constructions and political culture. My aim has been to use case studies to develop analytical tools which will help future researchers to construct a historical anthropology of communism. The resulting study takes the form of a jigsaw puzzle: many of the pieces are present, and sometimes they even pile on top of one another, but some are missing. Therefore, I hope that this preface, and the conclusion, will help to indicate a uniting theme and build up an overview.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Research is by nature a solitary activity but it could never be undertaken without the support of many colleagues and friends who have advised and encouraged me during this project’s long development, especially Anne-Claude Ambroise-Rendu, Nicolas Bauquet, Alain Blum, Milan Dra´pala, Marie-Elisabeth Ducreux, Catherine Durandin, Xavier Galmiche, Antoine Mare`s, Marie-Claude Maurel, Franc
oise Mayer, Pascal Ory, Etienne Tassin and Ilios Yannakakis. While working on this book I was teaching the history of Central and Eastern Europe at Sciences Po in Paris. The warm welcome and support that I received from colleagues, especially on the Dijon campus, as well as the exchanges I had with my students, gave me the impetus to persist with my work and enriched my thinking. This book is a continuation of the discussions that we had over the course of all those years. Support from the French Centre for Research in Humanities and Social Sciences (CEFRES), in Prague, enabled me to carry out my research and spend long periods writing. My visits to archives were generously funded by the Doctoral School at the Universite´ de Paris I Panthe´on-Sorbonne. Without the help of these institutions, the research could not have happened. In the Czech National Archives I was welcomed by the director of the Fourth Department, Alena Noskova´. In the Prague District Archives I was advised by Marie Tarantova´, and in the Prague City Archives by Veronika Knotkova´. The head of the Photographic Service, Jaroslava Severova´, was my guide in the Czech News Agency Archives, and the head of the Department of Film History, Briana Cˇechova´, opened the

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doors of the Czech Film Archive for me. In the Zˇilina District Archives I was assisted by the director, Peter Sˇta´nsky, and by Jana Chabanova´. I received a warm welcome from everyone and I thank them for their time and their advice, which were invaluable to this project. I would also like to thank Antonella Capelle-Pogacean, Pablo Goulemot, Ludovic Hamon, Franc
oise Mayer, Xavier Pichard and Nade`ge Ragaru, who read long extracts of the text with critical and kindly eyes. My warm thanks must finally go to my parents and my friends Basma Daouadi Guinnefollau, Pablo Goulemot, Pascal Laurent, Alan Neradny´, Rastislav Popelka, Xavier Pichard and Andrea Sˇalingova´, for their unfailing support throughout my research. Without them, this book would never have been written. Finally, a big thank you to Aymeric Mesa Juan, who was by my side for the final phase of writing.

CHAPTER 1 IN THE LAND WHERE TOMORROW WAS ALREADY YESTERDAY

In May 1948 the aircraft manufacturer Walter, based in Jinonice, near Prague, committed itself to fulfilling its annual production target by 28 October, two months ahead of schedule (Figure 1.1). Although this desire to accelerate production can be understood in the context of general enthusiasm for the construction of socialism in the postwar period, such resolutions continued to be made even when the euphoria of the newly created people’s democracies had long since given way to mundane routine. For instance, in 1957 a master miner, Spurny´ de Karvina´, led a team that pledged to beat its coal extraction target by 3,000 tons. A month before the deadline, the team promised to go beyond this initial promise and produce a further 1,500 tons of coal.1 Similarly, in the run-up to 1 May 1958, some 120 work teams across the country promised to exceed their targets, and instead of saving 263,000 crowns in raw material they decided to save 804,000 crowns.2 At the Cooperatives Convention in 1961, a mass movement was launched to help agriculture catch up with industry and fulfil the objectives of the third Five-Year Plan (1960– 5) within four years – echoing a commitment that had been made in 1949 as part of the first Five-Year Plan.3 In all, 84 per cent of cooperatives and 95 per cent of state farms answered the call. As for the machine industry sector, it was set the task of achieving the objectives of its so-called Five-Year Plans in just 21 months! This ‘patriotic movement’, as it was termed by the official

2

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Figure 1.1

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Float belonging to the aircraft manufacturer Walter, May 1948.

Party newspaper Rude´ pra´vo, made a ‘decisive contribution to the building of a developed socialist society’.4 What was the meaning of this race against the clock, this desire to harness time? The fact that the above examples are by no means unusual makes this question all the more important. Similar scenarios can be identified in other Eastern European countries and even in Yugoslavia, which was then at odds with Moscow.5 To paraphrase the title of a famous collection of essays by Ju´lius Fucˇı´k, a member of the Czech communist resistance who was shot by the Nazis in 1943, it seemed that in these countries ‘tomorrow is already yesterday’.6 These examples illustrate the people’s democracies’ determination to forge a new relationship between production and time. Altering the notion of linear time was an essential component of their new social project, bound up with the idea of economic progress and the attainment of an affluent society. In order to highlight this relationship, some historians have suggested that such regimes operated a ‘time economy’.7 In the postwar period Central and Eastern European countries underwent large-scale industrialisation. They strove to regain pre-war levels of development, to re-establish discipline in the workplace and to

LAND WHERE TOMORROW WAS ALREADY YESTERDAY

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guarantee a decent standard of living for their populations. The spirit and objectives of reconstruction were therefore close to those of Western countries: they were based on a certain faith in progress and on developing the productive and spiritual strength of the community.8 In the East, however, discussing reconstruction plans provided an opportunity to test specific procedures: increasing production by calling on the heroism of the worker, accelerating production rates and reducing the time needed to attain objectives. This resulted in the pairing of an efficiency drive – in which every unit of time had to be used in the most productive manner possible, given the available resources – with a desire to reorganise production in order to control and accelerate progress by establishing objectives and then exceeding them. Plans for constructing socialism in the 1940s pursued these ideas, giving rise to a new structure of linear time. The history of this temporal structure is the subject of this chapter. First, there is the question of its origins. As we will see, the notion of linear time deployed by the people’s democracies is closely linked to that trialled by the Soviet Union from the end of the 1920s as part of the first Five-Year Plan (1928–32). Studying this link from the perspective of postwar Czechoslovakia raises the question of how – and whether – this temporal structure, devised in the very different context of pre-war USSR, could be adapted to a relatively developed country. When the war ended, Czechoslovakia (excepting Slovakia) and the GDR were almost as developed as Western industrialised countries. These two countries were thus exceptions in Central and Eastern Europe. To unwind the thread of this story, we need to go back in time to the moment when World War II ended, and gain a sense of what was at stake in the debate over reconstruction, from which the new concept of linear time would emerge. This new time structure needed agents to implement it: the plan would provide a new, scientific organisation of production and socialist competition, and this socialist competition would ensure unprecedented discipline in the workplace. In order to understand how this new temporality modified the economy and the performance of its various actors – both human (workers and managers) and institutional (businesses) – we will focus on the period of reconstruction (1945–8) and especially on the first Five-Year Plan (1949– 53). It was during these years that the new structure of linear time was deployed and that the first problems in its implementation appeared.

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One issue was simultaneously the main objective and the main difficulty for the people’s democracies: making the new linear time structure a routine concept, and perpetuating the virtuous circle of economic progress that this new structure was intended to engender. Did the Central and Eastern European regimes succeed in realising this aim? Did making this new temporal framework routine result in the birth of a specific socialist temporal culture? To answer these questions, we will follow its progress up to the immediate aftermath of the Prague Spring, when the intervention of Warsaw Pact armies brought reform to a sudden end. The case study of one particular business – Cˇeskomoravska´ KolbenDaneˇk (CˇKD) – will be central to our analysis of these questions.9 In its glory days in the 1950s CˇKD was the country’s largest heavy-industry business, with nearly 50,000 employees, making it one of the world’s biggest tram manufacturers. Created in 1927 by the merger of Cˇeskomoravska´-Kolben and Breitfeld-Daneˇk, the business quickly specialised in the production of heavy-industry equipment, such as electric motors, cranes and compressors. Before World War II it shifted production to military equipment, and continued with this under German occupation. In 1945 the business was nationalised and returned to manufacturing trains, locomotives and, later, trams, mainly for the Eastern European market.10

A New Horizon for a New Society Linear time structures society and gives it direction. It impinges on all aspects of society and all human activity taking place within it. It is, therefore, difficult to modify: any change to this temporal structure is influenced by changes in other social structures that are attached to it. It cannot be transformed unless the old social structures are destroyed or at least weakened, and unless there is an overwhelming desire for change. These two conditions coincided in Central and Eastern Europe after 1945.

Rewriting the social contract The Polish partisan Dobranski, hero of Romain Gary’s novel A European Education (1945), cherishes a dream throughout the war: that of a ‘new, happy world, a world in which doubt and fear would be banished for ever’.11 Through this fiction, Gary expresses the immense hope for

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change that was nourished and developed from 1943, when the war began to turn in the Allies’ favour. One question began to arise more insistently from this moment: on what foundations should reconstruction take place, and what should be its starting point? Since the 1930s, Central and Eastern Europe had undergone a series of upheavals that resulted in an irreversible break with the past. Parliamentary democracies were gradually replaced by extreme-right nationalist and authoritarian regimes. Countries were gripped by waves of xenophobia and territorial revisionism that threatened the very existence of nation states. The economic crisis of the 1930s demonstrated liberal capitalism’s inability to tackle deepening social inequality and the rise of extremes. World War II, with its successive occupations, expulsions, deportations and exterminations of civilian populations, brought about human and material devastation on a scale never previously seen in the region, and far more severe than that experienced in Western Europe. Nearly one in five people, mostly civilians, did not survive the war in Poland, with a particularly high death toll among educated people, who were targeted by both the Nazis and the Soviets. The death rates were 1 in 8 in Yugoslavia, 1 in 11 in the USSR and 1 in 15 in Germany, compared to 1 in 77 in France and 1 in 125 in the United Kingdom. The losses were less dramatic in other countries in the region, but still higher in percentage terms than in the West. For example, 4.4 per cent of Hungary’s population died, as did 3.4 per cent of Romania’s.12 The war meant that Eastern Europe fell even further behind the West in terms of development.13 In the East, much more than in the West, people’s experience of the war was cataclysmic, and the conflict brought about a complete economic, social and political collapse: everything had to be rebuilt, frequently from nothing.14 In Central and Eastern Europe, as in the West, the war and the economic crisis popularised social projects aimed at rebuilding fairer, more egalitarian and more humane communities. Moreover, again like the West, the East no longer perceived responsibility for remedying social inequality as falling to specific groups (the neighbourhood, the family, religious communities or corporations) but to society as a whole, through state action. But the ruptures of the 1930s pushed this logic further than in the West, and the scale of the war’s devastation made it impossible to envisage any viable alternative to a dirigiste economy. Agricultural reforms and nationalisation carried out shortly after the end

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of the war, sometimes even before the communists had come to power, ensured that the State dominated economic and social life.15 Such changes also enabled the establishment of a strong public sector and policies whereby social redistribution was carried out by the State, giving it the means to lay the foundations of a radically different social project. How did the question of time fit into these processes? The very notion of planning implies faith in society’s ability to foresee a certain level of development and to attain it according to the conditions set out in the plan. This forecasting mechanism contains the implicit idea that time may be mastered, and seen as a line leading society from one point to the next, and thus towards future progress. This faith in progress, which is typical of all modern societies, began in the Renaissance and was pursued during the Enlightenment. Ever since the Industrial Revolution, scientific and technical development has allowed people to believe in ever-greater control of progress, and thus of the passage of time. The capitalist production system known as the ‘factory system’ rests on the idea of optimising every stage of production by improving manufacturing methods, installing precise work schedules and decent salaries for workers (Taylorism), and following the principles of division of labour and standardisation (Fordism).16 This rationalised time management is one of the key characteristics of modernity. It implies a clearer separation of work time and leisure time, enables increased productivity and creates a timetable whereby each activity takes a precise and measurable amount of time.17 The history of Central and Eastern Europe after 1945 is the inevitable next episode in this story: large-scale planning brought this faith in controlling progress and time to a climax. The Czechoslovakian example allows us to understand the beginnings of this enterprise, its implications and what was at stake. Two periods, each with its own processes and objectives, are particularly relevant: the two-year Reconstruction Plan (1947–8) and the first Five-Year Plan, also known as the ‘Plan for Building Socialism’ (1949–53).

In pursuit of the Taylorian cycle: the Reconstruction Plan In 1945 Czechoslovakia found itself in a unique position among its neighbours. Democracy had funtioned relatively well there in the interwar years, but collapsed in 1938 in the space of a few months.

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Hitler’s dismantling of the country, undertaken with French and British consent, left an indelible mark on people’s minds and delegitimised parliamentary democracy. The country was hit hard by the Great Depression, as were developed and industrialised countries in Western Europe. Around 1933 Czechoslovakia’s industrial production barely reached 40 per cent of its pre-crisis level, and there were a million unemployed people in a population of 14 million. The State introduced protectionist and stimulus policies from 1933 onwards and these soon began to bear fruit. However, Czechoslovakia’s progressive integration into the German economic space (Grossraumwirtschaft) and the outbreak of war changed the situation.18 It is true that Slovakia and the regions of Bohemia and Moravia did not experience military operations until the final months of the war: their economies were useful for the German war effort, so their industries were maintained and even improved, especially during the first five years of the conflict. Nevertheless, the end of the war was devastating for Czechoslovakia. Overall, it lost 3.7 per cent of its population and much of its industrial equipment. The damage caused between 1938 and 1945 corresponded to the national production of the six years leading up to the war.19 In 1937 Czechoslovakia was almost as developed as Belgium or the Netherlands, but by 1945 it was lagging behind developed European countries that had previously been its equals. The question of how, and on what basis, reconstruction should happen was much the same in Czechoslovakia and other Central and Eastern European countries. The stakes were raised by the fact that the consequences of falling behind Western Europe went far beyond economic issues: there was the danger of becoming dependent on other countries, and of a return to the social, political and military instability that the region had only recently overcome. The war years and the occupation also had disastrous effects on workplace discipline: the processes of Aryanisation and Germanisation encouraged dilettantism and sabotage, and thus destabilised the economy. Discipline needed to be re-established as quickly as possible to stimulate growth.20 The challenge was enormous: how, in limited time and with scarce resources, might Czechoslovakia set about recreating a dynamic economy and society? The debate around the reconstruction projects of 1945 –6 allowed for a re-evaluation of the country’s interwar economic policies. The political

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elites were in general agreement: laissez-faire capitalism was no longer viable, either as a way of organising the economy or as an ideology, for it had failed in the face of the challenges of its time. Hence, laissez-faire gave way to interventionism. And, although the exploitation of the region by the Third Reich in the final years of the war delegitimised state control in its German form, Moscow’s economic successes and Stalin’s victory over Hitler provided an extremely convincing model of Soviet-style dirigisme. Lidova´ demokracie, the Catholic People’s Party newspaper, commented in 1945: ‘As we rebuild our economic and social life, it is impossible to return to the capitalist system which prevailed here for the first twenty years of our Republic. This war has put an end to the capitalist era. We are on the threshold of a new economic and social order.’21 While the political culture was swinging towards the left, the people were increasingly looking east. The literary critic and member of the resistance Va´clav Cˇerny´ stated in the summer of 1945: We must at all costs maintain a lively and fertile intellectual relationship with the West, for we are a Western nation in terms of our ancestral culture. To break this age-old tie would be to lose ourselves in intellectual ramblings and illusions, and to deprive ourselves of solid foundations. As for our link with the East, we must make it as strong as possible. None of its potential, not the least fraction of its riches, must escape us.22 Most social democrats shared this point of view, while the communist position was articulated by Ladislav Sˇtoll in August 1945: ‘Turning our faces eastwards [. . .] is a sign of our gratefulness [. . .], an inevitable consequence of the scattering of political powers.’ Given that France and the United Kingdom had abandoned Czechoslovakia at Munich in 1938, he asked, ‘[S]hould we return to this West, which turned a deaf ear to the call of our threatened culture?’23 The same change was felt among intellectuals and non-communist politicians. In May 1945 Otakar Machoutka, the National Socialist Party’s main ideologue, wrote in Svobodny´ zı´trˇek that the ‘Russians have acquired several aspects of Western culture thanks to Marxism and its rationality’.24 The evangelical leader Josef Lukl Hroma´dka was convinced that ‘the whole of Europe, not just Czechoslovakia, is

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following the path of socialisation’.25 It seemed impossible to imagine reconstructing the world on anything but socialist lines. Indeed, this idea was defended even by the fiercest opponents of Soviet socialism, such as the democrat Ferdinand Peroutka.26 The president of Czechoslovakia, Edvard Benesˇ, underlined this when he asserted that the war against fascism had strengthened the ‘truly democratic and popular’ character of the Slavic regimes.27 His position was similar to that of the communists who defended the idea of a Czechoslovakian culture that was ‘national in its form and democratic, popular and progressive in its content’.28 In the autumn of 1946, as the Czechoslovakian parliament was discussing plans for reconstructing the country, criticism of liberal capitalism’s lack of regulation came up again and again. The communist Rudolf Sla´nsky´ described the impotence of interwar governments that ‘did not and could not intervene in the economy and the financial sector. It was the prerogative of financial magnates.’29 The social democrats held a similar view. For Oldrˇich Smejkal, liberalism ‘could not reestablish the balance between supply and demand, between production and consumption [. . .] In an unregulated competitive environment, the free play of competing powers ended in victory for the strongest and most developed.’30 It was not, however, simply a case of following the Soviet planning model. The social democrat president of the National Assembly, Frantisˇek Tymesˇ, gave a warning: ‘Our economic situation is different from the Soviet one. But we have much to learn from it. Their wide experience in planning is precious to us and to our economy.’31 The ‘but’ was all important. The two-year Reconstruction Plan (1947– 8) brought a return to the economic dirigisme of the 1930s. Its objective was to exceed the 1937 level of industrial production by 10 per cent and to reach, at the very least, pre-war levels in agriculture and transport through increased productivity and improved resource management. The plan also tried to respond to the pressing issues of providing new housing, repairing infrastructures and reducing the structural imbalance between the Czech lands and Slovakia through a programme of accelerated industrialisation. Starting a virtuous cycle of growth was intended to create the right conditions for all sectors and regions to develop in harmony and raise the general standard of living.

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In temporal terms, the plan followed the traditional logic of the capitalist production system – the ‘factory system’. To attain its ambitious objectives, it required a significantly larger workforce, the redistribution of qualified workers to sectors with the most urgent need, more highly qualified workers, an increase in serial production and a boost to exports and research and development.32 However, in key areas, such as energy, metal production and chemical and machine industries, the law required the Reconstruction Plan’s objectives to be attained in the first year, meaning that these goals would be exceeded during the second year. Thus, while 17,746,000 tons of coal had to be produced by the end of the two-year plan, 16,374,000 tons had to be produced by the end of the first year alone. For some especially important sectors that had suffered damage during the war, the plan went even further: it simultaneously set an objective and stated the degree to which it had to be exceeded. For example, while the plan stated that 15,240 rail wagons had to be produced by the end of the plan, it also declared than 16,750 wagons had to be produced by the end of the first year!33 Through this logic of acceleration, breaking with the ‘factory system’, the law was intended to launch the necessary growth to revive the economy.

The dawn of charismatic-rational time The difficult conditions in which reconstruction had to be carried out, and changes in the domestic and international situation, accelerated the shift towards a Soviet-inspired temporal structure. In 1947 conflict between the Communist Party and other parties intensified and extended beyond the economy. The former, which had supported the bill that introduced the two-year plan, insisted that planning, as a method of organising economic life, could replace the free market. It also declared that it was the only public body capable of ‘not only proposing a plan, but also carrying it out’, and the only one able to take charge of reconstruction. The communist press boasted of the first encouraging results of the plan – production objectives fulfilled by 102 per cent in January and February 1947, and by 106 per cent in March – and the red banners of the May Day parade in 1947 proudly announced the percentage increases in production. The parade needed to demonstrate the population’s support for the plan. All the conditions would now be right, Rude´ pra´vo concluded jubilantly, for ‘the planning system, so distant from the anarchic capitalist system, to triumph’.34

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At the same time, the country’s position in the international context was deteriorating. In July 1947 Czechoslovakia rejected the Marshall Plan.35 Previously, there had been some credible alternatives to the methods proposed by the communists, but this rejection meant that turning towards Eastern markets was the only remaining option. One by one, Western European countries stopped buying Czechoslovakian products. To be competitive, the country needed to conform to international norms, increase quality and diversify its products, but shortages and poor-quality materials forced businesses to move in the opposite direction and produce products of a much lower standard. During the winter of 1947 –8, the country became increasingly isolated. The trade deficits with the United States and the United Kingdom increased, while the credit balance with Central and Eastern European countries grew. The foreign-exchange reserves that had been accumulated thanks to the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA) ran out, and after the Prague coup in February 1948 it became effectively impossible to obtain loans from the West: they were only granted on condition that business owners who had been adversely affected by nationalisations were reimbursed. Towards the middle of 1948, the lack of raw materials and hard currency resulted in factories suspending production or even halting it altogether. In June 1948, shortly after the resignation of President Benesˇ, the government tried to end the crisis by increasing contacts with the USSR. In the same year, exports to the Soviet Union immediately increased, to the detriment of other partners both in the East and the West. These decisions reinforced Czechoslovakia’s integration in the Soviet sphere of influence. In November 1948 the government removed from the first Five-Year Plan all contracts that had been signed before 1945 and had not yet been fulfilled, thus effectively depriving them of resources. The creation of Comecon in January 1949 and the signing of bilateral agreements with Eastern countries and the USSR from 1950 onwards confirmed these countries’ entry into the Soviet zone of influence.36 Czechoslovakia signed its trade agreement with the USSR on 3 November 1950. By that stage, the country could no longer manage without Soviet deliveries and orders, and it had no alternative but to accept the conditions of an agreement that gave it the role of a key industrial power in Central and Eastern Europe, with a monopoly on certain products.

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Despite these increasingly difficult circumstances, the Reconstruction Plan had a largely positive outcome. While in 1946 industrial production was only at 70 per cent of its 1937 level, it rose to 107 per cent at the end of 1948, with objectives exceeded by between 110 per cent and 150 per cent in key sectors. On the other hand, there were persistent problems in the food and agriculture sectors, and in distribution and construction, which hindered improvements in living standards, one of the plan’s main objectives. Only half of the new promised houses had been built by 1947. As for agriculture, its mediocre results – wheat production reached only 70 per cent of its target – were mainly due to under-investment in the sector as well as the 1947 agricultural reform and the loss of much of the workforce to industry. The results for meat production were even worse: beef production reached only 58 per cent of its target in the first semester of 1948, while pork reached 54 per cent and milk 62 per cent.37 Nevertheless, the plan was largely successful. In just two years pre-war levels were generally attained, and the foundations of Slovakian industry had been laid. This success seemed to confirm the effectiveness of planning. The lessons learned during the execution of the Reconstruction Plan were taken into account when the first Five-Year Plan (1949– 53) was drafted. This plan, largely conceived after the Communist Party assumed power in February 1948, placed Czechoslovakia firmly within the new structure of linear time, making explicit reference to the Soviet model. It continued the reconstruction process while also deploying a large-scale acceleration process: between 1949 and 1953, the plan required increases of 48 per cent in the country’s gross national product, 57 per cent in industrial production, 16 per cent in agriculture and 130 per cent in construction. Fifty per cent more people would be employed in construction and 6 per cent more in transport; workplace productivity would increase by 32 per cent in industry and 20 per cent in agriculture and construction. In 1953 per capita consumption would reach 135 per cent of the 1949 level. To catch up with industry, agriculture was set the task of completing its part of the plan in just four years. This seemingly endless succession of goals attests to the desire to take control of the rhythms of production, accelerate them and thus set in motion a revolutionary transformation of society – a shift from popular ´ lehova´, the democracy to socialism (Figure 1.2). Veˇra Mouralova´-U spokesperson for the plan, summed it up as follows:

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Behind these figures, ladies and gentlemen, we can see the blossoming of economic life and an increase in productive strength hitherto unknown in our land. A capitalist country could never achieve such swift development except in exceptional circumstances, for a brief period and under very specific conditions [. . .] Over the next five years, the pace and extent of the construction and restructuring of our economy will not be temporary. On the contrary, they will form the basis for future construction, which will resemble that of the USSR and a few people’s democracies which already plan their economy.38 The plan was designed to protect the country from the vagaries of the economic situation. Ministers referred to these vagaries frequently, but overcoming them was simply a case of setting an objective and then achieving it. Mouralova´-U´lehova´ asserted: ‘Despite the poor harvest and sabotage, living standards in our country, especially for working people, are considerably higher at the end of the two-year plan than they were at the time of the best harvests and of general plenty under the old

Figure 1.2 Poster for the first Five-Year Plan: ‘The Five-Year Plan, the path to socialism [. . .] Let’s get going!’

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capitalist order.’39 The plan also seemed to offer a chance of finally escaping from the capitalist model of alternating growth and crisis, and to set a different course – one of constant, regular progress. The National Socialist Party minister Bozˇena Pa´tkova´ underlined the fact that, without the Reconstruction Plan, the economic difficulties experienced in 1947 would have resulted in ‘total chaos, with people pursuing selfish interests for maximum personal gain, which would in turn have caused famines. That would have been a catastrophe for all those who couldn’t pay and for whom the free economy would not have provided the minimum needed to survive.’ She described capitalist society as ‘unable to integrate all workers into production’, whereas a planned economy could ‘ensure regular, continuous progress for all workforces, and full employment’. Meanwhile, Jaromı´r Bera´k, a People’s Party minister, asserted that, thanks to planning, the economy would be ‘rid of the disorderliness inherent in capitalist societies’.40 When workers exceeded the plan’s targets during their shifts, the idea was that this would set off a chain reaction in the whole economic system. The charismatic power of individual initiative would bring about a heroic reduction in the time needed to fulfil the plan’s aims. In turn, this would lead to accelerated development, pushing the ´ lehova´ defined these processes country closer to socialism. Mouralova´-U as ‘internal increase’ and the ‘plan’s dramatic dynamics’.41 Thus, control of time in the economy would accelerate social time.42 The gradual revision of the objectives during the first Five-Year Plan can also be interpreted in this light. Most of the objectives were revised upwards in 1950 and 1951. To eliminate the disparity between the Czech lands and Slovakia, the industrialisation of Slovakia had to increase not by 75 per cent (compared to 1948), as initially required, but by 168 per cent. Similarly, heavy industry production was initially required to increase by 57 per cent, but a revision of the plan called for it to be four times the 1948 figure (Figure 1.3). Moreover, the plan was expected to transform society in both material and spiritual terms. The mobilisation of all productive, financial and human resources – ‘all reserves, wherever they may be’ – through ‘constant study and improvement of production methods, through continuous monitoring of the objectives [. . .] would change the face of our state, our people, and our society, which will gradually become a socialist society’, declared the communist Member of Parliament Va´clav Juha.43

Figure 1.3 Poster for the second year of the first Five-Year Plan, 1950: ‘The second year. We are increasing the pace. Onwards towards socialism’.

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The revolution that the plan would bring about was also portrayed in a symbolic light. Just like the Law on Nationalisation (1945) and the Law on the Reconstruction Plan (1946), the Law on the (first) Five-Year Plan was passed on the anniversary of Czechoslovak independence – 28 October. Thus, the most radical changes to the country’s economic and social life were deliberately placed in the context of the national revolution. In his closing speech after the parliamentary debate on the Five-Year Plan, Oldrˇich John, the president of the parliament, maintained that the nation’s independence – officially attained on 28 October 1918 – was still incomplete: This independence meant that working people remained dependent on the liberal capitalist order. It was bolstered, it is true, by the nationalisation programme of 28 October 1945, which freed people from private capital, and then again by the Reconstruction Plan initiated on 28 October 1946. Nevertheless, independence will never be fully accomplished except through socialism, as is set out in the Five-Year Plan adopted on 28 October 1948.44 The anniversary of national independence was also renamed ‘Nationalisation Day’. These three actions formed the basis of a new social contract, drawing a line under delegitimised democracy. The new ‘popular’ democracy would now be based on the weakening of the role of private capital in the economy in favour of the State, on removing social inequality through redistribution, and on the new temporal structure incorporated into the plan.

The Soviet model In order to understand the logic of acceleration and compression of time introduced in Central and Eastern Europe after 1945, it is necessary to go back in time and examine the temporal aspects of the first Soviet FiveYear Plan (1928– 32). After 1917, the Bolshevik State attempted to break away from capitalism and invent its own socio-economic model, one that would allow a backward country, ravaged by years of war, to catch up with more developed countries as quickly as possible. The Soviet economic recovery project was therefore centred on increasing the pace of development. Stalin devoted a few informative passages to it in his speech on

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‘Industrialisation of the Country and the Right Deviation’, delivered to the plenum of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) on 19 November 1928: The issue of increasing the pace of industrial development would not be such a crucial one for us if our industry and technology were as developed as Germany’s [. . .] If this were the case, we could develop our industry less quickly without the worry of falling behind capitalist countries. We would, on the contrary, be aware that we could overtake them with ease.45 In order to catch up with industrialised countries as quickly as possible, Stalin proposed the creation of an ‘economic system of planned heroism’. This new economic model was deployed in the context of the Soviet Union’s first Five-Year Plan.46 The already ambitious objectives of this plan were revised upwards several times, first in April and May 1929, and then at the beginning of 1930. Finally, the 16th CPSU Congress in June – July 1930 restated the principle of the compression of time by proclaiming the completion of the plan in just four years.47 On 4 February 1931 Stalin addressed heads of industry, confirming the direction to be taken: No, comrades, we must not slow the pace of industrialisation [. . .] Slowing down means letting ourselves be overtaken, and those who are overtaken are vanquished. We are fifty or a hundred years behind capitalist countries. We must catch up in ten years. Otherwise they will crush us.48 Increased production speeds would be maintained. Time could no longer pass at its own pace. It had to submit to the will of the planner and reflect the race for speed that was driving society forwards. Therefore, a plan could be seen as successful only if its targets were exceeded, for this set in motion a virtuous circle of progress, breaking with the linear passage of time that governed capitalist societies. Making exceeding targets integral to the plan was a way of institutionalising the compression of time. It meant that the period necessary for a task to be completed could be defined, and that the pace of its completion could be controlled more easily.

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Accelerating the pace of economic development was the main method by which the USSR hoped to equal, and then overtake, capitalist countries during the 1930s. This idea was extended to Central and Eastern Europe after the war. ‘Reality has exceeded the plan,’ a Czech journalist remarked in 1961, in reaction to the extraordinary extent to which agricultural production targets had been exceeded.49 The same could have been said 30 years earlier, when the first Soviet Five-Year Plan was completed in four years and three months.

Deploying a New Temporal Structure It was one thing to conceive a new economic temporal structure and to integrate it into the plan, but it was quite another to deploy this concept on a large scale and to demand its realisation by key economic players. How did such players react to the transformation of their day-to-day environment and the new temporal structure of production?

Scientific organisation of production The Five-Year Plan’s initial target was a 145 per cent increase in the gross national product. In the end a 151 per cent increase was achieved. In 1951, with the plan well under way, the figures were once again revised upwards, especially in the construction and industry sectors. However, these increased targets were not backed up by any increase in the allocation of resources. They were therefore achieved mainly by increasing the workforce by 2.5 per cent in general, and 15 per cent in industry, between 1949 and 1953. These new employees were principally young people and women: the proportion of women in employment increased from 38 per cent in 1948 to 41 per cent in 1951. Rationalisation, especially in non-priority sectors such as textiles and food production, where workforces decreased, and the standardisation of production in industry that had already begun during the war also generated increased productivity. In the automobile industry, for example, the range of vehicles for private use declined from 17 to just 3 models between 1938 and 1948. This simplification made exports more difficult because foreign competitors quickly outstripped Czechoslovak cars.50

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The example of CˇKD demonstrates the influence these events had on various economic actors. Many industries were nationalised and became part of the CˇKD group: 8 in 1947, then 26 in 1948. These nationalisations were not, however, part of CˇKD’s strategic development plan. Rather, they were imposed by the State on an administrative basis and they transformed CˇKD’s structure and field of specialisation. The business’s own development strategy, based on coordination between its various factories, clashed with the government’s strategy of prioritising development according to geographic area. To encourage the development of certain regions, the Ministry of Mechanical Engineering ordered that several production sites, and sometimes whole factories, must be transferred to these areas. Such transfers gave the business a new structure and quickly transformed CˇKD into a giant of heavy industry, with a near monopoly in the country and even the whole Eastern Bloc. Its range of production, which had been very diverse between the wars, was reduced in order to meet ‘growing demand for energy equipment’. In the mid-1950s CˇKD started to specialise in electronic engineering, metal casting and haulage vehicle production (train carriages, locomotives and trams), and it continued to dominate these fields until the end of the 1980s. As part of the two-year Reconstruction Plan (1947–8), CˇKD was chosen from 152 others to be a pilot business, where planning techniques would be tested on a few key products. For these products, the two-year plan’s targets were mandatory and progress was monitored by the Ministry of Mechanical Engineering.51 The idea was that the choice of products would be agreed by the ministry, the business’s directors and production teams.52 In other areas, CˇKD would set its own targets according to current orders and depending on its production capacity, but it did introduce basic elements of planning by producing framework plans. The introduction of new management techniques continued throughout the two-year plan, allowing the whole business to be adapted to the plan by 1949. CˇKD also negotiated with the relevant authorities to set investment levels and export plans for the coming five years, especially for the USSR and other Eastern Bloc countries. Western clients were no longer among any of the plan’s priorities.53 At first, the directors were relatively open to the idea of planning. They thought that it would improve management practice and bring the

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business up to date with ‘the demands of the modern era’.54 Synchronising production lines was already widespread practice for organisations the size of CˇKD, and it was hoped that the strict nature of the plan would mean that deadlines were met more often.55 The new management practices organised production according to time. Daily, weekly and monthly monitoring would scrutinise the number of hours and overtime worked, as well as the productivity and quality of the work (measured by the number of faulty products). The objective was not only to assess how well the plan was being carried out but also to inspire a spirit of ‘future competition between businesses’: production outcomes had to be displayed on boards positioned at the entrances of workshops and production sites. However, reality did not match up to the theory. The absence of clear ministerial directives caused significant delays in the realisation of the Reconstruction Plan. Businesses were not informed of the plan’s objectives in time to integrate them into their annual production plans and to allocate enough resources to achieve them. In theory, the two-year plan’s objectives should have determined the rest of the business’s production plan. Business processes are complex, and many parameters have to be taken into account: the availability of labour and materials, the use of machines, managing highpriority orders and less urgent ones, and so on.56 In 1948, as in the previous year, objectives were communicated to production teams on 9 October and the ministry instructed the directors to return their detailed and definitive plan by 20 October!57 Due to the lack of time, the twoyear plan’s objectives were set out in purely quantitative terms. Raising targets during the execution of the plan sent workshops into disarray. ‘In foundries, orders are piling up and every client [. . .] demands that we deliver theirs as soon as possible’ was a common complaint only six months after the plan was launched. Shortages of materials sometimes led to redundancies, while other sectors lacked workers. Each new modification to the plan, each new transfer of a priority order to other production sites, disturbed the working of the business and ‘brought chaos’ to the workshops.58 The plan’s objectives were too ambitious in relation to the available resources and the business’s production capacity. Fully aware of this, the directors of CˇKD anticipated the two-year plan and identified in advance those production lines where increasing the pace would be most straightforward: serial production. These lines would be the first to be

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integrated into the plan, thus encouraging standardisation.59 Given that higher targets did not mean more resources, CˇKD shifted investment from low-priority areas (such as chemistry) to those favoured by the plan (such as metal production). Finally, the management anticipated the logic of the next plan and set out its objectives in quantitative terms. Other objectives, such as quality, efficiency and research and development, became low priorities. For 1947–8, CˇKD obtained only 60 per cent of the investment that it requested from the State. With such limited resources, the business could carry out only ‘very minor repairs’, and it had to shelve projects in order to prepare for the future Five-Year Plan. The available funds were allocated to priority sectors such as mechanical engineering (68 per cent), while CˇKD’s areas of expertise, such as electronic engineering (30 per cent), were neglected. The annual report for 1947 observed that this imbalance would probably ‘result in increased disparities [. . .] between mechanical engineering and electronic engineering in the years to come’.60 CˇKD’s directors estimated that, relative to what it needed to carry out the plan, the company lacked nearly 1,200 people in 1947 and 8,570 people in 1948 (that is, a workforce deficit of 29 per cent).61 The usual recruitment areas near the factories were already exhausted, so the business had to look further afield, yet it was unable to provide lodgings or any of the necessary facilities, such as cloakrooms, canteens and so on. Special buses had to be laid on to ferry workers to sites that were ever further from where they lived. During 1948, in further efforts to fulfil the plan’s demanding targets, employees began to work night shifts and some production lines were relocated to regions where there were still local pools of workers.62 Furthermore, businesses in the same sector shared qualified personnel, causing conflicts between these pooled workers and permanent employees over remuneration and status.63 As a way of tackling the shortage of qualified workers, the directors eventually considered opening a technical school to train its own apprentices, with the intention of fostering self-sufficiency.64 There was a lack of coordination between CˇKD’s workshops and the management. Production teams carried on fulfilling orders that were not part of the plan and for which there were insufficient resources, thus increasing their already heavy workloads. The plan’s focus on volume favoured standardised production to the detriment of the refined and

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personalised production necessary for certain products, such as cranes. This drop in quality was worsened by the fact that research and development were not part of the plan’s priorities. In addition, the State provided resources for certain priority production lines, especially in mechanical and electronic engineering, so production in these sectors increased disproportionately (by up to 200 per cent compared to 1937), creating disarray in the workshops. Difficulties delivering materials also delayed production, and in some cases CˇKD had to deliver a set of tools first, then the equipment that these tools were designed for, which in turn caused delays in other sectors.65 Given all these factors, it is not surprising that CˇKD achieved only 51.7 per cent of its priority targets and 72.8 per cent of its export targets in 1948, although the results were better for deliveries to the USSR (91.5 per cent) and to the other people’s democracies (84.3 per cent). The business was ‘consistently in last place’ in the rankings, and in October 1948 the CˇKD’s representative at the National Metal Sector Business Conference denounced the plan’s ‘sabotage of the national economy’.66 The first Five-Year Plan (1949–53) saw the spread of these new management practices. The plan’s objectives for CˇKD were very ambitious. The goal was a 215 per cent increase in production by 1953, compared to 1946. In certain priority areas, such as energy, it had to attain the stratospheric heights of 600 or even 700 per cent. Orders for small and medium private businesses and the production of consumer goods for individuals had to be pushed to the back of the queue in favour of big clients. To ‘protect the national economy from crisis’, exporters had to focus on Central and Eastern European countries. Furthermore, new factories would be built in under-industrialised regions, to ‘contribute to improving the standard of living and the political consciousness of local populations’.67 The concept of accelerating production was integrated into operational plans. Responding to pressure from the authorities, CˇKD’s directors decided that the objective of increasing productivity by 32 per cent was ‘relatively modest’, so instead it would be increased by ‘at least 50 per cent’. The production teams followed suit and committed themselves to exceeding the plan’s targets by between 10 and 28 per cent, depending on the production site. Planning methods were introduced almost everywhere, based on time sequences developed during the Reconstruction Plan.

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All of this meant profound changes in the daily running of the business. New production speeds resulted in regular power cuts as well as material and labour shortages, aggravated by the transfer of 2.6 million Germans, who had made up 30 per cent of the workforce in the energy sector in 1945. These were replaced by inexperienced workers transferred from other sectors and groups of often inefficient volunteers. The workshops lacked qualified employees, and their refusal to provide managers with precise information on their production capacities meant that realistic operational targets could not be set. To resolve this problem, in 1949 the directors launched a self-management campaign inspired by a similar one implemented by the Czech shoe manufacturer Bata during the interwar period. This initial campaign had been designed to promote individual initiative, but in 1949 the aim was to identify the guilty party whenever there was a problem or failure. The idea of profit-sharing at the heart of Bata’s system was rejected for being ‘too capitalist’.68 In the weeks following the coup d’e´tat of February 1948, there was a purge of business directors and works councils. At CˇKD, between 50 and 70 per cent of the members of the works councils were replaced, depending on the site. In a speech to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia in November 1948, General Secretary Rudolf Sla´nsky´ stated that Party organisations should not ‘impose their will’ on businesses but should emphasise ‘cooperation’. In reality, the management could do very little without Party support because the latter controlled the allocation of resources to businesses. As for the works councils, they were instructed to ‘familiarise individuals with the new working conditions’, to organise socialist competition and to oversee the establishment of performance-related pay. Transformed into go-betweens for the regime, unions nevertheless showed little interest in managerial tasks, so they were heavily assisted by Party representatives.69 These organisational changes sparked conflicts among the workforce. In April 1948, ‘conditions were still difficult’ in several of CˇKD’s production teams, with the employees ‘divided into two camps’. The new works council could not ‘ensure a spirit of peace and cooperation’. The workers, especially older ones and supervisors, regularly protested to the new management and to the works council. German managers who were still in their posts could no longer assert their authority, while the

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new ones, who were often very young, lacked qualifications and therefore commanded little respect. As a result, discipline was ‘very bad’ and ‘direct intervention by the works council and the production committee’ only added to the ‘chaos’.70 CˇKD attempted to tackle this unrest by exerting more control over its production teams. Directors started to play a much larger role in monitoring the fulfilment of the plan. The CEO was ordered to supervise the planning process – from the setting of targets through to their execution. He also had the authority to modify the plan. The general management was responsible for establishing and executing the plan in the various production teams, while managers at the different sites guided the workshops in their fulfilment of objectives. The government dictated these objectives. These conditions meant that everybody was focused on defending their own positions, and relationships between businesses became extremely hostile. Businesses complained that the ministry was ‘illinformed about actual production capacities’ on the ground, and that it made little effort to get to know them. It merely ‘gave orders’ without ensuring that businesses were able to comply with them.71 In the face of government-imposed delivery deadlines, business representatives often simply observed that they ‘could not guarantee’ to fulfil them, or even that doing so would be ‘impossible’.72 Production workshops also quickly realised that the only power they had over management was the supply of information about their actual production capacities, which was necessary to develop the plan. They used this to their advantage by often underestimating the figures and thus guaranteeing that they would be able to fulfil the plan’s objectives. Management techniques linked to the introduction of the new concept of linear time in production thus met with governance problems and resulted in a loss of trust between the parties involved. As the economy was centralised, businesses gradually lost control over production. Distribution became the responsibility of national bodies that were created in April 1948. CˇKD’s sales management team, which was run by 265 people in December 1945, was reduced to 211 people in September 1948, and it was to be ‘kept to a minimum, as distribution companies will gradually take on this work’.73 By 1952, all that remained was a small sales section which acted as an intermediary between the national distribution company and CˇKD’s production sites.74

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This meant that the business was completely disconnected from its clients, both domestic and foreign, and was forced into the role of passive producer carrying out the ministry’s orders via the intermediary of the plan. The directors’ role was reduced to coordination, administration and monitoring. This loss of autonomy was confirmed in 1958, when CˇKD was officially transformed into an ‘economic unit of production’, underlining its passive role as a ‘producer’.

New discipline in the workplace Social transformation based on the compression and acceleration of time depends heavily on workers and their capacity to surpass themselves. The communist Member of Parliament and CEO of CˇKD-Stalingrad Jindrˇich Sˇnobl summed this up in 1948: We must bear in mind that decreasing production time is the best way to improve our output. Organisation, planning and goodwill are worth nothing without decreased production time. For this, we must rely on the best of the best, on workers who will themselves establish this production time and find ways of decreasing it and thus increasing productivity.75 Czechoslovakian legislators – like their counterparts in other countries in Central and Eastern Europe – drew on the Soviet example. In the USSR, the first Five-Year Plan (1928 – 32) was accompanied by an ‘emulation campaign’ that aimed to impose tighter discipline in workshops.76 At the 16th Conference of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in 1930, Stalin stated that this emulation ‘brings about a basic change in people’s views on labour, [. . .] transforms labour from drudgery and a heavy burden [. . .] into a matter of honour, a matter of glory, a matter of bravery and heroism’.77 The notion of the elite worker combined the Taylorian capitalist virtues of rational work discipline with the socialist ideal of selfsurpassing revolutionary heroism, and the elite worker’s heroism knew no bounds save for those he set himself. However, after initial enthusiasm for the idea of the elite worker, pressure on the workforce resulted in conflict between employees and management. The Stakhanovite movement, launched in 1935, was an attempt to overcome these conflicts.78

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Initiatives relating to socialist emulation in Central and Eastern Europe after 1945 were largely based on the Soviet model of the 1920s and 1930s. In Czechoslovakia, the spokesperson for the Five-Year Plan, Veˇra Mouralova´-U´lehova´, stated that the strength to take on the challenge of the plan would be found ‘wherever work is freed from exploitation, where the people work for their own good and where science and technology serve the cause of peace’.79 A campaign entitled ‘Working Better for the Five-Year Plan’ was launched on 1 January 1948 with the aim of improving work discipline by combating lateness and absenteeism. Workshops held ‘exemplary work weeks’, and the best workers and teams were announced each month. The desire to introduce discipline into the relationship between workers and time began to bear fruit. In March 1948, CˇKD estimated that each worker was an average of 4.7 minutes late each day, an ‘improvement of 2.5 minutes compared to 1947’. The campaign was contributing to ‘improving diligence, reducing absenteeism and increasing initiative’, boasted the 1948 report. Moreover, it had saved the business 526,038 crowns.80 In April 1948, the Confederation of Trade Unions launched another emulation campaign intended to transform the relationship between production and linear time. This was the ‘counter-plan’ ( protipla´n; see Figure 1.4). Its aims were to ‘increase productivity without increasing input’ and to fulfil objectives two months before the end of the Reconstruction Plan, in good time for the anniversary of independence on 28 October 1948. April was proclaimed ‘counter-plan month’. The organisation of the campaign itself illustrates the spirit of the timereduction effort: it was announced on 9 April and production teams were supposed to register their commitments ‘immediately, by 10 April at the latest’. These promises were announced on May Day – a symbolic date which marked the official beginning of the effort to fulfil them.81 Another campaign, the ‘super-plan’ (nadpla´n), aimed to exceed the plan’s high-volume production targets. Businesses stressed the democratic character of these campaigns: the reduction of production times had to come from workers’ own initiative. Such initiatives were supervised, but the management did not impose methods on the workers: they would find their own practical solutions. The recommendation was that ‘each worker should express his own views on measures to be taken, and feel free to take on even bigger commitments than those set out in the counter-plan’. Thus, the new,

Figure 1.4 Poster for the counter-plan for the first Five-Year Plan, 1948: ‘We will get there! We will complete the two-year plan by 28 October 1948, thanks to the counter-plan!’

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stricter time discipline would be real, emerging from the working class and its spirit of solidarity.82 At CˇKD, work teams committed themselves to reducing production times and increasing productivity from 25 to 39 per cent, but conflict arose when the management and the trade unions examined the proposals. Production, which was divided among various sites according to individual products rather than series of products, was difficult to adapt in order to increase pace. The campaign was also beset by material and labour shortages. Mr Wasserbauer, a CˇKD engineer working at the Blanı´k site, observed that the ‘plan was conceived with optimal capacities in mind’, and it would be difficult to increase such capacities. In order to carry out the counter-plan, teams introduced a six-day week and postponed all paid leave until Christmas. The movement of elite workers (u´dernı´ci) – another form of socialist emulation – was launched in summer 1948. Following the Soviet example of udarnik, the title ‘elite worker’ was accorded to any worker who exceeded their average for at least a month. Their behaviour also had to be exemplary and they had to help their colleagues with their work.83 Through work discipline and a heroic increase in pace, the campaign was intended to reduce the time needed to complete the plan, and thus trigger a compression of time in production. The elite worker Machal Vdoviak reached the first Five-Year Plan’s target for his role on 17 April 1951, almost 20 months early.84 The campaign ran for just three years, although many groups subsequently sprang up to emulate its ideals, the most famous of which were the Socialist Work Brigades, launched in 1958. All of these forms of emulation aimed to make radical changes to the work culture in workshops, thus contributing to the management of new professional relationships and, ultimately, to a socialist society. Just as capitalism had given rise to modern management techniques, socialism sought to modify work practices to fit the new constraints of productivity. In this regard, what was happening in Central and Eastern Europe after the war was part of a wider process of modernisation driven by the desire to rationalise time management.85 The people’s democracies were set apart by the fact that their factory work was overseen by the plan, which combined Taylorian rationality with the charismatic power of constantly surpassing oneself and the acceleration and compression of time. It was not merely a question of rationalising

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time, as it had been under capitalism. This new attitude signalled a transformation of the working class, the creation of ‘a new type of worker’, the ‘worker-hero’, the embryo of a new communist man who would ‘no longer work for the capitalists, but for himself’. His personal commitment would lead him to develop a new, ‘active, creative relationship to work’.86 The worker would seize the initiative and take control of the machine to harness time, while the plan would indicate the path to follow. At the launch of the Reconstruction Plan, a Member of Parliament, Bozˇena Pa´tkova´, exhorted Czechoslovakia’s workers to ‘take your hands out of your pockets and get to work! [. . .] The Republic knows the value of honest work! And even those who have hesitated until now can prove their worth and join the movement!’87 The work that would effect this transformation was promoted as a fundamental value of the new regime. It was through work, not through property, as in the liberal capitalist era, that an individual’s place in society would henceforth be defined. Workplace heroism was rewarded by a complex system of bonuses and advantages: extra food rations, discounts in shops, holidays in union-owned properties and so on. Meanwhile, the salary system was revised to promote performance-related pay. In 1946, a quarter of the workforce was employed under this system. This had already risen to 62 per cent by the end of 1948, and it reached 73 per cent in 1956.88 A range of symbolic rewards were put in place, following the Soviet example of glorifying activism, from the ‘Day of the Heroic Workers’, introduced in 1948, to the national honours that were awarded to the best workers, distributed for the first time on the eve of the 1 May celebrations in 1951.89 Goals were initially set quite low in order to win workers over to these new work practices. Moreover, even when the process was well under way, workshops did not necessarily declare targets that would be difficult to attain. Rather, they set easily achievable objectives so that their teams would receive pay rises. Almost all of those who exceeded their averages received some sort of honorary title and consequent reward. For instance, in December 1950, almost 480,000 workers – approximately 8 per cent of the workforce – held the title ‘elite worker’. Did these various campaigns foster new discipline in the nation’s workplaces? The State was attempting to implement socialist competition in a difficult context, amid shortages of labour and material and serious distribution problems. A significant proportion of

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Czechoslovakia’s urban industrial workers in the 1950s still lived in rural environments, and businesses had to factor the impact of the changing seasons into their plans.90 This made imposing greater work discipline extremely difficult. Rather than a new, faster pace, there was sporadic output, and the regime condemned sudden increases in production just before a deadline (a phenomenon known as sˇturmovsˇtina). The high value placed on individual heroism caused tension within collectives. The new discipline imposed from above removed any sense of worker initiative, and performance-related pay isolated some workers from their teams and undermined solidarity within the collectives. Workers and managers colluded to tinker with the figures and generate convincing targets, revealing the impossibility of working like a Stakhanovite for 365 days a year. The movement’s success also contributed to a rise in inflation at the beginning of the 1950s, which the regime tried to counter in 1952 by tightening its control over salaries. Irregular production and the disruption of traditional workplace rhythms resulted in temporal disarray, which in turn gave rise to a distinctive relationship to time, ‘whose pace and rhythm [were] more fragile. Constantly interrupted, time in the workplace became entangled with private time or “free time”.’91 Hours spent waiting for raw materials to arrive, time ‘killed’ in meetings and coffee breaks, the scheduling of doctors’ appointments or even shopping trips during work time, employees leaving early on Friday afternoons and arriving late on Monday mornings: all these signalled a mingling of work time and leisure time. In the 1970s and 1980s, the problem of lateness and absenteeism became an even greater concern for managers. The difficulty of imposing a new pace of work, and employees’ resistance to this new pace, led to a degree of irregularity that could be seen as a sort of temporal anarchy.

Maintaining the New Temporal Framework The new temporal framework – based on the ideas of industrialisation as a motor for development, the mastery of production speed (planning) and individuals surpassing themselves (Stakhanovism) – seemed to be working, at least until the beginning of the 1950s. At that point, however, internal economic difficulties, increased social discontent and the repositioning of economic partners within Comecon quickly cast

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doubt on its success. These complicating factors highlighted the importance of maintaining the new culture of time over the long term.

Pursuing temporal orthodoxy Economic problems began to emerge at the beginning of the 1950s. Bread rationing, which had ended at the start of 1950, was reintroduced in February 1951. Prices in the free market continued to rise. The regime tried to identify those responsible by hunting down ‘interior enemies’, and October 1950 saw the start of a series of arrests, targeting supposed ‘spies and traitors, enemies of the people’. Nevertheless, in November 1951, more than 10,000 people participated in a wave of strikes and demonstrations against shortages. In consequence, fourteen Party dignitaries, including Rudolf Sla´nsky´, the General Secretary and one of President Klement Gottwald’s closest associates, were arrested. Eleven of the fourteen received the death sentence in November 1952.92 In the early 1950s, the whole of Central and Eastern Europe experienced economic problems and consequent protests. For instance, in May 1953, strikes broke out in Bulgaria’s Plovdiv tobacco factories, but these were neutralised quite quickly. The following month, shortages of everyday supplies and the hardening of work regulations (such as the imposition of performance-related pay) sparked strikes in the German Democratic Republic. Almost 5 per cent of the workforce took part, with an especially high turnout in the construction sector.93 The Soviet authorities initially encouraged the leaders of satellite countries to boost agricultural production, reduce the inequality between various sectors, and improve the general standard of living by shifting investment from heavy industry to the consumer sectors. Also in June 1953, the Czechoslovak government attempted to combat inflation and destroy the black market by implementing a currency reform. There was a subsequent drop in the standard of living, which sparked some demonstrations, most notably in Plzenˇ.94 The leadership reacted by abandoning the new Labour Code, which had been based on the East German system. Investment in machine industries was reduced by 16 per cent, and iron production also decreased. Real wages, on the other hand, increased by 10 per cent, which prompted a 14 per cent rise in household consumption between 1953 and 1954. The powers of the police were reduced and a new collective leadership was installed, reducing the risk of the development of another personality cult.

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Finally, plans for a second Five-Year Plan were shelved and replaced with annual operational plans in 1954 and 1955, which allowed the leadership to set more short-term objectives.95 Similar adjustment policies were adopted in all other Central and Eastern Europe countries. The GDR had secured loans from the USSR and these, coupled with the latter’s willingness to accept reduced war reparations, allowed it to emerge from the crisis relatively quickly. Agricultural production began to increase (with a rise of 18 per cent), while individual consumption rose by 20 per cent between 1952 and 1954, largely thanks to developments in the private sector. In Poland, the Six-Year Plan (1950– 5) allowed real wages to rise and the standard of living to improve. Meanwhile, consumption in Hungary rose to pre-war levels. These policies allowed such countries to maintain social stability without calling the economic development model into question. Within Party ranks, however, there was much criticism of this model. At the 10th Congress of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia in 1954, business representatives condemned the plan’s incoherent directives and frequent policy changes. Many insisted that the Soviet development model no longer corresponded to today’s economic development, and some economists even called for decentralisation. In response, the Party leaders ascribed the economic difficulties to faulty application of planning techniques, too much bureaucracy and managerial errors. The meeting’s final resolution made a few references to a ‘new direction’ but restated the conclusions of the 1949 meeting almost word for word. The course set by the first Five-Year Plan remained unaltered. Similar criticisms were voiced at the Party’s national conference in June 1956, which heard complaints about over-centralisation, poor organisation of distribution and insufficient business autonomy. The Soviet planning model remained a reference point for the Czechoslovakian version, but the country’s vice-president and head of the National Planning Office, Otakar Sˇimu˚nek, admitted that the ‘mechanical adoption of Soviet organisation methods’ was hindering economic development.96 Still, this criticism remained limited to certain sectors and businesses and never prompted broader debate. The conference merely decided to reduce the number of economic indicators that would be used to draw up the plan and agreed to relax Party control over

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businesses’ methods of implementing it. Casting doubt on the fundamental ideology of the plan – the concept of accelerating time and predicting economic progress – would have been difficult, so no substantive reform could be contemplated. Furthermore, Czechoslovakia was in a better economic position than other countries of Central and Eastern Europe, which enabled it to raise pensions and, in October 1956, reduce working hours (from 48 to 46 hours per week). De-Stalinisation was making little progress.97 The situation started to change with a reform initiated by Kurt Rozsypal between 1958 and 1960. Working together for the first time, Czechoslovakia’s politicians and economists now focused on improving planning techniques and introduced a limited amount of decentralisation. Their proposals (spanning 10 –15 years) were designed to set the country’s long-term economic direction. In the meantime, Five-Year Plans would indicate the medium-term direction and annual operational plans would allow businesses more autonomy. The number of economic indicators in each plan was reduced. To simplify planning and reinforce business autonomy, the reform recommended the creation of ‘economic production units’ (vy´robneˇhospoda´rˇske´ jednotky) – essentially conglomerations that would unite businesses in the same sector. These would encourage the sharing of technology and knowledge and would allow businesses to negotiate directly with their clients and suppliers. The State’s only involvement would be to check that the contracts correlated with the aims of the longterm plan. To stabilise the business environment, prices would be allowed to change only once every five years. In terms of investment, only key projects would be centrally managed; others would be co-financed, with the State providing half of the money and businesses the other half. Profitsharing was established, and the use of gross production as an indicator was condemned as misleading because it favoured high-volume production. Hence, a profit-level indicator would be introduced in its place. All of these measures were intended to encourage businesses to take more of an interest in fulfilling the plan’s targets, partly because those that failed to do so would now have to bear the expense of their losses. Finally, salary scales were harmonised in an attempt to correct inequalities between different sectors and groups of employees.98 Notwithstanding all of these initiatives, the reform’s impact was limited: it affected only the industrial sector and made the relaxation of

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centralised control conditional on another increase in the pace of production. Instead of true decentralisation, the reform simply clarified the roles of the various parties involved: there would still be central control of long-term plans and even, via intermediaries, short-term operational plans. Businesses continued to resent the onerous planning process and the obstacles it posed to innovation, with its interminable negotiations with central bodies and the political wrangling that inevitably ensued. The creation of industrial groupings merely consolidated the monopolies of certain large businesses (such as CˇKD) and increased their inertia. The existing economic development model and its temporal framework, which was founded on mastering time, thus remained unchanged. In 1959, the First Secretary of the CPSU, Nikita Khrushchev, launched a crusade to ‘catch up with and overtake the West’, and announced that the shift to communism would be complete by 1980. The second Czechoslovakian Five-Year Plan (1956 – 60) announced that industrial production had to increase by 54 per cent (and consumer goods production by 40 per cent) in order to ‘accelerate the pace of development in industrial production’. These targets may have been lower than those in the Reconstruction Plan and the first Five-Year Plan, but they were still challenging. Meanwhile, agriculture was instructed to increase production by 30 per cent and complete the Five-Year Plan in four years – two wholly unrealistic objectives, given the state of the sector after collectivisation. To mark the introduction of the new Five-Year Plan, in October 1958 workers in the Prague region committed to fulfilling the annual plan by 20 December.99 Despite the ambitious targets, initial results were largely encouraging. Rationalisation and reorganisation, as well as the creation of production teams and economic teams, meant that businesses could start to specialise, reduce the range of products they produced and become more flexible in their use of resources.100 In consequence, between 1956 and 1960, real wages rose by 17 per cent and real incomes by 26 per cent, while steady imports ensured a balance between supply of and demand for consumer goods. Shops were better stocked and there was even a 1.8 per cent drop in the cost of living, which led to relative social stability. Moreover, in 1959, industrial production increased by 11 per cent – 2 per cent more than predicted – and the Five-Year Plan’s targets were

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largely met by March 1960, nine months ahead of schedule.101 The idea of compressing and accelerating time seemed to be working. Following these successes, the government adopted a new constitution that proclaimed the country’s transition to socialism and invited society to ‘unite its strengths for the transition to communism’.102 In July 1960, the KSCˇ declared that socialism was superior to capitalism, and promised to resolve the housing problem by 1970. President Antonı´n Novotny´ announced that the aim of the third Five-Year Plan (1961– 5) was to ‘build a developed socialist society’. To achieve this, gross national product would have to increase by 42 per cent, consisting of a 50 to 56 per cent increase in industrial production and a 21 to 23 per cent increase in agricultural production.103 The Planning Bureau drafted a report entitled The General Outlook for Development (1960), which predicted that Czechoslovakia would ‘construct the fundamental materials and technique of communism’ and ‘overtake the most developed capitalist countries in terms of production and per capita productivity’ over the course of the next 20 years.104 Other Central and Eastern European countries shared this optimism. After 1956, Hungary reached a positive balance of trade and specialised in producing a small number of flagship products. In the GDR, although the country continued to rely on the importation of raw materials, from 1955 onwards it was able to focus on a few key industrial sectors, such as chemistry, optics and fine engineering. Good results in these areas allowed the country to reduce its investment in heavy industry and develop its consumer-goods sectors. In the USSR, the Seven-Year Plan of 1959 –65 aimed to ‘catch up with and outstrip the United States in industrial output’ and allow the country to advance, by 1970 or even sooner, ‘to first place in the world both in absolute volume of production and in per capita production’.105 But this fac
ade of impressive progress concealed a more complex reality. In Czechoslovakia, agriculture was only 40 per cent mechanised, and in 1959 agricultural production exceeded 1938 levels by only 4 per cent. This resulted in a further devaluation of agricultural jobs: the average agricultural worker’s salary fell from 65 per cent of the industrial worker’s average in 1955 to only 59 per cent in 1960. This fuelled a rural exodus: between 1948 and 1960, the sector lost 40 per cent of its workforce. At the same time, the rural population was ageing: by 1958,

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over-50s made up 41 per cent of the agricultural workforce.106 The annual plan for 1961 was only 98 per cent fulfilled, and the large gap between success rates of projects managed centrally (92 per cent) and by businesses (105.7 per cent) showed that the centralised system had been pushed to its limits.107 The early 1960s also witnessed a change in the international situation. The Comecon countries, by now Czechoslovakia’s main commercial partners, had all developed their industries during the 1950s and were beginning to produce items that they had previously imported. They were also seeking to acquire Western currency and higher-quality products by exporting to Western markets. Meanwhile, Czechoslovakian firms were finding it increasingly difficult to sell their products, whose quality was declining, even in the East, so the country’s trade gap increased.108 The authorities were faced with the reality of the situation in 1959 when China, Czechoslovakia’s fourth-largest trading partner, broke their long-term commercial agreement. Three years later, China accounted for no more than 0.5 per cent of the country’s exports.109 It was becoming increasingly difficult to fulfil the plan. Although businesses frequently did manage to meet their targets, they were forced to rely on human and material sacrifices which damaged both infrastructure and expertise. During the 1950s, production became costly and obsolete due to a lack of investment and innovation. For instance, at CˇKD, a 1959 survey revealed that the average age of the business’s machines was 17 years, compared to just 11 years in capitalist countries. And it was not unusual to find workers using machines that were 50 or 60 years old – dating back to the Austro-Hungarian Empire.110 In these circumstances, increasing production became a serious challenge. In 1960, at the moment when the management formally adopted CˇKD’s operational plan, 35 per cent of the necessary resources were unavailable.111 Such problems meant that the business had to make compromises as it tried to fulfil each successive plan: targets tended to be met, but ‘often at the last minute, with an enormous effort, and with no account taken of the economic aspect of it all’.112 On the whole, goals were attained only through the selfless dedication of the employees. For instance, in 1958, some of CˇKD’s production teams exceeded their overtime quotas by nearly 80 per cent, but this led to ever more sick

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leave due to illness or accidents.113 Two years later, CˇKD clocked up almost 240,000 overtime hours – an average of between 5 and 13 hours per employee per month, depending on the production team. Nevertheless, the production teams often struggled to pay the workers their bonuses.114 The employees learned to preserve their strength by exceeding their averages by very small amounts. The revolution of time structures in production was thus replaced by new protocols and selfpreservation strategies – a ‘new world’ in the workshops born of the desire for a ‘quiet life’. None of these warning signs was heeded. On the contrary, the government interpreted this poor performance as a consequence of the faulty application of planning techniques. Attention was focused on priority sectors (heavy engineering, machine industry and energy production). Plans to reduce working hours were abandoned and production was stimulated through socialist competition. A second shift was even contemplated, whereby some key businesses, including CˇKD, would work for 24 hours a day.115 Centralised control of the country’s businesses gradually resumed, first via the introduction of monthly and three-monthly plans, then under the auspices of yearly operational plans conceived and monitored by ministers. Centralised control of prices and salaries was also reinforced.116 Little by little, targets were revised upwards as new operational plans were put in place, supposedly in the interests of ‘correcting productivity errors’.117 The Rozsypal reform was definitively killed off by the return of centralisation in 1962.

Difficult reforms Pursuing a development strategy based on accelerating the pace of production in heavy industry caused serious structural problems for businesses. Growth, which had still been at 7 per cent in 1961, hovered between just 1 and 3 per cent throughout the rest of the 1960s, and was sometimes even negative.118 In 1962, the Central Planning Office announced that it would be impossible to fulfil the plan’s targets in key sectors. CˇKD followed the same path: in that year it fulfilled only 69.3 per cent of its production targets. The annual operational plan was modified five times during the year, with variations in production volume sometimes reaching 15 per cent. Accumulation of stock also reached unprecedented levels (with a rise of 139.1 per cent) and CˇKD,

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deemed insolvent by the National Bank, had to submit to a very restrictive system of loans.119 The situation deteriorated during the course of the year, and even jeopardised the preparation of the new annual plan for 1963. The Statistics Office admitted that it was no longer a short-term problem but a deeper, structural issue. The government modified the bill for the third Five-Year Plan several times, then abandoned it altogether. Instead, the intention was to create a Seven-Year Plan (1961–7), but this was then withdrawn for the same reasons.120 In 1963, a government committee was set up to examine the economic reforms. Its members included the economists Karel Kouba, Otakar Turek, and Ota Sˇik, who was a member of the Central Committee of the KSCˇ and director of the Economic Institute of the Academy of Sciences.121 Sˇik was prepared to compromise and managed to create a positive working environment in the committee, whose results were widely disseminated by the press, fuelling public discussion about the reform process.122 This focused on two points: restructuring and management reform. For the first time, the country’s image as an indomitable power of Central and Eastern Europe was openly questioned. The economists made several key recommendations: improve the country’s production quality to increase competitiveness; boost aluminium production; replace coal with petrol and gas; and provide greater support to new sectors, such as chemical engineering. They also advised that management reform could be improved by introducing some market forces into the ‘planning economy’ in order to simplify the drafting of plans and the allocation of resources. Several economists suggested that prices should be more closely linked to the market and that the plan should be limited to macroeconomic forecasts.123 The idea of the market as a tool to facilitate the plan gained ground. In response to changes in the USSR (Brezhnev replaced Khrushchev as the country’s main leader in 1964), Novotny´, who had previously been hostile to the reforms, gradually softened his position, although he still asserted that the plan was ‘the foundation of our economic activity’.124 The reforms that the Central Committee of the KSCˇ approved in the autumn of 1964 showed a certain amount of flexibility in terms of the status of businesses: they now had to be ‘responsible for their production activities’. However, the plan continued to dictate

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production volumes, prices and salaries, so businesses still had very limited autonomy. In 1965, a new reform project strengthened the link between the plan and the market: the basic elements of the plan would be centrally controlled, as would the structure of the various sectors, policy on prices and salaries, financial policy and business loans.125 Businesses could, however, now cultivate direct contacts with their suppliers and clients. Annual operational plans disappeared, and the main indicator of success was no longer the fulfilment of the plan’s targets but the level of gross production, which encouraged client satisfaction and business initiative. Any profits accrued to the businesses and could then be distributed among the employees in the form of bonuses. However, each business still suffered the consequences of bad management. The Party no longer intervened directly in production, although it did retain some power via the unions and the management of human resources.126 A significant fall in the number of sectoral groups – from 254 to 90 – encouraged competition but also monopolies. The price of basic food items and some other commodities and services could now fluctuate within certain limits. Of course, economists and businesses were disappointed by these relatively minor adjustments.127 Disproportionately fast development in priority sectors smothered other sectors. Every rise in industrial production triggered higher demand for energy and raw materials. Between 1950 and 1965, investment in coal production rose by more than 2.35 times the GDP. Eventually, production of raw materials could no longer keep up with the frantic pace of industrial development. Coal production reached its zenith in Czechoslovakia around 1965; at this point, even supplementing supply through imports from the USSR proved insufficient to meet the demand. Instead of setting the virtuous cycle of progress in motion, industry paralysed it by absorbing the majority of investment. The loss of commercial contacts with the West and poor cooperation between Comecon countries caused production to fall even further behind: in 1965, production in Czechoslovakia was already 10 or 15 years behind that of more developed countries. According to some estimates, only 30 per cent of the country’s production could compete on world markets.128 During the 13th Congress of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia in 1966, Ota Sˇik denounced his colleagues’ dogmatism and

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Table 1.1

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Relative salaries in industry (in percentages), 1948 – 70.129

Manual workers

Administrative workers

Technical workers

100 100 100 100 100 100

124.5 116.8 85.7 87.2 86.3 83.9

165.4 159.1 127.8 132.7 135.3 132.7

1948 1950 1955 1960 1965 1970

opportunism, and proposed a new reform programme. He suggested changing salary scales and the whole planning system by strengthening market processes.130 The idea was quite simple: employees had little motivation to increase their productivity in the absence of profit sharing and without variations in status within a business, especially if they felt undervalued. Since the end of the 1940s, salary differences between white-collar and blue-collar workers had declined significantly (Table 1.1). While higher qualifications still usually guaranteed higher salaries, in certain trades the supervisors earned less than the workers. Over the course of two decades, salaries determined by social status had given way to salaries determined by the status of certain trades and sectors (Table 1.2). Attempts had already been made to raise salaries for supervisors (in 1955) and managers (in 1958). Sˇik’s 1966 proposal, however, would introduce market pressures into the economy and force businesses to revise their salary scales, which were partly responsible for the general inertia. The idea was that this pressure would eventually encourage new stratification within businesses and sectors. The second component of the reform focused on raising prices. The thinking was that a rise of around 19 per cent would put considerable pressure on salaries, but centralised revision of the prices of all the Table 1.2

Average monthly income (in crowns), 1963.131

Miner Assembly-line worker Supervisor in an engineering workshop Highly specialised scientific worker

3,360 2,450 1,930 3,070

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1.5 million or so articles on the market was clearly impossible. As soon as such a revision was completed, another would have to be implemented. For this reason, prices would be increased on only 27,000 key products in the hope that the rest would adjust accordingly.132 The 1966 reform programme did not, however, call the new temporal framework into question: the idea of accelerating and compressing time was maintained in the structure of long-term plans and in their ultimate aim of overtaking capitalism. The overall organisation of production, which was based on setting targets and then exceeding them, also remained unchanged. In this sense, it was a question of tentative adjustment rather than wholesale reform. There were several reasons for this. Reforming the temporal framework would mean rethinking the whole economic and social model on which the people’s democracies were based: heavy industry as a driver of development, economic centralisation, the acceleration of progress and new work discipline. This would require the establishment of a new economic and social hierarchy in businesses, sectors and trades, one that rewarded qualifications and innovation. Even in the context of the Prague Spring such a development was impossible as it would mean departing from the social model of the people’s democracies. The reform was supposed to be implemented as part of the fourth Five-Year Plan (1966–70), but the economic situation was unfavourable: there was too little investment, unsold products were piling up and the country was stimulating consumption by importing and borrowing from the West, thus increasing its debt. Moreover, the introduction of market forces did not immediately produce the predicted effect, especially on productivity, because central control of prices continued. Several businesses had monopolies and the plan’s bureaucratic overmanagement was not reined in. The Five-Year Plan’s overall project quickly became obsolete, despite a revision in 1966– 7. The government postponed the next plan until 1970. In the meantime, annual operational plans were drafted instead. The Government Action Programme of April 1968 was intended to allow businesses greater autonomy in that it was supposed to go no further than regulating long-term economic trends. It was hoped that restructuring the economy would alleviate energy and raw material shortages. In May 1968, Ota Sˇik was appointed Vice-President in Charge of Economic Reform. However, three months later, the invasion of

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Czechoslovakia by the armies of the Warsaw Pact put a brutal end to the whole reform process. In January 1969, First Secretary Alexander Dubcˇek was replaced by the conservative Gusta´v Husa´k. The Law on Socialist Enterprise, which was to have given businesses more independence and had been in the pipeline since 1967, was never discussed in parliament and was ultimately forgotten. New KSCˇ directives in 1969 reasserted the plan’s central role in the economy and reiterated the concept of accelerating production.133 *** The Great Depression, the war and its aftermath brought about a social revolution in Central and Eastern Europe, which in turn gave rise to a new social model: the people’s democracy. In order to develop, this new model relied on the citizens’ willingness to achieve a new pace of progress with the help of the plan, and on accelerated production stimulated by socialist emulation. It was hoped that shortening production times would result in a compression and acceleration of time, which would allow Czechoslovakia to catch up with, and even overtake, Western countries, even though it had fallen far behind during the Great Depression and World War II. This development model would give rise to a new concept of linear time, bringing together the rational forces of work discipline and the charismatic power of the worker, whose heroic example would inspire all of society to unite to build socialism. To this end, the economy was radically restructured and production became focused on heavy industry. The suddenness of these changes caused day-to-day management problems and conflicts, both within businesses and between business and the state administration. Although the concept of acceleration was mainly applied to the economy, no area escaped it completely, for this acceleration, which was rooted in the plan, was also a social process that relied on selfsacrifice. Work was a source of revolutionary action and it was central to the regime’s values, defining each individual’s place in society. People could also see for themselves the effects of the new development model on their lives: there was a leap towards modernity, albeit in its socialist form, throughout Central and Eastern Europe in the 1950s.

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43

However, the negative effects of time acceleration became apparent from the very beginning of the 1950s. The desire to control linear time and economic progress gradually resulted in the exhaustion of human and material resources, skills and knowledge. This was clearly demonstrated as businesses lost their entrepreneurial energy and ability to copy with change. Time, in the context of economic life, cannot be in a permanent state of acceleration, and employees cannot work like Stakhanovites all year round, for years on end. The push to control the pace of economic progress contributed to the loss of independence for all of those involved, both businesses – which became merely motors for production – and workers, who were expected to maintain exhausting levels of effort. At the end of the 1950s, Czechoslovakia was deep in crisis, as were other countries of Central and Eastern Europe. If international competitiveness and sufficient improvements in standards of living were to be maintained, real structural reform was vital.134 Although discussion of reform eventually began, the political elite delayed its implementation. What lay behind this resistance to change? The process of de-Stalinisation started later in Czechoslovakia than it did in Poland or Hungary, even though the more radical economic transformation that the country had undergone meant that it was in need of more far-reaching and long-term restructuring than either of those states. Crucially, however, the rational, charismatic structure of linear time was bound up with a deeply embedded system of values and social processes that defined the regime’s identity. If it relaxed its control of the mechanisms of progress, the regime risked losing control of everything. Decentralisation gave more independence to both businesses and work teams, and encouraging more innovation would invite a certain amount of unpredictability into the system. In the long term, this was sure to challenge the KSCˇ’s monopoly of power. Consequently, the government preferred to make small domestic adjustments while also attempting to increase contact with both Comecon markets and capitalist countries. The pursuit of a rational, charismatic temporal framework subjugated rather than liberated economic actors. Moreover, it destroyed their individuality. State control of distribution deprived businesses of contact with both their clients and their suppliers. Instead of developing a long-term strategy, they had to react to supply-chain problems as and when they arose. The case of CˇKD perfectly illustrates this economic and

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human waste: having been the largest business in the country in the 1930s and 1940s, and a competitor of Siemens and Lincoln Electrics, it went into swift decline after 1945. By the mid-1960s, it was on its last legs, barely able to fulfil 30 per cent of its targets or sell its products, no matter how cheaply, to other Comecon countries.135 Disaffection was also rife among the ruling powers. The initial objective of promoting well-being by revolutionising the temporal framework turned into a desire to ensure that day-to-day living standards were sufficiently bearable to allow the government to hang on to power. Escalating economic problems meant that communism became an ever more distant dream. The aim of ‘catching up with and overtaking capitalism’ gradually gave way to no more than a hope to ‘reduce the gap’. The people’s democracies never managed to integrate change into their social and political projects. This intransigence was not, though, a consequence of centralised planning, which, to various extents, was introduced throughout Europe after 1945. It was more to do with their inability to abandon the idea of controlling linear time. This notion was all the more difficult to renounce because it was part of the very foundations on which the regimes of Central and Eastern Europe were constructed after 1945, just as the Soviet regime had been 20 years earlier. The rational and charismatic framework of linear time was called into question by the economic problems of the Khrushchev era (1953–64) and finally perished in the stagnation and economic crisis of the Brezhnev years (1964 – 82). Thus ended the cycle of temporal experimentation that had begun with the first Soviet Five-Year Plan in 1930 (Figure 1.5).

Figure 1.5 An allegorical float in Prague’s May Day parade, 1968. The sign dates from the 1930s and reads: ‘We urgently demand immediate well-being. Deadline: 2 May 1968’.

CHAPTER 2 THE LORD'S DAY, THE WORKER'S DAY

On Sunday, 3 May 1954, instead of experiencing its usual day of rest, Czechoslovakia found itself in the grip of unprecedented agitation. As the day began, adults went to work and children set off for school. No masses were celebrated. Sunday had been declared a day of work but not everybody obeyed orders. Some priests held mass at the risk of arrest, and in schools, although an average of 35 per cent of children were away from their desks, their teachers did not impose any punishments on the absentees. Many farm workers took the day off despite the urgency of their tasks. Most factories worked more slowly than usual, and shift workers only covered the night of Sunday to Monday. Short of workers, some businesses were obliged to remain closed. Small businesses remained partly privatised and these, too, took the day off. In Predmier, a town in northern Slovakia, a group of women came knocking at the butcher’s door in protest at his refusal to open up shop. Incensed at being woken early, the butcher swore at them and ‘told them that all he had was veal, which was found to be untrue’.1 This was not an isolated phenomenon. The policy of abolishing or shifting the traditional Sunday day off had been practised regularly in Czechoslovakia and other Central and Eastern European countries for several years. So what was the meaning of this disruption of the weekly rhythm? Regularity, or rhythm, is the basis of every temporal framework, whether physical (the movement of planets or the speeds of light and

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Figure 2.1

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The city of Zˇilina and the surrounding area in northern Slovakia.

sound), biological (the life cycles of living organisms or the beat of a heart) or social. Marcel Mauss and Henri Hubert observed in the 1920s that ‘the representation of time is essentially rhythmical’.2 Temporal rhythms allow societies and human institutions to organise themselves.3 Analysis of the way in which the weeks were shaped in the people’s democracies can therefore shed light on the structure and rhythm of social life that developed in these regimes. For many centuries, the week’s regular rhythm had been one of the most important temporal markers, delineating six days of work and one day of rest. Some biologists claim to have traced the seven-day rhythm to the beating of the human heart, blood pressure and acid levels in the blood. Could the seven-day week be an instinctive attempt to mimic the body’s internal biological rhythm?4 Whether it is or not, this temporal structure is certainly the result of social practices such as mass, family rituals and individual or collective activities. These practices endow Sundays with a particular meaning and provide the basis for

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communication and mutual understanding within communities.5 The weekly rhythm is thus both the condition and the expression of relationships between groups and individuals. Exploring how it is understood and experienced is one of the best ways to increase our understanding of the society in which it developed. The communist regime made no secret of its intention to implement systematic social reform. Indeed, the people’s democracies made this intention an integral part of their postwar identity. How did the weekly rhythm fit into this project? Did disturbing this fundamental point of stability reveal a desire to modify the overall framework of cyclical time? Redefining the weekly rhythm meant inventing new collective practices and new Sunday activities. Examining the relationship between religious tradition and communist innovation reveals the conflict between the values that the regime wanted to suppress and those that it wanted to impose. It laid the foundations for a new socialist society and a new socialist individual. By analysing the strategies employed by the regime to impose these values, we can assess the project’s originality, while the durability of this new weekly cycle sheds light on the extent of the project’s success on the ground. Analysis of the regime’s assault on the weekly rhythm will be based on a case study of Zˇilina in northern Slovakia (Figure 2.1). After the war, this region had the highest number of practising Catholics in Czechoslovakia. A 1955 national report on the state of religion placed it in the highest of four categories, along with the Gottwaldov region in southern Moravia.6 Between 35 and 46 per cent of the population were active, practising Catholics, and church leaders exercised great influence over them. According to the report, nationalisation, collectivisation and accelerated industrialisation had not led to the expected transformation in the population’s mentality. People remained ‘under the influence of rustic prejudices. The working class has not yet achieved the same level of understanding as the working classes in traditional industrial regions.’ Moreover, collectivisation increased resistance, as ‘naive believers mistrust cooperatives and seek protection from the Church, in which vanquished bourgeoisie and kulaks are building up support’. In 1957, the District Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia complained that such groups ‘rebel against our policies and do not appreciate socialism, even though they reap enormous benefits from its successes’. The report went on to blame the Church for this situation,

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Figure 2.2 A Soviet factory calendar from 1930 which combines the Gregorian calendar, the traditional seven-day week and Soviet and nepreryvka public holidays, with the first day of each cycle marked in a different colour.

because it ‘brought together the old exploiters, those who seek to regain the lost paradise either through prayer or through combat’. The war against religion was necessary ‘in order to make it disappear gradually’.7 Nevertheless, Slovakia and Moravia remained strongly religious: in 1968, the first systematic study of religious practice in Czechoslovakia since the war recorded that 70 per cent of Slovakia’s population were still practising Catholics, with a higher incidence among farm workers (91 per cent) than workers (73 per cent), and the highest of all to be found in communities of fewer than 2,000 inhabitants and among those who had no secondary education (79 per cent).8 Every historian relies on sources. This study has had access to documents covering the years 1945– 60, which makes it possible to observe transformations in cyclical time during the founding period of communist rule in Czechoslovakia. Taking this case study as a starting point, this analysis will seek to place its conclusions in a wider context, bearing in mind that the ability to invent new temporal structures relies on a stock of possible actions, some of which can be

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applied to large groups of people, some to small groups, precisely because they are bound up with personal experience. This observation applies for the whole of this study but it is particularly true of the notion of cyclical time, linked as it is to the perception and experience of individual cycles that may or may not be synchronous with the dominant temporal cycle.

Breaking Down the Conventional Time Cycle After liberation, Sunday was comfortably installed in the calendars of European countries as an essential fixed point: this day of rest followed six days of work. This was especially true in Central and Eastern Europe, which were still mainly rural. Religious and festive social occasions provided clear divisions between work time and periods set aside for rest and spiritual reflection.9 However, communist regimes were keen to attack these divisions. In order to understand the strategies that the postwar people’s democracies employed in the fight against the weekly rhythm, it is necessary to go back in time and examine how the Bolshevik regime tried to effect a radical transformation of the seven-day cycle during the interwar period.

Soviet precursors: nepreryvka and chestidnevki On 26 October 1923, the sixth anniversary of the October Revolution, the USSR’s Council of People’s Commissars abolished the seven-day week and replaced it with a five-day cycle called nepreryvka (Figure 2.2). The new year therefore comprised 75 five-day weeks, with each month containing six weeks. There were five national public holidays – 9 January (the anniversary of the 1905 Bloody Sunday massacre), 21 January (Lenin’s death), 1 May (May Day), 26 October (the October Revolution) and 7 November (Kerenski’s escape after the coup in 1917). In addition, an Industrialisation Day, celebrated in leap years, re-calibrated the calendar year with the solar year. This attempt to transform the calendar followed the example set in revolutionary France between 1792 and 1806.10 The main aim of the Bolsheviks’ new ‘Eternal Calendar’ was to optimise factory work: the authorities estimated that it would immediately increase production by 15 per cent. Another effect would be to ‘combat the religious spirit’ and shift the centre of social interaction away from the family and into work collectives.11

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Figure 2.3 A Soviet calendar from 1933 which shows the Gregorian calendar, the traditional seven-day week, five national public holidays and the chestidnevki six-day week.12

The reform was implemented via a few simple measures: every business’s workforce was divided into five groups, with each group identified by a colour (yellow, orange, red, purple and green). The first group worked for four days, then took the fifth day off. The second group began its week one day later, the third group two days later, and so on. This meant that every worker had one day off every five days, but those rest days varied across the five-day week, so four-fifths of the workforce was always at work on any given day. The new calendar thus allowed for continuous labour. However, these changes did not produce the expected benefits. Indeed, the nepreryvka had a harmful effect on the economy and on workers’ social lives. Continuous work in the factories allowed no time for essential maintenance on the machines, so they wore out quickly. It also posed a huge challenge for management practice and reduced the sense of personal responsibility, with catastrophic consequences for productivity.13 Friends, family members and loved ones who belonged to different work groups could no longer spend their free time together.

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In the long term, this caused relationships to deteriorate and provoked a hostile reaction from the population. The authorities began to reverse the reform at the beginning of the 1930s. From 16 March 1930, workers were permitted to take their days off at the same time as family members. On 23 October 1931, the Council of People’s Commissars abolished the nepreryvka week except in certain sectors, including public transport, cooperative shops and canteens. Finally, on 1 December 1931, it reintroduced a simultaneous day off for all workers. This did not mean, though, that the authorities reinstated Sunday as a day of rest. Rather, a week – now called a chestidnevki – comprised six days (Figure 2.3).14 Each month consisted of five weeks, and days were identified by numbers instead of names. The public holidays and the leap-year celebration introduced in the nepreryvka calendar were maintained. To solve the problem of 31-day months, businesses closed on either the 13th or the 31st day of each of those months. In February, to account for the 28 days, some businesses instated two weeks of four days each between 24 February and 6 March. The length of the working day was slightly reduced in order to compensate for the resulting loss of days off. The new reform partly

Figure 2.4

The National Work campaign, 28 October 1946.15

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addressed workers’ dissatisfaction and allowed for better maintenance of factory machines, but it still consigned the traditional Sunday day of rest to history.16 The chestidnevki proved deeply divisive in Soviet society. Although most of the urban population quickly abandoned the notion of the seven-day week, there was more resistance in the countryside. Peasants tended to observe both the old and the new calendars – taking off day six and Sunday – and markets were still held on Sundays. Some economic sectors, especially those that needed to calibrate with foreign timekeeping, such as maritime navigation and international trade, used both the traditional calendar and the chestidnevki. Officially, the latter remained in force from December 1931 to June 1940, but the government gradually abandoned it during that time. Elections in rural areas were held on official rest days, but only if these fell on a Sunday in the traditional calendar (or a Friday in areas with mainly Muslim populations). Moreover, newspapers, including the Communist Party’s Pravda, continued to publish according to the pre-reform Gregorian calendar.17 The administrative nightmare caused by the chestidnevki officially ended on 26 June 1940. After a 17-year hiatus, the regime reintroduced the seven-day week and designated Sunday the day of rest.18 The official reason for this return to the traditional calendar was to increase production, which had been badly affected by the chestidnevki due to the reduction in working hours that it entailed. There was another motive, however: to improve the image of a government that had proved incapable of imposing its authority in rural areas that had never abandoned the seven-day week.19 Furthermore, by 1940, the State had established firm control over the Orthodox Church and the country’s other religious organisations, so there seemed little danger in restoring Sunday’s traditional status.20

The indirect methods of the people’s democracies The Soviet attempts – and ultimate failure – to alter the seven-day week showed that social modernisation initiatives do not always achieve popular acceptance and can in fact meet unforeseen resistance. Just after World War II, as the people’s democracies started to implement their own social modernisation projects, they tried to take more account of traditional ways of life, especially in rural areas. This meant that their

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attempts to transform the weekly rhythm combined repressive policies against religious institutions with efforts to alter everyday social practices through gradual reorganisation and indirect methods. Indeed, the people’s democracies officially supported freedom of religion. For instance, in Czechoslovakia, respect of this right was consistently stated in all legislation concerning religious affairs, including the 1949 Laws on Religion, which remained the principal reference point for religious policy throughout the regime’s existence.21 The policy of fighting religious faith and rituals in daily life was implemented without ever acknowledging the direct link between the objectives pursued and the means employed. This had three significant consequences. First, it was necessary to regulate and oversee religious practices while distancing this regulation from its target – society – and thus avoiding potential conflict. Hence, in 1949, the Czechoslovakian government recruited squads of ‘religious advisors’ and established the Office for Religious Affairs to ‘regulate, steer and monitor all matters related to religion’.22 The religious advisors were charged with ‘monitoring the country’s religious life, observing religious associations and organisations, pilgrimages, religious services, missions and other religious gatherings from a political and religious point of view’.23 Their monthly, half-yearly and annual reports provide a very detailed picture of religious practice and the strategies that the regime employed to combat the traditional weekly rhythm. They always communicated any directives relating to Sunday worship verbally in order to stop the priests displaying hostile official documents in their churches,24 while the regime’s anti-religious policies were invariably justified on other – usually economic – grounds in the media. Similar cohorts of religious advisors were soon recruited in other Central and Eastern European countries.25 The second consequence of distancing the stated objectives from the means used to attain them concerned the very nature of the measures and the way in which they obstructed Sunday worship. Instead of targeting the regularity of Sunday worship and suppressing the traditional weekly rhythm by imposing a new cadence, as the USSR had attempted to do from 1923 to 1940, the people’s democracies utilised ‘alteration techniques’. Rather than focusing directly on Sunday worship, they concentrated on modifying the duration and order of the various practices that punctuated the weekly cycle.

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Finally, this strategy allowed the authorities to create alternative activities that would replace religious practices without any need to ban religious observance. The aim was to imbue the existing rhythm with new meaning that was more in line with the regime’s ideology without losing the basic structure of that rhythm. The authorities interfered with the weekly rhythm in both temporal and spatial terms. The first temporal modifications were introduced in 1946. Whenever the date of one of the regime’s public holidays approached (1 or 9 May, for example), or when it was nearly time for a major religious celebration (such as Easter, Christmas or New Year), the traditional Sunday day off would be shifted to another day of the week, so as not to interrupt work. This was especially true when national public holidays fell shortly before or shortly after a Sunday (on a Tuesday or a Friday, for example). When this happened, the weekly day off was shifted to the day before or after the holiday, and Sunday became a normal working day. Officially, these measures were adopted for economic reasons – to ensure ‘better distribution of work time’ and ‘maintain the pace of production’.26 This attempt to disrupt the traditional weekly rhythm whenever public holidays were approaching met with little success, especially in rural areas. Reports bemoaned ‘the lack of means of enforcement’ in such areas, but nonetheless recommended strict implementation when it came to industrial workers: ‘If one single business breaks the rule now, then all of them will do so in the future.’27 From the end of the 1950s, more people seemed to respect shifts in the timing of the weekly day off, especially during end-of-year celebrations. For many, this time of year was an opportunity to spend more time with family and to ‘celebrate, not with religion but with good food’.28 This development bore witness to the country’s gradual shift towards a consumer society. The policy of moving weekend days to accommodate public holidays was reinstated during the ‘normalisation’ process that followed the invasion of the country by the armies of the Warsaw Pact in August 1968. The management of the weekly rhythm became broadly similar to what it had been in the 1950s (Table 2.1). Another strategy to disrupt the traditional weekly rhythm was scheduling Sunday services very early in the morning (6 – 7 a.m.) or in the evening (6– 7 p.m.) in order to free up the rest of the day for

18/12 25/12 30/04 22/10 24/12 31/12

19/12 26/12 01/05 23/10 25/12 01/01

Important day (working day)

Public holiday

Weekend

Working day

1968 1968 1969 1969 1969 1970

Thursday

20/12 27/12 02/05 24/10 26/12 02/01

Friday 21/12 28/12 03/05 25/10 27/12 03/01

Saturday

Shifting Sunday in Czechoslovakia, 1968 – 70.

Wednesday

Table 2.1

22/12 29/12 04/05 26/10 28/12 04/01

Sunday 23/12 30/12 05/05 27/10 29/12 05/01

Monday 24/12 31/12 06/05 28/10 30/12 06/01

Tuesday 25/12 01/01 07/05 29/10 31/12 07/01

Wednesday

26/12 02/01 08/05 30/10 01/01 08/01

Thursday

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activities that the regime considered more worthwhile. Instructions on this matter were unambiguous: Our State must continue to support activities in workplaces to eliminate the failures of capitalism as soon as possible and speed up the construction of socialism [. . .] It is also vital that the clergy should not hold religious services except on Sundays because this disrupts the work effort and causes absences from the workplace and from meetings.29 Such changes to Sunday worship were particularly prevalent when agricultural work was urgent (harvest and the sowing season). For instance, in 1957, 4 August was designated ‘Harvest Sunday’, and the usual afternoon service was removed from the timetable. This was justified by the ‘need to maintain the pace of work’ as holding mass at the usual time ‘would disrupt the work effort and cause absences’.30 Observance of these directives was variable. In the summer of 1954, cooperatives seemed quite willing to implement the shifting of rest days, whereas independent farmers continued to work ‘very rarely on a Sunday, although even this situation could be considered a success because in previous years, the faithful preferred to let their wheat rot in the fields rather than work on a Sunday’. Some clerics even agreed to help out on the farms, a gesture that the religious advisors interpreted as a victory for the regime as priests were no longer allowing themselves to be ‘recruited by the Church into fighting against the building of socialism’.31 A number of local officials, in the city of Rovne´ for example, decided to replace Sunday work with an extra shift on Saturday afternoon after the usual working day. Still, cultural and sporting activities were not postponed or cancelled. For instance, in Dolny´ Hricˇov, the football match took place as planned – at 3 p.m. – as did a concert at Dlhe´ Pole and a film screening at Kola´rovice, while the harvest work continued.32 Similarly, religious services might be rescheduled in order to avoid clashes with important political events. For instance, on Sunday, 4 March 1951, morning mass was postponed until later in the day so as not to distract from the inauguration of a bridge in Bytcˇa. Almost 60 per cent of the department’s parishes obeyed the instruction, and

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some priests even participated in the ceremony.33 Mass was usually shifted to very early in the morning whenever 1 May fell on a Sunday. It had to finish before 7 a.m. so the workers had sufficient time to join their business delegations in the parade. ‘May Day is a celebration for all workers and cannot be disrupted by any other event,’ stated Bytcˇa’s religious advisor in 1955. Further masses were permitted after 6 p.m., once the national celebrations were over. Five years earlier, no members of the clergy had been invited to participate in the parade, as this would have risked ‘making [it] resemble a religious procession, and priests might say inappropriate things in their speeches. Furthermore, those taking part in the parade would maintain a reserved demeanour and would not show so much enthusiasm.’34 Inevitably, this break from the Sunday routine and the rescheduling of services to inconvenient times resulted in dwindling congregations and protests from the Catholic hierarchy.35 Such protests had a limited impact, though. In 1955, Pope Pius XII decided that the feast day for Saint Joseph the Artisan – patron saint of artisans and workers – should be held on 1 May. Joseph thus became one of the few saints to have two feast days each year: 19 March and 1 May. Both the clergy and the people’s democracies were willing to accept this innovation, but it ended in failure as the populations of Central and Eastern Europe largely ignored it.36 The obstacles that were placed in the way of religion were usually spatial, as the government sought to enclose traditional Sunday religious observance within churches in the hope of bringing about the ‘natural’ decay of the Church. Religious advisors therefore monitored the presence of religion in public spaces, especially during processions and pilgrimages. Decoration was increasingly limited in order to ‘reduce the spectacle which [. . .] draws crowds’.37 The construction of altars near churches and along processional routes was also increasingly tightly controlled, especially on Corpus Christi Day. Fewer and fewer candles were lit in windows, and processions did not pass beyond the grounds, or sometimes even the walls, of churches.38 Traditionally, refreshment stalls had catered to the worshippers on feast days, but now their number was strictly limited and they had to remain some distance from the celebrations. At the Visˇnˇove´ pilgrimage in 1959, pilgrims had to ‘cross the whole village to find a glass of beer or soda’. This dispersal ‘reduced the joyful nature of the event’ and ‘prevented people from

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concentrating on the religious services’.39 Transport was similarly limited in a bid to prevent the inhabitants of isolated villages from attending morning mass. For instance, in 1958, the Sunday timetable between the regional capital Zˇilina and the surrounding villages was restructured to eliminate all 7 a.m. transport from the villages and all midday transport in the opposite direction, making attendance at mass impossible for most rural residents.40 These spatial obstacles to religious observance seemed to achieve some success. In 1962, a national report stated: Most pilgrimage sites are losing their religious attraction and fewer people come to them from one year to the next. Several sites have disappeared or lost their traditional significance as pilgrimage sites. Outward signs of ceremony (special clothes for processions, the carrying of statues and crosses, etc.), have disappeared. According to the report, of 140 main pilgrimage sites in Czechoslovakia in 1949, only 9 remained by 1962.41 Nevertheless, religious participation seemed to increase from the mid-1960s onwards. Worshippers started to organise themselves and arranged their own transport in the form of cars, motorbikes and even special buses laid on by both private and public transport companies. In 1961, just 12,500 people gathered at Levocˇa, one of the most important pilgrimage sites in eastern Slovakia.42 By 1967, this number had risen to 28,000, mainly women from rural areas (80 per cent) and young people, who sometimes made up 90 per cent of those taking part in processions. Similar developments were observed in other places around the same time, such as at the pilgrimage sites of Velehrad, Hosty´n and Zˇivcˇa´kova´.43 Although Sunday remained a day of rest, the authorities frequently tried to interrupt it. New incursions into the conventional weekly rhythm, whether by shifting weekends or disrupting familiar Sunday activities, were intended to prevent the population from marking the divisions of the week in the traditional way. The old individual identity – built around a day of rest and the observance of religious rituals – had to give way to a new socialist identity.

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Giving New Meaning to an Old Rhythm Measures intended to transform the weekly rhythm were buttressed by strategies aimed at undermining its basic precepts. In the Christian tradition, ever since the Council of Trent (1545– 63), the sanctity of Sunday had been defined by three precepts which guided the faithful in their quest for salvation and provided the necessary spiritual nourishment to help them through the working week: abstaining from servile work; worshipping God; and attending mass.44 Czechoslovakia’s people’s democracy attacked all three of these principles.

From rest to work for the community In place of the liturgical instruction to abstain from all servile work to enable full devotion to God, the people’s democracies favoured Sunday work for the good of the community. The origins of this notion date back to the immediate postwar period. Under the auspices of the Reconstruction Plan (1947– 8), the government temporarily mobilised the population to work on Sundays in order to accelerate the reconstruction effort. This experiment would be repeated regularly in Czechoslovakia after the Communist Party (KSCˇ) took power in 1948. The parliamentary debates over the Reconstruction Plan allowed the country’s main political parties to clarify their respective positions. The KSCˇ wanted to create competition between the individual interests of practising Catholics and the general interest of successful reconstruction. In this sense, the debate over Sunday work fell within the context of discussions about public holidays that were taking place at the same time and for similar reasons. In October 1946, Antonı´n ´ RO), a Za´potocky´, president of the Confederation of Trade Unions (U member of the Presidium of the Central Committee of the KSCˇ and chairman of the Constituent National Assembly, delivered a speech about public holidays in parliament: I wonder for how much longer we will continue to burden ourselves with public holidays. 1 November falls on a Friday, breaking up the working week and resulting in production losses of at least half a billion crowns. We do not want to abuse religious sentiment, we respect it and understand its importance. We are

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even prepared to make all sorts of concessions. But in exchange, we have the right to demand some sacrifices from those who practise religion. This is required by the divine commandment to love one’s neighbour. Believe me, half a billion lost crowns is a serious blow to one’s neighbour [. . .] [Reconstruction] requires sacrifices and the overcoming of prejudice. It also requires us to put aside considerations of partisan affiliation and prestige. Let us remember the example of the Confederation of Trade Unions which had decided to reduce the number of supervisors in businesses and to integrate their members into production, to implement a 48-hour week and to abolish the limiting of Saturday work to six hours in mines, and to fight for the reduction in the number of public holidays, etc. The Council has shown that, for the sake of the twoyear plan, it is prepared to defend and implement unpopular measures. This attitude must not be limited to trade unions but spread to all organisations, political parties and especially their newspapers!45 The first National Work campaign was held on Sunday, 27 October 1946, following the model of the Soviet subbotniki.46 It focused mainly on young people. By aligning itself with the celebration of national independence on 28 October, and with the proclamation of the two-year plan on the same date, it aimed to unite the whole nation around the objective of reconstruction. People’s allegiance to family, religion or schools of thought had to give way to the national interest. The National Work campaign was elevated to the status of a national event the following year, when it was held on Sunday 26 October, once again in the run-up to Independence Day (Figure 2.4). Volunteers helped to repair roads and other infrastructure, and to build new homes. The communist press highlighted the unifying nature of the campaign, describing how it had, for one day at least, created the feeling that ‘sterile conflicts disappeared and everybody worked in unison and solidarity for the Republic’.47 Prime Minister Klement Gottwald summed up the spirit of the campaign when he stated, ‘In the face of frequently misguided partisan conflicts and political divisions, it rightly shows that the only way we can solve our problems and strengthen the Republic is by getting down to work.’48

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Figure 2.5

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The National Work campaign, 26 October 1947.

The government’s strategy eventually worked, and the boost it provided to reconstruction was relatively well received. Various statistics reveal rising levels of participation in the campaign. The first campaign mobilised almost 565,000 people, most of them (72 per cent) youngsters. Unsurprisingly, the greatest numbers were recorded in ´ stı´ nad Labem. Several Prague’s industrial regions, Ostrava and U businesses, including the Strakonicka´ zbrojovka armaments factory, recorded a 100 per cent turnout. Two-thirds of the hours worked for the campaign were in industry, with the rest in agriculture and other general work (such as road clearing and rubbish collection). In 1947, the second campaign mobilised 763,000 people, who undertook an aggregate total of 5.6 million hours of work.49 The third National Work campaign, which took place on Sunday, 21 March 1948, was officially launched by miners in the Kladno region. According to the press, this celebration of the ‘victory of February 1948’ – the coup d’e´tat that brought the Communist Party to

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power – was designed to demonstrate popular support for Klement Gottwald’s new communist government. To guarantee the success of this ‘National Work for Victory’ campaign, the regime called on the main mass organisations – the National Front Action Committee, the National Council of Trade Unions and the Youth Union. They managed to mobilise 1,373,000 people across the country, a figure that was interpreted as proof of widespread enthusiasm for the new government (Figure 2.5). The desire to unite the nation around the need for reconstruction thus merged with the idea of celebrating the new regime through work. After 1948, Sunday work campaigns were organised independently by businesses and departmental and regional branches of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia. As a result, work gradually became one of the regime’s fundamental values, defining each individual’s place in society (Figure 2.6). The gradual formalisation of Sunday work shifts was confirmed when the campaigns were integrated into production plans: they were now a way of ensuring a large reserve of work hours and compensating for Czechoslovakian business’s organisational problems. Often held on a political anniversary to boost the celebrations, they continued until 1967, when the new Labour Code established Saturday as a rest day. Thereafter, Sunday work campaigns were replaced by the ‘Honourable Work Saturday’ campaign. In the 1970s and 1980s, the number of working days in the year was dictated by law, so workers were no longer obliged to work at the weekend, as they had been in the past. Moreover, such calls occurred less often, usually in the run-up to a plan’s deadline. Nevertheless, on Saturday, 3 April 1976, the day of the 15th Congress of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, almost 8 million people, 88 per cent of the country’s total workforce, went to work, while another 2.8 million joined efforts to improve public spaces as part of the ‘Initiative Z’ programme.50

From worshippers to atheists The second strategy in the bid to eliminate Sunday’s religious significance was to put ‘religious time’ in direct competition with ‘socialist time’, while also encouraging ideologically suitable activities and dedicating Sundays to atheist education. In the 1950s, priests were encouraged to use their Sunday masses to discuss politics, mobilise the

Figure 2.6 Poster for holidays in properties owned by a trade union, 1949: ‘Holidays with the union, reserved for the best workers’.

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Figure 2.7 The National Work for Victory campaign, 1948: ‘It was just like a story . . . The worker pulls the beetroot [which carries the phrase ‘Our work’], and pulls again, but cannot move it. The transport worker comes to his aid. He pulls and pulls but the beetroot does not come out. The baker, the student, the soldier, etc., join them. They all pull together and . . . and the work for victory was a success’.

population for agricultural work, and spread the idea of peace. On public holidays, the Office for Religious Affairs would undertake ideological monitoring of the texts of Sunday masses. In 1949, the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Dukla – which marked the beginning of the Red Army’s liberation of Czechoslovakia – was celebrated in Sunday masses, while the nation’s bells were rung in honour of those who died in the fighting. Elections to local city councils were always held on Sundays, and priests were encouraged to use their masses to urge people to vote.51 Sometimes, the priests even led their congregations to the polling stations straight after the service. In 1954, every priest in Bytcˇa took part in the municipal elections, and ‘thus contributed to their success, by holding masses dedicated to peace, by taking part in public meetings during the election campaign, or by engaging in discussions with local people’. Other priests agreed to speak on local radio, such as in the city of Kotesˇova´.52 Sundays were reserved for various public campaigns, including to increase membership of the Communist Party (in 1947 and 194853), to spread information on how to combat the potato beetle

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(in 1951– 2), and to enrol in work brigades or volunteer for agricultural work, especially during the second Five-Year Plan, which stipulated a 30 per cent increase in agricultural production. In the run-up to major political events, such as May Day, propagandists would knock on people’s doors on Sundays to encourage them to participate in the celebrations as part of a truly localised campaign of political education. This continued throughout the 1950s and 1960s but petered out at the end of the 1970s. The vital role of ‘recruiters’ for political events was then assumed by trade union representatives in factories.54 The Church was another key communicator in the peace movement – one of the central principles of the world’s communist regimes.55 The Peace Movement of Catholic Clergy was founded in Czechoslovakia in 1951.56 It organised annual meetings and major political events, such as the anniversary of the nation’s liberation on 9 May (the ‘Sunday of Peace’ campaign in 195457). Priests communicated the message of peace during masses or pilgrimages, and organised petitions calling for world peace and the building of socialism, as in 1950 and 1951.58 Political anniversaries were routinely used to spread the message of peace. For instance, on 14 October 1951, in the run-up to the anniversary of the October Revolution, one Sunday mass focused on the ‘Virgin Mary, Queen of Peace’; the following week, the theme was ‘The alliance with the USSR: a guarantee of peace’.59 The pacifist message was also delivered during religious festivals, especially Easter and Christmas, although this did create a certain ambiguity as the religious aspect of peace was juxtaposed with the regime’s promotion of the socialist ‘peace camp’.60 This practice continued until the end of the 1960s. In addition, atheist propaganda aimed to ‘paralyse religious celebrations’ by fighting against entrenched opinions and beliefs relating to the origins of life. Such campaigns were conducted in such a way as to ‘avoid mobilising people to defend religion’, for that ‘would weaken the construction of socialism’.61 The ideological struggle thus shifted to the realm of culture. In 1955, the Office for Religious Affairs stated that culture ‘must gradually replace religious life [. . .] especially in very religious regions such as Slovakia and Moravia. The programme of cultural integration and awareness must focus on these regions.’62 Sunday became a day to visit the cinema or the theatre, or to attend lectures with more or less obvious anti-religious themes. Young people and women were the main target audiences. The nation’s religious

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advisors collaborated closely with theatre companies to develop the latter’s repertoires, frequently suggesting plays that emphasised the Church’s negative role throughout history (the Reformation, the Inquisition and so on) and promoting the benefits of secular rationalism over religious superstition and corruption.63 In Bytcˇa, a 1955 exhibition on weather forecasting was held in conjunction with a series of Sunday debates in which meteorological changes were explained in terms of ‘natural evolution’ rather than as a ‘consequence of divine intervention or prayer’.64 Attendance at such events was generally lower in spring and summer, when people were busy with agricultural work and other – more appealing – cultural activities.65 The religious advisors thus concentrated most of their activity in the winter months. Cinema screenings were by far the most popular of all the organised activities, so the religious advisors encouraged ‘the development of this means of mass education as much as possible’. There were screenings of anti-religious films almost every Sunday morning in the winter of 1956–7. However, the supply of appropriate movies, especially for young people, was quickly exhausted.66 Plays could be successful, but audiences varied depending on their subject matter and quality as well as the actors’ expertise. A play was staged at the local cultural centre in Hlinı´k in 1957, but the actors had to ‘wait until the end of evening prayers before they could begin, because there were so few people in the audience’.67 Debates and conferences were usually poorly attended, even by district council members and teachers, who were supposed to act as role models for other local people. In January 1956, a series of debates in Bytcˇa on a variety of philosophical subjects – the fight against feudalism, man’s mastery of nature and the study of different life forms – attracted an average of just 30–40 people per event,68 despite the best efforts of the local religious advisors. The discussions at such events tended to demonstrate the difficulty of communicating the atheist message. In April 1955, three lectures on the origins of life on earth, organised specifically for teachers, were met with ‘incredulity on the part of the audience concerning the possibility of creating life’.69

From religious to socialist socialising The authorities also tried to promote a new kind of ‘socialist socialising’ to replace the traditional social life that had been bound up with religious life. Various citizens’ activities, such as volunteer brigades,70

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the National Work campaigns, cooperative days,71 union meetings and other political events, promoted the improvement of people’s daily lives in a spirit of mutual aid and solidarity. Cultural activities that were designed in response to the population’s desire for more leisure pursuits – a desire that increased as working hours decreased and living standards rose during the 1950s and 1960s – were also organised on Sundays. These were mainly aimed at young people and often took place in the morning in order to compete with religious services and Sunday school. One report insisted that, ‘in order to break the habit of attending church, it is necessary to identify people’s needs and introduce measures to meet those needs’. Sunday needed to be filled with activities that laid the foundations of a new society based on cultured, fulfilled individuals.72 The authorities’ response to the feast of Corpus Christi, which was especially popular among young people, typifies their strategy (see Table 2.2). On the Sunday when it was celebrated, they organised a variety of cultural and sporting events described as ‘diversion activities’. In 1951, Sokol sporting events73 were held on this date even though the government warned against scheduling activities at the same time as religious ceremonies to avoid ‘seeming to be provocative’.74 Two years later, several inter-school sports events took place on the morning of Corpus Christi Day. In 1955, district firemen’s parades were organised, and there were parades by teams that were participating in the first Spartakiad in the major cities.75 From 1952 onwards, International Children’s Day – traditionally held on 1 June – was moved to Corpus Christi Sunday and included a wide range of cultural and sporting activities. In 1956, the authorities initiated a new Children’s Flower Festival, which resurrected the old practice of throwing petals during Corpus Christi processions.76 All of these initiatives were highly successful. In 1955, nearly 550 pupils from Bytcˇa’s primary school and their parents participated in the secular celebrations from 9 a.m. onwards. The religious advisors’ report stated that the ‘main objective was attained: otherwise, they would all have been at the Corpus Christi event’.77 Attendance tended to increase more rapidly in large cities than small or medium-sized towns: the wider variety of activities and the anonymity of the urban environment probably contributed to this. With car ownership increasing from the late 1950s onwards, more people were prepared to travel long distances to the cities for the most popular events, ‘probably to avoid being seen by their friends and neighbours’.78

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Table 2.2 Participation in Corpus Christi celebrations in Czechoslovakia, 1954– 5.79 Region Karlovy Vary ´ stı´ nad Labem U Gottwaldov Brno Jihlava Olomouc Nitra Kosˇice Zˇilina Total

1954

1955

1954 –5 variation (%)

24,400 26,600 190,100 195,400 92,600 87,100 310,000 121,600 130,000 1,177,800

11,700 15,300 179,900 179,300 83,100 76,500 250,000 105,100 119,800 1,020,700

2 52.05 2 42.48 2 5.37 2 8.24 2 10.26 2 12.17 2 19.35 2 13.57 2 7.85 2 13.34

The regime also tried to limit the consumerist and festive nature of Sunday processions and pilgrimages. As well as being occasions for worship, these events were rare opportunities to obtain consumer products that were not available from the State’s distribution networks. For this reason, the stands selling goods at processions and pilgrimages were monitored ever more strictly. At the Visˇnˇove´ pilgrimage in 1958, stands selling cloth and household products were banned. Only one stand selling basic food, one selling non-alcoholic drinks and bottled beer, and one selling sweets were permitted for an event that usually attracted between 4,500 and 5,000 people. Moreover, all three stands were within the grounds of the church, which caused much jostling. No amusements – such as merry-go-rounds or musical performances – were allowed in the town or the surrounding area.80 By contrast, many secular cultural and sporting ‘counter-activities’ were organised in the weeks leading up to important pilgrimages and on the days themselves. Of course, these did permit the sale of otherwise unobtainable consumer goods. The most striking example of this in Czechoslovakia was the Festival of Popular Traditions in Stra´zˇnice, founded in 1946 to coincide with the pilgrimage to Hosty´n, one of the most important places of worship in the country. In 1957, a new arts festival for young people was instigated in the same town. Sometimes, the motive was made perfectly clear, as in the case of the ‘cooperative markets’, where people could buy and sell surplus food. From 1952, the

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opening hours of state shops were extended into weekday evenings, Saturday afternoons and evenings and Sunday mornings. Officially, this was done to ‘allow women to join in the production effort’ by giving them more opportunities to do their shopping outside working hours. The measure was chiefly introduced in the main towns of each region, and in centres of industry and leisure, such as spa towns.81 In the mid1950s, the State also began to create shops that brought together several businesses (obchodnı´ domy), often very close to churches and sometimes even on church land.82 These shops were advised to remain open on Sunday mornings, especially if they contained bakeries, ‘in order to attract the attention of local people’.83 In the context of serious financial hardship, these counter-actions were undeniably successful: ‘People now spend their money on Sundays, and many no longer attend pilgrimages,’ concluded one report.84 The new practices that now defined how Czechoslovakian citizens spent their Sundays were based on each individual’s contribution to the community, self-sacrifice and atheism. Educational meetings, more leisure activities and the construction of a popular culture allowed new socialist forms of socialising to develop. This was supposed to form the basis of the new socialist society and raises the question of the ultimate success of the project to transform the traditional weekly rhythm.

On the Success of the Project Through analysis of the various strategies employed to mobilise the population and the regime’s attempts to create competition or cooperation between the Church and the State in the context of the weekly rhythm, it is possible to identify the ways in which power was exerted over everyday life. Examination of the relationships among the various social bodies that participated in the transformation of the weekly rhythm reveals the regime’s difficulty in modifying its meaning while maintaining its structure (the seven-day cycle), and allows analysis of how this process affected the population as a whole.

A lack of consensus over what Sunday meant From 1946 onwards, Czechoslovakia’s National Work campaigns created competition between many citizens’ religious faith and the need to

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rebuild the country. This approach to managing the weekly rhythm was embedded in the official calendar, which was defined by national legislation in autumn 1946. Its aim was to restrict the number of public holidays and increase the number of work hours in order to boost reconstruction. The Church kept a watchful eye on this new government policy, and the ecclesiastical hierarchy protested several times against measures that they saw as infringing religious freedom. The Archbishop of Prague, Josef Beran, used his investiture in November 1946 to encourage believers to ‘support the two-year plan, each according to his means’, but then, in the presence of Prime Minister Gottwald, who was attending the ceremony, he distanced himself from the government’s strategy: Our brothers and sisters who do not believe in God think that it is inappropriate to worship on Sundays and feast days, that to do so would be a theft of precious working hours from the State [. . .] You claim that without working on Sundays and during religious festivals, it would be impossible to complete the two-year plan. Let us worship on Sundays and feast days, as our faith demands. Do not impose work on those who feel it their duty to worship on these days. We will increase the pace of work and increase productivity. We will even overtake the others. It is with God’s blessing that we will succeed in all this. Without it, human effort would be in vain.85 Similar criticism was articulated at a meeting of bishops in Olomouc from 12 to 14 November 1946. The new Law on Festivals, adopted at the end of 1946, recognised eleven religious festivals and six other important days, all public holidays. However, six of the religious festivals (Epiphany, Good Friday, Ascension, Corpus Christi, Saint Peter and Saint Paul, and the Assumption and Immaculate Conception) and two important days linked to the country’s history (7 March, the birthday of the first president of Czechoslovakia, T. G. Masaryk; and 28 September, the feast of Saint Wenceslas) could be ‘suspended if the economic needs of the State demanded it’.86 The suspension clause for these dates was retained in subsequent modifications of the official calendar in 1948 and 1949.87 However, the 1951 Law on Festivals,88 which remained in force until the

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end of the communist regime, did not mention them at all. Hence, a temporary measure was made permanent as all of these feast days disappeared from the official calendar. The only festivals with religious origins to survive under communism were Easter and Christmas, and even these became increasingly secular and family-orientated. The Catholic hierarchy eventually deployed an arsenal of measures in a bid to foil the regime’s attempts to seize control of the weekly rhythm. Priests became the cornerstones of this power struggle, which began as open conflict but evolved into more of a competition when it became clear that the Church had no choice but to cooperate with the contested authority of the State. One of the most commonly used techniques was an informal exchange of services. The regime tolerated the retention of a certain degree of clerical authority in local communities in exchange for the priests’ cooperation in persuading people to fulfil vital economic tasks, such as agricultural work. Fully aware that the regime relied on their support, the priests learned to play their new, more ambiguous role and obtained concessions from local authorities regarding Sunday worship and religious services on feast days. In April 1955, the success of the National Work campaign was partly due to the help of priests who ‘mobilised the countryside’. The priest in the town of Bytcˇica even photographed the workers for the village newspaper, which the workers found ‘very pleasing’.89 In exchange, the labour required to fulfil the objectives of the plan was carried out as overtime on working days, not on Sundays. The regime quickly caught on to this strategy and tried to impose discipline among the priesthood through coercion. Blackmail and threats to transfer recalcitrant priests were the most common techniques.90 The priests of Bytcˇa soon fell into line after the local religious advisor threatened to pass a list of uncooperative clerics to the regional committee.91 Although the balance of power had already tipped strongly in the regime’s favour, deep mistrust of the Church persisted, and it was placed under permanent surveillance.92 A 1952 report insisted that Bytcˇa’s priests ‘perpetuate superstitious beliefs among the people and organise a variety of celebrations, even ones that did not exist before. They are developing a network of informants who help them to incite activities against the State and infiltrate our organisations.’93 This almost paranoid description of an ongoing religious threat illustrates the lack of consensus on both the concept and the reality of the

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most common temporal cycle – the seven-day cycle. Different temporal rhythms coexisted within society and reinforced very conflictual relationships between its members. These conflicts hindered social consensus: different social groups continued to live and function within different, or even contradictory, temporal rhythms.

The difficulty of imposing a new temporal culture The regime’s attempts to impose a new weekly rhythm were hampered by a lack of cooperation among those involved in the reform. The public organisations that were charged with mobilising people to attend the new Sunday activities saw the tasks that the religious advisors assigned to them as their responsibility.94 The flow of information between the centre and the periphery was intermittent, and the advisors often complained that they felt abandoned by the central administration.95 Instructions frequently arrived late or not at all, meaning that the advisors were unable to draft a coherent plan. Hence, they were forced to improvise, which allowed priests to obtain numerous exemptions on a case-by-case basis.96 The surveillance network that was set up to monitor religious practices was unreliable, with religious advisors and their ‘informants’ often playing ambiguous roles. Many members of both groups were recent converts to the regime’s cause, with most coming from practising Catholic families, so they usually retained close ties with ‘enemies’ of the regime. In 1953, one advisor complained that his wife would have become ‘a target for mockery’ throughout the town – including among the wives of Party employees – if she had not had their daughter confirmed.97 The need for religious advisors to lead lives that conformed to the very practices that they were supposed to be challenging created a situation in which the object of observation sometimes became indistinguishable from the subject. Teachers and local representatives of the Party and the new bureaucracy, who were often the only available models of the ‘new Socialist man’, also tended to avoid taking the stance that was expected of them. Many of them were believers who respected traditional forms of worship, attended Sunday mass, went to confession and sent their children to Sunday school.98 It was not unusual to see them attending church in the morning before going to work99 or arriving at work in their Sunday best on feast days or Sundays that had been designated

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working days.100 This observance of practices that perpetuated traditional temporal rhythms was common among office workers as well as members of the Communist Party and their families. Sometimes, similar behaviour was even observed among relatively high-ranking apparatchiks, such as, in 1952, the director of the 10th District Council Office in Bytcˇa, who was responsible for assessing managers and was, naturally, a Party member himself.101 Some of these people, especially teachers, expressed unease at having to play an active role in educating people to be atheists, not least because many teachers also acted as acolytes during masses.102 They helped with the preparations for feast days, especially Corpus Christi, and for religious processions and pilgrimages, sometimes even joining together as a group to do so.103 This behaviour was considered very damaging, was regularly denounced by religious advisors, and even became the subject of special government meetings.104 In 1957, a series of measures was implemented with the aim of eradicating this conduct ‘at least among regional Party employees’.105 In the mid-1950s, the regime finally admitted that it was incapable of offering people tempting alternatives to Sunday religious worship. There was a lack of diverse cultural activities, especially in the countryside. Cultural organisations were still rare, so the creation of cultural centres (domy kultury), municipal establishments providing leisure activities, became a key objective of the second Five-Year Plan (1956– 60).106 In the absence of other reliable bodies, it fell to businesses and cooperatives to organise the new Sunday activities. However, both were already severely stretched by the duties imposed on them by the State and were overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. People seeking amusement and social interaction thus had ‘no alternative but to attend Sunday mass’.107 This perpetuated the traditional idea that Sunday worship restored people’s energy and, especially in rural areas, the gatherings before and after the services were an important form of relaxation and amusement for workers. The authorities were forced to admit to failings in their exercise of power and to the absence of clear procedures to be followed on the ground – procedures that were vital if the Sunday routine were to be altered successfully. They quickly changed their priorities: while they waited for a shift in the current balance of power, they prioritised agricultural work and the fulfilment of the plan’s economic

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targets over the promotion of atheism and new Sunday social activities. The cooperation of the clergy was vital in order to convince people of the importance of contributing to key economic activities. Therefore, religious advisors spent much of their time seeking the clergy’s support, especially during the sowing and harvest seasons.108 Hence, the strict resistance to Sunday worship that the religious advisors were supposed to represent frequently had to be relaxed in order to reach compromises that were vital if everyday life were to continue.109 The regime was especially tolerant of traditions that challenged its new temporal rhythms when these traditions were maintained by ordinary people rather than the ecclesiastical hierarchy. For instance, initiatives to combat Sunday religious practice were frequently relaxed in the run-up to popular festivals, such as Easter, Christmas, Corpus Christi, processions and celebrations for local saints. On Sunday, 20 March 1955, a National Work campaign coincided with Palm Sunday. The Sunday service finished before ten o’clock in the morning in order to leave the rest of the day free for work, which caused much resentment among congregations and the clergy, and resulted in ‘considerable political damage’.110 The following month, another ‘Sunday’ work campaign was actually carried out on weekdays in most areas. The exceptions were the few towns with cooperatives (Bytcˇa, Divina, Teplicˇka and Lietava), where the regime enjoyed more support.111 In 1956, the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union called for better awareness of religious faith in Czechoslovakia. It concluded: The Central Committee of the CPSU had decided to order its committees in the regions and oblasts [. . .] as well as all its grassroots organisations to take determined action to eliminate mistakes in atheist propaganda and not to tolerate any insensitivity towards the beliefs of worshippers or clergy, or any administrative intrusion into the activities of the Church. It must be remembered that disrespectful treatment of Churches, clergy or worshippers goes against the Party line and against the constitution of the USSR, which guarantees freedom of conscience to all Soviet citizens.112 In this rather muddled context, worshippers sometimes took the initiative and practised voluntary acts of worship, aware that the risk of doing so was very small. For instance, in the town of Terchova´ in 1958,

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one family decided to build a ‘generously sized’ chapel in front of their house without telling either the authorities or the local priest.113 The failure of the people’s democracies to impose a new Sunday culture on the citizens’ daily lives compromised the introduction of a new weekly rhythm. In order to fulfil key economic objectives, the Czechoslovakian regime was obliged to tolerate the traditional Sunday routine, which was largely based on religious practices. It was thus unable to alter the usual format of Sunday to include new atheist, collectivist content linked to the idea of working for the good of the community.

Temporal arrhythmia Throughout the 1950s the population continued to celebrate certain festivals that were not recognised by the regime, and to participate in traditional activities on Sundays that should have been work days, either by interrupting their work or by taking part in social activities. On Epiphany, 1954, the usual market was held in the main square of Bytcˇa, even though it was a work day.114 High levels of absenteeism during religious festivals sometimes led factories to close, as in Predmier in June 1957, where the Drevoimpregna factory closed on the Thursday of Corpus Christi. Even state restaurants and shops were frequently closed on feast days that were not recognised by the regime, and during Sunday masses, despite orders to the contrary.115 Similarly, rest days, as designated by the regime, were not always observed. In 1953, one day off was shifted from a Sunday to Friday, 1 May, for the May Day celebrations. However, on the Sunday, most farmers stayed at home and almost 35 per cent of schoolchildren in the Bytcˇa district did the same in order to celebrate with their families.116 Worshippers developed a range of strategies that allowed them to participate in Sunday rituals and processions that were discouraged by the regime. Among the most common were work trips. Organised by unions or state travel agencies, these often had one official – cultural – destination and another unofficial – religious – one. On Sunday, 13 July 1966, almost 200 coaches provided by businesses and the state travel agency Turista conveniently ended their sightseeing tours in Maria´nska Hora, where one of the country’s most important pilgrimages was taking place.117 During the 1950s, continued religious observance on Sundays and the various attempts to disrupt it hindered the establishment of a uniform

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temporal rhythm. Temporal regularity tends to create underlying expectations that constitute a feeling of ‘normality’, but in this case the coexistence of several temporalities provoked a kind of ‘temporal arrhythmia’.118 The result was a state of temporal instability, which in turn generated a sense of uncertainty and precariousness.119 This was demonstrated by the people’s extremely irregular attendance at Sunday worship throughout the 1950s. Despite the anti-religion campaigns and the desire to establish a secular weekly rhythm that promoted work and new socialist socialising, the religious advisors were unable to report any consistent trends. Any observations of a ‘welcome fall’ in Sunday worship attendance tended to be followed by others noting a ‘recent rise’. These constant fluctuations created an overall picture of stasis, in which temporal punctuation had lost its regulatory character. Sunday activities organised by the regime were aimed at developing the individual and regaining the strength for work. Towards the end of the 1950s, new ways of calculating work time and the reorganisation of industrial working rhythms gave rise to new demands for free time with no particular moral or spiritual aim. This even affected the most popular religious festivals. In 1957, the Easter mass was moved to the evening, provoking complaints. One religious advisor reported: I have received several complaints from people asking why we have moved mass to the evening. People think that [. . .] it was a decision made by our State. I already made it clear last year that the Easter mass is so long that exhausted worshippers leave the church before the end. The material nature of the celebration, with its good food and alcohol, has become the main reason for the festival, whereas it should be dedicated exclusively to spiritual celebrations.120 In 1965, the reduction of the working week to 40 hours – a decision that was formalised in a new Labour Code – contributed to the blossoming of a consumer society. Sunday thus became part of a new, problematic issue: free time.121 The introduction of a two-day weekend in 1967 meant that Saturday was ‘contaminated’ by Sunday, dealing a further blow to the State’s attempts to eliminate traditional Sunday practices. The idea of using the weekend to develop a new socialist community with close relationships was gradually abandoned and the

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weekend became a time for leisure pursuits. In 1967, this shift was reflected in the launch of a new weekly magazine, Nedeˇle (Sunday), with the subtitle Culture and Free Time. From the 1970s onwards, these close relationships were mainly conducted on a voluntary basis, but the extent to which this happened is difficult to gauge, especially as the media greatly exaggerated the project’s success.122 *** Study of the discourse and practices surrounding Sunday worship and the weekly rhythm during the founding period of the communist regime in Czechoslovakia (1945–60) leads to better understanding of the ideological implications of the seven-day rhythm for the population. Changes to the traditional role of Sunday were always linked to the productive, forward-looking and resolutely modern character of communist regimes, in which the sacred was considered in direct competition with modernity’s atheist vision. The accelerated pace of industrialisation in Eastern Europe in the 1950s made new demands on many professions in terms of precision, efficiency and productivity. The need to synchronise new industrial rhythms with the traditional rhythm of the seasons meant that the authorities had to allow a certain amount of flexibility. This was especially true in regions where the industrial working class still lived in a rural socio-economic context. This dual status of the working population posed considerable difficulties for the regime: the cycle of the seasons, over which it had no control, conflicted with its own concept of production time, which was now, at least in theory, regulated by state planning.123 However, the regime never fully acknowledged the need for this flexibility and thus gradually drifted ever further from its initial project of building an atheist, collectivist society dedicated to useful work for the community. Over time, the weekly rhythm was indeed transformed under communism, but this transformation was not due to the successful implementation of the original vision of the people’s democracies. In fact, it followed the development of a consumer society similar to those of Western societies which occurred in Central and Eastern Europe despite the regimes’ initial resistance.124 The transition from one model to another raises the question of individuals and their desires, and calls for analysis of the relationship between the public and the private.

CHAPTER 3 CONSTRUCTING THE IDEA OF THE COMMON GOOD

In November 1948, councillors in Ruzyneˇ, a small town on the outskirts of Prague, were discussing new regulations controlling lard quotas. The meeting was, on the surface, ordinary, and there was a lively debate. However, the nature of the arguments put forward exposed rising tensions within the council and revealed the imbalance of power that had arisen since the Communist Party had seized power. One councillor, a craftsman named Voha´nka, remarked that it was not surprising that his colleague in the KSCˇ, Valesˇ, was so pleased about the new measures, given that he ‘does not keep animals and therefore will not have to pay anything’. Voha´nka could not understand why he should be ‘placed in the same category as a farmer who doesn’t fulfil his quotas’, and mentioned in passing that, due to his status as a craftsman, he was not entitled to ‘any ration tickets, which only workers receive’, even though he worked hard and did not ‘count his hours’. Valesˇ replied that everybody should be able to benefit from pig farming, otherwise ‘only a few people, and always the same ones, would ever profit from it’. Moreover, pigs were ‘fed from surplus produce that everybody contributed’. Feelings were running high and the atmosphere became heated. The regional representative and the mayor, both communists, intervened and reprimanded Voha´nka for his provocative comments, which went ‘against the new measures and therefore against the government’. The mayor concluded that the measures were ‘fair’, because they meant that everybody could ‘have a share, not like before, when

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bureaucracy and capitalism meant that some people got everything and others got nothing’.1 This minor altercation occurred just as the national coalition government, headed by the KSCˇ, was gradually tipping towards becoming a ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’. How would relationships between the State and society, and between individual citizens, develop in this new context? How would individual and collective liberties be redefined? And, more generally, how would a political system function and establish itself over the long term when its legitimacy was, at best, arguable? Analysis of the public sphere provides answers to these questions. Historians of communism have only recently started to study this area, and their focus has tended to be on physical places (squares, roads, etc.).2 Unfortunately, this ‘material’ definition of the public sphere neglects a fundamental aspect of the subject: the nature of the citizen community and the functioning of its politics. In order to integrate these ideas into this analysis, it is useful to return to Ju¨rgen Habermas and his concept of public space (O¨ffentlichkeit).3 Using eighteenth-century English, French and German examples as a starting point, Habermas defined the bourgeois public sphere as a theatre in which political participation was enacted through words, a discursive arena in which private individuals debated affairs of common concern through the public deployment of reason, especially via the press that was developing at that time. This sphere of debate for common people was distinct from the State: it was a place where private discourse that could, in principle, criticise the State was produced and circulated.4 Habermas warns against seeing this sort of public sphere as an ideal type, stressing that in practice bourgeois society comes close to it but never attains it. Some forms of exclusion (especially on the basis of sex, race and social status) may decrease with time, but they never disappear.5 Furthermore, there are other non-liberal or non-bourgeois forms of public sphere, such as the proletarian or the oppositional one, which Habermas does not fully consider.6 During the nineteenth century, this bourgeois model of the public sphere was transformed by industrialisation, democratisation and the development of the welfare state. Thanks to increased levels of literacy and mass consumption of newspapers, a broader spectrum of people started to contribute to the formation of public opinion. The Chartist

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movement in Great Britain and the European popular revolutions of 1848 were evidence of this. The economic crisis at the end of the nineteenth century and increasing social inequality over which laissezfaire capitalism had no control provided the right environment for interventionist state policies. The result was a gradual merging of State and society in which political and social actors sought both to achieve a compromise with the State and to ensure the well-being of the people. This trend intensified during the twentieth century.7 Habermas and his followers studied Western societies, but what of Central and Eastern Europe? Did the advent of communism there produce similar effects? In 1917, the revolutionaries in Moscow chanted ‘All power to the Soviets!’ and this new conception of politics was taken up later by the people’s democracies, whose constitutions stated that ‘all power belongs to the people’.8 How was the idea of a common good constructed under regimes that advocated the dictatorship of the proletariat? How could a citizens’ discourse develop when respect of basic liberties was not guaranteed? In seeking answers to these questions, it is useful to broaden the definition of the public sphere and understand it as encompassing the relationship between the State and society. In modern, industrialised societies, this sphere is meant to guarantee the greatest possible access to discussions, transparency in public affairs and the inclusion of the general population in discourses on the common good. This study will approach the question of the public sphere under communism from a local perspective. It is true that issues relating to the common good are of smaller scale at this grassroots political level than those at the national level, but they are more clearly perceptible and allow deeper analysis of how politics was practised in day-to-day life.9 Ruzyneˇ provides a good example of this local manifestation of national concerns. This small town, 17 km north-west of Prague, had nearly 4,500 inhabitants before World War II, most of whom were German. Several eighteenth-century farmhouses bear witness to its agricultural past, but it is most famous for its prison, which, after 1948, became one of the best known in the country as it was reserved for political prisoners. Changes in the town over time reflect a general transformation in the relationship between town and countryside in Central Europe in the 1950s, when industrialisation went hand in hand with rampant urbanisation. Ruzyneˇ’s proximity to Prague meant that it

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became a popular place for workers, traders and administrative staff to set up home in the interwar period. By the mid-1950s, the proportion of land given over to farming had shrunk so dramatically that agriculture was barely profitable.10 The construction of Prague airport in the late 1950s gave Ruzyneˇ a new lease of life before administrative reforms in the following decade resulted in the town’s integration into the capital, whereupon its economic and administrative development became part of the Prague Development Plan. One of the public sphere’s principal roles is to allow interlocutors of differing status to debate as equals, even if this equality is often more of an ideal than a reality. Indeed, the postwar regimes of Central and Eastern Europe stated loud and clear the vital necessity of social equality and universal participation in political decision making. We now know that this aim was not achieved and that the inequalities simply shifted elsewhere, but how did the attempted implementation of this goal influence the public sphere? The merging of public and private was the result of increasing state intervention in the economy since the nineteenth century. In Soviet-style regimes it reached levels never seen in liberal democracies. Nationalisation and collectivisation led to huge transfers of property to the State, creating a completely new divide between public and private. How did actors in the public sphere adjust to this change? One of these actors, the Communist Party, identified itself so closely with the State that it merged with it completely to form what was sometimes termed a ‘PartyState’. How did other social actors communicate with this new hegemonic body in the public sphere, and then how did the notion of a common good develop? Answering these questions clarifies whether communist regimes gave rise to a specific kind of public sphere, and, if this were the case, establishes the role this sphere played in their overall functioning.

Relationships between Public Actors The birth of the people’s democracies in Central and Eastern Europe brought with it a profound reorganisation of societies. The position of the individual within society was no longer determined by factors such as property ownership, education or belonging to the dominant national group but by new political constraints and every person’s respective

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contribution to the collective well-being through manual work, with the working class thus coming first. How did actors in the public sphere adjust to this new situation?

The new composition of the political community Towards the end of World War II, European political elites became convinced that the presence of large minorities within national communities had been a major cause of political instability in the interwar period, and had contributed to the outbreak of war. They thought that another explosion of violence could be avoided if state frontiers were more closely matched to ethnolinguistic borders. For this reason, during the Liberation and afterwards – between 1944 and 1948 – large numbers of people were moved from their homes. According to some estimates, over 31 million people were displaced from the areas where their families had often lived for generations. These transfers occurred in the wake of the demographic engineering that had taken place between 1939 and 1943, when over 15.4 million people had been moved either temporarily or permanently in an attempt to make political borders correspond to ethnolinguistic ones. If we add the 16.3 million people who died during the war – whether for military, political or racial reasons – more than 62.7 million Central Europeans died or were displaced in the decade following 1939. This caused significant changes to the compositions of political communities.11 During the Liberation, large numbers of people fled from the Red Army – some to escape reprisals, others in the hope of starting a new life elsewhere.12 In this chaotic atmosphere, some sections of the population were distanced from the public sphere. The main groups to be targeted were ‘unreliables’ (nespolehlivı´), a term used at the time to describe Germans, ‘collaborators’, ‘traitors’ and ‘foreigners’. Frustrations that had accumulated during the war exploded as soon as the Liberation was under way, resulting in accusations, denunciations and arrests of ‘suspect elements’. This animosity did not evaporate as quickly as it had appeared. Throughout the summer of 1945, Ruzyneˇ District Council received anonymous denunciations and complaints from people accusing their neighbours of collaboration. Even into September 1945, several months after the district had been liberated, the inhabitants protested against the release of a couple named Hollitzer and ‘Kozak the collaborator’, even though the Hollitzer case

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had been dismissed in court and several witnesses had testified in favour of Kozak.13 After 1945, nearly 3 million Germans were moved out of Czechoslovakia while 1.9 million Czechs and Slovaks were transferred to the liberated areas in a bid for justice and retribution. These transfers was centrally orchestrated by the Czechoslovakian State with the approval of the Allies. Those who were moved had their goods and property confiscated, nationalised or redistributed, usually in return for a token payment or nothing at all. These displacements weakened the country’s middle class, which was largely German speaking. In 1930, Germans had made up 22.3 per cent of the population. By 1950, they comprised only 2 per cent, which left a yawning socio-professional and cultural gap.14 Even in Ruzyneˇ, which had a significant German community before the war, the district council had to intervene in 1947 to stop destruction of the German Protestant cemetery. It was located on land belonging to the town and was no longer tended by anyone: ‘Our good reputation in the world might suffer’ in the wake of such desecration, one official remarked.15 The purging of the public sphere after the Liberation was partly responsible for the appearance of a new category of ‘foreigners’ (cizinci, which could also be translated as ‘people of unknown origin’).16 Although nobody could be absolutely sure of the identity of these migrants, districts limited their access to public affairs. In October 1946, Alexis Kobicˇkin and his wife made an application for residency that was the subject of heated debate in Ruzyneˇ District Council. In the end the council ruled that the couple would have to provide proof of their Polish nationality before approval would be granted. This was duly supplied, but the Kobicˇkins were then told that they would be granted residency only after living in the district ‘continuously for at least ten years’. This decision effectively set a precedent for excluding all recent migrants. Other – more political – factors sometimes came into play. In July 1947, Bogoljuba Rundo, a Yugoslavian member of the Soviet trade mission in Prague, was granted freedom of the city, ‘providing that the Interior Ministry grants him Czechoslovak citizenship’.17 Displacements and the mass movement of people in Central Europe during and after the war led to the formation of relatively homogeneous but fragile national communities. Traditional ties of solidarity were swept away and most communities included significant numbers of

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recent migrants who consequently did not have access to the full range of civic rights. The new socialist community was constructed on these flimsy foundations. In Czechoslovakia at the end of the war, all left-wing parties, and especially the Communist Party, held strong positions. In liberated areas, national revolutionary councils were rapidly formed, replacing the administrative authorities of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia and the pro-Nazi Slovak State. The Red Army liberated most of the country, alongside liaison officers from the Czechoslovak army, formed in the USSR, and played a decisive role in the creation of the new system of government. Its representatives dismissed serving district councillors and appointed new ‘national committees’ (na´rodnı´ vy´bory), which took up the duties of the old district and notarial authorities. On 4 December 1944, President Benesˇ, who was still in exile in London, legalised these ad hoc organisations in the hope that their political composition would develop following a postwar election.18 His decision was implemented quickly in Slovakia.19 Between 1944 and 1945, 4,855 committees were created in this way in the country. And Czechoslovakia was not an exceptional case: a similar process occurred in Hungary and Poland, where national committees were formed as early as autumn 1944, in the wake of the Red Army’s advance.20 Of course, the composition of these new administrations was not related in any way to the results of pre-1938 elections or even to subsequent political developments. The communist commissars who established the new administrative bodies selected only the most docile political representatives. Communist councillors or Party supporters were generally given the most important posts, such as president of the committee. Village communities would then confirm these appointments by acclamation at hastily convened public meetings.21 Many traditional political actors were thus distanced from the public sphere, and the Communist Party and its allies were in a strong position before the first elections had even taken place. This situation was especially odd in districts where the Communist Party had not been represented at all before 1945 and where social democracy had only a weak presence. The national committees placed local public affairs in the hands of a new oligarchy of little-known and frequently incompetent individuals with shady reputations.

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The case of Ruzyneˇ illustrated this process well. On 19 May 1945, a public meeting in the town square was organised by the four political parties that had not been compromised by collaboration: the Communist Party, the Social Democrats, the National Socialist Party and the People’s Party. First, the townsfolk were asked to remember the victims of the war, and then there was a celebration of the Red Army – ‘liberator from the suffering imposed on our country for seven years by Nazi brutality’. Then representatives of the four political parties present vowed to ‘defend reclaimed rights and liberties’ and to ‘continue the tradition of the great brother nation, the USSR’. Finally, the meeting elected both the presidium and the council of the new national committee. The vote was conducted by a public show of hands, as pathos and enthusiasm for a return to peace prevailed over traditional democratic rules. The Communist Party gained eleven representatives, the National Socialists eight, the Social Democrats seven and the People’s Party four. A communist representative was unanimously elected as president of the council.22 When this first postwar district council was established, many protested at the appointment of several representatives who were suspected of collaboration. Old animosities resurfaced. A couple by the name of Pra´sˇka accused the National Socialist Antonı´n Petr of selling ‘fruit to the occupying forces and not to Czech citizens’; Bozˇena Sla´decˇkova´ denounced Va´clav Kra´l (a communist) ‘for the same reason’; and a man named Jakubec promised to submit a written complaint against the election of Jaroslav Ha´jek. The council agreed to study each case carefully but entreated the people to ‘come together in unity in these difficult times, to build the new foundations of the Czechoslovak State’.23 Most of the accusations were withdrawn in the weeks that followed, with the withdrawals then publicly displayed to reinforce the legitimacy of the elected body. A few months later, in September 1945, the representatives voted unanimously to terminate all of their investigations into unfounded accusations and block any attempts to use the district council to settle personal scores. Moreover, they declared that, in future, anybody found to be ‘affronting a representative of the people will be taken to court and pursued politically’, without specifying what ‘politically’ meant.24 Between autumn 1947 and February 1948, relations between representatives from the various political parties became polarised.

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Discussions at district council meetings were ever more confrontational, with disagreements between the Communist Party, the Social Democrats and the other parties. The former assumed increasing responsibility for managing public affairs and financed the repair of infrastructures without asking for any compensation. In September 1947, the communists collaborated with the social democrats to provide aid to farmers who had been hit by the poor harvest. One representative of ‘the Party’ – referred to here for the first time without the qualifying ‘Communist’, as if no clarification were now needed – argued that this was an ‘act of conscience [. . .] on behalf of the district and all its members, especially its young people [. . .] the future of the State’. This may well have been true, but the representative still mentioned the cost of the operation.25 The council duly agreed to reimburse the Communist Party – it could scarcely refuse, given the urgent need for reconstruction – but nearly half of the representatives abstained from the vote, aware of the underlying political issues.26 The antagonism between the Communist Party and the other political parties escalated during the winter of 1947– 8, and turned district council debates into trench warfare. In December 1947, the police inspected one Communist Party representative’s apartment and chalet following an anonymous tip-off that he owned unauthorised firearms. The representative filed a complaint with the district council in which he denounced an apparent ‘desire on the part of the justice system to discredit elected representatives’.27 At the end of a stormy debate, one of the council members appealed to reason, arguing that they must all ‘abandon partisan interests within the council’ and instead ‘collaborate so that things progress peacefully’.28 It would become increasingly difficult to respect this principle. Many of those opposed to the Communist Party who had felt able to express themselves freely at the time of the Liberation gradually fell silent due to fear, lassitude or political opportunism. Nevertheless, a few old representatives remained active in their districts even after the Party had seized power, and they continued to question council proceedings and ensure at least some diversity of opinion. As the formerly dominant property-based ideology turned into a class-based ideology, the public sphere assumed a more proletarian character. Did these changes discredit the existence of the public sphere? Not necessarily. Since its origins in the eighteenth century, the public sphere

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has been built on socio-economic structures that generate inequality and/or exclude sectors of the population from public debate. But did the new inequalities based mainly on class facilitate the participation of more ordinary citizens? We may be able to answer that question by observing the behaviour of those within the public sphere.

Mechanisms of social stratification To ensure that political life continued to function, liberal democracies tried to maintain a separation between, on the one hand, political institutions intended to guarantee relationships of political equality and, on the other hand, economic, cultural and social institutions based on intrinsic inequalities of sex, age and socio-professional origin. While the former structured the public sphere, the latter were restricted to the private space. Thus, the public sphere could serve as a weapon against inequality. However, the mingling of State and society in the nineteenth century started to blur this separation, and the political and social upheavals in Central and Eastern Europe from the 1930s onwards made it problematic, to say the least. The postwar people’s democracies demanded the elimination of differences in social status, denouncing them as among the main injustices of bourgeois society.29 Three principles – gender equality, classless society and, to a certain extent, the dictatorship of the proletariat – were intended to eradicate these differences and ensure equal participation in all public affairs by increasing women’s and the working class’s access to the public sphere. So what effect did the application of these three principles have on that sphere? Improving gender equality was largely a question of strengthening principles that most Central and Eastern European countries had accepted long before 1945. Russian and Polish women attained the right to vote in 1918, with those in Hungary, Czechoslovakia and Romania following suit in 1919, 1920 and 1921, respectively.30 New civil codes adopted in the early 1950s organised family relationships, marriage and childcare. Inspired by the fairly progressive Soviet model of the 1920s, these were based on the principles of equal partnership, mutual affection and the uniting of common interests.31 Moreover, the general principle of gender equality was affirmed in every socialist constitution.32 However, this principle was not upheld either at work or in political life.33 After 1945, women remained relatively inactive in the public sphere.

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In 1949, the proportion of female Communist Party members reached a peak of 33 per cent after a series of recruitment campaigns. But the figure then fell to around 27 per cent over the next decade, despite the best efforts of the Party leadership.34 And there was a more serious problem: among the political elite, women tended to occupy representative, consultative and symbolic roles rather than positions of policy execution and decision making. In other words, as the level of responsibility increased, the number of women decreased.35 The principle of equality thus coexisted with continuing male domination, discrimination and exclusion. Analysis of the public sphere at the district level illustrates these tendencies. In 1945, there were no female representatives on the Ruzyneˇ National Committee. The following year there were 3 (out of a total of 30), and by 1949 this figure had risen to 5 (17 per cent of the total).36 There was no increase throughout the 1950s, although female participation in debates was enhanced by the regular attendance of three representatives of the Women’s Union. In the 1970s, the proportion of women on administrative bodies fluctuated between 21 and 28 per cent in local organisations and stood at around 30 per cent at the town and regional levels.37 How did the public react to the arrival of women in the traditionally masculine public sphere? Reports of district council debates in Ruzyneˇ may help to answer this question. Unfortunately, the reports are rather cursory; for instance, they do not provide details of tone of voice or the gestures that accompanied the words that were spoken. Nevertheless, they reveal that the presence of women did not cause much upset and that they were generally given a good hearing. On the other hand, although a number of women attended the debates in a variety of district organisations, representatives of the Women’s Union did not have the right to vote. Moreover, female representatives were usually assigned to committees dealing with matters of food, health and education or social and cultural issues. So were women more competent in these areas than in others? Of course, they may well have been. But their persistent absence from committees dealing with budgets, planning or industry implied unequal status and had the effect of distancing them, albeit unofficially, from the most important areas. The regime presented the increased participation of women in political life as proof of Czechoslovakia’s ‘democratisation’. Female

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deputies made up 12 per cent of the elected members of the National Assembly between 1948 and 1954, and this subsequently increased to 23 per cent, whereas before 1939 it had never been higher than 5 per cent.38 A similar situation prevailed in other countries of Central and Eastern Europe: for instance, in Hungary, women comprised 17 per cent of the parliamentary deputies in 1953.39 Increased female presence in the public sphere certainly represented progress and meant that their demands were more likely to be heard.40 However, the sheer number of women in politics does not tell the whole story. In Soviet-style regimes, neither parliament nor other representative bodies wielded much genuine power. It would be interesting to study the careers of the few female ministers or high-ranking public servants, such as Anezˇka Hodinova´-Spurna´, Ludmila Jankovcova´, Marie Sˇvermova´ and Bozˇena Machacˇova´-Dosta´lova´.41 An examination of their roles in the development of the Family Codes and laws relating to childhood, abortion and other social matters would allow greater understanding of the actual extent to which women’s points of view were taken into account.42 The public sphere is never ‘culturally neutral’, and it does not guarantee equal access for all political cultures to express themselves. The language of debate can conceal preferences for certain bodies and discourage others from stating their cases. After 1948, the public sphere was invaded by the discourse of collective solidarity and the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’. Modern means of communication, such as the popular press and radio, which were now in the hands of the State, disseminated official messages to encourage the ‘political socialisation’ of the general public. Elected representatives familiarised themselves with this new discourse in the context of national committees. In October 1948, as a series of laws on social matters were adopted, a speech by Deputy Anezˇka Hodinova´-Spurna´ on ‘Solidarity yesterday, today and tomorrow’ was read at the beginning of the Ruzyneˇ National Committee meeting. Her passionate words gave meaning to the legislative action of the people’s democracy, which was working in the name of ‘solidarity and mutual assistance to solve the people’s social problems’. District councillors were invited to instil these ‘new values of solidarity’ into the day-to-day lives of the population.43 By the same logic, it was also deemed necessary to make the general public aware of the regime’s economic objectives. In spring 1952, during

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a debate with citizens, the president of the Ruzyneˇ National Committee encouraged them to play an active role in seed-sowing, declaring, ‘I am certain that those who have not yet contributed will also do so, because it is a task that concerns us all.’ He also insisted that such duties represented ‘a duty to the State’.44 Subsequently, other voluntary work campaigns were launched, with participation encouraged by a range of rewards. Whether people liked it or not, this type of discourse was ubiquitous, and spread into political, social and economic aspects of reconstruction and the building of socialism. It thus influenced debate and the decision making process.45 In December 1947, after the incident described earlier in which the police raided the house of a communist councillor, one of his colleagues, Lousa, protested against the ‘offence’, invoking the ‘people’, who now had ‘complete control of their government’. He demanded the submission of a resolution to the Justice Ministry, which was approved by a majority of 15 to 13.46 Was this vote proof of consensus, or did it reflect the influence that the majority discourse was already exerting on councillors? If pluralism is not protected, minority groups may be unable to express themselves; and even if they can, their voices may not be heard. In April 1950, a new cooperative was created in Ruzyneˇ. After a ‘lively debate’, the members of the district council ‘decided’ that it ‘would be made up of’ land from Frantisˇek Turecky´’s farm, including all of his livestock. The management of the new cooperative would be ‘entrusted to’ Comrade Dupa´cˇ, who was ‘of working-class origin’. Turecky´ – who was deprived of his property – did not even attend the debate, and no dissenting voice was heard throughout the council’s discussions of the matter.47 Given that there is ‘no contradiction between social class and social status’ in socialism, there is no raison d’eˆtre for partisan pluralism within the public sphere.48 Just a few days after the coup in February 1948, during which democrats and national socialists resigned from the government, districts were purged of members of both parties. In Ruzyneˇ, the members of the new district council were announced on 19 March 1948.49 Officially, in accordance with a proposal by the National Front Action Committee, any ‘reactionary elements impeding the work of the National Committee or sabotaging the government’s programme’ were removed,50 with the aim of transforming districts into cogs in the machinery of the new government. However, eliminating

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every councillor who may have posed a threat was simply impossible at the local level, as there were not enough people to replace them. Some of those who were ejected joined authorised political parties and remained on the council, which meant that, in spite of the regime’s best efforts, some divergent opinions continued to be expressed. The composition of the national committees was drastically altered by the inclusion of mass organisations, such as the Federation of Trade Unions, the Youth Union and the Women’s Union. According to official documents, the role of these regime conduits was no longer to represent people’s political opinions in the public sphere but to defend ‘the interests of working people as a whole’, to organise these people and to ‘gain their confidence’.51 Membership was no longer based solely on political criteria but also on apolitical criteria linked to profession, age or sex. These socio-professional criteria, which were not related to individuals’ political opinions, introduced an inequality of status into the public sphere that subsequently became part of its very structure. In Ruzyneˇ in 1951, reform of the national committee confirmed the dominant role of the Communist Party, the trade unions and the cooperatives. The Communist Party was now represented by 15 councillors, the unions by 4, the cooperatives by 5 and the army by 3. The Youth Union, the sports organisation Sokol and the People’s Party each had a single representative. A new tone and vocabulary reflected this change: the new district president invited the new representatives to ‘contribute, through their work, to the construction of better tomorrows’.52 The problem of unequal resources had been officially eradicated by nationalisation and collectivisation, but it was replaced by unequal access to resources, exacerbated by chronic shortages. Holding a public office or being a member of a political organisation gave people better access to resources and thus bestowed advantages, although these were not the only ways of gaining such access. In April 1952, Comrade Harman requested the Ruzyneˇ National Committee’s permission to purchase a washing machine that had been confiscated from its German owners during the Liberation and did not yet have a new owner. The sale was unanimously approved, ‘on condition that no member of this committee should be interested in the aforementioned washing machine’.53 Thus, the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ was already

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becoming a political bureaucracy in which Party membership was worth more than social class.54 How did the potential benefits of holding public office influence public debate and negotiation? The link between public discourse and a context of shortages merits closer analysis.

Unbalanced decision making The structure and functioning of Czechoslovakia’s national committees (na´rodnı´ vy´bory) was based on the USSR’s model of soviets. The latter bodies, which aimed to ensure the self-governance of workers, peasants and soldiers at the local level, had existed in Russia since 1905 and played a large role in the Bolshevik victory of 1917. During the revolution, Lenin recognised their importance when he proclaimed, ‘All power to the soviets!’ In 1918, soviets replaced the old imperial administrative system of zemstvos, and were henceforth central to the regime, which called itself the Soviet Republic to underline the importance of these organisations in the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’.55 In Czechoslovakia, the transformation of the national committees happened in stages. The process was set in motion by the new constitution of 9 May 1948. The national committees were required to ‘represent and execute the power of the state in towns, departments and regions, and to protect the rights and liberties of the people’.56 Subsequent reforms – most importantly in 1948, 1954 and 1960 – promoted two contradictory processes: the decentralisation of decision making and the centralisation of resources.57 These reforms had the effect of significantly enlarging the national committees’ authority. They assumed responsibility for areas that other state bodies had previously managed: culture, education (except for higher education) and related services (canteens, playgrounds, accommodation for young people, etc.), employment protection, public health, social affairs (management of old people’s homes, orphanages, etc.), local finances, economy and agriculture (management of local cooperatives and businesses), construction, and collectivisation and socialist competition campaigns. Their economic scope, especially, increased between 1957 and 1960. In Prague, for example, the national committee was responsible for authorising long-term economic development plans, Five-Year Plans, annual plans and the budgets of all the local businesses. The district administration ultimately managed

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19 large industrial businesses, 12 local businesses, 11 schools, 24 cultural organisations, 3 water distribution companies, 5 transport businesses, 14 public catering businesses, almost all of the capital’s theatres and cinemas (with the exceptions of the National Theatre and the Vinohrady Military Theatre), all of the health and nursing institutions, and all of the city’s pharmacies.58 On a smaller scale, a similar situation developed in Ruzyneˇ, where businesses located within the town had to present their monthly and annual accounts and their balance sheets to the local national committee, which monitored their accounting.59 In 1958, the Local Development Ministry was dissolved and the national committees took over its functions. This decentralisation of state management established the basis of the ‘communal economy’ (komuna´lnı´ hospoda´rˇstvı´). While the national committees saw a substantial increase in their responsibilities, their means for taking action were reduced. First, decision making was shifted from district councillors to Communist Party representatives at the equivalent hierarchical level. This was possible because the structure of the KSCˇ was based on those of existing local and regional administrations. The usual profusion of responsibilities held by district councillors and KSCˇ members sometimes concealed this transfer of power. Second, the local national committees were subordinate to organisations higher up the hierarchy: the departmental and regional committees.60 In practice, this meant that even if a local national committee were competent in a certain area, a body with more authority could intervene at any point in the decision making process. Finally, the local national committees lost their financial independence. District budgets – and, by extension, local development programmes – were linked to the national plan via departmental and regional plans. Hence, there was little local influence when it came to determining budgets, which superior bodies could modify arbitrarily. Despite being skilled in decision making at the local level, the district councils had very few means of implementing their decisions because the real power had shifted to organisations with better access to resources: the Party, the ministries and the government.61 This imbalance was exacerbated by widespread shortages and the territorial reform of 1960, which increased the size of departments and regions. In the country as a whole, the number of departments fell from 270 to 109,

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while the number of regions declined from 19 to 10. Furthermore, Ruzyneˇ was enlarged to encompass Prague’s 6th District. Apart from a brief interval between 1969 and 1970, when, as part of federalisation, the regions were abolished, this territorial structure remained in place until Czechoslovakia ceased to exist in 1993. Thus, for more than 40 years, administrative bodies near the top of the hierarchy exercised considerable control over the activities and decisions of subordinate bodies. In August 1952, representatives of the Interior Security Ministry visited Ruzyneˇ to ‘find out how the town used the money obtained from the sale of a property’. This muddled situation meant that local citizens could not always identify the right person to consult. They were sent from one authority to another, falling foul of conflicting fields of responsibility and sometimes finding themselves in nightmarish situations. Also in August 1952, representatives from the Ruzyneˇ Institute of Agri-food Research enquired about an apartment that they had previously requested in order to lodge four new colleagues. The local national committee sent them to the Agriculture Ministry, which ‘should provide these apartments’, and wondered why ‘manual workers have been engaged without the committee’s knowledge’. In order to show where the power to recruit workers should lie, the Ruzyneˇ National Committee issued a request for recruits on local radio, even though the workers had already been taken on and now only needed lodgings. National committees regularly found themselves embroiled in this kind of direct conflict with higher administrative bodies. For instance, in yet another incident in August 1952, Ruzyneˇ’s brewery was closed as a result of a decision taken at the departmental level. The town’s national committee ordered its immediate reopening on the grounds that ‘the brewery was closed without the knowledge of the local committee’.62 These unpredictable, opaque processes resulted in the development of parallel channels for decision making. For example, in October 1952, Comrade Strnad used a fortuitous meeting with a representative of the Health Ministry at a political training seminar in Ruzyneˇ to explain in detail the ‘situation of doctors in the town’. He was promised that the departmental committee would send a substitute doctor or at least an assistant.63 This dual process shifted power to the departments and regions or to the Communist Party, away from the local context, instead of encouraging local people to act independently in the district-level

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public sphere. Collaboration between districts at equivalent hierarchical levels was entirely state organised and increasingly ritualised, occurring mainly in the contexts of mutual economic aid or socialist emulation. The district-level public sphere thus became compartmentalised, reinforcing the isolation of its participants.

Conflating Common and Private Interests The separation between public and private is the result of consensus between all social actors. This border has been in a constant state of development since the birth of the public sphere, as the scope of state intervention has gradually increased, so how was it defined in Central Europe after 1945? Finding an answer to this question will lead to a better understanding of how the public sphere functions and of the relationships between its various actors.

Redefining the border between public and private In the people’s democracies, the separation between public and private was definitively determined by collectivisation and nationalisation. In Czechoslovakia, the nationalisation of the country’s industry began in the summer of 1945, with the nationalisation of mines, insurance companies and banks following soon after. On 1 December 1945, almost 2,900 industrial businesses – accounting for almost 60 per cent of the sector’s workforce – became state owned. In Prague, there were almost 26,000 private businesses in 1948; six years later, there were only 5,700.64 During the postwar years, the majority of the population saw nationalisation as an effective way of tackling the enormous challenge of reconstruction. It thus met very little opposition. The removal of German citizens, who had made up a large proportion of the country’s middle class, and the trials of collaborators organised by people’s courts made these transfers of property even easier.65 The Czechoslovak population became accustomed to this new mode of ‘national management’ fairly quickly. At the local level, discussions of industrial nationalisations were rarely disrupted by any form of conflict or irreconcilable views. Indeed, in Ruzyneˇ District Council, such clashes never occurred.66 By contrast, collectivisation and the nationalisation of goods, which began in the spring of 1949, generated profound disagreements among both the middle classes and those lower down the

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socio-professional ladder because these measures affected property relationships and inheritance within families.67 The principle that membership of a cooperative should be voluntary was not respected, and farmers were often put under pressure to join or threatened. In Ruzyneˇ, in January 1950, the National Front Action Committee ordered an inspection of the property of Frantisˇek Turecky´. The police, accompanied by a national committee representative, ‘discovered 12 quintals of wheat and one quintal of barley hidden under the floorboards’. It was following this discovery that the National Front Action Committee ‘suggested’ that Turecky´’s farm should be nationalised, a proposal which, as we saw earlier, the district council eventually approved after a heated debate. Henceforth, the farm would become the basis of a cooperative, and Turecky´ would be ‘at the service of the State’.68 Vast numbers of people turned to the authorities to object to administrative decisions on issues ranging from the nationalisation of goods to the collectivisation of property. However, in most cases, these objections were rejected. Then, in February 1950, following petitions from several former owners for the return of their confiscated land, Ruzyneˇ District Council decided unanimously that positive responses to such requests ‘were no longer desirable’. The land was integrated into ‘communal property’ (komuna´lnı´ majetek) and would be put to collective use.69 The main consequence of these transfers of property was an unprecedented mingling of the public and private spheres. At the time of the Liberation, the two spheres still seemed clearly discrete. For instance, at the public meeting in Ruzyneˇ in September 1945 to appoint the new national committee, someone raised the subject of the goods and land abandoned by the Germans. However, the new president of the national committee refused to discuss ‘matters of a personal nature’ in such a public context and remarked that ‘this is not the time for settling trivial matters’.70 Hence, for the sake of social appeasement, issues relating to private property were definitively excluded from public debate. As nationalisation and collectivisation progressed, however, the State assumed some of the responsibilities previously held by the private sector. Thus, private issues entered the public arena. This change was clearly perceptible in the management of real estate: from 1950 onwards, any hire contract signed by two private individuals had to be validated

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by the national committee, and any change in private property ownership had to be publicly declared.71 In September 1952, the Ruzyneˇ National Committee ordered an inventory of all domestic animals – pigs, cows, sheep and hens – in the town in order to gain a more accurate picture of the extent of people’s property.72 But the State’s intrusion into private affairs often went far beyond simple information gathering. When, in autumn 1950, the national committee considered a citizen’s request to construct a garage, the debate did not focus on the safety of the project but on the ‘material possessed’ by the builder.73 District councils now discussed any private or personal issues that they considered linked to public affairs. For instance, in April 1953, Ruzyneˇ’s councillors debated a case of absenteeism involving a female cook in the local school canteen who ‘stayed at home with her ill child and sent a replacement without giving warning’. The previous August, they had examined the case of Mrs Pangra´cova´, another employee in the school kitchen, who had requested authorisation to eat two meals a day in the canteen. The councillors granted her request, ‘on condition that the meal is not taken outside the school grounds’. Finally, in August 1953, it was decided that employees of a nationalised butcher, Masna, ‘must not force customers to buy meats other than veal, but should simply suggest them’. These cases show that private property and how people used it were no longer personal matters, but related to the whole community. Through debate within the national committee, the socialist community kept an eye on individuals, their property and their behaviour, and intervened in their lives.74 How did people react to this? It seems that, with no other option, they generally accepted the new state of affairs but tried to get round it in order to obtain personal favours. For instance, the Ruzyneˇ National Committee, which was now responsible for all property in the commune, frequently considered requests relating to lodgings or neighbours. Indeed, by September 1951, such petitions had become so common that a ‘safety commission’ was created to deal with all property and housing litigation.75 In February 1950, V. Hlavnicˇka complained to the district council that Mrs Fridrichova´ was refusing to accept lodgers in her house, even though she had an ‘excessively large property’. The national committee decided unanimously to ‘confiscate two rooms of the aforementioned house’ and to offer them for rent.76 Inhabitants of the town also turned to the council to obtain permission to carry out work

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inside their own homes. In April 1953, Mrs Bendova´ ‘requested permission to adapt one of the windows in her apartment’ so that her visually impaired husband ‘could benefit from increased light levels’.77 In January 1956, Mr Soukup complained to the district council that Mrs Chmelova´ and her daughter, who lived in a room on the first floor of his house, were using the toilet in his apartment, even though they had one of their own. The safety commission acted as mediator, and the two parties ‘came to an agreement’.78 However, it is possible to discern a trace of resistance in some cases. In June 1952, Jirˇina Weissova´ appealed against the national committee’s decision ordering her to leave her onebedroom apartment for a studio apartment that she described as ‘a veranda’. The housing commission agreed to consider the case. By means of state administrative structures, the community therefore limited the independence of private individuals, attacking their sense of responsibility towards themselves and of belonging to themselves. The language used in the reports of council debates on these matters is very revealing: people were ‘summoned’ before the council or one of the special commissions; necessary measures were ‘put in place’; expulsions were ‘carried out’; actions were ‘punished’. All of these terms suggest a new, extremely authoritarian relationship between society and the individual. The socialist community now had control over individuals: it could make them confront their responsibilities, ‘carry out due checks’ on their circumstances and even ‘displace’ them, if necessary. On the other hand, the public sphere could no longer perform one of its most basic functions: neutralise the unequal relationships between those who acted within it.

Creating a common sphere Nationalisation and collectivisation brought about large-scale mingling of the public and private. This resulted in the creation of a ‘communal economy’ (komuna´lnı´ hospoda´rˇstvı´) that encompassed large sections of the local economy. Following the Soviet model of kommunalnoe khoziaistvo, it was based on the idea that the State should control infrastructure by allocating resources and setting production objectives, while day-to-day work and maintenance would remain the responsibility of local communities, via the national committees.79 The latter’s responsibilities gradually increased in accordance with the aim of the people’s democracies to ‘eliminate the State’ and replace it with the ‘government

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of the people’.80 In Prague, the reorganisation of the local economy in 1953 led to the creation of 16 large ‘local economy businesses’ that produced everyday goods. Another 18 ‘communal economy businesses’ provided health, transport, water, housing, hotel and restaurant, repair and after-sales services.81 State structures and private institutions merged into a single body that could be designated as a common sphere where the collective interest was closely connected to the individual interest. A similar change occurred in other Central and Eastern European countries. By the early 1960s, the USSR’s communal economy was employing a fifth of the population.82 In this common sphere, the socialist community protected and educated individuals – duties that had previously been the responsibility of the family or the neighbourhood. This community criticised individuals, corrected their behaviour and intervened on their behalf in negotiations with the State. Individuals were not passive, however: they played an active role in this new common sphere, primarily by denouncing behaviour that went against the collective interest. In April 1953, Ruzyneˇ District Council received a complaint against Mrs Kveˇtova´. Due to her diabetes, she received extra rations of meat, ‘that she does not eat, but re-sells’, according to the complainant.83 In September 1951, Mrs Blachtova´ complained to the national committee ‘about the bad working morals of Mr Sˇı´pa, the chimney sweep, who takes advance payments and then does not complete the work’.84 In both cases, the committee ordered an investigation. In April 1950, following a denunciation, the national committee imposed a fine of 500 crowns on Mr Voka´cˇ, who, when leaving his house, drove his car over an adjoining field and ‘damaged the seedlings’. Soon after, the council ordered a police investigation to ascertain ‘if his company car was being put to private use’.85 Such surveillance was a key element of the collective nature of the socialist common sphere. If individuals did not fulfil their duties towards the community, the community was prepared to intervene in order to resolve its private problems in public. In February 1949, Mrs Zavadilova´ was ‘detained by the Prague police’ following ‘observations about her disorderly life’.86 In the name of the collective interest, the council decided to confiscate private cars ‘that are not put to full use’ and to reallocate rooms in apartments that were deemed to be excessively large.87 In March 1950, the Public Health Commission arrived unannounced at Mrs Drncova´’s

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apartment to carry out checks, probably following a denunciation. The commissioners accused her of keeping a piglet in the apartment overnight. Mrs Drncova´ explained that the pigsty was being repaired, so she was keeping the pig inside ‘simply for safety reasons’. Nevertheless, the animal was confiscated.88 In August 1953, the Health Commission looked into the case of Mr Sˇteˇpa´n, who was suffering from tuberculosis and lived in ‘an insalubrious apartment that was also untidy’. The Ruzyneˇ National Committee arranged for him to be transferred to a care home, but he refused to leave and instead demanded a better apartment. Nevertheless, the committee ultimately decided to ‘place him in a care home on medical grounds’.89 In the people’s democracies the idea of the common good, which was the objective of the public sphere, went far beyond the traditional notion of seeking consensus about what is best for everybody. Within the common sphere, the criteria for personal well-being were determined by the community according to its own criteria, based on the personal convictions of its members rather than the wants or needs of the individual concerned. The public space was engulfed and smothered by the collective. People found themselves in an inferior position in relation not only to the State but also to the socialist community, which demanded that individuals must conform to its expectations.90

The impossibility of consensus over the division between public and private The new boundary between public and private was no longer defined according to property, which had previously guaranteed its stability, but by political and thus extremely arbitrary criteria. In February 1950, the Ruzyneˇ Sanitary Commission decreed that a house in the town was inadequately maintained and voted ‘unanimously to warn the owner that if he did not take proper care of his house then it would be nationalised’.91 This sort of insistence on ‘proper’ behaviour recurred frequently in district councillors’ discussions. It was often evoked to obtain the desired response to requests. The definition of ‘proper’ behaviour was that individuals must ‘obey the rules of collective life’, but there was no clear understanding of what these might be. In December 1950, Mr Hasˇek requested authorisation to build a new beehive in his garden. The council granted his application, but only ‘on condition that the claimant first provides his honey quotas’.92 In January

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1950, the Stracha family requested permission to build a kitchen and the national committee responded favourably, because ‘in terms of citizenship, the family is fully engaged in the construction of socialism’ and there was ‘no technical obstacle’. At the same meeting, the committee allowed Mr Voborˇil to move house, because ‘his current apartment is unsanitary and he fulfils his duties’ to the community.93 The State and the community imposed their respective wills on individuals, provoking conflicts that went against one of the main roles of the public sphere: to bring peace and neutrality to relationships between various actors. Socialist society grew out of these relationships of dual domination. The very vagueness of the definition of ‘good socialist behaviour’ generated uncertainty that would have catastrophic long-term effects. The disappearance of individual initiative, less interest in work, rising incompetence and ever more reluctance to accept responsibility were just a few of the effects of the State-dominated economy of the postwar period. As for the State itself, the confusion over what was now public and what was still private gave rise to extreme mistrust of the general public. In January 1951, Ruzyneˇ District Council learned that the ‘school toilets were again blocked by rags’. The councillors felt that this matter merited public debate, because ‘it is an act aimed at the National Committee’.94

Closing the Gap between State and Society The bourgeois model of the public sphere was based on the assumption of a separation between the State and society. Since the nineteenth century, however, with the development of social policies and state interventionism, this model has no longer been applicable. The first half of the twentieth century witnessed the emergence of an intermediary sphere in which the nationalised parts of the economy and the areas of state intervention mingled. Soviet-style regimes continued this process. In the postwar period, the people’s democracies tried to ‘eliminate the social injustice and inequality’ of liberal capitalism by introducing better regulation and redistribution of resources. In the 1950s, nationalisation and collectivisation, the two main pillars of these objectives, resulted in very close links between the state sector and the private sector. Other configurations would be explored subsequently, such as market socialism in Hungary (after 1968) and China

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(after 1976). But the key elements remained the same: in the relationship between the State and society, the former always held the upper hand. How did the discourse on the common good develop in this context of unequal power relationships?

From discussion to management A series of administrative reforms reinforced the participatory nature of power in the people’s democracies, especially at the local level. In the sphere of public debate, committees were designed to be ‘organs of popular management’ by giving the people access to matters that affected them. The concept of ‘government of the people’ was the people’s democracies’ original response to the question of what role institutions might play in a society that aspired to social equality. This concept promoted an alliance between councillors and voters that would create a strong, active electorate that would make decisions and help to shape public opinion. In 1950, following one of these administrative reforms, the representative of the West Prague region, Jaroslave Pachman, told Ruzyneˇ’s councillors that, whereas access to public affairs had previously been ‘limited to those who paid taxes and complied with the regime, the workers’ movement eliminates these failings’. A gradual increase in the national committees’ sphere of responsibility transformed them into ‘new and just organs of popular management, pillars in the building of socialism’.95 But what was the nature of the contact between the State and other social bodies within these new institutions? Analysis of the debates within the Ruzyneˇ National Committee show that communication was poor, with information flowing in one direction but not the other. The district council organised regular meetings with the general public – known as ‘citizen debates’ – but despite the name, there was no debate or exchange of views on local issues. The aim was simply to mobilise people to participate in projects organised by the district council or to inform them of the councillors’ latest activities. In April 1952, the councillor for the economy ‘enlightened’ those present on the importance of the ‘5M’ campaign. Comrade Kamen ‘requested’ women to join the work in the fields and ‘demanded’ that people who allowed their chickens to roam free should be denounced.96 A month later, the councillor for education ‘informed’ citizens that the town’s teachers were working to a high standard, while the councillor for food management ‘announced’ that there were regular hygiene checks in

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the shops. These meetings provided few opportunities for ordinary people to make requests. They rarely spoke; and when they did, it was generally to complain about minor issues, such as disputes with neighbours. The councillors regularly expressed their frustration with this state of affairs. For instance, in May 1952, Councillor Plesˇnerova´ called for more participation: ‘People must conquer their reservations and voice their opinions publicly!’97 When ordinary people did speak up, however, their contributions were frequently noted in very impersonal terms – ‘it was asked’, ‘the citizens requested’, etc. – revealing a very detached attitude towards their concerns. Moreover, when councillors were asked a direct question, they were often evasive. This was hardly surprising, given the general context of shortages and the lack of resources available to the council. In the 1950s, the national committees underwent a series of reforms that further reduced the amount of contact between the electorate and their representatives. The creation of numerous technical commissions illustrates this. In order to improve the district councils’ efficiency as they were given ever more responsibilities, any discussions preceding important decisions were gradually shifted away from open council meetings and into technical commission meetings that the general public were not allowed to attend. These commissions’ recommendations were then presented to and ratified by plenary council meetings, which were still held in public.98 In April 1956, Comrade Bulı´cˇkova´ complained to the Housing Commission that the paint in her apartment was flaking off the walls. She then repeated this complaint at a council meeting, but was told that the councillors were no longer supposed to advise tenants on such issues during public meetings.99 The general public was thus distanced from the authorities’ deliberations and took no part in the decision making process, unless members of the specialist commissions called on them for specific information. All decisions were now passed unanimously within district council and plenary meetings, with less time devoted to deliberation, so the meetings were shorter. This was interpreted as proof of the new system’s efficiency and of the State’s closer relationship with the public.100 These changes were accompanied by administrative reform of the national committees, which were described as ‘organs of state power and management’, represented by a body of representatives elected by the people.101 A 1954 law defined their role as follows:

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The National Committees guarantee the building of socialism on the economic and cultural level, in compliance with government directives and the laws of the Republic. They must satisfy the growing demands of workers in material and cultural terms. They must, by every means possible, ensure people’s well-being and strengthen workers’ confidence in the organs of the people’s democracy.102 Instead of being a space for the exchange of opinions on matters relating to the common good, the socialist public sphere was largely used to mobilise and inform the population after decisions had already been made. Any exchange that was permitted became increasingly ritualised. At the local level, the national committees organised work brigades for political demonstrations.103 For large celebrations, such as May Day or the anniversary of the October Revolution, the whole community was mobilised via local radio.104 The national committees would sign ‘socialist contracts’ with local residents to carry out work for the common good, then use mass organisations to remind people of the importance of this work.105 They would also reward the best mothers and the most dedicated workers. For instance, during the 1951 harvest, the national committee launched a competition to identify Ruzyneˇ’s best volunteer workers. The winners received books as prizes.106 Such symbolic gestures were designed to strengthen ties with the community that had previously been consolidated by communication and exchange within the public sphere. On special occasions – such as in the month of Soviet– Czechoslovak friendship, when commemorating the October Revolution or on the anniversary of the KSCˇ assuming power in February 1948 – national committee meetings were transformed into ritual celebrations. On 10 November 1951, Ruzyneˇ’s formal plenary meeting for the month of Soviet– Czechoslovak friendship opened with the two countries’ national anthems, followed by a speech by the president of the committee in which he highlighted the ‘role of the Great October in our national history’. Pioneers from the local school then recited a poem by Viteˇzslav Nezval, ‘The Song of Peace’, before representatives of the Women’s Union sang ‘Dubinusˇka’, ‘Oj nechodzi’, ‘The Song of Stalin’ and ‘Protect the Peace’, plus an encore. The ‘meeting’ ended with renditions of ‘The Internationale’ and ‘The Song of Work’.107 There was no debate and

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none of the usual council discussions. Although this is an extreme example, it shows that politics dominated both the agenda and the organisation of local council meetings. In 1966, the national committees were defined as Czechoslovakia’s ‘most important mass organisations’ and the ‘main actors in the organisation of socialist society’.108 They were no longer concerned with making decisions or shaping public opinion. Their sole role was to mobilise the population. People reacted to this absence of a platform for public debate by becoming completely uninterested in the work of the district council. In November 1952, during a debate at which some ordinary residents were present, the president of the Ruzyneˇ National Committee raised the issue of ‘the citizens’ lack of interest’. The room was half empty, despite the committee’s attempts to publicise the meeting on local radio and posters. It had even recruited schoolchildren to deliver personal invitations.109 Subsequently, in an effort to increase public awareness of such meetings, announcements were made at the beginning of every cinema screening, but attendance remained low. After 1953, ‘citizen debates’ no longer appeared as a distinct category in council reports. Instead, every two weeks, a short statement outlining any comments that the public had made during council discussions was appended to the report. As time went by, these statements became ever more succinct. It was not long before the councillors themselves started to abandon the local public sphere. They were often absent from debates, especially those that took place in plenary and technical commission meetings. This absenteeism was understandable, given that the plenary no longer discussed but simply ratified the recommendations of the various commissions, while the commissions merely applied decisions that had been made elsewhere, such as within the Party or by higher administrative bodies. In November 1952, out of 20 members who should have been present at the plenary meeting, 4 sent their excuses while 9 did not even bother to do that.110 Occasionally, the president of the national committee was obliged to make a ruling on dossiers alone, which ‘gave the impression of interventionism’.111 In order to tackle the escalating absenteeism, attendance sheets were introduced in March 1952.112 It would thus be ‘easier to monitor dedication’, and the committee president would be able to ‘reprimand absentees and have them replaced if their behaviour did not improve’.113 The president repeated these threats regularly and eventually

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achieved his aim: on 30 April 1953, there was full attendance at the plenary meeting.114 However, despite this apparent strengthening of the forum for debate, meaningful content was still lacking: although the councillors were present, their voices counted for nothing when it came to making decisions. From the end of the 1950s, gradual liberalisation meant that people started to show renewed interest in district council matters. The council was aware of this, although its role remained limited to conveying information. Nevertheless, in January 1960, members of the public who were present at a council meeting suggested that citizens’ meetings should be held ‘every three months’. Attendance at the meeting was ‘considerable’, and participants were ‘very satisfied with how it had gone and with its agenda, and had learned a lot about the work of the National Committee’.115 From the end of the 1950s, commissions regularly called on volunteers to help them with dossiers, thus involving them in the process of working for the common good.116 The same principle was applied to combat the lack of resources – a problem that councils faced on a daily basis. In 1956, Ruzyneˇ’s school for children with learning difficulties was dilapidated, but a shortage of resources meant that only the interior could be repaired. In order to reduce labour costs, local residents carried out the work themselves in an act of mutual assistance.117 They did the same in 1960, when pipes needed to be laid in Karl Marx Street. The council merely supplied the materials.118 These joint efforts of the public and their elected representatives were, however, born of necessity and they did not last. Contact between deputies and voters decreased significantly in Czechoslovakia in the post1969 period, and the situation was no better in other Central and Eastern European countries. For instance, in the USSR in the early 1970s, a deputy would spend an average of 60 per cent of his or her time in meetings and only 5 per cent in discussions with constituents.119

Channelling the idea of the common good All societies have many social strata and are made up of groups that have unequal access to power, whether they are authoritarian or democratic. However, in Soviet-style regimes, which aspired to an egalitarian society ‘with no class conflict’, differences in status among the various social groups were not officially recognised and the dominant group – the

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working class – was generally favoured in public debate. How, then, did all the groups find frameworks within which they could exist and express themselves? One solution was to engage with the regime’s structures and then transform them into forums for discussion about the areas for which they were responsible. For instance, trade unions that were responsible for managing certain social benefits, such as organised holidays or the distribution of ration tickets, became arenas for public discussion of these issues. Work brigades – instruments of professional organisation and mobilisation – became forums in which workers could debate work regulations and negotiate with managers.120 Sometimes, discussion forums on the margins of the regime’s official structures, or even outside them, played a similar role. Churches, which continued to provide leadership as best they could in an increasingly hostile environment, became places where demands for religious tolerance easily merged with campaigns for civil liberties and for the more general right to live in dignity.121 Intellectuals spoke to the Czechoslovak population via foreign media such as Radio Free Europe and Radio Liberty,122 while artists formed alternative circles whose existence was more or less accepted by the regime.123 Young people, ill at ease within the official Youth Union, formed informal groups that encouraged more liberty and freedom of expression,124 or found other means of expression, such as rock music.125 Sometimes, the Communist Party itself became a forum in which criticism was possible, especially during the political liberalisation of the 1960s. Czechoslovak sociologists and intellectuals acknowledged the existence of this plurality of groups and opinions even as the country became officially socialist – and class conflict supposedly disappeared – in 1960. There was much debate about the need to rethink the division of society into three non-conflictual classes in order to rehabilitate the intelligentsia and the elite.126 In a spirit of increased openness, the Communist Party observed this debate closely and even encouraged it. All of this shows that socialist societies remained socially divided and unequal, and that any social structure within which people live, work and spend their leisure time has the potential to become a public sphere, because it is within such structures that people come into contact with other social actors and the State. The Czechoslovak regime encouraged the development of some alternative public spheres, especially among

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the workers who formed the country’s work brigades. Other groups, such as intellectuals, opposed the State through samizdat, dissidence and other means.127 Structures designed to legitimate the regime thus became alternative public spheres – discussion forums that existed in parallel with the main public sphere and gave rise to a counterdiscourse. By expressing themselves in these alternative spheres, people could develop their ideas, speak on their own behalf and thus construct their own social identities. Hence, the alternative spheres strengthened the positions of disadvantaged minority groups and facilitated the continuance of a degree of cultural and identity pluralism within socialist society. Without necessarily being more democratic, they could become dissident, and in the case of the socialist regimes they were certainly anti-establishment, especially in the 1970s and 1980s. Indeed, they spawned the dissident groups that, often through very isolated actions, started to challenge the socialist regimes’ crumbling structures.128 The main problem of the socialist public sphere was that multiple social discourses and identities could not meet and exchange ideas in a shared discursive arena. Public spheres that could have played this role – such as district councils or the press – were dominated by one entity, the Communist Party, and its discourse. This left no room for exchange and therefore no potential for consensus. In fact, communication between these groups within the State- and Partydominated main public sphere became increasingly ritualised and monitored. On the occasion of the May Day celebrations in 1952, the Ruzyneˇ National Committee received a card from the local school for the first time. The committee welcomed the gesture, and took a ‘unanimous decision to thank the school’. It was established that the exchange would become a tradition,129 but there was no genuine dialogue in this ritualised form of communication. Dialogue had been reduced to a series of signs and symbols that eclipsed the message and claimed it for a specific cause – building the socialist community. Inevitably, in the absence of real communication, the members of this community gradually drifted apart. The fight against the potato beetle illustrates this process. In the summer of 1948, district councils were required to organise the fight against this parasite, supposedly ‘sent by imperialist countries’ and quickly labelled ‘American’.130 The eradication campaign became more

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urgent two years later, when the insect began to flourish in Poland, the German Democratic Republic and Czechoslovakia. At an extraordinary meeting on 1 August, Ruzyneˇ’s councillors expressed their ‘full support for the government’s programme’ and called on the local community to remain vigilant.131 In August 1952, after ‘ten potato beetles’ were discovered in a garden, there was an attempt to organise a regional campaign to collect the insects. However, in Ruzyneˇ, only seven people responded to the call, including the councillor for agriculture, the secretary of the local Communist Party and the latter’s two sons.132 This woeful turnout revealed the degree of estrangement between the council and the people. Nevertheless, the councillors did not take any steps to counter the citizens’ obvious apathy: in subsequent campaigns, they simply mustered schoolchildren to make up the required number of participants. Just as the functioning of the public sphere was effectively a pretence, this sham citizen action showed that the State and its agents would go to any lengths to ensure that the rules were seen to be maintained. This prescriptive approach to the socialist public sphere prevented dialogue between the various social actors and meant that consensus could not be reached: decisions were imposed from above via state agencies or from below via the socialist community. In both cases, the absence of debate hindered the evolution of a positive relationship between the State and society. The regime lost its ability to adapt to people’s needs and expectations. Any development in their interaction was always fraught with conflict.133 *** In Soviet-style societies, the public sphere was no longer a space for dialogue between a plurality of actors. Mass movements of people and property in Central and Eastern Europe during and after the war, and the new social structures of the people’s democracies, ensured that one entity, the Party-State, gained a dominant role in the public sphere. Instead of promoting exchange, the decision making process facilitated the communication of information from top to bottom, a process which meant that one dominant discourse crushed all others. Nationalisation and collectivisation resulted in extreme confusion between public and private interests, and allowed the socialist community to define the

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collective interest without considering the needs of the individuals concerned. This led to much conflict and a prevailing atmosphere of mistrust – a defining characteristic of the socialist public sphere. Exchanges became increasingly ritualised in an attempt to legitimise the Party-State’s dominance and disseminate the regime’s core values. The public sphere therefore ceased to be a sounding board for the individual interests of its members. Those groups that found themselves marginalised or simply tolerated shifted into other spheres and developed alternative discourses; but without a shared arena for exchange, they were unable to communicate effectively or develop a collective discourse on the common good. This meant that those who did participate in the public sphere became ever more isolated, and the people’s democracies found it increasingly difficult to keep pace with changes in society. In the postwar period, the public sphere became a channel for the needs and demands of those who were allowed to participate within it, but this channelling, which was initially voluntary, soon became obligatory. The processes – such as increasingly complex formalised debate and voting – remained intact, but their meaning gradually disappeared. The debates became shorter, unanimous votes became the norm, and members of district councils were all expected to participate in official events, such as May Day or the month of Soviet– Czechoslovak friendship. Citizen engagement was replaced with a semblance of consent. In this way, the regime destroyed one of the key characteristics of the citizen community, which relied on communication and gave life and meaning to their political abilities: arriving at a collective definition of the common good. How did this form of public sphere endure for more than four decades despite its inability to meet the needs of those concerned? People simply seemed to reconcile themselves to the situation, albeit with certain provisos. The first of these was that the system must ensure that they had at least a basic level of social services. Council deputies therefore did their best to defend the interests of their local communities against the demands of the Communist Party or the administrative machine, although this was difficult, given the prevailing shortages. The second proviso was that the system must provide safety nets. During the 1950s, the regime became increasingly tolerant of certain marginalised public arenas where people could express themselves as

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long as they did not have any wider ambitions to engender change. A compromise was reached: the regime knew that the people viewed it in terms of endurance rather than devotion; and the people felt fairly well protected from the regime’s aggression as long as they did not step outside certain boundaries. The populace thus had a sufficient level of tolerance for the regime, helped by the fact that the authorities were not perceived as entirely oppressive. The public sphere became an arena for negotiation and compromise in which each actor showed the necessary flexibility, and the presence of form did not guarantee the presence of content.

CHAPTER 4 COMPLAINING, TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF

Mr Dvorˇa´k had always had a weakness for women. In 1952, he met Milada Platinova´ and the couple began an affair. This time, though, Mrs Dvorˇa´kova´ was not prepared to tolerate her husband’s philandering. She went to the Prague–Smı´chov District Council and then to the local police for help. The two lovers swore in front of the council that they would end their illicit relationship, but then reneged on their promise. So, on 12 March 1953, Mrs Dvorˇa´kova´ wrote directly to the president of the Republic of Czechoslovakia, Antonı´n Za´potocky´: Even though Mrs Platinova´ knows that this man is married and has a family, she seizes any chance she can to meet him and upset him, and to get drunk and disturb the peace and the socialist community in the whole area. Recently she even threatened my husband with a knife and [. . .] when he tried to put an end to their relationship, she forced her way into our apartment and threatened him and shouted at him until he agreed to carry on seeing her. Everybody saw and heard what happened, including Mrs Novotna´, the concierge, who told me everything. The President’s office passed the case to Prague’s 16th District Council, which ordered an investigation and in January 1954 summoned all three parties in the hope of reaching an amicable resolution. The lovers signed a new agreement to cease all contact with each other and to regulate and

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suppress their emotions. The police agreed to monitor the pair to ensure they respected this agreement. The councillor in charge of civil affairs reminded the husband and wife, somewhat condescendingly, that married couples had ‘certain obligations’ and asked Mrs Dvorˇa´kova´ to show some understanding: The district council has done everything in its power to restore a good marital relationship. It is, however, vital that in the future you make an effort to manage conflicts amicably in order to avoid such disruption to be caused by a mere suspicion.1 This trivial story of conjugal infidelity reveals a distinction between public and private that is unusual, to say the least. Why did the wife expose a private affair to the scrutiny of a succession of public authorities? Why was she so open about matters that are usually kept private? The fact that such petitions were fairly commonplace in postwar Czechoslovakia makes these questions all the more pertinent. Mrs Dvorˇa´kova´’s actions, like those of thousands of other men and women that are recorded in the archives, are not simply part of a narrative of domination. The solution – a sort of ‘contract’ designed to discipline the adulterous couple’s emotions – was developed by representatives of the State with the help of local citizens. This indicates the existence of a specific framework in which an individual’s private affairs unfolded within the people’s democracies. In The Origins of Totalitarianism, Hannah Arendt states that in Sovietstyle societies, ‘the iron band of total terror leaves no space for [. . .] private life’ and ‘the self-coercion of totalitarian logic destroys man’s capacity for experience and thought just as certainly as his capacity for action’.2 Similarly, partisans of the totalitarian paradigm believe that the private sphere was abolished in such societies in order to achieve total dominance. Oleg Kharkhordin maintains that the public/private dichotomy simply does not apply in the context of Soviet Russia.3 When discussing communist Albania, Fatos Lubonja asserts, ‘the privacy as a “personal space”, as the right to be alone, as a dimension of freedom, has not existed as a concept in our culture, which was deeply marked by totalitarianism’.4 By contrast, some historians defend the idea of a form of privacy based on the desire to have a space of one’s own and to find fulfilment in day-to-day life outside the structures provided by

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the regime.5 Historians of material culture have adopted this approach.6 For them, the private sphere was the only sphere which mattered as far as daily life was concerned. It was defined by family and networks of friends and acquaintances.7 This chapter takes a stance somewhere between these two polarised viewpoints. The concept of ‘private space’ was born with the promotion of individual rights during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In its broadest sense, it is a sphere in which ‘everybody has the right to be alone’ and protected from external interference.8 For Georges Duby, it is ‘a safety zone given over to withdrawal and retreat, where everybody can abandon the weapons and defences that are necessary when they venture into public spheres’.9 According to Jeff Weintraub, private space belongs to the individual (rather than the collective) and is hidden (rather than public, open and accessible to all).10 Overall, it means a degree of isolation from others and the right to control information that concerns the individual and nobody else.11 What is the basis for the idea that a ‘thing’ belongs to an individual and must therefore remain hidden? There are, of course, material concerns and factors linked to social conditions, such as population density, family structures and the division of labour. But the border between public and private is also defined according each society’s recognition of the legitimate boundaries of individual identity.12 These boundaries are subject to constant renegotiation between the individual, his or her environment and wider society. Within them, the individual is supposed to enjoy freedom of thought and action far from the constraints and social conventions that must be respected in the public sphere.13 This ‘space of one’s own’ is filled with ordinary, everyday acts: routines, conflicts and kindness to others. Emotions, sexuality, joys, fears, doubts shared with others, lies, desires, pleasures, real and imagined experiences as well as the ideas that we construct about ourselves, others and people in general make this a rich and complex universe. Thus, every society and individual contributes to the construction of the private sphere, meaning this is a social process that evolves as they evolve. Studying the form it takes can lead to better understanding of any society and the importance it accords to the individual. How, though, can we gain access to something that is, by definition, inaccessible and leaves no trace? Diaries, letters and notebooks can help. Their highly individual character means that they cannot always be

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used as the basis for wider reflection on the private sphere, although some anthologies of Soviet diaries have made this more feasible.14 Sources such as personal accounts and oral histories are inseparable from people’s complicated relationships with the past, Ostalgie and the retrospective gaze, which means that they are more useful in studies of memory.15 By contrast, citizens’ complaints to the authorities allow a glimpse into the ‘inner sphere’. Communist regimes encouraged this practice; indeed, they made it a key element of the wielding of power by the people.16 When they described their predicaments, individuals revealed aspects of what usually goes unsaid, or is expressed only obliquely. With a turn of phrase and the evocation of minor, everyday concerns, private life is evoked. How was the private sphere constructed in the people’s democracies, and how did the relationship between what was considered private and what was considered public evolve during the postwar period? The transformation of the private sphere’s material character and new socialist vivre-ensemble rules were decisive factors in these processes. How, in this new context, could an individual construct a ‘space of one’s own’, and what lay inside such a space? To answer these questions, I draw on a case study from Prague. Therefore, I focus exclusively on urban society, where definitions of the private domain were no doubt different from those in rural areas. Furthermore, for reasons of space, I concentrate on the regime’s founding period, the 1950s. Who complained to the authorities in Prague at this time? For those within the administration, they were simply ‘moaners’, but many of them were experiencing great difficulties or were genuinely revolted by a particular situation and decided to denounce it. In addition, of course, there were a number of informers. In the 1950s, complainants were typically young urban men who had recently moved to the capital to work in industry, which was expanding rapidly. Others were workers who had lived in the city for a long time, especially in peripheral, working-class areas. In both cases, the socio-professional level was usually low: these citizens were the mainstays of the young Czechoslovak people’s democracy. Finally, some of the complainants were former ‘bourgeois’ landlords – families that had once been well off but were now forced to share their apartments with newcomers. The archives do not contain all the information a historian needs for an exhaustive study: details of ages, professions, social backgrounds and

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so on are lacking. So do these fragments help us to paint a picture of the private sphere under communism? I believe they do. Hence, although the end result may be little more than a basic outline of this sphere, the undertaking is still worthwhile.

Socialist Vivre-Ensemble The first indication of the Czechoslovak people’s democracy’s transformation of the private sphere was a change in people’s everyday material environment. A huge postwar transfer of property affected not only industry and agriculture but also the domestic sphere, traditionally considered unassailable, the only sphere that truly belonged to the individual.17 These property transfers increased with urbanisation and a sudden population increase, and they had a direct effect on how private life was lived in Czechoslovakia. Furthermore, laws passed in the late 1940s and early 1950s aimed to create a new form of interpersonal relations known as ‘socialist vivre-ensemble’.

A new material environment In the postwar period, there was an unprecedented housing crisis in Central and Eastern Europe. This was partly due to significant war damage to various cities in the German Democratic Republic and Poland: by the end of the war, 80 per cent of the buildings in Dresden and Warsaw had been destroyed. Czechoslovakia escaped much of this damage, but postwar industrialisation caused a massive influx of rural populations into the cities. These population shifts, coupled with the postwar baby boom, caused a dramatic housing shortage, especially in the large industrial centres of Prague, Plzenˇ, Brno and Ostrava. The public authorities struggled to respond effectively to this crisis. The population increased by 10.4 per cent between 1950 and 1960, yet the country was one of the five worst European countries in terms of building new houses. In 1937, 18,808 new homes were built by private and public enterprises. In 1950, the figure was only slightly higher – 22,01618 – even though, following postwar nationalisation, the State now dominated the construction sector.19 Understandably, there was very little property for sale, and it became extremely difficult to get state housing. Housing cooperatives, councils and businesses were all overwhelmed by demand, and housing waiting lists were very long – sometimes ten years

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or more. In 1954, Prague’s 7th District registered 5,756 requests for housing – of which 487 were urgent – all competing for a few dozen apartments. The situation did not improve in subsequent years. In the capital in 1967, the state sector received 45,000 housing requests, while housing cooperatives received 150,000. Prague was not alone in this predicament: in 1958, a total of 360,000 people made housing requests in Czechoslovakia. Three years later, the figure was 563,000, or 4 per cent of the population. Analysts concluded that 1.17 million new homes were needed, meaning that 100,000 had to be built each year if every family were to have their own apartment by 1970.20 Needless to say, this target was never reached. The housing shortage led to a redefinition of what was considered to be an appropriately sized apartment. In 1948, a law defined any apartment in which the number of rooms was greater than the number of occupants as ‘excessive’.21 Eight years later, the deciding factor became the relationship between the number of occupants and the surface area of the apartment: the appropriate size was set at 12 square metres per person. If the occupants enjoyed more space than this, they had to pay a tax that rose as the surface area per occupant increased. And if each resident had more than 18 square metres, they were liable to be rehoused, or the apartment might be divided into several separate lodgings.22 This practice continued until the mid-1960s. It was particularly aimed at ‘individuals from the past’ (by´valı´ lide´) – who had been members of the now-defunct economic, social and political elite – and at the middle classes. Only 13,000 apartments were divided in Prague throughout the 1950s, but the practice helped to create a new form of ownership in which the categories of landlord and tenant no longer fully applied. Occupants were not permitted to sell their apartments or pass them on to their descendants without permission from the council. In keeping with the communal economy, they had usufruct rights and were responsible for the upkeep and management of the property they inhabited. However, the owner was now the State.23 Many of the residents in urban areas had to live in crowded conditions that affected their privacy. In 1954, almost 22 per cent of Prague’s apartments were classed as ‘overcrowded’, meaning that they were occupied by more than two people per habitable room. According to the 1961 census, 3.58 people lived in the average apartment, but only 38 per cent of apartments in the capital had two rooms or more. The situation

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was better near the country’s borders because of the mass exodus of Germans and Hungarians immediately after the war. In the Karlovy Vary region, for instance, 72 per cent of dwellings had two rooms or more.24 In divided apartments, occupants shared corridors and sometimes even the kitchen, bathroom and toilet, rather like the residents in Soviet komunalka.25 Furniture and personal possessions in the shared spaces made the apartments difficult to negotiate and stifling. The apartments were often ill-adapted to communal use, and strangers would frequently encounter each other in the corridors and kitchens. Sometimes, couples who had separated would continue living under the same roof, or even in the same room, while they waited for new housing to become available. This enforced sharing of personal space could make cohabitation extremely difficult. The Osvalds had been divorced for several years, but their only option was to ‘make sure that their paths did not cross when they came home’ (see below).26 How did people manage to feel at home in such circumstances? They did not own their living spaces in the traditional sense, so all they could do was personalise them and assert their ‘ownership’ – at least symbolically and mentally – by means of decoration and furniture. Even this was difficult, though, because of the shortage of decorative goods and the narrow choice available. Individuals’ attempts to create their own personal environment were thus limited to choosing from a range of items they had seen elsewhere. Socialist apartments – with their identical lamps, bookshelves and sofas – looked like hotel rooms: people felt at home everywhere and therefore nowhere. The private space took on a public character, and this standardisation impoverished people’s personal development. They saw the same objects every day, whether they were at home or in somebody else’s house, which led to national conformity in taste and lifestyle. And this conformity went even further in the late 1950s, when the State started to erect prefabricated buildings ( panela´ky): a handful of different apartment layouts were reproduced identically across the country.

Public regulation of private relationships Although ‘privacy’ implies a retreat from the social sphere, it is rarely a retreat into solitude. We usually share our privacy with a select group of chosen people with whom we have decided to share our lives, away from the gaze of others. The concept of having a space of one’s own thus

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includes having control over relationships with family, friends, neighbours or even complete strangers within that space. Leaving the social sphere and entering the private one, choosing who may enter it and excluding others, implies the existence of freedom of choice. To this extent, the private sphere is a political concept: its nature tells us something about the extent of individual liberty.27 In the people’s democracies, the authorities interfered in people’s interpersonal relationships to a significant degree. For instance, in Czechoslovakia, they tried to establish ‘citizen rules for vivre-ensemble’ and attempted to pass these into law at the end of the 1940s. The 1950 Penal Code brought all of these together and arranged them into a coherent whole.28 Its aim, as expressed by the rapporteur for the law, Jaroslav Kokesˇ, when parliament formally adopted the code, was to ‘promote the building of socialism and to educate the socialist man who was now coming into being’.29 Minister of Home Affairs Va´clav Nosek added: The new penal law aims to educate individuals and to liberate them from various relics of the old capitalist society which, as experience has shown, persist in people’s minds. These relics manifest themselves in a lack of respect for various citizen rules for vivre-ensemble through, for example, selfishness, an aversion to honest work, an I-don’t-care attitude, and a lack of respect for property and people. The new penal law must help to ensure that citizens are disciplined in their behaviour and respect all of the socialist vivre-ensemble rules conscientiously. These rules reflect a new kind of relationship that can exist only in a socialist state.30 The Penal Code enforced a certain level of civility in interpersonal relationships with the aim of ensuring that public order was maintained. It covered such varied areas as petty crime, nocturnal disturbance, damage to socialist property, alcoholism and offensive behaviour, especially threats, insults and slander, which could disrupt citizens’ peaceful cohabitation or damage their dignity and honour.31 A lack of respect for good socialist behaviour was measured by the ‘degree of threat that it poses to society’ (stupenˇ spolecˇenske´ nebezpecˇnosti). Good behaviour had to conform to the spirit of the Code, whose main goal was to ‘protect the interests of working people and the individual, and to instil respect for the socialist rules of vivre-ensemble’.32

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According to the Code, individuals and society should be protected by non-penal means, and crime should be controlled by a judicious balance of preventative and repressive action. A sentence was not simply a punishment for an illegal act but should be ‘a way of obtaining redress for bad behaviour’ before allowing the guilty party to ‘return to being an honest worker and to rejoin society as a fully functioning member’.33 The new law also tended to replace prison sentences with public censure, fines, confiscation of goods or temporary work bans – all measures that were viewed as more pedagogically effective. Moreover, the public censure and fines were largely symbolic – designed to educate rather than repress. For instance, in August 1954, one offender was fined 50 crowns for her ‘refusal to live peacefully and calmly’. The woman in question had used the communal laundry outside her allotted hours, which had disrupted the schedule of the whole building.34 Sixteen years later, Frantisˇek Sˇonka was warned about his lack of cleanliness: if he did not change his ways, and continued to soil the entrance and toilets of his shared apartment building, the council would begin court proceedings ‘for failure to comply with socialist vivre-ensemble rules’ and ‘request the removal of his right to use the apartment’.35 In order to make an example of such offenders, and to educate others, court rulings were displayed in public places and in the homes and workplaces of those concerned. These socialist vivre-ensemble principles were integrated into subsequent legislation by the 1961 Penal Code and the 1964 Civil Code. Moreover, the 1960 Constitution set out the rules of socialist behaviour as regulations that were enforceable by law. These laws remained in force until the fall of the regime.36 The law included various methods of keeping order, imposing discipline on personal relationships and imparting the socialist rules of vivre-ensemble. In terms of the individual’s personal environment, touching closely on the private sphere, there were ‘building confidants’ and ‘propagandist pairs’. The ‘building confidant’ (domovnı´ du˚veˇrnı´k) acted as a monitor. The occupants of each building would elect a confidant, then submit their decision for district council approval. If the council agreed to the appointment, the confidant was expected to ‘help create new ways of bringing citizens closer together, encourage communal management of affairs and see that there is a general respect for the basic rules of vivreensemble, founded on the new socialist morality’.37 This meant that the confidant could get involved in occupants’ private lives and act as a

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mediator in instances of low-level interpersonal conflict, such as quarrels between spouses, alcoholism, infidelity, disrespect towards women or children, disputes between neighbours or night-time noise.38 They also acted as a point of contact between the authorities and individual residents. Often members of the local Housing Commission, each confidant would keep a ‘building book’ (domovnı´ kniha) in which the comings and goings of every resident and visitor were recorded, including destinations and the length of time they were away from the building. These books were regularly submitted to local police stations and formed part of the routine surveillance of the population.39 The ‘propagandist pairs’ (agitacˇnı´ dvojice) usually comprised one member of the Communist Party and one member of another organisation linked to the National Front, both of whom would live in the area for which they were responsible.40 They were expected to resolve low-level conflicts in much the same way as the building confidants. If both of these approaches failed, the Party would intervene via street committees, district councils and, from the 1960s onwards, local people’s courts. The street committees (ulicˇnı´ vy´bory) were local-level, grassroots KSCˇ organisations that were based in individual city streets, hence the name. They discussed everyday issues, such as rubbish collection and the price of bread, but were also involved in resolving conflicts between neighbours, which would be discussed in front of the assembled residents of the street. Local people’s courts (mı´stnı´ lidove´ soudy) were judicial bodies created from 1961 onwards in villages or small towns of more than 3,000 inhabitants. The judges in these organs for people’s justice were proposed by the district council or the union, then elected by the local residents or the employees of a particular workplace. During their two-year terms, the people’s judges would investigate minor criminal offences relating to damage to socialist property, personal cleanliness, abuse of socialist cohabitation, family relationships, work relationships and work discipline. All of the cases were passed on to them by the state prosecutor or the criminal court.41 Finally, district councils (otherwise known as national committees) were responsible for cases that needed more detailed investigation and the involvement of other services. They also scrutinised any complaints that citizens made to the press (especially the daily KSCˇ newspapers, such as Rude´ pra´vo and Pravda, or the satirical magazine Dikobraz) and to official

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bodies, such as ministries, the President of the Republic and the Communist Party Central Committee. Both complaints and petitions were considered within ‘interior affairs commissions’, which could then call on assistance from other bodies, such as the social services or the police. At the end of each investigation, the conflicting parties were summoned for a public confrontation which generally ended in an amicable resolution, avoiding a long and intimidating judicial process.42 Other Central and Eastern European countries created similar organisations. In the German Democratic Republic, conflict commissions and, later, dispute commissions (Konfliktkommissionen and Siedskommissionen) played the same role as Czechoslovakia’s interior affairs commissions.43 Moreover, outside the legal framework, the principles on which these bodies were based were sometimes expressed more explicitly. For instance, in the USSR, the 22nd Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union adopted a 12-point ‘code of socialist morality’. Although the first point expressed the principle of ‘devotion to the communist cause, love of the socialist mother country and brother countries’, the remainder focused on mutual respect, honesty and sincerity, purity and moral simplicity, camaraderie and friendship, and modesty in professional and personal life. All of these principles were reiterated in the 1986 CPSU Programme.44 The authorities had the power to determine ‘the extent of the threat posed to society’ by people’s actions, and then to discipline the individuals involved. In 1954, the Interior Affairs Commission for Prague’s 14th District considered the case of Marke´ta Jirousˇkova´, Aloisie Sˇemberova´ and Emilie Perˇinova´ – three neighbours with a stormy relationship. Arguments were frequent and insults flew. The district had been aware of these conflicts ‘for some time’ and had made several attempts to mediate between the three women. However, after yet another argument in March 1954, the commission ruled that Jirousˇkova´ had violated Section 127 of the Penal Code, which regulated behaviour that ‘disturbed the citizen rules of vivre-ensemble and thus, either wilfully or through neglect, threatened the health or lives of fellow citizens or their property or disrupted the people’s building of socialism’. Specifically, Jirousˇkova´ had cut Perˇinova´’s washing line. The latter woman avoided prosecution for defamation after going through a process of conciliation with her neighbours in front of the council.45 It was not only the authorities who could interpret the law as they saw fit: ordinary people would sometimes submit official complaints about

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fellow citizens whom they judged to be in breach of socialist rules. For instance, in November 1953, Emilie Ru˚zˇicˇkova´ denounced her neighbour Ruzˇena Krupska´ for refusing to let her do her washing in the communal bathroom sink, which was shared by the two women’s families. Ru˚zˇicˇkova´ insisted that Krupska´’s selfish behaviour was causing conflicts that ‘went against the citizen rules of vivre-ensemble’. Nine months later, Va´clav Antosˇ accused his neighbour, Jaroslav Barth, of earning money for illicit work as a radio mechanic. According to the complainant, this disrupted ‘good relations’ in the neighbourhood and undermined ‘respect of citizen rules of vivre-ensemble in the building’.46 When they appeared before the district council representative or an assembled group of neighbours, those involved in such complaints revealed a whole world of personal, family and neighbourhood relationships that were shot through with conflict and tension that had built up over time. These meetings worked as tools for the surveillance and shaping of the individual by the community. After hearing statements from both parties, the district councillor and the audience would express their opinions on the conduct of each and determine what they considered to be non-compliant. In 1956, in a case of marital conflict centring on the husband’s alcoholism and the wife’s jealousy, the district council initiated an investigation that dragged on for several months before inviting both parties to a public confrontation. After hearing a summary of the facts of the case, the husband ‘renounced the excessive consumption of alcohol’ and the couple agreed to ‘behave courteously towards one another in the future and to abandon mutual attacks’. The council representative closed the meeting with the following words: Hynek Lesˇa´k has a good reputation in the neighbourhood. He is courteous and obliging, and his wife’s children love him very much. Sometimes he drinks too much because his wife creates ugly scenes. She sometimes locks him out of the apartment and takes away his keys to the building so that he has to sleep outside. Lesˇa´k is a hard-working man and if his wife treated him even a little more decently, the conflict between them would disappear.47 In this way, the community disciplined individuals and instilled in them its socialist rules for daily life, giving interpersonal relationships a public dimension.

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In December 1955, members of the public witnessed an attempt at arbitration between the Trmal siblings. The brother, who was ‘of poor character and was unhappy with the presence of third parties’, recounted the differences that had divided him and his sister since childhood. Neighbours who were present during the confrontation ‘had more sympathy with the sister than with the brother, who ran the apartment as he liked’.48 Ten years later, during an attempt to reach an amicable reconciliation, an audience in the district hall heard that the Osvalds’ were still sharing an apartment even though their relationship had fallen apart in 1963. Details of the couple’s arguments were then presented by the police and a number of witnesses.49 Thus, personal life had meaning only when perceived within the context of the whole community, and it had to conform to the norms imposed by that community.50 In this context, individuals formed very personal relationships with the authorities. People addressed their complaints to ‘public’ representatives such as the mayor, councillors, members of the Party’s Central Committee or even the President of the Republic as though they were private citizens. Often, the letter of complaint would include an instruction on the envelope that it must be delivered ‘in person’, again indicating the desire to instigate personal contact. Sometimes, the address would be very brief, illustrating the writer’s familiarity with the addressee: For the attention of A. Za´potocky´ President of the Republic Prague Castle51 The letters themselves often continued in the same vein. The term of address was frequently casual (e.g. ‘Dear Comrade President’) and correspondents would regularly use the informal Czech word for ‘you’. For instance, in October 1970, a letter to the mayor of Prague began as follows: ‘Dear Comrade Mayor, thank you for your reply to my letter. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten. Don’t take it the wrong way if I make a few comments on the reply I got from your office representative.’52 Establishing this sort of equal relationship between writer and recipient created a framework for expressing very personal grievances:

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Comrade President, I come from a poor family of workers. When my mother was fourteen, she lost three fingers working in a factory owned by the capitalist Jerich in Jaromeˇrˇ. She was shown no pity and was dismissed, and then went into service and worked for so-called Ladies and Gentlemen, and her life was very hard. My father has always been unemployed, and he and my mother had four children. My mother was always out at work and we were left alone at home all the time. When my mother came home in the evening she would fall asleep as soon as she sat down. Now my mother is 85 and she is happy and looking forward to the May Day. I have one child, my husband has a good job, my daughter is intelligent and gets good marks at school, and I am happy except for this problem about which I am writing to you now, Comrade President.53 Individuals’ relationships with the authorities were part of a paternalist logic based on the conviction that the named recipient would be able to solve the problem. In September 1956, Frantisˇka Masˇkova´ wrote: I am completely convinced that in the people’s republic, people who are alone, widows and retired people, should be protected, and it is shocking that somebody who has never done anybody any harm should be treated as heartlessly and inhumanely as I have!54 Thirteen years later, Emilie Dimitrova, who was of Bulgarian origin, petitioned Vice Prime Minister Lubomı´r Sˇtrougal: ‘I write to you with full confidence, dear Comrade, for you are not only an important state functionary but also a sincere friend of the Bulgarian people.’55 Such personal links with the authorities seem to have been more common among workers, and probably represent a continuation of paternalistic employer – worker relationships dating back to the nineteenth century. President of the Republic Antonı´n Za´potocky´ (1953– 7), who was idealised as a ‘father of the workers’,56 and Zdeneˇk Zu˚ska, the charismatic mayor of Prague in the 1970s, thus benefited from a ‘capital of trust’ among the people, which no doubt encouraged this kind of close relationship. They were not the only ones to enjoy this sort of trust, however: emotional language and respect for authority were characteristic of most requests for help.

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Acceptance of socialist vivre-ensemble How did people assimilate this new relationship between public and private, and the ‘socialist’ approach to how they should live their private lives? One of the most obvious ways was through the adoption of new forms of address. The use of the familiar ‘you’ spread quickly, while the formal ‘you’ came to be seen as an unwelcome sign of social differentiation. In 1953, Mr Straka insisted on using the formal ‘you’ when addressing his neighbour, Mrs Koubkova´, and called her ‘Mrs’ instead of the nowcommon ‘Comrade’, which gave the impression that he ‘feels himself to be superior to her, sets himself apart from her and does not consider her to be his equal’.57 Just over a year later, Mr Vohradnı´k denounced the behaviour of the whole Vohryzka family because it ‘resembles the behaviour of capitalist-era masters of the house’.58 Did the introduction of socialist codes of behaviour facilitate Czechoslovak society’s assimilation of the new organisation of the private sphere? When making complaints, people tended to use the arguments and language that they assumed the administration wanted them to use in the hope of obtaining a favourable response. For the same reason, they presented themselves in public as devoted workers who had won many awards and were committed to public causes. It would, however, be reductive to interpret the use of these formal signs as simple opportunism. Such signs became part of everyday life and found a place in the individual’s private sphere. Each person integrated them into their private life in their own way. In May 1965, Ludmila Kollinerova´ lodged a complaint against her neighbour, Mrs Vı´tacˇkova´: Under the German occupation, Comrade Vı´tacˇkova´ came to our door several times to ask us if we were of pure race, claiming that she had been asked to do so. She would ask us the same question when we went down to the cellar to fetch coal. After 1945, she called me a prostitute and hit my husband over the head with an iron. Now that she works for the Party, she continues to insult us. According to the complainant, her neighbour was trying ‘to have us thrown out of the building where we have lived ever since it was built in 1938’. Here, a personal grievance and a depiction of private life mingle with support for the regime’s anti-fascist values.59

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People often expressed the conviction that the person in authority to whom they were writing would be able to solve their problem. It seems that the regulating presence of the authorities in private spaces was accepted because there was no other option: people’s living spaces were largely regulated by the community via administrative structures. In 1954, the authorities received a request that a divided apartment should be definitively ‘separated in half and that a formal decree should be issued for our half, which would avoid conflict occurring again in the future’.60 Six months later, another request concluded with a call for public intervention: ‘Why has the district council not intervened following complaints by several citizens [. . .] and why has there been no compensation at all?’61 Clearly, the community was expected to organise, repair and pacify relationships within the private sphere. And these functions were reinforced in people’s minds by the paternalistic structures promoted by the regime: requests would be acted on efficiently, forming the basis of the ‘National Front’s strong link with the working masses’,62 and people were encouraged to complain if district councils did not ‘fulfil their duties towards citizens’.63 Letters to the authorities did not question the principle of sharing private spaces, but they often criticised the way in which the practice was implemented. By contrast, public interference in personal privacy was rarely mentioned. In 1954, Bozˇena Pra´sˇova´ lodged a complaint against her neighbour: Citizen Zemanova´ thinks that just because her son is in the police force and she is a Party member, she can do whatever she wants: attack people violently for no reason, humiliate them, spread gossip, sow discord! Well, she can’t! I will defend myself against this behaviour and I will defend myself with all my strength! Pra´sˇova´ urged the council to intervene and restore order in the neighbourhood: ‘It would be unforgivable not to be concerned about what is going on in this house!’64 Despite some progress over time, the slow pace with which complaints were addressed and the authorities’ inability to provide solutions that were acceptable to all parties shook people’s confidence in the socialist community. In the early 1950s, administrative failures were usually put down to the inefficiency of individual officers. In October 1954,

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Eva Belzˇova´, the building confidante for 391 Trˇı´da obra´ncu˚ mı´ru, wrote to Prague City Council to complain about the building’s manager. Writing on behalf of all the residents, she asked the local authorities to assume control of the building: Today I went to the 7th District Council and they sent me, as they have in the past, from one employee to another but nobody would take on the case. These employees (or should I say bureaucrats?) simply carry out orders. For them, the former landlord is still the master, and the occupants have no rights. This is especially true of employee Strˇecha, who works at the Interior Affairs Office. Please see this as a criticism of the 7th District Council, whose incompetence has already been pointed out by Dikobraz magazine.65 In order to increase their chance of success, people often turned to higher authorities. The Pelhrˇims justified their complaint to the President’s Office as follows: The press and the radio [. . .] insist on the importance of government intervention in district council matters. This is why we have decided, after much bitter experience and suffering, to place our confidence in the highest powers. We hope that you will look favourably on our complaint and, if possible, address it.66 The monetary reform of 1953 dealt a serious blow to this confidence. For small cash sums (up to 300 crowns), five old crowns were exchanged for one new crown, while the exchange rate for deposits in savings accounts was 50 crowns to one. Hence, all savings, especially those of the middle classes, were virtually wiped out, and spending power was significantly reduced.67 Jirˇı´ Hakl got married in April 1953, just before the reform came into force. As a young husband, he was entitled to a state bonus of 5,000 crowns, which he planned to spend on furnishings for his new home. However, he did not receive the cash until August, after the reform, when it was worth only 100 crowns in the new money. He expressed his anger in a letter to the authorities: Comrades, tell me if this is the right decision [. . .] I don’t think anyone could manage to buy more than a couple of sheets with this

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sum of money. I think that as a worker for our Republic I have duties but I also have rights!68 Many other correspondents expressed similar despair, which highlights the degree of informality in the relationship between the regime and its citizens. Marie Kindlova´, who had worked on building sites in Ostrava, pleaded with President Za´potocky´ himself: I receive a pension of 300 crowns each month. I am ill and unable to work, and the money I receive is not even enough to buy food. I can’t buy coal, I can’t afford to pay the bills, I’m desperate, and when I asked for my pension to be increased I was told that it was against the law. This is why I am writing to you, Mr President, to ask for your help in my despair. I am 65 years old, and in old money I had 95,000 crowns of savings that I could draw on in difficult times. Now that I am old, I am forced to beg. When my husband was alive, he placed 18,000 crowns of savings with the State and I have lost that too. Now I am completely alone, with no friends, no children, nobody to help me in my distress. I have nowhere to turn and I am asking you, as the President, not to let me die of hunger and to help me in my time of need. Many thanks in advance!69

A ‘Space of One’s Own’ The socialist community’s intrusion into the private lives of its members prompted the release of private emotions and tensions. In the absence of a sufficiently clear boundary between the public and private spheres, this was manifest in conflicts with neighbours and the authorities. The fact that people had to share their private living spaces sometimes strengthened their solidarity and promoted mutual assistance, but it also encouraged surveillance: the community watched over its individual members. In this context, no individual enjoyed complete privacy. The resulting sense of insecurity generated emotional unease that was one of the defining characteristics of the socialist private sphere.

The private space, a tense space Changes to living spaces and the imposition of socialist vivre-ensemble rules uprooted traditional concepts of privacy and redefined the

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boundary between the public and private spheres. Katerina Gerasimova uses the term ‘public privacy’ to describe the new hybrid sphere that was neither completely private nor totally public.70 And yet, if individuals are to enjoy the privacy that is essential to their development, they need access to spaces where they can feel utterly alone and free. Identifying these ‘personal spaces’ lay at the heart of many domestic conflicts. In divided apartments, certain rooms (bathrooms, kitchens and sometimes even bedrooms, when these were used to access other areas) lost their private character and became hybrid communal spaces – neither completely private nor totally public. Even the occupants of undivided apartments were obliged to use the building’s communal spaces on a daily basis: the laundry room, balconies for drying washing and, in the 1950s and 1960s, shared bathrooms and toilets. It was not easy to reconcile the public and private functions of such spaces: how could somebody wash their clothes in a shared bathroom without impinging on their neighbour’s private use of that room? Toilets were the only communal spaces that were still reserved for individual use. But even here, individuals were subject to scrutiny. There were inevitable busy times, especially first thing in the morning, when everybody tried to spend as little time as possible in the toilet because they knew that other people were waiting. The enforced sharing meant that everyone was dependent on each other, which could give rise to a sense of shared responsibility. On the other hand, it could lead to a sense that the shared spaces did not belong to anybody. Hence, they would become a sort of no man’s land and fall into disrepair. Occupants of shared apartments would symbolically ‘privatise’ their personal spaces, mainly with physical markers. They signalled their ‘own space’ by sticking postcards and photographs on the walls, leaving clothes in various places, putting pans on the stove or leaving toothbrushes by the sink. Another approach was to establish a timetable whereby the residents would ‘reserve’ one of the communal spaces. Although this meant that a single person or a couple might have the space to themselves for a while, one important feature of personal space was still lacking: the socialist community might still intrude on their privacy. There was nothing to prevent a neighbour from trying to use a communal space when it was not their turn, so the system relied on unanimous respect for the timetable, with every resident accepting that any unscheduled intrusion into an improvised private space was a violation of privacy.

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Mrs Baucova´ shared her apartment with the Kasˇpar family. According to the residents’ timetable, she had sole use of the bathroom to do her cooking and washing between 3 p.m. on Saturday and 3 p.m. on Sunday. However, this schedule had caused problems: ‘When I get home after 3 p.m. on a Sunday, I can’t cook or clean until after 8.30 because that’s the Kasˇpar family’s slot for giving their children a bath.’ The crowded living conditions meant that all of the occupants could see and hear each other even when they were in separate rooms. Mrs Baucova´’s bedroom was next to the bathroom, so she was woken up at 4.30 every morning: ‘Mrs Kasˇparova´’s shocking language would turn the most refined person into a complete brute!’71 Marie Vohryzkova´ told the local authorities about an argument with her neighbour. On 25 November 1954, Mrs Vohradnı´kova´ had rung Mrs Vohryzkova´’s doorbell ‘violently’ and declared, ‘full of disdain and without so much as a hello: “Open the laundry, I need to dry my washing!”’ Mrs Vohryzkova´ replied: ‘Today’s my day, and my washing’s still drying.’ The timetable in the corridor showed that it was indeed her turn to use the laundry. Mrs Vohradnı´kova´ left a basket of damp washing outside the door and left, but a few minutes later she once again rang the doorbell ‘violently’ and accused Mrs Vohryzkova´ of ‘dirtying’ her clothes. A heated argument, which also involved both women’s husbands, ensued.72 Whether it was delineated by personal possessions or by scheduled use of certain spaces, the boundary between public and private was always arbitrary and temporary, which meant that people never felt fully protected. Theft and the improper use of personal possessions was rife. In 1951, Ludmila Hejnova´ was forced to cede part of her apartment to the building confidant, Lubor Faltejsek. The subsequent cohabitation was not a success: Mr Faltejsek uses my possessions as though they were his own [. . .] He rifles through my things and uses some of them without asking me. He has closed off the balcony with a rope and for a while reserved the telephone and all the electrical appliances for his sole use. He does everything he can to make my life unbearable in my own apartment. He is vulgar, rude and overbearing; he slams the doors and shouts that if we don’t like it, we can leave. He demands that everything be done just the way he likes it, but he has no right to say that. He even brought a

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woman back to our apartment without asking anybody, and he shut himself up with her for quite a time.73 The sense of ownership that forms the basis of privacy is difficult to reconcile with the existence of communal spaces. In November 1953, Ruzˇena Krupska´ recounted a particularly aggressive encounter with her neighbour: I was in the bathroom when my neighbour, Emily Ru˚zˇicˇkova´, appeared. She was hopping mad, shaking her fists and ready to scratch me. She let rip: ‘Oh, so she’s in here, is she, Madam the Countess? Dirty animal, dirty little slut, I’ll show you! [. . .] I’ll kill you like a dog, I’ll strangle you, you filthy pig! I’ll give you what you deserve!’ And she grabbed the pot with the ashes in it and emptied it all over the corridor, making a terrible mess.74 In 1955, following a disagreement between the Krulı´k and Karban families over the use of their communal garden, the attempt at arbitration in front of the district council failed: the Karban family refused all reasonable suggestions and the public hearing ended with the Krulı´ks declaring, ‘If we can’t build a shed, then the Karbans can’t keep hens!’75 Patience and goodwill were not always sufficient to avoid conflict. Also in 1955, the Strieborny´ family moved the kitchen range and connected it to a makeshift outlet pipe. When the range was lit, ‘smoke filled the apartment’ of their neighbours, the Gerlachs, and caused ‘terrible headaches and stomach aches, and stinging eyes’. At about 9 p.m., Mrs Gerlachova´ asked the Strieborny´s to stop using the range, but her new neighbours replied through the closed door: ‘We’ll heat when we want to and when we need to!’ The smoke stopped at around 10 p.m., but the ‘ordeal’ began again at nine o’clock the next morning.76 The porous boundary between concerns relating to individuals and those relating to the community meant that neither was protected, and people often unleashed their violent impulses. Va´clav Kanˇa´k started sharing an apartment with Josef Cˇenˇka in 1955. By the following year, the flat-share had become intolerable. According to Kanˇa´k, Cˇenˇka ‘leaves a mess around the place, doesn’t do the housework, pisses in the sink at night and, I think, uses my personal possessions’. When Kanˇa´k rebuked

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him for his behaviour, Cˇenˇka said that he had permission to urinate in the sink ‘to avoid emptying the pot into the toilet’, which was right next to a bedroom shared by Mr and Mrs Kanˇa´k. The conflict escalated and when Kanˇa´k complained to Cˇenˇka that he was staying up too late and keeping him awake, Cˇenˇka ‘became violent’ and lodged a complaint with the district council against Kanˇa´k for disturbing the vivre-ensemble, on the basis that ‘in his half of the apartment, he can do what he likes’.77 Rapid industrialisation during the 1950s brought people from different social backgrounds to the cities, and these new arrivals had to learn to live together. Their standards of hygiene, culture and decorum were not necessarily equivalent to those of their new neighbours, which generated conflict. In 1956, one inhabitant of Libenˇ, in Prague’s 8th District, denounced his neighbours: The building confidante invites the worst kind of chain-smoking females from the nearby brasserie back to the garden in front of the house. It is impossible to live in this house if you have children, because these gatherings go against good morals and make it impossible even to get into the house. The district council investigated and discovered that the women who attended these ‘gatherings’ were actually residents of the building who were in the habit of meeting near the entrance at the end of the day. ‘The women knit, talk and smoke cigars. In warm weather, Mrs Vosˇ´ıcˇkova´, who is nearly blind and has trouble walking, sits on the steps by the entrance.’ The investigation also learned that the complainant, Mr Dvorˇa´k, was ‘of a nervous nature and shakes out his carpets from his window. His complaint is aimed at his neighbour, Mrs Pacˇesova´ [. . .] who has been managing the building for eleven years and shares a bathroom with the complainant.’78 Communal life lent itself to this sort of mutual surveillance, denunciation and a climate of general suspicion. In one public confrontation before the municipal councillor for interior affairs in 1954, Antonia Hranicˇkova´ explained: After I had closed the main door to the building, I went to have a look in the corridor to see who had left a light on. I met Mrs Petra´sˇkova´ and her neighbour Mrs Klı´mova´. I told them that there

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was no need to have a light on, and Mrs Petra´sˇkova´ replied that it was none of my business, that I didn’t pay for the electricity and that I should mind my own business. But if we want to save energy, we shouldn’t leave lights on when we don’t need them. Mrs Petra´sˇkova´’s response was to call Mrs Hranicˇkova´ a ‘snitch’. Another neighbour who had witnessed the scene seemed to support this accusation: ‘Hranicˇkova´ listens at doors and watches to see who is visiting whom in the building.’79 However, the community was encouraged to intervene to prevent or sanction behaviour that did not conform to the rules of socialist life, and neighbours would routinely inform the authorities of anything that seemed suspect. For instance, in 1955, Jan Skropil denounced his neighbour Helena Blechova´: She does illicit work without declaring it, and doesn’t pay taxes. She does sewing for people in the building and even for people living elsewhere. For example, she works for Mrs Koubova´, the hairdresser for the building, and for Mrs Vanicˇkova´ and Mrs Tamchynova´, and even for the building confidante, Mrs Neuzˇilova´. She used to do alterations for my wife, who paid her more than 2,000 crowns in old money, but Blechova´ never gave her an invoice. She has so much work that Blazˇena Kola´rˇova´ has even heard her turning work down.80 Following this denunciation, the council launched an investigation and questioned the seamstress: She denies ever having worked for money. She admitted that she sometimes carried out little bits of work for the building confidante, Mrs Neuzˇilova´, or for her friends, but only in return for people doing odd jobs for her in her apartment, which she can no longer do herself because of her poor health. The council issued a warning and saw ‘no reason to proceed further’. People knew that they were under constant surveillance, and this awareness seemed to be more effective than the imposition of actual sanctions: it encouraged the citizens to control their own behaviour. Everyone was not treated equally, however: while ordinary citizens were

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often given no more than a slap on the wrist, Party members were shown no mercy because they were expected to set an example.81 This scrutiny sometimes increased family solidarity or helped to unite neighbours, strengthening human links that made people feel less isolated. In 1953, Miroslav Kocek wrote to his local district council: Dear Comrade, I am writing to ask you to remedy Mrs Kveˇtoslava Ponikelska´’s living situation. She has six children, between four months and thirteen years old, and she is divorced and left completely without resources. Her children are dressed in poor clothes and go hungry because their mother is unemployed. She lives in Prague, in the 8th District, Na Hra´zi 243/19. I work for the council and I know that a case like this must be remedied very quickly so that people see the difference between the previous regime and the current one. Mrs Ponikelska´ has requested social assistance and has tried to improve her situation, without success so far. I am asking you to look into this case and let me know how it progresses, if possible, at this address: Kocek Miroslav, secretary of the Doksy National Committee. Thank you for your cooperation and I send you my best wishes. Honour in work! When the district council investigated, it found that Mrs Ponikelska´, whose children all had different fathers, had never arranged maintenance payments. She had worked as a concierge for a time, but lost her job after getting into a series of arguments with the building’s tenants. Her children slept two to a bed and ‘the oldest is already showing signs of poor morals. The mother has a bad reputation in the neighbourhood and she is unable to say where her money comes from.’ There was no room for the children in the city’s care homes and no foster families were available, so the council decided to place two of them in a nursery school, organise meals for three of the others, and provide clothes for all six.82 This response displays a genuine spirit of solidarity and a level of security provided by community life. However, it was an enforced community in which the collective interest was placed above individual interests. Every citizen was expected to behave like a member of the socialist family. This ‘family’ would intervene when private conflicts occurred, for instance at reconciliation meetings, during which the audience would watch the conflicting parties tear each other apart before pronouncing them guilty

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or innocent and making a collective decision about what should be done to rectify the matter. The community imposed itself on people’s lives largely via this kind of horizontal control network, which functioned with very little state supervision. It enforced discipline among its members and monitored the emerging shared sphere, but its fundamentally coercive nature meant that it could never be classified as a true citizen community founded on voluntary participation. There are very few examples of solidarity among the numerous cases that were analysed for this study. Perhaps there was simply very little solidarity in 1950s Czechoslovakia. On the other hand, it should be remembered that the sources are complaints to the authorities, so they obviously highlight what was not working, rather than what was. Either way, the dysfunction that is evident in these letters of complaint surely had a significant impact on daily life, which raises the question of the extent to which the State succeeded in its goal of creating a society of socialist citizens.

Constructing the self If self-construction is to take place, individuals need solitude in which to pursue a dialogue with themselves. But they also need other people: it is through encounters with others that individuals find the words to express their thoughts and deepest feelings, and start to understand themselves better. ‘For the confirmation of my identity I depend entirely upon other people,’ said Hannah Arendt.83 This dialogue can occur only if there is trust in the other person, and only in an environment that is sufficiently safe and separate from the social sphere.84 In the people’s democracies, individuals were formed within the collective framework. They shared personal space on a daily basis, were subject to the same surveillance, and appeared before the same arbitration committees to be assessed by their peers, whether they were neighbours, colleagues or family members.85 This horizontal control was also prevalent in the organisation of the private sphere and domestic space: people’s personal and private activities were conducted where they could be seen and heard by others. A conversation could be overheard at any time by a third party, the door might open to reveal a neighbour in the hallway, or a relative stranger could intrude on an intimate moment that would lose its meaning as soon as it was interrupted.

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In a community in which nothing was secret, self-discovery through introspection was difficult. Individuals’ private lives were continually exposed to the gaze of the socialist community and, as members of that community, everyone had the right to observe the private lives of others. The private sphere’s ‘community character’ enabled the creation of the ‘socialist subject’. Sharing private spaces engendered processes through which self-knowledge was attained through the gaze of others and individual modes of thinking and behaving were defined collectively. This was a key characteristic of the socialist private sphere: individuals were simultaneously objects and subjects of a self-perpetuating disciplinary enterprise; simultaneously victims and instruments of the system. At this point, it is useful to return to the dispute between flatmates Va´clav Kanˇa´k and Josef Cˇenˇka. One Sunday evening in July 1956, Cˇenˇka refused to turn off the light, which caused Kanˇa´k to lose his temper and throw a slipper at Cˇenˇka’s bedside lamp, breaking it. Kanˇa´k reported what happened next: The concierge, who had heard our conversation through the open window, came to our room after we called him, and stayed in the doorway without saying anything. A few moments later he went back to his own room [. . .] Ten days later, I received a summons from the security office for Prague’s 1st District Council.86 Public conflict resolution meetings held before the district council were intended to ‘correct’ inappropriate behaviour. In front of community representatives, the two sides would recount their actions and try to justify themselves. It was thought that individuals came closer to the socialist ideal by acknowledging their mistakes in public and promising to improve their behaviour. The community fulfilled its duty by helping to shape disciplined, socialist individuals who respected collective authority. In doing so, it gave meaning to their existence.87 This process was integral to the workings of the district courts and interior affairs commissions that were established in the early 1950s to deal with minor conflicts in the workplace and private residences. These bodies were organised along strictly egalitarian lines: the defendants and the jury all sat around a single table, which contributed to an informal atmosphere and encouraged a spirit of reconciliation. The language was

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similarly informal: the organisation itself was a ‘commission’ rather than a ‘court’, and ‘educational measures’ were imposed, rather than ‘sentences’. In the spirit of ‘restoring justice to the people’, ordinary citizens played prominent roles in the commissions’ proceedings.88 In addition to appearing as defendants and witnesses, they acted as judges and jury members, simultaneously updating and assimilating the processes of socialist vivre-ensemble. It was in this new common sphere that individuals now searched for the truth about themselves – a quest that they had previously undertaken in the private sphere. Socialist vivre-ensemble rules – which were enshrined in law – imposed discipline on people’s private behaviour and dictated their relationships with others. The normative character of these rules restricted individual freedom and independence, and introduced power relationships into personal interactions, prompting each party to defend their own interests. Ultimately, then, the community’s intrusion into private affairs reduced people’s willingness to look after others. Postwar property transfers transformed the population’s living conditions, while the absence of reliable protection for private property led to a general sense of insecurity and anxiety. Arguments about shared living spaces often ended with ‘nervous breakdowns’, while disputes with neighbours left people feeling ‘deeply hurt’ and led to ‘frequent absences from work’. Meanwhile, the community exerted enormous pressure on individuals through its cadres of building confidants, propagandist pairs and people’s courts, which only heightened everyone else’s unease. For instance, in June 1955, Mrs Wewerkova´ was deeply unnerved by an unexpected visit from a propagandist pair: I began to tremble and cry, and begged them to leave, and I said that I had nothing more to say to them because I could see that they were angry with me. As they left, I saw them greet Mrs Bottgerova´, who was hanging around in the corridor, and smile at her. I think that it was Mrs Bottgerova´ who put them up to it. The visit spoiled my whole Sunday, an important day in the week for me because it’s my day of rest.89 Constantly defending one’s personal interests against neighbours and the State was exhausting. In 1970, Alice Munteanova´ wrote directly to the

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mayor of Prague to express her frustration that her request for new lodgings had gone unanswered for ten years: The housing situation doesn’t change and we can’t earn more than the law allows us to. Where can we find the money to pay for the apartment? Sometimes I feel that we, the lowest class in the whole country, don’t even have the right to exist. Believe me, if I were braver, I’d have turned on the gas a long time ago and my family and I would finally be at peace. I feel as though we were born only to work, not to be happy. The absence of formal rules relating to the common sphere was another source of anxiety. In 1954, Jaroslava Cˇiplova´ described a recent argument with her neighbour: Potocˇkova´ was shouting, saying that she wouldn’t obey any rule that stopped her coming through our entrance hall. She said that as far as she was concerned, it was a communal entrance hall and that our lives weren’t her problem: she would carry on going down to the cellar whenever she liked. She made me so cross that I had an attack and lost consciousness. My children had to call my father, who found me there. As if that wasn’t enough, Potocˇkova´ carried on shouting down in the cellar. However, although the personal animosity between the two women was obvious, Cˇiplova´ concluded her complaint with an accusation against the community, rather than the individual: ‘The Potocˇks’ harmful behaviour has got this bad only because of your decision, which made everything about the whole business feel uncertain.’90 The terms ‘peace’, ‘calm’ and ‘peaceful socialist cohabitation’ occur frequently in the letters, revealing a widespread desire to alleviate the insecurity that had come to dominate the socialist private sphere. ‘I don’t need to go and stay in a clinic [. . .] I just need some peace and quiet to make the most of my child and do my work,’ one complainant assured the authorities in 1954.91 However, differing lifestyles, overcrowding and communal use of space and equipment meant that Czechoslovakia’s citizens were unable to enjoy any semblance of peace and quiet. Faced with the constant risk of denunciation, they had to be on their guard at

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all times, closing doors to avoid prying eyes and lowering voices to stay out of earshot of eavesdroppers.92 Twentieth-century Westerners also retreated into private spaces, but primarily because the promotion of individuals and their liberties resulted in a certain level of egotism in their societies, not to escape the intrusive collective gaze. The socialist community’s normative, regulatory influence split the private sphere into two parts: the common sphere, which included everything that was now shared with – and regulated by – the community; and the individual sphere, which included most of what had previously been considered private and remained inaccessible to the community. It was only in this second sphere – which was either shared with a very small number of intimate friends and relatives or reserved for solitude – that individuals were free to develop independently. Every citizen thus developed a double identity: partly accessible to all as a member of the socialist community; and partly individual, with private concerns.93

Reconquering the Private Sphere The new type of private sphere began to develop in the people’s democracies at the end of the 1940s. It reached its peak after Nikita Khrushchev came to power in the USSR in 1953, but a gradual increase in private ownership and the development of a consumer society after 1956 signalled the beginning of the end for the socialist common sphere, and ultimately raised doubts about the viability of the social model that the regime wished to establish. The socialist community’s prescriptive interference in private life damaged people’s relationships with those around them. Exposing private matters to the scrutiny of neighbours or strangers, and forcing people to justify their personal choices and behaviour, was frequently seen as humiliating. However, any criticism of this process tended to focus on the inadequacy or unfairness of individual sentences rather than the principle of public scrutiny itself. In February 1965, Josef Salzman was found guilty of ‘spread[ing] gossip about Jaroslava Nohacova´ in her workplace’ and ‘disrupt[ing] socialist cohabitation due to frequent arguments with the Sˇantroch family’. Salzman was fined 200 crowns despite declaring that he had ‘not been aware of behaving incorrectly’. He complained that the fine was imposed ‘on him alone, when Jaroslava

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Nohacova´ and the Sˇantroch family also disrupted the peace in the shared apartment’. The district council rejected his argument and Salzman fell silent.94 The authorities were often incapable of solving problems that they had partly created by transforming people’s living conditions and imposing new rules on daily life. Those who worked for the district council often faced waves of public resentment, especially when they had to intervene in very complex situations that they were ill-equipped to tackle effectively. Cohabitation disputes were rarely resolved to everybody’s satisfaction: more often than not, one of the occupants was simply transferred to a different building, which merely moved the problem elsewhere. The heated argument between the Vohryzka and Vohradnı´k families over their use of the communal laundry was just one episode in an ongoing, protracted conflict. Four months earlier, the two sides had signed a contract pledging to respect the rules of cohabitation. This time, all of the building’s occupants as well as the owner were invited to attend the interior affairs commission hearing. At the end of the session, the two families signed a new cohabitation contract in which they promised ‘not to cause pain’. Meanwhile, the owner of the building agreed to allocate a space in the courtyard where the tenants could dry their washing ‘whenever they liked’.95 Could private space be regulated according to the same criteria as public space? Could the private sphere be organised effectively through the rule of law? The desire to establish socialist vivre-ensemble seemed to be reaching its limit.

The gradual erosion of the socialist common sphere After Stalin’s death, private ownership in the USSR and the people’s democracies gradually increased. In 1957, the USSR abolished inheritance tax. The conditions were now right for citizens to accumulate possessions that would improve their personal well-being. The 22nd Congress of the CPSU in 1961 marked a decisive shift towards the privatisation of daily life.96 With the axiom ‘Everything for the people, everything for the well-being of the people’, Khrushchev initiated the rise of consumer culture in the Eastern Bloc and made the creation of citizen – consumers a new target for the Soviet regime.97 Three years later, these principles were incorporated into Czechoslovakia’s new Civil Code.98 In an attempt to tackle the

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shortages of basic consumer goods and meet the aspirations of a population with more leisure time, Central and Eastern European regimes openly encouraged the acquisition of private property, for example by promoting the building of holiday chalets99 and the purchase of vehicles (see Figure 4.1).100 Indeed, personal property ownership was eventually legitimised in many Eastern Bloc countries’ constitutions,101 and to some extent became a Trojan horse which undermined one of the original objectives of the people’s democracies – the eradication of the bourgeois lifestyle based on private property. By the mid-1970s, the change of direction was complete. This process brought about profound changes in living conditions. There was a shift away from communal apartments, and in 1957 Khrushchev launched a programme to build family homes with the slogan ‘An apartment for every family’.102 This initiative was soon replicated in other Central and Eastern European countries. The Central Committee of the Czechoslovak Communist Party adopted a resolution along similar lines in 1959, and this had a profound effect over the next decade. In the early 1960s, the norm was still a one-bedroom apartment per family, but during the 1970s this increased to a two-bedroom, splitlevel apartment of 74 square metres. Mass construction campaigns made this kind of dwelling much more widely available to ordinary citizens: almost 821,000 new homes were built between 1971 and 1980 alone. In 1960, only 18.9 per cent of new buildings had three or more rooms; by 1980, this figure had risen to 63.6 per cent. In the early 1960s, around 38 per cent of Czechoslovak homes had a bathroom; in 1980, the figure was 80 per cent.103 Improved housing standards also had an impact on the private sphere by encouraging a return to bourgeois values of comfort and privacy: once again, the family home became a sanctuary, a place that no one else had the right to enter. In the 1960s, the authorities also encouraged people to personalise their homes by offering tips in lifestyle journals (such as Dorka, Zora and Kveˇty) and even launching DIY and home-improvement magazines, such as Domov (1960), Umeˇnı´ a rˇemesla (1964) and Chatarˇ a chalupa´rˇ (1969). Before long, ever more citizens were building chalets on the outskirts of town, far from the intrusive gaze of their neighbours.104 Some of the means by which the socialist private sphere had been regulated were gradually abandoned, too. For instance, the propagandist pairs were disbanded, because they were no longer needed: the people

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Figure 4.1 Cartoon of petty-bourgeois chalet culture: “At home” (top) and “In the countryside” (bottom) published in Chatarˇ a chalupa´rˇ, a magazine devoted to holiday chalets, 1969.

had fully assimilated the habit of mutual surveillance; the socialist community was now self-sufficient. However, other regulatory bodies, such as street, neighbourhood, Party and district arbitration committees, were maintained and even developed, so the regime clearly still wanted

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to maintain a degree of control over relationships between individual members of the socialist community. These were effective means of monitoring the private sphere as long as individuals cooperated and remained willing to expose their private lives to public scrutiny. Sadly for the regime, this compliance started to evaporate during the 1960s and disappeared completely after 1969.

Claiming the right to privacy Did the disintegration of the socialist common sphere in Czechoslovakia facilitate the resurgence of a safe, protected private sphere? Unfortunately such a development was hindered by the country’s inadequate infrastructure. From the 1960s to the 1980s, most letters of complaint to the authorities raised concerns about public transport and unreliable supplies of hot water, heating and electricity. In September 1970, Ladislav Hora asked for help with his building’s communal heating system: Dear Comrade Mayor, believe me, I don’t want to attack you, but simply to defend myself – against the cold. I live in a cooperative apartment in Vokovice. Or rather, I do exercises to keep myself warm there. I can understand that there are fuel shortages but can my two sons, who are constantly ill, understand? I am writing, as you can well imagine, through sheer desperation. Life in these apartments is becoming impossible.105 The following year, a mother living in a suburb of Prague complained that her daily trip with her child to nursery school would ‘eventually kill him’. But the ‘catastrophic state of the public services’, which was ‘well known to everyone’, left her with no choice: she would continue to make this difficult, exhausting journey on public transport that was always overcrowded and often broke down.106 Thus, people were still reliant on the community and the State, albeit less than they had been when they were forced to live in communal apartments. And public officials were still incapable of finding satisfactory solutions to recurring problems. Often, complainants were sent fruitlessly from one department to another. Hence, the domestic sphere did not become fully secure and protected; its character still depended on factors such as status, education, career and, to a large extent, an acceptance of the status quo.107 But at least it was

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more peaceful. Peace, which had been greatly lacking in the private sphere during the 1950s, seemed increasingly attainable in the 1960s. People seemed to have more control over their domestic lives, and felt that they could flourish as individuals in the privacy of their own homes. With no intrusions from third parties, the domestic sphere allowed people to think, exercise their creativity and express themselves much more freely than before, even though there were still some limits to this freedom. As everyone reclaimed their privacy, women gradually assumed a dominant role, and not only in material terms: most of the letters of complaint to the authorities were written by women. As the domestic sphere became more peaceful, many Czechoslovak citizens developed ways of mobilising networks of personal relations in the public sphere that had their origins in the private sphere. Those who worked in the administration or the retail sector gave friends and relatives access to commodities that were otherwise impossible to obtain. These items improved the recipients’ well-being and gave them more independence in the private sphere. Similarly, many people exploited their status for personal or selfish reasons, which helped to ‘privatise’ the public arena. Painters, actors, singers and high-profile athletes all marshalled their personal contacts and their fame when corresponding with the authorities. In 1969, Milosˇ Kopecky´, a very popular actor, became a father. He and his wife were living in a small, one-bedroom apartment with his mother-in-law, and they began to feel cramped. Consequently, in July, he wrote to the mayor of Prague: The apartment was always too small for my needs, but we used to get by. With the birth of the baby, the situation has become – and I choose my words carefully – unbearable. The child and I have too little space. My wife works, so her mother looks after our child and lives with us. The nature of my work already means that my child doesn’t live in the peaceful environment that he needs: I come home late from work (from plays and film sets) and disturb him. I have had to give up my work space and much of my books to make room. There are books on the floor and many have had to be stored with friends and neighbours. Instead of a desk, there is the baby’s bed. Initially I found that charming. After a year and a half, I am at the end of my tether. I no longer have an office, which is indispensable for my work, and I haven’t even got a table or a

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corner in which to work. You can imagine the effect this has on my work and my health. Reading over what I have written, it makes me want to laugh, but I assure you that the humour of the situation exists only on paper. The reality is driving me mad. This complaint came to nothing. Six months later, in January 1970, Kopecky´ requested help from Evzˇen Erban, the president of the Czech National Council, who petitioned the mayor of Prague in April, but again to no avail. Finally, in December 1970, Czechoslovakia’s culture minister pleaded on behalf of this ‘actor of exceptional quality’, but Kopecky´’s impressive personal contacts and his visits to the mayor’s office all proved useless in the face of Prague’s housing shortage.108 Similarly, Oldrˇich Lipsky´, the director of popular films such as Limona´dovy´ Joe (Lemonade Joe), tried to exploit his connections in various cultural institutions – Czechoslovak Film, Barrandov Studios, Czechoslovak Television and Filmexport – all of ‘which made good money’ from his movies. Along with the singers Hana Zagorova´ and Ludwiga Wysoczanska´, the musician Laco De´czi and the actor Libusˇe Sˇafra´nkova´,109 all renowned artists, he had to beg for help from the State with no guarantee of success, just like any other citizen. Around this time, however, people were starting to share fewer details of their private lives with public figures, whether state employees or ordinary members of the socialist community. The occasional letter of complaint still afforded a glimpse into the private universe of the writer, but the candour of the 1950s was notable by its absence. Instead, most letters simply outlined the details of the case and provided supporting evidence. For instance, in 1976, Vladimı´r Langr wrote to the authorities to request a place for his son at art school: I am writing to you, dear Comrade Mayor, with a question concerning my son. Would it be possible to find a place for him in a school where he could flourish? I think, Comrade Mayor, that my work for our socialist society (see the enclosed documents) shows that our son has grown up in a family devoted to our socialist system and that he will be able to put the skills he develops during his secondary education to the service of our whole society. Langr’s neutral, impersonal tone was echoed in the authorities’ response:

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The main reason why your son’s application was not successful is the limited number of places and the fact that demand vastly exceeds the number of such places in the capital. Your son can apply again for the school year 1977/1978 or he can obtain a full secondary education – even one with an artistic focus – in the form of professional training.110 Letters about disputes with neighbours became increasingly rare, and those detailing problems between couples ceased altogether. When individuals did discuss the private sphere, they did so only in relation to themselves: the neighbourhood and the wider environment were not mentioned. Hence, the private universe shrank to a small circle of close friends and relatives, and contact with third parties was negligible. Private life was lived in personal spheres rather than the public arena. On the other hand, ever more letters complained about societal problems: the poor quality of public transport; traffic jams; a shortage of benches in Prague’s parks; the lack of investment in failing infrastructure; and delays in the installation of telephone lines. If the private sphere was mentioned, it was only in passing. Sometimes, however, desperation led correspondents to abandon this new-found reserve. For instance, in 1970, Zdena Andrlova´ wrote to the Central Committee of the KSCˇ: ‘Although I am not a member of the Party, I am writing to you as the highest state body, and request that you consider my complaint.’ She went on to describe the overcrowded conditions in which she and her family lived: I suppose that in comparison with our grandmothers, who lived in one room with eight children, our standard of living is better. The 22m2 bedroom is quite large, but it looks onto Vysocˇany station and the main road so can only be used as a play room, when space allows, and to watch television from time to time. But we have to keep the window closed or we can’t hear a thing. At the moment, the children are still small. But in 2 or 3 years, what will our standard of living be? Everyone’s expectations had increased. They wanted personal space in their apartments where they could be alone and undisturbed: ‘How can our children do their homework and learn effectively in the same room

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where my husband and I are trying to have some time to ourselves, to sort out our many difficulties, or to rest after work?’ asked Andrlova´. Since the war, the structure of living spaces had changed in response to people’s needs as members of a family but also as independent individuals. For instance, newly built homes provided children and parents with separate bedrooms – a luxury previously reserved for the middle classes. These postwar apartments were spacious (see Figure 4.2) and offered all the modern comforts and amenities: running water, inside toilets, private bathrooms and central heating. However, many families, including the Andrls, still lived in old city-centre apartments that were far less comfortable: They can provide their children with a truly calm and pleasant environment in which the children have their own room and can play without disturbing anybody, where they can do their homework in peace without being disturbed by their parents who, in turn, can sit peacefully in front on the television, knowing that they are not bothering their children.111 The new housing norms influenced people’s lifestyles. Individual rooms gave each family member the right to privacy.112 Lives were now divided into three spheres: the common sphere, which was increasingly limited to the workplace and to formal exchanges with other members of the socialist community; the individual sphere, which was where

Figure 4.2 Floor plan of a typical three-bedroom apartment (74 square metres) in which the children and parents have separate rooms, 1980.

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interactions with trusted friends and family took place; and the private sphere, which was reserved for the individual alone. With the development of the consumer society in the 1960s, the second two spheres started to eclipse the first. The family and the individual eventually surpassed the socialist community. The regime’s inability to realise its social project – an inability that was laid bare by the constant shortages – chipped away at people’s sense of belonging to a socialist community. Until the end of the 1950s, there was a general conviction that individuals could progress only with the support of the community, but in the 1970s and especially the 1980s, this community came to be seen as an obstacle to fulfilling individual goals. The spirit of solidarity gradually ebbed away as people strove for individual – rather than collective – happiness. In 1970, a group of nurses at Strahov Hospital wrote to the mayor of Prague to suggest that vacant apartments, abandoned by emigrants, should be ‘allocated to nurses and doctors who do not have homes or whose homes are substandard’. The authorities rejected the proposal and reminded the nurses of the need for fair distribution of apartments according to a ‘properly established and approved waiting list’.113 This exchange reveals just how far the State’s and the people’s values had diverged since the 1950s. Citizens now prioritised personal comfort over community well-being and placed ever more value on the individual self, which served to weaken the ties of solidarity and encourage individualism. This renaissance of the individual in the 1960s and 1970s marked a return to bourgeois values and cast doubt on the long-term viability of the socialist private sphere.

The end of the socialist private space? By the 1970s and 1980s, the Party-State was intervening much less than previously in the private sphere of the individual. The administration no longer expected people to expose their private concerns to public scrutiny; and, if they did, their confidences were no longer afforded such close attention. In September 1970, one of Prague’s district councils received a request to mediate between a couple who were divorcing. The council officials referred the couple to the civil court, explaining: ‘The district council and its employees [. . .] perform the duties assigned to them and do not intervene in affairs that are the responsibility of other bodies, as set out in current law.’114

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Complaints received by the city of Prague, 1977 – 84.115

Total complaints Of which suggestions Complaints addressed Of which complaints upheld Complaints repeated Anonymous complaints

1978

1980

1982

1984

9,723 948 7,836 4,013 203 460

9,247 659 7,940 4,101 n/a 420

11,071 851 8,137 4,278 n/a 490

11,583 743 9,119 3,929 310 627

The way in which correspondents addressed the authorities also changed. Interactions that had previously been based on the assumption of a direct, rather intimate relationship with public officials became less personal, more formal. During the 1970s and 1980s, grievances were increasingly reported to the office of the relevant district service rather than the mayor, to the President’s Office rather than the President himself, to the Party’s Central Committee rather than the First Secretary. This increased distance between the author of a letter and the addressee reflected the process of depersonalisation that accompanied the shift from personal power to collective power, and the erosion of paternalism among the socialist elites. There was no longer any place for emotional investment in the relationship between the administration and the citizen; the gap between the individual and the authorities seemed to widen each year. This dissuaded people from sharing confidences with officials as though they were speaking to a close friend and allowed greater independence within the private sphere. As the individual and the private sphere became ever more important, there was a rise in the number of complaints based on issues of general interest (see Table 4.2). For instance, in February 1976, the painter Emma Blazˇkova´ wrote to Prague City Council: Kampa, Prague’s most beautiful island, has become a magnet for dog owners over the last few years. I have nothing against dogs and none of this is their fault, but they should not be kept in cities! Approximately nine different kinds of parasite live on dogs, from fleas to worms, and we and our children catch them and inhale them. After dark, Kampa is taken over by dogs and their owners who come in from the surrounding area and turn the island into

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Table 4.2 1979.116

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Complaints received by the city of Prague according to subject,

Subject Transport Upkeep and repair of housing Business Behaviour of state employees Management of apartments Theft of socialist property Failure to meet deadlines Hot water Supply chain to shops Public services Prices Healthcare Environment Education Construction Public catering Workplace organisation Salaries and professional relationships Tourism

Number 1,135 896 700 667 617 536 521 411 384 294 285 274 222 97 95 92 87 71 66

one big recreation park for dogs. I am familiar with all of the European capitals, having painted everywhere, but I have never seen anything like this. Muscovites would never allow their parks and gardens to be wrecked in this way! Not at any price! Do our city fathers not realise this?117 From the 1960s onwards, the authorities devoted more attention to complaints about matters of general interest. In 1967, a new law relating to district councils defined them as the ‘expression of people’s participation in the management of the State and its economic and cultural construction’. Now that workers’ suggestions were taken into account, complaining became a ‘tool for defending civic rights and a way of fighting against bureaucratic shortcomings’.118 The number of anonymous letters declined and, on the whole, complaints were more likely to be upheld. The authorities interpreted this as proof of a constructive attitude on the

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part of the complainants, and of their ‘desire to play a role in eliminating social problems’. In 1979, 54 per cent of complaints were upheld; by 1981, this had risen to 55 per cent.119 Indeed, the authorities acted on a significant proportion of all suggestions – nearly 55 per cent – in the latter year. These suggestions tended to focus on public services such as transport, housing, business, health, water and heating, but corruption and the theft of socialist property were also highlighted (see Table 4.2). In the medium term, there was a slight rise in the number of complaints. Some complainants, such as Karel Hudeˇc, were serial correspondents. In 1978, he wrote a terse letter to the mayor of Prague, Zdeneˇk Zu˚ska: ‘I have been writing once every year for six years. Lightning rods have still not been installed on the Prague City Archives building. This letter will be the last.’120 The number of repeated complaints remained fairly constant, which indicates that ‘some of the problems are not resolved effectively and definitively’.121 People no longer hesitated to question the regime or its representatives in their letters. Some even cast doubt on the principle of social equality – supposedly the foundation of the people’s democracy but a goal that it was struggling to realise. Mrs Munteanova´ wrote to the authorities in 1969: Our grandmother, who received the Order of Work and several other awards for her contribution to the building of socialism in Ostrava, lives with us and hasn’t even got a space of her own, even though she is blind and needs such a space. She is in the same situation as Krista Hora´rova´, an elite worker who worked on the blast furnaces at Ostrava. Is it a fair reward for her effort and devotion, and for her blindness, that she should have to spend her old age living with her daughter?122 In 1970, Vladimı´r Sˇvejnoch complained to the mayor of Prague about the local authorities’ rejection of his request for a building permit: I want to pursue this affair, in order to know whether the construction of new homes is really taken seriously and whether the Prague 4 construction commission follows the correct procedures. If not, I will be forced to conclude that old Party members like me, who spend their free time working for the public good, are expected

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to have a harder life than others. Or is it simply because we are following the law to the letter?123 Czechoslovak citizens still relied on the authorities to a much greater extent than Westerners did, but their letters of complaint reveal declining faith in the State’s ability to keep its promises. The socialist community and the Party-State continued to exercise some control by dictating tastes and limiting choice in terms of the fixtures and fittings that defined people’s private spaces, but they lost control over the relationships that took place within those spaces and no longer enjoyed the confidence of the citizens, who not only refused to share their privacy but were increasingly willing to criticise society. The State still sought to limit the boundaries of private life and to instil it with socialist ideas, but its interventions became fairly perfunctory as time went by, indicating a certain amount of resignation. The regime’s inability to combat the capitalist selfishness that it so reviled illustrated its own limitations. From the 1960s onwards, it became necessary not only to accept the existence of ‘bourgeois attitudes’ and private property but even to encourage them. This contributed to a gradual erosion in the citizens’ sense of belonging to a socialist community. The 1970s and 1980s saw the relationship between private and public overturned. The private sphere no longer existed simply as a reaction to public interference by the socialist community or the State. Instead, it became independent of the public sphere and even contributed to a reassertion of civic-mindedness and thus a return to political activity. In the context of street committees and public meetings in the run-up to elections, complaints became a way of enacting ‘socialist democracy’.124 These official channels also facilitated the expression and assertion of public opinion. In 1976, during the district election campaign, almost 7,000 people participated in public debates in Prague, and 988 suggestions were received. In total, the city’s Public Order Inspectorate received 1,056 suggestions from citizens, councillors and national committees in that year.125 This active expression of public opinion transformed the relationship between the Party-State and civil society from within and below, and helped to re-establish civil responsibility and individual public action.126 In 1978, Va´clav Havel’s call for people to make their public actions mirror their private convictions and to ‘live in truth’ coincided with this gradual reinstatement of the private sphere,

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which allowed individuals to use their own sense of self as a basis for building relationships with others and the community as a whole.127 *** The Czechoslovak people’s democracy reshaped the private sphere as individuals had to develop in line with the socialist community. Whether they were faced with an audience comprising their neighbours or were writing to a representative of the Party-State, every citizen was obliged to take part in the collective production of the rules of vivreensemble that governed the members of this community. They were simultaneously the objects and subjects of this process. This was the basic reasoning behind the public discussion of private conflicts and people’s confessions of misdemeanours. Under the community’s watchful gaze, everyone had to abandon his or her petit-bourgeois attitudes and convictions, and move closer to the ideal of the ‘socialist man or woman’. Thus, the common sphere, which lay halfway between the public and the private, allowed the State to oversee many aspects of individuals’ lives and disseminate the regime’s core values. In terms of discipline, the Party-State favoured pedagogy over punishment, and it actively promoted the idea of self-improvement. Sometimes, close relationships between members of the socialist community fostered a sense of solidarity and warmth, but more often they led to conflict. The drive to eradicate private property, which was associated with a petit-bourgeois lifestyle, caused many people to feel insecure. The hazy boundary between the private and the communal brought violence that had once been contained within the domestic sphere out into the open, increasing tension. The quest for personal well-being and care for others were replaced by a drive for efficiency in which a sort of cohabitation ‘contract’ governed relationships and thus deprived individuals of much of their spontaneity. The community’s control over its members also fostered the habit of surveillance. In response, to obtain peace and a certain degree of security, people started to censor their words and actions, and became more inwardlooking. Before long, this developed into isolation, and people’s ability to interact with others declined. The regime did not succeed in convincing people that the collective interest should triumph over individual concerns. Nor did it find an

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effective way to combat ‘capitalist selfishness’. People were still inclined to privatise their own space. In the mid-1960s, nearly 60 per cent of reported private conflicts were over private property. Thereafter, the development of the consumer society led to increasing affirmation of the importance of individual interests. As family apartments became more common in the 1960s and 1970s, the establishment of a secure private sphere once more seemed a realistic possibility. During this process, though, the regime and its officials gradually lost the ability to understand and react to the expectations of the individuals who made up the socialist society. In the 1970s and 1980s, Czechoslovak citizens still relied on the State to protect their private interests. This led to increased tension between individuals, who wanted to pursue their own leisure activities, and the socialist community, which wanted them to keep such pursuits within the collective context. However, although the socialist private sphere remained precarious, increasingly individualistic ways of thinking helped strengthen the link between individuals and society. What remained of the socialist private sphere after 1989? In material terms, the answer is ‘almost nothing’. In most of Central and Eastern Europe, a few apartments were still separated by temporary walls and blocked-up doors, but these gradually disappeared as property developers and the middle classes set about creating housing that met modern standards and expectations. In Russia, some communal apartments survived into the twenty-first century, and with them a certain affection for the old way of life, its values and the relationships it fostered. However, while a handful of people continued to live this way by choice, most of the residents were forced to do so out of financial necessity.128

CHAPTER 5 `

ONE DAY, OUR STREETS WILL BE A FESTIVAL!'

Once a year, a human wave formed a torrent that flowed through the streets of Czechoslovakia: ‘Thousands of heads, thousands of aspirations, thousands of dreams and desires. But today we shall all walk together. May Day belongs to all of us!’1 This account of the May Day celebrations in 1958 is very similar to one that appeared in the same newspaper, Rude´ pra´vo, more than 20 years later: All the streets are covered with garlands, all the squares are filled with flags, banners and flowers. Prague is joyful and radiant. Every citizen and every visitor who is not obliged to stay at home is hurrying to join the march for May Day [. . .] We have seen the same scenes for many years but they are still moving in their scale, optimism and spontaneity.2 But can the scale of any event, especially in an authoritarian regime, be measured simply by how many people attended? Did the participants really believe in the joyful celebration of work and its results, in the vision of a better world? Did the hundreds of workers who chanted slogans in praise of work, international socialism and revolutionary heroes take to the streets because they had faith in it all, through a sense of obligation, or even through habit? These questions raise the issue of politics in the people’s democracies. The sphere of politics is complex and constantly shifting, and it influences, more than anything else, the way in which society is organised. At a basic level, it is about the composition of a community, its structure and how it functions ( politeia). But it also encompasses

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interactions between different social actors, and therefore the ways in which identity relationships with the world are constructed ( politike`).3 Its ultimate aim is to create a sense of sharing a common destiny. This chapter aims to analyse this process in the postwar people’s democracies. So, how should we approach the political sphere in these countries? In liberal democracies, the sense of belonging to a community is constructed through practices such as voting, demonstrating or joining political organisations or mass movements.4 But in the people’s democracies, the Party-State’s monopolisation of discourse and power made these traditional modes of political participation irrelevant because the idea of free will was compromised. Instead of strengthening a sense of belonging, such practices cast doubt on the supposed legitimacy of the regime. In order to create, maintain and reinforce social cohesion, the people’s democracies employed other means, the first of which was ‘symbolic politics’. According to Max Weber, this is one of the three instruments (along with force and rhetorical action) that may be used to ensure that those in power are obeyed, recognised and accepted.5 It may be defined as the conscious, organised deployment by political actors (public authorities, political organisations and citizens) of symbolic forms, whether emblematic (visual and auditory), monumental or ritualistic.6 For Michel Pastoureau, the symbol is ‘a sign expressing an idea, a concept or a notion’ that replaces an absent object with a present image.7 This substitution is based on faith in the effectiveness of symbols and their ability to reveal, thanks to their charismatic power, the ‘beliefs’ of an entire epoch, the fragments of a collective imaginary. The etymology of the term – from the Greek symbolon, a sign of recognition – reminds us of its primary function: to allow members of a community to recognise one another and make the group more cohesive. This may be achieved via a slogan, a flag or a ceremony, providing a form of identification that mobilises the emotions.8 Until now, the use of symbolic policies in the people’s democracies has received relatively little attention from historians and analysts of political action. Historians and anthropologists who have explored the subject have tended to focus on the 1920s and 1930s in the USSR, with few showing any interest in the other Central and Eastern European countries,9 even though symbols played a significant role in these societies after World War II. In 1986, the official Czechoslovak calendar

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included 52 celebration days – an average of one each week.10 This figure alone shows that symbolic politics merit further study. Among the various symbolic devices, ritual will be studied in most detail here. The supreme symbolic form, it helps to mobilise both the emblematic and monumental forms through the use of actions and the body. Through a process of dramatisation, ritual affects both space and time, allowing examination of the two dimensions of political production – representations and practices. Through the parameters of time and space, each participant in the ritual can adjust their position in relation to those of others and find their place within the community. In this way, the time – space aspect of politics, more than other manifestations of time and space, contributes to unity and plays a role in forming the community.11 This chapter will analyse Czechoslovakia’s national holidays to explore the relationships between time, space and politics because such holidays celebrate the political community and personify its values. In Czechoslovakia, the reformed official calendar of 1951 listed the anniversary of the Liberation on 9 May as the annual national holiday.12 Subsequent calendar reforms in 1965, 1969, 1975 and 1988 brought few modifications to this, and the date remained the official national holiday until 1989. Other Central and Eastern European countries chose similar dates for similar reasons. However, analysis of the budgets allocated to these celebrations casts some doubt on the significance of these holidays to the regime. In 1951, 17 million crowns were allocated to all of Czechoslovakia’s public holidays, with 7 million (40 per cent) going to the May Day celebrations. The following year, the cost of the May Day parade in Prague alone was almost 954,000 crowns.13 These figures suggest that while the official date of the annual national holiday was 9 May, in practice it was May Day. What led to this somewhat strange situation? The official national holiday, 9 May, always had a rather ambiguous status. Although it was inaugurated to celebrate Czechoslovakia’s victory over fascism, for a significant proportion of the population it also marked the beginning of a new kind of servitude. The form it took – a solemn military parade past passive spectators – did not allow for much active participation from the community. The May Day celebrations, on the other hand, attracted far more people, due to their participatory nature and the forward-looking, optimistic tone in which the results of hard work were

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glorified. It was thus for reasons of choreography and overall significance that the symbolic importance of the national holiday shifted from the anniversary of the Liberation to May Day. This transfer was all the more natural because 1 May had long formed part of the pantheon of three socialist ‘sacred traditions’: the revolutionary tradition, the patriotic tradition and the tradition of building socialism. Every year, these traditions were recognised on three key dates of the socialist calendar – the anniversaries of the October Revolution and the Liberation, and May Day – and in three emblematic, heroic figures – the revolutionary, the liberating soldier and the Stakhanovite worker. By dint of their personal experiences, and sometimes their presence at official rituals, these heroes recalled a legendary past and helped to construct a narrative of the country’s origins.14 To a certain extent, May Day combined the two anniversaries: in the wake of the October Revolution, and the Red Army’s liberation of Central and Eastern Europe in 1944–5, it came to symbolise the promise of a better, socialist future. As such, it became the most significant celebration of the three.

Forming a Socialist Community Between the Liberation and the mid-1950s, the essential character of May Day changed considerably. What had once been a day for demanding social justice became a celebration of work and the heroic worker. Moreover, a variety of political groups had commemorated 1 May in the interwar period, but this pluralism evaporated as the authorities focused exclusively on praising the socialist community and its values. In order to instil this new image of the holiday in people’s minds, the Czechoslovak people’s democracy drew on historic symbolic forms and completely changed their meaning. This went hand in hand with the regime’s gradual institutionalisation of the celebrations.

From a plural celebration to a national holiday May Day was recognised as a public holiday in Czechoslovakia as early as 1919.15 Every political party – but especially the Agrarian Party, the Social Democrats and the National Socialists – participated in the celebrations and organised political meetings based on social agendas that were no different from those of many other European political

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parties: the defence of social justice, an eight-hour working day and equal pay for men and women, anti-imperialism and, from the 1930s onwards, the promotion of peace and anti-militarism.16 However, in postwar Czechoslovakia, the day lost its traditional character. In 1945, May Day was scarcely celebrated because parts of the country were still occupied. Although the date was marked to some extent, the celebrations generally took the form of a hastily organised parade, such as those in Ostrava and Brno, which had been liberated just a few days earlier. The political parties had to wait until the following year before they could attempt to reappropriate the day. In the run-up to the first legislative elections on 26 May 1946, May Day gave them a chance to mobilise potential voters. The following year, in the context of an increasingly radicalised political climate, the Communist Party took the opportunity to celebrate the first results of the Reconstruction Plan (1947–8). For the first time, banners in a May Day parade boasted of increased production and promised that the plan would be completed ahead of schedule. Allegories were used to highlight workers’ responsibility for reconstructing the country in an attempt to demonstrate that the whole population had accepted the idea of planning and would support it through their own hard work in the future. After the Communist Party came to power in February 1948, it quickly institutionalised the May Day celebrations. A May Day Commission was set up to work alongside the National Front Action Committee, with responsibility for organising all of the national celebrations – including May Day – and ensuring that they proceeded ‘as effectively and economically as possible’. It was headed by Minister of Information Va´clav Kopecky´. One of his first actions was to draft the law that led to the new official calendar in 1951 (see Chapter 2). Thereafter, the May Day celebrations were increasingly formalised. A day that had once included displays of support for numerous political parties was now dedicated to celebrating the socialist community. This shift was initially accomplished through the use of signs and spatial references that were linked to the nation’s history. May Day parades traditionally included several allegories representing the idea of national unity. In 1946, this allegory in the communist section of the parade maintained some of its conventional form: a central ring carried the national slogan ‘The strength of nations is in unity’ (see Figure 5.1). Around this ring were representatives of various

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Figure 5.1 Allegory of national unity, Prague, 1 May 1946: ‘The strength of the nation is in unity’.

socio-professional groups, identified by their uniforms. They were attached to the ring by ribbons in the red, white and blue of the national flag. In 1947, the allegory of unity once again played on the old symbolic theme, but now imbued it with a new meaning. The traditional national slogan was modified to read ‘Strength in the Communist Party!’ (see Figure 5.2). Individuals’ respective positions in society were no longer defined by their socio-professional status but by KSCˇ structures: the ribbons emanating from the central ring were now held by members of the Youth Union, dressed in their uniforms. Although women in traditional costume still walked ahead of the allegory, the Youth Union uniform was a reminder of the new equality among members of the socialist community. In 1948, May Day was still promoted as a ‘demonstration of our national unity’.17 Two years later, it had become a ‘demonstration of the international solidarity of the working classes and workers of the whole world in the struggle for peace’.18 In that year, a new spatial representation of unity appeared in the parade (see Figure 5.3). The traditional central ring was replaced by the red star with a representation of the earth bearing the word ‘Peace’ (Mı´r) at its centre. Representatives

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Figure 5.2 Allegory of national unity, Prague, 1 May 1947: ‘Strength is in the Communist Party!’ The text on the banner reads: ‘Traders of Vysocˇany at the workers’ side’.

of various communist youth groups and people’s militias were linked to the ring. The new socialist community, assembled around the idea of defending world peace, encompassed all individuals, categorised according to the mass organisation to which they belonged. This proclamation of an international community of defenders of world peace was reiterated by banners which highlighted conflicts around the globe: ‘70 million Indonesians for peace and against imperialism’; ‘Korea divided by violent agitators, united in the struggle for peace and independence’; ‘Progressive America: no to atomic weapons!’ and so on. Behind the allegory, three columns of Youth Union members, alternating boys and girls, walked hand in hand like a new, united army. Analysis of the spatial aspect of the May Day rituals adds an intriguing detail to this picture. Ever since 1890, communist demonstrations had taken place in Prague’s Republic Square, whereas socialist parades had been held in the Old Town Square or on Sˇtvanice Island.19 However, in 1948, the organisers largely abandoned this partisan tradition and decided that a single May Day parade should be

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Allegory of unity, Prague, 1 May 1950.

held on Wenceslas Square. This square is steeped in national history. On one side is the National Museum, built between 1885 and 1890 in the style of the Louvre in Paris and Vienna’s Fine Arts Museum, which contains a pantheon of statues of important figures in the country’s history.20 In 1912–13, a statue of the nation’s patron saint, Wenceslas, seated on his horse, was erected in front of the museum at the instigation of Czech nationalists. Statues of a quartet of other Czech saints – Procope, Adalbert, Ludmila and Agnes – were then placed around the plinth. People flocked to this site of national pride whenever there was an important event such as an election or the death of an important politician, and indeed on the declaration of war and the start of the German occupation. Wenceslas Square was thus the ideal location for a national celebration. Czechoslovakia’s new leaders also appreciated the advantages of the square’s physical characteristics. As an enclosed space, it focused the crowd’s gaze on the essential action: the parade. Even more importantly, the Party elite enjoyed an excellent view of the proceedings from a grandstand erected at the far end of the square, Mu˚stek, which stands on slightly higher ground than the National Museum due to a natural incline.

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Figure 5.4

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The start of the May Day parade, Prague, 1950.

Of course, this spatial arrangement meant that the old political elite – immortalised in the museum’s pantheon – looked up to the new elite in the raised seating. Effectively, then, this utilisation of Prague’s urban space turned the grandstand into a contemporary pantheon. A similar pattern was followed in other Czechoslovak cities.

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In Bratislava, the capital of southern Slovakia, Stalin Square, which is also on a slight slope, replaced the traditional end-point of the parade, Rybne´ Square. The same was true in Zˇilina, the principal city of northern Slovakia, where the grandstand was moved in 1955 from Gottwald Square to another Stalin Square, at the foot of the Citadel, to allow elite spectators to watch the parade from an elevated viewpoint. Since Prague’s parade took place in a location that was heavy with historical symbolism, it had to be orchestrated in such a way as to create its own spatial identity. This was all the more important because the success of the celebrations rested on the effective use of space to avoid conflict between different symbols. Decoration played a large role in the staging of May Day, and not only along the parade route. The organisers’ chief concern was the presence of any potential obstacles on the route. For both practical and symbolic reasons, the marchers could not be hampered by anything that could be seen as subversive and therefore indicative of a lack of popular support. On any normal day, ‘the row of workers has to leap over the gaps left by previous human error, and over the gutters of bureaucracy and the stones of bad faith’. But on May Day, the marching masses would parade ‘on the cobbles and on the tarmac, through wide avenues and large squares’. On these unencumbered paths, ‘the future is certain’, noted Rude´ pra´vo in 1957.21 Wenceslas Square was thus adapted throughout the 1950s and 1960s to ensure that the annual parade would progress smoothly: large planters filled with flowers were removed from the middle of the square, as were barriers, and any scaffolding was dismantled, then reassembled the day after the celebrations. Olfactory obstacles to the spectators’ enjoyment were eliminated, too: the square’s public toilets were closed each year before 1 May.22 Without going so far as to characterise the communist regime as a ‘political religion’, it is useful to make the distinction between the ‘sacred’ space – which has a permanent ritual function – and the ‘sanctified’ space – which has a temporary ritual function – when analysing the parade route. As has been said, Wenceslas Square was not exclusively dedicated to the May Day celebrations. Unlike truly sacred spaces in the people’s democracy, such as cemeteries and World War II memorials, or even the towns of Lidice and Leza´ky, which the Nazis had razed to the ground in 1942, Prague’s main square was identified with May Day only for as long as the ritual lasted. Thereafter, it would revert to its former status as a ‘profane’ place until the following year. Hence, in

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order to assume the necessary sacred character for the duration of the celebrations, the square had to be filled with symbolism. The parade organisers sought to generate emotion and communicate their political message especially through the use of spatial markers. Verticality was invariably emphasised in a bid to attract as much attention as possible. Czechoslovak and Soviet flags, banners and pennants adorned the urban architecture along the parade route. These guided the spectators’ eyes towards the sky in the hope of creating the sense of a joyful universe. Meanwhile, down on the ground, the marchers carried a sea of flags, banners and logos. Some of the emblems carried a formal message, such as the portraits of prominent state and Party figures that were hung from buildings, transforming them into part of the display. The fac ade of the National Museum itself was the position of honour: until the middle of the 1950s, it was reserved for enormous pictures of Gottwald and Stalin (see Figure 5.5). However, after Khrushchev’s denunciation of the cult of personality in 1956, these large portraits were replaced with the official May Day slogan, a more impersonal symbol, which the organisers chose each year. Some of these slogans would assume their own symbolic status, such as ‘Working classes of all countries, unite’ and ‘With the Soviet Union for ever’. Spatial representations of the new socialist community aimed to legitimise the new regime by placing it within the narrative of collective history. There was a permanent tension between tradition and innovation, and continuity with the country’s pre-war working-class heritage tended to be sacrificed to the national tradition of which May Day was a part.23 However, constructing the socialist community involved more than creating new representations of unity through the spatial appropriation of the nation’s past. Once it had positioned itself within the narrative of national history, socialist ritual redefined the mental universe in which every member of the new community now had to live. This universe divided the world into two conflicting blocs and created new social hierarchies.

The peace camp and the war camp Each year, the relationship between East and West was depicted in lavish detail as part of the May Day celebrations. Due to its international nature – it was the moment when the workers of the world marched in unison – May Day was an ideal opportunity to depict the relationship

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Figure 5.5 Fac ade of Prague’s National Museum, featuring portraits of Gottwald and Stalin, 1 May 1952.

with the ‘Other’, the capitalist world. This depiction was based on identifying the socialist community as the defender of peace, as opposed to the ‘imperialist world of war’, which established a clear spatial distinction between the two political blocs.24 The representation of the peace camp and the war camp can be traced back to 1946. After the common enemy of Nazism was defeated and the anti-fascist coalition dissolved, the ideological confrontation between the USSR and the Western Allies resumed with even greater intensity. On 9 February 1946, Stalin addressed voters in Moscow’s Bolshoi Theatre.

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For the first time since the Soviet Union had entered the war, he broached the subject of Lenin’s theory of international relations. In this perspective, ‘monopoly capitalism’ inevitably generates crisis and conflict, and the two world wars were ‘expressions of the contradictions of capitalism’. In his speech, Stalin alluded to ‘two camps’ – communism and capitalism – and stated that peace would be achieved only when communism defeated and replaced the capitalist regimes of the West.25 Less than a month later, on 5 March 1946, Winston Churchill responded to Stalin’s speech in one of his own at Westminster College, Fulton, Missouri. He stated, ‘From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the continent.’26 The Cold War had begun. The division of the world into two rival camps is one of the most fascinating aspects of post-1945 history. But this radically new situation developed slowly. Between 1946 and 1949 a series of improvisations combined two elements – the peace movement and the drawing of antiimperialist battle lines. In 1946 and 1947, the Soviet Union created the basis for an international anti-war coalition. In response to the Truman Doctrine (March 1947) and the Marshall Plan (rejected by Central and Eastern European countries in July 1947), the USSR created Kominform on 5 October 1947 to consolidate Soviet control over Central and Eastern Europe and to coordinate the socialist bloc’s international policy. Andrei Zhdanov, in his inaugural speech as secretary of the Central Committee of the CPSU, stressed the ideological conflict between communism and capitalism, painting a picture of a world divided into two opposing camps. He insisted that the imperialist camp’s main aim was ‘to strengthen imperialism, to hatch a new imperialist war and to combat socialism and democracy’. By contrast, the anti-imperialist camp’s goal was to ‘resist the threat of new wars and imperialist expansion, to strengthen democracy and to extirpate the vestiges of fascism’.27 Large-scale congresses were organised on a regular basis in the hope of mobilising public opinion and local authorities in defence of peace. These mass events tended to focus on Western scientists who were troubled by the fact that their work might advance the development of nuclear arms, on artists and writers who were worried by the US Congress’s investigations into communists, and on those who saw the United States’ increasing influence in Europe as a threat to the continent’s culture. The first was the World Congress of Intellectuals in

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Defence of Peace, held in Wrocław, Poland. Others soon followed: Paris and Prague (1949), Warsaw and Sheffield (1950), Stockholm (1951), Vienna (1952) and so on.28 Discussing peace became a recurring theme in these years of extreme tension (see Figures 5.6 and 5.7). The peace movement entered a new phase after the signing of the North Atlantic Treaty on 4 April 1949. Its universal character was abandoned as defending peace became the responsibility of the working classes and the peace camp countries. This new direction was formalised two weeks later at the World Peace Congress, which opened in two parallel sessions in Paris and Prague on 20 April 1949.29 Delegations from Central and Eastern Europe attended the Czechoslovak event as the French authorities had refused to issue them with visas.30 In Paris, the struggle for peace was still couched in universal terms: in the manifesto, the delegates proclaimed the defence of peace to be ‘the business of all peoples’.31 However, in Prague, this responsibility was assigned to a specific group of countries that were ‘for peace and against the instigators of a new war’.32 From 1949 onwards, the peace movement erected a political barrier between two opposing camps that influenced the Eastern Bloc’s world view for nearly 40 years. It gradually became a symbolic institution, an invisible filter through which people perceived events. This binary vision of the world – East/West, communist/capitalist – meant that those who respected the rules and those who transgressed them could be easily identified. In Central and Eastern European countries, propagating war was a criminal offence.33 According to the German interwar philosopher Carl Schmitt, this friend–enemy duality at the basis of international relations was not only political but also cultural, for it divided the world into two discrete political cultures, each with a distinct set of values.34 This division helped to reinforce the social order in the people’s democracies by forcing everybody to choose between the two.35 Each year, the May Day celebrations illustrated this dual vision of the world. Throughout the 1950s, part of the parade was dedicated to allegories of the socialist camp and the imperialist camp. The people portrayed in these allegories and the way in which they were depicted showed both the political and the cultural nature of the struggle for peace. The peace camp allegories were officially described as an ‘initiative of the people’ that was thus ‘authentic’ and a reflection of the Czechoslovak population’s convictions. In 1957, the allegory of imperialism featured a

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Figure 5.6 Pablo Picasso, La Colombe: Congre`s Mondial des Partisans de la Paix, Salle Pleyel, Paris, 20 – 3 April 1949.

limousine driven by ‘Revived German imperialism’ in the form of General Hans Speidel, commander-in-chief of NATO’s European ground forces (see Figure 5.8).36 As he approached the grandstand, he raised a hand in a Nazi salute, but at that moment a group of scouts who had watched the

Figure 5.7 Poster for the Polish Congress for Peace held in Warsaw and Wrzesnia, 1950.

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Figure 5.8 Allegory of the war camp, Prague, 1 May 1957: the limousine, guarded by US policemen, is driven by ‘Revived German imperialism’ in the form of General Hans Speidel.

scene as it progressed along the parade route ‘joined in the game and presented him with a dove. Speidel rejected it but he was immediately surrounded by a cloud of doves,’ according to Rude´ pra´vo’s report of the day’s events (see Figure 5.9).37 The message was clear: the new socialist community desired world peace, while the imperialist West wanted a return to fascist aggression. Of course, this was a drama in which everybody played a carefully rehearsed role. The allegories were in no way separate from politics: their form and political meaning were tightly controlled by the Communist Party. The whole scene was conceived and performed by fine arts students at the Charles University and the College of Applied Arts (Vysoka´ ˇskola umeˇleckopru˚myslova´) under the supervision of a Party official who worked in one of the institutions.38 However, such performances

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Figure 5.9 Allegory of the war camp, Prague, 1 May 1957: General Speidel raises his hand in a Nazi salute.

had to be granted a certain amount of creative freedom if they were to succeed. This posed the thorny question of how participatory the ritual should be. Those who conceived the allegories had some experience of social reality, and the scenes were created for a specific audience. In order to get the message across and produce the desired effect, the allegories could not deviate too far from the reality of contemporary social drama, because the representations of the two camps relied on the spectators at least understanding what the performers were trying to convey and at best subscribing to the regime’s philosophy. Further analysis of these rituals would surely lead to better understanding of the general incomprehension and misconceptions that existed on both sides of the Iron Curtain in the 1950s. The prevailing conceptions of the self and the Other were rarely generated by the people’s democracies themselves. On the contrary, old symbols were resurrected and then reinforced. In 1950, the capitalist camp was portrayed as a half-man, half-serpent monster (see Figure 5.10). It had

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Figure 5.10

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The hydra of capitalism, Prague, 1 May 1950.

the head of Uncle Sam – a symbolic American figure created at the beginning of the nineteenth century and popularised during World War I by the cartoonist Thomas Nast. The dollar sign and the US and British flags on his top hat represented the two main ‘imperialist’ powers. His beard and large nose echoed Nazi images of Jewish bankers. Paradoxically, though, this overtly anti-Semitic symbol – which was paraded in the runup to the Sla´nsky´ trial, in which 11 of the 14 defendants were Jewish – was not seen as incompatible with another striking symbol – the swastika that formed the monster’s hair. The allegory evoked the threat of imperialist aggression funded by Jewish money. The inscription on the monster’s tail read ‘Capitalism, the greatest danger’ and ended with a famous quote from Julius Fucˇ´ık, a Czech resistance hero who was executed by the Nazis: ‘People, be on your guard!’ Pre-war US culture, wartime resistance and anti-Semitism: in 1950, all three of these references were familiar to the Czechoslovak public. Hence, the spectre of a dangerous new Other was raised from elements that were already present in the national culture. This meant that it was quickly accepted and could be used to reinforce and nourish a sense of group identity through its familiar difference.39

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The allegories of the socialist and imperialist camps always enjoyed pride of place at the end of the parade. This was not by chance: at funerals and demonstrations, the end of the parade had traditionally been reserved for the most important – or radical – elements. The end marked a social boundary. Placing allegories of the capitalist camp there, alongside other social transgressions such as absenteeism and laziness, pushed them to the periphery of the social body.40 Hence, this was a means of establishing the borders of the new socialist society. Representations of the self were always accompanied by representations of the Other. The peace camp was invariably portrayed in relation to the international (imperialist) enemy and the domestic (treacherous) enemy. Establishing the boundary between ‘them’ and ‘us’ served to define the self more clearly. This dichotomous representation of the self and the Other continued throughout the 1950s, functioning on the basis of inversion and comparison. First the difference was presented, then it was inverted: so the allegory of the Other appeared towards the end of the parade, followed by the allegory of the self. The image of the self was reinforced by comparing the peace camp with the war camp. In 1951 in Ostrava, the main city in the mining region of northern Moravia, two floats appeared one after the other in the May Day parade. The first depicted the ‘reactionary serpent’, a monster with the heads of seven leaders of ‘imperialist states’, including Harry Truman, Charles de Gaulle, Konrad Adenauer and Winston Churchill (see Figure 5.11). A minor regional figure who had become a hero of the regime was shown killing it.41 The banners on the float helped to clarify the allegory: ‘We will vanquish it together with the Communist Party, the unions and the Youth Union’ and ‘Producing more coal will destroy reactionary projects’. Immediately after this imperialist float came the socialist float, which displayed pictures of Central and Eastern European leaders, including Dimitrov, Za´potocky´, Stalin and Gottwald, below the protecting wings of a dove of peace (see Figure 5.12). This pacifist message was reinforced by slogans underneath the portraits: ‘Socialism ¼ peace’, ‘War ¼ ruin – destitution – death / Peace ¼ life – our children’s happiness’. Depicting this stark contrast with the Other underlined the profound differences between the two camps. Showing de Gaulle and Churchill as enemies of communism implied that they questioned its validity. ‘But who can really put me into question?’ Carl Schmitt asked. His answer

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Figure 5.11

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Allegory of the war camp, Ostrava, 1 May 1951.

was: ‘Only I myself.’ The relationship with the Other was actually a relationship with oneself via the Other: ‘The enemy is our own question as a figure.’42 We love or hate our enemies to the same degree as we love or hate ourselves.43 The image of the Other presented by the May Day rituals was perhaps a reflection of the Czechoslovak communist regime’s own face in an inverted mirror. Talking about the Other was another way of talking about the self. It didn’t matter whether Adenauer, de Gaulle and Churchill were really parts of a powerful serpent that had to be slaughtered. In fact, the opposite was often true: the Labour Party defeated Churchill’s Conservatives in 1945, and thereafter he played only a minor role in British politics until his return to office in October 1951. As for de Gaulle, he resigned from his post as president of the provisional government in January 1946 and joined the opposition before retiring to Colombey-les-deux-E´glises. However, on 1 May 1951, it was these two men who represented Britain and France on the imperialist serpent, not the current leaders of those nations – Clement Attlee and Henri

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Figure 5.12

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Allegory of the peace camp, Ostrava, 1 May 1951.

Queuille – both of whom were left-of-centre politicians. Therefore, the allegory was not a true representation of reality. Rather, it was used to contrast the strategy of the Other with the prevailing Czechoslovak strategy. The various elements of this representation were relics of the immediate postwar period. Showing that the West was changing, that its governments and politicians had already changed, did not fit the concept of international relations developed between 1946 and 1949 and based on the idea of irreconcilable and permanent opposition between the two camps. Depicting the imperialist camp as monolithic was simply a way of saying that the socialist camp had not changed in its relationship to either itself or others. To complete the representations of the two camps, a relationship between the two had to be established.44 This was based on hate and disdain as well as their companions, laughter and mockery. The allegories often took the form of repulsive monsters or the most feared elements of the early Cold War – atomic bombs, the return of fascism and a new world war. They were not, however, designed to terrify the population; far from it. According to press reports, spectators generally greeted them with laughter. In 1950, the reactionary serpent induced

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mockery rather than fear among the crowd: ‘We are laughing at you. And the worker carrying a placard with a dollar sign and the message Brigades and tractors will destroy these monsters is laughing at you.’45 The same year, Ostrava’s imperialist float also incited ‘general mockery’.46 In 1951, the ‘kitsch Hollywood culture was ridiculed’ (see Figure 5.13).47 However, in this era, at the height of the Cold War, laughing at the threat of a new war was not enough. Massed ranks of police officers, the army and the people’s militia, a sort of Communist Party paramilitary force, who paraded immediately after the students’ allegories, urged the crowd to ‘remain vigilant’.48 Laughter was one thing, but the people had to be ready to ‘fight for peace’, with weapons if need be. The shock of an encounter with the horrifying Other and the mixture of fascination and repulsion that it inspired fed on the fears and desires of the collective unconscious. Laughing at foreign countries, and at the imperialists who had been driven out of the country, was the only way to combat the enemy that the regime was trying to create in the collective imagination. The Party used the medium of mockery to identify and target foreign elements and emphasise their ‘troubling strangeness’.49

Figure 5.13 1951.

Allegory of the burial of reactionary forces, Prague, 1 May

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Taming and denigrating this strangeness through derision fostered the acceptance of internal fears and the construction of the self. Hence, paradoxical though it may seem, imperialism was an integral aspect of communism; the latter could not exist without the former. The enmity between East and West was a divisive force, but also one of union and association. The creation of the categories of ‘friends’ and ‘enemies’ allowed the emerging people’s democracy of Czechoslovakia to construct and maintain its identity and then update itself. The enemy helped the regime to strengthen group cohesion.50 The definitions of ‘friend’ and ‘enemy’ were often quite arbitrary, but they facilitated the creation of clear boundaries that were nevertheless sufficiently flexible to change with the times. The Czechoslovak authorities continued to characterise the Other as a warmonger throughout the 1950s. In the early years of the decade, this theme was based on the dichotomy between the alleged preparations for another war in the West and the building of socialism in the East. In 1950, the allegory of imperialism took the form of a Wall Street skyscraper covered with symbols of the Other: the Coca-Cola logo represented the consumer society; the phrases ‘III. War-to-day’, ‘Atom Puma’ and ‘War’ as well as the silhouette of a plane with ‘Terror’ written on its wings evoked war; sacks of dollar bills and the headlines ‘Wall Street’ and ‘We want profits’ were reminders of the power of Western financiers and exploitation (see Figure 5.14). Marchers dressed as soldiers from the various capitalist countries pulled the whole construction along, harnessed into reins held by a banker sitting on top of the skyscraper, who also dangled bait from a fishing line to urge them on. The skyscraper itself was guarded on each side by members of the Ku Klux Klan. The madness of even contemplating another war was indicated by the motto over the banker’s head – ‘Dollarium Trumans’ – a play on words that conflated the name of the American President with delirium tremens. By contrast, the peace camp was represented by symbols of work and the achievements of socialism: factories, homes for workers, agricultural equipment and the results of planning and socialist competition (see Figure 5.15). In the seond half of the 1950s, the theme of gearing up for another war versus building a better future was completed by a new element: the atom. This was a reaction against America’s development of nuclear arms. The atom strengthened the dualist position because it radicalised

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Figure 5.14

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Allegory of Wall Street, Prague, 1 May 1950.

the enemy. The Other may have found total protection in powerful weapons, but the dualism of us versus them also became total.51 Those who took up arms against the Other first had to ‘obliterate’ their opponent in moral terms. They had to perceive the Other as deeply criminal and inhumane, and thus useless. If they failed to do this, then they themselves would be seen as criminal and inhumane. For this reason, the first representation of the ‘burial’ of the West’s atomic bomb appeared in the 1950 May Day parade, shortly after the first Soviet nuclear tests (see Figure 5.16). The most extreme examples of the criminalisation and dehumanisation of the West came in the form of representations of its burial, which became ever more prevalent in the second half of the 1950s. Unsurprisingly, the atomic bomb was a key element of this, and its use was even presented as a way of obliterating the Other. The launch of the Soviet satellite Sputnik in October 1957 showed the world that the USSR had missiles that could strike anywhere in the world, so, almost inevitably, the theme of that year’s allegory of the Other was the death of NATO. The corte`ge was led by an effigy of the ‘spirit of Hitler’, accompanied by monstrous creatures called atomcˇı´ci –

Figure 5.15

Allegory of the two camps, Prague, 1 May 1950.

Figure 5.16 Allegory of the burial of the atomic bomb, Prague, 1 May 1950: the open coffin containing the bomb carries the inscription ‘Rest in peace’.

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Figure 5.17

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Allegory of the burial of NATO, Prague, 1 May 1957.

men with atoms for heads (see Figures 5.17 and 5.18). Fighter planes carrying the abbreviation ‘NATO’ flew above their heads. Appropriating atomic energy for military use heralded the death of the organisation: NATO’s coffin, which followed, was surrounded by spectres of war and the dehumanised figures of members of the Ku Klux Klan – recognisable only by their crosses.52 The message was clear: the NATO countries were destined to die due to their own actions. The allegories of the socialist camp, on the other hand, showed the use of atomic energy for peaceful purposes, such as space exploration. Hence, while the atom was synonymous with self-destruction in the war camp, its power was harnessed for the benefit of the people in the peace camp.53 This vision of a divided world perpetuated the Soviet interwar concept of good and bad, hero and antihero.54 This helped to establish a new representation of the boundary between the two that was less

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Figure 5.18

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Allegory of the burial of NATO, Prague, 1 May 1957.

material and strategic and more geopolitical and cultural, and therefore flexible. America was the first nation to recognise the potential of this vision, and it developed a new concept of international relations based on the geopolitics of blocs. While Central and Eastern Europe defined its identity around the idea of defending peace while the Other prepared for war, the West developed the notion of defending democracy. Therefore, in Western terms, the East was anti-democratic, or even totalitarian. But the socialist identity did not depend solely on belonging to the peace camp. Relative positions within the new society also rested on the social hierarchies that were dramatised in the May Day ritual. A place in the parade – as in society – had to be earned, and some groups were granted positions closer to the head of the procession than others, which caused tension.

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New social hierarchies In 1948, the organisers of the May Day celebrations announced their intention to represent an ideal configuration of the whole of society in the parade.55 The new social hierarchies, which were based on the various sectors to which Czechoslovakia’s citizens belonged as well as merit, were echoed in the parade’s structure. Hence, the participants were divided into sections according to socio-professional groups, then positioned within these groups on the basis of their work records. Together, these two criteria made the parade an instrument of ‘social management’ which assigned each individual to a particular place in the new socialist society. In 1950, the parade in Zˇilina was arranged primarily by domain: industry, agriculture and ‘non-productive’ sectors. Then an internal hierarchy organised each domain according to sub-sector: for instance, mining, chemistry, paper production, electricity, construction and public works, textiles and finally transport in the industry domain. After schools and youth organisations came the representatives of agriculture: forest managers, cooperatives, businesses specialising in the use of agricultural products (such as wood and foodstuffs), and so on. They were followed by the delegations from the non-productive sector (which largely meant the service sector, although communist regimes did not use this term): the press, small businesses, hospitals, post offices, telecommunications and administrative bodies. At the end of the parade came representatives from those sectors that were deemed to be economically inactive.56 Even though no one was left in any doubt about the lowly status of these groups vis-a`-vis, say, miners, their inclusion in the parade was important because it showed that the whole of society was marching together. Everyone was part of the tableau vivant. Industry was accorded the place of honour at the head of affairs in recognition of the assumption that it would be the main motor of development. This new hierarchy replaced the traditional hierarchy based on a socioprofessional category. Businesses within each sector were ranked according to their productivity. May Day marked the end of the first trimester of the year, so it became an opportunity to boast about economic results. Similar hierarchies were enforced within individual delegations, with the best performers marching at the front: activists rewarded for their efforts, leaders of socialist work teams, elite workers, members of socialist work

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brigades and community work volunteers. In 1958, a delegation of 3,000 employees from the J. Dimitrov Chemical Company in Bratislava was led by the firm’s 15 best workers, all of whom wore medals.57 Three years later, the place of honour within the delegation from the V. I. Lenin Company in Plzenˇ was awarded to 43 workers who had just been named ‘Model Apprentices’ for helping the business to exceed its production target by 108 per cent.58 The very best workers were further rewarded with positions at the front of their particular sector in the parade. This strict classification linked to the world of business and production was entirely political. Although the criterion that dictated the ranking of businesses was economic, a company’s place in the pecking order did not rest on its turnover or overall production but on the degree to which it had fulfilled – or exceeded – the plan. As we saw earlier, exceeding targets was considered the best way to ensure the economic growth that would bring society closer to its ultimate aim: communism. Hence, this was the criterion that dictated the positions that businesses and work teams held in society . . . and in the May Day parade. Gaining a prime position in the parade thus became an important issue. In 1958, unusually, the best places in Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice’s parade were allocated to workers from the food sector rather than those from industry: ‘They earned this place because of their results in the socialist competition held in honour of the 11th Party Congress,’ reported Rude´ pra´vo.59 Ultimately, then, individuals’ positions in the parade depended on their profession. Even members of mass organisations were grouped with the businesses for which they worked, and they were not allowed to wear uniforms that would set them apart from other employees. People who did not work, such stay-at-home mothers and pensioners, marched with whichever business was located nearest to their home. Even members of the Communist Party and the trade unions paraded with their respective employers. This highlights the importance of work in socialist societies and of businesses as places where this work was carried out.60 The procession portrayed individuals as parts of a united and wellordered whole whose work contributed to society’s collective well-being. The May Day ritual thus demonstrated the State’s determination to destroy the old social intermediary bodies, such as the Church and trade associations, and build a new ‘united union of workers, farmers and the intelligentsia’.61

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Beyond the vision of a divided world and the parallel hierarchies of sectors and performance, the May Day celebrations also illustrated the hierarchy of power. This was especially true at the head of the parade and in the official stand. In 1955, the Czechoslovak and Soviet flags were held aloft at the front of the parade (see Figure 5.19). The latter was a reminder of the link between the people’s democracies and the USSR, and the year’s slogan summed up this close relationship: ‘With the Soviet Union for ever’. Next came pictures of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin – the ‘founding fathers’ of communist ideology who had inspired the people’s democracies. Portrayed in Soviet historiography and iconography as

Czechoslovak and Soviet flags Pictures of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin, red flags Picture of Klement Gottwald, Czechoslovak flags Pictures of members of the Politburo of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia: Bacílek, Barák, Čepička, Dolanský, Fierlinger, Kopecký, Novotný, Široký and Zápotocký, Czechoslovak flags Pictures of members of the Presidium of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union: Bulganin, Khrushchev, Kaganovitch, Malenkov, Mikoyan, Molotov, Pervukhin, Saburov andVoroshilov, Soviet flags Pictures of leaders of other people’s democracies: Mao, Bierut, Pieck, Rákosi, Dej, Chervenkov, Kim Il-sung, Tsedenbal, Hoxha and Ho-ChiMinh, national flags Pictures of leaders of communist parties in Western Europe: Togliatti, Thorez and La Pasionaria, red flags Representatives of mass organisations: the Pioneers, the Youth Union, unarmed people’s militias, reserve labourers Athletes (at least 1,000 in regional urban centres; at least 200 in local capitals)

Figure 5.19 1955.

The processional order at the start of the May Day parade,

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intellectuals, philosophers and outstanding politicians, these four men were presented as guiding the population towards a glorious future.62 Their images were displayed in chronological order from right to left to emphasise the continuity of their thought. However, in 1956, Stalin’s portrait was absent, following Khrushchev’s denunciation of his predecessor’s cult of personality.63 A picture of a local communist leader was also granted a prominent position in every Central or Eastern European country. In Czechoslovakia, this honour was accorded to the ‘first president of the workers’, Klement Gottwald. However, he never lived to see this ‘elevation’ as it occurred after his death.64 Thereafter, his position in the parade varied according to changes in the official doctrine. In some years he would feature prominently in the first rank, whereas at other times he would be shuffled down to the second rank (see Figures 5.20 and 5.21). For instance, in 1968 he was relegated to a position behind the trio of Marx, Engels and Lenin. Did this reflect anxiety within the regime that a cult of the ‘first president of the workers’ was developing? It is hard to

Figure 5.20 The start of Prague’s May Day parade, 1953: in the first rank are pictures of Antonı´n Za´potocky´, Klement Gottwald, Joseph Stalin and Georgy Malenkov.

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Figure 5.21 The start of Prague’s May Day parade, 1954: Gottwald’s picture has been relegated to the second rank, with Lenin and Stalin on either side.

say, because his demotion was short-lived: he reclaimed his position alongside the triumvirate the following year.65 After the pictures of the founding fathers and the principal local leader came those of members of the Politburo and the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, alongside Czechoslovak flags. These were followed by pictures of members of the Presidium of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. This was the first circle of power – the summit of the parallel hierarchies of Party and government. The members of the Politburo and the Presidium were portrayed in alphabetical order rather than according to their role or political influence within their respective parties. So the first secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Nikita Khrushchev, came after Bulganin, who was the USSR’s defence minister and first minister of the Council of Ministers. This also meant that the president of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union, Marshal Kliment Voroshilov, brought up the rear. Similarly, the first secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, Antonı´n Novotny´, was only seventh in line, and President Za´potocky´ was last. This completely neutral alphabetical order

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was adopted in June 1954 and used in the 1955 parade.66 It had the dual benefits of removing any sense of hierarchy and underlining the ‘depersonalisation’ of power. After Stalin’s death, the Presidium became a collegiate organisation with collective power: its representatives might change, but the institution remained untouchable. This was the beginning of de-Stalinisation and the strengthening of collective power within the Party that was initiated by Khrushchev and continued by his successors.67 After the Party leaders came the leaders of the people’s democracies. Treaties of mutual friendship signed in the 1940s had set them all on the same path: to build socialism. In 1955, these countries were still portrayed by images of their leaders: prime ministers, presidents or first secretaries of communist parties, depending on the state in question. In a sea of multicoloured national flags, the pictures appeared in the order: Mao, Bierut, Pieck, Ra´kosi, Dej, Chervenkov, Kim Il-sung, Tsedenbal, Hoxha and Ho-Chi-Minh. After the denunciation of the cult of personality the following year, these portraits were no longer used; instead, they were replaced by banners representing the populations of the people’s democracies alongside their national flags.68 The order in which these images appeared in the parade was set by ideological criteria, which changed over time in light of various squabbles within the bloc. For instance, Yugoslavia was totally absent between 1948 and 1955, following the rupture between Tito and Stalin, and thereafter the question of where to place a country that had openly defied Moscow remained a difficult one. In the end, the national organisers left it up to the local authorities to insert the Yugoslavian banner and flags in an ‘appropriate’ position.69 The communist revolution was supposed to spread throughout the world, so communist parties in the West were assigned an important role: to lead the people’s struggle for peace in their countries. It is therefore unsurprising that the main Western communist parties were represented in the annual procession. Portraits of the leaders of the Italian, French and Spanish communist parties (Togliatti, Thorez and La Pasionaria in 1955) followed those of the leaders of the people’s democracies. In the 1960s and 1970s, this part of the parade also included greetings to the people of Africa, Asia and Latin America who were fighting for independence (Cuba, Congo and Algeria in 1961,70 Indochina in 1971 and so on). The communist parties in these countries

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had the vital task of mobilising the ‘democratic and patriotic forces of oppressed peoples’. The representations of the other people’s democracies and the Western communist parties were all displayed alongside flags, but these had different connotations for the two groups. The people’s democracies were surrounded by their national flags as a reminder that they were building socialism within a national context. The Italian, French and Spanish Party leaders, on the other hand, were surrounded by red flags to communicate hope, encouragement and the prospect of a revolution to come.71 The final group in the first section of the procession included representatives of the countries’ mass organisations. Pioneers, members of the Youth Union, members of the people’s militia,72 reserve labourers73 and athletes marched side by side. All of these organisations were reminders of the extent of the Party’s reach into society and its division of the population into various categories. They also promoted the virtues of the fighter: camaraderie, heroism and respect for authority. Their members formed disciplined ranks and their marching emphasised the general sense of order. Their attire made them stand out – they were the only participants in the parade who were allowed to wear uniforms – but also imparted a sense of unity. The important position given to young people in the parade demonstrated the regime’s desire to highlight continuity of power. It was a reminder that the attainment of communism would fall to the next generation. The elite of the future would emerge from the ranks of these marchers, so they must be integrated into a movement whose ideology was evoked by pictures of the founding fathers and enforced by the country’s current political elite, who observed the proceedings from the official stand. In the people’s democracies, it was rare for ordinary people to find themselves face to face with members of the ruling elite. Those in power seldom exposed themselves to the public gaze, fearing that such proximity might lead to problems. Therefore, the official stand was not simply one element of the drama but the cornerstone of the whole ritual with the aim of legitimising the regime by permitting a rare encounter between the people and the elite. Only an encounter such as this could communicate the meaning that the organisers wanted to imbue into the parade and the relationships at play within it. Thus, nothing was left to chance. The festive atmosphere was tightly organised.

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Faithful supporters of the regime, such as representatives of the Party’s Political Institute, the people’s militia and various other institutions, were positioned next to Prague’s official stand and tasked with ‘warming up’ the crowds.74 In other large cities, loyal pioneers were placed next to the local dignitaries’ stand and along the parade route.75 The innocence and spontaneity of youth did the rest. A band, positioned in front of or near the stand, would help the pioneers to galvanise the crowd. The stand was the best vantage point from which to view the parade, but it was also a stage. These two roles overlapped and at different times in the celebrations one or the other took precedence, so they became effectively inseparable. The ritual was staged in such a way that the presentation of the elite was minutely controlled, with the stand forming a key element in the legitimisation of the regime and its representatives. Its similarity to a stage was clear to see: power was putting itself on public display. Indeed, some commentators described the stand as a ‘window on the regime’ (see Figure 5.22).76 The way the stand was decorated created a specific context. Red, the regime’s emblematic colour, abounded. There was a red banner with the

Figure 5.22 The official stand in Prague, 1 May 1950: the central platform is reserved for the first circle of power, five members of the Politburo.

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May Day slogan and red cloth covering the stand itself. The front and roof featured red stars and flags, and the marchers wore a red May Day badge and a red carnation. The bouquets of flowers – made up of roses, tulips and carnations – presented to guests of honour were also primarily red.77 This preponderance of a single colour might seem surprising, given that the stand was supposed to represent a government rather than a party: the red, white and blue of the national flag may have been more appropriate. Blue and white were nowhere to be seen, however. The Party colour won out over the state colours. In this sense, May Day 1968 was not a rupture with the past. At a time when the regime was questioning the leading role of the working classes, abolishing censorship and contemplating the legalisation of opposition parties, the official stand remained uniformly red. This seemingly small detail was actually quite significant. Given that all symbolic language has meaning, the message was clear: even in 1968, the political elite could not abandon the concept of the Party-State. And they would not do so for another 20 years. The most important, and most visible, figures on the stand were the spiritual fathers of Marxism and Leninism. Until 1956, Prague’s stand featured large pictures of Stalin and Gottwald, and thereafter portraits of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Gottwald. Throughout the 1950s, these portraits hung alongside smaller images of members of the Soviet Presidium and the Czechoslovak Politburo, mirroring the hierarchy in the parade. However, the pictures of the Soviet politicians disappeared in 1960, and those of their Czechoslovak counterparts followed suit in 1963. The official seating was divided into two distinct sections. The main stand, with just 60 seats, was reserved for the nomenklatura, who held key positions in the Party; the side stands, with almost 800 seats, were for guests of honour. Representatives of the Soviet Consulate, other foreign diplomats based in Prague, military attache´s from friendly countries, foreign journalists and foreign guests of the unions sat on the righthand side. Members of, and candidates for, the Central Committee, government ministers, representatives of public organisations and workers who had received honours the previous day sat on the left. Until 1968, the main stand in Prague had three sections, with the central one raised (Figure 5.23). This central section accommodated the First Secretary and the President of the Republic (if these two roles were not occupied by the same person) and members of the Politburo. Other government ministers and some guests of honour sat in the lower, side

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Figure 5.23 The official stand in Prague, 1 May 1956: members of the Politburo and Party officials are all on the same level.

sections. This layout reflected the cult of the leader and the hierarchy of top Party officials.78 The further the central section was from the two flanks, the more isolated the inner circle was from the rest of the Party. Similarly, when the inner circle was small, there were fewer people in the central section: for instance, only five people sat in the central section in 1950, but eight years later every member of the Politburo was allocated a seat there. From 1955, the members of the Politburo were listed alphabetically in the newspapers and this order was reflected in their positions on the stand: the first was on the far left, the second on the far right and so on, working towards the centre, where the President and the First Secretary sat together. The division between the first circle of power – the Politburo – and the rest of the hierarchy was quite blatant in the regime’s early years but became less pronounced from the early 1960s onwards. The central section was no longer raised but instead pushed slightly ahead of the two flanks. This meant that spectators might not

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notice the assertion of seniority, although it remained obvious to those in the stand (Figure 5.24). From 1968 onwards, every section of the stand was at the same level. Hence, all state and Party representatives were at the same height on a single platform, with the First Secretary in the centre of the front row (see Figure 5.25), although guests of honour continued to sit in the separate side stands. This more collegiate arrangement remained in place until 1989. The May Day ritual helped to construct an ‘imaginary community’79 that was inserted within the historical continuity of national history and the workers’ movement. It gave this community a structure that was based on the values of work (which defined people’s respective positions in society) and peace (which pitted the socialist camp against the capitalist camp). However, the ultimate aim was to create and modernise the social links between all of Czechoslovakia’s citizens. Here, the parameter of time was used almost as much as that of space in the subtle management of the rhythm and timing of what was known as the ‘May

Figure 5.24 The May Day stand in Prague, 1963: beneath the slogan ‘All together for the development of socialist society’ there are pictures of Marx, Engels and Lenin and the slogan ‘Proletariat of all countries, unite!’; the central section of the stand, reserved for members of the Politburo, is at the same level as the side stands, but slightly further forward.

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The May Day stand on the Letna´ Plateau, Prague, 1986.

campaign’, which was orchestrated alongside mass choreography and carefully planned movement.

Creating Social Ties In the 1950s, at the height of the Cold War, the organisers of the May Day celebrations wanted to demonstrate the strength of the socialist community in the face of ‘external danger’. In April 1951, Minister of Information Va´clav Kopecky´ defined the event’s aims as follows: May Day must be an enormous show of our Party’s strength, unity and power, and of the love that our workers have for it. The parade must therefore include as many people as possible. May the imperialists and all our enemies see that the great mass of the Czechoslovak workers is united behind the Communist Party and advances steadfastly towards socialism.80 Thereafter, mass participation in the celebrations became one of the organisers’ principal goals and the numbers were closely monitored.

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In order to achieve this, the organisers developed a range of techniques for mobilising people, known initially as the ‘propaganda campaign for the run-up to May Day’ and later as the ‘campaign for the run-up to May Day’ or simply the ‘May campaign’.

The ‘May campaign’ The campaign’s aims were to ‘obtain commitments in the run-up to May Day, to highlight basic national and international problems and to ensure that all workers will participate in the May Day celebrations’.81 It played on temporal rhythms that accelerated as the day approached, preparing people psychologically for the ritual itself. The process would begin in early April, with ‘tidying campaigns’ to improve the appearance of public spaces and workplaces. These were undertaken on a voluntary basis by ordinary people during their work or leisure time. In 1960, April was declared ‘tidying month’.82 In the capital, the volunteers were initially galvanised by the motto ‘For a more beautiful Prague’, which was changed to ‘Inhabitants of Prague for their city’ in 1967.83 In the 1970s, they were encouraged to focus their efforts on ‘Saturdays and Sundays of honour’. These annual campaigns established temporalities of expectation and helped to generate enthusiasm for the upcoming celebrations. In general, the volunteers were mobilised by the mass organisations that linked individuals to the community. The main groups to be targeted were workers (via unions and the Communist Party), agricultural workers (through the Farmers’ Union and the Women’s Union) and young people (via the Youth Union).84 In the country’s workplaces, the May campaign mainly consisted of taking on extra responsibilities and tasks in honour of May Day. The progress of these new duties – and whether they were fulfilled – was followed closely in the newspapers and on the radio. On 30 April, a summary of all the May Day commitments was presented during formal meetings in businesses and cooperatives, which would close with calls to participate in the parade the following day.85 These aspects of the May campaign were established in the early 1950s and persisted until the fall of the communist regime. A number of well-established mass organisations therefore contributed significantly to mobilisation in the workplace. In the private sphere, however, no such organisation intervened directly. Instead, on the last two Sundays each April, propagandist pairs would

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knock on doors and ‘encourage’ their fellow citizens to volunteer.86 This hands-on approach continued throughout the 1950s and into the early 1960s, but then tailed off and was abandoned altogether in 1968. There was a brief resurgence in 1970, but the doorstepping disappeared for good at the end of the 1970s, when union delegates in factories assumed most of the recruiting responsibilities. The propagandist pairs’ visits to family homes were designed to obtain promises to carry out essential tasks. On the last Sunday of April 1957, nearly 26,000 propagandists in Prague alone elicited commitments to carry out a total of 226,420 hours of unpaid tidying work and 101,000 hours of unpaid agricultural work, as well as help with the next harvest.87 It is difficult to know how these commitments were obtained and where the line was drawn between coercion and persuasion. However, the records tell us something about people’s reactions to the propagandists’ visits. For instance, in 1950, in Cˇesky´ Krumlov, a propagandist was asked: ‘What does it matter to you if I go to the May Day parade or not?’88 Two years later, in Jilemnice, a few families of agricultural workers replied to the propagandists’ ‘invitation’ by saying that they would ‘rather go and work in the fields’.89 But such responses were rare. In most cases, the visits were unexpected and the reactions were far from hostile. Sometimes, families would even offer the propagandists something to eat or drink. However, starting a conversation about politics was usually ‘very difficult’.90 Ordinary citizens would avoid the subject and rarely express any disagreement with the regime.91 As May Day approached, the pace of the May campaign would accelerate. The press and radio would start to promote the parade itself only after 22 April in order to avoid diverting attention from the anniversary of Lenin’s birth, which was celebrated on that date from 1954 onwards.92 Formal parties thus marked the official beginning of the ‘May celebrations’, which would then continue until the following month.93 ‘Windows and buildings started to be covered with slogans, posters and flags’ to remind people that the big day was approaching.94 Particular attention was paid to the parade route and the main access points: in the 1950s, gates of honour were constructed at the locations where the parades entered cities. On the last weekend in April, mayors would encourage volunteers to complete the decoration of the streets and buildings. For instance, in 1957, the mayor of Prague issued an appeal in the national daily newspaper Rude´ pra´vo:

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I am certain that this year, all the inhabitants of Prague will take special care over the decoration of the city’s streets, buildings and apartments, and that everybody will take part in this great demonstration of our unity and strength, which will serve as a sign of our solidarity with all the peace-loving peoples of the world.95 The newspaper also described the rising excitement as the celebrations approached: in factories, ‘graphic designers, artists and thousands of other small hands are working to create banners and flags to make their delegation the most impressive one in the parade’.96 Workers ‘even stay later after work’ and put in many hours of overtime to get everything finished on time.97 Workplaces were cleaned and decorated with Czechoslovak and Soviet flags, union pennants and May Day banners. Rolls of honour, featuring pictures of the best workers, were updated.98 Businesses hurried to meet the commitments they had undertaken in honour of May Day before their deadlines. Often, this involved workers giving up their weekends to complete the tasks on time. The media reported this frenetic activity and, in the last week of April, published production reports and announced when the plan’s targets had been exceeded. In 1957, the Cˇı´zkovice tractor drivers’ brigade informed Rude´ pra´vo that they had exceeded their semester plan by 102 per cent on 25 April. The beetroot sowing had been completed a day earlier than planned, and the best tractor drivers were Jan Neˇmecˇek and Antonı´n Korous.99 The newspapers’ seductive language when describing the May campaign demonstrates a desire to play on the emotions and flatter those who contributed to the collective enthusiasm in the run-up to the celebrations. In the early 1950s, the media frequently appealed to citizens’ willingness to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Gradually, this shifted to a focus on mutual help, solidarity and community spirit. Pioneers and soldiers prepared ‘lantern processions’ on the evening before May Day. Meanwhile, representatives of factories and the National Front placed garlands and bouquets on ‘places of our people’s suffering’ during World War II and in military cemeteries. These solemn ceremonies were reminders that earlier generations had paid a heavy price for the country’s peace and liberty. They galvanised pacifist feeling and ‘working people’s desire to preserve the peace’ – as we have seen, an idea that featured prominently in the May Day celebrations.100 Hence, May Day really began on the last day of April. This was when the May

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campaign reached its height, and the date marked the beginning of the celebrations. The process of decorating businesses and streets was completed, with official buildings adorned with Czechoslovak and Soviet flags from 6 p.m.101 Newspapers announced the businesses that would lead the parade the next day. Union leaders and representatives from the selected firms were interviewed about their teams’ successes. Radio programmes also focused on May Day, informing listeners of its significance and familiarising them with the music associated with it. Various festivities started in the afternoon, generating enthusiasm for the day itself: brass bands, choirs and theatre groups all took part. The media’s accounts of such events were emotive and unambiguous: It is tomorrow [. . .] People are filled with such happy excitement the day before May Day. As though an invisible hand were making their hearts beat to a feverish rhythm, as though all of nature were quivering with excitement, awaiting the first morning of May. The streets filled with dancers and draped with flags, banners and garlands resound with thousands of fanfares, and a tide of human voices will welcome the white dawn of tomorrow’s new day, which will bring the May Day celebrations.102 The importance of emotion in politics, for any kind of regime, has been the focus of several recent studies.103 Reports of May Day repeatedly underlined the fact that the dances and festivities gave rise to ‘good humour that spread to the celebrations themselves’,104 but this did not detract from the day’s political significance. Some of the events had the sole aim of appealing to the citizens’ emotions, revealing a desire to achieve ‘emotional control’. So should the May Day ritual be understood emotionally as well as rationally? Without reducing the ritual to an emotional act, its emotional dimension can certainly be seen as a way of opening up analysis of the phenomenon. When devising their mobilisation campaigns, the organisers obviously preferred activities that stimulated positive emotions. Tidying streets and decorating buildings, and anything involving brigades, allowed people to meet one another in new contexts, which created important opportunities for informal socialising and emotional interaction. The May campaign focused on improving and beautifying people’s immediate environments, which galvanised individual aspirations to well-being. While this

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suggests that the ritual shifted its focus onto the individual, the generation of collective positive emotions remained key. It is also worth remembering that, while the political message was always prominent, all of these events were, in theory, apolitical. As well as the May campaign, which functioned within the professional sphere, the organisers attempted to kindle people’s enthusiasm in other ways. Outdoor dances, plays and cinema screenings were all staged in the last week of April, which was sometimes known as ‘culture week’.105 The organisers made no secret of the fact that their aim was to ‘make people happy’.106 In the 1950s, these events were held in a variety of locations, but they gradually moved to specially designated places, such as trade union buildings, parks and cultural centres. Participation in the celebrations was also boosted by sporting events, such as the Peace Competition for amateur cyclists, which followed a 2,000 km route through Warsaw, Prague and Berlin. This quickly became very popular.107 Such events were primarily linked to the end of World War II and the Liberation, but they shared the themes of peace and preserving the memory of war, so they were well suited to the May Day celebrations. They usually began in late April and continued until 9 May, the anniversary of the Liberation, when a military parade was held to celebrate the defeat of fascism and the end of the war, as well as the liberation of Prague. Some of the festivities extended to 16 May, the anniversary of the founding of the Czechoslovak Communist Party in 1921. May Day itself and the anniversary of the Liberation were frequently used to promote other significant events. For instance, the Czechoslovak constitution was formally adopted on 9 May 1948, the statue of Stalin on Letna´ Plateau in Prague was unveiled on 1 May 1955, and the first section of the Prague metro began running on 9 May 1974. Numerous other inaugurations, medal presentations and awards ceremonies were similarly scheduled for the first two weeks of May. This helped to create a festival atmosphere each spring that boosted people’s emotional engagement. The organisers called the period the ‘May Days’ (ma´jove´ dny) to highlight the continuous nature of the celebrations. Personal and collective pride were also central to May Day. Individuals were rewarded for their work in a variety of ways. As we have seen, the main reward was a prominent position in the hierarchy of marchers for the most deserving employees, but other rituals ran in parallel with the celebrations and played on the same emotions. The day

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before May Day, the highest worker in the country, the President of the Republic, invited Czechoslovakia’s finest workers, engineers, artists and writers to Prague Castle, where they were presented with honours by the ministers for each sector. This ceremony was held for the first time in 1950 and continued until 1989, with ever more awards presented as time went by. By the 1970s, there were six awards: the Order of Work, the Order of the Republic, the Klement Gottwald Order, the National Klement Gottwald Prize and the titles ‘Hero of Socialist Work’ (for the productive sector) and ‘Artist of the Nation’ (for the arts). Each prize included a bonus for both the worker and their business. The ceremony celebrated communal pride in the work accomplished, but also individual pride – the pride of the common man whose work was recognised by the community. In front of government ministers, highranking Party officials and honoured guests, the Party-State elite thanked the workers for their contribution to the building of socialism. The day after the ceremony at the castle, the workers were guests of honour in the official stand at Prague’s May Day parade. They were thus granted a temporary place among the national elite. The emotional significance of such honours for those who received them can only be imagined. In other towns and cities across the country, the best local workers were similarly invited to sit in the official stand. Mass organisations also distributed awards each year. For instance, on 1 May, the Confederation of Trade Unions and the Union of Production Workshops would ‘lend’ a red flag to the best socialist work team, who would wave it at the front of their delegation in the parade. In the 1950s, most of these awards were presented in the industrial sector, especially within heavy industry (miners, turners, welders and so on), but in the 1960s they started to spread to more cutting-edge professions (engineers, economists and so on) and even managerial positions. The 1970s saw a return to the preference for manual work, but white-collar workers were not totally excluded. During the final two decades of the regime, the ceremonies became more personal. The newspapers would publish pictures and CVs of all the prize winners, describing their professional backgrounds and achievements in detail. The aim was to boost the appeal of a ritual in which people were starting to lose interest. The parade organisers used the allegory of spring as a harbinger of renewal and hope to evoke the image of a better future and draw people into the regime’s social project. This link between May Day and spring

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dated right back to the festival’s origins. There was an obvious connection between nature waking from its winter sleep and the increasing strength of the workers (see Figure 5.26).108 The people’s democracies seized on this traditional association and imbued it with new significance, making good use of the festival’s position in the calendar. A semantic association was thus created between May Day, the end of spring and the promise of summer:

Figure 5.26

Walter Crane, A Garland for May Day (1895).

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We forget the bad weather of the winter and turn, in all our actions, towards the future, towards the spring whose arrival was so welcome. Behind its fragile back, the summer months are already hurrying in, bountiful, fertile and beautiful, with all the gifts of ripening and harvest.109 May Day bridged the gap between the rebirth of nature – and of the working classes – and the latter’s enjoyment of the fruits of their labours, which were announced on the parade’s banners. Sometimes, the symbol of renewal was also associated with the Liberation: the lilacs that people were said to have handed to the liberating armies became a favourite May Day emblem (see Figure 5.27). Indeed, many plants, and especially flowers, became important festival symbols. In the iconography of the celebrations, the parade was depicted as a field and the marchers as blossoming flowers: Once a year, Wenceslas Square in Prague becomes a field of flowers. On May Day, flags blaze with the red of poppies, clothes glow with the blue of gentians, and banners flame with the yellow of dandelions. And the wind of joy moves through these flowers covering the streets, playing with them. According to the press, the regenerative power of spring was reflected in the face of every participant: ‘The pioneers who made up the most vibrant and colourful section of the parade were not the only ones with youthful looks. The faces of the honourable Party members also shone with youth.’110 The rhetoric of renewal and abundance extended beyond metaphor and hyperbolic newspaper reports: the regime ensured it was backed up with concrete examples. On May Day, extra help was provided to various social sectors. For instance, in 1947, in honour of the celebrations, the country’s agriculture minister allocated 200 million crowns for the development of agricultural production.111 The organisers always made sure that shops were well stocked in the run-up to the festival, and on the afternoon of the day itself extra food stands were opened.112 This distribution of food contributed to the festive atmosphere, creating the sense of a happy – if unusual – time. At times of economic hardship, or when the organisers feared that participation would be low, the newspapers would publish

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Figure 5.27

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May Day poster, 1954.

information about the well-stocked shops. For instance, on 30 April 1970, the main national daily newspaper, Rude´ pra´vo, announced that rations of milk and dairy products would increase by 10 per cent on May Day and that meat and sausages would be distributed.113

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It has been suggested that ‘each political system establishes a model of political passions that best corresponds to its structure and workings’.114 So did the emotions aroused by the Czechoslovak authorities for May Day correspond to the regime itself? The day marked a break from the workers’ painful past and signalled better times ahead. Therefore, unlike the anniversaries of the October Revolution and the Liberation, May Day was forward-looking, anticipating the future. For the duration of the celebrations, every effort was made to persuade the people that a happy, abundant future awaited them, one in which work would be a pleasure rather than a chore. The day itself was a public holiday, so in one sense at least May Day accorded with Lenin’s famous promise: ‘One day, our streets will be a festival!’115 As a result of the communal tasks of the May campaign and the festive atmosphere on the day itself, May Day represented a pause in linear time, a period of ‘time outside time’ which projected the participants into an idealised, socialist future.116 The organisers attempted to promote this by enforcing a strict timetable throughout May Day. At dawn, around 5 a.m., brass bands and choirs would march through the streets to wake the whole neighbourhood. Later, music was played through loudspeakers to re-enforce the break with the usual temporal framework. From 7 a.m., the marchers would gather at designated meeting points, even though the parade was not scheduled to begin until 9 a.m. Delegations would start to arrive, some from close by, some from far away. Some were representatives of local businesses, others were villagers from further afield. Everybody found their designated place near the parade route, following a fixed plan. As the celebrations began, the whole community experienced time in a different way from how they did in their ordinary lives. The parade was an almost atemporal moment of eternal youth, happiness and abundance. People were transported into an idealised (near) future of fully realised communism in which they could glimpse the bounty that awaited them as a reward for all their hard work. But the key moment, which united all members of the community and gave profound meaning to the whole celebration, occurred when the marchers passed the main stand.

The gesture and spirit of the gift This analysis of the space–time aspect of the ritual has not yet taken movement into account. May Day was, however, a mobile festival; it was

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only through movement that each element could be fully understood, and each gesture fully appreciated. The hierarchy of sectors and individual performance made sense only as a result of movement. The action reinforced the organic representation of the parade, whose elements were ordered in relation to its head, which was a head in both anatomical and symbolic terms. Movement also produced a metaphor for the image of society that the organisers wished to present. The parade established a subtle relationship between action and time, representing the whole history of the workers’ struggle from its origins until the present day in a sort of animated myth. At the beginning, the red flag marked the start of the workers’ revolution. Next, the founding fathers established the rules of the new communist society. Then, the Party elite led the country down this new path and formed a community with fellow peoples that would soon expand, thanks to the efforts of Western communist parties. The new ideal of the socialist man was a fusion of the discipline of the people’s militia, the healthy body of the athlete, the determination of the reserve labourer and the solidarity of the Youth Union. The marchers, organised into delegations within the main body of the parade, contributed to the realisation of the future communist society through their hard work. The composition of the parade thus precisely followed the chronology of the history of the workers’ movement, and its gradual advance heralded the next chapter in the story. This advance evoked a society on the move, heading resolutely towards the future. When the organisers planned the parade, they were well aware that it was a march of the masses in both literal and figurative terms. On May Day morning, the whole of society took part in this mass movement, a march of victory: ‘Like thousands of streams, they leave the countryside and their factories to come together in a great torrent.’117 The metaphor could also be extended far beyond national borders, as the populations of all the people’s democracies were on the march. The lucky effect of time zones meant that the parade on Moscow’s Red Square heralded those in the capitals of the other socialist countries. This hierarchy was highlighted when television started to broadcast the parades: the Moscow procession served as the official launch of the day, and the other Central and Eastern European capitals followed its lead.118 The forward-looking symbolism of movement formed a link with the original May Day traditions. In the nineteenth century, the day was focused on the fight for workers’ rights: universal suffrage, the eight-hour

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day and protection in the workplace.119 However, after ‘dictatorships of the proletariat’ were established first in Russia and then in Central and Eastern Europe, the authorities insisted that the future promised by the May Day celebrations was about to be realised. Hence, the traditional forward-looking symbolism was abandoned in favour of a focus on the hard work that was bringing the working classes ever closer to communism. Society’s inexorable march towards this ultimate goal was illustrated by the workers’ achievements that were celebrated on May Day, with the festival providing an annual opportunity to assess the progress that had been made: Remember, you who watch these wonderful parades, that only three generations separate you from the sufferings and the first organised struggles of the miserable workers of Porgeska, who were roasted alive in the steam and filth of the old textile factory. Remember your past, grandchildren of those first pioneers! [. . .] Think of the path we have trodden!120 As the years went by, the path towards the promised land of communism was divided into an increasing number of stages – the socialist revolution, the first phase of the building of socialism, the building of the foundations of socialism, developed socialism and so on – in a bid to explain why the ultimate goal had not yet been reached, despite the workers’ best efforts. Newspaper reports provide useful insights into the meaning that the regime tried to bestow on May Day. One article, from 1 May 1958, described how the head of the parade reached the National Museum at 8 a.m. before progressing across Wenceslas Square to the official stand at Mu˚stek: The whole square resounded with the cry: ‘Long live the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia!’, ‘With the Soviet Union for ever’, ‘Long live peace!’ [. . .] Thousands of spectators responded and saluted the Czechoslovak flag surrounded by red banners. Behind them were large pictures of Marx, Engels, Lenin, Gottwald and Za´potocky´. Next came a sea of red flags, pictures of members of the Politburo and the Communist Party Central Committee and of Khrushchev and Voroshilov, and then even more Czechoslovak

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flags and red banners. A banner with this year’s May Day slogan: ‘Under the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, onwards to the building of socialism!’ When the front of the parade reached the stand, which was also adorned with pictures of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Gottwald, and with the slogan ‘Proletariats of all countries, unite!’, the procession came to a halt. The square was a ‘joyful, happy sea of faces, singing revolutionary songs’. Suddenly, cheers rang out and there were cries of ‘Long live the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia!’, ‘Long live peace!’ and ‘Long live the government!’ At that moment, Party officials and government ministers climbed onto the stand before President Novotny´ (who was also first secretary of the Communist Party in 1958) addressed the crowd, ‘interrupted several times by applause and cheering’. Then everybody sang ‘The Internationale’: ‘So, comrades, come rally / And the last fight let us face / The Internationale unites the human race’.121 Each year, as the last notes of the socialist anthem sounded, a group of pioneers would leave the parade and climb onto the stand to present bouquets of flowers to the assembled dignitaries (see Figure 5.28). The simplicity of the bouquets of red carnations – or sometimes tulips or roses – reinforced the symbolic value of this gesture of thanks. Its emotive value was also highlighted by the age difference between the young pioneers and the middle-aged officials. The pioneers were then invited to sit next to the dignitaries at the front of the stand, which afforded the best view of the parade. Then the officials would explain the significance of the spectacle they were witnessing, as a parent might to a child. This paternalism enhanced the leaders’ charisma and perpetuated the traditions of the workers’ political culture from one generation to the next through initiation into the regime’s ritual practices. The newspapers and official publications invariably published photographs of high-ranking Party officials surrounded by children on 2 May.122 The presentation of flowers signalled that the parade was about to start moving and also indicated how it would continue. Marchers waved banners inscribed with their performance figures for that year and presented the symbolic fruits of their labour to society, represented in its highest form by those on the main stand. Press reports expressed affection, pride and love. In 1961, ‘every factory in Prague boasted of the

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Figure 5.28 At the start of the 1955 May Day parade, pioneers present a bouquet of flowers to President Za´potocky´.

teams they had entered the competition to find the best socialist work brigade’.123 Flags, banners and allegorical floats displayed figures, graphs and other images showing impressive levels of productivity and details about how the plan had been exceeded.

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The symbolic value of the act of working hard was more important that its actual value: ‘Thousands of people give of themselves for the sake of society, more than was foreseen in the plan,’ asserted Rude´ pra´vo in 1958. The official discourse interpreted these gestures as proof of the workers’ loyalty to socialism: ‘Is it not a revolution when people try [. . .] to create greater riches for the State that belongs to them?’ asked the report,124 as though this gift of work meant that socialism could be a fully realised ‘utopia’. According to this logic, workers should try to surpass their targets rather than merely meet them, as this would display their faith in the enterprise. The regime described the workers’ promises on their banners as ‘confessions’ (vyzna´nı´),125 imbuing the gesture with a spiritual quality. The red carnations that the pioneers presented to the dignitaries also perpetuated a longstanding tradition of socialist iconography in which this flower was an expression of faith.126 The symbolic gift of high productivity established a close relationship between the giver and the recipient. With this gesture, the parade embodied the nature of social relationships and forms of domination in the socialist regime. The key element of community in these social relationships was illustrated by aggregating thousands of individual gestures. As Rude´ pra´vo put it in 1958: ‘The socialist future will be accessible to everybody if everybody makes their own small contribution. All big things are born of smaller ones.’127 Each spectator could see the power of amalgamating individual efforts for themselves: some of the Prague parades in the 1950s lasted for six hours. The women of Zˇi�zkov’s allegory perfectly illustrated the idea of combining individual efforts to achieve a common goal. Each year, the female employees of factories in this working-class area of Prague created a living picture with their own bodies. Once again, action provided meaning: in 1961, when they arrived in front of the main stand, ‘one thousand two hundred women from Zˇi�zkov stood shoulder to shoulder’. The whole of Wenceslas Square was thus transformed into a gigantic red star and the slogan ‘40 years of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia’.128 The message changed from year to year: in 1947, it was simply ‘Peace’ (Mı´r); two years later, the women created the emblem of the Five-Year Plan and a portrait of Gottwald (see Figure 5.29); in 1950, they arranged themselves into a hammer and sickle; in 1955 and 1975, they commemorated the 10th and 30th anniversaries of the

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Figure 5.29 The women of Zˇizkov’s allegory, representing the emblem of the Five-Year Plan, 1949.

union between the USSR and Czechoslovakia; in 1984, they formed the abbreviation of the Women’s Union of Czechoslovakia – CˇSZˇ; and in 1987, the year when perestroika was launched, they spelled out ‘Prague–Moscow’. It was only when the women bent forward in a sign of allegiance in front of the main stand that their message appeared. At that moment, their bodies became physical manifestations of their state of mind.129 The media amplified the suspense surrounding the women’s ‘traditional surprise’130 each year, and their example was imitated all over the country.131 The marchers carried all of their gifts to the stand, where they were symbolically offered to the Party-State, as represented by the political elite. The dignitaries could see each of the gifts clearly, which allowed them to determine whether the parade’s strict hierarchy of sectors and performance had been respected. They could also see how their orders had been carried out in each part of the country, thus validating their ‘social management’.132 By way of thanks, they would salute the marchers as they passed in front of the stand. Then, before leaving the square, each group of marchers would return the salute.

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Every gift calls for a reciprocal gift, so, to thank the population for all their hard work over the previous year – as displayed on the banners in the morning parade – the authorities provided festivities in the afternoon. Here the regime made good use of an old German tradition whereby May Day afternoon was given over to celebrations.133 The whole of Prague joined in the party, with dances and concerts organised in the squares, and the stands where the guests had sat in the morning filled with orchestras. In the 1960s, the festivities moved to the Julius Fucˇı´k Entertainment Park, named after a hero of the Czechoslovak communist resistance. In 1979, it hosted more than 20 events on May Day and 2 May.134 The principle of reciprocal gift-giving is key to understanding the logic of the socialist May Day ritual. The composition and order of all the elements of the parade turned it into a representation of an idealised socialist community. The hierarchies of sectors and high-performing individual workers dictated each participant’s position in society. Giving oneself as a gift was an act that established a strong link between the giver and the recipient. The parade thus played an important role in setting out new socialist values and strengthening social cohesion. Similar gift-giving rituals were practised in other Central and Eastern European countries, including the USSR in the 1930s135 and the German Democratic Republic after the war.136 Hence, further research into the significance of gifts would lead to better understanding of the workings and values of socialist societies.

Maintaining Social Ties The new socialist community and the ties that united its members made sense only if the population viewed the regime as durable. This question of the durability – and thus effectiveness – of the May Day ritual is therefore an important one. Marching in the parade was never compulsory, as the Action Committee’s internal directives made clear: ‘Participation in mass demonstrations must not be obligatory but must be achieved through persuasion.’137 However, such instructions were largely unnecessary, as the organisers of the May Day parade were acutely aware of the dangers of forcing people to participate. They knew that the ritual’s effectiveness depended on a mixture of social pressure and the positive emotions

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generated by the participants themselves.138 If people were forced to march, all of their enthusiasm for the ritual would evaporate and the whole event would wither and die. In 1951, the May Committee for Ostrava discovered that several large mining and metallurgy firms had forced their employees to join the parade. Absence from the massed ranks of marchers was equated with absence from the workplace and the missing workers were docked a day’s pay, even though May Day was supposed to be a paid holiday. The following year, the committee ensured that the workers were allowed to watch the parade ‘from their own homes, if they prefer’, specifying that ‘businesses can persuade, but not force, their employees’ to participate.139 However, although participation in the official celebrations was, in theory, voluntary, the regime employed subtle means of persuasion: propaganda campaigns, socialist emulation, creating an impression of celebration and plenty. Considerable social pressure was also exerted in workplaces and neighbourhoods. Whether people took part in order to show support for the day itself or to further their own interests, the range of possibilities was wide. But either way, the ritual’s survival rested on maintaining the fragile balance between organisation and spontaneity, and between coercion and enthusiasm.

Creating appearances In 1948, only two months after the Communist Party had come to power, participation in the May Day celebrations was about 30 per cent higher than in the previous year, even though the event was not particularly well organised. Small and medium-sized towns accounted for most of the increase, with participation sometimes two or three times higher than it had been in 1947. By contrast, many of the residents of large cities refused to march in the parade, preferring either to watch from the sidelines or even ‘go away to the countryside for the weekend’.140 However, participation was ‘very high’ in Slovakia, and especially Bratislava.141 This is surprising, given that the Democratic Party had inflicted the Czechoslovak Communist Party’s largest ever electoral defeat in the region’s 1946 legislative ballot. Despite the rise in participation, the atmosphere on May Day 1948 was rather serious, or even morose. Reporters from the Action Committee noted that the celebrations lacked ‘the feeling of a demonstration of public joy [. . .] due to a lack of time’.142 They admitted

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that ‘several changes occurred shortly before May Day’, in reference to the Communist Party’s assumption of power in February and a number of subsequent political upheavals. For the first time, given the composition of the new government, May Day was supposed to bring the whole population together. The idea was to transform a partisan celebration into a national celebration. Nevertheless, despite quite extravagant decorations, an abundance of allegorical floats and significant help from communist activists in the run-up to the event, the organisers admitted that the celebrations were generally ‘lacking in joy and enthusiasm’.143 Certainly, one of the principal aims – fostering a sense of national unity – was not achieved. In Prague, 95 per cent of the marchers were Communist Party members, and this pattern was repeated in the regional capitals.144 On the other hand, trade union participation was good, and the people’s militia was also well represented. The political composition of the parades – and the solemnity – did not surprise the organisers. One speaker at a meeting of the National Committee summed up the situation: We should have expected this, given that, for the first time, populations of different origins were coming together [. . .] They need time to get used to one another. For many, this was their first May Day and it is entirely natural that they were puzzled by it, especially the intelligentsia, who have difficulty expressing their feelings. Once people have been brought more closely together, May Day will be more joyful.145 This prediction proved correct as participation gradually increased. In 1949, in the Karlovy Vary region, nearly 24 per cent of the population joined the parade, while another 12 per cent watched from the sidelines. Official turnout figures were generally lower than in 1948, but the reporters put this down to more accurate counting of participants.146 Thereafter, the percentage of participants increased to a peak of 42 per cent of the population in 1952, and it remained around the 40 per cent mark for the rest of the decade. The figure was generally slightly lower than the national average in the large cities, perhaps due to greater organisational and logistical difficulties, especially in the regime’s early years. In Prague, the organisers estimated that 175,890 marchers

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participated in the parade in 1948, a figure that was comparable to those of previous years. By 1954, this figure had risen to nearly 350,000. Over the whole Prague region, an estimated 236,780 people marched in 1949, an increase of more than 34 per cent compared to the previous year. Once again, the peak was reached in 1952, when there were 962,516 marchers. In small and medium-sized towns, turnout was generally about 50 per cent of the local population, and a similar figure was reached in the Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice region in 1952. How should we interpret these figures? Does participation always equate to heartfelt enthusiasm? As we have seen, the organisers employed many methods to persuade people to take part. The parade was orchestrated down to the smallest detail partly in a bid to control the participants’ emotional response to the event. Simply relying on the turnout figures would therefore give a misleading impression of what actually occurred: the numbers hide a more subtle reality. Since insufficient numbers of people volunteered to prepare the parade route in the run-up to May Day, from 1949 onwards this work was delegated to those groups who were considered most devoted to the regime or most suited to the purpose: specific factories and mass organisations were responsible for decorating the public spaces and official buildings, while building confidants performed the same function for residential buildings. This strategy of making people individually responsible for specific aspects of the preparations proved effective immediately. In Horazdovice, in 1949, the young people’s decorations were described as ‘very beautiful’.147 The next year, in Plzenˇ, the town’s decorations were ‘considerably better than the previous year, and the best since 1945’.148 The reporter for the Karlovy Vary region noted ‘a big step forward’ in all the street decorations and concluded that delegating the preparation of public spaces to mass organisations had ‘proved effective’.149 Elsewhere, Party activists would protect the decorations on key streets.150 The May campaign was launched earlier each year to prevent local organisers from blaming their shortcomings on a shortage of time. From 1952 onwards, posters and other propaganda material had to be finalised by 30 November and distributed by mid-March. A special issue of the Propagandist Word (Slovo agita´tora) devoted to the May campaign was supposed to arrive at the offices of the various May Day commissions by 30 March at the latest, although this was not achieved every year.151

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In the first half of the 1960s, the commissions began their work in earnest at the start of January.152 In a bid to improve the atmosphere at the May Day parades, in 1949 the organisers instructed all National Front organisations to take part in the celebrations, and they were ever present from that year onwards.153 Participating in the official celebrations may not have been compulsory for Czechoslovakia’s other citizens, but great efforts were made to make it easy for them to do so. Tractors, which symbolised the mechanisation of agriculture, were included in the 1949 parade in an obvious attempt to increase farmers’ participation.154 And the tactic worked, as more members of cooperatives and villagers turned up than in previous years. Cre`ches were provided from 1950 onwards to encourage more women to attend,155 and playgrounds were set up near the stands. Organisational adjustments were also made to give the day a more celebratory feel. For example, it was decided that individuals’ work performance would affect their place in the parade, a measure intended to motivate participants. This practice began in 1949, although it was not applied everywhere: in some towns, the best workers were placed near the front or seated in the stand.156 In 1950, members of the uniformed services were dispersed throughout the parade for the first time, and they were prohibited from wearing their uniforms so they would blend in with the rest of the crowd.157 Therefore, the army and the people’s militia no longer paraded as a discrete group but mingled with representatives of similar organisations or with the firms for which they worked. This meant that they could lead the whole crowd in singing and chanting slogans. The vision of ‘a brighter future’ and the regime’s determination to break with the ‘bourgeois order’ opened up new possibilities in terms of social emancipation and made it easier to mobilise the population, and especially Czechoslovakia’s young people. The latter’s spontaneity inspired those around them and helped to generate a positive atmosphere.158 Hence, in 1949, very young children were positioned along the parade route to wave at the marchers as they passed. This created a much better connection between the parade and the spectators, so the practice was maintained in subsequent years.159 In the 1950s, the organisers made various adjustments in an effort to make the celebrations pass off without a hitch. The whole ritual was ever more tightly controlled as the country’s communist leaders tried to

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establish a monopoly over the event’s political meaning. They could not allow May Day to become a public counter-space which permitted the presence of a rival ideology. Nevertheless, the marchers gradually made the festival their own. In the early part of the decade, the atmosphere was still quite sombre, with little enthusiasm among the crowds. For instance, members of the Sokol sporting organisation were chastised for putting little effort into the preparations, and although they participated in the parade, their interest in it was described as ‘totally insufficient’.160 Indeed, in Holı´cˇ, in 1949, former members of Sokol refused to parade at all, and those who did march refused to salute the officials when they passed the main stand. Instead, they walked in embarrassed silence.161 Not everybody was prepared to chant slogans or sing songs to the glory of socialism. In Hosˇtoun, in 1949, only a few of the marchers sang the ‘Hymn to Work’ with the result that it ‘did not produce a sufficiently powerful impression’. Meanwhile, in Presˇtice, the marchers, most of them young people, burst into song only when they reached the main squares.162 The same thing happened the following year. Also in 1950, in Plzenˇ, the parade showed ‘very clearly where the blue-collar and where the white-collar workers were marching. The white-collar workers remained passive, and the new spirit was mainly demonstrated by agricultural workers and cooperatives.’163 In 1951, the parades were still ‘not very lively’ as the organisers had failed to ‘inspire enthusiasm among the people’. For instance, in Hustopecˇe and Velke´ Pavlovice in the Brno region, the pioneers displayed some passion but the members of the Youth Union paraded in silence.164 Nevertheless, small signs of progress were observed almost everywhere. Most of the official reporters agreed that the atmosphere was ‘the best since 1948’.165 More people chanted slogans and some even danced and sang. Young people were instrumental in this improvement, along with the army, the pioneers and the Women’s Union. Acts of sabotage or resistance were extremely rare, although there were some in the early years of the regime. In Domazlice, in 1949, on the night of Saturday –Sunday before May Day, the slogans ‘Death to the People’s Militia!’ and ‘Communist Party of Czechoslovakia Out!’ appeared on walls. In Klatovy, some buildings were left undecorated in a gesture of ‘provocation’.166 In 1950, in the village of Polna´, near Havlicˇku˚v Brod, the funeral bells began to toll as the people gathered for

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the parade.167 Some inappropriate slogans even appeared in the parades. In 1951, in Bela´ nad Radhosˇteˇm, marchers held banners with the slogan of the resistance against the Nazis, ‘United we will remain’.168 Similarly, in Novoborsko, in 1952, one marcher unfurled a banner with the words: ‘We don’t want war, we want peace – give us ration tickets’.169 Such banners were immediately confiscated, and they started to disappear altogether as those who opposed the regime gradually fell silent. The comment ‘no sign of disturbance’ appeared more frequently in the official reports, but was this a sign of support for the regime or simply an indicator of conformism? Although the atmosphere was ‘solemn’ in Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice in 1950, it was ‘excellent’ in Cˇesky´ Krumlov, ‘very good’ in Pı´sek and ‘particularly good’ in Sobeˇslav.170 Of the 7,458 families visited by propagandist pairs in 1953 in the Brno region, a mere 25 refused to take part in the parade.171 Resistance was increasingly limited to cold reactions to the officials in the stands during the march past or during their opening speeches. From 1951– 2 onwards, most of the problems that occurred tended to be due to organisational or technical errors rather than deliberate acts of disruption. In the end, the ‘festival-creating machine’ achieved its ends. To some extent, the ‘how’ explains the ‘why’ in terms of people joining the parade. Nevertheless, all of the appropriate loyal gestures (applauding, cheering, waving banners and so on) were strictly monitored and therefore not necessarily proof that everybody genuinely shared the values of the festival, even though many of the participants may have done so. The organisers themselves were aware that purely intellectual espousal of these values could not be the main driver of participation at least in the short term and possibly for generations to come. Nevertheless, they aimed to achieve this throughout the 1950s and 1960s, most notably through the use of propagandist pairs. The improved atmosphere at parades from 1951 onwards was also due to a certain acceptance, or even appropriation, of the ritual among the participants. One of the first signs of this was an upsurge in spontaneous singing and dancing.172 In 1951, ‘often it was only the fact that people did not know the words of the songs or the steps of the dances that stopped them joining in’ with the young people.173 Those who lived in villages started to join the parades more regularly and in greater numbers, which initially surprised the organisers. In Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice, in 1951, agricultural workers arrived on decorated carts displaying their

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farms’ results for the year. The city’s businesses welcomed them warmly and the delegations greeted one another ‘with much enthusiasm’.174 In 1952, the economic consequences of the first Five-Year Plan led to extensive cuts in the budgets factories allocated to the decoration of public spaces. Nevertheless, the official reporter for Gottwaldov noted that the region’s decorations were ‘more cheerful than in previous years’. Volunteers even started to decorate the countryside. They did so ‘timidly’, but this was considered a significant improvement on previous years, when villages had largely ignored May Day. According to the report, the rural activity marked a ‘first step towards the disappearance of our villagers’ opposition to improving this space’, now that ‘local people are increasingly contributing of their own volition’.175 Overall, the Action Committee reports from the various departments of the Gottwaldov region spoke volumes: of the 40 towns in which parades were held in 1952, 21 reported an improved atmosphere, while 17 replicated the atmosphere of the previous year. No major hitches were reported.176 Similarly, in Ostrava, the atmosphere was ‘very good, militant’ on ‘the most successful May Day ever’.177 The following year, in Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice, an impressive 90 per cent of the marchers stayed until the very end of the ceremony.178 Another clear sign that the Czechoslovak people were starting to accept the festival and making it their own was their increasing acceptance of the structuring of the parade according to merit. In 1949, the reporters criticised the lack of a clear rule concerning the order in which participants marched: some delegations had felt undervalued after being allocated positions far from the front of the procession.179 Two years later, in Fry´dlant, several delegations actively protested against their allocated positions and accused ‘somebody’ of ‘trying to call their importance and their strength into question’.180 There was considerable support for the idea of building socialism at this time, so the workers’ pride in their performance and their sense of belonging to a team played an important role in the success of May Day. As we have seen, the usual temporal rhythms of daily life were suspended for the duration of the festival. May Day was a moment when work ceased and leisure time began, and indeed this leisure time gradually extended well beyond 1 May itself. Therefore, work was celebrated, symbolically but highly effectively, through a day of no work. There were also rewards for good performance at work.

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Furthermore, the hours spent sprucing up workplaces and public spaces, rehearsing songs, dances and chants, building allegorical floats, travelling in large groups to the designated assembly points, marching in or watching the parade and enjoying the afternoon festivities gave people numerous opportunities to socialise. The organisers quickly realised the importance of this aspect of the event and did their best to promote it. The afternoon festivities and those of ‘May week’ became ever more important as the years went by, especially as the parade itself became less of a novelty. For families, this was a rare chance to spend a whole day together. For those who lived in the countryside, it was an opportunity to visit the big city, meet old friends and enjoy themselves. Parents often brought their children with them and there were complaints if any of the afternoon festivities did not go ahead as planned. It rained heavily in Jilemnice on the morning of 1 May 1951, so the organisers hurriedly cancelled the dance that had been scheduled for that afternoon. However, the sky cleared during the course of the day and a crowd gathered at the city stadium to voice ‘their dissatisfaction at the fact that nothing had been organised’. In the evening, the organisers tried to appease the protesters by staging an open-air film screening.181 As May Day developed into a celebratory, apolitical event, some of the participants’ behaviour started to reveal their lack of interest in the day’s traditional political significance. Some marchers would disperse before the parade had finished, others would ignore the Party officials’ speeches, and more than a few would be drunk by the end of the day: all of these were inevitable side-effects of the event’s increasingly festive character. Before long, the organisers were torn between the desire to encourage the people’s enjoyment of the festivities and the need to control the party atmosphere because it threatened to compromise May Day’s ideological significance. In 1951, in Fry´dlant, the town’s bars were closed for the duration of the parade so as not to distract the marchers.182 However, the following year, in Brˇeznice, members of the Youth Union left before the end of the parade and headed to the shops that had opened for the day, especially to ‘the shop belonging to a private businessman who was selling ice-cream during the official speeches’.183 In the 1960s, the day’s political significance was definitively relegated to second place. Most of the Central and Eastern European countries were going through a process of liberalisation, the victims of the political trials of the 1950s were being exonerated and the media was

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starting to discuss culture more freely. Increased access to television and films meant that people were becoming more familiar with the West, which gave them a more nuanced understanding of the division of the world into two ideologically opposed camps. A form of socialist consumer culture was also developing. The vital factor in the regime’s efforts to perpetuate the May Day ritual was not the parade itself. Rather, its continued success rested on the emotion, pleasure and personal relationships that the festival engendered and reinforced through its promotion of the links that united all individuals. From the late 1950s onwards, the parades were less regimented and the columns less straight – a sign that the organisers were relaxing their vigilance. The slogans, banners and flags remained, but their significance for the marchers had diminished. Sometimes, people joined in the chanting of official slogans for pure – apolitical – pleasure. In 1961, Yuri Gagarin’s space flight was hailed in the Prague parade by chants of ‘The USSR in space leaves more room for peace!’ and simply ‘Gagarin, Gagarin, Gagarin!’ every time the crowd saw the model of the spaceship or a picture of the cosmonaut. The pioneers carried banners reading, ‘If you don’t learn anything at school, you’ll never take flight!’ The delegation from the National Road Transport Committee chanted, ‘No more need for buses when we go to Venus’.184 The messages themselves were largely irrelevant. What really mattered was the rhythm that helped to raise the crowd’s spirits. This aspect of the ritual echoed the Catholic mass, in which the Latin call and response helps to create the requisite emotional state among the congregation.185 In 1963, the authorities abolished the regional May commissions and handed responsibility for all of the May Day preparations outside the capital to regional committees of the Communist Party.186 This reveals a concentration of power within the Communist Party but also suggests that the regime felt the event was running smoothly, so the regional organising commissions were no longer necessary. The depoliticisation of May Day reached a natural conclusion in 1968, when the parade in Prague broke with the past in several important respects. Preparations had been neglected following the Plenum of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia in January 1968. That month, the National Front’s Municipal Committee asked each of the city’s districts to submit their proposals for the annual celebration, as it did every year, but all of the plans then fell by the wayside as the

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regime turned its attention to more pressing issues. It was mid-April before the Municipal Committee and the Central Committee of the National Front found the time to discuss May Day again.187 This meant that the traditional May campaign and the media’s promotion of the event were negligible in comparison with previous years. The Party newspaper Rude´ pra´vo acknowledged the unprecedented situation in its first article about May Day, which appeared on 21 April: ‘Previously, we discussed preparations for May Day long before the event. This year, the organisers are counting on the initiative and interest of citizens and work teams within businesses.’188 In the absence of the usual centralised organisation, the new leaders of the Communist Party chose to rely on the participants’ spontaneity, which confirmed the population’s ownership of the event. Moreover, the Party leadership instructed the Action Committee not to publish any official slogans, which served to eliminate one of the last vestiges of political ideology from the ritual. They further distanced the event from its traditional, formal structure by relieving the uniformed people’s militia of its responsibility for the parade’s organisation and security. Volunteers and members of the militia in civilian clothes performed these duties instead. In Prague, the results of this experiment surpassed all expectations. Before the parade, the organisers were overwhelmed by requests for passes granting access to the areas near the main stand, the guests’ stand and the windows of surrounding buildings. They received almost 3,000 requests for the 1,200 seats that were available in the stands, and a similar number for the 500 places at windows along the parade route. In addition to the usual requests from national organisations and ministries, there was high demand from foreign press agencies and the rest of the media, who were interested in the liberalisation process. The May Day parade was now a true people’s event and the population embraced it enthusiastically. The speed at which the procession moved was no longer controlled in any way, and it came to a halt several times in front of the main stand: ‘Everybody wanted to stop for a few minutes to cheer and shout. Calls to continue walking, broadcast incessantly through loudspeakers, were ignored.’ Once they had passed in front of the stand, a number of marchers turned around in front of the Powder Tower and doubled back through the nearby streets so that they could march past again.189 Some of them climbed onto the stand to shake the

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hands of First Secretary Alexander Dubcˇek and President Ludvı´k Svoboda before chatting to members of the government or presenting them with bouquets of flowers.190 For the first time, photographers were allowed to record what happened behind the main stand – another sign of the democratisation of power. Some of these pictures showed Dubcˇek in a very ordinary light, drinking a cup of coffee or being handed a message by marchers (see Figure 5.30). The simplicity and spontaneity of such scenes stood in stark contrast to earlier first secretaries carefully managed public images. The main stand, which had always separated the people from the politicians, was now breached: the marchers held out their hands to touch the officials, to get an autograph or to pass over a message. Dubcˇek enjoyed these interactions. He called out to a group of student obstetricians as they passed: ‘We need more children to be born in our country!’ The students replied, ‘You must help us!’ and he responded, ‘I’ve already got three!’ Somebody in the crowd passed him a camera and he took a photograph of President Svoboda, who was standing beside him, before handing the camera back to its owner.191 There were similar scenes in other cities. In Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice, Ostrava and Hradec Kra´love´, the formal structure of the procession was totally abandoned and people gathered more informally. Everywhere, the ´ stı´ nad festivities became more important than the parade itself. In U Labem, a concert and a fashion show were organised. In Plzenˇ, a public gymnastics display, anticipating the forthcoming Spartakiad sports festival, was held after the procession.192 Politics was still a feature of the festival, however. Several slogans praised the liberalisation process and encouraged the country’s leaders to go further: ‘Renewal all the way’, ‘Abolish censorship – long live the press, radio and television’, ‘Why should the Communist Party govern alone?’, ‘Leave Israel in peace!’, ‘Is government not a privilege?’ and so on. Others offered explicit support for those leaders: ‘Dubcˇek, Cˇernı´k, Svoboda, prosperity returns’ and ‘With Svoboda for liberty’ (a play on words as svoboda means ‘liberty’ in Czech). Only the pioneers cheered for May Day itself.193 The unexpected success of this new kind of festival led the organisers to discuss four alternative proposals for May Day 1969. The first advocated reinstating the traditional parade on Wenceslas Square, given that construction work on the metro was due to finish in early 1969.

Figure 5.30 The first secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, Alexander Dubcˇek, is handed a message by marchers during the 1968 May Day parade in Prague.

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The second suggested replacing the procession with a largely informal, stationary gathering on Old Town Square. After the formal speeches, the marchers would disperse around the city and make their way to the various organised festivities. The third was similar to the second, except that it suggested that the initial gathering should take place on Wenceslas Square. The fourth proposed a feˆte in the Julius Fucˇı´k Entertainment Park which would last the whole day. Therefore, three of the four proposals advocated abandoning the conventional format of the parade and altering May Day to reflect the fact that it had been almost entirely appropriated by the people. Inevitably, the Warsaw Pact’s invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968 meant that all of these plans were scrapped and May Day reverted to its traditional format.

Keeping up appearances May Day 1969 was an important moment – Czechoslovakia’s first mass participation event since the invasion. The organisers knew that they could not ignore this highly symbolic date, but they feared disruption. Nevertheless, the National Front delayed the launch of the May campaign as it waited in vain for an improvement in the country’s collective state of mind. Moreover, the traditional recruitment sources for marchers – businesses, schools, unions and the Youth Union – took no part in the preparations. All of the organisation was left in the hands of the local May commissions and the regional and departmental committees of the Communist Party.194 The National May Day Committee merely warned them that they should take account of ‘the state of affairs in the country as a whole and the current political situation’.195 Ultimately, the Prague parade was cancelled, for the official reason that there was a ‘risk of May Day being disrupted’, as was the subsequent military parade on the anniversary of the October Revolution.196 The formal meetings in the capital’s various districts went ahead as planned on 30 April, as did the afternoon festivities on May Day itself, and a similar pattern was followed in most other cities. However, people were reluctant to attend the formal meetings, and those who were chosen to do so often made their excuses at the last minute.197 The official reporters noted ‘considerably less decoration than in previous years’, with businesses and residential buildings hardly decorated at all. Flags were still flown in public spaces, but there were no banners or pictures. Moreover, in most towns and cities, only

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Czechoslovak flags were displayed: there were fewer red flags than usual, and the Soviet ‘Hammer and Sickle’ was ‘extremely rare’. When it came to the official stands, the organisers opted for pictures of the founding fathers and, rather unusually, the flags of friendly socialist countries. Again, the red flag was largely absent. According to some observers, it was ‘the worst decoration’ that the country had ever seen on May Day.198 In many small and medium-sized towns, the organisers were forced to cancel or at least modify their plans at the last minute due to a lack of participants. In Rumburk, only 20 Communist Party members took part. In Velky´ Sˇenov, only 80 people turned out, and the organisers eventually decided to cancel the parade. In towns where parades did go ahead, the army made up most of the numbers, following orders with their usual discipline. In Strˇı´bro, 800 of the 1,700 marchers were soldiers, while in Holisˇov they accounted for 30 per cent of the parade.199 By contrast, most of the informal festivities went ahead as planned. On the evening of 30 April, lantern processions, bonfires and firework displays tempted people out of their homes, as did dances, open-air concerts and various sporting events on May Day afternoon. Anything of a political nature was almost universally ignored, however. The country’s businesses contributed to this general shunning of politics. Union members who had previously played a key role in mobilising their fellow citizens were not involved in the preparations and refused to send delegations to the parades. In fact, the unions were one of the last bastions of resistance against the process of normalisation.200 Many factories celebrated May Day on 30 April 1969 as a way of marking the day while avoiding any political misappropriation of the event. Meetings, debates and ‘open-door days’ were organised, and many businesses broadcast speeches on their internal radio stations. Nevertheless, participation was, once again, very low. One meeting was held at 7.30 a.m. on 30 April in the A.S. Popov Research Institute in Prague’s 4th District. Of the 200 employees, only 40 attended. Later that day, all employees of the Modranske´ Strojı´rny mechanical engineering firm were called to a meeting. Only 40 people turned up, so the directors abandoned the idea of delivering a formal speech – which would have fallen flat in such a sparsely populated room – and instead held an informal debate.201 The nation’s cooperatives were also notable by their absence from the parades. This was all the more striking because they were usually heavily involved in the May Day

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celebrations, alongside the ‘partner businesses’ that transported villagers to the cities and helped to decorate their premises. In Prague, the various districts’ formal meetings and even the festivities in the Julius Fucˇı´k Entertainment Park were largely ignored. A total of only 1,875 – mostly older – people attended the meetings. In the 7th District, 1,300 invitations were distributed to Communist Party members but only 200 turned up.202 In Julius Fucˇı´k Park, the organisers counted around 10,000 visitors – far fewer than in previous years.203 Throughout the Czech Lands, only 878,380 people attended the official events – roughly the same number as had attended those in Prague alone before 1968. In northern Moravia, 228,000 people marched, whereas 743,000 had done so in 1967 and 876,000 in 1966. Overall, May Day 1969 mobilised no more than a third and perhaps only a quarter of those who had previously participated.204 Those who did attend parades or meetings often expressed their dissatisfaction with what had happened, but they tended to do so in a peaceful and symbolic way. Most of the demonstrators were young people. In La´ny, 12 students from the University of Agriculture staged a sombre walk-out when the USSR was mentioned in a speech.205 In Ny´rˇany, members of the Youth Club waved pictures of Jan Palach, Ludvı´k Svoboda and Alexander Dubcˇek in the parade and carried a banner declaring: ‘We cannot say what we think! But spring and May will return!’ When one speaker praised the USSR’s role in the Liberation, a group of young people left the parade.206 All of the parades and meetings ‘lacked their usual joy’. There were few of the traditional May Day allegories, slogans or flags of friendly countries. The ‘colourful character of previous years was much diminished’. None of the slogans mentioned the military occupation; instead, they referred to the international situation or simply proclaimed that the marchers were ‘Supporting National Front policies’. The few participants listened to the speeches ‘attentively but with no applause’. In some cities, resolutions in support of the Party and the government were adopted.207 Some symbolic acts of vandalism targeted red or Soviet flags in protest against military aggression and the national policy of normalisation. Meanwhile, pictures of the founding fathers of Marxism and Leninism were damaged in Louny and Prahy, and memorials to the Red Army were vandalised in Holerˇadice.208 In Hrob, the red cloth

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covering the main stand and the banner bearing the day’s slogan were both torn. In Bolerˇadice, near Brˇeclav, the red star was defaced. In Chodov, the graffiti ‘Russians out – for liberty’ appeared on a wall during the night of 30 April. In Jindrˇichu˚v Hradec, the words ‘No more Soviet domination – people, wake up!’ were daubed on a building in the town centre.209 Anti-Soviet leaflets were handed out, too. In Ta´bor, the flyers called on the city’s residents ‘not to fly red flags’. Other leaflets, such as those distributed in Budyneˇ nad Ohrˇı´, targeted the new first secretary of the Communist Party, Gusta´v Husa´k, who had just been appointed.210 In Prague, protesters destroyed almost 2,000 pennants. Fifty-eight, mostly young, people were arrested, mainly on the night of 30 April.211 Order was largely re-established in 1970. The May Day ritual was relaunched with new energy, with the tone set by two important anniversaries that fell in that year: the centenary of Lenin’s birth (22 April) and the 25th anniversary of the Liberation (9 May). The parade itself and the methods used to mobilise participants both reverted to their 1950s form. May Day was once again controlled down to the last detail.212 The terms ‘coverage of the festival’ and ‘the occupation of organisational centres by executive officers of the Party’ were used frequently during preparations,213 recalling the tight discipline that had prevailed during the early years of the regime.214 The network of regional May committees, which had been dormant since 1963, was now reactivated, with the Communist Party assuming complete control over the event while the National Front’s Central Committee focused on simply obeying orders. Parades were organised in every departmental and regional capital, and in every village that had celebrated May Day before 1968.215 This wholesale return to large-scale celebrations led to many shortages of propaganda material, posters and official pictures, especially portraits of Husa´k.216 The May campaign drew on all the ‘tried and tested methods’ of the previous two decades. Factories, cooperatives and schools were once more tasked with tidying and decorating public spaces. Propagandist pairs and – for the first time – trios knocked on doors every Sunday throughout April.217 The newspapers reported factories undertaking work challenges in honour of May Day. In many towns and cities, exhibitions tracing the last 25 years of the building of socialism opened on 1 May in an effort to revive the link between the regime and

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the people.218 The campaign was carefully monitored and a close eye was kept on how the preparations were progressing so that adjustments could be made when necessary.219 In their accounts of the parades, the press and the official reporters used the words ‘tradition’ and ‘traditional’ frequently. People once again marched in neat formations and the strict hierarchies based on sector and individual performance were reinstated, sweeping away the social changes of the previous decade. The rigid alignment of the various delegations harked back to the mid-1950s and demonstrated a return to discipline and social control. The careful preparations meant that turnout was considerably higher than it had been in 1969. Some regions – including northern Moravia and northern parts of the Czech Lands – boasted three or even four times as many marchers as the previous year. There were few problems or protests, and scarcely anyone left early. Nevertheless, the organisers failed to extend their influence to people’s homes: few residents along the route bothered to watch the parade from their windows. Press reports of the event bore no relation to reality. One newspaper hailed May Day 1970 as ‘definitive proof that the policies of the new leaders of our party have gained the support of large sections of the population’.220 Vasil Biľak, the secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, commented in an interview that, ‘despite showers of rain, [the marchers] came to celebrate May Day. They wanted to express their devotion to the Republic, to socialism.’ The head of the government, Lubomı´r Sˇtrougal, admitted that: Some have said that the parade was shorter than in past years. But quantity is not always the most important thing. The important thing is people’s attitude towards fundamental questions and this can be seen in their actions and their commitments. He added that the parade showed ‘a high level of commitment to socialism – and that is the main factor revealing the gradual but positive change that has taken place in our society’.221 Apparently, the authorities were determined to create a new reality for themselves as well as everyone else. The ‘festival mechanism’ continued to function smoothly throughout the 1970s and most of the 1980s due to the strict surveillance of every

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element: supplies to food and drinks stalls, how the marchers walked and control of the exit routes were all monitored closely. The authorities constantly stressed the importance of discipline to the groups and individuals who helped to organise the event. However, the unpopularity of normalisation meant that the ritual had to be enacted in a slightly different way. Given that the organisers could not inspire genuine support among the people, they tried to maintain at least the appearance of a celebration. Some of the new arrangements bore witness to this, such as the installation of a radio broadcasting station on the main stand so that the speakers could ‘directly influence the marchers as they drew close to the officials’.222 In the early 1970s, there was a review of the routes and the ritual itself, and changes were implemented throughout the decade. These changes, which concerned the use of both space and time, shed light on the changing nature of the regime and its eventual ideological paralysis. From the early 1970s onwards, parade routes tended to avoid national memorials, marking a complete reversal in the regime’s political symbolism. From 1974, the Prague parade was shifted from the city centre to the Letna´ Plateau, a large space that had hosted Sokol sporting events in the interwar years.223 After World War II, the regime had reclaimed the space and used it for military parades, especially on the anniversary of the October Revolution. Similar changes occurred in other cities.224 After 1975, Bratislava’s parades were moved away from the town centre to Malinovski Street and then, in 1979, to Vajnorska´ Street. The parade in Zˇilina was similarly relocated away from the city centre and into the Hliny residential area during the 1970s. There were several reasons for these changes to parade routes. First, the regime was seeking a new identity. The 1960s had demonstrated the dangers of ‘national communism’. By building its socialist identity on the basis of spatial references that were linked to pre-1948 national history, albeit in a revised form, the old regime had exposed itself to the danger of ‘national socialism’, which those who favoured normalisation denounced as ‘revisionist’. National history, even in a reinterpreted form, was considered dangerous. Furthermore, the desire to place the project of building socialism within the context of the history of the whole community was no longer feasible. The crushing of the Prague Spring and the humiliating normalisation that followed broke the people’s contract with the regime, so the Communist Party had to seek a new set

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of references that would lend it at least some credibility on the basis of its own past and particularly the period when it had launched the building of socialism in Czechoslovakia. To some extent, it was aided in this endeavour by the fact that a generation of young adults who had lived their whole lives within the people’s democracy entered the workplace after 1968. However, the country’s new leaders still felt that they needed to establish a spatial link to the immediate postwar era. This helps to explain why Wenceslas Square was abandoned in favour of Letna´ Plateau, which was adjacent to neighbourhoods that were built in that period. Similarly, in Bratislava, marchers walked along the main streets of New Town, built in the 1950s and 1960s. And in Zˇilina, the May Day stand was erected on Lenin Square, in the heart of another area of postwar socialist urban reconstruction. These new locations had the added benefit of simplifying the task of controlling the parades. For instance, the space in front of the stand on Letna´ Plateau was flat and empty, and access was through wide avenues that were easy to monitor. This was a marked contrast to Wenceslas Square, with its numerous obstacles and narrow side-streets. The same was true of the new parade routes in other cities. These spatial changes were initiated in alongside changes to the ritual itself. Officials no longer attempted to present themselves as elite guides of the masses, so they abandoned the practice of marching at the head of the parade before taking their seats in the main stand. Instead, they made their way straight to the stand, which was raised higher each year, widening the physical and symbolic gap between the country’s leaders and the rest of the population. On Letna´ Plateau, guests of honour sat in a permanent stand next to the Sparta sports club. Official representatives sat in a temporary stand that was draped in red and stood slightly higher than a pair of adjacent seating platforms (see Figure 5.31). High-performing workers, old Party members and representatives of the Soviet forces stationed in Czechoslovakia were allocated seats on these lower platforms.225 The gradual elevation of the main stand throughout the 1970s and 1980s came to symbolise the mutual indifference that now characterised the relationship between government officials and the general population. And the same spirit of indifference pervaded accounts of the event. Identical sentences – or even whole paragraphs – were used to describe May Day from one year to the next. Even the protests were

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Figure 5.31

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The official May Day stand on Letna´ Plateau, Prague, 1975.

apathetic: every year, some of the walls close to the parade route were scrawled with graffiti during the night, some anti-socialist banners were unfurled and some protest leaflets were distributed. Then, every year, members of the people’s militia, the police and the Interior Ministry would restore order. Fewer and fewer disruptions were reported as time went by. In 1982, the ten-page report on Prague’s May Day summarised the problems in just six lines, most of which were devoted to praising the efficient response of the forces of law and order.226 At first glance, this sort of biased reporting may seem worthless to the historian, but it does reveal a change in the relationship between the organisers and the participants. The May commissions’ reports increasingly focused on how the event was organised and less on the

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people’s mood. When describing the atmosphere, the reporters took refuge in the convoluted language and interminable sentences that characterised almost all official communications and much of the media at the time. There was no attempt to document reality. Moving the Prague parade to the Letna´ Plateau similarly helped the authorities to distance themselves from the reality of 1970s Czechoslovakia, at least for a day. The delegations were arranged in neatly ordered groups on the flat, rectangular plateau. At the start of the parade, the group furthest from the main stand moved forward, turned to the right, walked in front of the stand and saluted the officials to the sound of music blaring from the PA system. They then wheeled to the right again and returned to their original position. The next group then followed suit. Therefore, when the parade was over, all of the delegations were exactly where they had been at the start.227 Moreover, the organisers called upon the factories and cooperatives to supply roughly the same number of participants each year – between 180,000 and 190,000. This detail is important because it reveals that space on the plateau was limited. Hence, no uninvited spectators were allowed to attend. Instead, they were forced to watch the parade on television. As the regime’s cynicism grew, it abandoned the traditional goal of involving as many people as possible as well as any attempt to legitimise its power by boasting about the number of participants. In the process, it transformed May Day from a genuinely participatory ritual into a charade of legitimacy in which the organisers themselves no longer believed. Although the authorities celebrated the fact that 280,000 people took part in ‘one of the biggest successes of recent years’ in 1983, this figure was still much lower than the turnouts recorded in the 1950s and 1960s (see Tables 5.1 to 5.4).228 In its new, circumscribed form, the Prague parade became an impersonal and entirely political event, designed solely for the ruling elite. A change in vocabulary confirmed this transformation: from the Table 5.1

Participants in May Day celebrations, 1948– 54 (thousands).

Czech Lands Slovakia Total

1948

1950

1952

1953

1954

3,127 784 3,911

3,825 1,352 5,177

4,001 1,585 5,586

3,986 1,439 5,425

4,011 1,286 5,297

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Table 5.2 Participants in May Day celebrations, 1948 –54 (percentage of the population).

Czech Lands Slovakia Total

1948

1950

1952

1953

1954

34.21 22.15 30.50

40.40 38.20 40.37

43.10 44.80 43.57

43.60 40.20 42.80

43.87 36.30 41.31

end of the 1970s, the organisers began to use the term ‘demonstration’ in place of the traditional ‘celebration’, which had more emotional connotations. Gradually, the emotional power of the morning ritual was replaced by boredom. By contrast, most people continued to enjoy the afternoon festivities. In 1982, despite the rain, ‘there were large crowds’, especially of young people, in the Julius Fucˇı´k Entertainment Park.229 However, in the 1970s and 1980s, a ‘contract of allegiance’ replaced the exchange of gifts that had once given the festivities their meaning: the authorities gave the people festivities in the afternoon in exchange for their orderly participation in the morning parade. The regime no longer used symbolic politics, coercion and indoctrination to maintain social order. Instead, it employed a system of performances that inculcated a sense of dependence in the population. From the early 1970s onwards, the special May Day supplements in the Prague newspaper Vecˇernı´ Praha reveal a gradual rise in the importance of the afternoon celebrations, to the detriment of the increasingly tedious Table 5.3 1969– 70.

Participants in May Day celebrations in the Czech Lands,

Prague (city) Central Czech Lands Southern Czech Lands Western Czech Lands Northern Czech Lands Eastern Czech Lands Southern Moravia Northern Moravia

1969

1970

2,500 148,000 74,830 104,830 75,000 93,130 228,140 183,300

150,000 305,170 199,600 253,600 323,000 282,940 547,570 724,600

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Participants in the national parade in Prague, 1949 – 83.

1949

1954

1970

1982

1983

275,340

420,000

150,000

190,000

280,000

morning parade. The programme of cultural events and the list of cafe´s and snack bars became ever more detailed and extensive. The authorities also booked famous Czechoslovak performers, such as the rock group Olympic, the Ivana Mla´dka Banjo Band and the popular actors Veˇra Sˇpinarova´, Helena Ru˚zicˇkova´ and Ljuba Hermanova´, all of whom participated in 1976.230 The regime was constantly torn between the desire to offer people something special and fun on May Day and the need to control the event and maintain the ‘dignity’ of the day. Eventually, achieving this balance proved impossible. The economic crisis and permanent shortages accentuated the general mood of cynicism. In 1982, refreshment stalls and snack bars were overwhelmed by crowds as soon as they opened. There was a particular scramble to get into grocery shops that were stocking ‘exotic’ products, such as oranges and bananas. The official report recommended that scarce products should not be sold on May Day in future, as they were ‘damaging’ the event.231 The following year, no exotic fruit was sold. The organisers tried to allay the deterioration of the ritual as Czechoslovakia started to adopt perestroika and glasnost. In the mid1980s, they moved several of the major parades back to their traditional homes, all of which were closely linked to the nation’s history. For instance, in 1985, the Bratislava parade returned to Slovak National Uprising Square (previously known as Stalin Square), where it had been held between 1949 and 1969. Similarly, the Prague parade returned to Wenceslas Square three years later. However, this desire to re-establish postwar May Day traditions remained purely symbolic and proved insufficient to save a ritual that had been largely abandoned by both its creators and those for whom it had been created. The official May Day photographs issued in the second half of the 1980s confirm the ritual’s demise. The marchers’ faces are expressionless. As they pass in front of the stand, nothing happens: there is not even an exchange of glances between officials and marchers,

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let alone any greetings on either side. When there is a rare sign of participation, it tends to be in the form of a paper flower rather than a raised hand. The authentic emotion of previous May Days has disappeared; only the colourful banners remain. This did not escape the censors. In the mid to late 1980s, detailed pictures of the parade rarely appeared in the Czechoslovak Press Agency’s catalogue. Instead, it featured ever more panoramic views of the event. By 1989, there were no intimate pictures at all. Even those moments that had always been recorded in the past – greetings in front of the main stand, pictures of parents and children marching together – were absent. Instead, the catalogue was full of long-distance views of the whole parade, taken from the rooftops of buildings around Wenceslas Square (see Figures 5.32 – 5). Close-ups would have betrayed the unacceptable reality of mutual indifference, whereas the bright colours of the banners and flags could still create the illusion of a happy, united community . . . as long as they were seen from a distance. *** The process of building social ties involved mobilising the parameters of space–time. In order to set the socialist community within the context of historical continuity, May Day’s links to the history of workers and social democracy were largely sacrificed in favour of national tradition. But the day’s pre-socialist heritage was not completely abandoned. Some traditional emblems of the workers’ movement (red carnations, banners, the red flag and so on) as well as some representations of pre-1945 working-class culture (the link between spring and the awakening of the working classes, the vision of history as a march towards progress and so on) were preserved. Around 1955, at the end of a transitional period, the new ritual became an annual event that provided the Czechoslovak people with an idealised representation of the social order. The hierarchies of sectors and performances at work defined a new social stratification in which everybody had their place. Linking the socialist community to the defence of peace provided a way of understanding a world that was now divided into two opposing ideological blocs. The practice of giving gifts and receiving gifts in return reinforced community ties. The ritual thus familiarised the participants with the values that united them as well as the forces that threatened those values.

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Figure 5.32 The Czechoslovak Television delegation at the May Day parade on Letna´ Plateau, Prague, 1976 (censored photograph).

The regime employed a number of informal methods to disseminate these values. While its actions gave meaning to the ritual and highlighted socialist values in a normalised way, the preparations for the event and its associated rituals were an informal – and probably highly effective – means to establish closer social ties. During the May campaign, which lasted from mid-April to mid-May, the organisers attempted to enthuse people by focusing on the rhythms and timings of daily life. Preparations for May Day (decoration, tidying campaigns, work brigades and so on) as well as the festivities themselves strengthened the links between individuals and helped to spread the

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Figure 5.33 People waving in front of the May Day stand on Letna´ Plateau, Prague, 1987 (censored photograph).

values of mutual help, communal spirit, self-sacrifice and pride in work. Participants absorbed these ‘apolitical’ values more easily than those that were promoted by the parade itself, and they were more effective in generating a consensus in the population. Soft methods (encouraging but not enforcing participation, peer pressure, the system of bonuses and rewards), rather than coercion, were used because the regime was well aware that more forceful techniques would fail to generate the genuine emotion that binds communities together. In order to ensure that large numbers of people would participate in the ritual, the regime developed strategies that played on the

Figure 5.34 People waving in front of the May Day stand, Wenceslas Square, Prague, 1989 (censored photograph).

Figure 5.35 The only authorised image of the May Day parade, Wenceslas Square, Prague, 1989.

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population’s personal and collective pride while promoting positive emotions and a festive atmosphere. This ‘propaganda through pleasure’ approach proved highly effective in the early 1950s, so the organisers continued to develop it. However, they went too far and eventually created a ‘tyranny of pleasure’, which left people with no alternative but to join the parade. The ritual’s various phases shed light on the continuities and ruptures of the whole people’s democracy period. During the early years of the regime (1948 – 55), celebration of pre-1948 working-class culture was largely neglected in favour of the national tradition into which May Day was supposed to fit. The organisers’ ultimate aim was to mobilise the whole population. This necessitated a simplification of the symbolic repertoire and the parade routes, given the need for high visibility and mass participation – key attributes of a modern national celebration. In this sense, 1968’s parade was the quintessence of a national celebration that united a large proportion of the population on a voluntary basis. The years 1969 – 75 marked a break with the past and a new direction. Seeking legitimacy after the intervention of the Warsaw Pact forces in August 1968, the Czechoslovak authorities attempted to reinvent the May Day tradition. Parades were moved to areas constructed during the first phase of the building of socialism, with the aim of linking the achievements of that era to Czechoslovakia’s national history. This tactic largely failed, so, in the mid-1980s, the parades returned to the traditional May Day routes of the 1950s and 1960s. Over time, the May Day ritual tended to follow ideological shifts more closely than societal developments. For instance, as socialist doctrine gradually lost touch with reality, the ritual followed suit. There was a brief exception in 1968, when May Day reflected the profound changes that were taking place in Czechoslovak society at the time. During the Prague Spring, any return to the past seemed impossible. However, the process of normalisation then forced the ritual to revert to its pre-1968 – or even Stalinist – form, which condemned it to a slow but certain death. It was not excessive formality that ensured the festival’s ultimate failure but the organisers’ refusal to adapt to social change. The ritual’s death was all the more predictable since it was supposed to represent both the current and the future state of society. After 1968, by

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distancing itself from both, May Day very rapidly became irrelevant. The exchange of gifts that had given true meaning to the morning parade and the afternoon festivities was transformed into a sterile quid pro quo between the people and the authorities. By the mid-1980s, May Day no longer represented anything more than a meaningless, boring procession followed by a party.

CONCLUSION

One question remains at the close of this study: did the Czechoslovak communist regime cultivate a specific relationship with space and time? These final pages offer some overall conclusions.

Reinventing Space and Time In the aftermath of World War II, the Czechoslovak people’s democracy tried to promote a new social project that involved revolutionising the social structures of time and space. During this initial phase, the aim was to tap into a genuine desire for change: there seemed to be real enthusiasm for the new values among much of the population, and the regime’s early actions enjoyed considerable success, giving the political elite a sense of being in complete control of their project. The high degree of state control justifies the use of the phrase ‘the nationalisation of time and space’.1 Planning dominated the market and dictated the rhythm of production. The priority was the future, with the present largely sacrificed in the name of progress. The collective invaded both the public and the private spheres. In this sense, the postwar people’s democracies resembled other twentieth-century authoritarian regimes. However, in contrast to fascist regimes, which glorified the past, the people’s democracies created a forward-looking temporal structure based on the concept of compressing and accelerating time. To borrow a term from Re´gis Debray, the latter regimes were ‘futurecentric’.2 According to them, shorter production times meant that a

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better future was imminent, or had even been attained already (see Figures C.1– 3). The authorities used the May Day ritual to give the public a brief glimpse of the communist society that they were supposedly constructing. The idea of progress filled the void left by the secularisation of society.3 As for society’s spatial structures, we have seen that the boundary between the public and private spheres shifted in the 1950s, to the detriment of the latter. Towards the end of the decade, this process culminated in a new separation between three elements: the public, the communal and the private. The regime’s desire for full mastery of the parameters of time and space was most apparent in the political sphere. Social interactions within this sphere were completely ritualised. Everybody had their allotted position in the May Day parade, and they did in every other socialist ritual, as though they were actors in a theatrical production, while the ritual within the ritual of exchanging gifts was intended to reinforce social ties. The same approach was employed for public debates: power relationships within the public sphere were transformed, which forced every speaker to adopt a new discourse dictated by the most

Figure C.1 ‘The promised land of socialism’, published in the Viennese social democratic newspaper Glu¨hlichter, 1891, and reprinted in FigaroGraphic, May 1892.

Figure C.2

German poster: ‘The future is in your hands’, 1946.

Figure C.3 Communist Party of Czechoslovakia election poster: ‘With the Communists towards a better era’, 1946.

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powerful participant, the Party-State. The requirement to conform, at least in theory, to this discourse distorted the public sphere. Meanwhile, the private sphere followed a similar pattern with the introduction of new rules of socialist cohabitation and the requirement that every member of the community should respect them. Finally, cyclical time became an arena for developing new socialist ways of socialising, cultivating atheism and promoting the idea of working for the community. In traditional societies, work time and leisure time were linked, respectively, to ‘necessary but ultimately futile’ activities and ‘free and useful’ activities that were essential to individual well-being and a healthy society (respecting holy days, attending mass on the Sabbath and so on). In modern societies, leisure time lost its sacred character and came to mean nothing more than the hours that were spent away from work. When this happened, the authorities seized the opportunity to move or combine these periods as part of the allimportant drive to increase efficiency. While this change occurred gradually in the West, it was much more dramatic in the rapidly industrialising countries of Central and Eastern Europe in the 1950s, with the result that State and society entered a period of mutual misunderstanding. In 1945, these largely rural societies had still viewed the end of the weekly cycle as time that should be dedicated to ‘useful’ activities in the traditional sense of the word: mass, Sunday school, pilgrimage and so on. With the advent of industrialisation, however, the people’s democracies promoted a new concept of Sunday as simply an opportunity to recuperate before returning to work. Hence, the hours of rest could be shifted to another day, if necessary, in order to increase productivity. When this notion became socially dominant in the late 1950s, the expansion of the weekend to include Saturday (due to a shorter working week) resulted in profound changes in how people spent their leisure time, which was private and therefore outside the realm of social time. The structures that had helped civil society to function smoothly were gradually eradicated. The hegemonic Party-State reduced the power of every independent group and organisation. From now on, the regime’s legitimacy would rest on the popular support it could muster at formal or even ritualistic events. However, this victory over diversity eventually proved to be one of the main weaknesses of the people’s democracies as their quest for control made them increasingly sensitive

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to freedom. Party-State institutions became obsessed with detecting and suppressing any kind of spontaneous exchange. The absence of choice meant that elections were foregone conclusions, which in turn meant that casting a vote no longer gave people any sense of being active members of a community. Thus, the regime needed to find new ways of creating and maintaining a sense of belonging within the socialist community. Symbolic politics was supposed to help with this, just as it had in earlier authoritarian regimes. However, unlike fascism, communism introduced a participatory element to symbolism. May Day was a prime example of this: the citizens of the people’s democracies were encouraged to join the parade, not merely watch it from the sidelines. The celebration of work and its hero – the worker – was a way of articulating the creative power of the new society and announcing everybody’s contribution to it each year. This collective experience was highlighted in each individual component of the ritual: the parade, the official stand, the display of work results on the marchers’ banners, the number of participants and so on. All of these symbolic elements were intended to reinforce the bonds between individuals and society, and to demonstrate the strength and vitality of the socialist community. Time and space were thus fully mobilised to guarantee the event’s success. These processes disrupted the traditional structures of individual and communal life. Linear time no longer flowed steadily; it was accelerated. An individual’s social identity increasingly depended on his or her work and the acceleration of time in production terms became exhausting and oppressive.4 The planned economy created an environment that was dominated by uncertainty as the workers feared arbitrary changes to the production targets that were imposed from on high. Moreover, the shifting boundary between the public and private spheres brought individuals into closer contact with the community and exposed them to the intrusive gaze of the Other, which served to increase their insecurity. Finally, the disruption of temporal cycles generated a kind of temporal arrhythmia that exacerbated the prevailing sense of precariousness. Many people tried to compensate for this insecurity by establishing or reasserting their own routines. This was most evident in their resistance to changes in production targets, the persistence of the traditional weekly rhythm, even when it no longer held any religious significance, the increased retreat into the private sphere and the development of leisure activities as a form of escape from the accelerated economic pace.

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From Control to Autonomy in Space and Time Between the mid-1950s and the mid-1970s, the citizens of Czechoslovakia gradually lost faith in the regime’s ability to realise its stated goal of building socialism and then communism. Hence, the regime was compelled to scale down its ambition. People adapted to their environment and did what they could to make their lives at least bearable. Meanwhile, the regime now faced the much more difficult task of inspiring new loyalty, rather than channelling existing loyalty, as it had immediately after the war. The people’s democracy struggled to establish the structures through which it attempted to assert its legitimacy. A characteristic example of this concerned the division of the world into the opposing camps of peace and war. This representation began to lose its potency towards the end of the 1950s, and the fight against colonialism and protests about the Vietnam War proved insufficient to breathe new life into it. This trend was even clearer in the attempts to impose a new structure of linear time within industrial production. On paper, the acceleration of time in production was maintained while businesses continued to exceed their targets, but the first serious economic crises of 1958 and 1962 revealed the limitations of the planned economy. The regime managed to stem the social discontent and delay the moment when people began to demand reform by maintaining a barely acceptable standard of living, but the gap between the country and its key partners in the West was widening. Indeed, from the 1960s onwards, Czechoslovakia even struggled to sell its products in the East. Like its Comecon partners, it sank into stagnation and then crisis. A dramatic reduction in production targets compared to the 1950s resulted in a redefinition of what constituted ‘progress’: the ambition to overtake capitalism gave way first to a desire to catch up with it and then to a hope of emulating it. The public sphere no longer represented the collective interest as all attempts to reinforce social ties were abandoned. Instead, the regime simply hoped to maintain the appearance of public consent and validate the dominant discourse. In the private sphere, the authorities allowed individuals a degree of privacy on condition that they continued to respect the principle of community vivre-ensemble. The country’s leaders also encouraged the development of certain aspects of a consumer society. For instance, they urged people to devote their

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weekends to leisure activities. Although each of these concessions was modest in itself, collectively they represented a complete break with the people’s democracies’ original project of establishing an alternative to liberal capitalism by becoming ‘societies of culture’ full of free, equal individuals who were independent and lived in complete solidarity.5 Their generous welfare programmes and the development of activities that promoted individual development within the community were two important components of this concept. By abandoning it, the people’s democracies destroyed a fundamental aspect of their own identity. Changes to the socialist project also transformed the relationship between the State and society. The Czechoslovak regime gradually abandoned its mission to establish total control over the social structures of space and time. Instead, it merely sought to maintain control over the exchanges that occurred within these structures. In terms of production, the plan was used to control the circulation of information, technology and goods. Every attempt at economic reform in the 1960s, which could have led to less central control over both production targets and pace of production, failed for the same reason: the government refused to allow the country’s economic actors more freedom of action. All exchanges of information with clients and suppliers continued to be centrally controlled, while businesses merely produced the goods that the regime ordered. In the public sphere, the regime tolerated and sometimes even encouraged alternative discourses, as long as these served to preserve the status quo and did not threaten the dominant ideology. To regulate this process, the Party exercised strict control over the channels through which such discourses could be disseminated, such as the press, broadcast media, forums of municipal debate and so on. For the same reasons, the State tolerated the development of some individual and family privacy. This posed no social threat and was, in any case, impossible to control. Moreover, it could help in the maintenance of peaceful social relations. Nevertheless, the State was prepared to intervene whenever individuals interacted with other members of the socialist community. In such circumstances, the authorities would demand absolute respect for the rules of socialist cohabitation. They also insisted that they held a monopoly on the truth, which made debate unnecessary. Everything would run smoothly as long as every interaction conformed to predetermined rules.

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As soon as one group manages to silence all others, there is no room for politics. Thus, after 1968, every exchange in the political sphere was stage-managed, and symbolic politics lost its capacity to strengthen personal ties within the socialist community. The State’s rituals became meaningless and no longer inculcated a genuine sense of belonging. Rather, they became stages on which the superficial gestures of belonging were acted out. The public ceased to be recognised in the socialist public sphere. The same process occurred in industry, where the regime’s refusal to relinquish control of the charismatic temporal structure resulted in a profound economic crisis. As the leaders’ procrastination continued, it became ever more likely that the necessary reforms – when they did eventually come – would undermine the very foundations of the people’s democracy. Between 1957 and 1962, there was renewed interest in traditional festivals, processions and fairs. However, as had previously happened in Western industrialised nations, these moments of community exchange became increasingly depersonalised.6 Therefore, in a bid to distract people from its economic failure, the regime inaugurated a series of temporal ‘digressions’. These allowed Czechoslovakia’s citizens to spend brief periods of time in a physical manifestation of the socialist utopia that was merely a dream for the rest of the year. Khrushchev’s family-apartment building programme of 1957 marked the moment when individuals started to reclaim the private sphere and refocused attention on people’s everyday pleasures and pursuits. This process was more complex when it came to linear time. In the wake of the economic crisis and the end of the charismatic power of Stakhanovism, the notion of progress was replaced by a mythical vision of a brighter future that was reiterated at every event in the socialist calendar. People appropriated the social and emotional aspects of these events and used them to forge new social links and to meet others outside the context of the workplace. Unfortunately for the regime, this apolitical appropriation of the events simultaneously diminished the political significance of the socialist calendar and its ultimate objective –the construction of a socialist community. While society occasionally signalled a desire to repoliticise such events – in 1968, for example – in general the depoliticisation of space and time remained a recurring theme throughout the people’s democracy period.

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253

Linear time thus fell into a regular cycle: annual symbolic events such as May Day restricted social time to an eternal repetition of the present in which nothing happened. Society latched on to this stasis because it did at least give the population a sense of permanence and stability. However, the fleeting fulfilment of people’s expectations through the development of a ‘festive society’ did not resolve the problem of societal breakdown. When the festivals ended, the socio-economic problems remained. The contrast between the difficulties of daily life and the occasional intermissions when the whole population was transported into a space– time of future plenty only served to highlight the failure of the regime’s social project, causing much frustration.

The split between state and society In the 1970s, the regime attempted to disguise this failure through trickery and illusion. The protests that the authorities feared failed to materialise because control was tightly maintained and the population practised self-censorship, but there was no increase in general wellbeing. Moreover, the charismatic power of linear time in industrial production was gradually exhausted. Instead of initiating an acceleration of social progress, it dragged the country into steeper decline. In response, Czechoslovakia’s leaders turned their attention from the radiant future to the present, which they hoped to make more bearable through a series of events that would perpetuate people’s dreams and fantasies. Therefore, from being future-centric, the nation’s socialism effectively became autocentric as the regime concentrated on the permanence and immobility of the present. This marked a complete break with the notion of revolutionary change that had characterised the first two decades of the people’s republic. The entertainments and diversions that the State provided during the period of normalisation helped to stabilise the regime because they offered people momentary respite from the frustrations and monotony of their daily lives. As reality continued to veer ever further from the original socialist project, the regime created ever more idealised visions of the future: in the mid-1980s, the Czechoslovak calendar included no fewer than 52 celebration days.7 The authorities promoted these events through modern means of communication – especially television – in a bid to convince the population that progress was still being made. However, these illusory visions of the future were presented in the midst of

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perpetual shortages, stagnation and sudden periods of frenetic activity whenever deadlines were approaching, even though such deadlines were now meaningless as they served no practical purpose. Thus, everybody was well aware that they were charades that could not possibly form the basis of an achievable social project. A politics of space – time that looked towards a future that would never materialise dissuaded people from putting down roots in either the present time or their own communities. Those who participated in the rituals were not fooled: they knew that the political space – time was entirely fictional. Politics had been reduced to a spectacle in which everybody played a predetermined role and the public already knew what happened at the end of the story. Spatial changes confirmed this. Official parades were moved to areas where any interaction between the marchers and the spectators was impossible, and where the fac
ade of enthusiasm and mass participation was fabricated by the use of clever editing techniques during television broadcasts. In consequence, such events had little real impact on an increasingly cynical population. May Day, which had been a ritual of regeneration, was transformed into a ritual of representation in which the spectator watching on television became more important than the marcher in the parade. The regime was no longer concerned about people ‘being together’; it merely wanted them to ‘watch together’. As the number of people who could remember the economic crisis of the 1930s or even the war started to diminish, the authorities realised that they could no longer use these national disasters to mobilise the whole population or remind Czechoslovakia’s citizens why the people’s democracy had been founded in the first place. Instead, they left the people to their own devices and the community spirit dissolved, leaving behind a sense that the social nature of space and time had been shattered. The regime’s inability to generate a sense of community led to general indifference about living active lives anchored in the real world. Social space and time became places and moments in which the Other and especially the self could be forgotten. As a result, the gap between individuals and the socialist community widened as most of the population – and especially Czechoslovakia’s young people – turned their backs on matters of common interest. The private sphere and leisure time – both of which were rooted in reality and the present – were

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the only areas that seemed largely untouched by this rising disaffection. That said, however, even the private sphere remained enclosed within real and/or virtual walls. How could people truly be themselves in such confined spaces? Did communism deny them the chance of fulfilment? People’s letters of complaint to the authorities reveal that there was at least one way of avoiding this dead end. By remaining rooted in reality, ordinary citizens could reconquer the public sphere from the starting point of the private sphere and break free from the regime’s structures. Va´clav Havel advocated precisely this course of action in his 1978 essay ‘The Power of the Powerless’.8 Restoring the public sphere and rebuilding civil society from the private sphere and individual experience would facilitate a renewal of civic spirit and the re-establishment of social links.

Disenchantment The history of European communism is a history of gradual disenchantment with the last great theory of modern society – the idea of progress – which had stimulated left-wing political projects and social movements in the East and West since the nineteenth century. This narrative makes sense only when considered in the wider context of European history: the gradual evaporation of political fervour in the West went hand in hand with a loss of faith in politics and the discrediting of Marxist ideology in the East.9 However, in the end, it was the same old story: throughout history, every grand ideological project, whether on the left or the right, has ended in failure. In the East, the traditional structures of space and time based on religious observance were replaced with new structures in which deadlines were supposed to have an energising effect. However, all of these structures struggled to achieve popular success, at least outside of sporting events.10 The regime’s tight control over society proved counter-productive as it generated a sense of unease and insecurity that ultimately led to a loss of the very motivation that the State wished to inspire. Various problems associated with the disruption of temporal and spatial structures bred widespread apathy and undermined the regime’s legitimacy. Successive shifts in the public’s relationship to time and space showed that, in attempting to force society to conform to a certain model, the regime actually crushed it under the weight of too many constraints.

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All of this helps to clarify what took place within the people’s democracies over the course of 40 years: a gradual but irreversible loss of faith in the notion that socialism accelerates progress. Studying Czechoslovakia’s temporal and spatial structures in the communist era sheds light on this mounting disenchantment. Which strategies did the regime pursue in an effort to combat such widespread disillusionment? Many informal interactions certainly developed between the State, its structures and the people. Initially, these were related to ensuring that the authorities’ rules were respected. A degree of familiarity with communism – the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia had been legal since 1921 – undoubtedly helped the country’s new leaders to establish their credibility, especially as the war had partially undermined the legitimacy of liberal democracy. However, as one failure followed another, the negotiation between the State and the people shifted towards a search for an acceptable compromise in which everybody could defend their own interests. This process allowed many social actors to achieve a certain level of independence. The ongoing interactions between the Party-State and society nonetheless merit more comprehensive theoretical study than the present study allows.11 The communist elites claimed to be able to eliminate unpredictability, but the more power they accumulated, the more decisions about public life they had to make, and these decisions started to throw individual existence into doubt. Thus began the vicious circle of submission whereby individuals created the conditions for their own alienation. Through their desire for some sort of permanence and security, they gave the elites a free hand in the construction of social structures. Power imposes structures and thereby alienates individuals who must submit to those structures, as all of their attention is focused on material stability. In order to maintain their material comfort, individuals demand ever greater protection from the government, redoubling their submission to power and increasing their alienation. Hence, the politics of the communist regimes pushed individuals towards ever-greater integration into collective structures. Beyond a certain point, however, this integration stopped making sense: too much order always generates disorder; too much control leads to a loss of control; if space and time are too standardised, social dynamics cease to function. Instead of bringing members of a community together, excessive control tears them apart.

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Power must be divided if plurality is to be regained. In Central and Eastern Europe, this process started in the private sphere through the actions of individuals and small groups. Padraic Kenney has shown that civil societies in the East were regenerated thanks to such people’s desire to live in the here and now – in lived space and time – and decide their own destinies. Accepting daily experience as the only reality, consciously engaging with social life, constructing the present alongside others, and rejecting the rigid concepts of political idealism were crucial elements in the direction taken in Central and Eastern Europe in the 1970s as the people sought to regain their freedom of choice.12

Continuity and Rupture In terms of spatial and temporal structures, Czechoslovakia’s turn towards communism in 1948 does not represent a radical departure from the past. The economic and political crisis of the 1930s and the war were more profound ruptures. The idea of mastering and accelerating linear time existed well before 1948 and was simply expanded during the first Five-Year Plan due to the Communist Party’s desire to transform the country into an industrial power. The weekly cycle was disrupted as early as 1945– 7, during reconstruction, and this disruption was merely formalised after 1948, although some practices, especially those linked to religion, changed more slowly than others linked to politics or economics. Changes to property ownership also began well before 1948, while the transformation of the public and private spheres had its origins in the 1930s. In terms of political space– time, the postwar years were a period of uncertainty that only ended around 1951– 2. The establishment of communist regimes in the East is best understood by taking into account the transformations that had been under way since at least the 1930s, and by extending this chronological view up to the mid-1950s. A similar approach should be adopted when studying the period of the Prague Spring: it should be assessed in the context of the period 1958– 74. Acceptable levels of material comfort and regular increases in the standard of living during the 1950s helped to reduce conflict and defuse hostile reactions to social constraints. For these reasons, 1953 was not a year of crisis for Czechoslovakia as it was in the German Democratic Republic, Poland and Hungary. However, by the late 1950s,

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there were signs that the situation was about to change. Economic stagnation posed serious questions about the myth of progress and the validity of the plan as an effective means of accelerating time. The development of the consumer society revitalised the social structures constructed during the regime’s early years. More leisure time shifted the focus away from temporal rhythms and political ritual and towards individuals and their personal pleasures, in which the community’s role was less important each year. The regime began to lose control of time and space, so 1968 was simply the culmination of a process that had been under way for a decade. The initial aim of the Czechoslovak people’s democracy – to reinvent society by constructing new social structures of time and space – was definitively abandoned during the period of normalisation after the invasion of Warsaw Pact forces in August 1968. In its place, old – but now meaningless – structures were maintained. The regime no longer tried to control people’s everyday activities because such activities did not threaten to establish alternative structures that would upset the system. Instead, it focused on controlling social interactions. Individuals played whatever role the regime expected of them. Those who pressed for a rejection of these roles – including Leszek Kołakowski, with his call for a ‘life in dignity’, and Va´clav Havel, with his advocacy of ‘life in truth’ – remained in the minority. For most people, the concrete benefits of playing the game outweighed the potential benefits of revolt. It was not until the late 1970s – when individuals began to use the private sphere as a starting point from which to reclaim the public sphere – that a new era began, one that would culminate in the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989.

NOTES

Preface 1. Heda Margolius Kovaly, Under a Cruel Star: A Life in Prague, 1941– 1968, Cambridge, Plunkett Lake Press, 1986: 56. 2. Marc Bloch, Apologie pour l’histoire ou me´tier d’historien, Paris, Armand Colin, 1997: 52. For the English edition, see Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1992. 3. Ken Alder, The Measure of All Things: The Seven-year Odyssey and Hidden Error that Transformed the World, London, Little, Brown, 2002; Anthony Aveni, Empires of Time: Calendars, Clocks and Cultures, London, Tauris Parke Paperbacks, 2000. 4. Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, New York, Scribner, 1958; Marcel Mauss, Essay on Time: A Brief Study of the Representation of Time in Religion and Magic, New York, Berghahn Books, 1999. 5. E´mile Durkheim, Les Formes ´ele´mentaires de la vie religieuse, Paris, Presses universitaires de France, 1998: 12 – 13. For the English edition, see E´mile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, London, George Allen and Unwin, 1912. 6. Norbert Elias, An Essay on Time, Dublin, University College Dublin Press, 2007. 7. Pitirim Sorokin, ‘Social Time: A Methodological and Functional Analysis’, American Journal of Sociology, 5, 1937: 615 – 29; special issue ‘Conceptions of Temporality in Sociological Theory’, Sociological Quarterly, 3, 1987: 303– 435; Stephen Kern, The Culture of Time and Space, 1880– 1918, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1983; Jack Goody, ‘Time: Social Organisation’, in David L. Sills and Robert King Merton (eds), International Encyclopaedia of the Social Sciences, New York, Macmillan, 1991, Vol. 16: 30–42. 8. On the concept of space in contemporary sociological thinking (in Karl Marx, Georg Simmel, Henri Lefebvre, David Harvey and Michel Foucault), see Andrzej Zieleniec, Space and Social Theory, London, Sage Publications, 2007.

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9. Jean Leduc, Les Historiens et le temps: conceptions, proble´matiques, e´critures, Paris, Seuil, 1999; Jean-Claude Schmitt, ‘Le Temps: impense´ de l’histoire ou double objet de l’historien?’, Cahiers de civilisation me´die´vale, 48, 2005: 31– 52; JeanClaude Schmitt, Le Corps, les rites, les reˆves, le temps: essais d’anthropologie me´die´vale, Paris, Gallimard, 2001; Daniel Milo, Trahir le temps (histoire), Paris, Belles Lettres, 1991; Marc Bloch, ‘Fac
ons de sentir et de penser’, in Marc Bloch, La Socie´te´ fe´odale, Paris, Albin Michel, 1968: 115– 35 (for the English edition, see Marc Bloch, Feudal Society: Vol. 1: The Growth of Ties of Dependence, London, Routledge, 2014; Jacques Le Goff, ‘Church Time and Merchant Time in the Middle Ages’, Social Science Information, 4, 1970: 151– 67; Aaron Gourevitch, Les Cate´gories de la culture me´die´vale, Paris, Gallimard, 1983. 10. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, Oxford, Blackwell, 1991; Alain Corbin, ‘L’Arithme´tique des jours au XIXe sie`cle’, in Alain Corbin, Le Temps, le de´sir, l’horreur: essais sur le XIXe sie`cle, Paris, Aubier, 1991: 9 – 22; Krzysztof Pomian, L’Ordre du temps, Paris, Gallimard, 1984. 11. Philippe Se´gur, Question de 103: Le Pouvoir et le temps: essai sur le de´clin du sacre´, Paris, E´ditions Albin Michel, 1996; Henry J. Rutz (ed.), The Politics of Time, Washington, American Anthropological Association, 1992; Henri Lefebvre, Writings on Cities, Oxford, Blackwell, 1996. 12. Stephen Kotkin, Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as a Civilization, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1995.

Chapter 1

In the Land Where Tomorrow Was Already Yesterday

1. ‘Ostravsˇtı´ hornı´ci prˇed Prvnı´m ma´jem’, Rude´ pra´vo, 31 April 1957. 2. ‘Nezˇ vykrocˇı´ pru˚vody’, Rude´ pra´vo, 24 April 1958, and ‘Prˇed sva´tkem Prvnı´ho ma´je v nasˇı´ zemi’, Rude´ pra´vo, 28 April 1958. 3. Za splneˇnı´ peˇtiletky v zemeˇdeˇlstvı´ za 4 roky – stranicke´ organizace na vesnicı´ch v cˇele hnutı´, Prague, KV KSCˇ, 1960. 4. ‘Vsˇe pro splneˇnı´ 3. peˇtiletky v zemeˇdeˇlstvı´ za 4 roky’, Rude´ pra´vo, 24 March 1961. 5. Michael Charles Kaser (ed.), The Economic History of Eastern Europe, 1919– 1975, Vol. 3: Institutional Change within a Planned Economy, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1986. 6. The collection was first published in 1932 and was already in its tenth edition by 1955. Ju´lius Fucˇı´k, V zemi, kde zı´tra jizˇ znamena´ vcˇera [In the Land Where Tomorrow is Already Yesterday], Prague, SNPL, 1955. 7. Sandrine Kott, Communism Day-to-Day: State Enterprises in East German Society, Michigan, University of Michigan Press, 2014. 8. William Pfaff, ‘Du Progre`s: re´flexions sur une ide´e morte’, Commentaire, 74, 1996: 385 – 92; Georg Henrik von Wright, Le Mythe du progre`s, Paris, L’Arche, 2000; Pierre Andre´ Taguieff, Le Sens du progre`s: une approche historique et philosophique, Paris, Flammarion, 2004; ‘On Progress’, Daedalus, 133, 3, 2004.

NOTES

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

TO PAGES

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On the acceleration of time in Western societies, see Hartmut Rosa, Social Acceleration: A New Theory of Modernity, New York, Columbia University Press, 2013; Paul Virilio, Speed and Politics: An Essay on Dromology, Columbia, Columbia University Press, 1986, and Negative Horizon: An Essay in Dromoscopy, New York, Continuum, 2005. The subject of socialist enterprise is already familiar ground for historians. See Peter Hu¨bner, Konsens, Konflikt und Kompromiss Soziale Arbeiterinteressen und Sozialpolitik in der SBZ/DDR, 1945– 1970, Berlin, Verlag, 1995; Kott, Communism Day-to-Day; Mark Pittaway, The Workers’ State: Industrial Labor and the Making of Socialist Hungary, 1944– 1958, Pittsburgh, University of Pittsbugh Press, 2012; Padraic Kenney, Rebuilding Poland: Workers and Communists, 1945– 1950, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1997; Peter Heumos, Vyhrnˇme si ruka´vy, nezˇ se kola zastavı´! Deˇlnı´ci a sta´tnı´ socialismus v Cˇeskoslovensku, 1945– 1968, Prague, U´SD, 2006. Hynek Strˇı´tesky´, ‘CˇKD, na´rodnı´ podnik, a jejı´ role v boji o pru˚myslove´ konfiska´ty’, in Hynek Fajmon, Stanislav Balı´k and Katerˇina Hlousˇkova´ (eds), Dusive´ objetı´. Historicke´ a politologicke´ pohledy na spolupra´ci socia´lnı´ch demokratu˚ a komunistu˚, Brno, CPDK, 2008: 98– 107. Romain Gary, E´ducation europe´enne, Paris, Gallimard, 1956: 274. For the English translation, see Romain Gary, A European Education, New York, Simon and Schuster, 1960. Arthur Marwick, War and Social Change in the Twentieth Century: A Comparative Study of Britain, France, Russia and the United States, London, Macmillan, 1974; Jan T. Gross, ‘Social Consequences of War: Preliminaries to the Study of Imposition of Communist Regimes in East Central Europe’, East European Politics and Societies, 2, 1989: 198 – 214; Jan T. Gross, ‘War as Revolution’, in Norman Naimark and Leonid Gibianskii (eds), The Establishment of Communist Regimes in Eastern Europe, 1944– 1949, Boulder, Westview Press, 1997: 15 – 40; Bradley F. Abrams, ‘The Second World War and the East European Revolution’, East European Politics and Societies, 3, 2002: 623 –64. The only exceptions in Western Europe were Spain, Portugal and Greece. On the interwar period in Central Europe, see Ivan T. Berend, The Crisis Zone of Europe: An Interpretation of East – Central European History in the First Half of the Twentieth Century, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1986. For an assessment of the toll of World War II, see Tony Judt, ‘The Legacy of War’, in Tony Judt, Postwar: A History of Europe since 1945, London, Vintage Books, 2010: 13 – 40. Hannes Siegrist and Dietmar Muller (eds), Property in East Central Europe: Notions, Institutions and Practices in the 20th Century, New York, Berghahn Books, 2014; Jan Kuklı´k, Zna´rodneˇne´ Cˇeskoslovensko. Od zna´rodneˇnı´ k privatizaci. Sta´tnı´ za´sahy do vlastnicky´ch a dalsˇı´ch majetkovy´ch pra´v v Cˇeskoslovensku a jinde v Evropeˇ, Prague, Auditorium, 2010. Robert Kanigel, The One Best Way: Frederick Winslow Taylor and the Enigma of Efficiency, Cambridge, MA, MIT Press, 1997.

262

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6 –12

17. E. P. Thompson, ‘Time, Work-Discipline and Industrial Capitalism’, Past and Present, 1, 1967: 56 – 97. 18. David Kaiser, Economic Diplomacy and the Origins of the Second World War: Germany, Britain, France, and Eastern Europe, 1930 – 1939, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1980. 19. Martin Myant, Czechoslovak Economy 1948– 1988: The Battle for Economic Reform, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2010; Barry Eichengreen, European Economy since 1945: Coordinated Capitalism and Beyond, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2007; Ivan T. Berend, Gyo¨rgy Ra´nki, Economic Development in East – Central Europe in the 19th and 20th Centuries, New York, Columbia University Press, 1974; Ivan T. Berend, Central and Eastern Europe, 1944– 1993: Detour from the Periphery to the Periphery, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1996. 20. On wartime economies, see Alan S. Milward, War, Economy and Society, 1939– 1945, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1977; Hein Klemann, Sergei Kudryashov, Occupied Economies: An Economic History of Nazi-occupied Europe, 1939– 1945, London, Berg, 2012. 21. Lidova´ demokracie, 23 May 1945. 22. Va´clav Cˇerny´, ‘Mezi Vy´chodem a Za´padem’, Kriticky´ meˇsı´cˇnı´k, 3 – 5, 1945. 23. Ladislav Sˇtoll, ‘Vy´chod a za´pad’, Rude´ pra´vo, 19 August 1945. 24. Otakar Machoutka, ‘Za´pad cˇi vy´chod?’, Svobodny´ zı´trˇek, 5, 1945. 25. Josef Lukl Hroma´dka, ‘Posla´nı´ Cˇeskoslovenska v dnesˇnı´ Evropeˇ’, in Josef Lukl Hroma´dka, O nove´ Cˇeskoslovensko, Prague, Henclova tiska´rna, 1946: 25. 26. Karel Kaplan, Nekrvava´ revoluce, Toronto, Sixty-eight Publishers, 1985: 381. ´ vahy o slovanstvı´. Hlavnı´ proble´my slovanske´ politiky, Prague, Cˇin, 27. Edvard Benesˇ, U 1947: 254 – 6. 28. Va´clav Kopecky´, ‘Vy´sledky kulturnı´ho budova´nı´ republiky’, in Va´clav Kopecky´, Mu˚j pomeˇr ke KSCˇ, Prague, KSCˇ, 1946: 9. 29. Eighteenth meeting of the ANT, 25 October 1946. 30. Report on the draft bill for the Reconstruction Plan, 17th meeting of the ANT, 24 October 1946. 31. Ibid. 32. Law of the Two-Year Plan, No. 192/1946, §§ 9 –11. 33. Ibid., § 2, a and d. 34. ‘Na´sˇ letosˇnı´ Prvnı´ ma´j – mohutneˇjsˇı´ nezˇ loni’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1947. 35. Scott Parrish, ‘The Marshall Plan, Soviet – American Relations and the Division of Europe’, in Naimark, Gibianskii, The Establishment of Communist Regimes in Eastern Europe: 267– 90. 36. Jozef M. van Brabant, Socialist Economic Integration: Aspects of Contemporary Economic Problems in Eastern Europe, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1980: 47 –53. 37. Speech by Head of Government Antonı´n Za´potocky´, 17th meeting of the ANT, 27 October 1948.

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13 –20

263

38. Speech by Veˇra Mouralova´-U´lehova´, 17th meeting of the ANT, 27 October 1948. ´ lehlova´, 16th meeting of the ANT, 26 October 39. Speech by Veˇra Mouralova´-U 1948. 40. Speeches by Bozˇena Pa´tkova´ and Jaromı´r Bera´k, 16th meeting of the ANT, 26 October 1948 (emphasis added). ´ lehlova´, 16th meeting of the ANT, 26 October 41. Speech by Veˇra Mouralova´-U 1948. 42. Stephen E. Hanson, Time and Revolution: Marxism and the Design of Soviet Institutions, Chapell Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 1997: 134– 47, 155 – 62; Richard Stites, ‘Utopia in Time: Futurology and Science Fiction’, in Richard Stites, Revolutionary Dreams, Utopian Vision and Experimental Life in the Russian Revolution, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1989: 167– 89. 43. Speech by Va´clav Juha, 16th meeting of the ANT, 26 October 1948. 44. Speech by President of Parliament Oldrˇich John, 17th meeting of the ANT, 27 October 1948. 45. J. V. Stalin, ‘Industrialisation of the Country and the Right Deviation in the CPSU (B): Speech delivered at the Plenum of the CPSU (B), November 19, 1928’, in J. V. Stalin, Works, Vol. 11: January 1928 to March 1929, Moscow, Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1954: 255 – 302. 46. Stephen E. Hanson, ‘Stalin as Theorist, 1924– 1928’, in Hanson, Time and Revolution: 134 – 47; Timothy Luke, Ideology and Soviet Industrialisation, London, Greenwood Press, 1985: 111 – 42; William Chase, Lewis Siegelbaum, ‘Worktime and Industrialization in the USSR, 1917– 1941’, in Gary Cross (ed.), Worktime and Industrialization: An International History, Philadelphia, Temple University Press, 1988: 183 – 210. 47. Hiroaki Kuromiya, Stalin’s Industrial Revolution: Politics and Workers, 1928– 1932, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1988; E. H. Carr, R. W. Davies, Foundations of a Planned Economy, Vol. 2, London, Macmillan, 1969; Alec Nove, An Economic History of the USSR, London, Allen Lane, 1969. 48. J. V. Stalin, Problems of Leninism, Moscow, Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1953: 457 – 8. 49. ‘Vesnice v prˇı´prava´ch na druhy´ rok peˇtiletky’, Rude´ pra´vo, 28 June 1961. 50. ‘U´speˇchy cˇeskoslovenske´ho automobilove´ho pru˚myslu v roce 1948– 1958’, Automobil, 2, 1958: 33 – 4. 51. Prague Regional Archives (hereafter SobAP), f. CˇKD –U´, 38/205, Sdeˇlenı´ UPL. 52. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/202. 53. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/202, Porady o pla´nova´nı´. 54. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/202, Porady o pla´nova´nı´ vy´roby (1946). 55. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/202, Za´pis o poradeˇ o pla´nova´nı´ 13.3.1947. 56. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/202. 57. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/209. 58. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/202, Porady o pla´nova´nı´.

264 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

77. 78.

79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85.

86.

87.

NOTES TO PAGES 21 – 29 SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/202. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/203, Hodnocenı´ dvouletky 1947. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/203, Porady na Ministerstvu pru˚myslu. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/209. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/215, Smlouva o vza´jemne´ pomoci 1949. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/203, Hodnocenı´ dvouletky 1947. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/203, Hodnocenı´ dvouletky 1947. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/211. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/215. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/215, Za´pisy z porˇad, 1949. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/211. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/209. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/203, Porady na Ministerstvu pru˚myslu. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/202, Porady o pla´nova´nı´ vy´roby (1946). SObAP, f. CˇKD – U´, 38/206, Reorganizace pla´novacı´ sluzˇby – na´vrhy a prˇipomı´nky. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 37/Turek– OZU. Speech by Jindrˇich Sˇnobl, 16th meeting of the ANT, 26 October 1948. Isaac Deutscher, ‘Socialist Competition’, Foreign Affairs, 30, 3, 1952: 376– 90; Lewis H. Siegelbaum, ‘Socialist Competition’, Thesis Eleven, 4, 1982: 47– 67; Vladimir Andrle, Workers in Stalin’s Russia: Industrialization and Social Change in a Planned Economy, New York, St Martin’s Press, 1988: 146– 50. Cited by Deutscher, ‘Socialist Competition’: 387. Lewis H. Siegelbaum, Stakhanovism and the Politics of Productivity in the USSR 1935 – 1941, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1988; Amy. E. Randall, ‘Revolutionary Bolshevik Work: Stakhanovism in Retail Trade’, Russian Review, 59, 2000: 425 – 41. Speech by Veˇra Mouralova´-U´lehova´, 16th meeting of the ANT, 26 October 1948. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/205. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/205, 1948 – Sdeˇlenı´ U´PL. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, 38/216, Ru˚zne´ obeˇzˇnı´ky. Josef Provaznı´k, Frantisˇek Vlasa´k, Socialisticke´ souteˇzˇenı´ v CˇSR, Prague, Pra´ce, 1960: 94. Michal Vdoviak, Moja meto´da ry´chlosu´struzˇenia. Sku´senosti u´dernı´ka a zlepsˇovatelˇa, Bratislava, Pra´ca, 1951. See Virilio, Speed and Politics and Negative Horizon, and Hartmut Rosa, Alienation and Acceleration: Towards a Critical Theory of Late-Modern Temporality, Malmo¨, Nordic Summer University Press, 2010. Mark Pittaway, ‘Workers in Hungary’, in Eleonore Breuning, Jill Lewis and Gareth Pritchard (eds), Power and the People: A Social History of Central European Politics 1945– 1956, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2005: 59. Report on the draft bill for the Reconstruction Plan, 17th meeting of the ANT, 24 October 1946.

NOTES

TO PAGES

29 –35

265

88. Michal Hronsky´, Odmeˇna za pra´ci v CˇSSR, Prague, SNPL, 1960: 157. 89. The two main Czechoslovak honours – the Order of Work (Rˇa´d pra´ce) and the Order of the Republic (Rˇa´d Republiky) – both created in 1951, were based on the model of the Order of the Red Flag, a Soviet honour awarded since the 1920s to work collectives and members of kolkhozy (collective farms) for success in socialist competition. See ‘Red Banner’, Great Soviet Encyclopedia, Vol. 14, Moscow, Sovietskaia Entsiklopediia Publishing House and New York, Macmillan, 1978: 707 – 8; Josef Provaznı´k, Frantisˇek Vlasa´k, Socialisticke´ souteˇzˇenı´ v CˇSR, Prague, Pra´ce, 1960. 90. Mark Pittaway, ‘The Social Limits of State Control: Time, Industrial Wage Relation and Social Identity in Stalinist Hungary, 1948– 1953’, Journal of Historical Sociology, 3, 1999: 271 – 301. 91. Kott, Communism Day-to-Day: 304. 92. Artur London, The Confession, New York, William Morrow and Co., 1968; Karel Kaplan, Proce`s politiques a` Prague, Brussels, Complexe, 1980; Igor Lukesˇ, ‘The Rudolf Slansky Affair: New Evidence’, Slavic Review, 1, 1999: 160– 87; Jirˇı´ Pernes and Jan Foitzik (eds), Politicke´ procesy v Cˇeskoslovensku po roce 1945 a ‘prˇı´pad Sla´nsky´’, Brno, Prius, 2005. 93. Christian Ostermann and Malcolm Byrne (eds), Uprising in East Germany, 1953: The Cold War, the German Question, and the First Major Upheaval behind the Iron Curtain, Budapest, CEU Press, 2001. 94. Zdeneˇk Jira´sek, Jaroslav Sˇu˚la, Velka´ peneˇzˇnı´ loupezˇ v Cˇeskoslovensku 1953 aneb 50:1, Prague, Svı´ta´nı´, 1992. 95. Jirˇı´ Pernes, Krize komunisticke´ho rezˇimu v Cˇeskoslovensku v 50. letech 20. stoletı´, Prague, CSDK, 2008. 96. Celosta´tnı´ konference Komunisticke´ strany Cˇeskoslovenska. Sbornı´k materia´lu˚, refera´tu˚ ´ V KSCˇ, 1956: 197. a dokumentu˚, Prague, U 97. Muriel Blaive, Une De´stalinisation manque´e: Tche´coslovaquie 1956, Brussels, Complexe, 2005. 98. Rudolf Lavicˇka, Josef Toman, Nova´ organisace pla´nova´nı´ na´rodnı´ho hospoda´rˇstvı´, Prague, Orbis, 1959. 99. Report on the bill for the second Five-Year Plan, 27th meeting of the ANT, 16 October 1958. 100. SObAP, f. CˇKD– U´, Zpra´va o vy´sledcı´ch komplexnı´ho rozboru hospoda´rˇenı´ 1958. 101. Economic Bulletin for Europe, 3, 1960: 30. 102. Introduction to Constitutional Law No. 100/1060. 103. Celosta´tnı´ konference Komunisticke´ strany Cˇeskoslovenska 5 – 7.7.1960, Prague, Rude´ pra´vo, 1960: 37 – 40. 104. Karel Kaplan, Korˇeny Cˇeskoslovenke´ reformy 1968, Prague, Doplneˇk, 2000: 234 – 5. 105. Statement by Allen W. Dulles, Director of Central Intelligence, to the Subcommittee on Economic Statistics of the Joint Economic Committee of the Congress of the United States, 13 November 1959. See: https://archive.org/

266

106. 107. 108. 109.

110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121.

122.

123.

124. 125. 126.

127. 128.

NOTES

TO PAGES

35 –39

stream/CIA-RDP70-00058R000100210028-7/CIA-RDP70-00058R0001 00210028-7_djvu.txt. Vladimı´r Micˇka, Historicka´ statisticka´ rocˇenka, Prague, SNTL, 1985: 153– 4. Martin Myant, Czechoslovak Economy 1948– 1988: 98. Karel Kaplan, Rada vza´jemne´ hospoda´rˇske´ pomoci a Cˇeskoslovensko, 1957– 1967, Prague, Karolinum, 2002: 10– 85. Alesˇ Skrˇivan, ‘On the Expansion of the Czechoslovak Economic Relations with China after the Establishment of the Chinese Communist Regime’, Historian, 4, 2012: 725 – 42. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, Celopodnikovy´ stranicky´ aktı´v CˇKD. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, Pla´n na rok 1960. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, Zpra´vy o pla´novanı´. SObAP, f. CˇKD– U´, Zpra´va o vy´sledcı´ch komplexnı´ho rozboru hospodarˇenı´ 1958. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, U´vahy o stavu spra´vnı´ho apara´tu za´vodu 1960. SObAP, f. CˇKD – U´, Komplexnı´ rozbor cˇinnosti VHJ CˇKD Praha na rok 1962. 12. sjezd KSCˇ 4.– 8. prosince 1962, Prague, NPL, 1962. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, Pla´n 1961. Marie Lavigne, E´conomies socialistes sovie´tique et europe´ennes, Paris, Armand Colin, 1970: 196 – 7. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, Komplexnı´ rozbor cˇinnosti VHJ CˇKD Praha (1962). Kaplan, Korˇeny Cˇeskoslovenke´ reformy 1968: 237. Ludeˇk Rychetnı´k, ‘The´orie e´conomique et re´forme en Tche´coslovaquie’, Revue d’e´tudes comparatives Est– Ouest, 3, 1988: 107 – 19; Jaromı´r Veprˇek, ‘La Re´forme e´conomique de 1968, ses racines son impact’ and Andre´ Gauron, ‘Le Nouveau Cours d’Ota Sˇik’, in Franc
ois Fejto¨ and Jacques Rupnik (eds), Le Printemps tche´coslovaque 1968, Paris, Complexe, 1999: 87 – 92 and 93– 9. Ota Sˇik, Ekonomika, za´jmy, politika. Jejich vza´jemne´ vztahy do socialismu, Prague, SNPL, 1962; Josef Goldmann, Hospoda´rˇsky´ ru˚st v CˇSSR, Prague, Academia, 1967. Otakar Turek, O pla´nu, trhu a hospoda´rˇske´ politice, Prague, Svoboda, 1967; Karel Kouba, Pla´n a trh za socialismu, Prague, EU´ CˇSAV, 1967; Miroslav Londa´k, ‘Nove´ na´zory v ekonomickej teo´rii na Slovensku v prvej polovici 60. rokov 20. storocˇia’, Historicky´ cˇasopis, 1, 2001: 85 – 99. ‘Z vystoupenı´ soudruha Antonı´na Novotne´ho’, Rude´ pra´vo, 18 March 1964. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, Soustava automatizace rˇı´zenı´ a spra´vy 1965. Ota Sˇik, Jarnı´ probuzenı´. Iluze a skutecˇnost, Prague, Mlada´ fronta, 1990: 114 – 22; 13. sjezd Komunisticke´ strany Cˇeskoslovenska 31. kveˇtna – 4. cˇervna 1966, Prague, Svoboda, 1967: 96. SObAP, f. CˇKD –U´, Vy´rocˇnı´ zpra´va 1966. Simon Godard, ‘Construire le bloc de l’Est par l’e´conomie? La De´licate E´mergence d’une solidarite´ internationale socialiste au sein du Conseil d’aide e´conomique mutuelle’, Vingtie`me Sie`cle. Revue d’histoire, 109, 2011: 45–58.

NOTES

TO PAGES

40 – 49

267

129. Ota Sˇik, ‘Na prahu nove´ etapy vy´voje socialisticke´ho hospoda´rˇstvı´’, Rude´ pra´vo, 5 June 1966; Ota Sˇik, Economic Planning and Management in Czechoslovakia, Prague, Orbis, 1966. 130. Statisticka´ rocˇenka Cˇeskoslovenske´ socialisticke´ republiky, Prague, SNTL, 1970: 235. 131. Frantisˇek Charva´t (ed.), Socia´lneˇ-trˇı´dnı´ struktura Cˇeskoslovenska. Vy´voj, data, srovna´nı´, Prague, Horizont, 1978: 78. 132. Otakar Cˇernı´k, ‘O ekonomicky´ch proble´mech’, Hospoda´rˇske´ noviny, 14, 1966. 133. Miroslav Londa´k, Rok 1968 a ekonomicka´ realita Slovenska, Bratislava, Prodama, 2007: 126 – 41. 134. Janos Kornai, The Socialist System: The Political Economy of Communism, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1992. 135. Alice Teichova´, ‘Velke´ pru˚myslove´ podniky v Cˇeskoslovensku po roce 1948. Historicky´ na´stin struktura´lnı´ch a organizacˇnı´ch zmeˇn’, in Daniel Va´nˇa (ed.), Syste´m centra´lneˇ pla´novany´ch ekonomik v zemı´ch strˇednı´ a jihovy´chodnı´ Evropy a prˇı´cˇiny jeho rozpadu, Prague, VSˇE, 1994: 130 – 53.

Chapter 2

The Lord’s Day, the Worker’s Day

1. Zˇilina District Archives (hereafter SˇOkAZˇ), f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/cirk., 290.2/1953, Spra´vy o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa 1953, Spra´va o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa v cirkevnej politike na zasadanie byra OV KSS, 29 May 1953. 2. Marcel Mauss, Henri Hubert, Me´langes d’histoire des religions: de quelques re´sultats de la sociologie religieuse, le sacrifice, l’origine des pouvoirs magiques, la repre´sentation du temps, Paris, F. Alcan, 1929: 219. 3. Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilisation, New York, Harbinger, 1963: 269. 4. Robert Beck, Histoire du dimanche de 1700 a` nos jours, Paris, E´ditions de l’Atelier, 1997; Witold Rybczinski, Histoire du week-end, Paris, Liana Levi, 1992. 5. Irving A. Hallowel, ‘Temporal Orientation in Western Civilisation and in a Preliterate Society’, American Anthropologist, 39, 1937: 647– 70; Anthony Giddens, ‘Interaction in Time and Space’, in Anthony Giddens, Sociology, Cambridge, Polity Press, 1983: 105 – 10. 6. Czech National Archives (hereafter NA), f. MSˇK, Cı´rkev – u´cˇast na na´bozˇenske´m zˇivoteˇ, statistiky, spra´vy pro zahranicˇı´, cart. 2133, 47 I. a 1., Informacˇnı´ spra´va o sˇetrˇenı´ o na´bozˇenske´m zˇivoteˇ lidu, Sta´tnı´ u´rˇad pro veˇci cirkevnı´, 11 November 1955. 7. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, cart. 401, Vsˇeob. cirk. 3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za rok 1957, Spra´va na zasadanie byra OV KSS 14.11.1957 o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike a prihlasovanı´ detı´ na vyucˇovanie na´bozˇenstva v roku 1957 –8. 8. Peter Prusa´k, ‘Niektore´ vy´sledky vy´skumu religiozity na Slovensku’, Sociolo´gia, 1, 1970: 65 – 82.

268

NOTES

TO PAGES

50 –54

9. Jacques Le Goff, ‘Le Temps’, in Jacques Le Goff and Jean-Claude Schmitt (eds), Dictionnaire raisonne´ de l’Occident me´die´val, Paris, Fayard, 1999: 1113– 22. 10. Clive Foss, ‘Stalin’s topsy-turvy work week’, History Today, 9, 2004: 46. 11. Bronisław Baczko, ‘Le Calendrier re´publicain: de´cre´ter l’e´ternite´’, in Pierre Nora (ed.), Les Lieux de me´moire, Vol. 1: La Re´publique, Paris, Gallimard, 1984: 37 – 83. 12. Eviatar Zerubavel, ‘The Soviet five-day Nepreryvka’, in Eviatar Zerubavel, The Seven Day Circle, New York, The Free Press, 1985: 35– 43; ‘Foreign News: Oneday, Twoday Monday’, Time, 7 October 1929. 13. Erland Echlin, ‘Here All Nations Agree’, Journal of Calendar Reform, 1, 1938: 25 – 7. 14. ‘Staggers Unstaggers’, Time, 7 December 1931. 15. Zerubavel, The Seven Day Circle: 41 – 2; Solomon Schwarz, ‘The Continuous Working Week in Soviet Russia’, International Labour Review, 2, 1931: 157 – 80; Christie Davies, Eugene Trivizas and Roy Wolfe, ‘The Failure of Calendar Reform (1922 – 1931): Religious Minorities, Businessmen, Scientists and Bureaucrats’, Journal of Historical Sociology, 3, 1999: 251– 70. 16. Foss, ‘Stalin’s topsy-turvy work week’: 47. 17. ‘Russian Experiment’, Journal of Calendar Reform, 6, 1936: 69. 18. E. G. Richards, Mapping Time: The Calendar and Its History, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1998: 277–8; Albert Parry, ‘The Soviet Calendar’, Journal of Calendar Reform, 10, 1940: 65 – 9. 19. William Chase and Lewis Siegelbaum, ‘Worktime and Industrialisation in the USSR 1917–1941’, in Gary Cross (ed.), Worktime and Industrialization, Philadelphia, Temple University Press, 1988: 183 –206. 20. Zerubavel, The Seven Day Circle: 43; Frank Parise, ‘Soviet Calendar’, in Frank Parise (ed.), The Book of Calendars, New York, Facts on File, 1982: 377; Carleton J. Ketchum, ‘Russia’s Changing Tide’, Journal of Calendar Reform, 13, 1943: 147 – 55; Elisabeth Achelis, ‘Calendar Marches on: Russia’s Difficulties’, Journal of Calendar Reform, 24, 1954: 91–3; Richards, Mapping Time: 159–60 and 277 – 9; Irina Shilova, ‘Building the Bolshevik Calendar through Pravda and Izvestiia’, Toronto Slavic Quarterly, 19, 2007 (online journal): http://sites. utoronto.ca/tsq/19/shilova19.shtml. 21. Law No. 217/1949 Sb. and Law No. 218/1949 Sb., 14 October 1949. 22. Government Decree No. 228/1949 Sb., 25 October 1949. 23. ‘Vyhla´sˇka Sˇta´tneho u´radu pre veci cirkevne´ cˇ. 365 zo dnˇa 12. ma´ja 1950 o rozsahu cˇinnosti refera´tov KNV pre vsˇeobecne´ vnu´torne´ veci vo veciach cirkevny´ch a na´bozˇensky´ch a o zriadenı´ cirkevny´ch oddelenı´’, Cirkevny´ vestnı´k, 5, 1950: 67 –9. 24. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Cirk./99, cart. 401, 1955, U´prava o osla´vach 1. ma´ja v roku 1955. 25. On the situation in Hungary, see, for example, Nicolas Bauquet’s thesis, Pouvoir, E´glise et socie´te´ en Hongrie communiste, 1944– 1964: histoire inte´rieure d’une domination, Sciences Po, Paris, 2013.

NOTES

TO PAGES

55 –59

269

26. ‘Volno o va´nocˇnı´ch sva´tcı´ch’, Rude´ pra´vo, 3 December 1968. 27. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1953, Situacˇna´ spra´va v okrese Bytcˇa na u´seku cirkevnej politiky za december 1953. 28. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. – Cirk./3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za rok 1957, Spra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za IV. sˇtvrtˇrok 1957. 29. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. – Cirk./3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955, Spra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike na zasadnutie byra OV KSS 18. augusta 1955. 30. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. – Cirk./3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za rok 1957. 31. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1954, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1954, Zhodnotenie cirkevnej politiky za rok 1954 a vyty´cˇenie smernı´c na rok 1955. 32. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob., Cirk/3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´ci v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955, Plnenie u´loh podlˇa pla´nu pra´ce a z poslednej porady OCT. 33. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1951, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za r. 1951, Situacˇna´ spra´va, KNV – cirkevne´ odd., 15/03/1951. 34. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, T/Cirk., 370, 1950, Situacˇne´ spra´vy o cirkevnopolitickej situa´cii v Bytcˇianskom okrese, Dvojty´zˇdnˇova situacˇna´ spra´va – Podanie, 370-39/1950 – I./kult.-Br. 35. Sˇ OkAZˇ , f. ONV Zˇ ilina, Cirk. 3/55, Situacˇne´ spra´ vy za rok 1955, Spra´va o cirkevno-politickej situa´cii okresu Zˇilina za mesiac aprı´l 1955. 36. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob., Cirk./3, 1956, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1956, Spra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za druhy´ kvarta´l 1956 v okrese Bytcˇa. 37. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, T/4, 290.2, 1952, Spra´va o c irkevno-politickej situa´cii v okrese 1952, Spra´va o cirkevnopolitickej situa´cii a plnenı´ u´loh na poli cirkevnej politiky v zˇilinskom kraji. 38. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1953, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirk. politike v okrese Bytcˇa 1953, Spra´va o priebehu cirk. sla´vnosti Bozˇieho tela v okrese Bytcˇa. 39. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk./460, Spra´va o cirkevno-politickej situa´cii v okrese za rok 1959, Spra´va o priebehu pu´te vo Visˇnˇovom konanej dnˇa 4. a 5. ju´la 1959. 40. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk./3, 1958, Situacˇne´ spra´vy o cirkevno-politickej situa´cii za rok 1958, Zpra´va o cirkevno-politickej situa´cii za 1. sˇtvrtˇrok 1958 v okrese Zˇilina. 41. NA, f. MSˇK, Cirk. odbor, cart. 80, Informace pro 3. odd. U´V KSCˇ k ruka´m s. Valcharˇe.

270

NOTES

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59 – 66

42. NA, f. MSˇK, Cirk. odbor, cart. 80, Zpra´va o priebehu pu´tı´ a birmoviek v r. 1962 na Slovensku. 43. NA, f. MSˇK, Cirk. odbor, cart. 80, Zpra´va o priebehu rı´m.-kat. pu´te v Levocˇi. See also David Doellinger, Turning Prayers into Protests: Religious-Based Activism and Its Challenge to State Power in Socialist Slovakia and East Germany, Budapest, CEU Press, 2013. 44. On the sanctity of Sunday, see Robert Beck, Histoire du dimanche de 1700 a` nos jours, Paris, E´ditions de l’Atelier, 1997. The ecclesiastical authorities did show themselves to be flexible in the face of demands relating to social, health and technical issues, as well as those regarding the development of business, public services and industry. See ‘Dimanche’, in A. Vacant, E. Mangenot and E. Amann (eds), Dictionnaire de the´ologie catholique, Vol. 4, part 1, Paris, Librairie Letouzey et Ane´, 1924: column 1308– 48. On abstention from servile work on Sundays, see Jacques Berlioz, ‘Tu ne travailleras point le dimanche’, L’Histoire, 309, 2006: 18 – 19. 45. Report on the Reconstruction Plan, minutes of the 17th meeting of the ANT, 24 October 1946. 46. The subbotniki campaign was launched in the USSR in 1919. On Saturday 12 April, 15 workers from Moscow Sortirovochnaı¨a station arrived for work at 8 p.m. and finished their working day at six o’clock the following morning. In the same year, on Saturday 10 May, all railway workers in Moscow repeated their feat, laying the foundations of the new tradition. The first national subbotnik was held on 1 May 1920. Lenin, enthused by a campaign that he saw as a key premise of free work under communism, also participated. His gesture was immortalised in an eponymous painting by Vladimir Krikhatsky. 47. ‘Miliony odpracovany´ch hodin na na´rodnı´ smeˇne mla´dezˇe’, Rude´ pra´vo, 28 October 1947. 48. ‘Prˇedseda vla´dy o na´rodnı´ smeˇne mla´dezˇe’, Rude´ pra´vo, 25 October 1947. 49. Josef Krumpl, Slovnı´k rozvoje iniciativy pracujı´cı´ch, Prague, U´RO, 1980: 2 – 3. 50. The ‘Initiative Z’ programme was launched in 1959 by Government Decree No. 14/1959. Its official objective was to improve living conditions through voluntary work. 51. NA, f. MSˇK – Sekretaria´t pro veˇci cirkevnı´, cart. 141, Cirkevneˇpoliticke´ zabezpecˇenı´ voleb do zastupitelsky´ch sboru na u´seku cirkvı´ a nabozˇensky´ch spolecˇnostı´ v CˇSR (1986). 52. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1954, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1954, Zhodnotenie cirkevnej politiky za rok 1954 a vyty´cˇenie smernı´c na rok 1955. 53. ‘Za nedeˇli 31 657 novy´ch cˇlenu komunisticke´ strany’, Rude´ pra´vo, 25 November 1947. 54. The idea of using propagandist pairs was inspired by the mobilisation campaign (zı´skavacı´ akce) that was organised for the May Day celebrations in 1948. On the last Sunday in April, workers from regional National Front

NOTES

55.

56. 57.

58.

59.

60. 61.

62.

63.

64.

65.

66.

TO PAGES

66 – 67

271

Action Committees distributed boxes of invitations to the May Day celebrations. Olivier Le Cour Grandmaison, ‘Le Mouvement de la paix pendant la guerre froide: le cas franc
ais (1948 – 1952)’, Revue Communisme, 18–19, 1988: 120 – 38; Ste´phane Courtois, ‘Le Mouvement de la paix’, in Jean Franc
ois Sirinelli (ed.), Dictionnaire de la vie politique franc
aise au XXe sie`cle, Paris, PUF, 2005: 626 – 8; Yves Santamaria, Le Parti de l’ennemi? Le Parti Communiste Franc
ais dans la lutte pour la paix, 1947– 1958, Paris, Armand Colin, 2006. Stanislav Balı´k, Jirˇı´ Hanusˇ, Katolicka´ cı´rkev v Cˇeskoslovensku, 1945– 1989, Brno, CSDK, 2007: 129 – 31. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1954, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1954, Spra´va o priebehu mierovy´ch ka´znı´ prevedeny´ch 9. ma´ja v okrese Bytcˇa. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, 290.2, 1951, Situacˇne´ spra´vy o c irkevnopolitickej situa´cii 1951, Mierove´ hlasovanie v obciach – zapojenie sa duchovny´ch. Zdeneˇk Demel, ‘Nedeˇle a totalita. Jak bylo v totalitnı´m Ceskoslovensku omezovane´ sveˇcenı´ nedeˇle’, in Petr Fiala (ed.), Katolicka´ cirkev a totalitarismus v cˇesky´ch zemı´ch, Brno, CSDK, 2001: 111. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk./2, Pla´n pra´ce na rok 1957, Pla´n pra´ce na 4. kvarta´l 1957. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, cart. 401, Vsˇeob. Cirk/3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za rok 1957, Spra´va na zasadanie byra OV KSS 14.11.1957 o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike a prihlasovanı´ detı´ na vyucˇovanie na´bozˇenstva v roku 1957 –1958. NA, f. MSˇK, Cı´rkev – ucˇast na na´bozˇenske´m zˇivoteˇ, statistiky, spra´vy pro zahranicˇı´, cart. 2133, 47 I a 1., Na´meˇty pro cˇinnost ministerstva kultury a sˇkolstvı´, Sta´tnı´ u´rˇad pro veˇci cirkevnı´, 25/10/1955, Informacˇnı´ materia´l k poradeˇ s na´meˇstkem prˇedsedy vla´dy s. Kopecke´ho. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 296.6, 1953, Smernice o spolupra´ci cirkevnopoliticky´ch pracovnı´kov s profesiona´lnymi divadlami a divadelny´mi su´bormi LUT. Among the recommended works were Jira´sek’s cycle of plays about the Hussite period, Krvave´ krtiny by Tyl, Boleslav I by Jaris and Rozum do hrsti by Polach. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. Cirk/3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´ci v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955, Plnenie u´loh podľa pla´nu pra´ce a z poslednej porady OCT. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. Cirk/3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955, Spra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za mesiac ju´n 1955. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. Cirk./3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za rok 1957, Spra´va o priebehu vyucˇovania na´bozˇenstva v roku 1956– 1957.

272

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67 – 70

67. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. – Cirk./3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za rok 1957, Spra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za I. Q. 1957. 68. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. – Cirk./3, 1956, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1956, Spra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za mesiac januar 1956 v okrese Bytcˇa. 69. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. – Cirk./3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955, Spra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za mesiac aprı´l 1955. 70. Krumpl, Slovnı´k rozvoje iniciativy pracujı´cı´ch: 2– 3. 71. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Kult./20, Smernice pre organiza´ciu Medzina´rodne´ho dnˇa druzˇstevnı´kov 1956. 72. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1953. et 290.2/1953, Spra´vy o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa 1953, Spra´va o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa v cirkevnej politike na zasadanie byra OV KSS dnˇa 29. ma´ja 1953. 73. The Sokol was a sport and gymnastics organisation founded in Prague in 1862. Based on the principle of ‘a strong mind in a sound body’, it promoted physical, moral and intellectual training for the nation and spread across all the Slavic regions. In communist Czechoslovakia, the organisation was abolished in 1956 and replaced by the Sport Union (Cˇeskoslovensky´ svaz teˇlesne´ vy´chovy a sportu). See Marek Waic, Sokol v cˇeske´ spolecˇnosti, 1862–1938, Prague, UK, 1997; Jan Novotny´, Sokol v zˇivoteˇ na´roda, Prague, Melantrich, 1990. 74. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, T/Cirk., 1951/296, Organiza´cia Sokolsky´ch dnı´ a Bozˇieho Tela na 27. ma´ja 1951. 75. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk. 3/55, Situacˇne´ spra´vy za rok 1955, Zpra´va o priebehu sprievodov na Bozˇie telo na farnosiach okresu Zˇilina. 76. NA, f. MSˇK, Cı´rkev – ucˇast na na´bozˇenske´m zˇivoteˇ, statistiky, spra´vy pro zahranicˇı´, cart. 2133, 47 I a 1., Na´meˇty pro cˇinnost ministerstva kultury a sˇkolstvı´, Sta´tnı´ u´rˇad pro veˇci cirkevnı´, 25/10/1955, Informacˇnı´ materia´l k poradeˇ s na´meˇstkem prˇedsedy vla´dy s. Kopecke´ho. 77. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. Cirk./3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955, Vyhodnotenie priebehu cirkevny´ch sla´vnostı´ Bozˇieho tela konany´ch 12. ju´na 1955 v okrese Bytcˇa. 78. NA, f. MSˇK, Cirk. odbor, cart. 80, Zpra´va o pru˚beˇhu Bozˇı´ho teˇla – kraj Pardubice. 79. NA, f. MSˇK, Cı´rkev – u´cˇast na na´bozˇenske´m zˇivoteˇ, statistiky, spra´vy pro zahranicˇı´, cart. 2133, 47 I a 1., Zpra´va o pru˚beˇhu Bozˇı´ho teˇla v roce 1955, Sta´tnı´ u´rˇad pro veˇci cirkevnı´, 27. cˇervenec 1955, Informacˇnı´ materia´l k poradeˇ s na´meˇstkem prˇedsedy vla´dy s. Kopecke´ho. 80. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk. 3/58, Situacˇne´ spra´vy o cirkevno–politickej situa´cii za rok 1958, Opatrenia k znı´zˇeniu na´vsˇtevy verejnej pu´te vo Visˇnˇovom. 81. NA, f. MVO, Kolegium ministra. See also F. K. Zeman, ‘Vy´hody prodlouzˇene´ho a nedeˇlnı´ho prodeje’, Vy´zˇiva lidu, 9, 1952: 131– 2.

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273

82. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. – Cirk./3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955. 83. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1953, Spra´vy o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa 1953, Spra´va o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa v cirkevnej politike na zasadanie byra OV KSS dnˇa 29. ma´ja 1953. 84. NA, f. MSˇK, Cı´rkev – ucˇast na na´bozˇenske´m zˇivote, statistiky, spra´vy pro zahranicˇı´, cart. 2133, 47 I a 1., Na´meˇty pro cˇinnost ministerstva kultury a ´ VC, 25.10.1955, Informacˇnı´ materia´l k poradeˇ s na´meˇstkem sˇkolstvı´, SU prˇedsedy vla´dy s. Kopecke´ho. 85. This speech is quoted in the archbishop’s first pastoral letter. See Va´clav Vasˇko, Neumlcˇena´. Kronika katolicke´ cirkve v Ceskoslovensku po druhe´ sveˇtove´ va´lce, Vol. 1, Prague, Zvon, 1990: 145 –7. 86. Law No. 248/1946 Sb., 20 December 1946 on official festivals. 87. Laws No. 78/1948 Sb. and Law No. 154/1949 Sb. 88. Law No. 93/1951 Sb., 6 December 1951 on national festivals, public holidays and important and memorable days. 89. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk. 3/55, Situacˇne´ spra´vy za rok 1955, Spra´va o cirkevno-politickej situa´cii okresu Zˇilina za mesiac aprı´l 1955. 90. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, T/4, 290.2, 1952, Spra´va o c irkevno-politickej situa´cii v okrese 1952, Spra´va o cirkevnopolitickej situa´cii a plnenı´ u´loh na poli cirkevnej politiky v zˇilinskom kraji. 91. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob., Cirk/3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955, Plnenie u´loh podľa pla´nu pra´ce z poslednej porady OCT. 92. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, T/4, 290.2, 1952, Spra´va o c irkevno-politickej situa´cii v okrese 1952, Zpra´va o cirkevnopolitickej situa´cii a plnenı´ uloh na poli cirkevnej politiky v zˇilinskom kraji. 93. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1952, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1952, Spra´va predsednı´ctvu OV KSS na denˇ 6.6.1952 z cirkevne´ho refera´tu ONV. 94. NA, f. MSˇK, Cı´rkev – u´cˇast na na´b. zˇivoteˇ, statistiky, spra´vy pro zahranicˇı´, cart. 2133, 47 I a 1., Vy´sledek sˇetrˇenı´ o religioziteˇ, Sta´tnı´ u´rˇad pro veˇci cirkevnı´ – Sekretaria´t, 9. cˇerven 1955 et Na´meˇty pro cˇinnost ministrstva kultury a sˇkolstvı´, Sta´tnı´ u´rˇad pro veˇci cirkevnı´, 25.10.1955, Informacˇnı´ materia´l k poradeˇ s na´meˇstkem prˇedsedy vla´dy s. Kopecke´ho. 95. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, cart. 401, Vsˇeob., Cirk/3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike za rok 1957, Spra´va na zasadanie byra OV KSS 14.11.1957 o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike a prihlasovanı´ detı´ na vyucˇovanie na´bozˇenstva v roku 1957 –1958. 96. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1952, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1952. 97. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1953, Spra´vy o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa 1953, Spra´va o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa v cirkevnej politike na zasadanie byra OV KSS dnˇa 29. ma´ja 1953.

274

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73 –76

98. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk. 3/1955, Situacˇne´ spra´vy za rok 1955, Spra´va o cirkevno-polit. situa´cii okresu Zˇilina za mesiac december 1955. 99. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1953. 100. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. Cirk./3, 1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955. 101. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1952, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1952, Spra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za mesiac november. 102. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, cart. 401, Cirk./3, 1956, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa 1956, Spra´va o situa´cii vo vyucˇovanı´ na´bozˇenstva na sˇkola´ch v okrese Bytcˇa. 103. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1952, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1952. 104. NA, f. MSˇK, Cı´rkev – u´cˇast na na´bozˇenske´m zˇivote, statistiky, spra´vy pro zahranicˇı´, cart. 2133, 47 I a 1, Zpra´va o pru˚beˇhu Bozˇı´ho teˇla v roce 1955, Sta´tnı´ u´rˇad pro veˇci cirkevnı´, 27.7.1955, Informacˇnı´ materia´l k poradeˇ s na´meˇstkem prˇedsedy vla´dy s. Kopecke´ho. 105. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, cart. 401, Vsˇeob. cirk. 3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevne´j politike za rok 1957, Zpra´va na zasadanie byra OV KSS 14.11.1957. 106. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk. 3/1956, Situacˇne´ spra´vy za rok 1956, Spra´va o politicko – cirkevnej situa´cii za 2. sˇtvrtˇrok 1956 okresu Zˇilina. 107. NA, f. MSˇK, Cı´rkev – u´cˇast na na´bozˇenske´m zˇivoteˇ, statistiky, spra´vy pro zahranicˇı´, cart. 2133, 47 I a 1., Vy´sledek sˇetrˇenı´ o religioziteˇ, Sta´tnı´ u´rˇad pro veˇci cirkevnı´ – Sekretaria´t, 9.7.1955. 108. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk./2, Pla´n pra´ce na rok 1957, Pla´n pra´ce na 1. sˇtvrtˇrok 1957. 109. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk. 2/55, Rada KNV – Odbor cirkevny´ v Zˇiline, Pla´n pra´ce na 2. sˇtvrtˇrok 1955. 110. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. Cirk. 3/1955, cart. 401, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1955. 111. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk. 3/55, Situacˇne´ spra´vy za rok 1955, Spra´va o cirkevno-politickej situa´cii okresu Zˇilina za mesiac aprı´l 1955. 112. SˇOKAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, cart. 401, Vsˇeob. Cirk./3, 1956, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa 1956, O chyba´ch v preva´dzanı´ vedeckej atheistickej propagandy medzi obyvateľstvom. 113. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Zˇilina, Cirk. 3/58, Situacˇne´ spra´vy o cirkevno-politickej situa´cii za rok 1958, Spra´va o religiozite obcˇanov v okrese Zˇilina v priebehu roku 1958. 114. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1954, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za rok 1954, Zpra´va o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike v okrese Bytcˇa za mesiac janua´r 1954. 115. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, Vsˇeob. Cirk./3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za rok 1957.

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116. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, T/Cirk., 290.2, 1953, Spra´vy o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa 1953, Spra´va o situa´cii v okrese Bytcˇa v cirkevnej politike na zasadanie byra OV KSS dnˇa 29. ma´ja 1953. NA, f. MSˇK – Cirkevny odbor, cart. 80, Zpra´va o priebehu rı´msko-katolı´ckej pu´te v Levocˇi. 117. NA, f. MSˇK – Cirkevny odbor, cart. 80, Zpra´va o priebehu rı´msko-katolı´ckej pu´te v Levocˇi. 118. Katherine Verdery, What Was Socialism and What Comes Next?, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1996: 54. 119. Eviatar Zerubavel, Hidden Rhythms: Schedules and Calendars in Social Life, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1985. 120. SˇOkAZˇ, f. ONV Bytcˇa, cart. 401, Vsˇeob. Cirk./3, 1957, Spra´vy o situa´cii v cirkevnej politike za rok 1957, Mimoriadna spra´va o priebehu pobozˇnostı´ cez Veľku´ noc r. 1957. 121. A similar development can be observed in other countries of Central and Eastern Europe. In the German Democratic Republic, the five-day working week was established in December 1965. See Peter Hu¨bner, Niederlausitzer Industriearbeiter 1935 bis 1970. Studien Zur Sozialgeschichte, Berlin, Verlag, 1995: 89 –114. 122. ‘Smeˇna cti. Rˇekli v sobotu nasˇı´m spravodaju˚m’, Pra´ce, 5 April 1976. 123. For a comparison with the USSR in the 1930s, see Theodore von Laute, ‘Russian Peasants in the Factory’, Journal of Economic History, 1, 1961: 61– 80; Gaston Rimplinger, ‘Autocracy and the Early Russian Factory System’, Journal of Economic History, 20, 1960: 67 – 92. For a wider reflection on the development of the weekly rhythm in the context of industrialisation, see Frederick Haribson, Ibrahim Abdelkader Ibrahim, ‘Some Labour Problems of Industrialisation in Egypt’, Annals of the American Academy, 305, 1956: 114 – 29; Wilbert Moore and Arnold Feldman (eds), Labor Commitment and Social Change in Developing Areas, New York, Social Science Research Council, 1960; Jerome A. Barron, ‘Sunday in North America’, Harvard Law Review, 1, 1965: 42 – 54; Morris D. Morris, The Emergence of an Industrial Labour Force in India, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1965. 124. On the decline of Sunday as a day of rest, see Alan Raucher, ‘Sunday Business and the Decline of Sunday Closing Laws: A Historical Overview’, Journal of Church and State, 13, 1994: 21 – 2.

Chapter 3

Constructing the Idea of the Common Good

´ et MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/18, Schu˚ze 1. Prague City Archives (hereafter AHMP), f. OU ple´na MNV, 1948. 2. Ga´bor T. Rittersporn, Malte Rolf and Jan C. Behrends (eds), Spha¨ren von O¨ffentlichkeit in Gesellschaften sowjetischen Typs: Zwischen partei-staatlicher Selbstinszenierung und kirchlichen Gegenwelten / Public Spheres in Soviet-type Societies: Between the Great Show of the Party-State and Religious Counter-cultures,

276

3. 4.

5.

6.

7.

8. 9.

10. 11.

NOTES

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Frankfurt am Main, Peter Lang, 2003; Lewis H. Siegelbaum, ‘Mapping Private Spheres in the Soviet Context’, in Lewis H. Siegelbaum (ed.), Borders of Socialism: Private Spheres of Soviet Russia, New York, Macmillan, 2006: 1 – 21. Dominique Schnapper, La Communaute´ des citoyens: sur l’ide´e moderne de nation, Paris, Gallimard, 2003. Ju¨rgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, Cambridge, MA, MIT Press, 1989. See also Craig Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere, Cambridge, MA, MIT Press, 1993. Joan Landes, Women and the Public Sphere in the Age of the French Revolution, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1988; Mary P. Ryan, Women in Public: Between Banners and Ballots, 1825– 1880, Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990; Geoff Eley, ‘Nations, Publics and Political Cultures: Placing Habermas in the Nineteenth Century’, in Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere: 289 – 339; Nancy Fraser, ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy’, Social Text, 25–6, 1990: 56 – 80. Oscar Negt, Alexander Kluge, Public Sphere and Experience: Towards an Analysis of the Bourgeois and Proletarian Public Sphere, Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press, 1993; Arlette Farge, Dire et mal dire: l’opinion publique au XVIIIe sie`cle, Paris, Seuil, 1992. In addition to the works already cited, see Ju¨rgen Habermas, Theory of Communicative Action, Vol. 2: Lifeworld and System: A Critique of Functionalist Reason, Boston, Beacon Press, 1981. In the case of Czechoslovakia, see Article 2 of Constitutional Law No. 150/1948. Petr Dosta´l (ed.), Changing Territorial Administration in Czechoslovakia: International Viewpoints, Amsterdam, University of Amsterdam, 1992; Jirˇı´ Kabele (ed.), Rekonstrukce komunisticke´ho vla´dnutı´ na konci osmdesa´ty´ch let, Prague, SU´ AV CˇR, 2003. On the USSR, see Jeffrey W. Hahn, Soviet Grassroots: Citizen Participation in Local Soviet Government, London, I.B.Tauris, 1988; Everett M. Jacobs (ed.), Soviet Local Politics and Government, London, Allen and Unwin, 1983; Cameron Ross, Local Government in the Soviet Union: Problems of Implementation and Control, London, Croom Helm, 1987. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 6/52, Protokoly ze schu˚zı´ rady MNV, 12 March 1956. Philipp Ther and Ana Siljak (eds), Redrawing Nations: Ethnic Cleansing in East – Central Europe, 1944– 1948, Lanham, Rowman/Littlefield, 2001; Pertti Ahonen, Gustavo Corni and Jerzy Kochanowski (eds), People on the Move: Forced Population Movements in Europe in the Second World War and Its Aftermath, New York, Berg, 2008; Leczek Kosin´ski, ‘Changes in the Ethnic Structure in East Central Europe 1930–1960’, Geographical Review, 3, 1969: 388– 402; Alfred J. Rieber (ed.), Forced Migration in Central and Eastern Europe, 1939– 1950, London, Frank Cass, 2000.

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277

12. Jaroslav Hrbek, Vı´t Smetana, Stanislav Kokosˇka, Draze zaplacena´ svoboda. Osvobozenı´ Cˇeskoslovenska, 1944– 1945, Vols 1 and 2, Prague, Paseka, 2009. 13. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/15, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV v Ruzyni 1945. 14. Toma´sˇ Staneˇk, Odsun Neˇmcu˚ z Cˇeskoslovenska, 1945 –1947, Prague, Academia, 1991; Adrian von Arburg, Toma´sˇ Staneˇk, ‘Organizovane´ divoke´ odsuny? U´loha u´strˇednı´ch sta´tnı´ch orga´nu˚ prˇi prova´deˇnı´ “evakuace” neˇmecke´ho obyvatelstva (kveˇten azˇ za´rˇı´ 1945)’, Soudobe´ deˇjiny, 1, 3– 4, 2005: 465– 533; 2, 1 – 2, 2006: 13 – 49; 3, 3 – 4, 2006: 321 – 76. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/17, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV v Ruzyni 1947. 15. AHMP, f. OU 16. Benjamin Frommer, National Cleansing: Retribution against Nazi Collaborators in Postwar Czechoslovakia, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2005; Ivo Pejcˇoch and Jirˇı´ Plachy´ (eds), Okupace, kolaborace, retribuce, Prague, VHM, 2010; Mecˇislav Bora´k, Spravedlnost podle dekretu. Retribucˇnı´ soudnictvı´ v CˇSR a Mimorˇa´dny´ lidovy´ soud v Ostraveˇ, 1945– 1948, Prague, Tilia, 1998. 17. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/16, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV v Ruzyni 1947. 18. John F. N. Bradley, ‘Le Syste`me et la vie politique en Tche´coslovaquie de 1945 au coup de Prague en 1948’, Canadian Journal of Political Science, 3, 1982: 481 – 3. 19. Directive No. 26/1945, Slovak National Council (SNR) on National Committees. 20. Stephen D. Kertesz, Between Russia and the West: Hungary and the Illusions of Peacemaking 1945 –1947, London, University of Notre Dame Press, 1984. 21. K. Bertelmann, Vznik na´rodnı´ch vy´boru˚. Ota´zka na´rodnı´ a demokraticke´ revoluce v CˇSR, Prague, Academia, 1955: 113 – 38. 22. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/15, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 20 May 1945. 23. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/15, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 19 May 1945. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/15, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 12 September 1945. 24. AHMP, f. OU ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/17, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 5 September 1947. 25. AHMP, f. OU 26. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/17, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 30 September 1947. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/17, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, Protest (opis). 27. AHMP, f. OU ´ 28. AHMP, f. OU a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/17, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 11 December 1947. 29. This statement should be qualified. The importance of wealth as a criterion for access to the public sphere gradually changed during the nineteenth century, due to census reform and more people having the right to vote, even though some European countries did not allow universal suffrage (including for women) until the twentieth century. 30. Sharon L. Wolchik, ‘Women and the Politics of Gender in Communist and Post-Communist Central and Eastern Europe’, in Sabrina Ramet (ed.), Eastern Europe: Politics, Culture, and Society since 1939, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1998: 48– 61; Barbara Havelkova´, ‘Genderova´ rovnost v obdobı´ socialismu’, in M. Bobek, P. Molek and V. Sˇimı´cˇek (eds), Komunisticke´ pra´vo v Cˇeskoslovensku. Kapitoly z deˇjin bezpra´vı´, Brno, Masarykova univerzita, 2009: 179 – 206.

278

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31. Wendy Z. Goldman, Women, the State and Revolution, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1993: 6. 32. For the case of Czechoslovakia, see the constitution of 9 May 1948, Article 3. 33. Mark Pittaway, ‘The Reproduction of Hierarchy: Skill, Working-Class Culture and the State in Early Socialist Hungary’, Journal of Modern History, 4, 2002: 737 – 69; Denisa Necˇasova´, ‘Nahrad’me muzˇe na jejich pracovnı´ch mı´stech! Gender a na´bor zˇen do zameˇstna´nı´ v pou´norove´m Cˇeskoslovensku’, Cˇasopis Matice moravske´, 2, 2009: 367– 79; Eszter Zso´fia Toth, ‘Memory and Identity in a Women Workers’ Brigade in Socialist Hungary’, International Labor and Working-Class History, 68, 2005: 75 – 92. 34. Barbara Jancar, Czechoslovakia and the Absolute Monopoly of Power, New York, Praeger, 1971: 36. 35. Sharon L. Wolchik, ‘The Status of Women in a Socialist Order: Czechoslovakia 1948– 1978’, Slavic Review, 4, 1979: 583 – 602. 36. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 1/15 (1945), 1/16 (1946) and 4/45 (1949). 37. Jan Chovanec, Zastupitelska´ soustava Cˇeskoslovenske´ socialisticke´ republiky, Prague, Mlada´ fronta, 1974: 130 – 1. 38. J. Bauerova´, E. Ba´rtova´, Promeˇny zˇeny v rodineˇ, pra´ci a verˇejne´m zˇivoteˇ, Prague, Svoboda, 1987. 39. Andrea Peto¨, ‘Hungarian Women in Politics, 1945– 1951’, in Eleonore Breuning, Jill Lewis and Gareth Pritchard (eds), Power and the People: A Social History of Central European Politics 1945– 1956, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2005: 266 – 78. 40. For a European perspective, see Georges Duby, Michelle Perrot and Franc
oise The´baud (eds), Histoire des femmes en Occident, Vol. 5: Le XXe Sie`cle, Paris, Perrin, 2002; Catherine Achin, Sexes, genre et politique, Paris, Economica, 2007. 41. Jirˇı´ Pernes, Komunistky s fanatismem v srdci, Prague, Bra´na, 2006; Eva Uhrova´, ‘Na´rodnı´ fronta zˇen a Rada cˇeskoslovensky´ch zˇen – dva proudy zˇenske´ho hnutı´ ˇ esky´ch zemı´ch a jejich za´jem o socia´lnı´ a pra´vnı´ postavenı´ zˇen. Kveˇten 1945 vc azˇ u´nor 1948’, in Zdeneˇk Ka´rnı´k, Michal Kopecˇek (ed.), Bolsˇevismus, komunismus a radika´lnı´ socialismus v Cˇeskoslovensku, Vol. 4, Prague, Dokorˇa´n, 2005: 88 –112. 42. Denisa Necˇasova´, Buduj vlast – posı´lı´sˇ mı´r ! Zˇenske´ hnutı´ v ˇcesky´ch zemı´ch, 1945– 1955, Brno, Matice moravska´, 2011; Leonore Ansorg, Renate Hu¨rtgen, ‘The Myth of Female Emancipation: Contradictions in Women’s Life’, in Konrad H. Jarausch (ed.), Dictatorship as Experience: Towards a Socio-cultural History of the GDR, New York, Berghahn Books, 1999: 163 – 75. 43. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/18, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 11 October 1948. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/25, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 19 April 1952. 44. AHMP, f. OU 45. Pierre Bourdieu, La Distinction: critique sociale du jugement, Paris, Minuit, 1979. 46. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/17, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 11 December 1947. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Zaseda´nı´ rady MNV, 25 April 1950. 47. AHMP, f. OU

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279

48. Lorenz Erren, ‘Stalinist Rule and Its Communication Practices: An Overview’, in Kirill Postoutenko (ed.), Totalitarian Communication: Hierarchies, Codes and Messages, Bielefeld, Transcript Verlag, 2010: 43 – 65. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/18, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 19 March 1948. 49. AHMP, f. OU 50. Andeˇlı´n Merta, Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory. Vy´voj a jejich organizace v letech 1945– 1965, Prague, Orbis, 1966: 42. 51. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/25, Zaseda´nı´ ple´na MNV, 3 November 1952. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/22, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 21 January 1951. 52. AHMP, f. OU 53. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/48, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 18 April 1952. 54. Milovan Djilas, La Nouvelle Classe dirigeante, Paris, Plon, 1957. 55. Jeffrey W. Hahn, Soviet Grassroots: Citizen Participation in Local Soviet Government, London, I.B.Tauris, 1988. 56. Constitutional Law No. 150/1948, Article 10. 57. Laws 280/1948, 12/1954, 13/1954, 14/1954, 65/1960 and the Constitutional Law of 1960. 58. Andeˇlı´n Merta, ‘Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory a jejich u´loha v uplynuly´ch dvaceti letech’, Prazˇsky´ sbornı´k historicky´, 2, 1965: 17. 59. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 6/52, Protokoly ze schu˚zı´ rady MNV, 9 March 1956. 60. This hierarchy was implemented in 1953. See the Constitutional Law of 16 September 1953. 61. Andrew Coulson (ed.), Local Government in Eastern Europe: Establishing Democracy at the Grassroots, Hampshire, Edward Elgar Publishing, 1995: 43 – 4. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/48, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 15 August 1952. 62. AHMP, f. OU ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/48, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 31 October 1952. 63. AHMP, f. OU 64. Merta, ‘Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory a jejich u´loha’: 15. 65. Karel Kaplan, Zna´rodneˇnı´ a socialismus, Prague, Pra´ce, 1960; Jirˇı´ Kocian, ‘Zna´rodnˇova´nı´ v programu cˇeskoslovensky´ch politicky´ch stran’, in H. Fajmon, S. Balı´k and K. Hlousˇkova´ (eds), Dusive´ objetı´. Historicke´ a politologicke´ pohledy na spolupra´ci socia´lnı´ch demokratu˚ a komunistu˚, Brno, CSDK, 2006: 84– 95. 66. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/16, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 14 September 1946. 67. Petr Blazˇek and Michal Kuba´lek (eds), Kolektivizace venkova v Cˇeskoslovensku 1948– 1960 a strˇedoevropske´ souvislosti, Prague, Dokorˇa´n, 2008. 68. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 6 January 1950. 69. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 28 February 1950. 70. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/15, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 10 September 1945. 71. Drahomı´ra Kopejtkova´, ‘K u´loze na´rodnı´ch spra´v a nuceny´ch na´jmu˚ jako na´stroje zmeˇn v pozemkove´m vlastnictvı´ v Cˇeskoslovensku na konci 40. a na pocˇa´tku 50. let’, Slovansky´ prˇehled, 5, 1991: 396 –405. See also Interior Ministry Directive No. 448/1949 and Law No. 138/1948. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/48, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 26 September 1952. 72. AHMP, f. OU 73. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 8 August 1950.

280

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98 –104

74. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 5/49 (30 April 1953), 5/49 (21 August 1953), 6/52 (13 January 1956) and 4/48 (15 August 1952). 75. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/22, Zaseda´nı´ ple´na MNV, 21 September 1951. 76. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 28 February 1950. 77. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 5/49, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 30 April 1953. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 6/52, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 13 January 1956. 78. AHMP, f. OU 79. Everett M. Jacobs (ed.), Soviet Local Politics and Government, London, Allen and Unwin, 1983; Theodore H. Friedgut and Jeffrey W. Hahn (eds), Local Power and Post-Soviet Politics, London, M. E. Sharpe, 1994: 6; Jerry F. Hough, ‘Political Participation in Soviet Union’, Soviet Studies, 1, 1976: 3–20. On communal politics in Central Europe before 1945, see Jirˇı´ Pesˇek and Va´clav Ledvinka (eds), Mezi liberalismem a totalitou. Komuna´lnı´ politika ve strˇedoevropsky´ch zemı´ch, 1848– 1948. Sbornı´k prˇı´speˇvku˚ z konference Archivu hlavnı´ho meˇsta Prahy, Prague, Scriptorium, 1997. For the legal context in Czechoslovakia, see Law No. 105/1953 on local industry and the communal economy. 80. Robert G. Weston, ‘Volunteers and Soviets’, Soviet Studies, 3, 1964: 231– 49. 81. Merta, ‘Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory a jejich u´loha’: 15; Merta, Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory. 82. L. G. Churchward, ‘Soviet Local Government Today’, Soviet Studies, 4, 1966: 439 – 40. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 5/49, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 30 April 1953. 83. AHMP, f. OU 84. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/22, Zaseda´nı´ ple´na MNV, 21 September 1951. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Zaseda´nı´ rady MNV, 25 April 1950. 85. AHMP, f. OU ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/45, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 14 January 1949. 86. AHMP, f. OU ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 25 July 1950. 87. AHMP, f. OU 88. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, March 1950. 89. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 5/49, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 21 August 1953. 90. On the nature of the collective interest, see David E. Apter, The Politics of Modernisation, Chicago, Chicago University Press, 1967: 31– 6. 91. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 14 February 1950. 92. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 5 December 1950. 93. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 17 January 1950. 94. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 5/49, Schu˚ze rady MNV Ruzyneˇ, 2 January 1953. 95. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 30 June 1950. 96. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/25, Zaseda´nı´ ple´na a hovory s obcˇany, 19 April 1952. 97. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/25, Zaseda´nı´ ple´na a hovory s obcˇany, 29 May 1952. 98. Theodore Friedgut, ‘Community Structure, Political Participation, and Soviet Local Government: The Case of the Kutaisi’, in H. Morton (ed.), Soviet Politics and Society in the 1970s, New York, The Free Press, 1974: 261– 96.

NOTES TO PAGES 104 –108

281

99. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 6/52, Schu˚ze rady MNV Ruzyneˇ, 13 April 1956. 100. Merta, Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory: 43. 101. Merta, ‘Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory a jejich u´loha’: 17. 102. Law No. 12/1954, 3 March 1954 on national committees. 103. AHMP, f. OU a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/45, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 12 April 1949. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 5/49, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 30 April 1953. 104. AHMP, f. OU 105. AHMP, f. OU a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 28 February 1950. 106. AHMP, f. OU a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/22, Zaseda´ni ple´na MNV, 21 September 1951. 107. AHMP, f. OU a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/22, Zaseda´ni ple´na MNV, 10 November 1951. 108. Merta, Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory: 5. 109. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/25, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 3 November 1952. 110. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/48, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 28 November 1952. 111. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/25, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 3 November 1952. 112. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/48, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 14 March 1952. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/48, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 11 July 1952. 113. AHMP, f. OU 114. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/49, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 30 April 1953. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 8/56, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 4 January 1960. 115. AHMP, f. OU 116. James Oliver, ‘Citizen Demands and the Soviet Political System’, American Political Science Review, 2, 1969: 465 – 75. 117. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 6/52, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 13 April 1956. 118. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 8/56, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 22 January 1960. ´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 6/52, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 13 April 1956. 119. AHMP, f. OU 120. Sandrine Kott, ‘Collectifs et communaute´s dans les entreprises en RDA: limites de la dictature ou dictature des limites’, Gene`ses: Sciences sociales et histoire, 39, 2000: 27 – 51. 121. For the case of Poland, see the Catholic movement Znak (1956 – 78) or the Catholic newspaper Wiez´, edited by Tadeusz Mazowiecki (1958 – 81). For the German Democratic Republic, see Catherine Talandier, Au-dela` des murs: les e´glises e´vange´liques d’Allemagne de l’Est, 1980– 1989, Geneva, Labor et Fides, 1994. For Czechoslovakia, see Karel Kaplan, Sta´t a cirkev v Cˇeskoslovensku, 1948– 1953, Prague, Doplneˇk, 1993; Stanislav Balı´k, Jirˇı´ Hanusˇ, Katolicka´ cirkev v Cˇeskoslovensku, 1945– 1989, Brno, CSDK, 2007. 122. Arch Puddington, Broadcasting Freedom: The Cold War Triumph of Radio Free Europe and Radio Liberty, Kentucky, University Press of Kentucky, 2000. 123. Gabor T. Rittersporn (ed.), Spha¨ren von O¨ffentlichkeit in Gesellschaften sowjetischen Typs, Frankfurt am Main, Peter Lang, 2003: 195 – 216, 217– 38; Hans Knoll (ed.), Die Zweite O¨ffentlichkeit, Kunst im Ungarn im 20. Jahrhundert, Dresden, Verlag der Kunst, 1999. 124. Emmanuel Droit, Vers un homme nouveau? L’e´ducation socialiste en RDA, 1949– 1989, Rennes, PUR, 2009; Sandrine Devaux, Engagement associatif et postcommunisme: le cas de la Re´publique tche`que, Paris, Belin, 2005.

282

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108 –114

125. Uta G. Poiger, Jazz, Rock, and Rebels: Cold War Politics and American Culture in a Divided Germany, Berkeley, University of California Press, 2000; Sabrina Ramet (ed.), Rocking the State: Rock Music and Politics in Eastern Europe and Russia, Boulder, Westview Press, 1994; Timothy W. Ryback, Rock around the Bloc: A History of Rock Music in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1990. ´ vahy o dusˇevnej pra´ci a bohatstve na´roda, Bratislava, SAV, 1967; 126. Eugen Lo¨bl, U Karel Michnˇa´k, Eduard Urba´nek, Spolocˇenske´ trˇı´dy, Prague, Svobodne´ slovo, 1964; Petr Machonin, Zmeˇny v socia´lnı´ strukturˇe CˇSR, Prague, Svoboda, 1967; Petr Machonin (ed.), Cˇeskoslovenska´ spolecˇnost – sociologicka´ analy´za, Bratislava, Epocha, 1969. 127. H. Gordon Skilling, Samizdat and an Independent Society in Central and Eastern Europe, Columbus, Ohio State University Press, 1989; Chantal Delsol, Michel Masłowski and Joanna Nowicki (eds), Dissidences, Paris, PUF, 2005. 128. Padraic Kenney, The Carnival of Revolution: Central Europe 1989, Princeton, Princeton, University Press, 2002. 129. AHMP, f. OU´ a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/48, Schu˚ze rady MNV, 2 May 1952. 130. Pavlı´na Forma´nkova´, ‘Kampanˇ proti “americke´mu brouku” a jejı´ politicke´ souvislosti’, Pameˇtˇ a deˇjiny, 1, 2008: 22 – 38. 131. AHMP, f. OU a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 4/46, Zaseda´nı´ rady MNV, 1 August 1950. 132. AHMP, f. OU a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 1/23, Schu˚ze ple´na MNV, 1951. 133. Rolf H. W. Theen, ‘Russia at the Grassroots: Reform at the Local and Regional Level’, in Ilpyong J. Kim and Jane Shapiro Zacek (eds), Establishing Democratic Rule: The Reemergence of Local Governments in Post-Authoritarian Systems, Washington, In Depth Books, 1993: 37 – 74; Alexandra Ionescu, ‘Vote et re´forme territoriale en Europe centrale et orientale: administration et politique e´lectorale en Roumanie postcommuniste’, Studia Politica: Romanian Political Science Review, 4, 2012: 539 – 54.

Chapter 4

Complaining, Talking about Yo urself

1. Prague City Archives (hereafter AHMP), f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), OVV201.01, 1223– 201, Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (A – G), 1953– 4. 2. Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, New York, Meridian Books, 1958: 474. 3. Oleg Kharkhordin, ‘Reveal and Dissimulate: A Genealogy of Private Life in Soviet Russia’, in Jeff Weintraub and Krishan Kumar (eds), Public and Private in Thought and Practice, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1997: 333 – 63. This book is also an excellent introduction to notions of the public and the private in contemporary societies. For the post-1989 situation, see the special issue of Social Research, ‘Privacy in Post-Communist Europe’, 1, 2002. 4. Fatos Lubonja, ‘Privacy in a Totalitarian Regime’, Social Research, 1, 2001: 237 – 54.

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5. Gabor T. Rittersporn, Malte Rolf and Jan C. Behrens (eds), Spha¨ren von O¨ffentlichkeit in Gesellschaften sowjetischen Typs / Public Spheres in Soviet-type Societies, Frankfurt am Main, Peter Lang, 2003. 6. David Crowley and Susan E. Reid (eds), Socialist Spaces: Sites of Everyday Life in the Eastern Block, New York, Berg, 2002; Victor Buchli, An Archeology of Socialism, New York, Berg, 1999; Karen Kettering, ‘“Ever More Cosy and Comfortable”: Stalinism and the Soviet Domestic Interior, 1928– 1938’, Journal of Design History, 2, 1997: 119 – 35; Stephen Lovell, Summerfolk: A History of the Datcha 1710–2000, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 2003. 7. Susan Gal, Gail Kligman, The Politics of Gender after Socialism: A ComparativeHistorical Essay, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2000. 8. Arnold Simmel, ‘Privacy’, in David L. Sills (ed.), International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, Vol. 11, New York, Macmillan, 1968: 480– 7; Maurizio D’Entreves and Ursula Vogel (eds), Public and Private: Legal, Political and Philosophical Perspectives, London, Routledge, 2000; Ferdinand Schoeman (ed.), Philosophical Dimensions of Privacy, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1984. See also the entry on ‘Privacy’ in the online Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/privacy/; Edward J. Bloustein, ‘Privacy as an Aspect of Human Dignity’, New York University Law Review, 962, 1964: 962 – 1003. 9. Georges Duby, ‘Pre´face’, in Philippe Arie`s and Georges Duby (eds), Histoire de la vie prive´e, Vol. 1, Paris, Seuil, 1985: 10. 10. Jeff Weintraub, ‘The Theory and Politics of the Public/Private Distinction’, in Jeff Weintraub and Krishan Kumar (eds), Public and Private in Thought and Practice, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1997: 1 – 42. 11. Westin Allen, Unpopular Privacy: What Must We Hide?, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2011; William Parent, ‘Privacy, Morality and the Law’, Philosophy and Public Affairs, 12, 1983: 269 –88. 12. Isaiah Berlin, Two Concepts of Liberty, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1958: 51. 13. Georg Simmel, Sociology of Georg Simmel, New York, Free Press, 1958: 320– 4. 14. Ve´ronique Garros, Natalia Korenevskaja and Thomas Lahusel (eds), Intimacy and Terror: Soviet Diaries of the 1930s, New York, The New Press, 1995. On diaries and personal writings in the Soviet era, see Jochen Hellbeck, ‘Selfrealisation in the Stalinist System: Two Soviet Diaries of the 1930s’, in David L. Hoffmann and Yanni Kotsonis (eds), Russian Modernity: Politics, Knowledge, Practices, New York, St Martin’s Press, 2000: 221 – 42; special issue, ‘E´crits personnels: Russie XVIIIe – XXe sie`cles’, Cahiers du monde russe, 1, 2009; Claude Pennetier, Bernard Pudal, Autobiographies, autocritiques, aveux dans le monde communiste, Paris, Belin, 2002; Brigitte Studer, Berthold Unfried and Ire`ne Herrmann (eds), Parler de soi sous Staline: la construction identitaire dans le communisme des anne´es trente, Paris, E´ditions de la MSH, 2002. On Czechoslovak diaries, see Cˇestmı´r Jerˇa´bek, V zajetı´ stalinismu, Z denı´ku˚, 1948– 1958, Brno, Barrister, a Principal 2000, and Jan Za´brana, Cely´ zˇivot. Vy´bor z denı´ku˚, 1948– 1984, Prague, Torst, 2001.

284

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15. See Maurice Halbwachs, Les Cadres sociaux de la me´moire, Paris, PUF, 1952; Marie-Claire Lavabre, Le Fil rouge: sociologie de la me´moire communiste, Paris, Presses de la FNSP, 1994. On the Czech context, see Franc� oise Mayer, Les Tche`ques et leur communisme: me´moire et identite´s politiques, Paris, E´ditions de l’EHESS, 2003. 16. For the USSR, see Franc� ois-Xavier Ne´rard, Cinq pour cent de ve´rite´: la de´nonciation dans l’URSS de Staline, 1928– 1941, Paris, Tallandier, 2004. For the German Democratic Republic, see Ina Merkel ‘. . . in Hoyerswerda leben jedenfalls keine so kleinen viereckigen Menschen’, in Alf Lu¨dtke and Peter Becker (eds), Akten. Eingaben. Schaufenster. Die DDR und ihre Texte, Berlin, Akademie Verlag, 1997; Jay Rowell, Le Totalitarisme au concret: les politiques du logement en RDA, Paris, Economica, 2006; Gunhild Samson, ‘Entre langage quotidien et discours officiel: requeˆtes et courrier des lecteurs en RDA’, in Catherine Fabre-Renault (ed.), La RDA au passe´ pre´sent: relectures critiques et re´flexions pe´dagogiques, Paris, Presses de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, 2006: 103– 22. On Poland, see Joanna Tokarska-Bakir, ‘Complaints and Their Researchers: The Evolution of Sociodicy in Poland in the Period of 1949– 1988’, East European Politics and Societies, 2, 2014: 296 – 317. On Bulgaria, see Martin K. Dimitrov, ‘What the Party Wanted to Know: Citizen Complaints as a Barometer of Public Opinion in Communist Bulgaria’, East European Politics and Societies, 2, 2014: 271 – 95. 17. Susan E. Reid, ‘The Meaning of Home: The Only Bit of the World You Can Have to Yourself’, in Lewis H. Siegelbaum (ed.), Borders of Socialism: Private Spheres of Soviet Russia, London, Palgrave, 2006: 145 – 70. 18. Karel Kra´l, La Tche´coslovaquie, pays du travail et de la paix, Prague, Pra´ce, 1953: 79. 19. In this sense, the people’s democracies continued the trend begun in the USSR. Between 1923 and 1958, the proportion of State-owned housing in Soviet cities rose from 50.2 to 69.5 per cent. At the beginning of the 1960s, 70 per cent of Czechoslovak urban housing was State owned. See Lada Hubatova´Vackova´ and Cyril Rˇı´ha (eds), Husa´kovo 3þ1, Prague, VSˇUP, 2007; Josef Vla´sˇek, Radomil Votava, Natasˇa Hrindova´, ‘Vy´voj bytove´ vy´stavby v CˇSFR v letech 1960 azˇ 1990’, Statistika, 4, 1991: 164 – 74. 20. Jan Kazimour (ed.), Vy´voj spolecˇnosti CˇSSR v ˇcı´slech. Rozbory vy´sledku˚ scˇı´ta´nı´ lidu, domu˚ a bytu˚, Prague, SEVT, 1965. 21. Housing Law No. 138/1948. 22. See Housing Laws No. 67/1956, 147/1961 and 41/1964. Apartments that did not c onform to the norms (if they did not have c ommunal toilets and bathrooms, for example) were exempt from this c lassification. The mass construction of family apartments (three bedrooms and a kitchen) from the end of the 1950s onwards made these norms obsolete. See Hubatova´-Vackova´, Rˇı´ha (eds), Husa´kovo 3þ1; Frantisˇek Zoulı´k, Byty a bydlenı´, Prague, Orbis, 1967. 23. See §§ 56 –8 of Housing Law No. 41/1964 and §1, Article 2 of Decree No. 47/1978 on the sale of State apartments. On the legal aspect of property

NOTES

24.

25.

26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39.

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relationships in Soviet-style regimes, see Charles Hachten, ‘Separate Yet Governed: The Representation of Soviet Property Relations in Civil Law and Public Discourse’, in Siegelbaum (ed.), Borders of Socialism: 65–82. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Tajne´ spisy – bytove´ a domovnı´ za´lezˇitosti, 1952, 1954, OVV-035.07, 262 –35, Zpra´va o stavu bytove´ho fondu na u´zemı´ UNV hl. M. Prahy 1954. On housing in Czechoslovakia, see Kimberly Elman Zarecor, Manufacturing a Socialist Modernity. Housing in Czechoslovakia, 1945– 1960, Pittsburgh, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2011; Lucie Zadrazˇilova´, ‘Sociologie bydlenı´ v padesa´ty´ch letech’, in Igor Janovsky´, Jana Kleinova´ and Hynek Strˇı´tesky´ (eds), Veˇda a technika v Cˇeskoslovensku v letech 1945– 1960, Prague, NTM, 2010: 151 – 69. Svetlana Boym, ‘Living in Common Places: The Communal Apartment’, in Svetlana Boym, Common Places: Mythologies of Everyday Life in Russia, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1994: 121 – 67. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945 – 91), Stı´zˇnosti 1965–6, OVV-201.07, 1229– 201, 24 April 1965. Michel Foucault, ‘Technologies of the Self’, in Luther H. Martin, Huck Gutman and Patrick H. Hutton (eds), Technologies of the Self: A Seminar with Michel Foucault, London, Tavistock, 1988: 16 – 41. The Penal Code (Law No. 86/1950) and the Administrative Penal Code (Law No. 88/1950). Speech by Deputy Jaroslav Kokesˇ, ANT meeting, 11 July 1950. Speech by Interior Minister Va´clav Nosek, ANT meeting, 11 July 1950. The Law on the Penal Code (No. 86/1950), especially §§ 112– 29 and the Law on the Administrative Penal Code (No. 88/1950), especially §§ 127 – 48. The Law on the Penal Code (No. 86/1950), § 1. Ibid. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (P – S), 1953– 4, OVV-201.04, 1226– 201, 10 August 1954. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 71 – 7, 21 February 1970. See the Czechoslovak Constitution of 1960, the Laws on the Penal Code (Nos. 140/1061 and 141/1061) and the Law on the Civil Code (No. 40/1964). See also the Law on the Function of District Councils in the Maintenance of Socialist Order (No. 60/1961), the Law on People’s Courts (No. 38/1961) and the Law on Public Offences (No. 150/1969). Kamil Cˇina´tl, Veˇcˇne´ cˇasy, Prague, Respekt, 2009: 141 – 69. See also Lidova´ demokracie, 10 January 1952. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6, 1954– 6, OVV065.06, 413 – 65, 20 March 1956. Similar methods were used in other countries of Central and Eastern Europe. For the German Democratic Republic, see Regine Falkenberg, Carola Ju¨llig, Jorn Schu¨trmpf and Ralph Gleis (eds), Parteidiktatur und Alltag in der DDR, Berlin, DHM, 2007.

286

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122 –126

40. Zˇilina Municipal Archives (hereafter SˇokAZˇ), f. OAV NF Zˇilina, 385/1950, 3. schoˆdzka krajske´ho prı´pravne´ho vy´boru pre oslavy 1. ma´ja. 41. Law No. 38/1961. 42. On neighbourhood justice, see Paul Betts, ‘Property, Noise and Honour: Neighbourhood Justice’, in Paul Betts, Within Walls: Private Life in the German Democratic Republic, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2010: 148– 72; Deborah A. Field, Private Life and Communist Morality in Khrushchev’s Russia, New York, Peter Lang, 2007. 43. Pieter W. Sperlich, The East German Social Courts: Law and Popular Justice in a Marxist – Leninist Society, Westport, Praeger, 2007; Nancy Travis Wolfe, ‘Social Courts in the GDR and Comrades’ Courts in the Soviet Union: A Comparison’, in David Childs, Thomas A. Baylis and Marilyn Rueschemeyer (eds), East Germany in Comparative Perspective, London, Routledge, 1989: 60 – 80; Betts, Within Walls: 149 – 72. 44. ‘Programma Komunisticheskoi Partii Sovietskogo Souza’, in Materialy XXVII Sjezda Komunisticheskoi Partii Sovietskogo Souza, Moscow, Gospolitizdat, 1986: 125 and 134. On the period before 1945, see David L. Hoffmann, Stalinist Values: The Cultural Norms of Soviet Modernity, 1917– 1941, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 2003. 45. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (P – S), 1953– 4, OVV-201.04, 1226– 201, 18 May 1954. 46. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945 –91), OVV-201.01, Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (A – G), 1953– 4, 1223– 201. 47. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6, 1954– 6, OVV065.06, 413 – 65, 18 April 1956. 48. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6, 1954– 6, OVV065.06, 413 – 65, 13 December 1955. 49. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti, 1965 –6, OVV-201.07, 1229– 201, 24 April 1965. 50. See the distinction between ‘personal life’ (lichnaia zhizn) and ‘private life’ (chastnaia zhizn) in Russian, analysed by Oleg Kharkhordin in ‘Reveal and Dissimulate: A Genealogy of Private Life in Soviet Russia’, in Jeff Weintraub and Krishan Kumar (eds), Public and Private in Thought and Practice: Perspectives on a Grand Dichotomy, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1997: 333– 63. 51. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945 – 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6 1954– 6, OVV065.06, 413 – 65, 15 November 1955. 52. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 74 – 7, 8 October 1970. 53. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (P – S), 1953– 4, OVV-201.04, 1226– 201, 16 April 1955. 54. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6, 1954– 6, OVV065.06, 413 – 65, 9 September 1956. 55. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 73 – 7, 5 December 1969.

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56. This idealised image of Antonı´n Za´potocky´ was greatly damaged by the 1953 monetary reform. On the personality cult, see Balazs Apor, Jan C. and Behrens, E. A. Rees (eds), The Leader Cult in Communist Dictatorships: Stalin and the Eastern Bloc, London, Palgrave, 2004. For a c ase study, see Anneli Ute Gabanyi, The Ceaucescu Cult: Propaganda and Power Policy in Communist Romania, Bucharest, Romanian Cultural Foundation Publishing House, 2000. 57. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 15 December 1953. 58. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6, 1954– 6, OVV065.06, 413 – 65, 1 January 1955. 59. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945 – 91), Stı´zˇnosti 1965–6, OVV-201.07, 1229– 201, 3 May 1965. 60. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 15 March 1954. 61. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 12 September 1954. 62. AHMP, f. PVF NVP (1963 – 87), 11. porada vedenı´, 11–10, 25 March 1968. 63. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 13 October 1953. 64. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (P – S), 1953– 4, OVV-201.04, 1226– 201, 26 June 1954. 65. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (A – G), 1953– 4, OVV-201.01, 1223– 201, 5 October 1954. 66. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (P – S), 1953– 4, OVV-201.04, 1226– 201, 6 March 1954. 67. Karel Kaplan, Socia´lnı´ souvislosti krizı´ komunisticke´ho rezˇimu 1953– 1957 a ´ SD, 1993; Dana Musilova´, Meˇnova´ reforma a jejı´ socia´lnı´ 1968– 1975, Prague, U ´ du˚sledky, Prague, USD, 1994. 68. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇ´ızene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 20 January 1954. 69. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201. 70. Katerina Gerasimova, ‘Public Privacy in the Soviet Communal Apartment’, in Crowley and Reid (eds), Socialist Spaces: 207 – 29. 71. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (A – G), 1953– 4, OVV-201.01, 1223– 201, 19 January 1953. 72. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6, 1954 – 6, OVV-065.06, 413 – 65, 1 December 1954. 73. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 10 December 1953. 74. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 19 November 1953. 75. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 5, 1954 – 6, OVV-065.05, 412 – 65, 13 December 1955.

288

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133 –142

76. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (P – S), 1953– 4, OVV-201.04, 1226– 201, 8 January 1956. 77. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (P – S), 1953– 4, OVV-201.04, 1226– 201, 3 August 1956. 78. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 8, 1954– 6, OVV065.08, 415 – 65, 8 August 1956. 79. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 14 January 1954. 80. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 3, 1954– 6, OVV065.03, 410 – 65, 24 October 1955. 81. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 14 January 1954. 82. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 7 November 1953. 83. Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism: 476. 84. Steven Lukes, Individualism, London, Blackwell, 1973: 42– 59, 71– 125; Henry-Pierre Jeudy, L’Absence d’intimite´: sociologie des choses intimes, Belval, Cire´e, 2007; Gilbert Maurey, Secret, secrets: de l’intime au collectif, Paris, De Boeck Universite´, 1999. 85. Oleg Kharkordin, The Collective and the Individual in Russia, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1999. 86. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (P – S), 1953– 4, OVV-201.04, 1226– 201, 3 August 1956. 87. The same processes governed the formation of Stalin’s cadres. See Brigitte Studer, ‘L’Eˆtre perfectible: la formation du cadre stalinien par le “travail sur soi”’, Gene`ses: Sciences sociales et histoire, 51, 2003: 92 – 113. 88. Paul Betts, ‘Property, Peace and Honour: Neighborhood Justice in Communist Berlin’, Past and Present, 201, 2008: 215 – 54. 89. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6, 1954 – 6, OVV-065.06, 413 – 65, 1 December 1954 and June 1955. 90. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 5, 1954– 6, OVV065.05, 412 – 65, 28 March 1955. 91. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Vyrˇı´zene´ stı´zˇnosti (H – K), 1953– 4, OVV-201.02, 1224– 201, 25 May 1954. 92. Orlando Figes, The Whisperers: Private Life in Stalin’s Russia, London, Allen Lane, 2007; Steven E. Harris, ‘“I Know All the Secrets of My Neighbours”: The Quest for Privacy in the Era of the Separate Apartment’, in Siegelbaum (ed.), Borders of Socialism: 171 – 90. 93. Czeslaw Milosz, Captive Mind, London, Secker and Warburg, 1953, especially the chapter ‘The Ketman’. 94. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945 – 91), Stı´zˇnosti 1965–6, OVV-201.07, 1229– 201, 15 February 1965. 95. AHMP, f. OVV NV HMP (1945– 91), Stı´zˇnosti Praha 6, 1954– 6, OVV065.06, 413 – 65, 1 December 1954.

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289

96. Vladimir Shlapentokh, ‘Privatisation of Soviet Society’, in Vladimir Shlapentokh, Public and Private Life of the Soviet People: Changing Values in Post-Stalin Russia, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1989: 153– 64. 97. Susan E. Reid and David Crowley (eds), Style and Socialism: Modernity and Material Culture in Post-war Eastern Europe, Oxford, Berg, 2000; Julie Hessler, ‘Cultured Trade: The Stalinist Turn towards Consumerism’, in Sheila Fitzpatrick (ed.), Stalinism: New Directions, London, Routledge, 2000: 182–209; Ina Merkel, ‘Working People and Consumption under Really-existing Socialism: Perspectives from the German Democratic Republic’, International Labor and Working-class History, 55, 1999: 92–111; Ina Merkel, ‘Consumer Culture in the GDR, or How the Struggle for Antimodernity Was Lost on the Battleground of Consumer Culture’, in Susan Strasser, Charles McGovern and Matthias Judt (eds), Getting and Spending: European and American Consumer Societies in the 20th Century, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1998: 281–99; David F. Crew, Consuming Germany in the Cold War, Oxford, Berg, 2003. 98. Civil Code No. 40/1965, §§ 460 – 87. Compare with the 1950 Civil Code (Law 141/1950, §§ 509 – 61). 99. The first issue of the magazine dedicated to chalet culture, Chatarˇ a chalupa´rˇ, appeared in Czechoslovakia in 1969, a sign of the new State policy of promoting freedom of choice. 100. Lewis H. Siegelbaum, Cars for Comrades: The Life of the Soviet Automobile, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 2008; Jonathan R. Zatlin, ‘The Vehicle of Desire: The Trabant, the Warburg and the End of the GDR’, German History, 15, 1997: 358 – 80. 101. Article 13 of the 1977 Soviet Constitution stated that ‘the State and collective farms must help citizens to cultivate their private gardens’. 102. Vladimir Paperny, Architecture in the Age of Stalin: Culture Two, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2002; William Craft Brumfield and Blair A. Ruble (eds), Russian Housing in the Modern Age: Design and Social History, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1993. 103. Kimberly Elman Zarecor, Manufacturing a Socialist Modernity: Housing in Czechoslovakia 1945–1960, Pittsburgh, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2011; Hubatova´-Vackova´, Rˇı´ha (eds), Husa´kovo 3 þ 1; Jirˇı´ Musil (ed.), Lide´ a sı´dlisˇteˇ, Prague, Svoboda, 1985. 104. Paulina Bren, ‘Weekend Getaways: The Chata, the Tramp and the Politics of Private Life in Post-1968 Czechoslovakia’, in David Crowle and Susan E. Reid (eds), Socialist Spaces: 123 – 40. 105. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 74 – 7, 26 September 1970. 106. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 71 – 7, 12 January 1971. 107. Marc Garcelon, ‘The Shadow of the Leviathan: Public and Private in Communist and Post-communist Society’, in Jeff Weintraub and Krishan Kumar (eds), Public and Private in Thought and Practice: 303– 32.

290

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108. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 71 – 7, 1 March 1971. 109. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 73–7 (3 April 1970) and 71–7 (8 June 1970); 1978, 60/1, 192–23 (1 September 1978); 1974, 60/1, 149–16 (10 June 1974 and 2 December 1974). 110. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1976, 60/1, 176 – 20, 13 June 1976. 111. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 71 – 7, 12 June 1970. 112. Ellen Alderman, Caroline Kennedy, The Right to Privacy, New York, Vintage Books, 1997. 113. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 74 – 7, 29 January 1970. 114. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 74 – 7, 14 September 1970. 115. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1976, 60/1, 176 – 20, 8 February 1976. 116. AHMP, f. PVF NVP (1963 – 87), Stı´zˇnosti – zpra´va o poznatcı´ch z rozboru stı´zˇnosti obcˇanu˚ vyrˇizovany´ch prazˇsky´mi NV v roce 1978 (11 – 78); 1980 (12-86); 1982 (11– 99); 1984 (8– 113). 117. AHMP, f. PVF NVP (1963 – 87), Stı´zˇnosti, ozna´menı´ a podneˇty obcˇanu˚ 1980, 12 – 86, Zpra´va o hlavnı´ch poznatcı´ch z rozboru. 118. AHMP, f. PVF NVP (1963 – 87), Stı´zˇnosti a podneˇty pracujı´cı´ch za rok 1978, 27 – 7, Na´vrh pla´nu pru˚zkumu k rozboru stı´zˇnostı´ za rok 1967. 119. AHMP, f. PVF NVP (1963 – 87), Stı´zˇnosti, ozna´menı´ a podneˇty obcˇanu˚ 1981, 14 – 93, Zpra´va o hlavnı´ch poznatcı´ch z rozboru. 120. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1978, 60/1, 192 – 23, 8 September 1978. 121. AHMP, f. PVF NVP (1963 – 87), Stı´zˇnosti, ozna´menı´ a podneˇty obcˇanu˚ 1982, 11 – 99, Zpra´va o hlavnı´ch poznatcı´ch z rozboru. 122. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 73 – 7, 25 June 1969. 123. AHMP, f. MHMP II., OKP MHMP (NVP), Stı´zˇnosti, podneˇty, ozna´menı´ 1970, 60/1, 74 – 7, 10 October 1970. 124. AHMP, f. PVF NVP (1963– 87), Stı´zˇnosti a prˇipomı´nky – rozpracova´nı´ usnesenı´ MV KSCˇ, 1978, 22 – 73. 125. AHMP, f. PVF NVP (1963 –87), 10– 63, meeting on 11 March 1977. 126. On the rebirth of civil society in the 1980s, see Padraic Kenney, The Carnival of Revolution: Central Europe 1989, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2002. 127. Va´clav Havel, The Power of the Powerless: Citizens against the State in Central – Eastern Europe, Armonk, M. E. Sharpe, 1985. 128. Thomas G. Kingsley, Progress in Privatisation: Transforming Eastern Europe’s Social Housing, Washington, Urban Institute, 1992; Ilia Utekhin, Ocherki kommunal’nogo byta, Moscow, OGI, 2001.

NOTES

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291

Chapter 5 ‘One Day, Our Streets Will Be a Festival!’ 1. ‘Ma´j’, Rude´ pra´vo, 1 May 1958. 2. ‘Splnı´me program XV. sjezdu KSCˇ’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1979. 3. Julien Freund, L’Essence du politique, Paris, Dalloz, 2004. See also first edition of L’Espace politique, especially the opening article by Ste´phane Rosie`re, ‘Comprendre L’Espace politique’, L’Espace Politique (online journal), 1, 2007: http://espacepolitique.revues.org/index223.html. 4. Philippe Braud, Sociologie politique, Paris, LGDJ, 2006. 5. Max Weber, ‘Politics as Vocation’, in Max Weber, Essays in Sociology, New York, Oxford University Press, 1946: 77 –128. 6. Pascal Ory, ‘L’Histoire des politiques symboliques modernes: un questionnement’, Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine, 3, 2000: 525–36; Ulrich Sarcinelli, Symbolische Politik. Zur Bedeutung symbolischer Politik in der Wahlkampfk ommunikation der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, Opladen, Westdeutscher Verlag, 1987. 7. Michel Pastoureau, Une Histoire symbolique du moyen aˆge occidental, Paris, Seuil, 2004: 11 –25. 8. Marc Abe´le`s and Werner Rossade (eds), Politique symbolique en Europe / Symbolische Politik in Europa, Berlin, Duncker und Humblot, 1993; Gre´gory Aupiais (ed.), ‘Politiques symboliques: se´minaire de l’e´cole doctorale’, Hypothe`ses, 1, 2004: 17 – 76. 9. Special issue of Anthropological Quarterly, 2, 1983, on rituals in Central and Eastern Europe. Christel Lane, The Rites of Rulers: Ritual in Industrial Society: The Soviet Case, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1981; Karen Petrone, Life Has Become More Joyous, Comrades: Celebrations in the Time of Stalin, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 2000; Roman Krakovsky´ (ed.), ‘Politiques symboliques en Europe centrale et orientale 1948– 1989’, special issue of La Nouvelle Alternative, 66 – 67, 2005. Since then, several researchers have tackled this area (including Richard Stites, Gabor Rittersporn, Birgit Sauer, Beno Ennker, Monika Gibas and Rainer Gries). See Selected Bibliography for more details. 10. Kalenda´r odbora´ra 1986, Bratislava, Pra´ca, 1985. 11. On the relationship between space, time and politics in the West, see Jean Leduc, Les Historiens et le temps: conceptions, proble´matiques, e´critures, Paris, Seuil, 1999; Daniel Milo, Trahir le temps (histoire), Paris, Belles Lettres, 1991; Frederic Jameson, ‘Is Space Political?’, in Cynthia Davidson (ed.), Anyplace, Cambridge, MA, MIT Press, 1995: 192 – 205. On the Eastern European context, see J. Smith (ed.), Beyond the Limits: The Concept of Space in Russian History and Culture, Helsinki, Studia Historica 62, 1999; Evgeny Dobrenko and Eric Naiman (eds), The Landscape of Stalinism: The Art and Ideology of Soviet Space, Seattle, University of Washington Press, 2003. 12. Law No. 93/1951 of 2 November 1951 on national holidays. The old national holiday was 28 October, to celebrate Czechoslovak independence in 1918; this was renamed ‘Nationalisation Day’ in 1951. Subsequent calendar reforms in

292

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

24.

NOTES

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159 –168

1965 and 1969 did not make significant changes to this arrangement. In 1975, 28 October lost its status as ‘Nationalisation Day’ but did not regain its original significance. It was not until 1988 that the date once more was recognised as the anniversary of the creation of Czechoslovakia. However, after 1951, the communist regime never altered the status of 1 May as a public holiday. ´ AV NF, 1951, 1952, K prˇı´praveˇ Czech National Archives (hereafter NA), f. U 1. a 9. kveˇtna. Christel Lane, ‘Legitimacy and Power in the Soviet Union through Socialist Ritual’, British Journal of Political Science, 14, 1984: 212. Usnesenı´ ministerske´ rady Cˇeskoslovenske´ republiky ze dne 27 brˇezna 1919. Vladimı´r Motosˇka, Revolucˇne´ tradı´cie prvy´ch ma´jov na Slovensku, Bratislava, SVPL, 1957; Pavel Drsˇka, Revolucˇne´ prve´ ma´je, Prague, Nasˇe vojsko, 1971. ´ RO Praha, ˇ . 28 rˇada A, U NA, f. U´AV NF, 1948, Oslavy 1. ma´je – Obeˇzˇnı´k c 17 April 1948. Zˇilina Municipal Archives (hereafter SˇokAZˇ), f. OAV NF Zˇilina, 251/1951, Oslavy 1. ma´ja a 6. vy´rocˇia oslobodenia republiky, Predsednı´ctvo U´AV SNF. In 1947 a social democratic parade was held in the Old Town Square. The platforms were erected in front of the Town Hall, which still bore the scars of the battle to liberate the city. The museum’s pantheon currently contains 6 statues and 42 busts, including those of the first president of Czechoslovakia, Toma´sˇ Garrigue Masaryk, the writer Jan Neruda, the philosopher John Amos Comenius and the preacher Jan Hus. Under German rule (1939 –45), the collection was renamed the Museum of Czech Territories. In the early 1950s, Minister for Culture Zdeneˇk Nejedly´ oversaw a complete reorganisation of the museum. Some statues, including those of the two interwar presidents, Masaryk and Edvard Benesˇ, were moved from the pantheon to less prominent positions on staircases or in corridors. They were replaced with statues of heroes of the new regime, including Ju´lius Fucˇı´k, a communist resistance fighter hanged by the Gestapo. ‘Kuprˇedu, sveˇtova´ arma´do pracujı´cı´ch!’, Rude´ pra´vo, 1 May 1957. Jana Ratajova´, ‘Prazˇske´ ma´jove´ oslavy, 1948– 1989. Prˇı´speˇvek k deˇjina´m komunisticke´ propagandy’, Kudeˇj – Cˇasopis pro kulturnı´ deˇjiny, 1, 2000: 61. Birgit Sauer observes a similar evolution in the German Democratic Republic. See Birgit Sauer, ‘“Es lebe des Erste Mai in der DDR!” Die politische Inszenierung eines Staatsfeiertages’, in H. D. Braun, C. Reinhold and Hanns A. Schwartz (eds), Vergangene Zuhunft – Mutationen eines Feiertages, Berlin, Transit, 1991: 115 – 31. On the peace movement in the East, see the ‘Peace Movement’ entry in A. M. Prokhorov (ed.), Great Soviet Encyclopedia, Vol. 7, Moscow, Sovietskaia Entsiklopediia Publishing House, 1978: 615 – 17. See also Geoffrey Robert, ‘Advertising Armageddon: The Communist Peace Movement, 1948– 1956’, in Stephen A. Smith (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of the History of Communism, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2014: 322 – 38; Timothy Johnston, ‘Peace or

NOTES

25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

30.

31. 32. 33.

34.

35.

36.

37. 38.

TO PAGES

168 –173

293

Pacifism? The Soviet “Struggle for Peace in All World”, 1948– 1954’, Slavic and East European Review, 2, 2008: 259 – 82; Gu¨nter Wernicke, ‘The Communist-led World Peace Council and the Western Peace Movement’, Peace and Change, 3, 2001: 332 – 51. Pierre Senarclens, De Yalta au rideau de fer: les grandes puissances et les origines de la guerre froide, Paris, Presses de la FNSP, 1993: 173 – 4. See https://www.winstonchurchill.org/resources/speeches/1946-1963-elderstatesman/the-sinews-of-peace. Andre´ Jdanov, Andre´ Jdanov’s Report on the International Situation, Presented at the Information Conference of the Nine Communist Parties, Held in Poland at the End of September 1947, Paris, Mare´chal, 1947: 1 –27. On peace congresses, see Philip Deery, ‘The Dove Flies East: Whitehall, Warsaw and the 1950 World Peace Congress’, Australian Journal of Politics and History, 48, 2002: 449 – 68. The poster for the congress, designed by Picasso, was the first time the white dove was used as an international symbol of peace. Picasso was inspired by the story of Noah, who, when the rain stopped, sent several birds from the Ark to search for land. A white dove brought back an olive branch, and thus a promise of new life. On the opening day of the congress, Picasso became a father. His daughter was named Paloma, the Spanish word for dove. These included the Soviet, Chinese, Mongolian, Hungarian, Korean, Czechoslovak, Romanian, Yugoslav and East German delegations. There were also representatives of ‘free Greece’, ‘democratic Spain’, Indonesia and the International Students’ Union, ‘representing 3 million democratic students in 54 countries’. ‘Manifesto’, L’Humanite´, 27 April 1949. ‘Z Parˇı´zˇe a Prahy znı´ mohutny´ hlas na´rodu˚ sveˇta za mı´r’, Rude´ pra´vo, 21 April 1949. For the legal situation in Czechoslovakia, see the Law on the Defence of Peace (No. 165/1950). For the USSR, see the Law on the Defence of Peace, 12 March 1951. For this distinction between the friend and the enemy in international relations, see Carl Schmitt, The Concept of the Political, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1996, and Theory of the Partisan, New York, Telos Press, 2007. Harle, Vilho, ‘European Roots of Dualism and Its Alternatives in International Relations’, in Vilho Harle (ed.), European Values in International Relations, London, Pinter Publishers, 1990: 7. During World War II, General Hans Speidel (1897 – 1987) was Rommel’s chief of the Defence Staff. He participated in the plots to assassinate Hitler in spring 1943 in Potsdam and was commander-in-chief of European NATO’s ground forces from April 1957 to September 1963. ‘Jdou jednotne´ sˇı´ky, jdou’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1957. NA, f. UAV NF, 1952, Za´pis ze schu˚ze Ustrˇednı´ho ma´jove´ho vy´boru, 3 April 1952.

294

NOTES

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175 –188

39. Mondher Kilani, ‘De´couverte et invention de l’autre dans le discours anthropologique: de Christophe Colomb a` Claude Le´vi-Strauss’, in Mondher Kilani, L’Invention de l’autre, Lausanne, Payot, 1994: 68. 40. Paweł Sowinski, ‘Der 1. Mai als Totalita¨res Theater in der Volksrepublik Polen, 1949– 1954’, Zeitschrift fu¨r Ostmitteleuropa – Forsung, 3, 1999: 350– 82. 41. CˇTK Press Agency Archives, picture FO01226557. 42. Schmitt, The Concept of the Political: 47. 43. Sam Keen, Faces of the Enemy, New York, Harper and Row, 1987: 11. 44. Howard F. Stein, ‘Psychological Complementarity in Soviet –American Relations’, Political Psychology, 2, 1985: 257. 45. In Czech, the phrase also plays on the rhyme of the sentence: ‘U´derky a traktory, znicˇı´ tyhle potvory!’ See ‘Se soveˇtsky´m svazem za mı´r, za vlast, za socialismus’, Mlada´ fronta, 3 May 1950. 46. ‘Slavny´ 1. ma´j v Ostraveˇ’, Mlada´ fronta, 3 May 1950. 47. In Czech, the slogan has a comic effect: ‘Bud’te zticha, atomcˇı´ci, atom va´m da´ na palici!’ See ‘Mı´ru patrˇı´ nasˇe srdce – na´silnı´ku˚m peˇst’, Mlada´ fronta, 2 May 1951. 48. ‘Slavny´ 1. ma´j v Ostraveˇ’. 49. Julia Kristeva, E´trangers a` nous-meˆmes, Paris, Gallimard, 1991. 50. Ofer Zur, ‘The Love of Hating: The Psychology of Enemy’, History of European Ideas, 4, 1991: 345 – 69. 51. Vilho Harle, ‘European Roots of Dualism and Its Alternatives in International Relations’ in Vilho Harle (ed), European Values in International Relations, London, Pinter, 1990: 1 – 14. 52. ‘Pohrˇeb v pru˚vodu’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1957. 53. ‘Strhujı´cı´ proud radosti a odhodla´nı´’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1958. 54. Katherine Clark, The Soviet Novel: History as Ritual, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1981. 55. Clifford Geertz, ‘Religion as Cultural System’, in Michael Banton (ed.), Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion, London, Tavistock Publications, 1966: 1 –46. 56. SˇOkAZˇ, f. OAV NF Zˇilina, 385/1950, Vsˇetky´m za´vodny´m skupina´m ROH v okrese zˇilinskom, 24 April 1950. 57. ‘Od Dunaje vonı´ ma´jem’, Rude´ pra´vo, 27 April 1958. 58. ‘Prvoma´jove´ manifestace v krajı´ch’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1961. 59. ‘Do pru˚vodu se splneˇny´mi za´vazky’, Rude´ pra´vo, 26 April 1958. 60. Sandrine Kott, Communism Day-to-Day: State Enterprises in East German Society, Michigan, University of Michigan Press, 2014. See also the special issue of Gene`ses: Sciences sociales et histoire, ‘Entreprises et socie´te´s a` l’Est’, 39, 2000: 2 – 97. ´ AV NF, 1952, Zhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je 1952 v prazˇske´m kraji. 61. NA, f. U 62. Franc
ois-Xavier Coquin, ‘L’Image de Le´nine dans l’iconographie re´volutionnaire et postre´volutionnaire’, Annales ESC, 2, 1989: 223– 49; Dina Khapaeva,

NOTES

63.

64.

65.

66. 67.

68.

69. 70. 71.

72.

73.

TO PAGES

188 –191

295

Nicolaı¨ Kopossov, ‘Les Demi-dieux de la mythologie sovie´tique: e´tude sur les repre´sentations collectives de l’histoire’, Annales ESC, 4– 5, 1992: 963– 87. On Stalin’s personality cult, see Benno Ennker, Die Anfa¨nge des Lenin-kults in der Sowjetunion, Vienna, Bohlau Verlag, 1997; Robert Kupiecki, ‘Natchnienie milionow’. Kult Stalina w Polsce, 1944– 1956, Warsaw, WSP, 1993. Similarly, the cult of Lenin developed after his death. Saint Petersburg, which had been renamed Petrograd in 1914 after a rise in anti-German sentiment, became Leningrad in 1924, while the anniversary of his death, 21 January, was declared a day of national mourning. Monuments to the USSR’s first leader were quickly erected in large cities and a mausoleum was built on Red Square, alongside the tombs of revolutionary martyrs. This was initially a temporary, wooden structure but was subsequently rebuilt in red marble, and Lenin’s body was put on permanent display. In 1934, Lenin became one of the ‘sacred ancestors’ as Stalin took over the central position in Soviet political symbolism. Lenin’s memory was only revived in 1970, on the 100th anniversary of his birth, which was celebrated lavishly the following year. See Nina Turmakin, Lenin Lives!, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1983. In 1969, Gottwald’s picture was displayed behind Lenin’s, but alongside portraits of Marx and Engels. Then, from 1970 onwards, all four were placed in the same rank. ‘Union of Soviet Socialist Republics’, in Britannica Book of the Year 1955 (Events of 1954), London, Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1955: 459. This could be compared to the representation of royal power in ancien re´gime societies, as analysed by Ernst Kantorowicz in The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1997. Nora Buhks, ‘Les Slogans sovie´tiques: de l’orthodoxie a` l’opposition’, in Wladimir Berelowitch and Laurent Gervereau (eds), Russie – URSS, 1914– 1991: changements de regards, Paris, BDIC, 1991: 266 – 70. SˇOkAZˇ, f. OAV NF Zˇilina, 102/1956, Smernice politicko-organizacˇne´ho zabezpecˇenia osla´v 1. a 9. ma´ja v meste Zˇilina. ‘Pokyny pre usporiadatelˇov sprievodu a program osla´v 1. a 9 ma´ja 1961’, Vecˇernı´k, 15 April 1961. Maurice Dommanget, Histoire du drapeau rouge: des origines a` la guerre de 1939, Paris, Librairie de l’E´toile, 1966. See also Michel Pastoureau’s work on the symbolism of colours. The people’s militia consisted of paramilitary units of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia. Created in June 1945, these units were responsible for protecting industrial and communications sites, defending borders, fighting ‘subversive forces’ and, when necessary, protecting the population by maintaining public order, intervening after natural disasters and so on. ‘Reserve labourers’ were college students who specialised in technical professions. Centres for reserve labourers were established in 1952 but abolished just six years later, whereupon the responsibility for training young

296

74. 75. 76.

77.

78.

79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86.

87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

93.

NOTES

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191 –198

people for manual work fell to the ministries of the various sectors. See Law No. 89/1958. ´ AV NF, 1950, Schu˚ze ma´jove´ komise prˇi sekretaria´tu U ´ V KSCˇ. NA, f. U ‘Pokyny pre usporiadateľov sprievodu a program osla´v 1. a 9 ma´ja 1961’. Monika Gibas, Rainer Gries, ‘“Vorschlang fu¨r den Ersten mai: die Fu¨hrung zieht am Volk vorbei!” U¨berlegungen zur Geschichte der Tribu¨ne in der DDR’, Deutschland Archiv, 5, 199: 481 – 94. I am unaware of any research into the significance of the colour red in the political symbolism of communist regimes. Such a study would be very useful, given that red is the main colour in the communist symbolic system, and its significance has fluctuated due to circumstances. Michel Pastoureau’s work on the history of colours in Western European cultures may serve as a good starting point. Archie Brown, ‘The Power of the General Secretary of the CPSU’, in Archie Brown, Authority, Power and Policy in the USSR, London, Macmillan Press, 1980: 135 – 57. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London, Verso, 1983. ´ AV NF, 1951, K prˇı´praveˇ 1. kveˇtna a 9. kveˇtna. NA, f. U NA, f. U´AV NF, 1951, Oslavy 1. ma´je a 7. vy´rocˇı´ osvobozenı´ nasˇı´ republiky soveˇtskou arma´dou. AHMP, f. OU a MNV Ruzyneˇ, 8/56, Protokoly ze schu˚zı´ rady MNV Ruzyneˇ 1956, 18 March 1960. Ratajova´, ‘Prazˇske´ ma´jove´ oslavy, 1948–1989’: 54 – 5. ´ AV NF, 1950, Schu˚ze U ´ MV U´AV NF, 6 April 1950. NA, f. U NA, f. U´AV NF, 1951, Vsˇem krajsky´m a okresnı´m vyboru˚m NF – Oslavy 1. ma´je a 7. vy´rocˇı´ osvobozenı´ nasˇı´ republiky soveˇtskou arma´dou. This was inspired by the 1948 May Day mobilisation campaign (zı´skavacı´ akce), when invitations to participate in the celebrations were handed out on the last Sunday in April. See NA, f. U´AV NF, 1948, Spolecˇne´ oslavy 1. ma´je. ‘Na 26 tisı´c agita´toru˚ mezi obcˇany Prazˇske´ho kraje’, Rude´ pra´vo, 29 April 1957. ´ AV NF, 1950, Oslavy 1. ma´je v kraji Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Liberec. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Ostrava. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Liberec. NA, f. U Until 1953, Central and Eastern Europe celebrated the anniversary of Lenin’s death (21 January). However, Stalin’s death in March 1953 prompted a change. To avoid confusion over the anniversaries of the two leaders, it was decided to celebrate Lenin’s birth (on 22 April) and Stalin’s death (on 5 March). Thereafter, although the commemoration of Stalin’s death was abandoned after 1956, c ommunist states c ontinued to celebrate his predecessor’s birth. ´ V NF, 1963, Zpra´va o prˇı´prava´ch ma´jovy´ch oslav v roce 1963. NA, f. U

NOTES

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198 –209

297

94. ‘Nezˇ vykrocˇı´ pru˚vody’, Rude´ pra´vo, 24 April 1958. 95. ‘Vzkaz prima´tora Prazˇanu˚m’, Rude´ pra´vo, 27 April 1957. 96. ‘1. ma´j uka´zˇe nasˇı´ jednotu, nasˇe u´speˇchy, nasˇı´ radost’, Rude´ pra´vo, 26 April 1957. 97. ‘Nezˇ vykrocˇı´ pru˚vody’, Rude´ pra´vo, 24 April 1958. ´ AV NF, 1948, Oslavy 1. ma´je – Obeˇzˇnı´k c ˇ . 28 rˇada A. 98. NA, f. U 99. ‘1. ma´j uka´zˇe nasˇı´ jednotu, nasˇe u´speˇchy, nasˇı´ radost’, Rude´ pra´vo, 26 April 1957. ´ V NF, 1963, Zpra´va o prˇı´prava´ch ma´jovy´ch oslav v roce 1963. 100. NA, f. U 101. ‘Vlajkova´ vy´zdoba na 1. ma´j’, Rude´ pra´vo, 29 April 1958. 102. ‘Uzˇ zı´tra’, Rude´ pra´vo, 31 April 1957. 103. Catherine Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1992: 183 – 96; Philippe Braud, L’E´motion en politique: proble`mes d’analyse, Paris, Presses de la FNSP, 1996. ´ AV NF, 1952, Zhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je 1952. 104. NA, f. U 105. NA, f. U´AV NF, 1949, Pokyny k osla´vam 1. ma´je 1949, OAV NF Plzenˇ – meˇsto. 106. SˇOkAZˇ, f. OAV NF Zˇilina, 102/1956, Za´pisnica schoˆdze NF v Bytcˇici. ´ AV NF, 1953, Za´pis ze schu˚ze U ´ MV. 107. NA, f. U 108. Eric Hobsbawm, ‘The Transformation of Labour Rituals’, in Eric Hobsbawm, The Words of Labour: Further Studies in the History of Labour, London, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1984: 77 – 8; Eric Hobsbawm, ‘Birth of a Holiday: The First of May’, in Chris Wringley and John Sheperd (eds), On The Move: Essays in Labour and Transport History Presented to Philipp Bagwell, London and Rio Grande, The Hambledon Press, 1991: 113 –15. 109. Ivan Ska´la, ‘Prvnı´ ma´j socialismu’, Rude´ pra´vo, 1 May 1961. 110. ‘Strhujı´cı´ proud radosti a odhodla´nı´’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1958. 111. ‘K Prvnı´mu ma´ji prˇes 200 milionu˚ Kcˇs na zvelebenı´ zemeˇdeˇlstvı´’, Rude´ pra´vo, 1 May 1947. 112. SˇOkAZˇ, f. OAV NF Zˇilina, 102/1956, Za´pisnica zo zasadnutia vy´boru pre prı´pravu osla´v 1. ma´ja v Zˇiline, MV SNF v Zˇiline, 18 April 1956. 113. ‘Vsˇechny du˚vody pro dobrou na´ladu’, Rude´ pra´vo, 30 April 1970. 114. Pierre Ansart, La Gestion des passions politiques, Lausanne, Aˆge d’Homme, 1983: 8. 115. The quote is taken from Ludeˇk Kapitola, Bohuslav Kucˇera (ed.), Revolucˇnı´ tradice prvnı´ho ma´je, Prague, Melantrich, 1954: 18. 116. Victor Turner, The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1967. 117. ‘Prvoma´jove´ manifestace v krajı´ch’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1961. 118. In 1984, the television coverage of May Day began at 7.55 a.m. with a live broadcast of the Moscow parade. The live broadcast from Prague began at 8.55 a.m. See Rude´ pra´vo, 1 May 1984. 119. Hobsbawm, ‘Birth of a Holiday’. 120. ‘Na´sˇ hlas je slysˇet vsˇude’, Rude´ pra´vo, 1 May 1958. 121. Ibid.

298 122. 123. 124. 125. 126.

127. 128. 129.

130. 131.

132. 133.

134. 135. 136.

137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142.

NOTES

TO PAGES

209 –214

CˇTK Press Agency Archives, picture FO01088169. ‘Strhujı´cı´ pochod statisı´cu˚ pod rudy´mi prapory’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1961. ‘Na nasˇı´ cesteˇ na´s nikto nezastavı´’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1958. ‘Procˇ pu˚jdu do pru˚vodu – nasˇe vyzna´nı´’, Vecˇernı´ Praha, 30 April 1983. The red carnation was a sign of faith in several European countries at the end of the nineteenth century. This symbolism was explored for the first time on 1 May 1900 in a Florentine newspaper that took its name from the flower – Il Garofano rosso. In Sweden, the red rose became the official May Day flower in 1911– 12. See Eric Hobsbawm, ‘Un Anniversaire oublie´: le centenaire du 1er mai’, Le Monde, 9 June 1990. ‘Na nasˇı´ cesteˇ na´s nikto nezastavı´’. ‘Strhujı´cı´ pru˚vod statisı´cu˚ pod rudy´mi prapory’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1961. The women began to create these images in 1946, and over time the message that the regime wanted to communicate remained the same. Zˇizˇkov was one of the poorest districts in Prague, inhabited since the 1880s mainly by workers employed in heavy industry. It was here that the regime saw the roots of the Czechoslovak workers’ movement, as its poverty and unsanitary conditions gave rise to ‘profound social ideas and class consciousness’. The living images of the ‘women of Zˇizˇkov’ thus expressed the gratitude of the working classes across the country to the members of the elite sitting in the stand. Eva Pesˇkova´, ‘Byl prvnı´ ma´j. Vzpomı´nka na le´ta da´vno minula´’ (online article): www.ambice.cz/eva_peskova/index.php?ID¼ 21. In 1961, for example, the women of the town of Prˇı´bram created the same image as the women of Zˇizˇkov, with the slogan ‘40 years of the KSCˇ’. See ‘Prvoma´jove´ manifestace v krajı´ch’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1961. Karen Petrone, Life Has Become More Joyous, Comrades: 40–1. In the 1890s, the German SPD defined May Day as an international ‘festival’ in which festivities played a significant role. The same was true in Belgium. Any disagreement was more over idiom than content. See Danielle Tartakowsky, La Part du reˆve: histoire du 1er mai en France, Paris, Hachette Litte´ratures, 2005. ‘1. ma´j 1979’, Vecˇernı´ Praha, 30 April 1979. Jeffrey Brooks, Thank You, Comrade Stalin! Soviet Public Culture from Revolution to Cold War, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2000: 83 – 105. Sandrine Kott, ‘The Spirit and Act of Giving’, in Kott, Communism Day-toDay: 211 –29. For a wider consideration of gift exchange, see Marcel Mauss, The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies, London, Cohen and West, 1966. SˇOkAZˇ, f. OAV NF Zˇilina, 251/1951, Oslavy 1. ma´ja a 6. vy´rocˇia oslobodenia republiky. Lane, The Rites of Rulers: 57. ´ AV NF, 1952, Kraj Ostrava. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1948, Prvnı´ postrˇehy z oslav 1. ma´je 1948. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1948, Zpra´va o pru˚behu 1. ma´je 1948. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1948, Glosy k oslava´m 1. ma´je 1948. NA, f. U

NOTES 143. 144. 145. 146. 147. 148. 149. 150. 151. 152. 153. 154. 155. 156. 157. 158. 159. 160. 161. 162. 163. 164. 165. 166. 167. 168. 169. 170. 171. 172. 173. 174. 175. 176. 177. 178. 179. 180. 181. 182. 183. 184.

TO PAGES

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299

´ AV NF, 1948, U´cˇast na 1. ma´ji. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1948, 1. ma´j v Praze. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1948, Zhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Karlovy Vary – 1. ma´j. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Plzenˇsky´ kraj. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1950, Oslavy 1. ma´je v kraji Plzenˇske´m. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Karlovy Vary – 1. ma´j. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1950, Oslavy 1. ma´je v kraji Plzenˇske´m. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1952, Na´vrh usnesenı´. NA, f. U ´ V NF, 1963, Zpra´va o prˇı´prava´ch ma´jovy´ch oslav v roce 1963. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Pardubice. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Karlovy Vary – 1. ma´j. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1950, Oslavy 1. ma´je v kraji Plzenˇske´m. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Karlovy Vary – 1. ma´j. NA, f. U ‘Se soveˇtsky´m svazem za mı´r, za vlast, za socialismus’, Mlada´ fronta, 3 May 1950. ´ AV NF, 1949, Plzenˇsky´ kraj. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Karlovy Vary – 1. ma´j. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Karlovy Vary – 1. ma´j. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Pardubice. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Plzenˇ. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1950, Kraj Plzenˇ. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Brno. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Plzenˇ. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Plzenˇ. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1950, Oslavy 1. ma´je v kraji Jihlavske´m. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Plzenˇ. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1952, Kraj Liberec – telefonicka´ spra´va. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1950, Oslavy 1. ma´je v kraji Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1953, Hodnocenı´ oslav z kraju˚ – kraj Brno. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Plzenˇ. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj U ´ stı´ nad Labem. NA, f. U ˇ ´ NA, f. UAV NF, 1951, Kraj Ceske´ Budeˇjovice. ´ AV NF, 1952, Kraj Gottwaldov. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1952, Kraj Gottwaldov. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1952, Kraj Ostrava. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1953, Hodnocenı´ oslav z kraju˚ – kraj Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1949, Kraj Karlovy Vary. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Liberec. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Liberec. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1951, Kraj Liberec. NA, f. U ´ AV NF, 1952, Kraj Plzenˇ. NA, f. U ‘Prvoma´jove´ manifestace v krajı´ch’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1961.

300

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185. Joseph Gelineau, Les Chants de la messe dans leur enracinement rituel, Paris, Cerf, 2001; Maurice Gruau, L’Homme rituel: anthropologie du rituel catholique franc
ais, Paris, E´ditions Me´tailie´, 1999. ´ V NF, 1963, Zhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je 1963 – KV NF Brno. 186. NA, f. U ´ V NF, 1968, Hodnocenı´ ma´jove´ manifestace v Praze v roce 1968. 187. NA, f. U 188. ‘Prˇı´pravy ma´jovy´ch manifestacı´’, Rude´ pra´vo, 21 April 1968. 189. L. Hrudka, Z. Provaznı´k, D. Blazˇej, K. Vaneˇk, ‘Ma´j nasˇeho nove´ho zˇivota’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1968. 190. Emil Sˇı´p, ‘Prvoma´jove´ referendum’, Rude´ pra´vo, 3 May 1968. 191. Hrudka, Provaznı´k, Blazˇej, Vaneˇk, ‘Ma´j nasˇeho nove´ho zˇivota’. 192. ‘Manifestace v krajı´ch’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1968. On the Spartakiads, see Andre´ Gounot, ‘Les Spartakiades internationales, manifestations sportives et politiques du communisme’, Cahiers de l’histoire: revue d’histoire critique, 88, 2002: 59 –76. ´ V NF, 1968, Hodnocenı´ ma´jove´ manifestace v Praze v roce 1968. 193. NA, f. U 194. NA, f. U´V NF, 1969, Zhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je a 24. vy´rocˇı´ osvobozenı´ CˇSSR Soveˇtskou arma´dou v Severocˇeske´m kraji. 195. NA, f. U´V NF, 1969, Materia´l pro schu˚zi Sekretaria´tu a prˇedsednictva U´V NF CˇSR. 196. Ratajova´, ‘Prazˇske´ ma´jove´ oslavy, 1948–1989’: 63. 197. NA, f. U´V NF, 1969, Zhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je a 24. vy´rocˇı´ osvobozenı´ CˇSSR Soveˇtskou arma´dou v Severocˇeske´m kraji. 198. NA, f. U´V NF, 1969, Zpra´va o pru˚beˇhu oslav 1. ma´je a 9. kveˇtna 1969 ve Vy´chodocˇeske´m kraji. ´ V NF, 1969, Souhrnne´ hodnocenı´ ma´jovy´ch oslav v Za´padocˇeske´m 199. NA, f. U kraji. 200. On 7 March 1969, the 7th Union Conference adopted a charter expressing the movement’s intention to remain independent from the State and any political party. However, the unions capitulated three years later, at the 8th Conference (12 – 15 June 1972). ´ V NF, 1969, Prˇedbeˇzˇne´ vyhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je v Praze 1969. 201. NA, f. U ´ 202. NA, f. UV NF, 1969, Prˇedbeˇzna´ informace o pru˚beˇhu ma´jovy´ch oslav v krajı´ch CˇSR. 203. Ratajova´, ‘Prazˇske´ ma´jove´ oslavy, 1948–1989’: 63. ´ V NF, 1969, Materia´l pro schu˚zi Sekretaria´tu a Prˇedsednictva U ´ V NF 204. NA, f. U ˇCSR. ´ V NF, 1969, Materia´l pro schu˚zi Sekretaria´tu a Prˇedsednictva U ´ V NF 205. NA, f. U CˇSR. ´ V NF, 1969, Souhrnne´ hodnocenı´ ma´jovy´ch oslav v Za´padocˇeske´m 206. NA, f. U kraji. ´ V NF, 1969, Materia´l pro schu˚zi Sekretaria´tu a Prˇedsednictva U ´ V NF 207. NA, f. U CˇSR. 208. NA, f. U´V NF, 1969, Prˇedbezˇna´ informace o pru˚behu ma´jovy´ch oslav v CˇSR.

NOTES

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301

´ V NF, 1969, Materia´l pro schu˚zi Sekretaria´tu a Prˇedsednictva U ´ V NF 209. NA, f. U ˇCSR. 210. NA, f. U´V NF, 1969, Zhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je a 24. vy´rocˇı´ osvobozenı´ CˇSSR Soveˇtskou arma´dou v Severocˇeske´m kraji. ´ V NF, 1969, Prˇedbeˇzˇne´ vyhodnocenı´ oslav 1. ma´je v Praze 1969. 211. NA, f. U 212. S. Oborsky´, ‘U´plneˇ jiny´’, Rude´ pra´vo, 1 May 1970. ´ V NF, 1970, Zpra´va o prˇı´prava´ch a zajisˇteˇnı´ oslav 1. ma´je 1970. 213. NA, f. U 214. ‘Praha je ruda´, socialisticka´ – veˇrna´ revolucˇnı´m tradicı´m’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1970. ´ V NF, 1970, Ideove´ zameˇrˇenı´ a pojetı´ oslav sva´tku pra´ce. 215. NA, f. U ´ V NF, 1970, Zpra´va o prˇı´prava´ch a zajisˇteˇnı´ oslav 1. ma´je 1970. 216. NA, f. U 217. ‘Cela´ republika se prˇipravuje na prvnı´ ma´j’, Rude´ pra´vo, 25 April 1970. 218. ‘Pracovnı´ iniciativa – vy´raz politicky´ch postoju˚’, Rude´ pra´vo, 28 April 1970. 219. NA, f. U´V NF, 1970, Hodnocenı´ pru˚behu oslav 1. ma´je a dalsˇı´ch akcı´ uskutecˇneˇny´ch k oslava´m 25. vy´rocˇı´ osvobozenı´ Cˇeskoslovenska soveˇtskou arma´dou. 220. Jirˇı´ Ha´jek, ‘Takovy´ prvnı´ ma´j Praha jesˇteˇ nezazˇila!’, Tvorba, 18, 1970. 221. Jarmila Houfova´, ‘Byl to angazˇovany´ pru˚vod’, Rude´ pra´vo, 2 May 1970. ´ V NF, 1983, Hodnocenı´ prvoma´jove´ manifestace na Letenske´ pla´ni v 222. NA, f. U Praze v roce 1983. 223. Jean-Philippe Saint-Martin, ‘Les Sokols tche´coslovaques: un symbole de l’identite´ slave entre les deux guerres’, Cahiers de l’histoire: revue d’histoire critique, 88, 2002: 43 – 58. 224. Similar changes occurred in other Eastern Bloc countries. On the German Democratic Republic, see Sauer, ‘“Es lebe des Erste Mai in der DDR!”’. ´ V NF, 1981, Na´vrh politicko-organizacˇı´ho zabezpecˇenı´ prvoma´jove´ 225. NA, f. U manifestace v Praze v roce 1981. ´ V NF, 1982, Hodnocenı´ ma´jovy´ch oslav 1982 v hlavnı´m meˇsteˇ Praze. 226. NA, f. U 227. Robert Rotenberg, ‘May Day Parade in Prague and Vienna: A Comparison of Socialist Rituals’, Anthropological Quarterly, 2, 1983: 63. ´ V NF, 1983, Hodnocenı´ prvoma´jove´ manifestace na Letenske´ pla´ni v 228. NA, f. U Praze v roce 1983. ´ V NF, 1982, Hodnocenı´ ma´jovy´ch oslav 1982 v hlavnı´m meˇsteˇ Praze. 229. NA, f. U 230. Vecˇernı´ Praha, 30 April 1976. 231. NA, f. U´V NF, 1982, Hodnocenı´ ma´jovy´ch oslav 1982 v hlavnı´m meˇsteˇ Praze.

Conclusion 1. Catherine Verdery, What Was Socialism and What Comes Next?, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1996: 39 – 57. 2. Re´gis Debray, Transmitting Culture, New York, Columbia University Press, 2004.

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3. On the origins of the utopian nature of Soviet political culture, see Richard Stites, Revolutionary Dreams, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1989. 4. Georges Friedmann, La Puissance de la sagesse, Paris, Gallimard, 1971: 87. 5. Ina Merkel, ‘Au Bonheur des petites gens: publicite´, e´tude des besoins et consommation au quotidien en RDA’, Le Mouvement Social, 206, 2004: 41 – 57. 6. Marianne Debouzy, ‘Temps et socie´te´: aspects du temps industriel aux E´tatsUnis au de´but du XIXe sie`cle’, Cahiers internationaux de sociologie, 67, 1979: 197 – 220. 7. Kalenda´r odbora´ra 1986, Bratislava, Pra´ca, 1985. 8. Va´clav Havel, The Power of the Powerless: Citizens against the State in Central – Eastern Europe, Armonk, M. E. Sharpe, 1985. 9. See ‘The Idea of Progress’, The Economist, 8662, 2009– 10: 35– 44. 10. The ‘Run for Peace’ is one of the rare regular events from the communist era that was successful and survived the fall of the regime in 1989. See the website of the Museum of the Run for Peace at: www.friedensfahrt – museum.de. 11. See the direction taken by Mark Pittaway in ‘The Social Limits of State Control: Time, Industrial Wage Relation and Social Identity in Stalinist Hungary, 1948– 1953’, Journal of Historical Sociology, 3, 1999: 271– 301, and Rolf H. W. Theen, ‘Party –State Relations under Gorbachev: From Partocracy to Party State’, in Melt Gurtov (ed.), The Transformation of Socialism: Perestroika and Reform in the Soviet Union and China, Boulder, Westview Press, 1990: 59 – 86. 12. Padraic Kenney, The Carnival of Revolution: Central Europe 1989, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2003.

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ois and Rupnik, Jacques (eds), Le Printemps tche´coslovaque 1968, Paris, Complexe, 1999. Frommer, Benjamin, National Cleansing: Retribution against Nazi Collaborators in Postwar Czechoslovakia, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2005. Ha´jek, Martin (ed.), Hierarchie jako prˇednost i slabina komunisticke´ho vla´dnutı´, Prague, AV CˇR, 2003. Havel, Va´clav, The Power of the Powerless: Citizens against the State in Central –Eastern Europe, Armonk, M.E. Sharpe, 1985. Heumos, Peter, Vyhrnˇme si ruka´vy, nezˇ se kola zastavı´! Deˇlnı´ci a sta´tnı´ socialismus v ´ SD AV CˇR, 2006. Cˇeskoslovensku, 1945– 1968, Prague, U Holy´, Ladislav, The Little Czech and the Great Czech Nation: National Identity and the Post-Communist Transformation of Society, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1996. Hrbek, Jaroslav, Smetana, Vı´t, Kokosˇka, Stanislav, Draze zaplacena´ svoboda. Osvobozenı´ Cˇeskoslovenska, 1944– 1945, Prague, Paseka, 2009. Jira´sek, Zdeneˇk, Sˇu˚la, Jaroslav, Velka´ peneˇzˇnı´ loupezˇ v Cˇeskoslovensku 1953 aneb 50:1, Prague, Svı´ta´nı´, 1992. Kamenec, Ivan, Hľadanie a blu´denie v dejina´ch, Bratislava, Kalligram, 2000. Kandert, Josef and Kabele, Jirˇ´ı (eds), Vy´klady vla´dnutı´ v rea´lne´m socialismu, Prague, Matfyzpress, 2004. Kaplan, Karel, Socia´lnı´ souvislosti krizı´ komunisticke´ho rezˇimu 1953 – 1957 a ´ SD AV CˇR, Svazek 9, 1993. 1968– 1975, Prague, Sesˇity U ———, Korˇeny Cˇeskoslovenske´ reformy 1968, Vol. 1, Brno, Doplneˇk, 2000. ———, Korˇeny Cˇeskoslovenske´ reformy 1968, Vol. 2, Brno, Doplneˇk, 2002. Kuklı´k, Jan, Zna´rodneˇne´ Cˇeskoslovensko – Od zna´rodneˇnı´ k privatizaci – Sta´tnı´ za´sahy do vlastnicky´ch a dalsˇı´ch majetkovy´ch pra´v v Cˇeskoslovensku a jinde v Evropeˇ, Prague, Auditorium, 2010. Lipta´k, L’ubomı´r, Slovensko v 20. storocˇı´, Bratislava, Kalligram, 1998. ———, Storocˇie dlhsˇie ako sto rokov, Bratislava, Kalligram, 1999. Londa´k, Miroslav, Sikora, Stanislav, Loda´kova´, Elena, Predjarie. Politicky´, ekonomicky´ a kultu´rny vy´vin na Slovensku v rokoch 1960– 1967, Bratislava, Veda, 2002. Pavka, Marek, Ka´dry rozhodujı´ vsˇe! Ka´drova´ politika KSCˇ z hlediska teorie elit, Brno, Prius, 2003. Pehr, Michal, Za´pas o nove´ Cˇeskoslovensko, 1939– 1946. Va´lecˇne´ prˇedstavy a pova´lecˇna´ realita, Prague, NLN, 2011. Pernes, Jirˇı´, Komunistky s fanatismem v srdci, Prague, Bra´na, 2006.

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General Works on Space and Time Abe´le`s, Marc, Anthropologie de l’e´tat, Paris, Payot, 2004. Aveni, Anthony, Empires of Time: Calendars, Clocks and Cultures, London, Tauris Parke Paperbacks, 2000. Choay, Francoise, Pour Une Anthropologie de l’espace, Paris, Seuil, 2006. Corbin, Alain, ‘L’Arithme´tique des jours au XIXe sie`cle’, in Alain Corbin, Le Temps, le de´sir, l’horreur: essais sur le XIXe sie`cle, Paris, Aubier, 1991: 9 – 22. ———, Les Cloches de la terre, Paris, Albin Michel, 1994. Domingues, Jose´ Maurı´cio, ‘Sociological Theory and the Space – Time Dimension of Social Systems’, Time and Society, 6, 1995: 233 – 250. Durkheim, E´mile, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, London, George Allen & Unwin, 1912. Elias, Norbert, An Essay on Time, Dublin, University College Dublin Press, 2007. Giddens, Anthony, ‘Interaction in Time and Space’, in Anthony Giddens, Sociology, Cambridge, Polity Press, 1983: 105 – 10. ———, The Constitution of Society: Outline of the Theory of Structuration, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1984. Goody, Jack, ‘Time: Social Organisation’, in David L. Sills and Robert King Merton (eds), International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, Vol. 16, New York, Macmillan, 1991: 30– 42. Gourevitch, Aaron, Les Cate´gories de la culture me´die´vale, Paris, Gallimard, 1983. Hallowel, Irwing, ‘Cultural Factors in Spatial Orientation’, in Irwing Hallowel, Culture and Experience, Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1955: 184 – 202. ———, ‘Temporal Orientation in Western Civilisation and Preliterate Society’, in Irwing Hallowel, Culture and Experience, Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1955: 206 – 35. Hubert, Henri, Mauss, Marcel, Essay on Time: A Brief Study of the Representation of Time in Religion and Magic, New York, Berghahn Books, 1999. Jameson, Frederic, ‘Is Space Political?’, in Cynthia Davidson (ed.), Anyplace, Cambridge, MA, MIT Press, 1995: 192 – 205. Kern, Stephen, The Culture of Time and Space, 1880– 1918, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1983. Le Goff, Jacques, ‘Church Time and Merchant Time in the Middle Ages’, Social Science Information, 4, 1970: 151 – 67.

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Linear Time Bafoil, Franc
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Cyclical Time Achelis, Elisabeth, ‘Calendar marches on: Russia’s difficulties’, Journal of Calendar Reform, 24, 1954: 91 – 93. Beck, Robert, Histoire du dimanche de 1700 a` nos jours, Paris, E´ditions de l’Atelier, 1997. Davies, Christie, Trivizas, Eugene, Wolfe, Roy, ‘The Failure of Calendar Reform, 1922– 1931: Religious Minorities? Businessmen, Scientists and Bureaucrats’, Journal of Historical Sociology, 3, 1999: 251 –70. Demel, Zdeneˇk, ‘Nedeˇle a totalita. Jak bylo v totalitnı´m Ceskoslovensku omezovane´ sveˇcenı´ nedeˇle’, in Petr Fiala (ed.), Katolicka´ cirkev a totalitarismus v cˇesky´ch zemı´ch, Brno, CSDK, 2001: 97– 119. Foss, Clive, ‘Stalin’s topsy-turvy work week’, History Today, 9, 2004: 46– 7. Richards, Edward Graham, Mapping Time: The Calendar and its History, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1998. Rimplinger, Gaston V., ‘Autocracy and the Early Russian Factory System’, Journal of Economic History, 20, 1960: 67– 92. ‘Russian Experiment’, Journal of Calendar Reform, 6, 1936: 69. Schwarz, Solomon, ‘The Continuous Working Week in Soviet Russia’, International Labour Review, 2, 1931: 157 – 80. Shilova, Irina, ‘Building the Bolshevik Calendar through Pravda and Izvestiia’, Toronto Slavic Quarterly (online journal), 19, 2007: http://sites.utoronto.ca/tsq/ 19/shilova19.shtml. Von Laue, Theodore H., ‘Russian Peasants in the Factory, 1892 –1904’, Journal of Economic History, 1, 1961: 61 – 80.

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Public Sphere Betts, Paul, ‘Property, Peace and Honour: Neighbourhood Justice in Communist Berlin’, Past and Present, 201, 2008: 215– 54. Calhoun, Craig (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere, Cambridge, MA, MIT Press, 1993. Coulson, Andrew (ed.), Local Government in Eastern Europe: Establishing Democracy at the Grassroots, Hampshire, Edward Elgar Publishing, 1995. Friedgut, Theodore and Hahn, Jeffrey (eds), Local Power and Post-Soviet Politics, London, M.E. Sharpe, 1994. Habermas, Ju¨rgen, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, Cambridge, MA, MIT Press, 1989. Hahn, Jeffrey, Soviet Grassroots: Citizen Participation in Local Soviet Government, London, I.B.Tauris, 1988. Kabele, Jirˇı´ (ed.), Rekonstrukce komunisticke´ho vla´dnutı´ na konci osmdesa´ty´ch let, Prague, ´ AV CˇR, 2003. SU Kaviraj, Sudipta and Khilnani, Sunhil (eds), Civil Society, History and Possibilities, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2003. Manin, Bernard, Principes du gouvernement repre´sentatif, Paris, Flammarion, 2008. Merta, Andeˇlı´n, ‘Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory a jejich u´loha v uplynuly´ch dvaceti letech’, Prazˇsky´ sbornı´k historicky´, 2, 1965: 5 – 28. ———, Prazˇske´ na´rodnı´ vy´bory. Vy´voj a jejich organizace v letech 1945– 1965, Prague, Orbis, 1966. Rittersporn, Ga´bor T., Rolf, Malte, Behrends and Jan C. (eds), Spha¨ren von O¨ffentlichkeit in Gesellschaften sowjetischen Typs, Frankfurt am Main, Peter Lang, 2003. Schnapper, Dominique, Community of Citizens: On the Modern Idea of Nationality, New York, Routledge, 1998. Theen, Rolf H., ‘Russia at the Grassroots: Reform at the Local and Regional Level’, in Ilpyong J. Kim and Jane Shapiro Zacek (eds), Establishing Democratic Rule: The Reemergence of Local Governments in Post-Authoritarian Systems, Washington, In Depth Books, 1993: 37 –74. Wolchik, Sharon L., ‘Women and the Politics of Gender in Communist and PostCommunist Central and Eastern Europe’, in Sabrina Ramet (ed.), Eastern Europe: Politics, Culture, and Society Since 1939, Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 1998: 48 – 61.

Private Sphere Arie`s, Philippe and Duby, Georges (eds), A History of Private Life, Vol. 2: Revelations of the Medieval World, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1993. Betts, Paul, Within Walls: Private Life in the German Democratic Republic, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2010.

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Political Space –Time Abe´le`s, Marc and Rossade, Werner (eds), Politique Symbolique en Europe / Symbolische Politik in Europa, Berlin, Duncker und Humblot, 1993. Arvidson, Claes and Blomqvist, Lars Erik (eds), Symbols of Power: The Esthetics of Political Legitimation in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, Stockholm, Almqvist/ Wiksell International, 1987. Bell, Catherine, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1992. Binns, Christopher A.P., ‘The Changing Face of Power: Revolution and Accommodation in the Development of the Soviet Ceremonial System’, MAN (NS), 14, 4, 1979: 585 – 606; MAN (NS), 15, 1, 1980: 170– 87. Bonnel, Victoria E., Iconography of Power: Soviet Political Posters under Lenin and Stalin, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1997. Braud, Philippe, L’E´motion en politique: proble`mes d’analyse, Paris, Presses de la FNSP, 1996. Burrin, Philippe, ‘Poings leve´s et bras tendus: la contagion des symboles au temps du Front Populaire’, Vingtie`me sie`cle: Revue d’histoire, 11, 1986: 5 – 20. Corbin, Alain (ed.), Les Usages politiques des feˆtes aux XIXe et XXe sie`cles, Paris, Publications de la Sorbonne, 1994. Delsol, Chantal, Maslowski, Michel and Nowicki, Joanna (eds), Mythes et symboles politiques en Europe centrale, Paris, Presses universitaires de France, 2002. Dommanget, Maurice, Histoire du drapeau rouge: des origines a` la guerre de 1939, Paris, Librairie de l’E´toile, 1966. ———, Histoire du 1er mai, Paris, E´ditions de la Teˆte de Feuilles, 1972. Edelman, Murray, The Symbolic Uses of Politics, Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1985. Ennker, Beno, Die Anfa¨nge des Lenin-kults in der Sowjetunion, Ko¨jn, Vienna, Bohlau Verlag, 1997. Gentile, Emilio, The Sacralization of Politics in Fascist Italy, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1996. Gibas, Monika, Gries, Rainer, ‘“Vorschlang fu¨r den Ersten mai: die Fu¨hrung zieht am Volk vorbei!” U¨berlegungen zur Geschichte der Tribu¨ne in der DDR’, Deutschland Archiv, 5, 1995: 481– 94. Hobsbawm, Eric, The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1983.

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INDEX

28 October (anniversary), 1, 16, 26, 27, 52 1951 strikes, 31 1953 strikes, 31 Action Committee of the National front see National Front, Action Committee Adenauer, Konrad, 176, 177 Africa, 190 agriculture, 1, 9, 12, 31 – 2, 34 –6, 57, 62, 65 – 7, 72, 74, 81 – 2, 93, 95, 110, 117, 180, 185, 197, 198, 204, 217 –19, 228 reforms, 5, 12 alcoholism, 120, 122, 124 Algeria, 190 Arendt, Hannah, 114, 137 aryanisation, 7 Ascension (holiday), 71 Asia, 190 Assumption (holiday), 71 atomic bomb, 163, 178, 181, 182, 183 autonomy, 25 Banjo Bend Ivana Mla´dka, 236 Barrandov (movie studios), 147

behaviour, socialist, 28, 74, 88, 98, 100 –2, 106, 120–1, 123–4, 127 –8, 134– 5, 138– 41, 152, 221 Belgium, 7 Benesˇ, Edvard, 9, 11, 85 Bera´k, Jaromı´r, 14 Beran, Josef, 71 Bierut, Bolesław, 187, 190 Bilak, Vasil, 230 Bolerˇadice, 229 Bratislava, 166, 186, 214, 231, 232, 236 Brezhnev, Leonid, 38, 44 Brˇeznice, 221 Brno, 69, 117, 161, 218, 219, Budyneˇ nad Ohrˇı´, 229 building confidant, 121– 2, 129, 132, 134 –5, 139, 173, 176, 178– 80, 183 –4, 190, 195, 199, 216 Bulgaria, 126 Bytcˇa, 57 –8, 65, 67– 68, 72, 74–6 calendar, 50, 71, 72, 158, 159, 203 Bolshevik, 50 Gregorian, 53 reform, 71, 159, 161 socialist, 160, 252, 253, soviet, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53

INDEX Catholic People’s Party, 8, 86 Catholics, 48, 49, 60, 73, 222 centralisation, 32, 37, 41, 93 Cˇernı´k, Otakar, 224 Cˇeske´ Budeˇjovice, 186, 216, 219, 220, 224 Cˇesky´ Krumlov, 219 Charles University, 173 Chervenkov, Valko Veliov, 190 chestidnevki, 50, 51, 52, 53 Chodov, 229 Christmas, 28, 55, 66, 72, 75 Church, Catholic, 48, 54, 57 – 8, 66 – 73, 75, 77, 108, 186, Office for Religious Affairs, 54, 65 –6 orthodox, 58 Peace Movement of Catholic Clergy, 66 Churchill, Winston, 169, 176 – 7, civil code, 88, 121, 142 CˇKD, 4, 19, 20 – 6, 28, 33, 36 – 7, 43 Cold War, 169, 178, 196 collaboration, 86, 96 collectivisation, 34, 48, 82, 92 –3, 96 – 7, 99, 101, 110 Comecon, 11, 30, 36, 39, 43, 44, 250 common good, 81 – 2, 101, 103, 105, 107, 111, 151 communal apartments, 128, 131 – 2, 143, 156 communal economy, 94, 99, 100, 118 communal sphere, 131, 133, 239 Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, 10, 12, 23, 60, 63, 65, 74, 79, 80, 82, 85, 86, 87, 89, 92, 94 – 5, 108, 109, 110 – 11, 122, 161 – 3, 173, 176, 179, 186, 187, 189, 196, 208 – 9, 211, 214 – 15, 218, 222 – 4, 228 – 31, 247, 256 – 7 10th Congress (1954), 32 13th Congress (1966), 39 Central Committee, 23, 143, 208 District Committee, 48

317

First secretary, 42, 151, 189– 90, 193 – 5, 209, 224, 229 Politburo, 187, 189, 192– 5, 208 street committee, 122, 154 Communist party of Soviet Union, 17, 25, 53, 75, 123, 189 complaints, 32, 77, 83, 116, 122– 5, 127 –8, 137, 151–4, 221 conflicts, 21, 23, 25, 42, 61, 73, 102, 114 –15, 122 –4, 130 – 1, 136, 138, 155 – 6, 163 Congo, 190 Constitutions, socialist, 88, 143 Constitution (1948), 93, 201 Constitution (1960), 35, 121 consumption, 9, 12, 31, 32, 41 cooperatives, 1, 48, 52, 57, 68– 9, 74– 5, 91 –3, 97, 117, 185, 197, 217 –18, 227, 229, 234 Corpus Christi (holiday), 58, 68, 69, 71, 74, 75, 76 Council of People’s Commissars, 50 Crane, Walter, 203 Cuba, 190 cult of personality, 167, 188, 190, 194 Czech lands, 9, 14, 228, 230, 234, 235 Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences, 38 De Gaulle, Charles, 176, 177 decentralisation, 32, 33, 34, 43, 93, 94 De´czi, Laco, 147 Dej, Gheorghe Gheorghui, 190 democracy, 6, 7, 16, 184, 256 dictatorship of the proletariat, 80– 1, 88, 90, 92 – 3, 208 Dikobraz (review), 122, 129 Dimitrov, Georghi, 176, 186 discipline (in the workplace), 3, 7, 24, 25– 31, 42, 122 Divina, 75 Dubcˇek, Alexander, 42, 224– 5, 228 Duby, Georges, 115 Dukla (battle), 65

318

STATE

AND SOCIETY IN COMMUNIST

Easter (holiday), 66, 72, 77 Eastern Bloc, 19, 143 economic crisis, 81 1930s, 5 1950s, 250 1970s– 1980s, 236, 252, 44 economic reforms, 4, 6, 12, 31, 33 – 4, 37 – 44, 48, 129, 250 – 2 emotion, 114 – 15, 126, 130, 151, 158, 167, 199, 200 – 2, 206, 213, 216, 222, 235, 239, 242, 252 Engels, Friedrich, 187 – 8, 193, 195, 208 – 9 Epiphany (holiday), 71, 76 equality gender, 88, 89 political and social, 82, 88, 103, 153, 162 Erban, Evzˇen, 147 exodus, rural, 35 factory system, 6, 10 Fascism, 9, 159, 169, 178, 201, 249 Fierlinger, Zdeneˇk, 187 France, 5, 8, 50, 177 Fry´dlant, 221 Fucˇı´k, Julius, 2, 175 Gagarin, Yuri, 222 Gary, Romain, 4 general interest see common good German Democratic Republic, 3, 31 – 2, 35, 110, 117, 213, 257, Germans, 23, 83 – 4, 97, 119, transfer, 23, 84 Good Friday, 71 Gottwald, Klement, 31, 48, 61, 63, 69, 71, 166 – 8, 176, 187 – 9, 193, 202, 208 – 9, 211, 220 Gottwaldov, 48, 69, 220 Great Britain, 81 Great Depression, 7, 42

CZECHOSLOVAKIA

Habermas, Ju¨rgen, 80, 81 Havel, Va´clav, 154, 255, 258 Hermanova´, Ljuba, 236 hero of socialist work, 3, 17, 25, 28– 30, 42, 157, 160, 191, 202, 249 Hitler, Adolf, 7, 8, 181 Ho-Chi-Minh, 187, 190 Hodinova´-Spurna´, Anezˇka, 90 holidays, 29, 49, 50–2, 55–6, 60–1, 64– 5, 71, 108, 143– 4, 159–60, 206, 214 Hosty´n, 69 housing, 9, 35, 87, 95, 98–102, 104, 113, 116 – 19, 121, 124– 5, 128, 131 –5, 140, 142–3, 145–50, 152 –3, 156, 252 Hoxha, Enver, 187, 190 Hradec Kra´love´, 224 Hungarians, 119 Hungary, 5, 32, 35, 43, 85, 88, 90, 102, 257 Husa´k, Gusta´v, 42, 229 Immaculate Conception (holiday), 71 imperialism, 161, 163, 169–71, 173, 180 individualism, 150 individuals from the past (by´valı´ lide´), 118 Indochina, 190 Indonesia, 163 Industrial Revolution, 6 industrialisation, 9, 14, 16, 17, 30, 48, 78, 80 –1, 117, 134, 248 industry, 1, 4, 12, 14, 17– 19, 31, 35, 37, 39, 41, 62, 70, 89, 96, 116 –17, 185 –6, 252 heavy-industry, 14, 19, 31, 35, 37, 41– 2, 202 machine industry, 37 salaries, 40 inequality (social), 5, 16, 31, 81, 88, 92, 102

INDEX insecurity, 130, 139, 140, 249, 255 intimacy, 137, 141, 151, 137 Jankovcova´, Ludmila, 90 Jihlava, 69 Jindrˇichu˚v Hradec, 229 Jinonice, 2 John, Oldrˇich, 16 Julius Fucˇı´k Entertainment Park, 213, 226, 228, 235 Karlovy Vary, 69, 215, 216 Kerenski, Alexander, 50 Khrushchev, Nikita, 38, 44, 141 – 3, 167, 187 – 9, 208, 252 Kim Il-sung, 187, 190 Kokesˇ, Jaroslav, 120 Kopecky´, Milosˇ, 146, 147 Kopecky´, Va´clav, 161, 187, 196 Korea, 163 Kosˇice, 69 Kouba, Karel, 38 Ku Klux Klan, 180, 183 Kulak, 48 Latin America, 190 Lenin, Vladimir I., 50, 93, 169, 186 – 9, 193, 195, 198, 206, 208 – 9, 229 Leninism, 193, 228 Letna´ plateau (Prague), 196, 201, 231 – 4, 238– 9 Lezˇa´ky, 166 Liberation (1944 – 5), 50, 65, 83, 84, 87, 92, 97, 160 – 1, 204, 228, Liberation (anniversary), 66, 159, 160, 201, 161, 206, 229 Lidice, 166 Lidova´ demokracie (newspaper), 8 Limona´dovy´ Joe (movie), 147 Lincoln Electrics, 44 Lipsky´, Oldrˇich, 147 Louvre Museum (Paris), 164

319

Macha´cˇova´-Dosta´lova´, Bozˇena, 90 Mao Zedong, 187, 190 Maria´nska Hora, 76 Marshall Plan, 11 Marx, Karl, 187, 188, 193, 195, 208 –9 Marxism, 8, 193, 228, 255 Masaryk, Toma´sˇ Garrigue, 71 May Day (holiday), 50, 58, 66, 76, 105, 111, 126, 156, 159– 2, 166– 7, 177, 184 – 5, 187, 195– 7, 199, 206, 214, 249 1968, 193, 222–3, 225 –6, 242, 1969, 224, 226–8 1970, 229 afternoon, 213, 226, 227 allegorical floats, 2, 45, 176, 179, 210, 215, 221 campaign, 197, 198, 201, 223 the day before, 199 –200 decoration, 166, 202, 204, 215, 227 depolitisation, 221– 2, 236 end of the parade, 221 engagements, 26, 197, 208, 229 –30 flowers, 203, 210 guests, 193, 195, 202, 213, 223, 232 head of the parade, 184, 187, 208, 232 honours, 202 May Days, 201 mobilisation, 215, 222, 223, 238 morning, 207 normalisation, 229– 35, 242– 3 parade, 10, 159, 161, 163, 165– 6, 176, 177, 186 –8, 202, 210, 213, 217, 222 – 3, 245 participation, 214, 220, 234, 235, 236, 239 participatory ritual, 234 ritual, 159 –60, 163, 166– 7, 174, 177, 184, 186, 191– 2, 195, 197, 200, 213 – 14, 219, 223, 229, 231 – 2, 234, 236, 238, 242, 245, 249

320

STATE

AND SOCIETY IN COMMUNIST

routes, 166 –7, 173, 192, 198, 206, 216 – 17, 223, 230 – 3, 242 slogans, 156, 158, 161, 162, 167, 176, 187, 193, 195, 198, 209, 211, 217 – 19, 222 – 4, 228 – 9 social hierarchies, 185– 96 spirit of the gift, 213 stand, 195, 223 – 4, 227, 229, 231 – 4, 237, 239, 240, 249 modernisation, 28, 54, 195 moral (socialist), 77, 121, 123, 134, 136, 181 Moravia, 7, 48, 49, 66, 176, 228, 230, 235 ´ lehova´, Veˇra, 12, 13, 14, 26 Mouralova´-U Munich agreements (1938), 8 Municipal Committee of the National Front see National Front, Municipal Committee Mu˚stek (Prague), 164, 208 Nast, Thomas, 175 National Assembly, 9, 60, 90 President, 9, 16, National committee, 85, 86, 89, 90–5, 97 – 106, 136, 154, 215 National Front, 122, 128, 199, 226, 228, 229 Action Committee, 91, 97, 161 Municipal Committee, 222, 223 national revolutionary council, 85 National Socialist Party, 86 Nationalisation Day (holiday), 16 nationalisations, 5, 11, 16, 19, 48, 82, 92, 96 – 7, 99, 102, 110, 117 NATO, 170 – 1, 181, 183 – 4 nazism, 2, 5, 85, 166, 168, 174 – 5, 219 Nedeˇle (review), 78 neighbours, 5 – 6, 61, 68, 98, 100, 104, 120, 122 –4, 127 – 8, 130 – 7, 139, 140 – 1, 143 – 4, 146, 148, 155, 206, 214, 232 nepreryvka, 49, 50, 51, 52

CZECHOSLOVAKIA

Netherlands, 7 Nitra, 69 non-productive sectors, 185 Nosek, Va´clav, 120 Novotny´, Antonı´n, 35, 38, 187, 209 Occupation, 4, 5, 7, 127, 164, 228 October Revolution, 50, 66, 105, 160, 206, 226, 231 Old Town Square (Prague), 163, 226 Olomouc, 69, 71 Olympic (group), 236 ostalgie, 116 Ostrava, 62, 117, 130, 153, 161, 176, 177 –8, 214, 220, 224 Palach, Jan, 228 Paris, 164, 170, 171 party-state, 110, 111, 150, 154– 5, 158, 193, 202, 212, 248, 249 paternalism, 126, 128, 151 Pa´tkova´, Bozˇena, 14, 29 peace, 23, 26, 65– 6, 86, 105, 161– 3, 209, 211, 219, 222, 237, 250 peace camp (allegory), 167 – 84 Peace Competition, 201 peace congress, 169 – 72 peace movement, 66, 169 Peace Movement of Catholic Clergy see Church, Peace Movement of Catholic Clergy penal code, 120, 121, 123 people’s courts, 96, 122, 138, 139, people’s democracy, 12, 16, 42, 90, 105, 117, 153, 155, 160, 166, 169, 180, 232, 242, 244, 250, 252, 254, 258 People’s Militias, 163, 179, 187, 191–2, 207, 217–18, 223, 233 Petr, Antonı´n, 86 Pieck, Wilhelm, 187, 190 pilgrimage, 54, 58, 59, 66, 69, 70, 74, 76, 248 pioneers, 105, 187, 191– 2, 199, 204, 208 –10, 218, 224

INDEX Pı´sek, 219 Pius, 58 planning, 6, 9, 10, 12, 14, 19, 22, 24 – 5, 30, 32 – 5, 37 – 8, 40, 44, 78, 89, 93, 161, 180, 244 first Five-Year Plan (1949 – 53), 1, 3, 6, 11 – 17, 21 –2, 26 – 8, 32, 34, 211 – 12, 220, 257 fourth Five-Year Plan (1966 –70), 41 Planning Office, 32, 37 second Five-Year Plan (1956 – 60), 32, 34, 66, 74 Seven-Year Plan (1959 – 65), 35 Soviet First Five-Year Plan (1928– 32), 3, 18, 25, 44 third Five-Year Plan (1961– 5), 1, 33, 35, 38 Two-Year Plan (1947– 8), 6, 9, 10, 12, 14, 16, 19, 20, 22, 26, 29, 60 Plzenˇ, 117, 186, 216, 218, 224 Poland, 5, 32, 43, 85, 110, 117, 170, 258 police, 31, 87, 91, 97, 100, 113 – 14, 122 – 3, 125, 128, 179, 233 political sphere, 158, 245, 252 population transfer, 23, 83, 84 Prague, 1, 45, 62, 71, 79, 81 – 2, 84, 93, 95 – 6, 100, 103, 113, 116 – 18, 123, 125 – 6, 129, 134, 136, 138, 140, 145 – 8, 150 – 4, 157, 159, 162, 163, 164, 165 –6, 168, 170, 173 – 5, 179, 181 – 4, 188– 9, 192 – 9, 201 – 2, 204, 209, 211 – 13, 215 – 16, 222– 3, 225 – 9, 231, 233 – 6, 238 – 41 Prague coup (1948), 11, 23, 62, 91 Prague Spring, 4, 41, 231, 242, 257 Pravda (newspaper), 53, 122 Predmier, 46, 76 President of the Republic, 11, 31, 35, 71, 85, 113, 125 – 6, 129– 30, 151, 188 – 90, 193– 4, 202, 209 – 10, 224

321

privacy, 114, 119, 128, 130– 131, 133, 143, 145 – 6, 149, 154, 250 –1 progress, 2 –4, 6, 14, 17, 19, 33, 35, 39, 41– 3, 90, 208, 237, 244, 250, 252 –3, 255– 6, 258 propagandist pairs, 122, 139, 143, 197, 198, 216, 219, 229 property communal, 97 private, 97, 98, 139, 143, 154, 155, 156 transfer, 82, 96, 97, 117, 139 Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, 85 public sphere, 80 – 92, 96, 99, 101– 2, 105 –6, 108– 12, 115, 146, 154, 245, 248, 250, 251, 252, 255, 258 Red Army, 65, 83, 86, 160, 228 Reformation, 67 Republic Square (Prague), 163 rhythm, Seven-Day, 47, 49– 51, 53, 70, 73, 78 rituals see symbolic politics, rituals Romania, 88 Rozsypal, Kurt, 33 Ru˚de´ przˇvo (newspaper), 2, 10, 122, 157, 166, 173, 186, 198– 9, 205, 211, 223 Rundo, Bogoljuba, 84 Ru˚zˇicˇkova´, Helena, 236 Saint Peter and Saint Paul (holiday), 71 Saturday of Honour, 197 Schmitt, Carl, 170, 176 security, 136, 155, 223, 256 selfishness, 14, 120, 124, 146, 154, 156 Sheffield, 170 Siemens, 44 Slovakia, 7, 9, 12, 14, 46, 48– 9, 59, 66, 85, 166, 214, 234, 235 Slovo agita´tora (review), 216 Smejkal, Oldrˇich, 9

322

STATE

AND SOCIETY IN COMMUNIST

Sobeˇslav, 219 Social Democratic Party, 85, 237 socialist community, 3, 60, 70, 76, 77, 78, 80, 83, 85, 98 – 9, 100– 2, 105, 109 – 11, 113, 124 – 5, 128, 130 – 1, 133, 135 – 41, 144 – 5, 147, 149 – 50, 154 – 61, 163 – 8, 173, 195 – 7, 199, 202, 206 – 7, 211, 213, 231, 237, 248 – 9, 251 – 2, 254, 256, 258 socialist competition, 3, 20, 23, 29, 37, 39, 60, 70, 72, 93, 105, 180, 186, 210 counter-plan, 26, 27, 28 Stakhanovism, 25, 29, 43, 160, 252 work hero, 29, 30, 42, 157, 160, 191, 249 socialist democracy, 154 Sokol, 68, 92, 218, 231 solidarity (principle), 23, 30, 61, 68, 84, 90, 130, 136, 137, 150, 155, 162, 199, 207, 251 soviets, 81, 93 Stalin Square (Bratislava), 166, 236 Stalin, Joseph V., 8, 16, 17, 105, 142, 167, 168 – 9, 176, 187 – 90, 193, 201, Stalinism, 242 de-Stalinisation, 33, 43, 190 Statistics Office, 38 Stockholm, 170 Sunday, 46 – 8, 50, 52– 63, 65 – 71, 73 –78, 132, 138, 139, 197, 198, 218, 229, 248 Sunday of Honour, 197 Svoboda, Ludvı´k, 224, 228 Svobodny´ zı´trek (newspaper), 8 symbolic politics, 158, 159, 252 carnation flower, 193, 209, 211, 237 dove, 171, 172, 176 national anthem, 105, 209 red colour, 10, 162, 187, 204, 208 – 9, 211, 227 – 9, 237

CZECHOSLOVAKIA

rituals, 47, 54, 60, 76, 96, 105, 109, 111, 158 – 60, 163, 166 –7, 174, 177, 184, 186, 191– 2, 195, 197, 200 – 1, 209, 213– 14, 217, 219, 223, 229, 231 –9, 242, 245, 248 – 9, 258 Sˇafra´nkova´, Libusˇe, 147 Sˇik, Ota, 38, 40, 41 Sˇimu˚nek, Otakar, 32 Sˇiroky´, Viliam, 187 Sˇpinarova´, Veˇra, 236 Sˇtoll, Ladislav, 8 Sˇtrougal, Lubomı´r, 126, 230 Sˇtvanice Island (Prague), 163 Sˇvermova´, Marie, 90 Thorez, Maurice, 187, 190 time acceleration, 10, 12, 16, 25, 28, 41 – 3, 249, 250, 253, 206 arrhythmia, 76, 77, 249, 255 charismatic, 10, 14, 28, 42– 4, 252 – 3 compression, 16, 17, 25, 28, 42 cyclical, 47, 50, 55, 73– 5, 77, 197, 220, 249, 258 linear, 2– 4, 12, 17, 24, 26, 43 – 44, 206, 249– 50, 252– 3, 257 seven-day cycle, 50 temporal framework, 3, 4, 10, 16, 18, 30 – 1, 34, 41, 43, 44, 46, 49, 55, 77, 197, 244, 249, 252, 255 – 8 work, 6, 30, 50, 55, 77, 248 time and space depolitisation, 252 Tito, Josip Broz, 190 Togliatti, Palmiro, 187, 190 Trade Unions, 26, 28, 60– 1, 64, 66, 92, 108, 186, 202, 215 Truman Doctrine, 169 Truman, Harry, 169, 176, 180 Tsedenbal, Jumjaagiyn, 187, 190

INDEX Turek, Otakar, 38 Turista, 76 Uncle Sam, 175 United Kingdom, 5, 8, 11 United States, 11, 35, 109, 163, 175, 169, 180, 184, UNRRA, 11 USSR, 3, 5, 11, 13, 18 – 19, 22, 25, 32, 35, 38 – 9, 50, 54, 66, 75, 85 – 6, 93, 100, 107, 123, 141 – 2, 158, 169, 181, 187, 189, 212 –13, 222, 228 Constitution, 75, 81 ´ stı´ nad Labem, 62, 69, 224 U Vecˇernı´ Praha (newspaper), 235 Vienna, 164, 170 Voroshilov, Kliment, 187, 189, 208 Vysocˇany, 148, 163, Vysoka´ sˇkola umeˇleckopru˚myslova´, 173 Wall Street, 180, 181 war camp (allegory), 167 – 84 Warsaw, 170 Wenceslas, square (Prague), 164, 166, 204, 208, 211, 224, 226, 232, 236, 237, 240 – 1

323

Western Europe, 3, 5, 7 – 8, 11, 19, 36, 42, 78, 81, 141, 154, 168– 9, 180, 184, 187, 190– 1, 207, 252 Women of Zˇizˇkov, 211, 212 women, politics, 88, 89, 90 Women’s Union, 89, 92, 105, 197, 212, 218 work brigade, 28, 66, 105, 108, 109, 210, 238 workforce, 10, 12, 14, 18, 21, 23, 25, 29, 31, 35 – 6, 51, 96 working-class, 91, 116, 167, 211, 237, 242 World War II, 4, 5, 53, 81, 83, 158, 166, 169, 179, 199, 231 Wroclaw, 170 Wysoczanska, Ludwiga, 147 Youth Union, 92, 108, 162, 176, 187, 191, 197, 207, 218, 221, 226 Yugoslavia, 2, 5, 84, 190, Zagorova´, Hana, 147 Za´potocky´, Antonı´n, 60, 113, 125, 126, 130, 176, 187, 188, 189, 208, 210 Zhdanov, Andrei, 169 Zˇilina, 47, 48, 59, 69, 166, 185, 231, 232 Zu˚ska, Zdeneˇk, 126, 153