Days of Dark Uncertainty

At first glance, it seemed as if the Russians had gone a long way toward "normalizing" Czechoslovakia by rescinding most of the personal and political freedoms that had been granted during the heady liberal regime of Alexander Dubcek. In fact, the plucky Czechoslovaks were using their wits and will to walk a shaky tightwire between overt compliance and covert resistance to Russia's goals. Last week, as Soviet soldiers settled into winter quarters outside Prague and other cities for what is likely to be a long occupation, it was plain that the Kremlin considered Czechoslovakia far from normalized--and was growing dangerously impatient with the country's noncooperative foot dragging.

Summons to Moscow. Most impatient of all, it seemed, was Communist Party Boss Leonid Brezhnev. Last week Brezhnev ordered Dubcek to report to Moscow with his personal list of Czechoslovak "counter-revolutionaries"--for comparison with Brezhnev's own. Under pressure from Brezhnev and his Kremlin colleagues, Dubcek accepted the resignation of Foreign Minister Jiri Hajek, who defiantly demanded withdrawal of Russian troops before the U.N. Security Council last month. He was the third reformer of ministerial rank to be sacked (Deputy Premier Ota Sik and Interior Minister Josef Pavel preceded him). Among other leaders forced out: Television Chief Jiri Pelikan, Radio Chief Zdenek Hejzlar and Dr. Frantisek Kriegel, popular liberal member of the Presidium. Brezhnev tossed Kriegel out of the Soviet-Czechoslovak meeting in Moscow last month by icily ordering Dubcek: "Get this Galician Jew out of here."

Further evidence came to light last week from Prague sources to indicate that Brezhnev had been the real heavy during the Moscow meetings. He would listen only to President Ludvik Svoboda, a hero of the Czechoslovak brigade that fought against the Nazis. Impatiently and arrogantly, he cut off the others in midsentence. Moreover, claimed the sources, as soon as word reached Moscow that President Johnson had left Washington's crisis atmosphere for his Texas ranch, Brezhnev and the other Russians felt assured that there would be no U.S. move to counter their invasion. Accordingly, they hardened their attitude toward the captive Czechoslovak leaders.

Islands of Emptiness. The Kremlin spewed out its displeasure with the uncooperative Czechoslovaks in a Tass report that accused "people in high party positions" of deliberately "sabotaging 'the Moscow agreements." Dubcek himself may well be at the top of the list. It has not escaped the Russians that he has managed to countervail the loss of many a reformer by sacking a pro-Moscow counterpart (last week's swap: Hajek for Communications Minister Karel Hoffman, who compliantly ordered radio and TV to go off the air shortly after the invasion began).

Particularly galling to the Soviets was the irrepressible irreverence of Czechoslovak publications, despite the rigid new censorship rules. The newsweekly Mlady Svet ran a cartoon showing a customs official lifting the top of a traveler's head and peering inside to find out whether it contained any counterrevolutionary thoughts. The Reporter, a spunky newsweekly banned by the Soviets three weeks ago, returned to circulation with transcripts of Dubcek's speeches--accompanied by eloquently uncaptioned pictures of invading Warsaw Pact tanks and troops. Last week alone, four publications were shut down --three by armed Soviet troops.

The spirit of low-key resistance was evident in ordinary Czechoslovak citizens, too. At the Brno Trade Fair, a wine-drinking Czechoslovak shouted tipsily across a cellar bar: "Do you know why the Warsaw Pact troops are going to be here a long time? Because it will take them forever to find the people who invited them in." At the crowded fair itself, the exhibits of Warsaw Pact nations were islands of emptiness, and many of them barely opened on time because local workmen took their time assembling them.

Man on the Spot. No one can say how long the Russians will permit such tactics to go on. Though Czechoslovak leaders announced that the Russians would soon begin a "phased" pullback of some forces, a Soviet armored division remains encamped in the Prague suburb of Troja, its artillery zeroed in on the downtown area. Soviet troops also occupy nearby football fields moving out only at game time and returning soon afterward to resume their vigil.

Dubcek managed to postpone his trip to Moscow until this week, departing instead for Brno and a tumultuous welcome from the crowds there. But he will have to respond to the summons some time, and when he does, the question will not be whether the Russians can handle him, but how rough their handling will be. These same dark uncertainties about the future are keeping more than 50,000 Czechoslovaks--including many professionals and intellectuals--in at least semi-exile in the West, and consigning those who stayed at home to lives of perpetual anxiety. Returning to work last week after a brief absence, a prominent pro-Dubcek journalist ran into a member of the Presidium. "What are you still doing here?" asked the party man, astonished that his friend had not fled. Demanded the journalist: "Won't you be able to guarantee our security?" The reply bespoke a bittersweet mixture of sadness and courage. Said the Presidium member: "We cannot even guarantee our own."

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