THE WANDERING CZECHOSLOVAKS

CZECHOSLOVAKIA ranked second only to Russia in its strict border control until early this year. Then, in one of its most welcome reforms, the Dubcek regime relaxed restrictions on travel,' and Czechoslovaks began spilling joyously out of their country to explore the world. When Russian tanks moved on Prague on Aug. 21, thousands of Czechoslovaks--including Deputy Premier Ota Sik and Foreign Minister Jifi Hajek--were relaxing on their first vacation abroad in years. For them, and for ordinary citizens who fled the country in the first clutch of fear, Russia's continuing occupation poses an agonizing dilemma--especially as it has become clear that, unlike the refugees from Hungary in 1956, they can go home again.

Thousands of them, including Sik and Hajek, chose to do exactly that, whatever the consequences. But many others were hesitating, as they watched and waited to see what the Soviets would do next. As of last week, some 50,000 Czechoslovaks, by their own government's count, remained in the West. Some 10,000 of them have asked various Western countries to accept them as refugees officially, thus taking the first irrevocable step toward finding completely new lives. But the majority, by extending their tourist visas, by seeking student or work permits, or simply by staying put, are postponing a final decision. They are referred to by their host countries in such vague terms as "tourists on extended vacation" and "travelers living in self-imposed semi-exile." Said Film Director Ivan Passer, visiting New York: "In Hungary, they didn't close the border until three months after the tanks came in. A month after that, thousands of people disappeared"--into prisons.

Little in Common. That has not yet happened in Czechoslovakia. Last week Party Boss Dubcek and his colleagues on the Presidium were still putting up resistance to Soviet demands for a list of Czechoslovaks whom the Russians consider "counter-revolutionaries."

There were also new reports that Moscow was trying to unseat Dubcek; the result was yet another delay in the planned conference between Czechoslovak and Russian leaders in Moscow.

Except for their personal anguish, the Czechoslovaks separated from home and family by the invasion have little in common with the usual refugees from other Communist lands and crises. They are, by and large, skilled, well educated and often relatively well off. A son of Karel Ancerl, who has been named musical director of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra for its next three seasons, escaped across the border in his family's Mercedes-Benz 250 SL. In Austria, many have loaded up their boxy Skodas for sightseeing tours of the Alps while they await developments in Prague. In London and Paris, large groups of students who had planned to return from vacations and summer jobs to their schools at home were vying furiously for scholarships to stay abroad for the fall term. "There are so many beautiful things to see here," explained Milan, a bearded Czechoslovak architecture student in Paris who, like many other expatriates, prefers not to be fully identified. "I might as well take advantage of it."

Luminaries of the Czechoslovak literary world showed up in droves last week for the Frankfurt Book Fair, and no fewer than five of the nation's top film directors, including Jan Nemec, Milos Forman and Jan Kadar, met at Manhattan's Lincoln Center Film Festival last week and discussed their futures.

Most have plans to work abroad for a while, but none will renounce Czechoslovak citizenship. Says Jan Kadar, who co-directed The Shop on Main Street: "We have a solidarity with our government and our people. It was a miracle. Never was a people so united on so high an ethical level."

Among those who have left for good, the young often speak in total disillusionment. "O.K., it's clear. We see how things are," says a 26-year-old Czechoslovak mathematician. "We won't ever go back. The Russians have strangled us." For older people, Dubcek's adventure provided a fresh breath of freedom that was too precious to give up. "You live 20 years in fear of your life, and then it gets better," observes a 50-year-old medical technician who fled to Paris. "You can never go back to what life was like before." Intellectuals face perhaps the most torturous choice. "We may not be arrested," as a writer in Vienna put it, "but what is physical freedom when you have to write what you are told? Politicians can be realists, but to a writer such realism is prostitution or worse."

Right Free Country. For countries that need immigrants, the swarms of Czechoslovak professionals and skilled technicians at loose ends provided a field day. Australian recruiters happily chartered three jetliners to bring hundreds of refugees to Sydney, including doctors, engineers, dentists, university professors, graphic designers and High Diving Champion Stefan Hanny. "These people could make an immeasurable contribution to Australia's progress if they can be allowed to practice their professions," said Immigration Minister Billy Snedden. Canada frantically increased its three-man immigration department in Vienna to 20, has already granted resident visas to almost 2,000 persons--including Marcella Grossova, 24, runner-up in Czechoslovakia's annual national beauty contest, who was snapped up by a Toronto modeling agency. Canada budgeted $2,000,000 to settle the refugees and teach them either English or French. Some, like Musician Eduard Ambros, 25, can skip the linguistics. "I feel very good to be in Canada," he told airport well-wishers in excellent English. "I hear you have a right free country."

Life for those still in a quandary has been eased somewhat by host governments. West Germany, Austria and the U.S. have granted automatic visa extensions to all visiting Czechoslovak citizens and last week the acting director of the U.S. State Department office of refugee affairs, Lawrence Dawson, urged Congress to approve a refugee treaty that would aid Czechoslovaks who eventually decide to settle in the U.S. The exiles' reluctance to declare themselves refugees has so far slowed down some official aid, but West Germany and Austria have already decided to forget red tape and open up their refugee camps to Czechoslovaks anyway. Nonetheless, because more than half the Czechoslovaks in Austria have not even bothered to register with the police, authorities last week announced a crackdown. In large part it is for the Czechoslovaks' own protection: Austrian and Swiss officials believe that the Russians have sent in some phony refugees to spy on pockets of Czechoslovaks living abroad.

Aid from Nudists. Much of the hospitality comes from individuals. A French citizens' committee is helping stay-on students, and in Britain families have issued open-ended invitations to dozens of young Czechoslovaks to live in their guest bedrooms. In Switzerland, industrialists have tried to fill so many skilled jobs with Czechoslovak visitors that the government issued a gentle reminder that Swiss applicants must still come first. One group of Czechoslovak tourists in Austria fared particularly well: after stumbling on a nudist camp by the Worthersee, they gleefully reported that "the people showered us with food and gifts before we even had time to undress."

True to their guarantee against reprisals, Czechoslovak leaders have refrained from using threats or force in wooing back their intelligentsia, but they have used almost every other means. President Ludvik Svoboda, addressing a reception at Hradcany castle last week for Czechoslovak artists, pointedly praised them for "sharing all that we are living through these days." Dubcek himself delivered an appeal for the return of Czechoslovaks, inserting a touching "prosim" ("please") into his words. Loyal editors, professors and filmmakers, sent abroad to contact expatriate friends, argue that those who stay outside give the Russians the very opportunity they want: tacit evidence of "counter-revolution." In Geneva, a Czechoslovak government delegation held a reception to ask the 5,600 exiles in Switzerland to return; only 85 attended, and so far fewer than twelve are homebound. At the same time, however, the Dubcek regime has privately told the brashest reformers to stay out of the country for a while.

For the Time Being. The blanket calls to patriotism are almost more than many Czechoslovaks can bear. "I don't know what to do," says a history student in West Germany. "If there is any chance of winning this battle, I want to go back and help build humanist socialism. But if there is no chance of winning, how can I go back to face intellectual--and maybe even physical--death?" The answer is to plan their lives, in the phrase they often use, "for the time being." But barring a total clamp down on personal liberties, most plan to return eventually, particularly the intellectuals. "None of us has the right to do what we did, then leave when things blow up in our faces," says Journalist-Writer Antonin Liehm. "After all, we started it all."

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