Slovo Magazine

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summer 2011

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Cover image: Images shared by the oral history subjects who tell their stories in this issue of Slovo include (top left to bottom right) John Palka’s father’s false passport (listing him as Janko Pavkovic of Novi Sad, Serbia, instead of Jan Palka of Liptovsky´ Mikulás˘, Czechoslovakia), which allowed the family to travel unhindered through France, Spain and Portugal during World War II; Peter Hruby at age 4; Karel Ruml’s parents, Miroslava and Vaclav, Prague, 1922; and Jana Roubíková (Svehlova), Prague, 1945.

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VOLUME 12 ▪ NUMBER 1 summER 2011

FROM THE PUBLISHER

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CONTRIBUTORS

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FEATURES: Talk Is Not Cheap: The Value of the NCSML’s Oral History Project

by the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library. The editor welcomes research articles and

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essays written for a popular audience that address Czech & Slovak history and culture.

By NCSML Oral History Project Coordinator Rosie Johnston

MUSEUM SCRAPBOOK: Remembering Our Journeys

Slovo is published biannually

Please address inquiries to Editor,

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Slovo, 87 16th Avenue SW, Cedar Rapids, IA 52404.

THE ORAL HISTORY INTERVIEWEES With Feet Planted in Two Lands: An Overview of Emigration to North America from Czechoslovakia

9 10 Publisher: Gail Naughton

By historian Michael J. Kopanic, Jr.

Editor: Sher Jasperse

Resistance and Escape: The Story of the Freedom Train

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Librarian: David Muhlena

By anti-Nazi activist and author Karel Ruml

Twice Displaced But Not Defeated: A Slovak Family’s Quest for Freedom

Design: WDG Communications Inc.

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By professor John Palka

The Enemy’s Daughter: How I Made Peace with My Painful Past

Slovo = Word

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By researcher and author Jana Roubíková Svehlova

Starting Over: We Left Home and Party to Build a New Life

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By Melania Strecˇanská Rakytiak, Slovak-American matriarch

From Lenin to Lennon: The Making of an Independent Man

Curator: Stefanie Kohn

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Slovo is available as a benefit to members of the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library. Individual memberships: $35 for one year.

For information, write to the NCSML, 87 16th Avenue SW, Cedar Rapids, IA, 52404; call (319) 362-8500; or visit our Web site at www.NCSML.org.

By film producer Vladimir Maule

Creating Pathways to Expression: A Free-Thinker Speaks Truth to Power

30 ISSN 1545-0082

By journalist and educator Peter Hruby

MUSEUM EVENTS

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Copyright © 2011 National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library

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from the PU B L ISHE R

Gail Naughton President / CEO National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library

Letters to the Editor We encourage discussion of the issues and stories presented in Slovo.

Please send your letters to: Editor, Slovo 87 16th Avenue SW Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52404 Or e-mail to: gnaughton@NCSML.org

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FROM THE PUBLISHER On July 25, 2008, an excited David Muhlena, NCSML library director, walked into my office brandishing a letter. It was the notification of a “Museums for America” grant from the Institute of Museum and Library Services for the NCSML national oral history project, Recording Voices and Documenting Memories of Czech- and Slovak-Americans.

We looked at each other and just laughed at the irony. Here we were, only six weeks after arguably the most devastating museum disaster in the country, receiving a prestigious grant that we had been trying to get for three years. We’d finally won out over the stiff competition — only 42 percent of the applicants were successful — and now had the funding to undertake the most important project ever for our national museum and library.

It had been our desire for many years to capture the personal stories of Cold War émigrés, their memories about life under communism, reasons why and circumstances under which they left Czechoslovakia, and their experiences in America, both in establishing a new life and in advocating for the liberation of their homeland. This was reinforced by a visit from former Czech Senator Jaroslava Moserová when she served as the keynote speaker at the 2005 NCSML history and culture conference. (Moserová chose to stay in communist Czechoslovakia as a physician and was part of Václav Havel’s new democratic government in 1990.)

Sharing examples of communist absurdity from her own experiences, she warned that everything possible should be done to document the stories, especially for young people who have never lived under communism.

With all the challenges confronting us in the early days of disaster recovery, we postponed the start of our project for 14 months. It took off with a bang when we hired Rosie Johnston, a young Czech-speaking researcher who brought energy, enthusiasm and a knowledge base that has taken the grant far beyond what we originally envisioned. For instance, the oral histories are now being archived at the Library of Congress and there has been interest in archiving them in Prague and Bratislava.

As I read the personal remarks written by six of our interviewees for this Slovo issue, I was struck by the humility with which they describe the sacrifices they made to reach the West. For Americans who haven’t had to fight for our personal freedom, these stories of harrowing flights across enemy lines, of starting over in a new country with only a few dollars in hand, and of leaving families behind, perhaps forever, seem worthy of a movie script. They clearly reinforce the lengths to which people will go to obtain their freedom. Yet our authors seem almost unaware of the historic implications of their lives. I suppose that most of us, if asked about our own stories, might simply say, “I lived a normal life.” It doesn’t occur to us that we are each making history every day, living what will become the story of the city, country and world in which we live. As is so evident in the stories presented here, the lives of “normal people” are exceptional and together weave the fabric of our world.

We are enormously grateful to the Institute of Museum and Library Services for the funding that made this oral history project possible, to Ludvik Svoboda and the Office of Slovaks Living Abroad in Bratislava for their matching donations, and to all those who agreed to share their unique stories. The oral histories and personal documents collected through this project are primary resources that will be used by researchers for decades to come. As the NCSML plans for the new permanent exhibition that will take center stage in our post-flood museum, the oral histories will provide content and inspiration for the exhibition’s themes and messages.

This wealth of voices and memories will truly bring history to life.

CONTRIBUTORS Rosie Johnston (Talk Is Not Cheap: The Value of the NCSML’s Oral History Project) has been coordinator of the NCSML’s oral history project since it began in late 2009. A native of Scotland, Johnston earned her degree in Czech, Slovak and French from Oxford University. Prior to her arrival at the NCSML, she worked as a reporter for Czech Radio’s international service, Radio Prague, in the Czech capital for two and a half years. She studied for a semester at the city’s Masaryk University in 2005. In 2006 Johnston was awarded a Pathfinder Scholarship from Balliol College, Oxford, to conduct research on Czechs and Slovaks in the United States and the institutions preserving their heritage.

Michael J. Kopanic (With Feet Planted in Two Lands: An Overview of Emigration to North America from Czechoslovakia) is a professor of history at the University of Maryland and at St. Francis University of Pennsylvania. He received his undergraduate degree from Youngstown State University, earned his M.A. at the University of Notre Dame, and completed his Ph.D. at the University of Pittsburgh with a dissertation titled, “Industrial Trade Unions in Slovakia, 1918-1929.” Specializing in the history of East Central Europe, Slovakia and Slovak immigration history in the United States, he writes a column for the largest circulating Slovak-American newspaper, Jednota, and has contributed numerous articles and essays for journals and books. He served as a contributing editor and translator for Anton Spiesz’s Illustrated Slovak History (2006) and co-edited Konstantin Culen’s History of Slovaks in America (2007).

Karel Ruml (Resistance and Escape: The Story of the Freedom Train) was born in Prague and grew up in Nymburk, Czechoslovakia.

At age 16 he joined a local resistance movement against the Nazi occupation. After the war he studied law at Charles University and was later awarded a doctorate. His work against the Czechoslovak Communist regime began in 1948 and culminated in active participation in the Freedom Train escape on September 11, 1951. He began a career in worldwide insurance in Canada. In 1961, he moved to the U.S., where he held executive positions with several West Coast and Midwest insurers until his retirement. His book, Z deníku Vlaku Svobody (Freedom Train Diary), was published in 2001 by Barrister & Principal in Brno, Czech Republic.

John Palka (Twice Displaced But Not Defeated: A Slovak Family’s Quest for Freedom) was born in 1939 in Paris and emigrated to the U.S. in 1941 and again in 1949. He earned his B.A. in biology from Swarthmore College and a Ph.D. in neuroscience from UCLA in 1965. Palka served as a professor of zoology at the University of Washington from 1969-2002. He was a Fulbright Fellow in India in 1965-66 and 1983 and a Guggenheim Fellow in Cambridge, England, in 1976-77.

Palka was elected a Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science in 1981. He was a co-founder of the Program on the Environment at the University of

CO NTR IBU T ORS

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Washington and served as co-director from 1997-2002. In retirement, he continues to serve on the supervisory committees of Ph.D. students studying Slovak history.

Jana Roubíková Svehlova (The Enemy’s Daughter: How I Made Peace with My Painful Past) grew up in Czechoslovakia; she left the country in 1966 and arrived in the United States via Austria and Great Britain in 1974. Svehlova received her doctorate in philosophy from the Human Sciences Program at George Washington University with a concentration in political psychology. Her research interest is in intergenerational psychological effects on the children of victims of political repression in former communist Czechoslovakia. She has presented her research at various scientific meetings in the United States, Canada and Europe.

Melania Strec˘anská Rakytiak (Starting Over: We Left Home and Party to Build a New Life) was born in Paris in 1936 to Slovak parents. Her family returned to Czechoslovakia in 1941.

After earning a degree from Teachers College in Bratislava, she became a teacher and married Fedor Rakytiak in 1957. Members of the Communist Party until disillusioned by the events of Prague Spring, Rakytiak and her husband emigrated to the U.S. in 1969 and settled in Cleveland, where they raised their four children and owned a dry cleaning business. Today Rakytiak lives in Parma, Ohio, and enjoys spending time with her eight grandchildren.

Vladimir Maule (From Lenin to Lennon: The Making of an Independent Man) was born in Prague in 1952 and has lived in the U.S. since 1969. He earned his B.F.A. in cinematography from the Art Institute of Chicago. Maule is a director/cameraman at a film production company called Filmontage Productions, which he owns with his wife, Eva. Married for 35 years, he has two daughters and lives in Naperville, Illinois.

Peter Hruby (Creating Pathways to Expression: A Free-Thinker Speaks Truth to Power) was born in 1921 in Prague. After the Communist takeover he left for exile in Geneva, where he obtained his Ph.D. in international studies and published a monthly magazine called Skutecˇnost. Hruby worked for Radio Free Europe in Munich from 1951-57 and in New York from 1958-1964. He taught in the University of Maryland Overseas Division from 1965-1970, leading courses in several foreign countries. From 1971 until 2000 he taught at Australian universities. Hruby lectured at Charles University from 2000-2007 before retiring to the U.S. to be near family.

Along with many journal articles and several books in Czech, his books in English include Czechoslovakia Between the West and the East: The Changing Role of Communist Intellectuals (University of Geneva, 1978).

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F EATU R ES

Talk Is Not Cheap:

T H E VA L U E O F T H E N C S M L’ S O R A L H I S T O RY P R O J E C T

By Rosie Johnston

Rosie Johnston NCSML Oral History Project Coordinator

Maryann Sivak’s mother, Anna (second from right), in Jakubany with two tourists from Prague in 1946: Maryann notes that the children in the photo are dressed in traditional Rusyn costume, while the female tourists from Prague are dapperly dressed in trousers.

(This photo and those on page 5 are from the Oral History Project collection.)

4 | National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library

When I began working on the NCSML’s oral history project, Recording Voices and Documenting Memories of Czech- and Slovak-Americans, in November 2009, I could not have predicted some of the accounts of war, violence, incarceration and escape that I would hear over the next year and a half. Nor could I have realized some of the assumptions, both false and true, that I brought to the project — until they were pointed out to me.

At an interview in Cleveland in April 2010, Stan Pechan (a Slovak dentist who had come to the United States in 1977) wanted to stress how “during Communism, we talked about Communism… Sometimes you were unlucky and someone turned you in… but people did talk…. And the funny thing is, afterwards, it seems like a closed chapter. People don’t want to talk about it.” This contrasted with, and I would imagine was in reaction to, my blind assumption that where there is freedom of speech, there is speech, and where there is no freedom of speech, there is silence. This is, of course, not to make light of the plight of the thousands of people who were jailed in Czechoslovakia for nothing more than stating their opinions. (Here, a quotation from Slovo contributor Jana Svehlova’s oral history interview springs to mind: on the topic of her father’s imprisonment in 1949 on grounds of his political activity, she says, “if sitting in cafes and talking about a better life is what you call ‘politically active,’ then yes, he was politically active.”) But Mr. Pechan’s frustration that, now that Communism is “done,” there is an attitude in some quarters that the past should be let lie not only overturned one of my initial, naïve assumptions; it served to articulate a phenomenon I later found myself experiencing firsthand and, in some cases, coming directly up against while coordinating this project.

As my understanding of some of the matters discussed in interviews has changed over this year and a half, so too has my understanding of the materials that have served to inform the project and the way it has been handled. Here, I would like to mention a quotation that has stuck in mind from Tina Rosenberg’s The Haunted Land. The author is paraphrasing Czech-born political scientist Jacques Rupnik when she writes, “Under Communism, the future was certain; it was the past no one could be sure of.” She is referring to the tendency of successive Communist governments in Central and Eastern Europe to revise history to fit their own needs — airbrushing politicians out of photos or, to borrow from Milan Kundera, “carefully [erasing names] from the country’s memory, like mistakes in a schoolchild’s homework.”

If I understand correctly, the idea here is that this is the wrong way around: the future should be uncertain while the past should prove to be more of an anchor, something more fixed. But this is the second of my initial assumptions to have been undermined in the course of working on this project: the idea that the past is in any way certain, regardless of where you are. This may well be a case of “the more I learn, the less I know,” but I would suggest that it is something else as well: recording interviews with

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a large number of eyewitnesses cannot help but leave you with multiple, simultaneous views of specific historic events.

There were other assumptions the NCSML made going into this oral history project; some proved to be accurate, others less so. Our original idea was to interview 150 Czechs and Slovaks in Chicago and Cleveland.

We subsequently expanded the project to include Washington D.C. when we decided that three communities would give us a broader overall picture. Originally, we planned to work with two field interviewers. Ultimately, the team of interviewers expanded, with the result that the NCSML would like to thank Katja David Fox, Misha Mazzini Griffith, Igor Mikolaska, Anne Orchier, Daniel Pratt and Ed Herrmann all for their work conducting interviews as part of this project.

The NCSML believed that this work would help us expand the reach of the museum and library into a number of US communities.

In this respect, our assumption seems to have been correct, though we could not have anticipated the level of interest there was to be from Czech and Slovak cultural organizations around the country, and indeed institutions such as the American Folklife Center, the Tenement Museum and Columbia University.

In retrospect, it was naïve of me to expect everyone to relish the prospect of speaking to me as much as I relished the prospect of speaking to them. But here I would like to reference another assumption I made going into this project — one which I think has only really been reinforced through my experience of coordinating these oral histories. Initially, I wanted to work on this oral history project because I was convinced of its value. As I have understood increasingly why one may not wish to take part in the project, so too have I come to place an ever larger value on the accounts of those who have.

In this edition of Slovo, the NCSML extends its thanks to each one of these individuals by name (see page 9 for a list of those who had been interviewed at the time this issue went to press).

Determining the value of these interviews, however, is not ultimately up to me; it is up to future audiences of our new permanent exhibit (in which a number of clips from these interviews will be used), it is up to those who visit our oral history Web pages at www.ncsml.org, and it is up to you, the reader of this edition of Slovo, to determine what value these stories have for you. It is my hope that through recording the memories, insights and opinions of 150 Czech and Slovak Cold War-era émigrés to the United States, the NCSML has made it possible for others — indeed for future generations — to experience multiple views of a number of the past century’s key historic events.

Vlastimil John Surak as a baby in a pram, Brezova pod Bradlom, 1927: Surak says the pram was brought back from America by his parents, who had already spent time in the United States.

George Mesko’s family’s first day in America — Boston, 1969

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museum SCR AP BOO K

MUSEUM SCRAPBOOK Remembering Our Journeys

Vladimir Cvicela was a tank driver in the Czechoslovak Army from 1966-1968.

Along with creating a treasury of audiovisual recordings of first-person stories, the Oral History Project provided an opportunity to collect a wealth of photos documenting the life journeys of our oral history subjects and their families from their early lives in the old country to their experiences as newcomers to America. All of these will be archivally preserved at the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library along with the oral histories. We are pleased to present a sampling of the photos here, with gratitude to all those who shared their invaluable personal images.

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Growing up in Czechoslavakia

Ludmila Anderko (in the couple at left) in a wedding procession in Kolac˘kov, North Eastern Slovakia, in 1967 or 1968: Ludmila is wearing a skirt that she asked her aunt to bring her from America.

Vladimir Krman (two places right from his teacher, marked by an x) in his school photo from 1941: A lifelong aviation enthusiast, Vladimir escaped Czechoslovakia in a plane he hijacked with a couple of Air Force friends in 1953.

Far right: Peter Vodenka with his wife Lida on horseback in Czechoslovakia prior to their departure in 1983: Peter says he grew up fascinated by all things American and went to work on a collective farm in Hrejkovice so that he could be a ‘cowboy.’

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Eduard (Duke) Dellin’s Scout Identity Card from Ludwigsburg Refugee Camp [front and back images]

Life in a refugee camp

Jarmila Stankova Hruban’s certificate of refugee status, 1949 — Murnau

Scouts in their club room at Jaegerhof Kaserne, Ludwigsburg refugee camp: The text on the wall reads, “Scouting’s ideals unite the world.” Photo: Frank Schultz

Easter Mass at Ludwigsburg Photo: Jerry Rabas

Jerri Zbiral’s first birthday at Murnau refugee camp

Zdenka Novak (in striped shirt) at Valka Lager refugee camp in 1951 Slovo | 7

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First days in America

Rudy Solfronk’s family’s first car, a 1955 Pontiac: Cars were often featured among the early photos sent by immigrants to their relatives in Czechoslovakia.

As interviewee Jerri Zbiral said, “My father’s boss had a Cadillac, which my father was allowed to take home on weekends every now and then, because he would also tinker around in it and fix little things here and there. So what did my mother do? She borrowed a fur coat and we all got nicely dressed up, and we stood in front of the Cadillac and took a family picture of us in front of the Cadillac and sent it back.”

Vera Roknic on Broadway, 1952: Having sailed from Sweden to the U.S., Vera spent a couple of days in New York City before arriving in Chicago in 1952.

Charles Heller (standing on left) at his first dinner in the United States, in New York City with the Eisner family, May 1949

Kveta Eakin arrives at Hopkins Airport, February 1976: Kveta was among the first people to be reunited with her family following the signing of the Helsinki Accords the previous year. She was accosted by journalists upon her arrival in Cleveland. She had been raised by her grandmother in Brno, Czechoslovakia, after her mother and stepfather emigrated to the United States.

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Expressions of heritage Vera Roknic’s husband, Sava, dressed up as Svaty´ Mikulás˘ for a Czech Christmas event in Chicago A Slovak parade through downtown Chicago, circa 1965 Photo: Ivan Kralik

Vladimir Mlynek (right) in Slovak kroj with his brother and sister-in-law at Ceska Sin Sokol, on Clark Street, Cleveland, around 1950

T H E O R A L H I S T O RY I N T E R V I E W E E S The following people had been interviewed as part of Recording Voices and Documenting Memories of Czech- and Slovak-Americans as this issue went to press. The project will continue until September 2011.

Zdenek Hruban Jarmila Hruban Vera Plesek Marie Cada Mojmir Povolny John Palka Vera Roknic Tony Jandacek Joe Kmet Jerry Jirak Pierre Dobrovolny Vera Dobrovolny Jana Fiserova-Dadik Paul Brunovsky Eva Lutovsky Jaroslava Stepina Vladimir Mlynek Stan Pechan Julian Balazovic George Havranek Ludvik Barta Alfonz Sokol Milada Voris Hana Voris Paul Burik Karel Ruml Josef Masin Ctirad Masin Bretislav Necasek Zdenka Necasek

Kveta Eakin Karel Paukert Andrew Hudak Maryann Sivak Paula Moss Melania Rakytiak Monika Smid Juraj Slavik Jozef Gazdik George Mesko Charles Heller Frank Lysy Marek Skolil Eduard (Duke) Dellin Jaroslav Kyncl Jerri Zbiral Milos Stehlik Josef Tousek Mila Kyncl Vladimir Maule Peter Hruby Vladimir Cvicela Ladislav Fedorko Ludmila Anderko Monica Gabriny Rokus Martin Herman Zdenek David Jan Kocvara Dusan Schejbal Vojtech Mastny

Oliver Gunovsky Maria Sefcik Peter Vodenka Jiri Knessl Olga Kovar Joan Zizek Jerry Rabas Jitka Vesel Otakara Safertal Mila Rechcigl Rudy Misurec Frank Schultz Rudy Solfronk Jana Svehlova Ales Vesely Dusan Ciran Ivan Kralik Joseph Pritasil Petra Sith Otilia Maly Karol Sith Frank Safertal Jan Pala Vera Borkovec Vladimir Krman Helena Fabry Zdenek Bazant Dagmar White Ladislaus Bolchazy Zdenka Novak

Barbara Skypala Bob Rychlik Mirek Chybik Ingrid Chybik Robert Dobson George Drost Matt Carnogursky Vilma Rychlik Susan Mikula Jana Kanska Karel Kansky Antonin Bartos Anne McKeown Ambroz Skrovanek Lucia Maruska Savoy Horvath George Grosman Jan Gadzo Vlastimil John Surak Valentin Turansky Geraldine Kraupner Dagmar Kostal Eda Vedral Alice Vedral Thomas Hasler Klara Sever Katarina Avnet Otomar Hajek Frank Schwelb Slovo | 9

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With Feet Planted in Two Lands:

By Michael J. Kopanic, Jr.

A photo provided by John Sabol of Cleveland illustrates his wife’s family immigration history: Her grandfather, Andras Ferencz (third from left), left Kassa Bela Austria-Hungary in April 1911, leaving behind his pregnant wife Maria (née Macinga, left).

His son Andrew (second from left) was born about two months later.

Andras Ferencz arrived in New York and moved on to Cleveland to live with his wife’s sister and her husband.

When World War I intervened, the family could not be reunited until 1920. To bring his family together, he gathered photos of them and had a professional photographer assemble this portrait — probably around 1919.

This portrait — originally 16 by 20 and tinted — was made from four single photos and a group photo (right). Others in the photo include (left to right) Mary Ferenc, sister of Andras Ferencz (standing to his right); Maria’s mother, Katalin Macinga (seated); Maria’s brother, Joseph Macinga; her sister, Anna Macinga Vardell, and her father, Michael Macinga.

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A N O V E RV I E W O F E M I G R AT I O N T O N O RT H A M E R I C A F R O M C Z E C H O S L O VA K I A During the communist regime in Czechoslovakia from 1948 to 1989, as many as half a million people — or about 3.5 percent of the total population — emigrated from the country. A quarter million of those émigrés left between the years 1968 and 1989. Unlike during earlier waves of emigration, these Czechs, Slovaks and a small number of Carpatho-Rusyns left largely for political reasons. Some of these émigrés would play an active role in monitoring the situation of their countrymen, working to overthrow communism, and energizing their respective ethnic communities in new lands.

When the Czechoslovak government first released its census information in 1991 after the Velvet Revolution, official statistics indicated that 3,412,000 people living abroad claimed either Czech or Slovak origin. That amounted to one-sixth of the population of Czechoslovakia at the time. Of that total, 62 percent were Czech and 31 percent Slovak. Most immigrants and their descendants resided in North America (2,780,000), with a majority in the United States (2,669,880).

Based on ancestry, U.S. 1990 Census data had counted even higher numbers — nearly 1.3 million Czechs, about 1.9 million Slovaks, more than 315,000 Czechoslovaks, and more than 77,000 Slavic peoples. The Czechoslovak and Slavic peoples most likely included Slovaks and Czechs, as well as Carpatho-Rusyns (also called Ruthenians), who received no separate designation. Carpatho-Rusyns could also have been mixed with Ukrainian and Russian figures.

Czechoslovak immigrants and their descendants living in Canada amounted to more than 54,000 in 1991, but they lived in widely dispersed areas across the country. After World War II and the communist takeover, 10,000 Czech and Slovak political exiles settled in Canada. A larger wave of 8,000 Czechs and 13,000 Slovaks arrived after the 1968 Warsaw Pact invasion, and most settled in the eastern urban and industrial areas of Ontario and Quebec.

Historical background For the Czechs in particular, political emigration already had a long history dating to the Counter-Reformation era. Many Czech Protestants fled their homeland following the Czech defeat at White Mountain in 1620, among them the Moravian educator Comenius. Likewise, the failed Revolutions of 1848 resulted in a wave of émigrés from German lands, Austria, Bohemia and Hungary.

Mid-19th century economic hard times propelled a wave of Czech emigrants who settled mainly in the rural areas of the American Great Plains. But the largest waves of immigration occurred from the late 19th century until the Great War choked the inflow of new arrivals. By World War I, nearly 620,000 Slovaks, more than 600,000 Czechs, and as many as 225,000 Carpatho-Rusyns had made the trek across the Atlantic to the USA. Most were poor peasants in search of a better life (za chliebom — for bread), usually working in industry and mining. Shortly after World War I, migration turned to a trickle as anti-immigration laws placed restrictive quotas on immigrants from Eastern Europe. Thus some immigrants increasingly chose Canada as a destination, settling largely in eastern Canadian cities.

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For Czechs and Slovaks during World War I, émigrés such as Thomas Masaryk and General Milan Štefánik prepared for an independent Czech and Slovak state from France. Largely through astute diplomacy and the added support of their immigrant brothers in America, they succeeded in declaring an independent Czecho-Slovak Republic. Renamed Czechoslovakia in the 1920 constitution, it would remain the lone successor state in East Central Europe that maintained a functioning democracy until Nazi Germany destroyed it after the infamous Munich Agreement of 1938.

World War II would usher in yet another wave of emigration as many Czechs and a few Slovaks fled the onslaught of Nazi Germany during the late 1930s.

After 1939, political emigration became a common European phenomenon as exiles fled to Paris, and then after the Nazi occupation of France, mainly to England and the United States. Émigrés set up a government in exile under President Beneš, and the Allies heartily approved and recognized its legitimacy.

The late stages of World War II and the time shortly afterwards saw the flight of some Slovaks who had affiliated themselves with the wartime Tiso government in Slovakia, which had allied with Germany. They fled to the West before the coming of the Soviet army and to avoid arrest after the war, and about 1,500 of these political refugees settled in Canada.

Emigration under communism The first sizeable post-World War II wave of emigration of Czechs and Slovaks did not begin until after the communist takeover of February 1948.

The communists fixed the May elections and began transforming the country to a Soviet model by enforcing the nationalization of all industry, confiscating private property, harassing churches and collectivizing agriculture. Fearing persecution if they remained, about 60,000 Czechoslovak citizens emigrated between 1948 and 1950. Many of these were political émigrés or people from whom communists had seized factories or property.

During the 1950s, little emigration ensued as the communist government tightly sealed off the borders. Beginning in the early 1960s, the regime gradually eased travel restrictions to the West. Between 1960 and 1968, another 255,000 emigrated in a second wave, mainly to Western Europe, the United States, Canada, Australia and South Africa.

A third wave of emigration accelerated following the Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968. The borders remained relatively fluid until November 1968, when the regime tightened travel restrictions to the West. In those few months, about 104,000 Czechs and Slovaks fled their native land. Many émigrés again came from the educated layers of society, and this wave included a significant number of professionals and some intellectuals who had given up on the possibility of reforming communism.

It amounted to a notable brain drain of the country’s most talented citizens.

Despite the regime’s closing of the borders, illegal emigration steadily continued during the 1970s at an estimated rate of about 5,000 annually.

By the 1980s, the emigration rate rose to about 10,000 per year. Many exited to the West via travel to Yugoslavia, where the borders remained relatively open. In total, starting in 1968, about 250,000 Czechs and Slovaks had emigrated to the West by 1989.

Miloslav Rechcigl, Jr., spoke on the occasion of his election as president of the Czechoslovak Society of Arts and Sciences (Spolec˘nost pro ve˘dy a ume˘ní — SVU) in 1974.

Six SVU presidents gathered at the 9th SVU World Congress in Cleveland in 1978, including (left to right): Jan Mládek, Jan F. Tr˘íska, René Wellek, Miloslav Rechcigl, Jr., Frantisek Schwarzenberg and Jaroslav Ne˘mec.

The Canadian Slovak League, led by émigré Imrich Stolarik (shown here in 1980), advocated for Slovak self-rule.

Life for emigrants Because émigrés had violated the law, the communist regime made communications very difficult for those with relatives in Czechoslovakia, often reading their mail and bugging telephone calls. It arbitrarily issued visas to émigrés, even denying entry for some to attend a parent’s funeral.

Some émigrés dared not return, for they would face certain prison sentences.

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Émigré Jozef Kirschbaum and others worked to create Slovak studies chairs at the University of Pittsburgh and the University of Ottawa.

Because of the impossibility of returning to Czechoslovakia and aided by their skills, youth and educational backgrounds, this group of émigrés quickly assimilated into their new surroundings. Most settled in cities or suburbs and learned English, and some were able to continue professional careers. Besides expressing concerns about their homeland, they also had to face the mundane realities of raising a family and earning a living, which consumed the bulk of their time. Gradually they became more comfortable with their new lives and achieved a better standard of living.

Especially among the Slovaks, some émigrés integrated into existing ethnic fraternal societies, revitalized them with fresh ideas and a renewed dynamism, and even created new Czech and Slovak organizations. After the 1968 exodus, émigrés assisted in founding folk dance groups, served as radio announcers, and generally helped to renew the ties of ethnic peoples to the Slovak and Czech culture of their ancestral homeland.

The influx of Slovak émigrés injected a new element into Slovak American society — an intelligentsia that was not part of the clergy. Typically, the new émigrés were well-educated and were mostly laypersons. They founded cultural and literary organizations and published their own journals. Their activism contributed to the establishment of specific Slovak organizations such as the Slovak Institute in Cleveland; the Slovak American Cultural Center in New York City; and the Association of Slovak Writers and Artists Abroad.

The Slovak Institute; the Slovak Jesuit Order in Galt, Ontario; and the Jednota Printery of the First Catholic Slovak Union assisted in the keeping of the faith by printing materials in the Slovak language that were unavailable in their former homeland.

Political divisions among émigrés Vladimir Mlynek, who emigrated to the U.S. in 1947, is a radio announcer for WCPN-FM Public Radio in Cleveland. He has been involved in Slovak-language broadcasting in Cleveland for more than half a century. His emigration story can be found on the NCSML’s Oral History Web site (http://www.ncsml.org/ Content/Oral-Histories.aspx).

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For the most part, Slovaks and Czechs from the pre-1948 emigration did not extensively socialize with one another or join the same organizations.

Old World politics and religious differences tended to confine their interactions to within their own ethnic groups. Most Slovaks remained fervent Catholics (70 percent) and shunned relations with Czechs perceived to be generally less religious. The minority Protestant Slovaks (15 percent) and post-1948 Slovak émigrés tended to be more “Czechoslovak” in orientation, and former Democratic Party members like Jozef Lettrich and Jan Papanek maintained cordial relations with Czech émigrés. This general pattern moderated somewhat with the post-1968 emigration, but was still in place.

After World War I, Slovaks had divided among themselves into those that supported Slovak autonomy and those who backed a unified Czechoslovak state. The majority of original Slovak immigrants and their fraternal societies followed the nationalist lead of the Slovak League of America and the Canadian Slovak League in promoting self-rule and asserting their differences with Czechs. Those issues remained divisive, and varying attitudes towards Slovakia’s independent wartime state served to heighten political differences.

Following the communist putsch of 1948, some Slovaks and Czechs established separate political organizations in exile. Supporters of the wartime Slovak Republic set up a Slovak National Council Abroad. Those political émigrés opposing Slovak separatism formed the Permanent Conference of Slovak Democratic Exiles, founded by Martin Kvetko, a participant in the 1944 Slovak National Uprising against Germany. This latter group maintained closer relations with the Council of Free Czechoslovakia, in which Czech and more recent émigrés predominated. While the Council played a role in warning Western states of the dangers of communism, it could not effectively unite all Czech and Slovak exiles in a common cause.

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Academic institutions In 1958, one group of intellectuals who tried to bridge the gap between Czechs and Slovaks founded the non-profit Czechoslovak Society of Arts and Sciences (Spolecˇnost pro veˇdy a umeˇní — SVU). Established as a non-political academic society, it aimed to support and to coordinate “the educational, scholarly, literary and artistic endeavors of the Czechoslovak intelligentsia abroad.” It later expanded its realm to all interested in Slovak and/or Czech culture, and it helped publicize the nature of the 1968 Warsaw Pact invasion.

Still in existence, the society sponsors biannual conferences and assisted the Czech and Slovak peoples in their transitions to democracy after the fall of communism.

The exodus of people after the 1968 invasion renewed activism among some Slovaks and Czechs, even though many newer émigrés shied away from political involvement. Two Czech publishers became active in Toronto: the Masaryk Memorial Press and writer Josef Škvorecký’s Sixty-Eight Press.

Czech filmmaker Miloš Forman achieved success in Hollywood, winning Oscars for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Amadeus.

The influx of more Slovak émigrés also led to the founding of the Slovak World Congress in 1990. The Toronto-based umbrella organization had the lofty goal of uniting all Slovaks and their organizations and institutions into one single entity for all Slovaks abroad. Spearheaded by Jozef M. Kirschbaum and funded by the uranium entrepreneur, Stephen B. Roman, it experienced mixed success as Slovak organizations remained somewhat fragmented.

One notable achievement occurred in the academic world. While one could study the Czech language at several universities, no permanent program existed in Slovak studies. The determined efforts of émigrés such as Jan Beliansky and Jozef Kirschbaum led to the creation of two Slovak chairs, subsequently filled

by Slovak émigrés Martin Votruba as Professor of Slovak Language at the University of Pittsburgh and M. Mark Stolarik, who emigrated as a child to Canada, as Professor of Slovak History at the University of Ottawa.

Conclusion In general, émigrés from the former Czechoslovakia played an important role in providing an alternative to the communist propaganda distributed during the era of totalitarian rule in their homelands. Because of their higher level of education and skill, they integrated more easily into American and Canadian societies than their earlier forebears and assisted in keeping the broader public aware of the fate of people living under communism. Although many new émigrés did not interact much with older immigrants because of educational differences, some émigrés did, especially among the Slovaks, and they revitalized the existing ethnic communities in the U.S. and Canada. This helped perpetuate and enrich the culture of second and third generations of Czechs, Slovaks and Carpatho-Rusyns.

Nonetheless, the inexorable process of assimilation into mainstream society has proceeded. Even after 1989, very few émigrés returned to Europe apart from occasional visits, as they had become accustomed to life in the new world.

The émigrés’ children, schooled in North America, have adopted the values, language and customs of their new homeland; their children have intermarried with other nationalities and ties to the old country have gradually diminished.

Now émigré families more typically resemble those of other acculturated social groups. While some retain ties to their roots by celebrating their ethnicity at occasional festivals and celebrations, connections with their ancestral past have faded with time.

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Milos˘ Forman, whose parents died in the Nazi concentration camp at Auschwitz, studied at the School of Cinema in Prague. After the Warsaw Pact invasion he emigrated to the U.S. and achieved prominence as a Hollywood filmmaker.

SELECT BIOGRAPHY Chada, Joseph.

The Czechs in the United States. New York: SVU Press, 1981.

Multicultural Canada, from The Encyclopedia of Canada’s Peoples. http://www.multicultural canada.ca/Encyclopedia/A-Z (accessed March 3, 2011).

Pehe, Jirˇí.

“Emigres in the Postcommunist Era: New Data, New Policies.”

RFE/RL Research, April 26, 1991.

Rechcigl, Miloslav, Jr. Czechs and Slovaks in America. Boulder, CO: East European Monographs and New York: Columbia University Press, 2005.

Stolarik, M. Mark.

“Commentary: In Step with the Times: A Slovak Perspective.” Austrian History Yearbook 35, no. (2005): 198-207.

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Resistance and Escape:

T H E S T O RY O F T H E FREEDOM TRAIN

By Karel Ruml

Karel Ruml

Ruml remembers helping his grandfather in the garden during the idyllic years of his early childhood.

Looking back across the many years toward the all-too-brief period between 1918 and 1938, one is tempted to conclude that little, young Czechoslovakia was then the best place to call home. Largely undamaged in World War I and untouched by the Great Depression, its economy was booming and cultural and political life was vibrant and very free.

The first 10 years of my life were extremely happy. Our family lived in the picturesque city of Nymburk, where my dad had his law office. For me there was a good school, scouting, the tennis club, sailing on the river Elbe and helping grandfather in the beautiful, large garden.

Unfortunately, the outside world didn’t stand still. Our own world collapsed with the invasion by Hitler’s Wehrmacht in 1938-39. The subsequent years of occupation and war went by slowly. I studied at the Nymburk Gymnázium and my free time was now mostly spent with a small group of my closest friends in a secret Sea Scout Unit (scouting was strictly banned by the Germans). Oppression gradually increased and so did our desire for freedom.

In late 1944 we became involved in reconnaissance work in support of the local armed resistance. The city fire department provided us with partial cover: an official designation of “Civilian Air Raid Patrol.” Our job was to gather constant information on enemy movements on the network of roads, bridges and railroads in town and the surrounding countryside. Equipped with military binoculars and field telephones we reported from various vantage points, including the tall tower of the 700-year-old church of St. Giles.

One fateful evening my friend Dulin and I had just finished our long climb up the steep stairway to our observation perch in the ancient tower when we heard German voices below. Soon we were marched under bayonets to garrison headquarters. Luckily for us, the duty officer didn’t appear to be a Nazi fanatic. After a lengthy interrogation he finally accepted our cover story and released us. The fact that both Dulin and I looked younger than our 16 years probably helped.

Undercover courier After the war ended I graduated from the Gymnázium and enrolled in the law program of Charles University in Prague. The Russian army was in no hurry to return home. When they finally departed, our country had a vast, well-organized network of communist “cells” and an ever-increasing barrage of Marxist propaganda. Then, in February 1948, there was a swift communist takeover and the country descended into another dictatorship.

All attempts at free expression were brutally suppressed; the “People’s Police,” with help from an army of collaborators, proved far more efficient than the Gestapo of old. New concentration camps were filling up fast and a few of us started to look for ways to resist.

My law studies were terminated less than a year after the communist coup.

Like many of my colleagues I was declared, by a party committee, politically unreliable and dismissed from the university. This didn’t come as a surprise.

I decided to look for work away from Nymburk, where I was too visible

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to informers. An uncle who managed a textile mill in the town of Místek in north Moravia came to my rescue with an offer of a job.

Before my departure I met with a colleague who shared my love of freedom (and had also just received his dismissal from school) and gave him my future address. He stated that a good friend of his, named Pavel, would contact me at work. We shook hands on this and I had a feeling that life had just taken a new turn.

There was no doubt in my mind that Pavel was a member of the Resistance.

This was confirmed during our first meeting in Místek, during which I agreed to join him in the fight for freedom. The following few weekends we spent at his base, an old cabin hidden deep in the forests of the Beskydy mountains.

There I underwent many hours of commando-style training ranging from self-defense to communication codes. I also learned that my job would be that of a courier, responsible for delivery of secret consignments from drop-off points at the Polish border to a location in Prague.

The small packets (i.e. “mail”) arrived only a few times a year, but travel near the border as well as the long train trips to Prague always carried an element of risk. A gun in my pocket was a constant companion.

‘Save yourself’ At the end of 1949, I moved back to Nymburk and my family, but my work as courier for Pavel’s group continued. Officially, I was now a “time study” man who calculated workers’ wages on a construction project near home. A chance meeting led to a romance with a beautiful girl named Lada.

As time went by there were fewer messages from Pavel and longer periods between arrivals of “mail.” Then, in the summer of 1951, came Pavel’s last message. Decoded, it said: “All contacts terminated. Save yourself.” This was the end; my only hope was that the breach of our chain occurred beyond our eastern borders, which could allow me time to escape.

My mom, the heart and soul of the family, was now fighting cancer. It wasn’t hard to imagine what my arrest and probable execution would do to her.

Lada sensed my anxiety and I had to confess that I might soon be arrested for anti-communist activity.

Not long after that she had a surprise for me: her uncle wanted to meet us in Prague the following day. Accordingly, we met Frank Šilhart, her uncle, in his office. He was a calm, soft-spoken man, and, coincidentally, one of the key architects of a complex plan to crash a train through the Iron Curtain to West Germany. He didn’t try to hide the risks of this endeavor, but I volunteered nevertheless.

Frank then outlined my part of the action, which, he added, was scheduled for the very next day, September 11, 1951!

Parting with mom at home and later with Lada, who accompanied me to the main train station in Prague, was heartbreaking, never to be forgotten.

For safety reasons I could not say good-bye to anyone else.

At age 16, the author and friends in his secret Sea Scout Unit gathered information about German troop movements from the tower of Nymburk’s 700-year-old Church of St. Giles.

Ruml (bottom right) with his 1947 Gymnázium (high school) class

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An 1899 photo shows Ruml’s father with his sister and cousins.

Ruml found new life when he met and married his wife, Jeanine, in Canada in 1957.

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Through the Iron Curtain My express train terminated in the city of Cheb, where it was divided up. Three cars, behind a new locomotive, became a commuter train to a few stations west and finally to the border town of Aš. Sitting in the last car, as planned, I studied the other passengers, many of whom were border police. Then a railroad employee in uniform stopped by with a smile.

It was one of us, Karel Truxa. A few quick words: “So far all’s OK.” In the small station before Aš, I heard the sounds of a hammer striking metal: Our engineer, Konvalinka, after releasing air from the automatic brakes, was making sure that all blocks were hanging free. Another member of our team, Doctor Švec, arrived with his family in a car and signaled to Konvalinka that the crucial switch in Aš was open.

My own task was to prevent anyone from using the single manual brake in my coach. With the train in motion again I got up and walked slowly to the end of the corridor, where I casually leaned on the wheel of the brake. Soon we were racing through Aš and a big, self-assured border guard tried to push me aside.

I quickly drew my gun and ordered him to stop and keep quiet.

He glared at me with a mixture of hate and cowardice, but didn’t move. His body made a good screen for me. It was important not to let his comrades know that I was armed. The minutes dragged on slowly.

We finally stopped among farm fields. Not too far behind us was a forested ridge bristling with watch towers and barbed wire — the Iron Curtain. My “captive,” followed by his uniformed friends, jumped out and started running back uphill. Bewildered passengers were milling outside the train. Our “crew” assembled to shake hands and I met most of them for the first time.

It took a half hour before a jeep carrying two G.I.s and two West German border agents arrived. It was eventually decided to move the train to nearby Selb, where the station was soon

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Ruml (right rear, with co-workers) began a career in the insurance business after emigrating to Canada.

besieged by news media. The word of our “Freedom Train” escape was apparently spreading fast. Trying to protect my loved ones at home as much as I could, I succeeded in avoiding most of the reporters and cameramen.

The next day we were driven to the city of Straubing for debriefing at the headquarters of the U.S. Army Intelligence Service.

Our group separated. Some who had their families with them volunteered for publicity work in the U.S.; others chose different destinations. I applied for a visa to Canada, where I hoped to be less visible.

Rediscovering love and hope The first four years in Toronto, where I settled and started my career in insurance, were sad. Media news from Prague spoke of many arrests and I feared for my loved ones. The reason why I didn’t ask Lada to come with me was that, deep down, I didn’t believe that the escape could succeed.

And now she was in danger anyway. Then, almost simultaneously, I learned that my dear mom had passed away and Lada had married. They had not heard from me since our parting, because all direct contacts were far too dangerous.

Much later, a Czech friend, a dentist, introduced me to his new assistant, a Canadian beauty named Jeanine. That day love and hope returned to my life. Eventually we married and had a son, Douglas. My old friend Dulin, who escaped two years after me, now lived in the U.S. We visited each other several times. Both Jeanine and I loved the Southwest and I was very impressed by the American business climate in general. Ten years after my landing in Canada we decided to apply for a U.S. visa and move to California.

We never regretted our decision. My work required frequent travel overseas, which I enjoyed.

After the collapse of the Iron Curtain and shortly before I retired, I was able to take Jeanine and Doug with his young family to liberated Nymburk for a brief visit.

That trip I enjoyed the most of all.

The author’s son, Doug, and grandson, Tristan, stood near the old Nymburk city wall during the family’s visit to the town after the collapse of the Iron Curtain.

In 1991, Ruml had a reunion with three of his old Sea Scout friends in a home near Nymburk. As young boys, they had spied on the Germans and reported their troop movements.

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Twice Displaced But Not Defeated:

A S L O VA K FA M I LY ’ S QUEST FOR FREEDOM

By John Palka

In 2008, on a return trip to his homeland, John Palka visited a sheep station (salas˘ ), where he enjoyed a mug of z˘inc˘ica, a traditional drink created during the fermentation of sheep’s milk.

The author’s grandfather, Milan Hodz˘a, served as prime minister of Czechoslovakia from 1935-1938.

Hodz˘a also emigrated to the United States, where he died in 1944.

Photo courtesy of the Archives of the National Museum in Prague.

My emigration story differs from that of most others in that my family went into exile not once but twice. The first time was in 1939. With Hitler’s rise to power, Czechoslovakia had been split into two parts — the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, directly under German control, and the Slovak State, nominally independent but de facto a German vassal. To make things worse, a powerful faction within the Slovak leadership was overtly pro-Nazi.

My mother left Slovakia for Paris just two weeks before I was born.

She undertook this hazardous journey because she was the daughter of Milan Hodža, the prime minister of Czechoslovakia during the crisis years of 1935-1938. At the end of 1938 Hodža left Prague and soon checked himself into a sanatorium in Lausanne, Switzerland, to try to recuperate from the enormous pressures of the preceding years. He was worried that his family might be persecuted or used to blackmail him, so he asked his wife and all three children to leave home. My mother was the last.

Soon after I was born, the Germans swept across northern Europe, the great evacuation from Dunkirk took place, the French army was routed, and we were trapped on the Brittany coast of occupied France. At one point the Gestapo ordered us to report to their headquarters in Nantes within 24 hours with one suitcase per person. Knowing that this meant concentration camp, my parents managed an overnight getaway to Paris. We covered our tracks there and after some time were taken by the French Resistance into Vichy France. Traveling through Spain to Lisbon using forged passports, we were ultimately able to reach the United States.

During the war we lived primarily in Chicago. After a long search my father found a physically exhausting job on a factory assembly line while my mother worked as a clerk. Grandfather Hodža also made his way to the U.S. and died there in 1944.

As soon as the war was over, we returned to Czechoslovakia and my father quickly restored the family leather business in Liptovský Mikuláš, the town near the Tatra Mountains where he had grown up and which he dearly loved. However, February 1948 brought the communist putsch and in April my father was arrested and jailed. He had been drawn into a larger political prosecution and was accused of treason, agitation and a number of other serious crimes against the state. Fortunately he was released four months later, but he was carefully watched. The situation was very threatening. My family managed to hire guides to take us out of the country in March 1949.

Across the border The border between Slovakia and Austria was heavily guarded, with a plowed no-man’s land, a barbed wire fence and watch-towers with searchlights and machine guns every few hundred yards. Our escape group of eight or so first gathered in a designated safe house, then proceeded into the woods to wait in silence until heavy ground fog made visibility difficult so that we would not easily be spotted.

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The author with his mother shortly after his birth in Paris in 1939

Some time well after midnight our guide gave the signal to proceed.

Because we could just barely see each other, we held on to a thin rope stretched between us. My instructions were to do exactly what the guide did: run when he ran, fall to the ground when he did. In this way, and literally crawling under the barbed wire, we made it across the border.

Slovakia bordered on the Russian zone of Austria, so crawling undetected under the barbed wire did not get us to freedom. However, our journey was well planned and forged identity papers got us successfully into the American zone of Vienna and then on to Innsbruck in the French zone of Austria.

Many people tried to flee to the West in a similar way: some were caught and imprisoned, some were shot and some succeeded. We were among the fortunate ones who got safely across. I was 10 years old at the time.

We stayed in a rooming house in the mountains above Innsbruck for nine months, surviving thanks to the flourishing black market in the city where we were able to sell small valuables like watches and jewelry that we had been able to take with us across the border. We finally obtained U.S. visas, sailed for New York in December 1949, and settled in the Jackson Heights section of Queens.

In New York my father tried his hand at business, taking advantage of his old connections to broker international deals, mainly in raw materials.

However, he was never able to establish himself. His business lost money and he soon retired and busied himself with his stamp collection. My mother was the family breadwinner. She worked for many years at Radio Free Europe, first as a translator and later as a librarian.

I went to the local elementary school from the middle of fourth grade until I graduated from eighth grade. During these years my parents worked hard to raise me with a dual identity — that of a devoted American grateful to his new homeland for the safety and opportunities it offered him, but also that of a Slovak who knew about and was proud of his heritage. In this they succeeded, for that is the way I still see myself today. After her death I found in my mother’s files a memento that expresses this duality perfectly, a birthday card I made for her. On the front I wrote Happy Birthday and Št’astlivé narodzeniny, and on the back I drew two flags, the Czechoslovak

Palka and his mother in Chicago in 1946

Palka’s family spent nine months as refugees near Innsbruck, Austria, before emigrating to the United States in December 1949.

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Palka’s mother cherished a birthday card he made for her as a young boy, reflecting both pride in his Slovak heritage and love for his new home in America.

above and the U.S. flag below. I was 11 or 12 years old when I sat down with my crayons to make this card.

A native’s return

Palka working in his lab at UCLA, where he earned a Ph.D. in neuroscience in 1965.

This villa in Liptovsky´ Mikulás˘ was owned for many years by the author’s Pálka grandparents. In 1976 Palka returned to Czechoslovakia for the first time and visited the places where his parents and grandparents lived.

We lived completely separated from our homeland, and the family that stayed behind there, for 27 years. Then in 1976, while I was in Cambridge, England, conducting research in neuroscience under a Guggenheim Fellowship, I was able to get visas for me and my wife and children to visit Czechoslovakia for about two weeks. We had joyous reunions with the family in Prague, Bratislava and Martin, we visited Liptovský Mikuláš and the house my parents had built when they were first married, and we hiked in the Tatras. It was a glorious occasion. However, the country was also steeped in communism and we felt the oppression all around us — no talk of anything consequential in any public space, continuing censorship of all mail, exruciating searches at the borders, shabbiness and depression everywhere, and endless stories of corruption, intimidation and imprisonment. We all breathed a sigh of relief when our British Airways flight took off for London.

I grew up in the United States and have lived here all my life except for the brief two years or so in Czechoslovakia immediately after World War II and two memorable years in India as a young adult. I married, raised children and now have five grandchildren. I had a fine academic career, mostly at the University of Washington, from which I retired in 2002. Nevertheless, I still speak fluent Slovak, read in the language more than ever before, have vibrant family relationships in Slovakia and have acquired a whole new circle of friends and colleagues. I just published a book in Slovak entitled Moje Slovensko, moja rodina (My Slovakia, My Family), that tells many generations of family history in the context of national history. I think my parents would be proud!

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The Enemy’s Daughter:

HOW I MADE PEACE W I T H M Y PA I N F U L PA S T

By Jana Roubíková Svehlova

When my American friends hear about my life during the communist era in Czechoslovakia during the 1950s and early 1960s (the Stalinist rule of terror), they are disappointed to learn that I did not crawl under electric wires, and nobody tried to shoot me while I was escaping from my former homeland. But it was a miracle that I got out, because I had as much chance of getting permission to leave the country as of winning a big lottery. I was a child of a political prisoner. And communist authorities did not want their Czech citizens to see that people in Western countries lived without worrying about a lack of basic goods such as detergent, sanitary napkins and toilet paper.

Arrest and separation My father, Jan Roubík, was a Czech who had moved to England at the start of World War II to fight with the Royal Air Force. While there he met and married my mother, Eleonora, a German speaker originally from the Sudeten region of Czechoslovakia, and I was born in Cardiff, Wales. After the war our family returned to Czechoslovakia.

On Christmas Day, 1949, I celebrated my sixth birthday in Prague. Three days later came that dreaded knock on the door at 5 a.m. The security police invaded our home and ordered my dad into the living room. The home search by the secret police was the first step of the psychological intimidation of the family in the presence of the arrested person. Mommy was then 33 years old and dad 35. The only clear image I have of that day is the color of my dad’s face when the agents were taking him away at 9 o’clock in the morning — stark white. I did ask one of the men, “Where are you taking my daddy?”

The security agent answered, “We have to ask him some questions.” My father was arrested and sentenced to 10 years of hard labor because the communist regime viewed those who had fought for the Allies with hostility. My mother and I were able to visit him about two times a year.

Forbidding children to gain education, generally after eighth grade, was part of the punishment for families of alleged enemies of the state. Families

The author’s father, shown circa 1944, served in the British Royal Air Force during World War II. Later his allegiance to the Allies led to his imprisonment in communist Czechoslovakia.

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Jana Svehlova with her mother, Lola, in Prague

of political prisoners and otherwise politically suspicious people were forced to witness their children, even with the best school records, enter the menial job labor market. In eighth grade, the Comrade Principal of my school said, “Don’t come back to school after the summer. Go to the labor department and ask for a job.” He did not explain the reason. People in totalitarian states learn from childhood not to ask questions.

At the age of 14 I was hired as a laborer trainee to solder television parts at the TESLA factory in Prague. Later I was grateful when my mother’s friend arranged for me to work as a nurse’s aide in a hospital operating room, because my dream was to be a pediatrician. But that dream did not materialize.

I requested an interview with the hospital’s physicians’ Communist Party committee to ask for permission to attend high school followed by medical school. One of them asked me, “If we let you become a pediatrician, would you ever take care of a capitalist child?” Absurd as it may seem, the committee probably expected a 15-year-old girl to say, “No. I would never treat a capitalist child.” My medical career ended right there.

Three days after my 16th birthday in 1959, my Dad was released from prison. Mom told me before she left to collect him in Prˇ íbram, “We are going to live like the 10 years never happened.” My father and I talked and talked as if to catch up. When he died of lung cancer at the age of 69, probably a consequence of slaving in the uranium mines, I did not really miss him as a father because he had been absent for so much of my childhood.

But I still miss him terribly as one of my best friends.

Leaving Czechoslovakia The author on December 10, 1949, shortly before her father was arrested

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By 1966, restrictions had eased and the nation certainly didn’t suffer brain drain by letting me out for three weeks to visit England, my birthplace — not with my lack of formal education. Because I was born in Britain, the British Home Office issued me a work permit and a British passport with a warning, “You can travel anywhere, but if you go back to Czechoslovakia and they punish you for leaving, Her Majesty’s British Government will not be able to help you.” With the work permit, I got a job as a nurse’s aide at Stanmore Orthopedic Hospital. Eventually, I passed the nursing board examination and a few years later I was promoted to Ward Sister. But then came an offer from NASA for my husband Jan — whom I had met in Prague but married in Vienna because the authorities would not let us leave Czechoslovakia if we were married — and we left England for the USA. When I saw the bright blue sky on that Labor Day weekend 1974 in Washington, D.C., after getting on the plane in cold rainy London, I still remember my first thought: “I am not leaving this place ever.”

But the American dream soon began to fade because I did not have a job, I did not know anyone, and I was bored. The wives of the other foreign scientists advised me to become an Avon lady. Then a big event happened in Hampton, Virginia. The new shopping mall opened. Its most distinguished store was J.C. Penney. My foreign accent was an asset because the manager needed someone to sell the famous Hungarian actress Zsa Zsa Gabor’s cosmetics line. Although I did not sound Hungarian, who would ever know in Hampton? I was soon hired.

My cosmetics career ended when I passed the necessary exams and applied to the Nurse Practitioner program at the Medical College of Virginia (MCV) in Richmond and was accepted. After my graduation from MCV, Jan and I became Americanized and we divorced.

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Denied further education because her father was deemed “an enemy of the state,” Svehlova (standing in rear) became a trainee in a television factory in Prague.

It was not an easy decision to leave my friends in Hampton, but after all the farewell parties, I moved to an apartment in the Washington area.

My job as a clinician in the D.C. Planned Parenthood office was a few blocks from the White House. Czech friends introduced me to Tony, whose father was also a political prisoner during the Stalinist era in the 1950s, and eventually we married.

After leaving Planned Parenthood, my small contribution to America was trying to help military women and military wives overcome menopausal symptoms at the National Naval Medical Center at Bethesda for 23 enjoyable years. Retirement was not an easy decision because I loved the patients who came from all different walks of American life.

Confronting the past One evening soon after Tony and I were married, the past came alive for me when we invited two couples — one American and one Czech — for dinner at our new home. My American friend, a Navy physician, asked the Czech couple, “How did you manage to study at the Czech university?

I know that Jana and Tony were forbidden to get even a high school education?” I couldn’t believe it when the Czech guy informed the Americans, “Everybody who was intelligent could attend university under communism.”

Everyone deals with the past differently. For me, the Czech’s statement became a watershed in my life. Not everyone goes to college in the United States, for various reasons. But whitewashing the Czech-Slovak discriminatory practices for an American audience reduces the significance of the victims’ psychological trauma and reinforces their silence.

That comment offered me a Ph.D. dissertation topic. It was about silence and indifference. For me, America has offered the opportunity and confidence that my former homeland took away. I had a chance to study the psychological effects on Czech women who had parents imprisoned in the 1950s. My own healing began with my research on others like me.

What originated as qualitative research through interviews with 12 women has now evolved into a non-governmental organization called “The Enemy’s Daughters” in the Czech Republic. My work with this group has been very rewarding. The crowning recognition, however, was receiving the Golden Star Award from the European Commission, presented in 2008 in Brussels, for “Active European Citizenship.”

Svehlova earned her doctorate at George Washington University in 2000 after writing her dissertation on the psychological trauma suffered

by Czech women whose parents had been imprisoned in the 1950s.

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Starting Over:

WE LEFT HOME A N D PA RT Y T O BUILD A NEW LIFE

By Melania Strec˘anská Rakytiak

Melania Rakytiak at her home in Cleveland

My husband, Fedor, was born in 1931 in Bratislava. He received his early education in Bratislava, then went to Prague, where he studied electrical economics and became an electrical engineer, working for Federal Railroads in Bratislava.

I was born in Paris in 1936. My parents were Slovak, living and working in Paris. In 1941 my family moved back to Czechoslovakia. My father learned about communism while living in Paris. When he returned to Czechoslovakia, he became very active in the Communist Party. I would often listen to him explain to me what communism means. He would tell me that people will be better off, everyone will receive an education and healthcare, and no one will be hungry.

I attended Pedagogicka College and became a teacher in 1956. I initially taught in a small village and it was during this time that I became a member of the Communist Party. In 1957 Fedor and I married, and eventually we had four children. We both continued to work full time.

In 1968, Soviet troops invaded Czechoslovakia and our eyes were opened.

Up until then, we had always believed that the Russians were our friends.

We now saw that it was not the case. It was a scary time. Tanks were rolling down the streets and helicopters flew overhead shooting at people. I was afraid for our children.

A difficult passage

Fedor and Melania Rakytiak on their wedding day, November 30, 1957

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Sometime around February 1969, Fedor and my brother began talking about leaving the country and emigrating to the United States. I did not want to leave.

I was afraid to live in a foreign country with four small children. At the time our oldest was nine and the youngest was 15 months. But my brother and his family left first, and we followed. The only people who knew we were leaving were Fedor’s parents and my mother. My parents were divorced, and my father was not told anything. We later learned that when he found out, he was very upset. We knew that had we told him, he would have done anything to prevent us from leaving, including contacting the police.

After making the decision to leave Czechoslovakia, we wrote a letter to my aunt, a nun living in Austria.

We told her that we very much wanted to see her, as my children had never met her, and we asked her for an invitation. She sent us a letter, which we took to the government office.

We asked for a visa and received a three-day permit to stay in Austria.

The next step was to organize our personal belongings. We were living

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in an apartment owned by the state, and Fedor‘s parents agreed to sell our furniture to our friends if we were not back in four days.

On April 30, 1969, my husband and I and the children went to the train station in Bratislava and bought tickets to Vienna, carrying only three suitcases with children’s clothes and a little money. We boarded the train, and at the border the guards asked us why we going to Vienna and where we would be staying. We told them about my aunt, and at that point they said no more.

We were leaving Czechoslovakia.

My brother was waiting for us in the Vienna train station. After our arrival, we spent one night in a hotel, and the next day we registered in Traiskirchen refugee camp. Later we were moved to a family camp called Bad Kreuzen.

We registered with the U.S. Embassy and applied for a visa. We were granted visas, and in August 1969 we flew to New York. A few days after arriving in New York, we flew to Cleveland, where Karlin, a Czech organization, provided accommodation for us.

We had very mixed feelings on our first day in the USA. We did not understand anything. I was very scared. This was the beginning of our new life in a new and unfamiliar country.

Left: In 1957, before emigrating to the U.S., the author (center right) taught school in a small village in Czechoslovakia.

Right: Rakytiak, her husband and four children posed on their first day in America in August 1969.

The older woman is a distant relative who opened her home to the family for their first few days in Cleveland.

Starting over In 1969, average income was $9,400 a year, and one could purchase a house for $25,000, a car for $3,000, and a gallon of milk for $1.26. Fedor was lucky to find a job as a draftsman with Davy McKee, an engineering company, within two weeks of our arrival in Cleveland. He was sent to the Berlitz school to learn English. His first salary was $650 per month. Our children did not have a problem learning to speak English. The two oldest went to school and the two youngest learned English from their older siblings and watching TV. I had a harder time learning English, because I was home all day with the children. I too learned from watching television.

Fedor’s dream was fulfilled. We were in the U.S. and we had freedom.

We did not have much money, but we did not need any support from the government. Eventually I too got a full-time job as supervisor of the cleaning and laundry department at a nursing home and, in addition, we both had part-time cleaning jobs in the evenings. And so we began

The newly arrived family purchased their first American car, an AMC Rambler, in 1969.

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Above: In August 2009, Melania and her children — Elena, Ivan, Peter and Ted — celebrated their 40th anniversary in America, recreating a photo taken to celebrate the family’s first year in America in 1970.

Melania and Fedor Rakytiak in 1998 The Rakytiak children, (left to right) Ted, Ivan, Elena and Peter, all completed their educations and launched successful careers in America, fulfilling their parents’ dream.

to build a future for our children. Compared to what we had in Czechoslovakia, we were doing well. In 1974, we bought a laundromat and dry cleaning business.

I worked there full-time, Fedor came after his day's work, and our children helped too. Seven years later we sold the business. We were not well-oriented to run a business, and Fedor had a weakness to help those who couldn’t afford to pay.

In 1976 we bought our first house. After selling the laundromat, I went to work in a nursing home.

Later I was hired as a cook in a school, where I continued to work for the next 20 years.

Our children went to school and worked part-time jobs. Life was not always easy. In the beginning we had a harder time, especially during the holidays, when we missed our relatives the most. Our children were without their grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. At one point, Fedor lost his job for nine months and we experienced financial hardship with children in college, a mortgage and the usual day-to-day expenses of a family of six. Somehow we managed. Fedor found another job and everything improved. We were able to experience nice holidays, and we were able to take our first trips — to Washington, D.C., and Florida.

The second generation My husband would always tell our children that family is most important.

You have to help each other and be there for each other.

In 1984, our son Peter decided to join the Marines. We were not thrilled with his decision, but his argument was, “This country has adopted us and I want to pay back.” We could not argue with that. Peter spent four years with the Marines. We were proud of him and he is to this day proud that he served.

After many years living in America, Fedor became ill and 16 months later died of cancer in 1991. He was the backbone of the family and he lived for his family.

Our children completed their education. Our daughter, Elena, graduated from Kent State University with a Master’s degree and worked as a counselor in mental health facilities. Later she enrolled in law school and became a lawyer. She works in a law firm practicing elder and disability law. Our son Ivan is a salesman for a building company. Peter works for American Greetings as a creative products analyst. Ted is a graphic designer. They all have families.

Fedor’s dream was to have a big family and his dream was fulfilled. I have eight grandchildren.

We have always closely followed what was happening in Czechoslovakia (and now Slovakia). We have been back to visit several times, even while the country was still under communism, and we were able to confirm that we made the right decision to leave the country. Fedor always said after each visit to our homeland, “Now we can see what the communists robbed from us.”

How is it possible to work so much and be happy? My husband would say: Only in America can you have any job and raise your children and not be afraid for your freedom. My husband and I are not leaving our children any wealth or possessions, but as my children always say, we gave them moral standards and a work ethic. We were sad that we left our family, but also satisfied that we ensured a good future for our children. We never questioned our decision.

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From Lenin to Lennon:

THE MAKING OF AN INDEPENDENT MAN

By Vladimir Maule

It was 4 a.m. when the phone rang.

My mom, still half asleep, answered.

She listened for a moment and then hung up without a word.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The Russians are coming.”

“Who was it on the phone?”

“I have no idea.”

It was August 21, 1968.

I was 16 years old, played guitar in a rock-and-roll band, and had recently discovered girls. Life could have been worse. I grew up properly indoctrinated by the wisdom of Marxism/Leninism and the “dictatorship of the proletariat.”

I had no clue that my parents were, in fact, staunch anti-communists, that my dad lost everything in 1948 (when the communists nationalized businesses, including the Hotel Savoy that he partly owned), and that my mom could not get a job because her cousins lived in England and Canada. My parents were very careful never to say anything at home remotely critical of the system, as I had developed a reputation for being a big blabbermouth and would surely get them into trouble.

It wasn’t until a couple of years later that I would begin to have my doubts about the contradictions in our everyday lives. “Kapitalismus — dohonit a prˇedhonit!” (Capitalism — catch up and surpass!) was the slogan on banners throughout Prague. If we are so much better than capitalism, why do we have to “catch up,” I wondered.

Then, in 1965, everything changed. The Beatles arrived, not in person, of course, but through the radio, on Radio Luxembourg and Radio Free Europe. By then I was a full-fledged rebel. My parents could finally speak about politics (or whisper, as was the norm) in my presence. My idols were no longer Marx and Lenin, but Lennon and Jagger. I played guitar and fronted a band, the Explosive Group. We were 14, going on 30.

As in every other summer, in 1968 my parents rented a house in Stará Hut’, a small village near the city of Dobrˇ íš, where we spent the two months swimming, picking mushrooms, riding bicycles, eating and drinking. Mom and dad arranged work so that I could be there for the entire summer, one half with my mom, the other with my dad. It was the best childhood a kid could wish for.

What made this summer unlike all others was the underlying tension in the country — we knew something was up. On August 3, government representatives from six Eastern Block countries met in Slovakia to “affirm unshakable fidelity to Marxism-Leninism and proletarian internationalism” and declared “an implacable struggle against bourgeois ideology and all anti-socialist forces.” We read about the meeting while swimming at our favorite pond in Stará Hut’, and I remember how curious that meeting seemed: The parties arrived on trains; they met on the border between Slovakia and the USSR, and that’s where they all had to stop. The trains couldn’t continue because the Russian railroad tracks were wider. Two incompatible systems.

Poetic, I thought.

Vladimir Maule lives in Lombard, Illinois, where he and his wife own a film production company.

Vladimir and his niece Marketa relax in a hammock in Braník in 1956.

A 1966 photo shows Maule as a carefree 14-year-old with Marketa and his mother during a summer vacation in Bulgaria.

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Finding a way out

Maule’s mother’s obc˘ansky´ prukaz ˚ (personal identification document): In communist Czechoslovakia, every person was issued identification at the age of 15 and expected to present it to authorities at any time when asked. The document indicated a person’s marital status, number of children, address, military status and proof of employment.

The author’s parents, Yvona and Vladimír, in Braník in 1967: The next year, after the Prague Spring, they began making a plan to leave the country.

Maule, with his mother, celebrating his college graduation in 1975: As a young immigrant to the U.S., he was able to complete high school and earn his BFA in cinematography at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Later that morning of August 21 when I went out, I saw a line of Russian tanks, parked neatly one behind the other. The soldiers were sitting around, smoking, talking to people — mostly kids from my school. Since the Russian language was mandatory, we could communicate with the soldiers easily. (If you wanted to be “cool,” though, you would get a D in Russian — a small gesture of resistance).

During the weeks that followed, it became evident that the Soviets were here to stay, and my parents started to think about our future. My mom was convinced that I would be drafted and die somewhere in Siberia. My mom’s Canadian cousin, Stepan Urbanek, had left Czechoslovakia in 1948, and became a partner in a motion picture film-processing lab in Montreal. In one of his letters, he jovially mentioned, “If you ever get out, you can count on me.” My mom held onto these words as if they were gospel, and as a result decisions were made to start a new life in Canada.

To apply for an exit visa in 1968 Czechoslovakia was an arduous procedure requiring, first, an approval from our apartment-building caretaker (a party member who, in exchange for lower rent, would snitch on residents). Once this was granted, my parents had to receive an approval from the government.

Unable to get it officially, they decided to forge the documents. In a clandestine operation, and in exchange for our life savings, they obtained the magic approval stamp itself. It was either stolen or manufactured, but the big red imprint in the passports looked official. The plan was to leave for an innocent four-day trip to Vienna, Austria.

Then — a small complication. My dad had back surgery and had difficulty walking. He needed to rest. Another life-changing decision was made: my mom and I would go first, and later, when dad was better, he would join us. Little did we know at that moment that our family reunion would have to wait for 12 years…

As soon as we arrived in Vienna in October 1968, we went to Traiskirchen, a refugee camp just outside of the city. Then came another small complication.

Mom could not reach her cousin Stepan. His French-speaking partners had no idea who we were, let alone that they were supposed to assist us with housing and jobs. So, yet another life-changing decision was made: to go to America. My mom figured that it would be easy for us, dad included, to cross to Canada later.

An American family On April 19, 1969, we stepped on American soil. An organization called American Fund for Czechoslovak Refugees provided financial help to those who wanted to settle outside of New York, with one-way Greyhound bus tickets to either Cleveland or Chicago. Since New York with its skyscrapers was a bit scary, and we had never heard of Cleveland, we chose Chicago.

It sounded familiar: the 1893 World’s Fair and Al Capone.

We arrived in the early afternoon on April 20, 1969, with two suitcases and $8 in cash. My mom was 37; I was 17. I courageously hailed a cab in my best British English, and a taxi took us to the intersection of Cicero

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Avenue and 26th Street. Once a distinctly Bohemian neighborhood, the area was by now mostly Hispanic.

As we walked along 26th Street, we heard some voices speaking in Czech.

The sound was coming out of a travel agency. It was a social group of elderly Czechs at their monthly meeting, where they discussed global events and exchanged cooking recipes. They were genuinely happy to help. They found a place for us to stay the first night and recommended where to apply for work — my mom at Western Electric and I at a steel company called CECO. The next day we were both hired. (I had taken the wrong bus so ended up working for Sears.) We found a basement apartment in Berwyn, a Chicago suburb with a sizeable Czech population. We were on a roll.

Then — a small complication. The communist government in Czechoslovakia closed the borders. No one was allowed to leave anymore.

Dad was stuck in Prague.

I finished my senior year of high school, applied at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, received a four-year scholarship and graduated in 1975 with BFA in cinematography.

In 1976 I married my wife, Eva. We started our own business, a modest camera shop in Lombard, Illinois, and later a film production company, Filmontage Productions. In 1977 I became a pilot and bought a small plane, a Cessna. In 1980 our daughter Danielle was born.

In 1981 my Dad was finally allowed to come to the United States.

The reunion was nothing short of magical. Dad and mom were truly happy.

But dad announced that he was returning to Czechoslovakia. It wasn’t until the following year, when he succumbed to prostate cancer, that we understood why he wanted to go back.

In 1986 our daughter Angelica was born. Seven years later I brought my family to Prague for a visit. On the ground level of our old apartment building was a plaque on the wall with names of all the residents.

Our name was still there.

In 2009 my mom was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer and given six months to live; she made it to nine.

This year, my wife and I are entering our 35th year of marriage. Danielle is 31, working in the television industry in Hollywood. Angelica is 25, a teacher living in Naperville.

I still wear my hair long, look up to Lennon and Jagger, enjoy making films and flying around in my plane. But I am the happiest with my girls, when all four of us cuddle by the TV and laugh hysterically as we watch My Cousin Vinny.

Life could be worse.

Left: Vladimir with his young daughters 18 years after coming to America Right: Vladimir Maule shares a happy moment with his family in 2011, including (left to right) daughter Danielle, wife Eva, and daughter Angelica.

After earning his pilot’s license, Maule purchased his own Cessna.

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Creating Pathways to Expression:

A FREE-THINKER SPEAKS TRUTH TO POWER

By Peter Hruby

Peter Hruby lives near his daughter and grandsons in Annapolis, Maryland.

Left: The author as a four-year-old in 1925 Right: Peter Hruby on a vacation in Kar˘ez in 1933

My upbringing in Czechoslovakia was quite strict. Inside the door leading to our apartment, as a symbol of the parental authority, there stood a switch that was often used for punishment. A little less than some other kids, I was also beaten at school. In order to save me from the imagined Christian hell, another real hell was created on earth. Such an education — not rare at the time in many countries — helped to create similar authoritarians or, as in my case, rebels.

During the German occupation of my country all universities were closed and I was forced to work in a factory outside of Prague. It was strenuous, and after 12-hour shifts I tried to learn foreign languages and read in them, which helped me to realize that workers did not dream about a communist revolution at all. Beginning in the summer of 1945 I was able to study philosophy, psychology, literature and languages at Charles University, while also gradually enjoying my discoveries of the vast cultural treasures contained in books, the arts and the theater.

Worrying about the obvious march of pro-communist dreamers toward Stalinism, I organized a week devoted to practical work for children who had almost no playgrounds and never saw nature. The event was opened with an address by President Edvard Beneš, which I wrote, and more than 100 national organizations took part in it. I also created the Cultural Unity Youth Club with the help of one of my professors. With the backing of renowned journalist Ferdinand Peroutka and more than 100 students working under my leadership, we planned to produce a journal designed for both the communist and non-communist cultural elite, stressing cultural, ethical and democratic values. The Communist Party putsch in February 1948 brought these efforts to an end.

Life as an exile In August 1948 I succeeded in legally leaving the country to attend a course in Geneva for educators of children who were victims of the war. When it ended, I went to the police and was granted exile status. I studied at the Institut des Hautes Études Internationales, a graduate institute in Geneva, and obtained a political science degree in international studies. Together with three other exiled Czech students, I created a monthly publication called Skutecˇnost (Reality) that soon attracted other young Czechs and Slovaks in their diaspora all around the world as contributors, and even older prominent exiles who supported its approach of anti-nationalistic European and Atlantic cooperation.

Its English and German extensions, named Democratia Militans, attracted many young collaborators from other nations and international recognition by Bertrand Russell and the editor-in-chief of an important German monthly.

In 2008 in Prague, a compendium of 648 pages of

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selected articles from 1949-1953 issues of Skutecˇnost was published with the title, Hluboká stopa (A Lasting Impression).

After several months of study at the Sorbonne in Paris, in 1951 I was invited with many other Skutecˇnost authors to Radio Free Europe in Munich to prepare programs for communist-dominated Czechoslovakia. Along with commentaries and interviews, I developed an educational program called “Conversations with searching young people” for those who either were not allowed to study or received only slanted anti-Western propaganda. In 1957 I was allowed to emigrate to the United States and become a citizen. Again, I was employed by Radio Free Europe and I was promoted to senior writer and editor. At night I attended classes at Columbia University, obtaining an M.A. in East European history. At Radio Free Europe I gradually moved from political broadcasting into cultural programs. That opened to my personal enjoyment art galleries, movies, concerts, the opera, ballet and the theater, while I pursued interviews with artists and museum directors in order to prepare programs on new plays, art and museum shows, and movies. This private but useful pleasure lasted until the end of 1963, when, due to the deteriorating situation at the radio station, I resigned.

Left: Hruby prepared for a Radio Free Europe program at the Valka Lager refugee camp.

Center: Hruby (pictured here with his daughter, Kačenka) worked for Radio Free Europe in Munich in 1956.

Right: Hruby in his Radio Free Europe office in New York City 1960 Above: Hruby’s Radio Free Europe identity card

Teaching others about freedom After a recuperating leave of absence spent on Long Island beaches and golf courses, I tried several different jobs — teaching French and German, selling oriental goods in a shop, and working as a sales agent for Pan American. From the summer of 1965 until the fall of 1968, I was employed as a lecturer for the University of Maryland’s Overseas Division, spending time in Greenland, Bermuda, Newfoundland, Turkey, West Germany, Pakistan and on American military bases, teaching international law, economics, history of Western Civilization and Soviet studies.

I then spent two years at the university in Geneva preparing my Ph.D. From February 1971 until the end of the year 2000, I taught similar subjects at the Western Australian Institute of Technology (renamed Curtin University) and occasionally also at other Australian universities. For one semester I acted as visiting professor at Carleton University in Ottawa, Canada, and made a lecture tour of American universities.

At the end of 2000 I was able to finally come “home” from my years of exile and spent six years teaching my special course, titled “Aspects of 20th Century World Literature: Appeal and Failure of Communism,” at Charles University in Prague.

Finally, I returned to the United States in March 2007 when my younger daughter urged me to join her family. I am now a happy grandfather to her two charming little boys, seeing them often; I live in an apartment with good views of the Chesapeake Bay in delightful Annapolis. Along with working on many books and articles, at the request of my daughter I wrote my memoirs, which bear the title: “From rowboats to sailboats: A troubled and happy life of a would-like-to-be-healer of political mental sickness.”

In 1965 Hruby taught Soviet foreign policy in Thule, Greenland, for the University of Maryland’s Overseas Division.

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CA L END A R

MUSEUM EVENTS Rising Above: The Story of a People and the Flood Ongoing, Kosek Building in Czech Village

87 16th Avenue SW, Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52404 (319) 362-8500

This permanent exhibition tells the story of the Czechs and Slovaks who came to Cedar Rapids and overcame wave after wave of adversity as they forged their destinies in the U.S. Utilizing multimedia, the exhibit takes visitors through the settlement years and the establishment of a thriving ethnic community. The devastating flood of 2008 is now a part of this history, told through news stories, video and eye-witness accounts, culminating with a walk-in model of a flooded home.

Where the Water Went bus tours Saturday, August 13, 10 a.m. and 1:30 p.m.

Hours: Monday through Saturday, 9:30 a.m. – 4:00 p.m.

Closed Sundays.

Take a guided tour of the exhibition, “Rising Above: The Story of a People and the Flood.”

Then join NCSML Director of Education Jan Stoffer and local historian Mark Stoffer Hunter as they lead a bus tour through the city showing where the flood waters went in 2008.

Learn about the history of Cedar Rapids and what efforts have been made to recover. $15 for NCSML and History Center members, $20 for non-members. Call Jan Stoffer, 319-362-8500, X218 to reserve your seat.

Holidays: Closed Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day and New Year’s Day.

Walking Tour of Czech Village Saturday, September 10, 10 a.m.

Open Memorial Day, Fourth of July and Labor Day.

Join Jan Stoffer as she leads a tour of historic Czech Village. Learn the history of this unique Cedar Rapids neighborhood, its businesses and buildings. Tickets $6 for NCSML members, $7 for non-members, available at the NCSML Museum Store; meet in front of NCSML’s Kosek Building.

Admission:

BrewNost! An International Beer Tasting

Members . . . . . . . . . . . . .FREE Adults . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .$6.00 Seniors . . . . . . . . . . . . . .$5.00 College Students (with ID) . . . . . . . . . . . . .$3.00 Children . . . . . . . . . . . . .$2.00 5 and Under . . . . . . . . . . .FREE

Friday, September 23, 6 – 9:30 p.m.

Kingston Memorial Stadium, 950 Rockford Road Southwest Raise your glass in a toast to BrewNost!, the area’s finest beer-sipping extravaganza held every fall to benefit the NCSML. Guests will enjoy a worldwide selection of premium beers paired with hors d’oeuvres created by area chefs. Call Lindsey, 319-362-8500, X205, to reserve tickets for this special night out! Presenting Sponsors: Alliant Energy & CRST International

Cooking in Babi’s Kitchen Saturday, October 8, 10 a.m. – Noon St. Ludmila’s Church, 215 21st Ave. SE, Cedar Rapids Craving Czech and Slovak comfort food? Bring a friend or family member and see how it’s done. Step-by-step directions provided by experienced cooks using tried and true recipes from the NCSML Museum Guild’s cookbook. Free to the public, no registration necessary. Sponsored by United Fire.

The Art and Craft of Bobbin Lace-Making More information and a complete calendar of events can be found on the museum’s website, www.NCSML.org, or by calling 319-362-8500 and requesting a full listing of upcoming events.

32 | National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library

Tuesday, November 15, 11 a.m. – 2 p.m.

A demonstration presented by the Doris Southard Lace Guild.

Sponsored by United Fire.

Old Prague Christmas Market Friday & Saturday, December 2 & 3 Enjoy the magical experience of an old-world Christmas market with hand-crafted artisan gifts and traditional treasures, the NCSML Guild’s Annual Cookie Walk, horse-drawn wagon rides, holiday music, caroling and food all in Czech Village. Free Exhibit Admission Sponsored by Brosh Chapel & The Avacentre.

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Supporting the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library:

G I F T S T H AT M A K E A DIFFERENCE! Here’s how you can contribute to the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library:

Donations to the Annual Fund

Your gift can help the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library (NCSML) in its mission to be the foremost museum and library in the United States preserving and interpreting Czech and Slovak history and culture. Your tax-deductible charitable contribution will help ensure that this vision becomes a reality.

Tribute Contributions

You may honor a family name, loved one or other significant person or event through a tribute gift to the NCSML. For gifts of $500 or more, the person or event you are memorializing or honoring will receive a special plaque on the NCSML’s “Wall of Memory,” acknowledging your thoughtful gesture in perpetuity.

Rebuilding an Icon

The unprecedented flooding in 2008 affecting so many others has done overwhelming damage to our museum. But, the flood is old news. “Rebuilding” is the current news. The NCSML is faced with the exciting and daunting challenge of rebuilding its campus. This takes resources: time, energy and capital.

All gifts designated for “Rebuilding” will be used to offset the additional costs in the process of reconstruction of the NCSML campus. Simply write “Rebuilding an Icon” in the memo portion of your check (or, if giving online, choose “support the campus rebuilding”), and your investment in the NCSML will be used to rebuild this national treasure.

Save an Artifact

The National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library is still recovering from the calamitous flood of 2008. Thousands of books require restoration, as do many of the museum’s precious artifacts. This is an extremely costly and time-consuming process. A gift to the museum designated to “Save an Artifact” will help the NCSML bring these damaged items back to their original splendor.

Corporate Donations or Sponsorships

The National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library recognizes the generosity of our corporate donors and sponsors with priority services in everything from VIP admission passes and tours to invitations and advance notice of National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library’s special events and programs. There are many ways your company can partner with the NCSML to advance your business objectives while supporting one of the nation’s great cultural assets.

For more information, please contact Jason Wright, Vice President for Development (319-362-8500, Ext. 206).

THE NATIONAL CZECH & SLOVAK MUSEUM & LIBRARY WAS DEDICATED IN 1995 BY PRESIDENTS CLINTON, HAVEL AND KOVA´ C˘. THE NCSML’S MISSION IS TO BE THE NATION’S FOREMOST INSTITUTION FOR PRESERVING AND INTERPRETING THE HISTORY AND CULTURE OF

CZECHS AND SLOVAKS.

Planned Giving — the Legacy Society

By naming the National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library as a beneficiary in your will or by making other planned gifts, you can ensure the NCSML’s long-term vitality while possibly realizing significant tax advantages for yourself.

The Legacy Society is reserved for a select group of donors who have provided for the NCSML in their estate plans. For more information, please contact the Vice President for Development.

The National Czech & Slovak Museum & Library is enthusiastically moving forward with an exciting and challenging strategic plan for the future. Your support, with a tax-deductible charitable contribution, will help ensure that the plan becomes reality.

To contribute, you may mail your check to the NCSML at the address listed to the right, or give online at www.NCSML.org (click the “Donate Now” button).

87 16th Avenue SW Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52404 (319) 362-8500 www.NCSML.org

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THIS EDITION OF SLOVO IS MADE POSSIBLE BY GENEROUS CONTRIBUTIONS FROM

Serving the Cedar Rapids community since 1892 Heating and air conditioning products and services Appliances for residential and commercial use www.iltensinc.net

Celebrating its 75th anniversary of manufacturing, installing, remodeling and maintaining high-quality freight and passenger elevators at competitive prices www.schumacherelevator.com

87 16th Avenue SW ▪ Cedar Rapids, Iowa 52404 ▪ (319) 362-8500 ▪ www.NCSML.org