GERMANY: Black-Tie Birthday

Last week, as a Prince came of age in Rumania amid pomp and medal-pinning, an idea came of age in Germany—in that part of Germany which was once Czecho-Slovakia—amid the deepest sadness. The occasion was the 21st anniversary of the establishment of the CzechoSlovak Republic, 21st birthday of the idea of national self-determination, freedom for the little, liberty for the helpless. The sadness was the more poignant because no trace of liberty could be found in the celebrations.

In the first place, CzechoSlovakia’s German protectors served notice beforehand that no celebration would be tolerated. When the day came, and the Czechs celebrated anyhow, the Nazis turned Czech police loose on them. The police did their work efficiently and quietly, giving no indication that it might be distasteful. Only one Czech policeman had to be arrested by Schutzstaffeln.

Citizens of Prague, on the whole, were not unruly. Small groups, chiefly students, ventured an occasional “Heil Benes!” or “Heil the Republic!,” but most celebrants merely walked the streets silently, wearing black neckties and armbands, and occasionally Czech colors and Masaryk caps. Police ripped off these symbols of mourning and hope. Czechs made for Wenceslaus Square, for centuries their gathering place in times of emotion. They found it blocked off by mounted police and gendarmes.

A detachment of Schutzstafel flaunted their authority, marching with Nazi banners and a band. This was more than the Czechs could bear. They rushed the guards, tore down their banner, scattered their ranks. A number were injured before the dutiful Czech police scattered the crowd, arresting several. Later a band of students surrounded a earful of Schutzstaffel officers and threatened them. The officers drew their pistols and fired into the air. When the day was over reports seeped even through the censor’s office that four were dead, scores injured, thousands arrested.

Although reports of internal unrest are an accepted starting point of wartime propaganda, there were hints last week that this very thing might be the answer to Germany’s unusual hesitation in the war. It became more & more obvious that Czechs are doing all they can to sabotage their stern protectors. Skoda’s intricate machine guns have a way of being delivered with one tiny, essential part missing. Prague’s milk cans have a way of leaving dairies with a tiny hole punched in them.

The Czechs, once free, feel now like slaves. But being determined, they are philosophical. In cinemas, when the face of the Führer who is theirs not by choice appears, they sing a cheerful song they learned from an American film: “Hi-ho! hi-ho! It’s off to work we go. . . .”