Topic Three - Reading Two
EASTERN EUROPE: TRANSFORMATION
CZECHOSLOVAKIA 1968
As in Hungary a dozen years earlier, the Czechoslovak reform movement arose within the ruling party. Although the country started the postwar period with the head start of industrial experience and the memory of a modern political order, the regime that presided over Czechoslovakia until 1968 was un-imaginative, leaving a great deal of room for intellectuals, in and out of the party, to fashion schemes for improving the situation. Writers and philosophers were very active in the months leading up to the Prague Spring, discussing privately some of the liberalizing notions that would presently become an official program.
When the old party leadership was turned out and a new one emerged around Alexander Dubcek, the reform program was accompanied by circumspect reassurances aimed at the Soviet Union and calculated to forestall the kind of alarm that precipitated the invasion of Hungary in 1956. Had these precautions proved adequate, the "socialism with a human face" that unfolded during the first half of 1968 would almost certainly have saved socialism from the massive ill-repute that was so prominent a factor in the late 1980s. It would have proved enormously attractive elsewhere in the region (which was of course part of the problem it posed to the Soviet Union) and might have averted some of the explosiveness that built up as the Soviet model lost its last shreds of credibility. Nevertheless, although the reform movement fell victim to Soviet intervention, it had injected potent yeast into East European consciousness, an effect that was only temporarily obscured by the repression that followed when the invaders finally installed a tractable restorationist regime under Gustav Husak.
The first four entries below come from participants in the ferment of the Prague Spring; the fourth was composed by the novelist Ludvik Vaculik. Liehm, Sik, and Svitak all went into exile after the intervention. Following Suda's account of the invasion of August 1968, Selucky reflects on the episode retrospectively and two groups voice two of the many dissenting statements that kept 1968 alive in the grim interlude that lasted until 1989. Charter 77 is the most widely noticed such expression. It made its many signatories targets for repression in the short run but eventually also candidates for leading roles when the Husak regime collapsed.
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"Intellectual Origins of the Reform Movement" by Antonin Liehm*
Liehm was a participant in the intellectual ferment that he describes in this essay and, since leaving Czechoslovakia after the invasion, has remained a trenchant commentator on developments in his homeland. He has divided his time between academic and journalistic activity.
To understand the role that Czechoslovak culture played in preparing the way for the momentous events of the Spring, we must begin by grappling with a paradox. In the early nineteen-fifties, the structure of Czechoslovak cultural life was precipitously re-organized to parallel the pattern of the Soviet model. As became only too painfully evident in retrospect, this process was carried out in total disregard of the basic differences between the two countries, differences in traditions, intellectual climate and conditions of life. Furthermore, it is now evident that the same structures which served to buttress the Stalinist pyramid in the USSR could not be exported wholesale to other countries without seriously upsetting the stability of the local systems of power.
The power pyramid typical of Stalinism happens to be founded on a very simple, unoriginal principle, derived from older social orders. At its pinnacle there rules a small group (ultimately a single individual), surrounded by a military, political and police apparatus. This apparatus is given the task of seeing to it that orders from the top are faithfully reproduced and transmitted down to the lowest levels of the pyramid. The actual transmission of the orders is carried out by a system of "societal" organizations which function as so-called "transmission-belts." Members of the power apparatus are given leading positions in these organizations, which thus become links between the ruling elite and the masses, between the apparatus and the population--or, in Stalinist jargon, "between the party and the unaffiliated." To enable the "transmission-belts" to perform their functions, the government subsidizes them generously.
In addition to ensuring that orders from the top are properly disseminated and unquestioningly obeyed, the pyramid and its power apparatus also serve the obverse
*Antonin Liehm, "Intellectual Origins of the Reform Movement," from V. V. Kusin, ed., "The Czechoslovak Reform Movement", Clio Press, 1973, pp. 67-78.
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function, namely, to transmit a purified, filtered message of compliance and confirmation back to the top, an idealized echo of the initial order. The operation of the power pyramid is self-justifying. This is clearly bound to be the case under conditions where all citizens are virtually government employees directly dependent upon the pyramid, and where there is an absence of free dissemination of information and lack of democratic institutions.
The top issues orders which the apparatus reduces to their simplest essentials and conveys down. The functionaries at the bottom of the apparatus are supposed to inform their superiors that all orders were carried out to the letter--or, preferably, that they were carried out beyond all expectations. The well-being of the functionaries is not dependent upon the state of the country's economy nor upon the level of performance in any particular sector, rather, their career is measured by their ability to ensure a smooth, uninterrupted flow of orders up and down within the pyramid, and to see to it that messages from the bottom confirm the maximum expectations of the leaders. The most successful officials are those who can surmise the leaders' hopes with the greatest accuracy, and who can adjust their own reports accordingly. In order for this system to work, it is of course necessary that all participants play the game, and scrupulously follow the tacit rules of conspiracy, co-operation, mutual assistance and loyalty. In the end, it is impossible to tell to which segment of the apparatus a given functionary belongs. Not only are all departments extremely similar to one another, but any individual who manages to climb to the highest rungs of the ladder necessarily had to pass through all the units of the apparatus, to know their mechanisms and to establish ties of mutual alliance with their staffs. Since orders from above must in turn support themselves on reports manufactured below, a closed cycle is created wherein the same situation is reproduced over and over again. The mechanism feeds on itself, it is its own goal and purpose, and the smallest particle of external, living reality is a mortal danger to its existence.
Under these circumstances, two totally different orders of reality come into being. One is the thriving, faultlessly working pyramid, disgorging streams of orders and voraciously feeding on reams of reports. And side by side with this pyramid is "parallel reality"--the living, working, bustling country, with its real problems and its own economic and social structures, which have no legal existence yet are indisputably real all the same. The official pyramid cannot liquidate these structures, for it dare not touch the living roots of the country. The pyramid is thus forced to tolerate the existence of these extra-legal entities, and must content itself to keep them from assuming nation-wide influence. For example, it attempts to sever any horizontal connections between autonomous centres of authority as soon as they outgrow a merely local importance. During certain periods, the attempt to define permissible limits to the autonomy of the living, defacto structures of the country becomes the most demanding and delicate problem the power pyramid has to face. This was especially true during the era of neo-Stalinism; after all, it is in its pragmatic approach to this very question that neo-Stalinism differs most markedly from the rigid ideological puritanism of original Stalinism. Too liberal a concession to the pressure exerted by defacto structures would endanger the very core of the pyramid. On the other hand, too bru-
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tal an intervention against "parallel reality" would stifle a working, breathing organism, indispensable to the life of the country as we shall see later. This dilemma is at the root of the characteristic oscillation of the power pyramid between repression and liberalization. Now economic reforms are accepted, now they are rejected; now cultural policy is democratized, now it is made more autocratic. The same oscillation was evident with respect to such questions as personal freedom, the right to move freely within the country and to travel abroad, even to certain questions of foreign policy. For in this area, too, there inevitably arose two orders of reality, the reality represented by the official pyramid and the reality of autonomous, vital structures representing the true needs of the nation and of foreign countries.
Within the official pyramid, there is a system of transmission belts not only for every segment of the population, but for every type of pursuit and interest, no matter how trivial. Thus, for example, crossword enthusiasts and rabbit fanciers have their own government sponsored organizations, and these have fundamentally the same structure and purpose as any of the other transmission-belts. Naturally, such organizations cannot really function in any meaningful way except by playing a dual role. In addition to performing "official" duty as part of the transmission belt system, these organizations eventually assume a second, more vital existence and quietly begin the job of providing services not in response to orders from the central pyramid but in response to real social needs.
In Czechoslovakia, the most striking manifestation of the two parallel structures--de jure and de facto--was in the realm of culture. After 1948, the country's cultural enterprise was furnished with the same system of transmission-belts as all other areas of national life. For example, the former independent Association of Czechoslovak Writers was replaced by a Writers' Union with its own presidium, central committee, secretariat, and control commission. Similar organizations were created in other cultural spheres, such as the graphic arts, music and theatre. (Film was excepted, possibly because at that time the Soviet film-makers did not yet have a union themselves, or because film production was more or less concentrated in a few studios under tight government control.)
The state proved to be not only a vigilant guardian of culture, but a generous patron as well, and lavish government subsidies temporarily gave Czechoslovak artists and writers the hope that the long national tradition of respect for things of the mind was asserting itself, and that culture was once more to assume its rightful place in national life. But it didn't take them long to recognize that the state's enormous involvement in culture, its open-handed largesse in distributing careers, rewards, and glory had a very significant drawback. It became evident that all of cultural life was being relentlessly transformed into an integral part of the power pyramid, and that this process inevitably brought the arts and sciences into conflict with the political leadership. Culture characteristically is extremely sensitive to the discrepancy between official power and unofficial, parallel reality. The first stirrings of unrest were felt shortly after 1953. In the years 1955-1956, Czechoslovakia went through the same process of awakening that took place in Poland, Hungary and the Soviet Union, and this was
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Shortly after the first "normalization," the Czechoslovak economy began to succumb to a severe crisis which undermined the very foundations of the power pyramid and strengthened the autonomy of parallel-reality structures. In the realm of culture, this also marked the beginning of that remarkable process affecting the core of the pyramid which many years later culminated in the so-called Czechoslovak Spring.
Unlike the Soviet intelligentsia after 1917, Czechoslovak artists and writers never knew the elation accompanying a revolutionary explosion, with its promise of cultural liberation. The Czechoslovak culture elite entered socialism through a pompous triumphal arch, leading to a fairy-land of palatial rest-centres for writers and musicians, honorary titles, prizes and awards, offices and stipends for services rendered. These services performed for the state were used as yardsticks of cultural quality, and honours, rewards and stipends were meted out accordingly. And vice versa, the hand of Maecenas was generous, very generous--but it wasn't open for nothing. In return for the distinguished place inside the power pyramid accorded to cultural workers the governmental Maecenas--and Stalinist govemment was a cultural Maecenas in the original, literal sense of the term--required unconditional service.
Historically, Czechoslovak culture was always closely connected with society and with politics, and for a while it seemed that inclusion of culture within the power pyramid might be a logical outgrowth of this tradition. But this illusion faded rapidly. This was so because of the inherent logic underlying intellectual and creative activity, the fundamental self-determination of all true art. In retrospect it is clear that only two possibilities existed under the given circumstances. The artist had the option of sacrificing his gifts on the altar of the pyramid, in the best of faith and in all sincerity, to incorporate his talent and his labour into the mechanism of the pyramid, to adjust his own creative imagination to the blueprints of the power structure. If this choice is made, an insurmountable internal conflict begins to develop between the artist and the man, between service to the pyramid and intrinsic creative ideas; the best, most vital forces within the individual perish. The artist dies, or the man, sometimes both. The second possibility is that the artist's talent, the inner demands of his work, his faith in the truth prove stronger than his desire to serve the pyramid. In that event, the parallel reality beyond the reach of the pyramid triumphs. The author and his work come into ever sharper conflict with the ruling power, a conflict for which the reasons are at first unclear to both sides. Opposition to the pyramid of course entails estrangement from Maecenas, with consequent narrowing of the material possibilities of existence as well as loss of privileges, titles and stipends. Given these two alternatives, the majority of writers and artists tend to follow the course which their predecessors have followed for centuries, the strategy used by Caravaggio in an Italy ruled by popes and aristocrats, the approach used by so many artists in so many epochs when culture lived by the grace of patronage and truth had to be presented in a religious or ideological guise.
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The artists paid Maecenas his due by pretending to honour the external forms of their patrons' myths and ceremonies. Eventually, artists wearing a patron's livery joined forces in attempts to gain greater degrees of autonomy. Such autonomy goes under the names of "freedom of artistic expression" or simply "freedom of expression." The recent experience of Czechoslovak writers and artists thus provides still another instance of history repeating itself, and still another example showing members of the "new society" breaking down doors which had been open a long time ago.
How did the creative artists go about gaining more autonomy? There were several ways. The matter was simplest in the area of cinematography. The writer or musician is an individual creator who fashions his work in the hope that it finds a patron's favour, and who therefore passionately longs for a free market for cultural products. The situation of the film artist is quite different. The production of film is an industry, and as soon as this industry was converted into state enterprise, it automatically came under the control of the power pyramid. The film artist was converted into an industrial employee, a government employee, with a firm wage, regular bonuses, pensions, job security. The industry itself could be depended upon to see to it that its products reflected the norms and values established by the pyramid, and that they didn't come under the sway of parallel reality. The pressure on the cinematic artist was far greater than the pressure on the writer or musician. Inside the film industry, the machinery had to be kept rolling, the genesis of an autonomous work was virtually impossible, the schizophrenia was virtually continuous and permanent.
Nevertheless, Czechoslovak cinematography came to the conviction that in a relatively small, linguistically limited country, the production of high-quality films was impossible outside the framework of government patronage. For this reason, Czechoslovak film workers concentrated their efforts on the reorganization of the inner structure of the industry, on the creation of a number of smaller units so that through decentralization a certain measure of autonomy would be gained. These demands were made at a time when the power pyramid began to show signs of weakness, sapped by the economic crisis. By the early nineteen-sixties, the autonomy of the small films workshops was continually expanding, the products of their work were coming into ever sharper conflict with the pyramid, which was no longer strong enough to crush opposition in the bud as it had still been able to do in 1958. As the contest grew in intensity, there was mounting need for cooperation and coordination on the part of the film workers. Thus, under the pretext of filling a long-neglected gap in the country's cultural organization, the Union of Film and Television Artists came into being. The pyramid was still pretending to itself that this really represented a matter of correcting a gap in its own structure, but in fact this union marked the emergence of parallel reality in a sphere of power. For the first time under a Stalinist system a so-called social organization came into existence not merely as a transmission-belt of orders from above but as an entity defending the true interests of its members. And these interests were not merely narrowly professional (those were theoretically under the aegis of a withering "official" organ), but ideological and political as well. It is therefore not surprising that film artists gradually took over the vanguard of cultural political activity, culminating in the events of 1968. In achieving this dominant position, the film workers had the advantage of not having had to cope with a paralyzing
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inheritance of an old trade-union outlook, which plagued the majority of other cultural organizations and prevented them from transcending their role as transmission-belts for the power pyramid.
The union of Czechoslovak writers developed in a completely opposite way. It was created simultaneously with other components of the pyramid, as a classical transmission-belt. Its task was to administer the policies of the pyramid in every sphere of literary activity. For this purpose the union was given not only the internal structure of a political organization but material power as well. It had its own publishing enterprise, which for a long time constituted a virtual monopoly over the publishing of original Czech and Slovak literature and over literary journalism.
This publishing organization became the sole heir of the liberal press of the first republic. And though there was little resemblance to pre-war publishing in terms of content, the outer form and the emphasis upon the intelligentsia were sufficiently reminiscent of pre-Munich books and magazines for the new publishers to inherit a considerable segment of the old readership. As a result, the weekly literary paper "Literarni noviny" as well as other publications of the Writers' Union achieved a remarkably large circulation, even in the early nineteen fifties. The Union was also responsible for the administration of the so-called Literary Fund, which was financed by assessments on royalties and by levies on classics which had passed into the public domain. The Literary Fund, in turn, paid for various facilities which were available to members of the Writers' Union, and distributed loans, prizes, and stipends. It is clear that even the Fund was originally designed as part and parcel of the power pyramid, and that its function had to some extent a corrupting influence.
During the years 1955-1956 this publishing colossus underwent the first real inner tremors, a movement which culminated during the second congress of Czechoslovak writers. Stalin's death, the disclosure of Beria's crimes, the 20th Soviet party congress--these were shattering developments, but in the period of relative economic stability their impact was largely limited to the intellectual front. The majority of the members of the Writers' Union were communists and until the 4th congress in 1967, the entire leadership and the entire central committee consisted of party members. The impending conflict therefore had the form of a typical intramural contest within the pyramid rather than a revolt against the pyramid. It was regarded by the writers as a struggle for a smoother, more effective, more "socialist" operation of their organization. However, the pyramid instinctively reacted against any such attempts at reform of its own structure. At first, this reaction was not conscious. The pyramid initially combatted reform as an automatic response in the name of ideological principles; after all, the Stalinist system of power had long been totally identified with socialism. Later, the struggle against reform became ever more deliberate, as the pyramid came to realize that the granting of inner autonomy was an exceedingly dangerous step, a grafting of an incompatible foreign body which could prove fatal. On the other hand, the pyramid was no longer strong enough at that stage to compel unconditional obedience without resort to brutal administrative measures, which by the nineteen sixties would have been entirely out of keeping with the temper of the times.
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During periods when the public is deprived of basic information, it is always the intelligentsia which is politicized first. This was confirmed in the course of the 20th party congress. In the countries under discussion the intelligentsia was predominantly communist, thus having the advantage of a ready-made political platform, albeit a platform of a somewhat limited nature. With regard to literature, the situation was especially favourable. In a political struggle--and practically all scientific and artistic struggles ultimately become political--scientists, artists and musicians could exert only the force of their own prestige, name or reputation; the limits of their opposition were fixed by their total dependence for their existence upon the pyramid, since in the last analysis the pyramid was their employer. The situation of the writers was quite different. They were practically the only members of society capable of independent production. The writers were entirely self-sufficient, since the publishing enterprise which they controlled virtually guaranteed an outlet for their work, while the Literary Fund provided a financial reserve ready to assist individuals who came into conflict with authority. Furthermore, by having the power of the press at their disposal, they had control over printed words of such quantity and quality (censorship notwithstanding) that they exerted considerable influence over the intelligentsia and over a steadily growing portion of the general public. And so, step by step, writers fighting for a restoration of their rights taken away under Stalinism gradually transformed their organization. Their union was initially a transmission-belt, a demanding authoritarian patron keeping close watch over the loyalty of a traditionally influential group of intellectuals, and buying allegiance through privileges and material benefits. Now the organization was changing into a political force, capable of conducting a struggle within the pyramid and of carrying the battle beyond the confines of the pyramid as well.
It took a relatively long time before the pyramid realized where the basic problem lay. The pyramid came to see that the process of self-awareness among writers had reached a level where the conflict could no longer be liquidated by formerly effective administrative measures. It had now become necessary to attack the material base of the revolt, the economic independence of the writers.
The pyramid promptly proceeded to carry out this friendly advice, and slapped a tax on the income of writers. (In this connection, it is interesting to note the remarkable conservativeness of the Czechoslovak tax structure of the time, in which there was only minimal gradation in the rates toward high incomes--hardly a "progressive" system in either sense of the term.) But the government's move came too late. The process of self-awareness among the writers had gone too far, it was no longer possible to destroy their solidarity, not even by means of stepped-up political pressure. The Writers' Union had thus definitely become the first autonomous entity of the Stalinist pyramid, a social organization that had entirely ceased to act as a mere transmission-belt. In a society undergoing a profound crisis the significance of this phenomenon was obvious. The writers extended an invitation to the pyramid: let us take the development of the Writers' Union as a model for study, let us explore this phenomenon together. After all, it may well provide us with an excellent model for reforming the system....
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The writers still hadn't understood that the pyramid's only dedication was to itself, that it was only concerned with buttressing its own structures and mechanisms; the pyramid had no interest in reform, which would necessarily imply its own demise.
And so the conflict grew in intensity, and the emergence of parallel reality into the light of day became ever more evident. The pyramid had no alternative but to strike. The Writers' Union was deprived of the weekly "Literarni Noviny," it was threatened with the loss of all publishing rights as well as loss of control over the Literary Fund. Yet, once again, these moves--undertaken in the fall of 1967--came too late. In the Writers' Union the communists could no longer count on a majority which would automatically sanction actions against fellow members. In the end, such actions had to be taken by the very top of the pyramid, the central committee of the Czechoslovak communist party. Once again, too late. Parallel reality had infected even this ultimate sanctuary of power. The leadership struck, but its move against the writers proved to mark the last time the forces of the pyramid could be mustered for disciplined, cohesive action. A number of members of the central committee sympathized with the writers and shared their humiliation. These men were ready to rebel at the earliest opportunity.
The gradual transformation of the Czechoslovak Writers' Union into a political force has crucial significance for understanding the processes which shook the country's power structure in the nineteen-sixties, culminating in the Spring of 1968.
At the beginning, this metamorphosis was unintentional and without ultimate goal. The leadership as well as the majority of members were not concerned with reforming Stalinist society; they were simply demanding the right to run their own affairs within an organization structured along Stalinist lines. In fact, a number of attempts were made to separate the Union from larger social issues, but this proved to be impossible. The Union and its members were an integral part of the pyramid. But in the heat of the tension between the pyramid and parallel reality, the Union was like a piece of glowing metal, gradually forged into a blade by alternate blows from one side and the other. As this process was nearing its end, the pyramid showed unmistakable evidence of cracking.
As soon as the Union became aware of its own metamorphosis from a trade organization into a political entity, it sought to liquidate all traces of its former structure. In the Spring of 1968, it joined other cultural organizations in forming the so-called Co-ordinating Committee of the Arts. The writers thus ceded their political leadership to take part in a broader co-ordinated effort, representing the entire cultural and scientific intelligentsia of the nation. A congress was planned for the fall of 1968, which was supposed to finish the job of burying the last remnants of the pyramid. The chateau used by the writers was to be returned to the state as an obsolete symbol of Stalinist privileges. The Writers' Union was to be re-organized as a free association of various writers' groups, serving to safeguard creative freedom and to secure optimal conditions for the development of literature.
The transformations in the Writers' Union were only the most clear-cut and striking example of changes taking place in the entire Stalinist system of transmission- belts. Particularly since 1968, a movement was evident among all kinds of societies and
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organizations to break the narrow bonds imposed on them by old Stalinist roles and to become true representatives of the wishes and interests of their members. Organizations representing segments of society most sensitive to changing conditions--such as the students and intelligentsia--led the way, gradually followed by organizations representing a variety of other groups, such as workers, farmers, office employees.
The battle for freedom of the press thus provides an interesting comment on the relation between culture and politics. The Writers' Union as well as other organizations involved in publishing have fought for decades for freedom of the press, as well as for the right to form associations, to choose leaders in free elections, and to administer their own affairs. As was noted earlier, this was not a deliberate campaign, based on a clearly formulated programme. Rather, it was a struggle in response to an immediate situation; the writers were simply trying to safeguard a sphere of social activity for which they felt responsible. And as always happens in societies in which political activity is temporarily suspended and ceases to function as a link between the citizen and the state, between the individual and social interests--culture stepped into the breach and assumed a political role. Thus, writers and publishers ostensibly formulating purely cultural needs and demands were actually playing a vital political part and influenced the political struggle of large segments of the population.
The liquidation of censorship of the press, radio and television was practically equivalent to the liquidation of the Stalinist pyramid from an extremely significant area of public life. In the last, neo-Stalinist phase of its existence, the pyramid ruled solely through the power of the state apparatus. The political channels and transmission belts stopped functioning, and even the administrators which the pyramid had put at their head gradually began to rebel. Through the abolishment of censorship the last vestige of the old vertical power structure was eliminated, and freedom of information was established on a scope previously unknown in modern society. The old structure had crumbled, and a new one was just beginning to take form. For many months, the press, radio and television really belonged to the joumalists and broadcasters. And this self-government proved remarkably successful. Except for a few marginal exceptions, there was no demagoguery, sensationalism or lust for revenge. The thousands of persons working in the various areas of communications showed not only a high degree of competence, but also a high degree of responsibility for the fate of the nation, country and society. They were conscious of the baleful consequences that an information black-out of three decades' duration had produced in the country. Since 1938, the Czechoslovak people had been without information, without meaningful public opinion, without any possibility of influencing policies from below, and now the country was groping in the dark, searching for orientation, avidly eager to learn its own situation. After several months of feverish work by people for whom the task of informing the public was not merely a job but a calling, the explosive tensions and resentments accumulated in the country over many years began to subside. The press and the broadcast media disarmed demagogues on both extremes of the spectrum, presented objective facts and encouraged people to draw their own conclusions, to find their own solutions. The information media unfrocked the quacks, who promised immediate miracle cures for political ills which had been neglected for decades. Above all, the press, radio and television helped to create a new type of citizen: a
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citizen assuming direct responsibility for all actions of society, capable of independent political action to a degree previously unknown. In short, a citizen exercising true self-government. It seems safe to say that in those months Czechoslovak magazines, radio and TV programmes achieved a level of professional excellence unmatched anywhere in the world. These developments merit the careful study of all persons interested in plumbing the miraculous phenomenon known as the Czechoslovak Spring, and in evaluating its full cultural contribution to the country and to the world.
With the help of the information media, another enormously significant development of the Czechoslovak Spring came into being, namely the re-establishment of horizontal structures. Horizontal links of any kind were unknown and intolerable to the Stalinist power pyramid. Direct contact from one compartment of the pyramid to another was considered suspicious and dangerous; it reeked of conspiracy. Such contacts were therefore explicitly forbidden, and the only communication permitted within the pyramid was the vertical movement of orders and reports. Two associations in related fields, such as the metal-workers' union and the miners' union, the writers' union and the playwrights union, a union of secondary school teachers and one of college teachers, could not establish direct communication except through the mediation of a higher unit of the pyramid to which both organizations were subordinate. In short, all normal professional and trade communications could only take place under the control of the pyramid. As a result, society was completely atomized. There was a dearth of verifiable information except of the most restricted, local kind; people were totally isolated from each other even when working in closely allied fields, and no individual or group had the slightest hope of affecting the course of events. Not only was information lacking, but there was no possibility of mutual consultation, confrontation or co-operative action.
The Spring of 1968 not only renewed horizontal ties, but it gave such links a new form. The most important of those ties were those established between organizations representing the intelligentsia and the workers. A common front was established between intellectuals and labour, resulting in an entirely new level of cross-influence and solidarity. (One of the basic policies of the "political activity" of the pyramid was the erection of barriers between the workers--"bearers of power"--and the intelligentsia. Intellectuals were intrinsically suspect, because their most characteristic mode of thinking and action willy-nilly tended toward disrupting ideological unity and thus endangering the pyramid.) But mutual contacts and connections were also established between a wide variety of other individuals and organizations representing a diversity of nationwide, regional and local interests. In this way, citizens of the Czechoslovak socialist state finally began to assume the rights which they theoretically always possessed. The masses constituting the "people's democracy" were at last on the move. And when the well-known Two-Thousand Word Manifesto was promulgated, proclaiming the need for giving the newly-won democracy concrete form through the creation of new institutions from the ground up, the pyramid realized that the end had come. And it acted accordingly--by requesting foreign military intervention.
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