Life In Czech; A Woman’s Point of View

Northern Advocate, 29 September 1938, Page 4

Life In Czech; A Woman’s Point of View

Travelling up and down in much discussed Czechoslovakia, you come to.the conclusion that here is a country such as the world has seldom seen, writes Margaret Gilruth, in the Sydney Sun. In the far western debatable Sudeten land, the principal language is German. You only hear Czech spoken in the post offices, at the railway stations and in the town halls. Every notice is written in German and Czech —otherwise the population would be in, constant confusion.-Even in front of the post office in Chomutov —or Komotau, as the Germans there persist in calling it—the mailing information is given twice in the two quite diverse languages.

In Prague, I made inquiries about the Sudeten land.

“Go,” said the Czechs, “to Aussig, or Usti, as we'now call it. Or'to Litomerice. The Germans still talk about Leitmeritz.” . . .

“Go,” so the Germans in Prague, “to Asch, where Henlein- has his headquarters. Or to Carlsbad, where we can show you how badly the Czechs are keeping the schools and the hospitals in these German parts of ours . . .” Untidy Hospital j I cited this to a Czech official in the ! Foreign Office of Prague, j “This hospital is being kept untidy ■ and dirty with a purpose,” I was informed. “The Sudeten Germans were displaying it two years ago as an instance of our bad government, as far as they are concerned. But it is staffed with Germans and, we consider, is be-

ing kept deliberately in this condition as propaganda for the Sudctens. “After all, the Germans arc clean people. In two years they could have put it in order—if they had wanted teg” the official concluded darkly.

Tnon. “Go to Chomutov,” said an important man at the British Legation, in Prague. “What you see there might be ■genuine. It is an industrial town, suffering badly from unemployment. It is right in the heart of the Sudeten area, and should speak for itself.”

j So I went to Chomutov (or Komotau, as the Germans still prefer to call it). About three hours’ train journey from Prague, it is situated just 14 miles from .the German-Czech frontier. Entirely industrial, it has' a population of 35,000, engaged—or formerly engaged—in making shoes, pipes, beer, stationery, and various chemical compounds. Chcmutcv used to have a good trade; j engineers and buyers came from most j parts of Europe to do business with Chomutov. But now, folk there tell you, the Czechs see that Czech factories further east, employing Czech hands, get that business, and Germany is a closed market, -because* of her. own internal j self-supporting policy, j So Chomutov, like other industrial towns in the Sudeten area, has falter

between the two stools, , and is very very sorry for itself. In the market square, you see the unemployed lolling against telegraph poles from morning

to night. Then the hotel manager begins pouring out his woes. Hotel Crowds Years ago, he can remember, how that market square was full of carriages from Saxony, bringing successful German magnates herb to Chomutov to buy. Now, all he sees is the crowd of despondent young men and girls, who have never known what it is to have a job, putting their belongings into their ruck sacks, and trudging off to the German frontier to discover if, by any chance, they can cross it to find happiness elsewhere. From Chomutov and the rest of the Sudeten land, which does not present such a dreary picture, you travel east through typical Czech-inhabited country, where that language is used everywhere with the greatest determination. I have met visitors speaking English, French and German, who, after going into Prague churches and museums, have complained bitterly that they could not make out one single word about the building or the exhibits, because all information was written in Czech.

“But,” the Czechs argue, “this is our country: this is our language. We have fought hard to have it recognised, and retain it we. will!”

In the far-eastern parts of that strip of Central European territory, known as Czechoslovakia, once again the Czechs have had to give way to minorrities which, in that particular section, i are majorities. i So, in the Carpathians, in the little (towns of Cop, Batavo, Uzhorod, Muka- ' cevo, and Uzok, you 'see notices outside j railway stations, on sign-posts, and in i front of shops, printed in Czech, Rusi sian, Hungarian, and very often Hebrew. A Thing Apart! | Life in Carpathia is a thing apart. Progress has scarcely touched it. i I c.,n say, without any exaggeration, that I have seen a cow looking out of j a window in the tiny settlement of : Volesianka. | In the corner of this communal room there is the fireplace; but it has no ; chimney. After wandering about for a : while the smoko finds its way out j through a hole in the middle of the low ! ceiling- A couple of wooden bunks are built into one wall. A little hammock, j containing two babies, is slung from the | roof. People use wooden platters, but no j knives or forks, for in this part of the ■ world, where even the churches are i built of wood, people are so poor that our essentials are considered non-es-sentials.

Carpathian folk seldom cat meat. In- ; stead they have corn and maize and the : oil they get from the seed of the sunflowers, which grow in every field. During the summer months, you see French beans popping up amongst the maize j and the sunflowers. Mukacevo, two hours’ journey inland from the main railway line, in a small jolting train, which seems to stop at every telegraph pole, is perhaps the most interesting town, in Czechoslovakia. It is peopled almost solely by Orthodox Jews, living undisturbed in an 18th century atmosphere. On Friday night, when every window is aglow with candles, Mukacevo is one of the prettiest sights you could wish to see. Then, when Saturday dawns, scores of men, wearing long, flowing coats, white stockings, and hats trimmed with wide bands of sable, set forth for ! the synagogues.

Daily life is centred round the synagogues; on Saturday, the procession to and fro occurs three times a day. And during the two or three hours’ freedom, you can see the less strict slipping in through the back door of the hotel to enjoy the cigarette that is forbidden between sunrise and sunset . . . But these are exceptions. For both young and old combine to make Mukacevo one of the most religious villages in the whole world.

Through Carpathia, where they speak Russian, Hungarian and Slovak, I travelled alone. Not once did I hear a word of English spoken, and onl> occasionally did I hear any Gex-man. But although friends in Prague deplored this lonely journey into one of the most primitive and untouched parts of Europe, throughout I found amazing kindness and an inter terror cf war, which surpassed anything I have felt elsewhere.