The New York Review Abroad (36 page)

6 PM. An important plenum at the Magic Lantern. Havel poses the “fundamental question” of the future of the Forum. He personally doesn’t want to be a “chief,” he says, or a professional politician. He wants to be a writer. Václav Malý says much the same thing, except that he wants to be—he is—a priest. Yet it is clear to everyone that Havel must carry on at least until the elections—and “in the elections,” Dienstbier jokes. “I don’t give you any chance!”

Someone else reports telephone calls complaining about undemocratic methods. Here is the familiar conflict between politics and morality, between the requirements of unity and democracy. The students insist on the need for unity, continuity, and Havel’s leadership. But other voices are raised in favor of immediately founding political parties. A social democratic party will announce itself within the next few days. The Forum, everyone agrees, must not be a centralized, partylike organization. What is it then? How do you describe a civic crusade for national renewal?

Inevitably, the discussion swings abruptly between the great and small issues—from what to say to Adamec on Tuesday to what to say to the press in an hour’s time, from socialism vs. liberalism to whether to go by car or by bus. In the midst of it, Václav Klaus, the glinting economist, suddenly starts to read an amazing document. It is called “What We Want” and subtitled “Programmatic Principles of the Civic Forum.” It proposes a new Czechoslovakia with the rule of law guaranteed by an independent judiciary, free elections at all levels, a market economy, social justice, respect for the environment, and independent academic and cultural life. A normal country in the center
of Europe. Three typewritten pages, prepared by the members of one of the commissions in a short weekend. First I saw them sitting up on the stage of the Magic Lantern, then sweating away in the dressing room. My friend Petr Pithart, a lawyer, historian, and author of one of the best books about 1968, who was reduced to doing menial work after signing Charter 77, just dropped in to the Magic Lantern to make a modest suggestion. Within minutes he was asked to work on the commission, writing the blueprint for a new Czechoslovakia.

When Klaus finishes reading there is a discussion. Václav Benda, a conservative Catholic and one of the original political brains of the Charter, says that although he helped to edit the text he doesn’t agree with parts of it: the passage saying that Czechoslovakia will “respect its international legal obligations” (by implication, including the Warsaw Pact) and another saying the state should guarantee a social minimum for all. This is a tricky moment, for if the plenum plunges into a serious political discussion, then the deep differences that have been covered by the broad yet minimalist platform, first of Charter 77, now of the Forum, will surface with a vengeance. Fortunately the moment is saved by Petr Miller, who rises to his feet and says that although he has no higher education he can understand it all, finds it good, and thinks we should just adopt it. In effect: you intellectuals, stop blathering! Sighs of relief all around. A quick vote. Adopted with just three abstentions. Thank heaven for The Worker.

Of course the program contains passages of fudge: for example, on the Warsaw Pact issue, on the role of the state, and on the ownership question. On the last point, it talks of “real competition” coming about “on the basis of the parallel existence, with equal rights, of different types of ownership and the progressive opening of our economy to the world.” This is a compromise formula, bearing in mind the sensibilities of the revisionists, social democrats, and even Trotskyists who are part of the Forum rainbow coalition, and who
still believe in various forms of social(ist) ownership. In effect it says: let the best form win! But privately the economists have no doubt which kind of ownership will actually win out.

Yet the truly remarkable thing is not the differences about the program, but the degree of instant consensus. In 1968, even in 1977, it was almost unthinkable that there would be so much common ground. This is a Czech phenomenon. But it is not just a Czech phenomenon, for in different ways it is repeated all over East Central Europe. Take a more or less representative sample of politically aware persons. Stir under pressure for two days. And what do you get? The same fundamental Western, European model: parliamentary democracy, the rule of law, market economy. And if you made the same experiment in Warsaw or Budapest I wager you would get much the same result. This is no Third Way. It is not “socialism with a human face.” It is the idea of “normality” that seems to be sweeping triumphantly across the world.

But that’s enough philosophy. For in the next ten minutes they have to work out what to say to the prime minister—and to the world. At the press conference, they are of course asked about the fudging formulas on the alliances. Dienstbier says: we have to start from the existing situation, but our long-term objective is a Europe without blocs. Spoken like a foreign minister. As for the Soviet Union, this very evening Soviet television is broadcasting a program about the Prague Spring, including an interview with Dubcek. The Dubcek interview has been supplied by the samizdat
Videojournál
.

Day Eleven (Monday, November 27). The general strike is a success almost before it has begun. Television declares it so. Just before noon, the announcer demonstratively shows himself preparing to join in the strike. Then, from the stroke of noon, they show squares filled
with people all around the country, in Prague, in Bratislava, in Brno, in Ostrava, wherever, and excited reporters describe the “fantastic atmosphere.” A subtitle explains that reporting on the strike is the television crews’ contribution to the strike. (Yet for the last twenty years they have been grinding out propaganda junk.)

Petr Miller drives me up to his factory, the large CKD electrotechnical works. Miller drives hair-raisingly fast in his sporty Lada. He enjoys hooting at traffic to let us through, shouting “Civic Forum!” “I’m just a very small figure in the opposition,” he says, gesturing with his hand just a yard above the ground, to show how small. But in fact he is well on the way to being described as the Czech Walesa. On the road we pass an astounding sight: a line of taxis at least one mile long, taxi after taxi after taxi, crawling out up into the hills, wives or girlfriends in the passenger seats. It is the taxi drivers’ strike.

In front of the factory gates, the workers are listening patiently to a long lecture on economics by the head of the Prognostic Institute, Dr. Valtr Komárek. “Komárek! Komárek!” they chant. The meeting ends with the singing of the national anthem at one thirty, so that everyone can be back at work by two. Miller says they will make up the lost work in unpaid overtime. On my way back there is, of course, not a taxi to be found.

4 PM. A celebration demo on Wenceslas Square. The organizers try to give the platform—or rather balcony—to a Communist. “Friends, comrades,” he begins, but that is a terrible mistake. “Boo, boo,” shout the crowd, and: “We’re not comrades.” Free elections and an end to the leading role of the Party are what people want to hear. Václav Klaus, now emerging as an opposition star, reads a statement announcing that the Civic Forum “considers its basic objective to be the definitive opening of our society for the development of political pluralism and for achieving free elections.” The movement
is open to everyone who rejects the present system and accepts the Programmatic Principles. There will be no hierarchical structure, but there will be a “coordinating center.” The coordinating center recommends the ending of strike action for the time being. Tomorrow they will submit their demands to the prime minister. If he doesn’t respond adequately, they will call for the resignation of the government—“resignation, resignation!” cries the crowd—and the appointment of a new premier willing to assure the holding of a free election. “Free elections, free elections!”

Then comes the portly, goatee-bearded Dr. Komárek who delivers, very slowly and deliberately, what sounds like a prime minister’s acceptance speech. There must be deeds not words, he says. “That’s it,” chants the crowd. There must be compromise between the new
de facto
situation and the old
de jure
one. The kids around me giggle at the professorial Latin, but they too shout, “Komárek, Komárek!” There should be a grand coalition government, a government of experts, men of competence and moral integrity (such as, we understand, Valtr Komárek). Then a girl student reads out, even more slowly and clearly, as if in school dictation, a letter from the students asking the president to replace Adamec with Komárek. “Pan Docent Komárek,
Dr. Sc
.,” she says, has a program ready. The Forum stands behind him. “We too,” cry the crowd, “we too!”

So to everyone standing on that square it is clear that the Forum—speaking for the people—has just proposed a candidate for prime minister. Go to the Magic Lantern, however, and you soon discover that the Forum didn’t mean to do that at all. In the plenum at 6 PM, in the main auditorium now, there is confusion and consternation. Our position, says Havel, was that we would give Adamec a chance to meet our demands, before calling for his resignation. That was the statement Klaus read. The students jumped the gun. Why? There was
a telephone call from the Lantern, say the students. “Disinformation!” someone says. “Provocation!” Or, more likely, just muddle.