The Czechs in a Nutshell

The communists, however, were not that complaisant. As a protest against their take-over in February 1948 (see: Communism), Horáková, who by now had become not only a member of the Parliament, but also the head of the Czech Women’s Council and one of the leaders of the National Socialist Party, withdraw from all her functions and left politics. The communists were still not satisfied. Assuming (probably correctly) that a democrat with Horáková’s moral integrity and broad popularity wouldn’t silently tolerate their appalling abuse of human rights, they fabricated evidence and charged her with treason and espionage.

Horáková fought like a tiger to the bitter end, but didn’t have a chance against the Bolshevik machinery. She was executed on June 27, 1950.

It’s tempting to claim that Milada Horáková didn’t die in vain. Like Jan Palach, she certainly represented a bright light in the dictatorship’s darkness. After the Velvet Revolution, a monument in Horáková’s honour was erected at Prague’s Slavín Cemetery, where the nation’s most prominent daughters and sons are buried. The location of Horáková’s monument, in front of the others, even indicates that she is a hero among the heroes.

Yet the brave politician’s death more than half a century ago still evokes some painful thoughts. Notwithstanding the posthumous honour she has rightfully been awarded, it’s often forgotten that Horáková was not killed by Soviet advisers, as some Czechs like to believe, but by her own countrymen. Not a single person has been charged for staging the murder.

Even worse, during the mock trial, hordes of brainwashed Czechs signed a petition that demanded her death. One can only pray that those who still might be alive are tormented by a guilty conscience. And one should also keep in mind that the bravest and most hard-balled politician in modern Czech history actually was a woman.

Hospoda

“Today, all parts of the Czech lands are as a big inn or shelter, where one can, not just for a few days, but for the entirety of one’s life, heartily enjoy all delights and riches.”

These enthusiastic words were written by the Jesuit priest and historian Josef Balbín in the 1680s and seem as apt today as they were three and a half centuries ago. The beer house — hospoda — is still the cornerstone of Czech popular culture (see: Švejk, The Good Soldier), and (heir sheer number is downright amazing. At one time, Prague’s Žižkov area alone had more pubs and beer houses than the entire Norwegian capital of Oslo.

To a foreigner not familiar with the Czech language, the word hospoda might seem reminiscent of the English hospital. Linguistically speaking, there actually is a distant connection. Hospoda derives from old-Slavonic gospoda, composed of gost (guest) and potis (master), and the latter of the two elements is the same word that occurs in Latin hospes. But also semantically the comparison with hospital makes perfect sense, since the hospoda from time immemorial has been the place where the Czech man (see: Feminism) has healed his soul.

To undergo the classic hospoda therapy, there are only three things you need: beer (the larger quantity, the better result), a problem that really bothers you, and the company of a friend or acquaintance (if you don’t have any, you’ll find some in the hospoda). Now, all you have to do is to pour down hectolitres of the foaming potion while intensely complaining about your hysterical wife, greedy mistress, imbecilic boss, incompetent government, unlucky national football team or whatever. After three or four hours of thorough therapy, your soul will be filled with total relief.

A foreigner may perhaps doubt the mental effects of hospoda therapy, but it’s hardly a coincidence that the Czech Republic has fewer psychiatric patients than all its neighbouring countries (however, they also have more alcoholics).

Theoretically, you don’t even need a hospoda to carry out this therapy, as an incident in the city of Mladá Boleslav some years ago illustrates.

Fed up with the drunkards who constantly gathered for beer parties in the main city park, the mayor decided to prohibit consumption of alcoholic beverages in all public places, thus confining the beer-drinkers to local hospodas. The drunkards, however, reacted stoically. Pointing to the Listina základních práv a svobod — The Charter of Basic Rights and Liberties — adopted by the then Czechoslovak Parliament in 1991, they argued that drinking beer in the city park was one of their human rights. And guess what? The mayor admitted that the drunkards were right, and backed down!