The Man Between

For eight years Czech Social Democratic Leader Bohumil Lausman kept asking himself where he belonged. He wandered between the East and the West, between his allegiances to political democracy and to Marxist economics. Like thousands of other Socialists and Liberals, he kept trying to reconcile the two and kept failing.

Last week, four years after he chose the West and fled there to refuge, Radio Prague was proudly reporting that Bohumil Lausman had changed his mind and come home to Red Czechoslovakia. To all wavering Czechs the radio announcer trumpeted Lausman's words: "Four years of emigration spent in Western Europe were for me spiritual suffering and at the same time a political revelation. I declare publicly that most of the emigres . . . are in foreign service, and that in return for money spent by the Americans . . . they are lending themselves ... to espionage, terrorism, diversionism and slander of the Soviet Union and of the People's Democracies ... I regret . . . I must atone . . ."

Everybody's Spy. Lausman had never lacked physical courage. In 1940 he helped organize the Prague anti-Nazi underground, escaping to London just a jump ahead of the Gestapo; in 1944 he parachuted into Slovakia to lead the abortive Banska Bystrica partisan rising. But as the world split anew between Communism and the West, he lacked the intellectual courage to choose. In 1946 he praised the Russians; on Feb. 20, 1948 he turned about and said: "We are not naive enough to offer ourselves up to the Communists." But five days later, when the Reds kidnaped Czechoslovakia, he stood by mo tionless and stayed on in the government as Deputy Premier.

Finally, in 1950, Lausman seemed to make up his mind. He fled to the West and denounced Czechoslovakia as "the best Soviet arsenal in Europe." The Prague regime called him a disguised U.S. spy; Czech emigres called him a disguised Red spy. Bitter and unhappy, Lausman went off to Yugoslavia, where the West and Communism seem to meet.

Two Glasses. One day late last year he got word that an old friend wanted to see him in Paris. On Nov. 17 Lausman and a companion went to the corner of Avenue Charles Floquet and the Rue Desaix and there confronted the old friend, Czech Ambassador Gustav Soucek. Said Soucek: "The political line at home will soon change to a more liberal line." Lausman was fascinated. He eagerly sought a second meeting.

Last January, Landlady Anna Rabinger of Salzburg, Austria hurried to the police to report that Lausman had been missing from her pension since Dec. 23. The police searched his furnished room; all was in order, but on the table stood a half-empty brandy bottle with two glasses, as though he had entertained a friend.

Anticipated Confession. That was the last heard from Bohumil Lausman until a monotonous voice came over Radio Prague last week and began a mea culpa: "I voluntarily crossed the state frontiers on Dec. 25, 1953 and put myself at the disposal of the Czechoslovak authorities." Had Lausman returned voluntarily? It was possible that the old illusions had lured him back. But there was also the letter he had written a Dutch friend in mid-December: "If I should be kidnaped, then it is not impossible that after months of torture and maltreatment one will get a statement out of me. Should in a trial I plead guilty and confess, then such a confession is invalid. In such a case the foreign Socialist press should raise the demand that I ... be brought to Paris, London, or Amsterdam and there repeat the confession. If the Czech government refuses to give permission, then this will prove the statement was gained from me by force and maltreatment."

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