Toward a Collective Test of Wills

All week the gleaming black Chaika limousine of the Russian ambassador sped back and forth across the bridges over Prague's Vltava River --the little Soviet flag on the fender discreetly removed. As fast as Soviet Ambassador Stepan Chervonenko delivered messages from the Kremlin to government and party offices in Prague, the Czechoslovaks worked feverishly at drafting replies. Then the Czechoslovak party Presidium met to prepare point-by-point answers to a barrage of Russian demands expected at a historic summit conference this week in Czechoslovakia with the Soviet Politburo.

The Moscow Politburo's decision to go to Czechoslovakia becalmed temporarily a storm that has darkened the skies of all Eastern Europe. It was nearly as surprising a concession for the Russians to make as it would have been for John F. Kennedy and his Cabinet to have journeyed to Havana for talks during the Cuban missile crisis. Never in the Soviet Union's 50-year history has the entire party leadership traveled abroad. The Russians had at first peremptorily insisted that the Czechoslovaks come to the Soviet Union.

However generous Russia's gesture, the Czechoslovaks were still very much under pressure--and not likely to welcome their guests with any brass bands. The Russians' mission is nothing less than to force the Czechoslovaks to forsake the democratic reforms that Party Boss Alexander Dubcek has brought to the country over the past seven months. Moscow claims that the liberalization is paving the way for subversion and counterrevolution and weakening a keystone in the entire Warsaw Defense Pact structure. The Russian talks with Prague's leaders may well determine whether democracy will have any future in Eastern Europe--and whether the Czechoslovaks will have to defend their new society against the unleashed fury of Russian tanks and troops.

Offering a Pacifier. The Russians let it be known in embassies around the world that they were going to Czechoslovakia armed with five major points: 1) that internal Czechoslovak developments constitute a threat to socialism and the Warsaw Pact; 2) that the Czechoslovak Communist Party is losing or giving up its leading role; 3) that the party is overrun with "revisionists"; 4) that Czechoslovak journalists are against the party, the Warsaw Pact and the unity of the Communist camp; and 5) that if Dubcek does not act himself, he can expect "international help"--meaning from Red army troops. Dubcek hardly seemed prepared to acknowledge any of this, but he did throw a pacifier Moscow's way. His party Presidium, replying to a harsh Soviet note, rigorously denied charges that the country's frontier with West Germany was inadequately defended. But the Czechoslovaks agreed to transfer Lieut. General Vaclav Prchlik from his party post as chief of security for the army back to strictly military duties. The Russians had accused Prchlik, who recently demanded revisions in the Warsaw Pact command, of leaking the pact's military secrets. He did not lose his army rank, and his job was due to be abolished anyway under coming reforms. Nevertheless, his removal was a victory not only for the Russians but also for the conservatives in Prague whom Moscow would like to see unseat Dubcek. For Prchlik was the general who had prevented a January coup by army units loyal to ex-party Boss Antonin Novotny, the Stalinist that Dubcek bounced from office.

Show of Force. To strengthen their case at the summit conference, the Russians mobilized their armies throughout Eastern Europe in a massive and unprecedented show of power. At least 3,000 men, out of the original Soviet force of 16,000 troops who had come to Czechoslovakia in June for Warsaw Pact exercises, kept up their conspicuous bivouac near roads in Slovakia last week. The few Russian units that did leave marched straight to Poland, where they pitched their tents hard by Czechoslovakia's border. Soviet tanks and at least 1,000 other military vehicles suddenly began rolling over the roads in East Germany, most of them headed southward toward the Czechoslovak border. The Kremlin announced a two-week series of maneuvers by supply and repair units of the Red army from Riga on the Baltic to Odessa on the Black Sea and, of course, along the frontier with Slovakia. The Russians also launched nationwide antiair craft exercises under the code name Operation Skyshield.

At the same time, the Soviets busily built a rationale for possible military action. They charged that new hoards of arms hidden away for insurrectionists had been discovered in Czechoslovakia. The Prague government denied it. Privately, Czechoslovak officials claimed that a cache of U.S.-made guns discovered near the West German border last month was probably planted there by Russian troops as a pretext for intervention, should one be required.

The Soviet newspaper Izvestia described as "an evil man" Czechoslovak Interior Minister Josef Pavel, who has been in charge of dismantling the Stalinist state security apparatus in the country. The Communist Party newspaper Pravda likened the Czechoslovak reformers to China's Chairman Mao, implying that they have in common "a striving to replace Leninism by so-called national versions." In its strongest attack yet, Pravda asked: "Is there really any need to wait for counter-revolutionary forces to become masters of the situation in Czechoslovakia before starting a struggle against them?" Perhaps to get their own citizens out of the line of fire, or just to add to the economic squeeze on Prague, the Kremlin ominously canceled all holiday tours to Czechoslovakia by Russians for at least 30 days.

Russia's most orthodox ally, East Germany, showed increasing jitters over events in Czechoslovakia. Walter Ulbricht's Neues Deutschland ranted at the Czechoslovaks for handing out copies of a controversial call to democratic action entitled "2,000 Words" to East German tourists in Prague. Travelers reported that Ulbricht's border guards were unrolling coils of barbed wire and planting mines along the Czechoslovak frontier to prevent any exodus across it by discontented East Germans.

Avoiding a Pretext. In Western capitals, leaders and officials doggedly avoided providing Moscow with any external excuse for smashing the Czechoslovaks. Washington watched in fascination, anxiety--and almost total silence. The one exception: summoning Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin to his office, Secretary of State Dean Rusk demanded an explanation from Moscow of allegations that the CIA was stockpiling arms in Czechoslovakia.

The West German government tried to calm Soviet fears over planned "Black Lion" army maneuvers near the Czechoslovak border this September. Bonn ordered the exercises shifted from Bavaria to a site in Baden-Wuerttemberg 150 miles away.

As for the Czechoslovak people, they kept up their torrent of resolutions, letters and expressions of support for Dubcek. Trade unions, factories, youth organizations and other groups tried their best to convince the Russians of the country's unity. Czechoslovak film makers, journalists, actors and writers invited their colleagues in other Eastern European Communist states to come to Prague to see for themselves whether Communism was really in peril. Among those invited by the country's Writers Union were French Communist Louis Aragon and Leftist Jean-Paul Sartre.

Shrewd Tactic. The Czechoslovaks obviously had a stake in maintaining the appearance of normalcy. Foreign Trade Minister Vaclav Vales went to Moscow to talk with Soviet Premier Aleksei Kosygin about enlarged trade between the two countries. A delegation of trade unionists from East Germany was given a friendly welcome in Prague. Prime Minister Oldrich Cernik and his top ministers turned up at the embassy of Poland--Moscow's other main ally--to celebrate the country's National Day. Touring farmers from the Ukraine looked over croplands in Eastern Slovakia not far from where Soviet troops were encamped.

In the eastern part of the country, some villagers bantered with the Soviet troops, even offered them flowers and glasses of wine. In turn, the Russians played their accordions for the people, sang songs, kicked around a ball with the youngsters and even helped farmers to harvest their crops. The regime in Prague was unconcerned over this fraternization, indeed was proud of the restraint showed by its people. The fact was that the entire nation was eager to get rid of the troops as soon as possible; the flowers and wine constituted a shrewd Czechoslovak tactic to persuade the Russians that they have nothing to worry about.

Fear of Demonstrators. In deference to Soviet wishes, Prague kept the arrangements for the summit shrouded in secrecy. The Russians were not only testing the Czechoslovak leaders to see if they can keep anything secret these days; they were also said to be terrified that hordes of Czechoslovaks might turn out to demonstrate and present petitions, as has become their habit.

At week's end, the Soviet Politburo broke up into two groups and reportedly departed for the summit. One group was believed to have gone via Warsaw to brief Polish officials prior to the conference, and the other by way of East Germany to consult with party leaders there. The conference would most likely take place at either a villa at Zlata Idka near Kosice or a country lodge in the High Tatra Mountains. In both places, the Soviet leaders could easily beckon Russian troops who are tarrying in Eastern Slovakia. However close the troops, Dubcek certainly did not plan to cower or apologize. Instead he hoped to take the offensive himself at the outset. The Czechoslovaks have some grievances of their own concerning Soviet domination of both the Warsaw Pact and the COMECON economic community.

Trying Everything. The eleven-man Czechoslovak Presidium has vowed to fight down the line for liberal reform and independence in the facedown with the eleven-member Politburo. Dubcek agreed to take the entire Presidium with him, including the conservatives among whom the Russians hope to find some allies. But he planned to permit only the progressives to make formal statements at the meeting.

The Russians were expected to try every tactic to bring the Czechoslovaks to their socialist senses. For one thing, they would no doubt remind the Czechoslovaks that 80% of their trade is with the Soviet Union, which could easily cut off the wheat and raw materials that the country depends upon. For another, they would probably dangle before Dubcek a hard-currency loan of about $400 million that he needs for economic modernization. The Soviets might even revive demands that Russian troops be stationed on Czechoslovak soil, hoping that such a garrison could permanently discourage a Prague walkaway from the Communist alliance. Dubcek might agree to admit token Soviet units to mollify Moscow.

On the broader Soviet demands for an end to the liberalization, a clash seemed inevitable. The Kremlin has given Dubcek a list of ten party progressives whom it would like to see purged. It also wants ironclad guarantees that Dubcek will restore control over so-called "antisocialist" forces, prohibiting them from making any more speeches, giving interviews, writing articles and putting together petitions that are critical of the party. At the very least, says Harvard Kremlinologist Adam Ulam, the Russians seek "some sort of declaration from the Czechoslovak leaders that they won't let the thing get too far, that they will not tolerate real democracy in the sense of real competition for leadership."

Dwarf-Sized Man. Since Dubcek is unlikely to retreat very far, the only hope that the Russians would seem to have of defeating his program is to somehow oust him as party boss. In the present mood of Czechoslovakia, that would probably require nothing less than a bullet--or the Red army. In spite of minimal concessions, Dubcek is not yet in deep trouble with his party and clearly leads a united people. At week's end, Dubcek called on the nation to back him with "strong faith in our good cause and confidence that the correctness of our new policy will be proved."

As the summit drew closer, all Eastern Europe was edgy--and unsure of exactly what lay ahead. Despite their studied nonchalance, the Czechoslovak people pressed their leaders hard not to compromise. Thousands of them lined up to sign copies of a manifesto, written by Playwright Pavel Kohout and printed in the journal Literarni Listy, which exhorted the leaders to "act, explain and unanimously defend the way that we have entered and do not in tend to leave while we live." Along with the manifesto, the journal's editors ran a cartoon showing a gargantuan figure of Soviet Party Boss Leonid Brezhnev frantically pouring buckets of water on a tiny bungalow representing Czechoslovakia. A dwarf-sized man is peeking out of a window and shouting at him: "This house is not on fire!"

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