THEY MIGHT AS WELL BE GHOSTS

THE peremptory summons from Moscow gave barely 24 hours' notice and demanded the strictest secrecy. Not even the flag flying over Hradcany Castle--a sign that the President is in residence--was permitted to be lowered. Most residents of Prague consequently assumed that all was normal. In fact, Czechoslovak's President Ludvik Svoboda and Party Chief Alexander Dubcek, along with three other leaders, had flown hurriedly to the Ukrainian city of Kiev for their fourth summit meeting with Soviet Communist Party Boss Leonid Brezhnev since the Russian invasion. Only after the session ended last week were Czechoslovaks informed that it had been held. That fact, and the manner in which the meeting was convened, constituted bleak proof that Czechoslovakia remained an uneasy prey to Russia's whims.

Brezhnev had several matters on his mind. Mostly, he wanted to talk about a meeting of the Czechoslovak Central Committee to be held later in the week to decide the fate of the country's liberal economic program that once was an integral part of Dubcek's now defunct reforms. Czechoslovakia's economy is in deep trouble; productivity has lagged far behind wage increases, and prices are in a wild upward spiral (120% for furniture, 60% for clothing). Russia, which aims to fasten the nation's industry more securely than ever to its own economic needs, last week proffered a sizable hard-currency loan. As usual, Soviet help would come with plenty of strings.

Ticket in Pocket. The Russians demanded that a large chunk of the loan go to heavy industry, even though the Czechoslovaks had planned to give primary attention to consumer and light industries. The Russians also ruled out expanded trade with the West. Moreover, Brezhnev demanded the ouster of two key liberals: National Assembly President Josef Smrkovsky and Ota Sik, the architect of Czechoslovakia's economic reforms, who retains a seat on the Central Committee despite his self-imposed exile in Switzerland since Russia's invasion. As he was about to fly home for the meeting last week (''He had his ticket in his pocket," said a Swiss official), Sik was warned that he faced disciplinary measures under a new order to "investigate" political figures who live abroad.

To Czechoslovaks loyal to Dubcek's liberal team, the composition of the delegation to Kiev was itself a source of discouragement. Gustav Husak and Lubomir Strougal, party chiefs for the nation's Slovak and Czech peoples, are both "realists" who have enjoyed more prominence under the Russians than they did under an independent Dubcek, and Premier Oldfich Cernik who quickly became adept at compromising with Moscow. There were rumors that Dubcek may soon be given a purely honorific job. That could happen after the federal-socialist state comes into being on Jan. 1, with separate Czech and Slovak governments under an umbrella government in Prague. At that time, the Russians may seek to impose several important personnel changes.

Idyl and Ordeal. In any case, most Czechoslovaks are waiting uncomfortably for some sort of denouement. In the four months since the invasion, they have seen much of the excitement--and freedom--that was generated during Dubcek's early stewardship wither away under Soviet pressure. When TIME Correspondent Peter Forbath, who covered both the idyl and the ordeal, recently returned to Prague after an absence of two months, he found that the Russian presence was certainly the No. 1 reality in Czechoslovakia. Yet much of the country's mood, he found, remained resilient. For-bath's report:

From a wooden watchtower jutting out of the barren, frost-coated countryside, a Russian soldier leaned against his .50-cal. machine gun and peered through field glasses at an approaching car. As it neared the gate, two other Soviet soldiers threateningly waved it back with the barrels of their attack rifles. This was the Milovice-Mlada military reservation, where some 20,000 occupation troops have taken up residence about 25 miles north of Prague. With perhaps 300 tanks in their "panzer park," a supply system that brings in everything from candy bars to jet fuel, and a booming PX, the Russians have plainly moved in for a long stay.

It is a remarkably discreet occupation Except for an occasional jeep or transport truck, hardly a single piece of Soviet military equipment is now visible in Czechoslovakia. The Kremlin has taken extraordinary measures to keep its troops out of sight. On pain of facing desertion charges, Soviet enlisted men and noncommissioned officers have been forbidden to leave their rigidly secured garrisons. Even the few officers who wangle twelve-hour passes into town have strict orders to avoid contact with civilians, and they often gaze longingly into the display windows of sweetshops without ever working up the courage to go inside and buy something. "They don't have anything to do with us," says Mayor Vaclav Kulich of the tiny town of Benatky, near the Milovice base. "They might as well be ghosts."

Live Carp. Perhaps feeling that Christmas is especially welcome in haunted houses, Czechoslovaks are preparing for it eagerly this year. The Christ-child market, set up on a hill overlooking Prague, was teeming last week with shoppers who munched walnuts while wandering through the gift stalls. Near by, laughing children rode a carrousel set up under a towering Christmas tree. Housewives were already shopping for the traditional carp that will be kept alive in a tub until it is served up, garnished with an apple in its mouth, at the Christmas meal. In Prague, the theater season is in full swing, offering everything from My Fair Lady to Sartre's The Flies, and the national passion for ice hockey is sated nearly every night on television.

One passion that is far from being sated, however, is the Czechoslovaks' irrepressible penchant for thumbing their nose at their occupiers. In a week when officials were solemnly (and often no doubt unhappily) marking the 25th anniversary of the Soviet-Czechoslovak Friendship Treaty, bookstores reported a heavy demand for a satirical poster: under a heading taken from a popular Christmas carol, "We bring you news [from Bethlehem]," five angelic boy carolers are pictured holding newspapers--each the party organ of an invading Warsaw Pact country.

Stiff Party Rule. The most prevalent belief in Czechoslovakia is that the long, slow campaign of resistance since August has finally had an effect on national politics. The country's strength, say insiders, lies in an expanding axis of students, workers and intellectuals, who staged meetings, sit-ins and work stoppages to protest the Central Committee's announced intention of returning the country to stiff party rule. Not even optimists are convinced that, in the end, their pressure can reverse Russia's considerable success in crushing Dubcek's reforms. But for the time being, at least, the government has been compelled to acknowledge a second reality: the people.

The people, whatever their misgivings, remain ready to assert themselves at every opportunity. On instructions from Parliament, the government officially protested to Moscow the distribution of the slick occupation daily Zpravy; copies have since become scarce, and the paper is expected to vanish altogether in a few weeks. One bearded, fatigue-jacketed student leader said that "action cells" have penetrated every university in the country, and that contact between students and workers is being maintained. At the Kavalier glassworks in Sazava, employees are defiantly going ahead with their scheme to establish a workers' council despite Russia's objections. Says Factory Director Frantisek Nedomlel: "We are hurrying its organization along as quickly as possible so that we will have it fully in operation before we get any direct orders to abandon it." In a letter published by the trade-union newspaper Prace, moreover, a group of factory workers threatened a general strike if Russia attempted to sack Reformer Smrkovsky.

Poor Vladimir. As usual, the press is in the forefront of defiance. The Reporter, banned for a month, welcomed itself back into print with a cover story on the student sit-in, two cartoons satirizing censorship, and an editorial promising to "demand justice" in the event of "any further interference with freedom of expression." Even under the system of self-censorship imposed on publications by the Soviets, it is surprising that so much irreverence got through. But the Reporter employed a rather special system for choosing its own censor, whose name happens to be Vladimir. As a fellow staffer explained the selection: "Well, at the meeting we held to discuss the matter, just at the moment when we were ready to make the decision, poor Vladimir had to go to the men's room. So while he was out of the room, we quickly appointed him."

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