WAR
THE world rang with the assassination of the Austrian Archduke, Francis
Ferdinand, and his wife, at Sarajevo, in a province of Austria-Hungary,
but quite outside the Czech and Slovak lands. It was a terrible deed
with which no law-loving people were in sympathy. But when Austria,
backed by Germany, seized the killing as a pretext for declaring war on
little Serbia, both Czechs and Slovaks felt the grave injustice, and
despite all efforts made by the Government, very few of them could be
induced to make any demonstration in favor of the action. When Germany
mobilized, there was no doubt in the minds of any but that the War was
simply one against all the Slavs, who opposed German possession of
Middle Europe and German and Magyar ideas of superiority and power.
It was a hard time through which all the Slavic people of
Austria-Hungary had to pass. It was hardest on those who, like the
Czechs and Slovaks, were forced to fight on a side that they detested,
against their own interests. In the face of the terrorist methods
employed, their resistance and sacrifices are remarkable.
The Government feared them. No sooner was war declared than Czech and
Slovak troops were sent from their home lands into the Austro-Hungarian
province farthest from them, Transylvania, and foreign soldiers took
their places. German soldiers are said to have patrolled Bohemia's
borders.
It was during the first days that Prof. T. G. Masaryk, on the advice of
his colleagues who understood how the War menaced the Czech and Slovak
lands, was fortunate enough to escape from the country with one of his
daughters. From then on until Czecho-Slovakia was recognized, he worked
incessantly for Czecho-Slovak independence.
When Austria declared war, it did what no other country taking part
in the War did: it declared war without first gaining the consent of
Parliament. It was a high-handed act which the Czechs, in particular,
resented. Great gloom prevailed. In sympathy with the principles of the
Allies, knowing intimately the world menace of Germany as few outsiders
knew it, the leaders were seeking means of protest when one after
another was thrown into prison. Newspaper and magazine editors followed
in quick succession. But the people, like the Hussites of old, stood
firm in their faith and determination to sacrifice all for the right
and to quietly resist in every way that promised to be effectual.
Jozef saw the soldiers march off from Tabor with a look of peculiar
resolve in their eyes, and heard mothers and fathers whisper with their
good-bys:
"You know your duty to your native land." When later he heard of
patriotic soldiers shot because refusing to go forward; of Czech and
Slovak soldiers branded as traitors because they deserted to the Allies
and, reforming in their ranks, fought their real enemies, the Germans
of Germany, the Germans of Austria, and the Magyars of Hungary, he
understood better what a big and splendid thing this duty was.
For a while, work in the school continued, but everything seemed
different. Patriotic songs with their beautiful melodies were no
longer allowed to be sung; the old school books with their brilliant,
romantic, yet true recitals of Bohemia's wonderful, heroic past, were
replaced entirely by newly written books full of praise of the Hapsburg
rulers and of Germany. Jozef and the other pupils rejoiced in one
thing: they still had the same teacher. But this rejoicing did not
continue long. One day they found the school doors closed and learned
that the teacher had been taken to prison accused of disloyalty because
he had allowed a ten-year-old pupil to walk home humming the national
air, "Kde domov muj" (Where is my home?).
"Where is my home,
Where is my home?
Waters through its meads are streaming,
Mounts with rustling woods are teeming,
Vales are bright with flow'rets rare,
Oh, Earth's Eden, thou art fair!
Thou art my home, my fatherland,
Thou art my home, my fatherland!"
News of still more imprisonments and executions followed daily. The
older daughter of Prof. Masaryk was imprisoned, mainly as a punishment
to her father, who was working so hard against the Central Powers
abroad. Machar, one of the greatest poets of Bohemia, shared the same
fate because of a poem published in the United States, without the
poet's consent--a poem passed many years before by the Austrian censor!
Strange rumors spread. Once Jozef and his particular friend, Jaroslav,
walked out of the city in the direction of Blanik, a mountain around
which are clustered many traditions. They were overtaken and offered a
ride by a very old man.
"Who are you and where are you going?" he asked.
"We're students in the Lower Gymnasium," Jaroslav answered. "We're only
out for a walk, for there is no school. We're going toward Blanik, but
don't expect to get so far."
"Better not," said the old man sternly. "Who knows but the old tale may
be true that the Taborites never died but are hidden, as is said, in
a cave there. They were to reappear at the time of Bohemia's greatest
peril, you know. This may be it. There're lights in that mountain, I
tell you; don't breathe a word of it; but also don't go there."
Here he let the boys alight, and they walked on speculating on the
tradition and as to just what the man meant by his last words.
"Do you think that some of the Czechs go there to discuss things?"
asked Jozef. Jaroslav did not know what to think. Both boys wondered
and wondered whether some great help might not come to Bohemia from the
mountain.
School did not reopen, and food became very scarce. It seemed best
that Jozef be sent back to his home in Slovakia in any makeshift way
possible. This was done, and after a week's hard and varied travel, he
reached home, almost starved. In Slovakia he found the same persecution
of all suspected of lack of sympathy with the plans and purposes of the
Central Powers.
Four of his relatives had been taken to fight; of these two cousins
had been killed, and one was reported to have been shot with an entire
company that refused to advance against the Serbians. No one knew where
the fourth relative, an uncle after whom Jozef had been named, was to
be found, until Austria-Hungary was broken up and he returned home
wounded. He had a story full of exciting incidents to tell and the
villagers never tired of hearing it.
[Illustration: "THE VILLAGERS NEVER TIRED OF HEARING IT"]
One day a load of miserable looking prisoners passed in cars through
the village. It was terrible to see them as they lay listlessly against
each other. It was plain that it had been long since they had had
anything to eat or drink.
The villagers were forbidden to give them food or to satisfy their
thirst, but the kind-hearted Slovak maidens found a way to help
nevertheless. How the idea spread not many of the girls knew, but there
was a sudden interchange of knitting material. It must have contained
a message, for the girls, far thinner than they had been before the
War, met before the Church and proceeded past the cars in a body, as if
to view the horrible sight. But most of them raised their eyes only for
a moment. It was when each threw some crusts of bread soaked in wine in
to the famishing prisoners--bread that each had denied herself from her
own scanty allowance.
The prettiest girl of all blocked the way as long as she could to a
Magyar officer, while the prisoners, weak as they were, fell like
beasts on the unexpected treat.
"We want to see bad men. We show them we think them bad," the girl said
to the officer in broken Hungarian, smiling sweetly.
He smiled in return and, nodding his approval of the sentiment, let the
girls stay long enough for all evidences of what they had done, except
the brighter looks of the prisoners, to have vanished.
Even harder to bear than the thought of what their loved ones might be
suffering in battle, was to see the younger children sicken because of
lack of proper food. Ruzena was one of these. She became so ill that
the family were seriously alarmed. She refused to eat the coarse food
which was the village's daily ration and piteously begged for something
different. There was nothing else to offer.
"Do go to Janik's," the mother one day bade Jozef, quite in despair,
"and see if they haven't some little bit of a thing they could let us
have to tempt her."
Janik's mother was full of sympathy but vainly searched her cupboards.
At last she sent Janik with Jozef to see if there might not be some
winter vegetable rolled in some corner of the cellar.
The boys searched but found nothing. As they were leaving there
suddenly flashed upon Jozef a recollection of how he had hidden a
private store some distance in the secret passages. Hastily leaving
Janik without any explanation, he ran excitedly to his mother.
"Give me the key to our cellar quick, quick, mother!" he panted.
His mother stared. "What has happened?"
But Jozef grasped the key without answering and ran. Trembling, he lit
the lantern and made his way into the passage opening, to find that the
earth had fallen, barring the way.
Running out again, he leaped into the courtyard, and seized a shovel,
not glancing at his mother, although conscious that she stood close to
the window gazing out, her face full of alarm.
Again he went into the cellar. Little by little the hardened earth was
shoveled away under his feeble grasp, until he was able to crawl into
the opening. The air smelled close and moldy. "One--two--three--" Jozef
counted the ten steps which he remembered having taken and looked
around. No food was to be seen. He searched for the shelves--but they
also had vanished.
[Illustration: "HE DROPPED HIS TREASURE AT RUZENA'S BEDSIDE"]
Dumbfounded and sadly disappointed, he retraced his steps.
But instead of getting back to the opening, he unexpectedly found
himself in another passage, and there, oh, joy! his food!
Loading his arms, he staggered out. Without locking the cellar door, he
made his way dizzily across the street.
"Thanks be to the blessed Virgin!" exclaimed his mother in the midst
of her amazement as he sank on his knees and dropped his treasure at
Ruzena's bedside.