Captured by the airwaves: How postwar broadcasting became propaganda weapon (2)
Shortly after the end of World War II, free voices returned to Prague’s radio studios. However, hopes for independent broadcasting were soon wiped out by the arrival of the Cold War and the Iron Curtain. Within a few years, Czechoslovak Radio’s international broadcasts had been transformed into a strategic weapon, tasked with spreading a particular message to every corner of the globe.
A short-lived post-war idyll
In early 1947, the voice of Prague spoke to the entire world in an impressive 18 languages. The country was still striving to maintain a diplomatic course in all directions, as evidenced by a 1946 appearance by UK economist Hilary Adair Marquand. Speaking on Radio Prague, he made no secret of his enthusiasm for postwar reconstruction, promised shipments of British wool and cotton, and looked forward with optimism to vibrant trade relations.
However, the post-war idyll was short-lived, and the station’s broadcasts quickly turned into a pure tool of communist propaganda. Although young journalists, such as the writer Arnošt Lustig, initially viewed their work as fulfilling a deep need for human brotherhood and valued the opportunity to speak to distant listeners, the station’s management had other goals. As then-director Vladimír Vipler openly stated, the station’s true purpose was purely ideological. The radio waves were meant to serve as a bulwark in the fight against social injustice and to deliver the truth wherever the socialist community was the target of anti-communist attacks. This turning point was also confirmed by former editor Anton Korman, who recalled that after February 1948 they had simply opted for socialism “in the old region” and swore eternal and unwavering friendship with their Russian brothers.
Targeting different worlds
Radio Prague had to target two completely different audiences and adopt different strategies for each. Radio historian Tomáš Pánek explains that while the Soviet sphere was all about strengthening friendship and progressive traditions, the programming intended for Western markets was meant to actively counter anti-socialist propaganda and win listeners over to communist ideas. The former head of German broadcasting, Bedřich Utitz, described this mission clearly; his editorial team was tasked with convincing West Germany of the indisputable advantages of the communist regime and portraying life in the East as better.
A major paradox of the era was the composition of the editorial staff. In the wake of February 1948, the Communists shunted a whole host of politically unreliable individual into foreign broadcasting: foreigners, members of the Western resistance and people of Jewish origin. Thus, Lisa London found herself working alongside Arnošt Lustig, Bedřich Utitz, André Simon and Bedřich Geminder. The latter two ultimately ended up on the gallows, following a show trial centred on Rudolf Slánský.
Even in this repressive atmosphere, the institution enjoyed enormous state support. A weekly magazine of the time boasted in 1961 that the station broadcast 35.5 hours of programming daily in 11 languages, including Arabic and Esperanto. The power of its propaganda reach was demonstrated by Yuri Gagarin’s space flight, when an Arabic-speaking announcer dramatically described a wave of indescribable enthusiasm, interrupted factory shifts and tens of thousands of citizens toasting the Soviet cosmonaut’s health.
Gender and censorship
The manner of communication was coldly and meticulously adapted to the needs of each region. Eva Manethová, who worked in the Portuguese section, recalled the strict gender division that prevailed at the time in broadcasts for Latin America. Serious political commentary on the strict observance of human rights was read exclusively by men (seen as great “thinkers”), while women were only used for lighthearted topics. To her mind, this had a pragmatic logic, because listeners in that part of the world simply would not pay attention to aggressive political ideas coming from a woman’s mouth.
All broadcasts were subject to strict controls. Often, it was merely a matter of slavishly translating approved texts provided in Czech, as confirmed by Antonio Cassado from the Spanish section, for whom expressing a personal opinion was completely unthinkable. Sometimes, however, the censorship had almost comical lapses. Pavla Jazairiová cited the example of a Senegalese colleague who, broadcasting from Prague to Africa with the utmost seriousness, proclaimed that in socialist Czechoslovakia, Christmas gift bringer “Baby Jesus” was welcomed not only in the most beautiful palaces but also in the humblest slums. The normally cautious censor evidently didn’t grasp that slums shouldn’t exist in perfect socialism, and, surprisingly, let the text out into the world.
As a rule, however, the bureaucratic machinery functioned flawlessly, and editors had virtually no influence over content selection. Ivana Vonderková described the nightly submission of so-called “sheets” at the end of a shift, in which all contributions that had demonstrably made it through the day’s broadcast were submitted to the censors. Karel Wichs then described the physical process of approving texts: the editor had to take the paper, go to a designated window and ring the bell. Only after the censor had read it and deemed it harmless would he stamp it, thereby allowing for its final translation. Václav Richter described this as an infallible combination of official censorship and strong self-censorship, which ultimately resulted in the station being a mere mouthpiece. Crossing the line meant a fatal problem, as Bedřich Utitz also discovered; because of a positive piece he did on Berlin Mayor Willy Brandt, six chief editors had to leave the radio station with immediate effect.
Unpreserved recordings and unexpected humanity
Since audio tapes were constantly rewound and erased to save costs, many of the original recordings have not survived to this day. However, the archives still contain harsh ideological appeals, such as when editor Karel Šimon uncompromisingly preached in 1979 about the shaping of the socialist man and the daily struggle against the influences of old bourgeois morality.
Fortunately, however, even the most rigid foreign broadcasts did not send out pure propaganda and nothing more. From time to time, completely simple and harmless human words also made their way onto the airwaves, words that managed to bridge the chasms of the Cold War. A shining example is the touching Christmas greeting from Jožko Rybár of Detva, which he sent to his friend in the United States in 1964. A voice from home sent this message over the airwaves: “When you come, we’ll have a good chat, because we’ve both forgotten each other a bit. I’m getting older now, and you’ve probably aged too, but if you come, I’ve prepared a very nice fujara for you, the one you heard on the radio. I’ll make one just like it for you with the same sound. We’ll even play and sing just like we used to sing back in the day... So I wish you and your family, from the bottom of my heart, a merry and happy holiday season and look forward to your arrival in Detva when we meet.”
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