The voice of freedom from Prague: How radio waves confronted Nazi lies (Part1)
Ninety years ago, a broadcast first went on air from Prague’s Strašnice district with a single mission: to make heard the voice of Czechoslovakia, a small country in the heart of Europe. Radio Prague International was not created as a pastime, but as a strategic weapon against Nazi propaganda. Through the crackle of the airwaves, presidents, ordinary people and visionaries spoke to listeners abroad. This is the story of courage behind the microphone that began in 1936 and had to withstand attacks, lies, and the fateful Munich Agreement. Discover an era when radio connected continents in the struggle for freedom.
The year is 1936, and storm clouds are gathering over Europe. While neighboring Nazi Germany is investing heavily in propaganda, the Czechoslovak government realizes it lacks a tool for disseminating objective information. “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs understood that it had to respond to these attacks and dramatically strengthen positive propaganda about Czechoslovakia abroad,” explains Ivan Dubovický, Director of the Public Diplomacy Department.
The attacks came from all sides. In extreme cases, Budapest Radio called for Slovakia’s annexation to Hungary and the total destruction of the republic. Regular international broadcasting therefore began on August 31, 1936. Technician Karel Koníček later recalled those moments with emotion:
“We searched for you all over the world in order to announce ourselves to you. We did not know whether anyone would hear us at all and accept the friendly hand we extended, with thoughts of peace, to people of goodwill.”
One of the most valuable surviving recordings dates from March 7, 1937, when the first Czechoslovak president, Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk, celebrated his 87th birthday. For Czechoslovaks, the “Liberator President” was a moral symbol of independence. Addressing expatriates in America, politician František Soukup said: “Our dear old father is in good health. He came to greet us with his unique smile and noble calm. We were with him as his children. He received us with the warmth of family.”
A bridge between continents and the building of national pride
Yet radio was not devoted solely to statesmen; it also became a bridge for ordinary people. In May 1937, Josef Dragoun was able to send greetings to his brother in the United States and describe how their hometown was flourishing. “Today you would hardly recognize Mladá Boleslav, how much it has grown since the World War. We all work with enthusiasm and joy in our free homeland,” he said across the ocean.
International broadcasting also served an educational purpose. Sociologist Joseph S. Rouček reminded Americans of the contribution made by two million compatriots to American culture. “This great army of labor won for America its first place in the industrial life of the world,” he proclaimed into the microphone, arguing that without Czechoslovaks the United States would not have achieved such prosperity. Nor did he forget culture, noting that one could hardly listen to the radio without hearing the compositions of Antonín Dvořák.
When Masaryk died in September 1937, the airwaves filled with grief. Announcers described endless crowds streaming to Prague Castle. “With tears in their eyes and barely suppressed sobs, tens of thousands of men, women, and children pass by the catafalque,” listeners heard. The funeral was portrayed on a monumental scale—the life of the entire republic came to a standstill for several hours so that people could pay tribute during a “royal” farewell to the president.
The year 1938 brought a deepening crisis. In March, businessman Jan Antonín Baťa, whose shoe-making empire was known around the world, sharply refuted Nazi claims that Czechoslovakia was a bastion of communism. “Czechoslovak farmers, merchants, and workers are far removed from such an ideology,” he stressed. He painted a vision of the country as a bridge between East and West, built on economic prosperity and modern infrastructure.
The defiance of the nation and the betrayal of Munich
In June 1938, the 10th All-Sokol Rally became a symbol of defiance—a mass gymnastics festival that for Czechs represented a demonstration of national strength. Olympian Miroslav Klinger used Radio Prague to invite expatriates in America to “Mother Prague.” “If only they could tell you how we are putting everything in order and preparing your welcome. When love accompanies us on our journey, it is not so burdensome,” he told listeners in the United States.
Work in the newsroom at that time resembled frontline combat. Editors such as Julo Horváth sought out influential foreign visitors in Prague hotels and persuaded them to deliver political speeches in support of the republic. One of them was British politician Edgar Young. After visiting the border regions, he confirmed that the hardships faced by local Germans were caused by the economic crisis and by Berlin’s policies, not by the Czechoslovak government, as Nazi propaganda claimed.
Even at the height of tension, voices of reconciliation could still be heard. Social Democratic deputy Wenzel Jaksch, himself a representative of the Sudeten German minority, called for cooperation: “Czechs and Germans cannot exterminate one another. Let us unite all our strength and prevent our borderlands from becoming a battlefield.” President Edvard Beneš himself still believed in the nation’s moral strength in October 1938: “I have always been an optimist, and my optimism is stronger today than ever before.”
The country’s fate was sealed in Munich. On September 28, 1938, on the eve of the agreement that would strip the republic of its territory, Radio Prague was still reporting on Britain’s gigantic efforts to save peace. While the great powers negotiated, the station broadcast declarations of determination: “The entire Czechoslovak nation stands ready to resist anyone who intends to attack the independence of our state.”
After Munich, Prague became “a sad place.” British journalist John Griffin described an atmosphere of disillusionment in which people still had food and electricity but faced a devastating blow to trade and the threat of mass unemployment. With the arrival of the Nazi occupation in March 1939, the voice from Prague fell silent. Many radio employees paid for their loyalty to the truth with their lives—including the popular announcer Zdeňka Walló, who perished in a concentration camp.
Related
-
Prague Calling the World!
From shortwave to podcasts. From coded messages for exiles to a global digital audience. Ninety years of Radio Prague’s broadcasts is a story of constant transformation.
