by Kamdine Khosrowkhavar

Communists left many ugly legacies to the Czechs; most visibly to its urban landscapes. Kamdine writes about the most prominent examples

Although the Czech Republic has seen many changes since its non-violent revolution, forty-one years under the “Red Boot” are indelible. All over town one is reminded of the past in the form of various architectural relics. Some see them as a perfect example of “they’re so ugly they’re beautiful,” but to the majority they are just monstrosities. You’ll usually find that the people who lived in Prague before ‘89 are the ones who resent this type of architecture, while those who appreciate it are Westerners who see these Communist constructions as exotic. You be the judge.

First and foremost are the panelaks: the big concrete buildings usually found on the perimeter of Prague. Their design was actually inspired by the Swiss architect Le Corbusier, who wanted to build something simple and efficient. He wanted people to live in small self-contained cities and exist practically and comfortably (he was one of the first architects to talk about Functionalism). His ideas were “borrowed” by other architects and the results are your run-of-the-mill panelaks, which are now seen as mere Communist leftovers, even if they are still practical and some form of beauty can be found in the cold heartless concrete. When you think about the number of souls living in them, you can’t help but wonder: without those panelaks, where would all these people be? Yes, the residents complain, but the fact is that they depend on them and perhaps that’s part of their resentment. Of course, the constructions are nothing to write home about: the walls are so thin that your neighbors might as well live with you. What they lack in comfort they make up in practicality since markets, shops, and seedy discotheques are usually close by.

A Communist relic that is hard to miss is in Zižkov: the rocket-like silver . TV tower which takes care of TV and FM radio broadcastings and the all-too-important mobile communications. Because it is the tallest building in Prague, you have one of the best views of the city from its panoramic deck. On a clear day you can’t see forever, but almost. The tower was started in '85 and completed in '92, so the good guys finished the bad guys’ work. It was almost built where the Corinthia Towers now stand, then Petřin park; but Zižkov was decided to be the best location in the end. People were outraged by such an eyesore, but back then nobody had the right to complain. Rumor has it that the tower was also built to stop radio waves coming from the West. By 1989, the construction was too far ahead to stop and besides, the tower was needed. The (slightly creepy) babies crawling on it are the contribution of David Cerny, the same man who gave us the upside-down horse in the Lucerna Passage.

Speaking of towering sites, a quick mention should be made of Letna, where a giant statue of Stalin (the biggest monument ever built for him) used to dominate the city. The architect, Otaka Svec (who killed himself a day before the unveiling of the monument), represented Stalin in a Napoleonesque pose. The statue was destroyed in 1962 after Nikita Kruschev denounced Josef as a mass murderer. Since 1991, you can “admire” the metronome. In 1996, when Michael Jackson came to town, a statue of him could be seen there from all over town. From King of Communism to King of Pop, oh how the times are indeed a-changin’. The country is now deciding which great person in Czech history is most worthy of standing boldly atop the hill.

Yet another building you have surely encountered is the black glass building standing next to the National Museum. It used to be the location of the Exchange, but in 1973 - after the old building was destroyed - it became the Communist Parliament (complete with nuclear shelters) and is still standing on two massive pillars as if watching over its older neighbor, or maybe defying it. In November 89, it was in this building that Prime Minister Adamec accepted the demands of the Velvet Revolution. Since then, Mr. Havel started renting the building to Radio Free Europe and Radio Liberty for the fee of 1kc per year for as long as they use the building.

Of course, you are also able to witness the past below ground: in the metro. The C line, opened in 1974, efficiently connected the city via the Nusle bridge (nicknamed “the suicide bridge” for obvious reasons) which made it possible to cross the Nusle valley rapidly and easily. Standing at 40 meters above ground, this piece of concrete is truly imposing, especially when you realize that the subway runs inside it. In 1978, the A line opened, followed by the B line in 1985. If you take one of these two lines, you might be lucky enough to travel in a real Communist train identical to the ones running in Moscow. You’ll be able to see a little plaque outside by the doors, written in Cyrillic. By 2008, all cars will be replaced by newer ones, which is a shame for historical reasons, but a blessing if you’ve ever travelled in one of these cars at six on a cold winter morning. In any case, no matter what station you are in, you will be able to see some of the communist remnants. Be they bulbous or colorful walls, they are minimalist but efficient: Prague is said to have the best acoustics in Europe. Of course, with the revolution came some renaming of the metro stops: Leninova station became Dejvická, Gottwaldova became Vyšehrad, Sokolovksá became Florenc.

Communism also means persecution and so the Pension Unitas and Art Prison hostel (located at No. 9 Bartolomějská street) is a perfect example. It was a convent before it became the most notorious prison of the party, where people were incarcerated, tortured, and/or died. Mr. Havel was a guest a few times (in 1977 for over four years and again in 1989 for nine months). The cells have now been converted into rooms, but one can still see the doors of thick iron, walls of hastily painted cinderblocks, and metallic bunk beds. Sure, the mattresses are said to be comfortable nowadays, and the linen clean, but I can’t help but imagine that the tourists’ sleep must be agitated from the walls echoing of lost screams.

Finally we have the Hotel Praha in Dejvice. A personal favorite of mine, this hotel opened in 1981 for government bigwigs as a self-contained unit, which explains the guard house at the entrance. It was a retreat for the dignitaries who needed a break from the proletariat. The entrance is dark, muted and loungy. You are now in the past and are treading where nice men like Caucescu walked. This was the Communist leaders’ playground, complete with billiard and pool tables, a sauna, swimming pool, and a skittles alley! So enjoy yourself and imagine that in the big leather chair you’re sitting in, somebody famous might have once sat and decided to execute a few people. Comforting isn't it?

There you have it, a very small sample of the Communist relics you can still see around town. Many are hated for what they used to represent, and perhaps one day they will be destroyed. But until then they stand as tall reminders of a bygone era, still functioning and very much in use until something better comes along. Did someone just say the elegant beauty of hypermarkets and shopping centrums?

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