mixed with suspicion. It was the first orange she had ever seen.
People who were even moderately well-off had hard sledding enough, and there was introduced into their households economy that was at the same time pathetic and laughable. They wore shoes that had been patched and repatched, until they were real curiosities. Their best clothes were of pre-war make and more than one young dandy gave up shirts altogether and contented himself with false bosoms and camouflaging pair of cuffs. But it was not in Vinohrady or on the Hradčany that one saw actual privations. To behold these it was necessary to go down into Žižkov or Vršovice. There I saw the real ravages of the long war, and the cost entailed upon a section of the population which knew nothing of international intrigue or diplomatic maneuvres and would perhaps struggle vainly for years to overcome the setback given them by the great conflict.
In one bare Žižkov flat of two rooms I visited a woman who was living with her family of five small children. The youngest was about four, and the oldest not more than eleven. The eleven-year-old boy was a sturdy lad with an appearance of good health, but the others were pale, thin little mites, so fragile that it seemed scarcely possible they could grow up into healthy adults. It was bitter weather, but they had no fire in the tall porcelain stove in the corner, and three of the children wore only a single garment. All except the eldest boy were as white as chalk, and their bodies were covered with sores, the result of undernourishment and improper diet. The mother wept quietly as she told her story. Her husband, who had been a barber, and had earned a very fair living, had been obliged to go into the army, and he was not among those who had later gone to Siberia. She had not heard from him for many months. She did not know, whether he was living or not. She got a pittance from the government and eked it out with her own small earnings, but even when they had money they could not always buy food with it, for the food was simply not to be had. The city government was helping them a good deal by supplying them soup and vegetables at the public kitchens . . .
As I have already said, the busy people who ate three satisfying meals a day in the restaurants of the big hotels, not caring what they paid for the fare, knew nothing about Žižkov or Vršovice. One man, a foreigner, said to me: “It makes me impatient to hear these hard-luck stories about food shortage. Of course, this is not what we would be getting in America, but after all there is enough nourishment to keep a fellow going.” And he gazed with equanimity at the smoking dinner set before us on the white-covered table in the pleasant cellar of the Representační Dům . . .
The dislocation of their usual manner of living did not prevent the citizens of Prague from extending the most lavish hospitality to their guests. They did not have some things to offer, but what they had they invited strangers to share in the freest way. I have never seen anything like it. More than once I wondered, in a troubled sort of way, what these friends of mine would think about American hospiality, if they ever came to New York or Chicago.
When I reached Prague, it was very difficult to get good hotel accomodations. I mentioned this to a gentleman I had met several times in one of the government offices and he immediately exclaimed: “But why did you not tell me of this before? Of course, you must come and live in my house!” I thought that would be a very pleasant arrangement, but expected naturally to pay for my room. I discovered that this was not his idea of the arrangement at all. He wanted me to be his guest, not merely in name, but in fact. I found out later that I was only one of many Americans in Prague who had been treated in the same cordial fashion. Fortunately I was able to conduct myself so that I was not a burden to my host. But I was enough of an American to be very much surprised at first and considerably touched by this generous and unbusinesslike treatment.
This is not an isolated case. Everywhere that I traveled, from one end of Czechoslovakia to the other, there was the same liberality and kindness. In one small manufacturing town I found banners gaily flung to the breeze in the town square and principal thoroughfares, and when I asked the cause of the evident celebration, was informed, that the streamers had actually been hung there in my honor. That is a distinction to which I fancy I will never be treated again in all my life. But I appreciated it nevertheless. It was in the towns and villages
