Dvorˇák at war
Erik Levi tells how, 100 years after his birth, the Czech composer became a political pawn in World War II
Few would dispute Dvořák’s standing as one of the greatest composers of the 19th century. Equally, few would have guessed that the 1941 celebrations linked to the centenary of his birth would be extensively exploited for political purposes by the opposing sides in the Second World War. This is the tale of that extraordinary and littleknown chapter in the history of Dvořák’s music.
At that time, the late composer’s native country was occupied by the Germans. In 1939 they had installed a puppet regime which came to be known as the Reichsprotectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. The Czech collaborators involved in running this administration quickly realised that by encouraging a programme of intense cultural activity, there was less chance of sowing disaffection among the local population. The Dvořák centenary presented itself as an ideal vehicle. The Protectorate promoted an extensive series of concerts and opera performances honouring the composer in 1941, signalling its official support for the anniversary. They even issued two commemorative postage stamps bearing his portrait.
Yet by packaging Dvořák in this way, the regime undoubtedly sent mixed messages to the Czechs. Wide-ranging promotion of the composer’s music could have been interpreted as an act of passive resistance against the occupiers. Listening to works such as the Slavonic Dances or
‘‘ The Dvořák centenary offered the perfect opportunity to exert influence on British public opinion
the Husitská Overture may well have enhanced a sense of national pride among beleaguered Czech audiences, highlighting their support for a distinctive Czech national identity. Such feelings would ultimately fuel an irresistible drive once again towards securing political independence.
Of course, this possibility had to be downplayed in official circles. For collaborators seeking to appease the Nazi rulers, it was much more essential to emphasise Dvořák’s close connections to German culture. A collaborationist publication of 1941 not only made it plain how much Dvořák had been ‘indebted to Germany for helping him achieve worldwide success as a composer,’ but also stressed the relevance of his life and career to the current political situation. It was argued that Dvořák’s positive engagement with German culture should serve as an example to all those presently living under Nazi rule, so that the two nations ‘can and should establish a position of sincere peaceful coexistence through shared interests and values.’
Needless to say, such opinions were roundly condemned by the ruling politicians that had
been forced to leave Czechoslovakia only a week before the Nazi occupation. Relocated to London as the Czechoslovak governmentin-exile, they worked hand in hand with the Allies in seeking to defeat the Nazi enemy. Their ultimate objective was to restore independence to Czechoslovakia. Cultural propaganda was also a potent weapon in their programme, and the Dvořák centenary offered the perfect opportunity to exert some influence on British public opinion.
One of the most skilful of the exiled politicians to promote Dvořák’s cause was Viktor Fischl, a diplomat and assistant to the Czech foreign minister Jan Masaryk. In September 1941,
Fischl was invited by the BBC to work with a fellow Czech writer in creating a special onehour radio documentary commemorating the centenary. One of the anecdotes they included had particular relevance to the wider political situation. In a letter Dvořák had written to his publisher, he claimed his passionate devotion to his homeland and expressed ‘the hope that nations which are represented by their art will never be eliminated however small they may be.’
One month later, Fischl delivered an extended lecture on Dvořák at the annual meeting of the Royal Musical Association. Focusing his attention on the many visits to England made by the composer and their huge significance in the advancement of his career, Fischl could not have chosen a more apposite topic with which to appeal to his hosts. Yet the political dimension of his lecture was clear in the concluding remarks. He suggested that the ‘English listener who today hears Dvořák’s music is just as enraptured as the countrymen of the composer, with the same admiration for the might of hope and faith in freedom which gushes forth from the composer’s music. And those to whom he speaks in the greatness of his faith in the noblest values of life can be certain that it is worthwhile to fight for the freedom of a nation which gave such music to the world and for the aspirations which found their highest expression in Dvořák’s music’.
From the discussion that followed Fischl’s lecture, it seems that the Royal Musical Association was inspired by his words. It resolved immediately to honour the composer by sending an official letter to the Czechoslovak government expressing their deep sympathy at the appalling disasters which had befallen the Czech people. The letter concluded with the claim that ‘We look forward to the day when the victory of the Allies, shared by their own brave compatriots, will restore to their stricken nation liberty, peace and prosperity.’
But ultimately it was performances of Dvořák’s music that proved to be the most effective morale booster for the Czechoslovak governmentin-exile. Granted, the timing wasn’t good. Months of German bombing, culminating in the destruction of Queen’s Hall in May 1941,