Parade of the Applesauce
- sloaneliz
- Jul 31
- 5 min read
“Wait. It is coming. If you will be patient for just one more minute, you will see it! The Parade of the Applesauce!”
We stand in Prague’s Old Town Square, 25 Americans and Canadians, listening to the incomparable Katerina. She is Czech, speaks three or four languages, and will guide us through the next 15 days of adventuring through Eastern Europe. In addition to guiding for Rick Steves, Katerina heads a company she founded called PragueWalkers. Born into communism in what was then Czechoslovakia, she was 14 when the Wall fell. Imagine being 14, just embarking on the age when you are supposed to break away from your parents and determine who you are as an individual. Suddenly, the outer container of your world crumbles away. The controls are off. You can go where you wish, say what you think, see whom you want. Your school starts teaching you actual history, rather than propaganda. Coca Cola, 501 jeans, video games—all those unattainable symbols of the free West—are suddenly in reach. “It was confusing,” says Katerina. “Nobody knew exactly what to do.”
This is Katerina’s lived experience, and she is generous sharing it. For 15 days, she will bring alive the lessons of this incredibly complicated part of the world. I studied a bunch before I came. But I am miles away from understanding the individual cultures, geopolitics, histories, currencies, and languages that we are about to encounter. I am ready to learn.
But Parade of the Applesauce? How does that work? What’s next? March of the kielbasa? Dance of the pierogi? I look around me and confirm: 24 other people are as confused as I am.
American school kids learn a lot about Western Europe growing up. But unless you happen to be a poli sci major in college, you learn almost nothing about Eastern Europe. For our 15-day trek through the Czech Republic, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Croatia, and Slovenia, it will be our assignment to try to understand how those nations, individually and collectively, came to be what they are today. Prague is an excellent place to start.
Settled by Slavic tribes originally from Russia, this city-state was for centuries at the heart of bloody wars, convulsive political changes, and Catholic-versus-Protestant battles for the soul. For a brief time, it was capital of the Austrian Empire, relocated here from Vienna by Rudolph II. That golden era left the legacy we explore on our first morning: exquisite Prague Castle, St. Nicholas Church, the residential palaces, and the narrow, twisting alleys of the Golden Lane, where the common folk who serviced the court lived.
Prague’s nickname is the city with a thousand spires. It probably has at least that many, built over centuries when humans yearned, through their architecture, to be closer to God. We visit more than a few. We immerse ourselves in the music that is so ever-present here. There are multitudes of concerts every night—short, inexpensive, attended by families who decide to drop in on one about the way you might decide to take a walk after dinner. We stand on Wenceslas Square --- yes, the same Wenceslas as the Christmas carol— and learn about this revered, 10th century Duke of Bohemia. Most key events of Czech history happened here. For three nights running in 1989, thousands of people crowded into this square, jingling their keys, crying to be unlocked from the yoke of communism. On the third night, Vaclev Havel, the playwright-turned-president, appeared on a balcony before the crowd and said simply. “We are free.” Communism was over, without a shot.
We wander the Jewish quarter, Europe’s best preserved for a horrifying reason. A Nazi leader dreamed of creating The Museum of the Extinct People here, and carefully collected artifacts accordingly. His side lost. And a despicable intention leaves behind a legacy worth visiting.
We in the US are uneasy right now, questioning the durability of our own republic. What I want to ask the people I encounter here—who have undeniably had it harder than we have for the past 100 years--is How did you do it? How did you survive? What kind of shape is your democracy in now? The questions are not idle.
At Auschwitz-Birkenau, our teacher is Natalie. She is a brilliant, well-spoken young Polish woman who identifies not as a tour guide, but as a genocide educator. I have so many things I want to ask her. My first question: I notice you are careful not to demonize the Germans. You never even say the words “Germans” or “Germany.” As a Polish person, who lost millions of countrymen and women in the Holocaust, how is that possible?
“The Germans did not murder the Jews,” she responds crisply. “The Nazis did. Yes, the state condoned it and paid for it. But if your purpose is to ensure that such a thing never happens again, continuing to create divisions by using imprecise language serves nobody.”
I recognize this idea from a friend who works for the Holocaust Center in LA. People who work in genocide education seem to follow a common set of principles, the world over.
As the day ends, Natalie tells us she wants to leave us with two thoughts. Her first:
Never assume that you know what you would do, faced with the same circumstances. As guard, or as prisoner at this camp, you do not know how you would react.
Her second thought:
Whatever it is you face in your time and your place, it is your responsibility to act. Big or small, loud or silent, clear in its impact or not, you must do what you can do. That is our responsibility as humans.
Back in Prague’s Old Town Square, we stand in the shadow of the Astronomical Clock. This mechanical marvel, built in 1410, chimes the hour. But it also reveals the month, the position of the sun and the moon, and the signs of the zodiac. Death, represented as a skeleton, sidles alongside the clock face, warning the townspeople of passing time and reinforcing the legend that if they don’t keep this clock running, the consequences will be fatal. The people took heed. This clock has done its job, flawlessly, for seven centuries.
But we are all still wondering about the Parade of the Applesauce.
In Czech language, the accent invariably falls on the first syllable of the word. In Katerina’s speech, Re-PUB-lic becomes REEP-luh-bick. Ba-SILL-i-ca becomes BOSS-il-uh-ka. And Uh-POSS-suls, the 12 disciples of Jesus Christ, becomes APP-uh-sols. Or, to our Western ears: applesauce.
Katerina is correct. The top of the hour arrives, the bell tolls, the skeleton shakes his lantern, and the golden hand reveals the hour. Up top, the blue doors open and robed figures with haloes and beatific expressions glide and twirl, completing another edition of their endless march through time.
It is the Parade of the Applesauce. A delightful cross-cultural misunderstanding. Not our last.
Comments