Because of the language barrier and the dearth of background information available, reporting methods in Eastern Europe differ somewhat from those in China or the West.

Normally, a reporter gathers preliminary information, decides on where to go and who to see, and arranges times for interviews before starting out. But in Eastern Europe you have to fall back on the "field study" approach: you can't find anyone to interview beforehand and most telephone receptionists don't speak English, so all you do is pick a likely spot for the kind of prey you're after and charge right in.

That's why my photographer and I bought a map of Prague and set off to find the Chinese library mentioned in the R.O.C. National Central Library's A Directory of Sinology Resources Overseas. We crossed the six-centuries-old Charles Bridge over the Vltava River, entered a narrow slate-paved street flanked by gas lamps, and finally arrived at an old four-storey building called the Oriental Institute of the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences.

We seem to have arrived in the country at just the right time, because not long before (November 1989) a bloodless revolution had toppled the Communist regime and installed a new democratic government. The effect of the so-called Velvet Revolution was farreaching, involving even this venerable academic institution in a broad personnel shakeup: the director stepped down, department heads were replaced, and a breath of excitement and unease swept through the sparsely furnished offices.

"To be honest, over the past five years we only did one thing--translate the People's Daily," admitted Hana Triskova, who studied linguistics in graduate school and speaks very precise Mandarin. The 20 or 30 sinologists here were no exception to the premise of "everything in the service of politics." No matter what their field of expertise--Chinese literature, philosophy or history--they all became translators. After being translated, the newspaper was bound in volumes each month and sent to government agencies for reference in policy making.

"I don't think they ever used to read it. Anyway, all they had to do was follow the Soviet Union's lead in foreign affairs and they couldn't go wrong," Triskova said baldly. Flustered, a researcher felt obliged to add: "It was probably some help to those in charge. But it was sort of a waste of time for us."

The sinologists at the institute have finally been spared their labor of no academic significance. In February of last year the new director announced that they could all pick topics of their own interest to research.

Probably because the new program had not yet gotten off the ground and the old shackles been removed so suddenly, the place really looked like a school that had just been let out on a long vacation. Only a smattering of people had showed up for work, and those who were there seemed "ill at ease" in their positions. But all of them were endlessly curious about their unexpected visitors from Taiwan.

In fact, except for the Soviet Union and East Germany, Czechoslovakia has what may well be the strongest foundation in China studies in Eastern Europe.

"Czechoslovakia has a highly developed armaments industry and used to have close dealings in that area with the Chinese Communists. That's why they're so strong in China studies," said the Hungarian sinologist Endre Galla, offering a utilitarian analysis.

The most important influence, though, comes down to one person: Jaroslav Prusek, the dean of China studies in Czechoslovakia, a member of the national academies of both Germany and Great Britain, and the founder during the 1940s and 50s of both the Oriental Institute and the Sinology Research Office at the University of Prague (the oldest university in Central Europe). After completing studies at several universities in Europe, he went to China and Japan in the 1930s, where he studied Chinese popular literature and folk painting along with Chinese classical literature and history, later becoming an authority in Chinese ch'uan-ch'i fiction, or wonder tales.

He also paid considerable attention to contemporary Chinese literature and became a friend of Lu Hsun, Kuo Mo-jo, Mao Tun and other noted writers. After returning to Czechoslovakia, he began to translate their works, cultivated quite a number of China scholars at the university, and established the largest Chinese-language library in Central Europe at his institute.

The Lu Hsun Library, the sixth largest of its kind in all Europe, contains 66,000 volumes and more than 3,000 periodicals, including a complete set of the Imperial Library of the Emperor Ch'ien-lung (one of fewer than 300 in the world), the 24 dynastic histories, local gazetteers, and a host of classical works in various editions. What caught our eye was a set of the massive Great Chinese Dictionary, put out by the National Cultural University in Taipei.

"That was a very expensive purchase for is," the young head librarian, Ludmila Simunkova, said with some embarrassment, explaining that they haven't had the funds to buy many new books in recent years.

In fact, the worsening of relations between Communist China and the Soviet Union has affected its relations with all the countries of Eastern Europe. Interest in China studies has plummeted. In the early 1950s many schools opened night classes to meet the public demand, but during the past decade even the University of Prague has regularly accepted new students only once every other year.

"Students feel it's useless to learn to speak Chinese, so they don't work very hard at conversation. They only do all right at reading," said Wang Ju-chen, who married Jaromir Vochalova in Peking thirty years ago and has taught at the University of Prague since following her husband back to Czechoslovakia. There are only about 30 students in the Chinese department now.

During this Dark Age, Czech sinologists also lacked the opportunity to interact and compare notes with their colleagues in the West. Almost the only scholars who were sent to conferences had higher political than academic credentials.

The prize gem of the institute remained its world-renowned library. Visitors were sure to be shown the library, a researcher said, and few of them noticed that the books were covered with dust because no one had used them for so many years.

"This stopped being a real library a long time ago. It was more like a book vault," Simunkova aptly put it.

The academic situation can't be turned around overnight, but as long as people start using the books again, the Lu Hsun Library will surely acquire new life.

Even though their research projects hadn't been set yet, most of the researchers already had ideas in mind. Simunkova, for instance, was hoping to compile an 8,000-character Chinese-Czech dictionary. "The one I have now comes in nine big volumes. Most people can't afford it, and it doesn't include a lot of new terms."

Ivana Bakesova was writing a book about Taiwan for a publishing house, although she had to get most of her information from mainland China publications. Fortunately, trade relations and person-to-person contacts between Taiwan and Czechoslovakia have been steadily increasing, and in early December last year she accompanied the first lady on a visit to Taiwan and had a chance to see things with her own eyes.

Oldrich Kral, who was expelled from the university for taking part in the liberalization movement 23 years ago, has been brought back as director of its Sinology Research Office, and new laws are being drawn up to restore academic independence. . . . The Velvet Revolution has meant a real Prague Spring for Czechoslovakia as a whole, and for sinology in particular.

[Picture Caption]

Victims of the repression of Prague Spring in 1968 are commemorated in central Prague.

Chinese rubbings decorate the walls inside.

(Left) This centuries-old building, originally a monastery, now houses t he Oriental Institute of the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences.

This antithetical couplet hanging in the library was written by Lu Hsun.

(Left) With its rich holdings and vintage atmosphere, the Lu Hsun Librar y is the Oriental Institute's prized gem.

Sinologists rubbed shoulders with major Czechoslovakian political figures at an exhibition on Tibet held in Prague recently.

（Left） This centuries-old building, originally a monastery, now houses t he Oriental Institute of the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences.

Chinese rubbings decorate the walls inside.

（Left） With its rich holdings and vintage atmosphere, the Lu Hsun Librar y is the Oriental Institute's prized gem.

This antithetical couplet hanging in the library was written by Lu Hsun.

Sinologists rubbed shoulders with major Czechoslovakian political figures at an exhibition on Tibet held in Prague recently.