Ten years after the socialist system imploded, the treatment applied to former collaborators of totalitarian regimes remains a pending issue. On the other hand, "it is never too late to find the truth" -this seems the conclusion of the increasingly persistent preoccupations. The situation is not limited to Romania, Bulgaria, Slovakia or Hungary - where transition began with a centre-left episode, which still continues in the Czech Republic and Poland. Although the first stage, condemnation of communism, was consumed in all these states, limiting former communist leaders' access to public positions remains a delicate matter.
This spring, Hungary attempted a revision of its original variant of the "Files Law," a largely inefficient piece of legislation, Poland had barely appointed a director for the National Memory Institute (established in 1998 to allow citizens access to their own files), and in the Czech Republic the extension of the Clean Hands Law is arousing controversy over its democratic character. Although Romania is late along this line, it is not as far behind as alleged by those who say too much time has passed already.
Few laws have caused more controversy in the Czech Republic than the Clean Hands Law, under which any candidate for a public position must be verified for a record of collaboration with the communist regime - in case he or she conceals the history of such collaboration, the evidence is made public, but there is no formal penalty. The law's extension beyond the initial ten-year period, which is to expire soon, is causing opposition not only, predictably, from left-wing parties, but from human rights organisations and even officials of the European Union.
What the law's opponents criticise is the authenticity of the documents in secret service archives, the loopholes allowing prosecution based on scarce documentary evidence, and the principle itself of limiting access to public positions because of previous membership in a party. It must be said, though, that not all this criticism comes after ten years of enforcing the law.
"I don't know why anyone should be accused when the only proof is a name on a list," says Vojtech Filip, head of the communist parliamentary group. "It's been ten years already - it's a nonsense," says Vlasta Stepova, deputy chairwoman of the Council of Europe's Parliamentary Assembly. "This is the KGB's last trick. No one knows any more which files are original and which are counterfeit," she adds. But a law's deficiencies should not be confused with its utility. "I don't think we are rid of the people who have worked with the communists," believes Petr Mares, deputy president of the centre-right Freedom Union, a party that drafted an extension of the law. Mares cites the example of Poland, where, lately, an increasing number of communists that hold influential positions in economic and financial structures could penetrate into the government apparatus. "If the clean-hands policy is defined as the ban to practice corruption, of course it sounds unpleasant," Mares concedes. "This is the argument of the law's opponents. In reality, it is about economic and financial security."
In the last few months, the Czech Republic has been ravaged by the publication of its Foreign Minister's biography, Jan Kavan, the man who negotiated the country's NATO accession. According to the document, Kavan had collaborated during his student years in London with the Czech secret services (StB). Despite his denials, suspicion remains, just another reason for NATO to eye its younger member with reticence.
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