Dateline Discovery

When it seemed inevitable a nuclear war would break out in the mid-20th century, governments scrambled to get civilians ready for the worst.

Once the smooth, olive-colored rubber had been stretched across my cheeks, the nylon straps had been cinched tightly across the back of my head and the intake filter was pulled down into place over my lower jaw, the only thing missing was the foreboding sense of absolute panic.

More than 100 feet beneath the surface of the earth, in a bunker that had been crudely carved into the Prague hillside, the drab greens and depressing whites of the concrete walls helped tuck away such visceral emotional triggers. It was a monumental ask, for this is where people would assemble to wait out the end of the world.

A gas mask, then, would not offer much. Neither would the two-way radio secured behind a three-inch-thick steel door in a cloister adjoining the fresh water tanks, or the inadequate supply of canned food locked away to ensure proper rationing. Finality was everywhere, and if a peek at the ravaged landscape above wasn’t available as proof, the missing friends and family members provided a chilling reminder.

This was an optimistic view of how life was supposed to play out in the middle of the 20th century, when each perceived slight by one foreign power increased the prospect of a nuclear war being initiated by the other. Similar nuclear shelters were built throughout communist Europe, and in recent decades, many have been decommissioned or repurposed — but here, in the shadow of the Žižkov Tower, an eyesore reputed to have its own shadowy origins, one remains accessible as a reminder of the not-so-distant past.

Sealed off only by endless layers of fluorescent graffiti, the bunker’s hatch is a hulking metal gateway within view of a number of residential mid-rises mere yards away. The location was intentional; construction of a neighborhood fallout shelter was just one grim empty promise made by the government meant to assure innocent civilians their well-being remained a priority.

My guide, Michal, who has intensely studied Czechoslovakian political history, said it made a number of others. For one, officials maintained the bunker could house 5,000 people for several months in case of a nuclear incident; on the contrary, he believes no more than 800 would have been able to survive inside, and even then for a much shorter period of time.

After being led 83 stairs down a spiral entryway, and with the temperature dropping several degrees on an exhausting summer day, it’s immediately clear why. With only a network of intersecting tunnels and no central assembly hall, there’s no room for a crowd to gather, let alone room for beds or privacy. The bunker occupies 2,500 square meters, which is not even enough space to allow each adult to extend their arms.

There were only 12 toilets, leaving one for every 400 survivors available on average for just four minutes a day. Food would be strictly distributed, but given the size of the storerooms, it would only last about three months and significant weight loss would be inevitable. Personal belongings, which only further reduce living space, were expressly forbidden and discarded at the door. Bulky generators, needed for power and to purify air, could only be fueled for so long.

These conditions, of course, would scratch even more at inhabitants’ raw emotions, forcing measures to ensure their safety. Walking through the passageways, Michal pointed out the steps officials would take: The toilets had not doors but curtains; sharp objects and ropes were forbidden. People were still likely to perish while underground, though, with their bodies to be stacked up near entryways and left to rot.

The thoughts, terrifying in many ways, were accepted as part of everyday life for the better part of half a century. Czechoslovakians successfully pushed for greater freedoms under communist rule than residents of other countries, but the Soviets were more than willing to use them as an example when policies were deemed too liberal. Drawing them into a nuclear war seemed all too plausible.

Before exiting the bunker, Michal approached a collection of gas masks, demonstrating a variety of models people were drilled on using. With more than 50 of the alien-looking apparatus hanging from a wall, this was, somehow, the most stark illustration of the visit. If they were needed here, then, away from the fallout above, it was because the ventilation system had failed.

Altogether clumsy and rudimentary, the masks seemed fitting, one more fickle solution introduced amid a greater apocalyptic terror.

Want to go? A guided tour of the nuclear bunker is available through Prague Communism Tours, which leads excursions twice a day from its office near the city’s Old Town Square.

Disclaimers: All products, services and experiences were paid for and arranged by the author and the vendors named herein had no editorial oversight of this piece. All photographs were taken by and remain the property of the author. Contact for republication rights.