Julius Michnik speaks of two great loves in his life. One is his wife, Frantiska, with whom he's spent the past 55 years. The other is the Bata shoe company, with whom he's spent the last 66.
As a 15-year-old apprentice, Michnik recalls, he marveled at the rigorous quality control Czech shoe baron Tomas Bata's disciples imposed in the Slovak town that bloomed around the company. This standard propelled "unbeatable, eternal Bata" upward in Czechoslovakia both before and during the communist period. At its peak the Partizanske plant employed nearly 16,000 people and turned out more than 30 million pairs of shoes a year, according to a history of the town published in 2000.
Today, that's a distant memory. Most of the mile-long complex is a rusting hulk, with only a few signs of life on its vast grounds.
"I was very proud, and I'm still very proud, to have worked there," says Michnik, president of the Bata "School of Work" Alumni Association. "But this would never have happened if Bata himself were here today. Or he would have shot himself." (Ed. note: The founder's son emigrated from Czechoslovakia to Canada in 1940 and rebuilt today's Bata after World War II from assets outside of Eastern Europe that were not nationalized by the communists.)
Twenty years after the collapse of communism, Partizanske is a microcosm of how classic one-company towns in Slovakia, and Eastern Europe itself, were devastated by the free-market transition. Blasted by Asian competitors, the city labors to recover and compete.
"Here was 'Strong Bata' and 'Strong Socialism.' Families didn't have to struggle for anything, because the boss provided for all their needs," Mayor Jan Podmanicky says "How do you teach people to be independent and take responsibility for themselves? People from the outside can give you advice, but you have to change yourself."
AN OASIS FOR WORKERS
Batovany, as the town was originally named, sprouted like an oasis from a barren spot in the Danubian hills, as the shoe company branched out in 1938 and 1939 from its Czech base of Zlin. Wooden shacks were built for the first workers.
Julius Michnik landed in Batovany in 1943, a country boy fending for himself during wartime. Jobs were scarce and precious, and anyone who claimed one got a shot of prestige. Michnik enrolled in the four-year apprentice program. He rose early for mandatory exercise in the town square, donned his uniform and cap, and was taught each phase of the shoe-making process.
"The teaching discipline, the upbringing at work – I can't describe it," he says. "If you worked hard, you made enough money. Even enough to save some."
He was rewarded with a bed in Batovany's first brick dormitory. This was no ordinary workers' housing. As some in the West bemoaned the toll industrialization had taken on labor, a clutch of left-leaning urban planners designed the "ideal industrial city" that would "underpin undisturbed rest after work," according to BataStory.net. Inspired by Zlin, Batovany – and other "Batavilles" built around company plants as far away as India – became a prime example of architectural social engineering.
The Bata factory and rail lines sat on the northern edge of town. A buffer of green space separated them from a belt of communal buildings – town hall, cultural center, cinema, department store, church. Then came the housing, with central heating and indoor plumbing, then a rarity for Slovaks.
The Michniks – who met and fell in love at the factory – recall those days fondly.
"Man was made to work for eight hours, to have recreation for eight hours, and to sleep for eight hours," says Frantiska, echoing a popular communist-era refrain.
Many of the red-brick buildings, especially the charming family homes, still stand today. Yet it's the town's unique spatial arrangement that has become the subject of significant scholarship, a remnant of a unique chapter in architectural history.
Track and share business topics across the Web.