Life during the Hapsburg Empire was miserable for the Slovaks, as they spent most of the time acting as poking dolls for the Hungarian portion of the Empire. The beginning of the 20th century saw the decaying of the empires however, and Austria-Hungary was no different in this respect. Light began to form at the end of the Slovak tunnel, and independence became a very real possibility. I say ‘independence’, but what I actually mean is ‘non-Habsburg rule in tandem with Bohemia and Moravia in the form of Czechoslovakia’, so the Slovaks still needed to be on their guard to ensure they weren’t dominated once more. They needed someone to fight their corner. They got just this, in the form of a dashing astronomer by the name of Milan Rastislav Štefánik.

Štefánik Comma Milan was born in a village called Košariská in 1880 and boy did he come from a large family. He had 12 siblings. Twelve! His father was a protestant Lutheran pastor, and his mother was his mother, and too busy giving birth to do much else by the sounds of things. Milan came from a passionately Slovak family, which caused him all sorts of bother at school, so he inevitably got moved around quite a bit, by necessity as opposed to by choice. In 1900 he enrolled at Charles University in Prague to study architectural engineering, before moving on to mathematics and astronomy, and it was here that things really took off for little ol’ Milan.

Tomáš Masaryk (remember him?) gave the philosophy lectures Štefánik attended in Prague, and it was with him and Edvard Beneš that the movement for an independent Czecho-Slovak state would gain real momentum whilst World War One was duffing up the globe. His staunchly Slovak upbringing meant his influence and his position with Masaryk and Beneš could conceivably be responsible for Slovak culture surviving in the prominent position it held in the post-Empire world. Štefánik would go on to become Czechoslovakia’s first minister of war, but more on that later. Whilst at Charles University he wrote a lot about the disastrous situation of the Slovak people at the time, although he never got round to writing ‘An Illustrated History of Slovak Misery’. He graduated in 1904 with a degree in philosophy, as well as a more than thorough knowledge of astronomy. Indeed, his thesis was written about a Cassiopeian star discovered in 1572.

Despite his desire to improve the lot of the Slovaks, astronomy was the owner of Milan’s heart at the beginning of the 20th century. Shortly after graduating he packed off to Paris with next to no belongings, as is the way, and an understanding of French that would be best described as ‘mal’. All he had was the desire to succeed, and a fairly helpful recommendation from a well-known Czech professor, albeit one not well-known enough to see his name feature in this paragraph. Milan was a full-time peasant for a while but eventually landed himself a pretty plush job as an assistant at the world famous Observatoire de Paris-Meudon. The observatory was the centre of the astronomy world, so one can only imagine how well respected that anonymous Czech professor was.

The director at Meudon was Pierre Janssen no less, one of the men credited with founding astrophysics, and Milan was taken under Pierre’s influential wings. Once working there, Stefanik’s first actual job was an ascent to the peak of Mount Blanc, which is as impressive as it is daunting. However, the weather took a turn for the mega-merde, and everyone was eventually presumed dead. Of course, this is the type of dead that really involves turning up 21 days later, starving and as good as dead but not quite dead. At the time, it was the longest recorded stay on Mount Blanc, and no one was quite sure how they’d managed it. Magic? No, survival I would presume.

It wasn’t all hunky dory however, and shortly after Janssen’s death in 1907, Milan lost his job at the observatory. Never fear however, as he soon made himself useful undertaking a number of scientific and diplomatic missions at the behest of the French government. He swanned off to Tahiti to build an observatory, although it is believed that his main role on the South Pacific island was to spy on German movements. Milan also spent a lot of time in South America, particularly the Galapagos Islands. France was still his base however, and it was there that our man patented a design for a machine for colour photography in 1911.

A decade after arriving in France, Štefánik would become embroiled in the same hell as the rest of Europe, as the first edition of the World War stopped the functioning of ordinary life for a few years. Štefánik saw this as a possibility to defeat Austria-Hungary and Germany and thus increase the likelihood of an independent Czechoslovakia emerging from the rubble. He joined the French army immediately, and was sent to Serbia to fight there. The struggle in Serbia wasn’t successful, but Štefánik had managed to make himself one highly decorated soldier, but one of these decorations turned out to be a military wound and he was subsequently sent back to Paris to recover. Štefánik resumed his friendship with Masaryk, and the work on an independent Czecho-Slovak state began in earnest.

Masaryk helped Štefánik make contacts in many high places, and whilst in Paris he worked on initiating connections with Western governments, cozying up to military buddies and organising the diaspora. The two mates and Beneš formed the first Czechoslovak National Council in 1916, and an organisation of Czecho-Slovak troops was quickly formed. Night and day, day and night the diplomatic work went on, and the results came in on the side of the Czechoslovaks. As World War Uno ground to its close, The Czechoslovak national council proclaimed the independence of Czechoslovakia in Prague on October 28, 1918. Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points hammered this home. Milan Rastislav Štefánik would be the new state’s first Minister of War, but six months later he was dead.

The truth is that Štefánik faced a fairly uncertain future on return to his new country. He was toying with moving back into astronomy, the field that was his first love without a shadow of a doubt. Given the choice between the stars and politics, who could blame him? First of all however, Štefánik was exhausted, World Wars had a tendency to do that to folk. Milan decided to fly home to see his family, flying from Udine in Italy. Bratislava was a conflict zone at the time, as battles still raged between the newly independent Czechoslovakia and Hungarian communists, and whilst attempting to land in Bratislava Štefánik’s plane hurtled to the ground, killing Milan instantly. He was just 39 years old.

Intrigue and conspiracy theories have been all the rage since, but none of them hold any real weight. Did Czechoslovak soldiers shoot down the plane? Probably not. How about the Hungarian commies? Nah. What is undeniable is that the sudden death of Štefánik served to increase Slovak suspicion towards Prague and their Czech brethren, something that would eventually explode with the establishment of the First Slovak State in World War Two. It was undoubtedly a sad end for a man who had worked so tirelessly towards the creation of the new state. Štefánik’s name would all but disappear during the communist rule of Czechoslovakia after World War Two, as the ruling party attempted to quash any national pride in the name of Communism.

With the Velvet Divorce in 1993 and with it the return to independence for Slovakia, Milan Rastislav Štefánik returned to the public world with a vengeance. Statues went up, streets and squares were named after Štefánik not just in Slovakia but in Paris as well. On looking at the history of the Slovak nation, it is utterly unthinkable how it might be now were it not for the crucial work of one Milan Rastislav Štefánik.

John Bills writes books about Eastern and Central Europe, tomes covering history, travel, booze and the rest. These magical pieces of literary competency can be purchased at this link, so get yourself over there and do the right thing. Pay attention to the discounts.