As exhibitions like World Press Photo clearly illustrate, words are not the only means of telling stories. Like the undying figures on a Greek urn, many of the strongest storytellers are photographs, illustrations and pictures. This fall, three new books try to brighten the dark corners of Czech history — and all do it predominantly through the use of images.

Though all could be called "picture books," the only one in the troika that is actually intended for children is Good King Wenceslas, an illustration of the well-known Christmas carol by John Mason Neale, an Anglican priest who had heard legends of Wenceslas' kindness and Christian charity.

Originally written in 1853, Neale's carol was intended to inspire children to be generous on St. Stephen's Day, now known as Boxing Day. In it, the great Václav I sees a poor peasant gathering wood in the snow. Moved by the scene, Václav and his servant bring food, wine and pine logs to the man's house.

The book features great illustrations by Tim Ladwig, including pictures of the statue of Václav near the National Museum, giving the ancient story contemporary relevance. And in case you can't remember anything beyond "feast of Stephen," the book contains the carol's complete lyrics and music on the last page. It's an excellent holiday gift idea for children of the "read to me" age.

Much more grounded in fact is Neil Rees' The Czech Connection, which tells the story of the World War II Czechoslovak political exiles in Britain primarily through photographs and captions. Subtitled The Czechoslovak Government in Exile in London and Buckinghamshire, this is a fascinating collection of photos, a unique way of documenting a very special time in Czech history.

In his introduction, Rees tells how he met a number of British war brides when he came to Prague to teach English in 1990, and discovered many photographs of his native Buckinghamshire in Prague's used-book stores. His curiosity piqued, Rees began to research and assemble a collection of images that charts the arrival of Edvard Benes and the Czechoslovak government-in-exile, including a remarkable picture of Jan Masaryk signing autographs for a mob of girls, just like a film star, and a poster of Churchill that says "Cechoslováci! Hodina vaseho osvobození prijde!"

Ranging from the quotidian to the arresting, the images include everything from meetings between the Benesovi and the Queen of England to Christmas cards and shots of soldiers relaxing. Like the Churchill poster, some are nearly heartbreaking in their optimism, such as the unused London

–Prague train ticket, printed nearly a year before liberation came to Czechoslovakia, or the shots of Tomás Garrigue Masaryk's only two grandchildren, Herbert and Leonard Revilliod, both of whom were to die in England before the war's end.

Less revelatory than the title might suggest, The Czech Connection seems to have a second purpose. Rather than merely explaining the role (or the connection) of the Czechoslovak government in the fight against Nazi Germany, it also seeks to herald the Buckinghamshire villages where Czechoslovaks were stationed, depicting their favorite pubs (the Bull's Head in Aylesbury) and the places where they trained (Chicheley Hall) and lived (Aston Abbotts). As such, it could easily be retitled The Bucks Connection. It's a compelling book for anyone interested in 20th-century Czech history.

Also touching on World War II history is Bíly´ Potok: A Story From the Borderlands, a graphic novel. The country's comics culture may be in its infancy, but to judge by the new English translation of this Czech best-seller, it is coming of age quite rapidly. Created by two rock musicians, Jaroslav Rudis and Jaromír 99, this unusual book proves that even two-dimensional, black-and-white panels can offer surprising depth, leading the reader on a jagged trek across the country's — and Europe's — troubled 20th century.

The story is unusual, a nonlinear narrative told in first-person episodes by Alois Nebel, a former train dispatcher in the town of Bíly´ Potok who "sees things in the fog that nobody else can see." Located near the Polish border in the far north of Silesia, Bíly´ Potok was once part of the Sudetenland, later lying along a supply line for a Soviet garrison. It's also the site of the psychiatric hospital where Nebel was later committed.

Much like a good mystery novel, it's not immediately clear what has happened here, only that images from various strata of history appear and fade as Nebel recounts his life story. The fog around him opens to reveal Nazi soldiers and Russian generals, Polish murderers and prisoners of war, with scenes that jump from the Nazi occupation to some point around the time of Charter 77.

In fact, the indeterminate nature of the region — at once German, Polish, Silesian and Czech — and the uncertain narrative stand in sharp contrast to the stark (and darkly humorous) black-and-white illustrations: "During the war my grandfather was made pointsman, and Müller was made dispatcher. After the war they swapped back. History's full of people changing places like that." As are individual lives, the authors seem to point out: Their main character's last name is a reversal of Leben.

With massive readerships in France, Belgium, the United States and Japan, graphic novels are an international phenomenon. Bíly´ Potok joins the genre with a story that is fascinating and well told by global standards, though still strongly rooted in the local.