Poland has been again overrun by two of the great powers, which held it in bondage for 150 years but were unable to quench the spirit of the polish nation. The heroic defense of Warsaw shows that the soul of Poland is indestructible and that she will rise again like a rock which may for a spell be submerged by a tidal wave, but which remains… a rock. These words, which I remember with great clarity, were filled with hope and promise that my nation would be given a new, just future. These words, spoken by Winston Churchill, however, only served to dig the knife deeper into our backs when Great Britain, France, and the United States sold Poland to Stalin, and therefore, the Soviet Union. Soldiers from all fronts, heroes, returned to Poland only to see that, while the allies had won the war, Poland had lost it. Members of the Polish RAF divisions, who scored twice as many kills as British Pilots with a third the losses and were vital to the defense of Britain and victory in the Second World War, were sent back their motherland, betrayed and unwanted. Over the course of the Soviet Occupation, the Polish culture was slowly suppressed as puppet politicians kissed the ground of Stalin and burned the ground of the common Pole. If you were not a communist, you had no future in Poland.
Now, in 1988, everyone in my country plays the same game. Praise the Communist Party, worship the Supreme Soviet as a God, and forget your history or be killed for it. I have abided by these rules since I was a child. Every day, my mother, who would read to me stories of the old Poland: its fairness, tolerance, and glory. We lived in apartments then, fourth floor, room 413. The door was thin and high off of the ground, so it was easy to hear commotion in the hallway. Whenever my mother heard footsteps, she immediately hid her books in the cushions on the couch. My Father, like my mother, also shared a piece of the old Poland with me, and that was Catholicism. My schoolteacher told me that there was no God, my leaders told me that there was no God, and the churches told me that there was no God, for they had been secularized. I did not realize it at the time, but this was another suppression of Polish culture. The Catholic Church held close ties with the old Poland and Poland to the Catholic Church. Our faith was a large piece of our national identity, so it had to be done away with for communism to flourish and for nationalism to die. Their efforts were incredibly successful; I only found out about Pope John Paul II when I saw him with my own eyes in 1979, for example.
Now, the Polish worker slaves for fourteen hours a day and his or her happiness is entirely dependent upon the weekly ration of vodka handed out on Saturday evening at 5 pm. I, myself, am also lying in this pit of nihilism and despair, but having been told of the past and of basic human rights to God, family, and history; I am ready to bring this disgusting blight to its knees. The solidarity movement, founded in 1980, had just appeared and was the perfect opponent to the soviet regime. The opportunity was perfect.
Working as an architect I have noticed two things: one, people like having space, and two, nobody is willing to pay for it! Sometimes I feel like I only design the next generations of closets for people to live in! Nothing exciting happens at my work, so I have time, too much time. I am allowed access to entire maps of Warsaw, maps of demographics, sewer systems, electrical supplies, etc. I have been formulating plans for years, and finding co-conspirators, and keeping the Policja off of my back. It was difficult, however, there was very little space between workers, so I had to keep my head down and my arms around my work. If I was caught with any anti-state materials, I would be arrested in an instant. The obvious thing to do to prevent this was to keep all of my materials in my bag, after all, nobody searched architects.
This morning, I was mapping out favorable electrical patterns for cutting off electricity to key government buildings when my boss, Grzegorz, gave me a surprise visit.
“Good morning Jakub!” he said with his un-understandable enthusiasm.
“Hey buddy, got more closets for me to design?” I casually replied as I quickly hid my maps.
“Surprisingly, No! I actually need you to come up with a floor-plan for grain processing facility,” he explained as he handed me a folder with instructions.
“Exciting” I replied.
“Do a good job, and the state might allow you double bread rations!” he joked. I waited for him to leave, then I continued with my planning. I tossed the folder aside, as I could get away with an unproductive day by claiming that I had to do research on grain-processing. Grzegorz usually accepted such excuses. My boss was an obedient, loyal communist. His one saving grace, however, was his gullibility. I went about my work, keeping my head down as I scribbled black lines across the map. My plan was to coordinate a massive strike all across Warsaw and the surrounding areas. The idea was that if enough workers revolted, it would inspire revolts across the country. If the communists wanted to kill everyone, they could. Most Poles would probably have been better off, but the communists can’t repopulate an entire country with ethnic Germans, Tatars, or whoever else they decided were unworthy of living in the Russian Socialist Republic. Because of this, I thought, they would have to give us what we want. I continued with my work. I had located the lines that needed to be cut to prevent power flow to emergency sirens, police stations, central government facilities, military stations; everything was coming together. I needed to meet with the Solidarity leaders. We had a good meeting place just outside of the Warsaw City Limits. It was an old, run-down bar in the middle of nowhere covered with overgrowth. It was perfect. Getting there wasn’t a problem, coming back, however, was. I got up from my desk and walked down to the telephone and dialed 11-58-722-1134, the number of the Solidarity offices in Gdańsk. In my best Russian accent, as all calls were monitored, of course. I said, “Come down to Warsaw for a beer or two, we need to talk about the future of this agency of yours!”
I added a couple of death threats as well, for the listener’s benefit. The code was fourteen words between Warsaw and agency. It really should’ve been more complicated, but their telephone operator was somewhat dimwitted. I heard a shuffling noise as the operator stood up from his rolling chair. I waited for about five minutes until I heard the inevitable squish that concluded the operator’s absence. He cleared his throat, and uttered, “Please refrain from any violence… we will meet with you.” He hung up. Ten words mean ten o’ clock, I needed to leave. I told Grzegorz that I had a family emergency and that I was leaving. He nodded his head and waved to me. Surely, he can’t really be that stupid, I thought to myself as I walked to my standard Fiat 126, which was the most common car at the time. It wasn’t very comfortable, it was too small, and it couldn’t go very fast. I opened the door and slithered my way inside. I knew that tonight was going to be rough.
I pulled out of the office parking lot and onto the road. It took some maneuvering to get to the eastbound highway, along which was the turnoff to the bar. The road was full of cracks and potholes, my fellow drivers were full of rage, and it began to rain. I was ecstatic. The overcast sky seemed vibrant with excitement. The trees swayed. It was as if everything in Poland was hinging on these next few days. Everything watched with anticipation as liberation was at hand! I was too excited. I needed to think clearly and remain calm. After all, if I had so much as a smile on my face, it would likely be enough to get me arrested. I drove on the highway until I saw the turnoff to Leonów, which was about an hour east of Warsaw. I took the turnoff and headed down a small rural road a bit south of the town. I drove until I saw a wooden sign which said: “Mała Beczka” which means “little barrel.” The somewhat familiar bushes came into view and I could see the row of Fiats that were parked outside of the bar. The best kind of vodka was non-rationed vodka, so the bar needed secrecy to survive as a business. As a result, it was perfect for any type of lawlessness: drugs, smuggling, and even a few church services. The doorman, Łukasz, had to screen everyone before entry, but he knew me and the Solidarity Movement, so he motioned me inside and gave me an approving nod.
The interior of the bar was almost as dull as the outside. The wood was wet and rotting, tables were shipping pallets fastened to old kerosene barrels, and the drinks were served in reused beer bottles. It wasn’t pretty, but it was home for someone hoping to forget about the realities of life. I saw my friend, Artur, leaning on one of the “tables” at the north-eastern corner of the little shack. Artur claims that he is a descendant of King Casimir III and that his father killed over three hundred Germans with his saber! The man’s phony family history was the foundation of his own warped sense of humor. He was a fun guy to hang around, better to drink with, and best to plot with. Aside from getting a laugh out of anyone, his greatest talent was intrigue.
As he saw me, he motioned me over, yelling, “Privyet Brat!” Hello brother… in Russian. His speaking Russian was, no doubt, the funniest thing that he did. The irony of a Polish person willingly speaking Russian was just hilarious. I walked over to the table that he was leaning on and set my bag down. I reached into it, found my maps, and set them on the table.
“What are these presents that you have brought me?” asked Artur, whose eyes were darting across the maps with great interest. I narrowed my eyes and lowered my voice, and then replied: “these are maps of everything from escape routes through the sewers to likely roads, on which, Soviet tanks can arrive. His smile gave way to an intent frown as his analytical brain began working out all of the possible uses of the information. After a few minutes of intense analysis, he cracked a smile, which indicated that he had a plan.
“You know we are already in talks with the communists, right tovarish?” he added.
“What?” I replied, with surprise.
“The Solidarity Movement is trying to gain seats in the parliament as we speak.” He reiterated. I was at a loss for words. He saw the color drain from my face and he grinned.
“There is no way that these talks will ever amount to anything.” He reassured, “The communists will never give up their grip on the one party system. In order for these talks to succeed, we need to bring the pressure. As you know, tension has been mounting for forty years, we are ready to show these zakhvatchiki that we are through with them.” I knew that what he said was true.
“What is a month from today?” Artur inquired.
“May the first,” I responded.
“Be ready, Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła.”
We shook hands, he took my maps, and I left. It was midnight, past curfew, so I walked to the town of Leonów and found a lovely little corner to sleep in. I left the next morning as quickly as possible so I wouldn’t be late for work. Being late means an interrogation, an interrogation means the failure of the operation, and such a failure would delay the freedom of Poland by ten years at the least. I had to hurry, my shift began at eight in the morning and it was already six-forty. I sped as long as there wasn’t another car on the road, any car could be a police car. They were everywhere. My heart was racing at 120 kilometers an hour. Everyone everywhere was Policja, and all of a sudden, I longed for my quiet flat, my weekly vodka, and my state-controlled TV. I longed for my life. In that moment, I slowed down and thought to myself, is it really worth my own life to free Poland? Hundreds of thousands have already died for Poland, but we, still, are not free. What guarantees that once the communists are gone that nobody else will seize control? I sped up again. This was my home, my culture, and my friends and family that were in question. I didn’t have a right to deny the freedom of anyone, especially through lack of action. I was in the position I was in for a reason.
I arrived on time, and nobody raised an eyebrow to my lack of clean hair or my shaken demeanor. I made it.
The first of May came swiftly. I woke up to the sounds of the screeching of tires and the smell of tear gas. The Solidarity protest was in full swing. Thousands of people were in the streets, waving flags of white and red. I received a phone call, it was my boss.
“Hey, buddy! Beautiful day outside! You really should get out there, its stunning really! Work is, of course, canceled. You have a great protest!” He hung up. I could think of nothing better than to follow his advice. The Policja were everywhere. The blue flashes of the sirens on the vans reflected off of the helmets and riot shields. The tear gas was everywhere and the beatings were intense. The people formed lines, each holding a flag or a cross. They stood there waiting only to be thrown to the ground, beaten, and arrested. The occasional street fight took place, in which, a few protesters would attempt to break the lines of shields that filled the streets. They failed, of course, and were arrested. I stood there in the midst of it all with complete silence and stillness. I watched people throw bricks and firebombs at the policja and the government buildings. The effects of Artur’s planning was seen, as protestors disappeared into the sewers, there were no alarms, no tanks. It truly didn’t matter. All of those months that I spent buried in my maps and my research did not help anything. Sirens or no sirens, tanks or no tanks, broken or unbroken supply lines; everything failed. I took a breath and let out my anger as I reached for the nearest item and hurled it at the Policja. I felt like nothing could stop me. I grabbed a Solidarity flag from the street corner and charged into the Policja. I had a crowd charging with me. I knocked the first officer to the ground with my sheer weight as the others broke through the lines. I saw the parliament building over the helmets of hundreds of communists. I ran as fast as I could, as hard as I could. As I plowed through the communist ranks, I saw my goal and nobody could stop me. I ran into the door as tear gas grenades burst all around me. I climbed the stairs, not stopping for a single breath. I went through door after door and staircase after staircase until I finally reached the roof. I saw the soviet flag and I grabbed it and pulled. I struggled for a few minutes before it finally fell. I stood, waving the Solidarity flag, feeling victorious. The reality then plunged its way into my throat and my stomach like a series of punches. I looked down upon the square and the Soviet military was marching through the streets. Everybody that was human was gone. I lowered my arms as they pointed their silver Kalashnikovs at me. I let go of the flag and it fell to the ground below. What sounded like a clunk, felt like an explosion.
I was a prisoner for a little over a year. Soon after the protests in Warsaw, protests began all over the country. They flared up in Gdańsk, Wrocław, Łódż, Kraków, Płock, Poznań, and many other cities. The Solidarity movement won the right to run against the communists in proper elections. As a result, the communists were voted out of office within a year and free elections were soon opened. The last communist leader in Poland, Czesław Kiszczak, resigned from office on the 19th of August in 1989. The first prime minister of the new Poland was Tadeusz Mazowiecki, who was appointed on the 24th of August. This was the first non-communist government to take power in any country dominated by the Soviet Union. I released from jail on the 21st of September. All of those months while I was in prison, I thought that I had failed, but it came with great delight and joy to find out that I was wrong.
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