Down with Big Brother (15 page)

Browbeaten by the Kremlin and pushed into a corner by Solidarity, the Polish high command was convinced that martial law represented the only way out of the crisis. In five days’ time the opposition was planning to hold a huge protest demonstration in Warsaw. In another few days tens of thousands of soldiers would complete their military service, to be replaced by untrained conscripts, tainted by the Solidarity experience. The time to act was now, at the weekend, while the factories were empty.
¹⁵⁸

Jaruzelski had already succeeded in linking Operation X to promises of a Soviet economic bailout. At his insistence the Kremlin had sent its top planner, Nikolai Baibakov, to Warsaw a few days before to discuss a two-billion-dollar Polish wish list. As a result of these talks, a tacit understanding had been reached. If the Polish government took tough action to crush Solidarity, Moscow would help the country out of its economic mess.
¹⁵⁹
Before issuing the final go-ahead for martial law, the general wanted to clarify Soviet military intentions toward Poland.

As was often the case in Communist Party politics, relations between Moscow and Warsaw were characterized by an extraordinary degree of intrigue and deceit. As Jaruzelski later remarked, he was dealing with people who were perfectly capable of showering you with kisses one day and sending troops to overthrow you the next.
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He knew the Soviets maintained good relations with Polish hard-liners who were prepared to issue an “invitation” that could be used to justify military intervention. It was in Jaruzelski’s interest to create the impression that there were certain circumstances under which he might himself appeal for Soviet assistance. That way he would retain the final word on whether or not to issue such an invitation.

This is the most plausible explanation for references in Soviet documents to a Polish request for military assistance, in the event that Operation X failed to restore order in the country. In addition to demonstrating his loyalty to Moscow, Jaruzelski wanted to sound out Soviet intentions. In his own words, he was constantly “Probing” the other side.
¹⁶¹
Kremlin leaders suspected something of the kind. “Jaruzelski is displaying a certain cunning,” said Suslov, chairman of the Politburo commission on Poland. “He is creating an alibi for himself with these requests.… Later he will be able to say, ‘I turned to the Soviet Union for help and didn’t receive the help I was asking for.’ ”
¹⁶²

In the presence of his three colleagues, Jaruzelski placed a call to Brezhnev on the morning of December 12. The general secretary was indisposed, so he was put through to Suslov, who was himself seriously ill. Exactly what was said during this telephone conversation has remained controversial. Soviet officials say that he asked for a pledge of Soviet help, if Operation X went wrong. Jaruzelski claims that he wanted an assurance that the Soviet Union would treat the introduction of martial law as an “internal” Polish affair.

“And what if things get complicated?” asked Jaruzelski, alluding to Brezhnev’s enigmatic warning to Kania the previous year.

“Well, you have always said that you can handle this with your own forces,” Suslov replied.
¹⁶³

A couple of hours later Ustinov phoned. The marshal wanted to stiffen Jaruzelski’s backbone before the coming battle. As usual, the Soviet defense minister spoke in the hectoring tone used by a commanding officer to address a subordinate. He peppered his end of the conversation with words like
nastupat’
(attack) and
reshitel’no
(decisively).
¹⁶⁴
Jaruzelski had heard these words frequently over the last sixteen months.

After listening to Moscow, Jaruzelski turned his attention to the situation
in Gdańsk. Over the past ten days relations with Solidarity had deteriorated to an all-time low. The immediate cause of the crisis was the government’s use of riot police to break up a strike by firefighter cadets. Solidarity leaders had responded to the storming of the firefighters’ college—a dress rehearsal for a much more serious crackdown—by calling for antigovernment street demonstrations. They had returned to the movement’s birthplace, the Lenin Shipyard in Gdańsk, to consider proposals for a referendum on free elections and the formation of a provisional government. In Jaruzelski’s mind, the proposals were tantamount to the dismantling of Communist power in Poland.

The Solidarity National Commission was riddled with secret police informers, who sent reports back to Warsaw about the uncompromising mood of the meeting. By 2:00 p.m. Jaruzelski had heard enough. He instructed his aides to proceed with Operation X.
¹⁶⁵

GDAŃSK
December 12–13, 1981

I
T SHOULD HAVE BEEN
a moment of triumph. Lech Wałęsa was back in the Lenin Shipyard, sitting on the podium of the same conference hall where he had negotiated the Gdańsk agreement with Poland’s Communist authorities. The conference hall was bathed in television arc lights. In the space of five hundred days Wałęsa had been transformed from an unsung dissident in a corner of the Soviet empire to an international media celebrity. He had traveled to Japan and France, received the acclaim of the International Labor Organization in Geneva, held talks with Pope John Paul in the Vatican. His exploits were followed with close attention in the Kremlin and the White House; his pithy turns of phrase were dissected by journalists from all over the world. He had been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize and chosen as “Man of the Year” by
Time
magazine.

Usually Wałęsa enjoyed the media attention. He played up to the paparazzi, who followed him around Poland. He allowed himself to be photographed taking a bath, praying in church, scolding his children, thrusting his fists into the air in a gesture of victory.

On this occasion he was uncharacteristically somber and passive. He seemed oblivious of the dramatic debate whirling around him on how to respond to the latest government “provocations.” Sitting slightly to one side,
he leafed through a pile of newspapers, making paper airplanes and fiddling with his new Czech pipe. His face looked swollen and white. He took no part in the voting as his colleagues passed a series of hard-line resolutions. Kuroń, the organizational brains behind Poland’s political opposition, called for the formation of a coalition government. One of the radicals began to bait the Solidarity leader, insisting that he should at least take the floor.

“Leszek, you sit there like a maharaja, saying nothing. Speak to us.”

“You’re all talking so much rubbish here that we’d better check to see if someone has added anything to your food,” Wałęsa snapped back.
¹⁶⁶

The endless arguments, with both the government and his own Solidarity colleagues, had worn Wałęsa down. He sensed that an approaching cataclysm would severely test the strength of the first free trade union in the Communist world. At his last meeting with Jaruzelski, in early November, the general had seemed unyielding. The balance of power within the regime appeared to be shifting in favor of the advocates of force. Several of Wałęsa’s own advisers had warned him that the government was preparing for a showdown.

Bronisław Geremek, a medieval historian who had been advising Wałęsa since August 1980, voiced the fears of the intellectuals at the meeting of Solidarity’s national commission. “We cannot win an all-out confrontation with the government,” he told Solidarity leaders. “We’re not prepared for one, but they are. Remember, it’s they who will choose the time and place for such a confrontation, not we.”

His words were received in silence.

Outside the conference hall, life was continuing normally. Thick snow lay on the ground. At the shipyard’s number two gate, made famous in news pictures all over the world, a brisk trade was going on in Solidarity mementos. There were Solidarity wall calendars for 1982, posters, emblems of the pre-Communist eagle with the crown on the head, and dozens of lapel badges, including the cheeky new slogan, “I Love the Soviet Union.” A banner had been strung across the shipyard entrance, calling for the establishment of a people’s tribunal to punish “the murderers and thieves of the Polish people.”

By early evening disquieting news began to arrive at the shipyard. A Solidarity representative in the town of Olsztyn, a hundred miles southeast of Gdańsk, phoned to say that ZOMO units had left their barracks in full battle gear. Telex messages reported army movements to the south and west of the city. Phone calls were made to the local militia chief, who told Solidarity
leaders “not to worry.” A large-scale police operation was under way to crack down on crime in the Gdańsk region.

Just before midnight, an aide handed Wałęsa a piece of paper with the news: “All communications by telephone and telex have been cut.”

The Solidarity leader rose to his feet. His face, lit up by the television lights, appeared even more swollen than before. He had what he later described as a “subconscious premonition” of what was about to happen but decided that resistance was pointless.
¹⁶⁷

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have no communications with the outside world. Perhaps they will be restored tomorrow, perhaps not. In connection with this, I wish you good night.”

He stood up, threw his hands up in the air, as if to say, “There’s nothing more I can do,” and strode out of the room.

B
Y THE TIME
W
AŁĘSA REACHED
his apartment on the outskirts of Gdańsk, ZOMO squads were knocking on the doors of known Solidarity supporters all over Poland. If there was no response, they simply smashed the door down. Those detained in Operation X included some of the best-known people in the country: writers, actors, historians, film producers, and academicians, in addition to straightforward union activists. In an attempt to make the roundup seem a little more evenhanded, a handful of former Communist leaders, including Gierek, were also detained. Some of the would-be internees were already dead, an indication that the lists had been drawn up many months previously.

At 2:00 a.m. ZOMO in pale blue battle dress surrounded the Monopol Hotel in Gdańsk, where members of the Solidarity National Commission were staying. All exits were blocked. The police went from room to room, handcuffing Solidarity officials and leading them out into waiting police trucks. Members of the antiterrorist squad in tightly fitting nylon jackets guarded the roof. The twenty-seven-year-old leader of the Warsaw branch of Solidarity, Zbigniew Bujak, observed the scene from across the street. He could not believe his eyes. His first thought was that the government had gone crazy. The whole of Poland would go on strike.
¹⁶⁸

The doorbell rang in Wałęsa’s apartment building in Zaspa at around 3:00 a.m.
¹⁶⁹
The Solidarity leader had gone to bed. His wife, Danuta, looked through the peephole to see the local Communist Party chief, Tadeusz Fiszbach, in the company of the provincial governor and half a dozen policemen with crowbars. A reputed liberal, Fiszbach had been woken a short
time before and ordered to put Wałęsa on a plane to Warsaw for “talks with Jaruzelski.” He seemed upset. At first Wałęsa refused to go. After the governor told him that the ZOMO were ready to take him to Warsaw by force, he packed a few clothes and left. (Wałęsa never did meet with Jaruzelski. After a few weeks in a government villa outside Warsaw, he was taken to a hunting lodge near the Soviet border that had once been the playground of Poland’s “red bourgeoisie.”)

At 6:00 a.m. Jaruzelski appeared on television in full general’s uniform, flanked by the Polish flag. “Our country has found itself at the edge of an abyss,” he declared. “Poland’s future is at stake: the future for which my generation fought.”

In a voice laden with emotion, Jaruzelski accused Solidarity leaders of everything from “acts of terrorism” to economic sabotage. If the present situation were allowed to continue, he declared, the result would be “famine,” “chaos,” and “civil war.” Socialism was the only path possible for Poland. With heavy heart, he announced that a state of war had been imposed on the entire country. A Military Council of National Salvation had been formed to bring the country back from the brink of disaster. Military tribunals were being established to punish anyone acting against the “interests of the state.”

Jaruzelski ended his speech with the first line of the national anthem: “Poland has not perished as long as we live.” As he spoke, the chords of the patriotic mazurka sung by exiled Polish legionnaires following the eighteenth-century partition of their country welled up in the background.

From Jaruzelski’s point of view, the first few days of martial law went astonishingly well. A few Solidarity leaders—Bujak was the most important—managed to go into hiding, but most were arrested. As expected, workers at many large factories attempted to stage occupation strikes. All were broken up with brutal efficiency by the ZOMO, usually under the cover of the nighttime curfew. The Lenin Shipyard, regarded by the entire country as Solidarity’s inner fortress, held out for less than a week. The organizers of the strike had trouble persuading the frightened workers to guard the perimeter of the shipyard, including gate number two. After establishing a psychological advantage, the ZOMO smashed the shipyard wall at several different points and rounded up the protesters.