Beating the King's Police

The Russian Communists have a simple formula for dealing with troublemakers like the Polish workers of Poznan who rioted last June: a monster show trial with ranting charges of espionage, counterrevolution, tame confessions and abject apologies. Confronted with the case of the Poznan rioters, the Polish Communists, enjoying a measure of autonomy for the first time, thought they had a better idea: a free and fair trial to show that their regime had merit. But last week, after eight days of free and fair evidence of life under Communism, the embarrassed Polish Communists began desperately seeking a way to curtail the trials. Poznan and its aftermath were proving to be the most significant of recent events in satelliteland.

More than half the accused, mostly hollow-cheeked young men in their early 20s, withdrew their pretrial confessions.

Under the eyes of a score of correspond ents and legal observers from Western countries they told pitiable tales of misery and desperation (TIME, Oct. 8). But the key manipulators of the trials were the civil defense lawyers who skillfully brought out in evidence everything the Poznan demonstrators had wanted to tell to the world.

The workers' banners had read "Bread and Freedom." Rioters had shouted, "Out with the Russians!", "Down with the government ! " One of the accused had seen Polish soldiers shooting at the U.B. (secret police). Another said he had had no trouble getting arms because the ordinary police turned them over willingly. There was a professor of psychology, called as an expert, who testified that "hatred of the U.B. got out of bounds." Comes the Revolution. Keynoting the Polish civilian attitude to the riots, Defense Lawyer Stanislaw Hejmowski said he was reminded of Delacroix's famous painting -- the one of the French Revolution showing a young woman on the barricades and by her side youths with pistol and rifle. "If the king's police had won the battle, the prosecutor of that time would have dragged these young people into court and called them hooligans and criminal elements. But since the revolution was won, they are national heroes, and their picture has become a symbol of revolution." Hejmowski's meaning was clear: when the "revolution," i.e., Po land's break away from the Russians, is consummated the defendants in the Poznan court might well become heroes.

The most dramatic moments of all came unexpectedly during the testimony of 19-year-old Wladyslaw Caczkowski. He told how he and a gang of youngsters had ridden from one police station to another in a truck, collecting arms. They had driven out into the country to get more arms, and when they found the roads back to Poznan blocked by tanks they sought refuge at a state farm. There, Caczkowski said, "I realized I had done wrong." So he telephoned for police and surrendered himself. When police came "they treated me as though they were in the SS. They beat me and kicked me after I had given myself up."

From the back bench of three rows of prisoners another accused, a 19-year-old charged with attacking a tank and a radio jamming station, jumped up screaming curses at the police. The armed guards tried to pull him down. "Leave me alone, you swine," he shouted. Then from the second row of about 200 spectators a woman began to scream, "Our father died for Poland in 1939. My mother was killed in 1942. And now we are more oppressed than ever." She was Caczkowski's sister.

Fades the Reality. Spectators, judges and lawyers gasped for a moment of horrified silence. "In that moment," cabled TIME Correspondent Flora Lewis, "it seemed as if the wild despair that ranged through Poznan on June 28 had broken through the orderly procedure of the court. In a flash of passion the formal spectacle of the trials faded into unreality. The atmosphere of a city aroused with misery and hatred sprang palpably to life. 'My God,' said a young man, 'is it going to start all over again?' " The court adjourned in commotion, and attendants shouted to clear the room.

Meanwhile, in another courtroom, trial ended for three young men charged with the "bestial murder" of a U.B. cop. The Communists were in a dilemma. If they handed down tough sentences, they risked further rioting. The same problem applied to continuing the other trials. On the other hand, if they put an end to the trials, as some suggested, they would be admitting the bankruptcy of their regime and their inability to control the situation. At week's end, while the Communists pondered their problem, the trials were still droning out their story of Poland's chaotic people's revolution.

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