Poland's Angry Workers

By Thomas A. Sancton

Protests over food shortages and demands for rights shake the Gierek regime

If Marx were alive to see it, he would not believe his eyes." So

said a prominent Polish emigre in London last week. Indeed, the father of modern Communism would have been astounded by the spectacle: a socialist country whose ports, factories and mills were crippled by an industrial revolt of its own angry workers; a Communist Party leader abjectly confessing his regime's economic failure and dependence on capitalist banking consortiums for lifesaving loans. Most incredible of all to the man who contemptuously dismissed religion as "the opiate of the people" would have

been the sight of thousands of strikers and their families kneeling at the gates of a shipyard, praying and singing hymns before the flower-bedecked portrait of a Polish Pope.

Warsaw's leaders were hardly less bewildered themselves last week as a strike by shipyard workers in the Baltic port of Gdansk spread to about 400 factories and enterprises along the northern seacoast and affected key industrial centers in the south. By week's end an estimated 150,000 workers had walked off the job, and there were rumors that Warsaw would be hit by a paralyzing general strike. In an apparent attempt to head off that prospect, the government relented on its earlier refusal to deal with the strike leaders and sent a deputy premier to meet with them at their main center of Gdansk. Though initial talks dealt only with the ground rules for a possible negotiation, they were cheered by picketing workers as a significant gesture of recognition. Meanwhile, in a letter to national church authorities, Poland's own Pope John Paul II expressed his concern over what he called his country's "arduous struggle for daily bread and social justice." Poland's Communist government was thus confronted with its most serious threat since the food-price riots that toppled Party Leader Wladyslaw Gomulka in 1970.

As they had done ten years ago, and again in 1976, the rebellious Polish workers were demanding higher pay and lower food prices. But this time, the strikers went far beyond those bread-and-butter issues by insisting on a number of sweeping political reforms. Among them: free labor unions that would have the legal right to strike, the abolition of censorship, and freedom for all political prisoners. In effect, they were asking for the unthinkable: that the Communist Party in a Communist state give up its monopoly of power.

The workers' bold challenge raised grave questions that went far beyond Poland's borders. What effect might the turmoil have on other Soviet satellites in Eastern Europe? Might Moscow's own dominoes begin to topple? Would the Soviets, despite their entanglement in Afghanistan, send tanks rolling into Warsaw, as they did into rebellious Budapest in 1956 and Prague twelve years later? If so, how could the West--and particularly the U.S.--respond?

The mounting wave of labor unrest started eight weeks ago with a series of scattered strikes protesting a sudden rise in meat prices, which have been kept artificially low by costly government subsidies. Shunning the brutal crackdown that had caused Gomulka's downfall, the government of Party Boss Edward Gierek had already granted some $117 million to other strikers during the first wave of protest. It refused, however, to roll back the price of meat. The situation took a dramatic turn two weeks ago, when 16,000 employees of the Lenin Shipyard in Gdansk suddenly walked off the job and seized control of the sprawling complex. They were soon joined by city bus drivers and workers at 17 nearby factories and enterprises, virtually shutting down the country's major Baltic seaport.

Two days later, the shipyard's strike committee accepted a $50-per-month pay raise and agreed to return to work; the increase would have raised a typical shipyard worker's monthly pay to $385, more than twice the national average of $172 for other industries, in fact. But the decision was overturned by the rank-and-file, who refused to "betray the other strikers." In an abrupt about-face, Strike Leader Lech Walesa, a 37-year-old electrician, told shipyard workers: "We must fight alongside them until the end."

The mood of defiance quickly broadened. Fresh strikes erupted in the neighboring ports of Gdynia and Sopot, spreading from there to the major shipbuilding center of Szczecin, near the East German border, and to the industrial city of Elblag, only 30 miles from the Soviet Union.

Work stoppages also broke out at the massive Nowa Huta steel complex, near Cracow. There were even reports of strike activity in the mining region of Silesia, Gierek's birthplace and political stronghold. At the Gdansk shipyard, which remained the nerve center of the Baltic upheaval, workers set up a central committee that claimed to represent the striking factories and enterprises along the coast.

Returning from a two-week trip to the Soviet Union, Gierek tried desperately to defuse the suddenly explosive situation. He canceled a scheduled summit meeting with West German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt,* and sent a task force to negotiate with the strikers in Gdansk. But the regime shrewdly insisted on talking to workers from individual factories, rejecting any dealings with the Interfactory Strike Committee based at the Lenin Shipyard. "They do not represent the workers," explained a Polish government spokesman in Warsaw. Added a party official in Gdansk: "We want each factory to settle individually."

The government team made little headway; in a tacit admission of failure, Gierek abruptly replaced Tadeusz Pyka as chief negotiator with Deputy Premier Mieczyslaw Jagielski, a seasoned and effective bargainer. It was Jagielski who ultimately abandoned the divide-and-conquer approach, and met personally with a Strike Committee delegation--to the cheers of the picketing workers.

Apart from flying and trucking reinforcements into the Baltic area, Gierek made no show of armed force. Instead, he appealed for reason and moderation in a 25-minute radio and television address to the nation. He made it clear that many of the strikers' demands were unacceptable. "Strikes will not change things for the better," Gierek said. "They only multiply difficulties." With characteristic frankness, the former miner admitted to "mistakes in economic policy" and a "lack of progress in the organization of production and the life of the community." He promised reforms, such as higher pay, increased meat supplies, more decentralization and less bureaucracy. Said he: "We understand the tiredness and impatience of the working people over the troubles of everyday life." But Gierek continued on a tough and realistic note that evoked the specter of Soviet intervention should the workers push their demands too far. "Any actions aimed at the foundation of the political and social order in Poland cannot and will not be tolerated,'' he said. "Only a socialist Poland can be a free and independent state with inviolable borders. There are certain limits beyond which we must not go." Gierek noted that "only people of ill will fail to see this." Such people, he warned, were "anarchic, antisocialist groups" attempting to use the strikes for political ends.

In addition to the strike leaders, Gierek was obviously referring to Poland's active dissident movement, spearheaded by the Committee for Social Self-Defense (known by the acronym KOR). Established after the 1976 riots to defend workers against official harassment, KOR has developed into the strongest dissident group in the Soviet bloc. Taking advantage of a relatively tolerant government attitude, it publishes several underground journals and is a sponsor of the underground "flying university" lecture series.

One significant aspect of the present strike movement, in contrast to earlier protests, has been the success of the dissident intellectuals at forging links with the workers and winning their support even for abstract issues such as freedom of expression and human rights. KOR is believed to be largely responsible for framing the strikers' boldest political demands; it has also provided Western reporters with detailed information on the numbers of workers and factories affected by the strikes.

Many KOR leaders, like Sociologist Jacek Kuron, are former Marxist intellectuals who oppose the present police state and call instead for a more democratic, decentralized brand of socialism. An advocate of organized resistance rather than violence, Kuron nonetheless warned in the West German newspaper Die Welt last week: "The way things are going now, sooner or later there will be an explosion, the consequences of which will be a national tragedy."

The dissidents' pronouncements and activities finally brought on a government crackdown. Two days after Gierek had publicly castigated them, 19 dissidents were arrested, including Kuron and some fellow KOR members who were staying in his Warsaw apartment. Next day, the authorities seized several other dissidents; among them was Leszek Moczulski, leader of the Confederation for an Independent Poland. Under Polish law the dissidents can be detained for 48 hours without formal charges. At week's end five were released, but others will probably be held longer. The regime seems bent on isolating the workers from the antigovernment intellectuals.

Neither the arrests nor Gierek's appeals to reason appeared to bring the strikes any closer to a settlement. In the grimy, red-brick conference hall of Lenin Shipyard, Gierek's speech was greeted with derision. "He said nothing new at all," said a dockworker from Gdynia. "He talked to us as if we were children." Many workers ignored the speech entirely, basking shirtless in the sun and playing cards during the live broadcast.

Nor were the workers budged by a government propaganda campaign that stressed huge economic losses caused by the strikes. Seeking to erode popular support for the workers, the state television claimed that the strikes were costing millions of dollars a day and that needed food supplies were rotting in the holds of ships stacked up in Gdansk Harbor. Throughout the affected region, the lines at grocery stores grew ever longer as scarce supplies disappeared from the shelves. Said one of the members of the Gdansk Strike Committee: "We are aware of the economic losses. We promise to make up for them after our demands are met."

Unfortunately, Poland's economic problems seem to be well beyond the power of workers or government to repair in the near future. They are the result of 33 years of Communist bungling and a decade of misfortune and miscalculation by Gierek's government. He had inherited a chaotic agricultural system and an inefficient industrial base that produced chronic shortages of foodstuffs and consumer goods. His solution was a rapid modernization of industry that was intended to produce hard-currency-earning exports and enable the government to import more food and goods from the West.

The game plan did not work. Poland borrowed heavily abroad to import needed Western technology. The debts were supposed" to be paid by re-exporting finished goods, but production was hampered by mismanagement, and foreign markets were reduced by the Western recession of the mid-1970s. Spiraling bills for imported oil, 80% of which comes from the Soviet Union, presented yet another problem. Moscow's preferential price, though well below OPEC rates, has risen sharply since 1974. Poland must therefore divert more exports to the Soviet Union instead of selling them for hard Western currency. The result: a staggering foreign debt of more than $19 billion.

Five years of bad weather and poor harvests have taken their toll in the agricultural sector. But Poland's main problem--unique among the Soviet satellites --is that about 70% of its farm land remains in private hands. Individual farmers complain that the government discriminates against them, giving most of the fertilizer, fodder and credits for machinery to state-run farms. Some experts believe the peasants' endemic distrust of the government makes it impossible to institute a rational farm policy.

One way to increase production would be to pay the farmers higher prices. That would mean raising food costs, which is precisely what led to the disturbances in 1970 and 1976, as well as the present labor unrest. Until now, the government has skirted the problem by paying some 40% of its annual budget in price subsidies. But the Gierek regime, no longer able to bear that burden, suddenly reduced its subsidies last month, allowing the price of meat to rise sharply. As one Western economist told TIME Eastern Europe Correspondent Barry Kalb: "They need to increase prices to reduce demand and enable them to pay the peasants more. But it's become such a sensitive issue that the government cannot act."

Meanwhile a government decision to export large quantities of meat--a ready hard-currency earner on the world market--produced domestic shortages. What made economic sense on paper proved to be singularly unpopular in an East bloc country that had become accustomed to a relatively high rate of meat consumption (79 kg per person in 1978). Current shortages of meat have become a focal point of popular discontent as well as the butt of a spate of grim jokes. Sample: "Why must butchershops be 1 km apart? To keep the lines in front from getting tangled."

Meat is only one of the countless consumer products--from thread to auto parts--that are chronically running short in Poland. The explanation is a familiar one in the Communist world--rigidly centralized planning. One result has been the development of a thriving black market. Another is a growing bitterness toward a regime that grandly promised more and delivered less. As one young Gdansk worker put it last week: "For years we were promised paradise. We have had only misery."

Some temporary economic help is coming to Poland in the form of foreign loans, even though international bankers now consider the debt-burdened country a considerable credit risk. Last week a consortium of international banks, with the Bank of America serving as agent, formally signed a $325 million loan agreement with the Warsaw government; significantly, the figure was $175 million less than Poland had originally asked for. Another loan, for $672 million by 25 West German banks, was approved two weeks ago despite the insistence of Opposition Leader Franz Josef Strauss that financial assistance should not be granted unless Gierek met the workers' demands.

Economics do not fully explain the nature of the workers' protest. Other East bloc countries face problems that are as bad or worse. One key factor is the Polish character: the Poles are a romantic people imbued with an intense nationalism. "The Polish cavalry fought German Panzers with drawn sabers during World War II," notes a West German foreign ministry expert. "It was heroic, it was patriotic, it was desperate. Those have been Polish characteristics, sharpened by history, throughout the centuries."

Another current of the Polish character that has fed the recent protests is a deeply rooted faith. Poland's identification with the Catholic Church dates back to the baptism of its first ruler, Prince Mieszko I, in 966. Today, some 75% to 80% of Poland's 35 million people are practicing Catholics, despite the state's official atheistic ideology. An enduring stronghold through almost two centuries of foreign domination, the church remains a symbol both of Polish nationalism and antiCommunism. In several recent sermons, Stefan Cardinal Wyszynski of Warsaw, the country's politically sophisticated Primate, expressed sympathy for the protests over shortages. Last week Archbishop Lech Kaczmarek of Gdansk, with the Cardinal's blessing, stated publicly that the church understood the aims of the striking workers, "who are striving to improve their lot, both in material terms as well as others, such as respect for human rights." The Archbishop also cautioned the strikers that "prolonged stoppages, possible disturbances and fraternal bloodshedding are against the good of the society."

Nothing symbolized the strikers' militant faith better than the shrine they created at a fence enclosing the Lenin Shipyard. Its iron grillwork was ornamented with pictures of the Virgin Mary and color portraits of the Pope, the former Cardinal-Archbishop of Cracow. The shrines were decorated with flowers brought or sent by sympathizers throughout the country. A short distance away, workers had erected a wooden cross in memory of those killed by Gomulka's troops during the 1970 riots. At one point, thousands of blue-clad workers and their families gathered at the gate, prayed together and sang the stirring national hymn Oh God, Who Has Defended Poland. At the Vatican, meanwhile, the Pope broke his silence on the crisis by reciting two traditional prayers for his motherland and telling 900 Polish visitors, "We in Rome are united with our fellow countrymen in Poland."

Polish history is also marked by an endemic rebelliousness; the upheavals of 1956, 1970 and 1976 are only the more recent examples. Poland quivered with revolutionary fervor throughout the 19th century, struggling to throw off the yoke of foreign domination and applauding the periodic uprisings of its European neighbors. As Marx put it: "Poland is the 'foreign' thermometer of the intensity and vitality of all revolutions since 1789." The mercury in the Polish thermometer did not go down after the Communists consolidated their postwar takeover in 1947.

Quite the contrary, the installation of a Soviet-backed regime in Warsaw rubbed against the grain of another deep-rooted national trait: an almost visceral anti-Russian sentiment that Poles have harbored for centuries. That enmity was inflamed when Catherine the Great swallowed up part of the country in the First Partition of Poland in 1772. Two subsequent partitions put more than half of Poland under Russian domination, feeding nationalistic passions that sparked major antitsarist revolts in the 19th century.

The historic bitterness toward Moscow was hardly diminished by the Bolsheviks' brief but bloody war with newly independent Poland in 1920. Nor did passions cool when the U.S.S.R. and Nazi Germany invaded the helpless country in 1939, and when the Soviets subsequently massacred more than 4,000 Polish army officers at Katyn Forest in 1940. Echoing the long hatred for Poland's rapacious eastern neighbor, the KOR dissidents last year issued a lengthy report denouncing "the crimes of genocide committed by the Soviet authorities" against Poland.

No one is more aware of those sentiments than the current Kremlin leaders, who are now confronted with a workers' revolt that challenges not just Gierek's regime but also the Communist system imposed on Poland by Moscow. Despite the ominous precedents of Prague and Budapest, Soviet leaders so far appear reluctant to get directly involved. Reports one Western diplomat in Moscow:

"They're embarrassed. They're wringing their hands. But there's not much chance they're going to send in the tanks."

Most U.S. experts agree that the Soviet leaders are unlikely to use force at this time--especially with the vexing military quagmire in Afghanistan to worry about. "It's not their style to get involved in two places at once unless it is absolutely necessary," says Eastern European Specialist Vojtech Mastny of Johns Hopkins University. Adds Kremlinologist Dmitri Simes, also of Johns Hopkins: "The Soviets would have everything to lose and nothing but problems to gain. Invading Poland would be a desperate solution." An editor of a dissident publication in Poland puts it more bluntly: "They wouldn't dare. If they did, there would be a bloodbath such as you've never seen."

Nonetheless, there is little doubt that the Soviets .would move quickly if they felt that Gierek's regime faced imminent collapse or if the peaceful strikes degenerated into violence that Poland's own security forces could not control. If riots do occur, Western experts speculate that Gierek would first use regular police against the strikers. If that failed, the government might then bring in the militia --tough, well-trained security forces that are distinct from the regular military and were used to quell the 1970 riots. Bringing in the Polish army would present a problem, since conscript soldiers might well sympathize with the workers.

If, as a last resort, the Warsaw government had to call on Moscow for armed backing, the Soviets' logistical problems would be minimal. They currently have two tank divisions--consisting of about 35,000 men and 650 tanks--stationed in

Poland. While there have been no unusual troop movements so far, the Soviets have been gathering units for several weeks in western areas, preparing part of the U.S.S.R. for regular Warsaw Pact maneuvers in East Germany next month. The mobilized Soviet units will probably transit through Poland and could quickly be thrown into action if necessary.

Moscow has given only scant news coverage to what it euphemistically termed the Polish "work stoppages." A report by the TASS news agency stressed Gierek's warning that "action against political and public order cannot and will not be tolerated in Poland." In a revival of an old cold-war tactic, the Soviets last week resumed the jamming of Western radio broadcasts, apparently because of the wide play being given to Polish events.

What Moscow does next clearly depends on Gierek's own success in dealing with the situation. U.S. officials believe that he has been given a mandate to negotiate an economic settlement with the workers and that he still enjoys the Kremlin's confidence. The crucial question: How much will the Soviets let Gierek negotiate away? The Soviets apparently approve Gierek's goal of trying to defuse the workers' political demands with offers of cash, and may well kick in some financial aid to bail Gierek out.

It is more difficult to calculate Moscow's tolerance of reform. Without fundamentally violating Communist orthodoxy, some experts believe, Gierek might be able to promise a degree of worker participation in decision-making on the factory level. Kremlinologist Simes feels that certain concessions could safely be made in the area of labor organization--free trade unions at the shop level, for example, but no factory-or industry-wide unions. No matter the forms, stresses Eastern Europe Scholar Mastny, "Gierek must be able to reassert the political monopoly of the Communist Party."

One reassuring sign was the manifest desire on both sides to avoid a violent confrontation. Gierek well knows the danger of using force. In 1970, his predecessor used force against the rioting Gdansk workers. Dozens died in the clashes, and Gomulka was finally forced out. Confronted with similar food-price riots in 1976, Gierek wisely backed down on prices rather than resort to massive force. So far, there is no indication that he intends to reverse that policy.

The workers, too, learned some lessons. Heeding Kuron's advice to organize peacefully rather than riot, the Gdansk strikers have established a remarkable degree of order and discipline. "After seeing protesters elsewhere shaking their fists and screaming, this is soul-rending," remarked a West German tourist last week, as she contemplated the eerie calm hanging over Lenin Shipyard. "Nobody is misbehaving," said a square-set foreman, puffing on a cigarette. "This is no time for fun. We're all in this together."

At night, the workers pushed back benches in the factory's conference rooms and slept on cafeteria chairs or on the floor. The drawn faces of the strikers showed the exhaustion and strain. Their families continued their pilgrimage to the factory gates, handing them food, giving them encouragement. Priests visited them daily to celebrate Mass in the open air and hear confessions. "We are not a mob, not the antisocialist element the government is blaming," insisted a woman shipyard welder. "We are workers involved in peaceful protest. We only want the basics: freedom, enough to eat, enough to live on."

Washington policymakers looked on the Polish events with a mixture of sympathetic concern and apprehension. The Carter Administration--clearly aware of the potential reaction of millions of Polish Americans--said as little as possible about the crisis last week. At a regular Monday press briefing, State Department Deputy Spokesman David Passage blandly declared the strikes "a matter for the Polish people and Polish authorities to work out." That point was also made in identical language by Secretary of State Edmund Muskie, a Polish American, a few days later. Both Muskie and Passage expressed official "concern" for the arrested dissidents. At week's end President Carter told the Boston Globe that "we hope, and I might say expect, that there will be no further Soviet involvement in Polish affairs." Carter added: "But I can't predict that for sure."

Explaining the reasoning behind Washington's cautious reaction, one State Department official told TIME: "We do not want to give the Soviets or the Polish authorities the slightest pretext for harsh action. It could be very dangerous for everyone, especially the Polish people, if the strike leaders were emboldened by suggestions of U.S. support." That policy rests on a frustrating, but inescapable fact: the U.S. has no realistic option for responding to a Soviet military action in Poland. "We have seen many of these situations since World War II," says a Government analyst, "and no Administration has been able to do anything in the way of an effective response." America's European allies were equally circumspect. As a West German Chancellery official told TIME Bonn Bureau Chief William Mader: "It's a cruel world. Our sympathy is fully with the strikers, but we must be realistic."

One prominent American who did not mince his words last week was AFL-CIO President Lane Kirkland. Declared the powerful labor leader: "Poland is on strike. They are our brothers." Within hours of that fraternal statement, International Longshoremen's Association President Thomas (Teddy) Gleason announced that his 80,000 members, who control all the docks on the East and Gulf Coasts, would refuse to load or unload any ships going to or coming from Poland. Gleason and Kirkland said they would soon contact international labor groups, particularly in Europe, in an attempt to organize a free-world boycott of Polish goods. Ironically the boycott effort threatened to inflict new damage on Poland's already reeling economy--and further reduce Gierek's ability to give workers the material benefits they crave.

Whether Gierek could find a peaceful way out of the impasse, or whether it would all end in bloodshed and the rumble of Soviet tanks, one fact had clearly emerged from the angry cry of Poland's workers: 33 years of Communist rule had failed to crush the independent spirit of the Polish people. The Gdansk workers had also given the world fresh, moving proof that even in a repressive Communist society, people will take sizable risks to express their political will. The strikers further showed that no ideology can win a people's loyalty if it fails to satisfy their expectations for a decent life. "The government says this is a worker-state, where everything belongs to the worker," said one Polish strike leader last week. "Rubbish. It's just fiction. We don't want to run the government. We just want a decent life." --By Thomas A. Sancton

* Losing his second summit in one week, Schmidt also postponed a meeting with East German Party Boss Erich Honecker. Reason: the recent "developments in Europe."

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