Back to the Precipice

By Thomas A. Sancton

Workers and government square off in the shadow of Soviet tanks

The factory sirens began to wail at 8 a.m., and for the next four hours all Poland held its breath. In Warsaw, trams and buses draped with red-and-white national flags sat idle in their barns. In Silesia, brawny coal miners folded their arms and refused to descend into the mines. In the Baltic port of Gdansk, where last summer's strikes first launched Poland on its present, breathtakingly dangerous course, shipyard workers laid down their welding torches and rivet guns.

Until noon, the country was at a standstill, as millions of Poles downed their tools in the latest--and perhaps riskiest--confrontation with the Warsaw regime. "We don't want to overthrow the Communist Party," Solidarity Union Leader Lech Walesa told fellow strikers at a Warsaw steel mill. "We only want to get rid of the people who are putting the brakes on Poland's renewal." Specifically, he meant the officials responsible for a police attack two weeks ago on 26 union members in Bydgoszcz. Beyond that, however, Walesa and his comrades were boldly challenging a powerful group of hard-liners in the upper echelons of the Communist hierarchy.

Friday's strike, intended as a warning to the government, was observed by most of Solidarity's 10 million members (who account for nearly one-third of Poland's population). It was the first nationwide work stoppage since Oct. 3 and one of the biggest such actions ever to take place in the Soviet bloc. There were no clashes with police this time, but no one could predict what might happen if the workers carried out their threat to launch an unlimited general strike early this week.

Never, since the outbreak of last summer's labor unrest, had Poland seemed so close to the brink. The union-government dialogue that had repeatedly staved off outright confrontation in recent months was sputtering. Party Boss Stanislaw Kania branded the union challenge "an invitation to suicide." Fears rose that the government might impose martial law, especially if the hard-line faction in the Central Committee took over.

As Poland's government and workers squared off once again, the Soviet Union broke an ominous silence on the Polish question with some even more ominous warnings. In a sizzling attack on "anti-socialist forces within Solidarity," TASS called the general strike threat "a declaration of war." Similar charges echoed throughout the East bloc. Noted a senior Western diplomat in Moscow: "It looks like a collision course, and the Soviets are urging the Polish government not to shrink from it."

Moscow's tough talk was backed up by extensive Warsaw Pact maneuvers in and around Poland. The war games, originally scheduled to end last week, were prolonged indefinitely. Lengthy nightly television reports gave Poles a chilling view of amphibious landings, mock tank battles and simulated aerial assaults. Warsaw Pact maneuvers had preceded the 1968 invasion of Czechoslovakia; the message was not lost on the Poles.

Mounting fears of Soviet intervention prompted the Reagan Administration late last week to issue its stiffest warning yet on the Polish situation. A day after the leaders of the ten European Community nations had warned against outside interference, the White House declared that "any external intervention in Poland, or any measures aimed at suppressing the Polish people. . . could have a grave effect on the whole course of East-West relations." To underline Washington's concern, Secretary of State Alexander Haig later described events in Poland as "very bad, very dangerous."

The U.S. and its NATO allies had, meanwhile, held intensive consultations on possible countermeasures; indeed, French Foreign Minister Jean Franc,ois-Poncet reiterated that the Western allies had already agreed on a precise plan. Political and economic sanctions would almost certainly be imposed. In the view of U.S. Defense Secretary Caspar Weinberger, Soviet intervention would "effectively end any possibility of talks" with Moscow, including the negotiations on arms limitations that the Soviets seem to want.

Most Western analysts, however, doubted that the Soviets would intervene directly, except as a last resort. If the Kremlin did decide on an armed response, it would probably rely first on Polish security units. If that effort failed, the Soviets might ultimately be forced to move in. Observed a top State Department official: "If there is a major crackdown internally, I think there would be fighting, and if there was fighting, you know what comes next."

The new conflagration was sparked by a seemingly minor incident in the northwestern city of Bydgoszcz. The trouble started on March 19, when some 200 policemen forcibly evicted Solidarity members from a provincial assembly hall for no apparent reason. According to the union, 26 of its members were beaten during the incident; three were hospitalized, including Jan Rulewski, leader of the local Solidarity chapter.

Solidarity chapters threatened immediate wildcat strikes. Posters and graffiti denouncing the beatings appeared across the country. The union demanded that those responsible be dismissed from their jobs. Most union members were convinced that the government, possibly egged on by Moscow, had ordered the beatings to force a showdown with the union. Said a Solidarity official in Bydgoszcz: "It was meant as a provocation to provide an excuse for action against the union." Many foreign analysts concurred. Said a Kremlinologist in the French foreign ministry: "We have no doubt that Bydgoszcz was a deliberate provocation."

No one was blaming Premier Wojciech Jaruzelski for the incident. On taking office last month, the Soviet-trained general pleaded for "90 days of calm" and then consistently worked for accommodation with the unions. "There is trust in him and his uniform," Walesa told the strikers last week. "Jaruzelski is a good man," said a Warsaw taxi driver. "No known girlfriends. No dacha. No money stashed away. Not like others who are not as equal as they pretend."

The culprits, it appeared, were part of an inflexible clique within the Central Committee, led by Stefan Olszowski and Tadeusz Grabski, that was anxious to destroy the union and protect its own privileges. A showdown seemed inevitable with such pragmatists as Kania and Jaruzelski.

Whoever was behind the Bydgoszcz incident, the government initially refused to back down. It claimed that the police had acted "correctly" and denied that any beatings had taken place. When Solidarity kept up the pressure, the government launched a higher-level investigation under Justice Minister Jerzy Bafia, perhaps in the hope that his report might open the way for a face-saving accommodation. But the government still showed little desire for compromise. After an emergency meeting early last week, Warsaw's ruling Politburo accused Solidarity of usurping political power and "creating a state of anarchy."

Walesa seemed like anything but an anarchist as he struggled to contain an increasingly volatile situation. On Sunday he met for five hours of inconclusive talks with Deputy Premier Mieczyslaw Rakowski, the government's chief labor negotiator, then persuaded several local Solidarity chapters to postpone planned warning strikes.

But the members of Solidarity's national commission were in no mood for moderation when they arrived in Bydgoszcz on Monday to frame their response to the police attacks. With hundreds of Polish national flags fluttering from windows, the city seemed to be draped in militant garb. On the facade of a building a few paces away from the site of the beatings, red paint spelled out the word bestiality. Near an arched footbridge, some 500 people stood quietly in the drizzle listening to a loudspeaker transmission of the union proceedings.

The crucial meeting began at 4 p.m. in the wood-paneled auditorium of a workingmen's club. From the outset, there were angry calls for an immediate general strike. Seeking to create room for compromise, Walesa countered with a more moderate three-point proposal. It called for renewed talks with Rakowski, a four-hour warning strike on Friday, and an all-out general strike four days later if the government did not dismiss the officials responsible for the police raid. The measure passed at 2 a.m., after hours of heated and often chaotic debate. When some militants unexpectedly called for a recount, Walesa threw up his hands in exasperation and shouted: "My wife and children are sick. I am leaving the conference!" With that the walrus-mustached electrician stalked out of the hall. The meeting broke up in disarray.

When the conference resumed the next morning, Walesa was not there. Instead he sent a terse statement that he would not return unless his proposal was adopted--in effect, a threat to quit the union leadership if he did not get his way. His proposal passed by an overwhelming majority, but the delegates then tacked on a cluster of new demands. Among them: the union's right to reply to criticism through official press and broadcasting channels, legalization of an independent farmers' union, and dismissal of all charges against people involved in political opposition between 1976 and 1980.

In addition, local chapters were instructed to move their headquarters into major factory compounds in preparation for a general strike. Walesa was named to head a ten-man "strike command" committee that would operate from the Gdansk shipyard where last summer's labor revolt had begun. Finally, in an obvious reference to the intimidating Warsaw Pact troop maneuvers, the union issued a pledge not to "jeopardize law and order or Poland's foreign alliances."

Still playing it tough --perhaps to appease the Kremlin--the government responded with a volley of menacing statements. Pointing to the country's desperate economic plight, Kania angrily demanded: "Who has the boldness to turn a local incident into a national affair threatening catastrophe?"

No one could dispute Kania's claim that the economy was in dire straits. With a $27 billion foreign debt, runaway inflation and falling production, Poland was on the verge of economic collapse. Panic buying aggravated an already critical food shortage; practically nothing was available except beans and vinegar. New rationing measures seemed imminent when the government announced that it had only twelve days of food supplies left. Both the U.S. and the European Community offered to send foodstuffs and financial aid; the announcements were obviously timed to encourage a peaceful resolution of the latest crisis.

Hope of averting a catastrophe seemed to depend on Walesa's continuing talks with Rakowski. When the Solidarity leader arrived at Warsaw's Council of Ministers building for Wednesday's meeting, supporters hoisted him on their shoulders and chanted his nickname: "Leszek! Leszek!" Barely 85 minutes later, when Walesa emerged, there was nothing to cheer about: there had been no progress. "The government," he explained, "had no proposal in relation to our demands."

Tension rose even higher the following day after scheduled union-government talks were postponed, making Friday's "warning strike" inevitable. The announcement stunned a crowd that had gathered before the Council of Ministers building. Said one bystander: "That's impossible. They must talk as quickly as possible."

Talks did resume Friday, hours after the strike had ended, but the four-hour session again produced little progress. Justice Minister Bafia read his final report on the Bydgoszcz incident. It recommended punishment of the guilty parties but failed to name those responsible. Solidarity leaders expressed some satisfaction at the report, though they noted that nothing had been done about the union's other demands. Time was running out.

With the official negotiations apparently bogged down, mediation efforts got under way behind the scenes to avert an explosive showdown. Jaruzelski met with Poland's Roman Catholic Primate, Stefan Cardinal Wyszynski, to enlist his help. Church officials and intellectuals reportedly proposed a compromise plan: to turn over the Bydgoszcz investigation to a special parliamentary committee and to grant the farmers a "chamber of agriculture" rather than a union. The remaining demands would be shelved until the crisis passed. The party leadership reportedly rejected the proposal.

At week's end mediation efforts and formal talks were still going on, and hope for some breakthrough continued to flicker. But the outlook was grim. Observed Poland Expert Adam Bromke, a political science professor at Ontario's McMaster University: "The whole thing has the makings of a Greek tragedy. All the actors know they are heading for disaster. But they appear to be under a spell they cannot break."

--By Thomas A. Sancton

Reported by Richard Hornik/West Berlin and Gregory H. Wierzynski/Washington

With reporting by Richard Hornik/West Berlin, Gregory H Wierzynski/Washington

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