Turning Back the Clock

By Thomas A. Sancton

"Normalization "seems to mean a return to the practices of 1960

Poland's military bosses call Poznan their model city. While the workers of Gdansk, Warsaw and Katowice resisted, rioting and striking, after martial law was declared on Dec. 13, not a ripple of unrest was reported in the industrial center 175 miles west of the capital. Indeed, Zdzislaw Rozwalak, the leader of the local Solidarity chapter, had promptly furnished the state radio with a statement of support for martial law and condemned the union's behavior. Thus the regime of Wojciech Jaruzelski last week confidently chose Poznan as the showcase site for the first officially organized foreign press trip outside Warsaw since the crackdown began.

But when Rozwalak arrived at the modern Polonez Hotel, he proceeded to recant his earlier statements in the presence of the Western reporters. As the local Communist Party leader and provincial governor looked on crestfallen, the pale and nervous mechanic told the foreigners, "I regret it. I was not aware of what I was doing and acted under duress. I had a choice--freedom or internment."

That embarrassing public disavowal came at an awkward moment for the regime. Not only did it belie government claims that Solidarity's rank and file were disassociating themselves from the alleged excesses of their leaders, it also undercut a carefully orchestrated series of gestures intended to convince the world that all was well after five weeks of martial law.

Over the previous weekend, for example, Polish authorities had ended their censorship of foreign press dispatches. Telephone links were restored within, but not between, major cities. At a Warsaw press conference last week, Deputy Premier Jerzy Ozdowski even expressed vague hopes that martial law might be lifted "tomorrow or by Feb. 1." The skepticism of Western observers seemed to be confirmed at week's end when Government Spokesman Jerzy Urban declared that martial law would last until "all fatal phenomena"--in other words, all opposition--ended.

A key aim of Warsaw's "normalization" campaign, apparently, was to sway Western European opinion and prevent the NATO governments from joining with the U.S. in denouncing martial law and imposing economic sanctions. But as the NATO foreign ministers assembled in Brussels last week, the generals' strategy had clearly failed. It did not take U.S. Secretary of State Alexander Haig's dismissal of the Polish gestures as "phony moderation" to convince the Europeans; their intelligence reports contradicted the rosy announcements from Warsaw.

Haig had come to Brussels determined to prevent an open rift between the U.S. and allies like West Germany, whose initial responses to martial law had been far milder than Washington's. Over and over, Haig warned that NATO must "prevent the failure in the East from becoming a failure of the West." In the end, the allies closed ranks around a compromise that stopped short of adopting U.S.-style sanctions but prepared the way for future punitive action.

The final joint declaration condemned Poland for violating the human rights provisions of the Helsinki accords and deplored "the sustained campaign by the Soviet Union" to crush Polish reform. The allies also agreed to suspend commercial credits to Poland, except for food purchases, and to halt negotiations on the rescheduling of Warsaw's $28.5 billion debt to the West. Beaming with satisfaction, Haig pronounced the Brussels declaration "a solid success."

Another step toward Western unity occurred in Paris, where French President Franc,ois Mitterrand met for three hours with West German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt. The two leaders had some differences to iron out over the Polish question: Mitterrand had consistently taken a strong, anti-Soviet line about the imposition of martial law, while Schmidt had originally been tepid in his criticism, although he took a tougher stand after conferring with President Ronald Reagan two weeks ago. At the end of their meeting, Mitterrand and Schmidt declared that their views were now in harmony.

In Moscow, meanwhile, where Polish Foreign Minister Jozef Czyrek was conferring with his Soviet counterpart Andrei Gromyko, a joint communique denounced the NATO declaration as "an attempt at grossly interfering in the internal affairs of a sovereign state." In a separate commentary, however, the Soviet news agency TASS expressed the hope that disagreements over the Polish question would not compromise the U.S.-Soviet talks in Geneva on limiting intermediate-range nuclear weapons.

Allied governments wasted no time in carrying out the squeeze recommended by NATO. Meeting secretly in Paris late last week, treasury representatives from 16 Western countries decided to suspend all talks on rescheduling of the $3.5 billion due them in 1982. That was bad news for Warsaw. Only a few days earlier, Deputy Premier Janusz Obodowski had declared that Poland needed a yearlong moratorium on all debt payments and a new loan of $350 million. Nor were the latest statistics on the Polish economy encouraging: in 1981 the total value of goods and services produced fell by 14%, while export earnings dropped 15.4%.

Government propaganda is increasingly blaming Poland's economic problems on the U.S. sanctions, at the same time warning that prices for food and other consumer goods could soon rise as much as 400%. Since increases in state-subsidized food prices have sparked three major labor upheavals, Communist authorities were reluctant to raise them again before the crackdown. But martial law, says Deputy Premier Mieczyslaw Rakowski, now provides "an umbrella for conducting necessary economic and social reforms." By the same logic, however, an easing of repression would invite open protest. Admits Rakowski, the onetime party liberal who has become a key figure in the regime (see box): "We cannot lift martial law today or tomorrow. We would just return to the situation before Dec. 13, and this modern polonaise--the strike dance--would start anew."

Jaruzelski had originally hoped to rally worker support by winning the cooperation of moderate union leaders, especially Solidarity Chairman Lech Walesa. But Walesa, who is presumably still being held in a government villa near the capital, continued his refusal to negotiate. Although Spokesman Urban said that Walesa "is such a personality that a place will be found for him in future agreements," some Western analysts believe that the authorities have virtually given up hope that he will cooperate.

The Solidarity underground, meanwhile, continued to issue calls for "passive resistance," but its activities seemed to be tapering off. One newsletter that surfaced in Paris last week listed the locations of prison camps where some 5,937 Solidarity activists and intellectuals rounded up in the crackdown were being held. Union members in Paris also published the text of the loyalty oath that employees were being forced to sign in order to keep their jobs. The pledge stated: "Bearing in mind the fact that . .. Solidarity recently opposed the constitution and government . . . with the aim of undermining the socialist system, I hereby resign from the above-mentioned organization."

That is the sort of pledge that Archbishop Jozef Glemp, the Polish Primate, has publicly denounced as "unethical." Last week Pope John Paul II also attacked Warsaw's coercive use of loyalty oaths in a strongly worded speech from the Vatican. Said he: "The violation of conscience is a serious injury done to man. It is the most pitiful blow inflicted upon human dignity. It is in a certain sense worse than inflicting physical death."

Despite the government's token gestures, and its talk of restoring some of the freedoms won by Solidarity, the regime is not prepared to relax its grip. Says one Western diplomat in Bonn: "Now they prefer that ominous Communist word normalization, and it is growing pretty clear we are returning to a Poland of 20, even 30 years ago."

Signs of repression are everywhere. Personal letters arrive bearing the censor's purple stamp. Telephone callers hear a voice repeating "Rozmowa kontrolowana, "meaning their conversation is being monitored. Major intersections are blocked by military checkpoints. Summary trials continue for workers accused of organizing strikes in defiance of martial law. Some of them have already received jail terms of up to seven years, although five were acquitted after their own factory managers and foremen refuted the prosecutor's charges. Meanwhile, a systematic campaign is under way to discredit intellectuals who supported Solidarity.

Summing up the mood of fear and depression that has gripped the country in the wake of the clampdown, one young Warsaw man said, "There is a lot of talk now among students of a 'lost generation.' We now know that in our lifetime we will not be able to lead a normal life."

One rare Solidarity poster plastered on the wall of a Warsaw train station last week showed Jaruzelski as a blind man, wearing his customary dark glasses and feeling his way along with a white stick. The mocking caption: LEADER, LEAD US. For all its cruel imagery and satirical intent, the drawing is an apt image of the general's predicament. Although he has subdued all overt opposition by force, Jaruzelski is groping his way, amid formidable problems, toward a very uncertain future for Poland. --By Thomas A. Sancton. Reported by Erik Amfitheatrof/Warsaw and Johanna McGeary with Haig

With reporting by Erik Amfitheatrof/Warsaw, Johanna McGeary

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