"The Ideals of Solidarity Remain"

"The Ideals of Solidarity Remain

Life under martial law: hard times and disillusion

One year ago this week, Poles were still adjusting to the rigors of martial law. They could not travel, make telephone calls or receive uncensored mail. More than 5,000 people were interned, the independent Solidarity union was suspended and its leader, Lech Walesa, was being held at a government complex outside Warsaw. During twelve months of martial law, General Wojciech Jaruzelski has succeeded beyond most people's expectations in crushing the overt opposition to Communist rule in Poland. As a sign of its self-confidence, the government last week announced that it was releasing all but seven of the estimated 200 people who were still being held under martial law. But Jaruzelski had also hoped to persuade a majority of Poles that martial law would pave the way to a better life through a process of gradual reform. To assess how martial law has affected the lives of individual Poles today, TIME Eastern Europe Bureau Chief Richard Hornik spent some time with a farmer, an intellectual and a factory worker. He reports:

Miroslaw Macierzynski, 30, is a farmer in a village 45 miles south of Warsaw. On his twelve-acre farm he grows potatoes, wheat and fodder for his three milk cows and two plow horses. He would rather move to the city and get a job as a mason, but his wife Ewa thinks the country life is better for their two sons.

Although the government has raised food prices by up to 400%, Miroslaw has seen little of that increase. Says he: "I sell the state my milk because otherwise it would spoil." But even with the money they have, things are difficult because village stores are poorly supplied. Says Miroslaw: "There are no shoes for my boys or tools for my farm. When I was young, I believed that if you worked hard you could do anything. Now I am disillusioned."

Under martial law, farmers were supposed to receive coupons giving them special access to such essential goods as coal. But, like many reforms, that has not worked. Says Miroslaw: "I have coupons for 1,500 lbs. of coal, but I still have not got any, and winter is just beginning." Miroslaw thinks that farmers and workers may now cooperate more. One way is through barter: "Miners bring their coal and trade it for our potatoes. We want to be as independent of the state as we possibly can. Unfortunately, we cannot make our village into an independent republic."

Like most Poles, he believes that the only thing martial law accomplished was to crush Solidarity. In his village it was hard to see any evidence of a "state of war," Jaruzelski's term for martial law. Says Miroslaw: "Here you do not really sense martial law. We did not have tanks or soldiers warming themselves by roadside fires. And a curfew in a village is ridiculous. Who could enforce it?"

Miroslaw has not seen much change among his countrymen either. "Deep down in people's hearts the ideals of Solidarity remain," he says. "They cannot be suppressed for too long, and when the occasion comes they will rise up again."

Maciej Wierzynski, 45, was one of Poland's leading television personalities, the host of Studio Two, a popular Saturday-night mix of entertainment and conversation. Now, as he drives around Warsaw in his battered 1979 Zastawa, he is the city's best-known taxi driver.

On the morning of Dec. 13, 1981, Maciej turned on his radio to hear the announcement that martial law had been imposed. Within hours he, his pregnant wife Ewa and their son Grzegorz, 3, had moved to a relative's apartment. As an official of the Liberal Polish Journalists' Association, Maciej quickly realized that he was a candidate for internment. The police never came, even after the family returned to its own apartment following the birth of their second son. A few weeks later, while being interrogated during the "verification," or purge, of Polish television, one official even hinted that he could have his old job back. But Maciej and Ewa, 32, a feature writer for the respected weekly Kultura, had already decided that they were no longer interested in being journalists in Poland. Both of them had worked through the 1970s writing pieces filled with allusions and double meanings, trying to slip some truth past the censor. The 16 months of Solidarity's existence had been an exhilirating journalistic experience. Says Maciej: "It's hard for me to imagine working again like before August 1980."

Driving a taxi is a tough and demanding job, but, he says, "my car was the only investment I had." By working seven days a week, Maciej manages to equal his previous salary of roughly 24,000 zlotys ($279) a month. Ewa still receives maternity-leave benefits, and family members in the West help as well. The price increases of the past year make it difficult to maintain their previous standard of living. But, as Ewa says, "there really isn't anything to buy anyway."

Still, there are psychological rewards. Total strangers who see Maciej driving his cab come up to him and congratulate him for not collaborating with the regime. Former colleagues who have stayed in journalism try to excuse themselves by saying that they are working to change the system from within. "It is really rather pathetic," says Ewa, "because in the next breath they add that they have to do it to support their families." Nonetheless, Maciej and Ewa stress that neither of them feels morally superior because of the choice they have made.

The Solidarity era had offered some prospect of a better future. Says Ewa: "I would not have had another child if I hadn't thought there was reason for hope." The couple named their baby Lech.

Eugeniusz, 36, was a Solidarity member in a textile factory in Lodz, 85 miles southwest of Warsaw. Although he was not a union leader, the factory management tried to fire him last March because he would speak out against the plant's shoddy management. Eugeniusz, who does not want his last name to be used, kept his job thanks to a successful appeal, but the experience chastened him. "Everyone is unhappy with the situation here, but they remain silent because of fear," he says. "How can there be any kind of reform when people cannot speak out and the authorities will not listen?"

As in most Polish families, Eugeniusz's wife Grazyna, 30, also works. The 7,500 zlotys ($87 at the official rate) she earns each month as a supervisor in a warehouse, together with the 9,500 zlotys ($110) he brings home from his job as a foreman at the textile plant, barely enable them to make ends meet. Because of the price increases that followed the imposition of martial law, Grazyna says, "it is very hard to get from the first of the month to the first of the next one. We have not bought any clothes at all this year, and to live we must dip into our savings."

Eugeniusz and Grazyna live with their son Mariusz, 10, in a one-room apartment in a 50-year-old building. They must share the bathroom, which is down the hall, with other tenants on their floor. Yet they consider themselves fortunate. Says Grazyna: "In the '70s, when we got married, it was still possible to buy furniture and appliances. I really admire any young couple starting off now. They have nothing, and no hope of any improvement."

Grazyna usually leaves work at 3:30 p.m. She spends the next three hours standing in lines for everything from meat to fresh bread and sweets for her son. The family is entitled to about 16 lbs. of meat a month, and much of that is low-quality cuts or sausage. During the week, dinner consists of soup or eggs. Says Grazyna: "We save the real meat for the weekend."

Although the government continually proclaims that the country has produced 30 million tons more coal under martial law than during the period that Solidarity existed, Eugeniusz's family has yet to receive any for this winter. With temperatures already dropping below freezing, the only warmth in the high-ceilinged apartment comes from a small electric heater. Neither Eugeniusz nor Grazyna have much hope that the situation will improve. "Things might be better when our son is our age," says Grazyna, "but I do not see how." This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.