Spring Will Be Ours (71 page)

‘I have an idea. I'm not sure if you'll like it.' He dropped the blackened match into the saucer and looked at her. ‘How do you feel about travelling?'

‘Travelling,' said Krystyna. ‘Travelling where? You mean in the summer? Anything could have happened by then.'

‘Exactly. I mean going to the West for a bit. Perhaps to England. All of us.'

She looked at him in astonishment. ‘
Now?
You want to leave Poland
now?
When there's everything left to fight for? I can't believe it.'

Stefan took his hand away and lit a cigarette from the candle. He puffed at it quickly. ‘I knew it – you
are
more radical than I am. I thought you'd jump at the chance – for God's sake, everyone does it! Go over for a few months, have a break, earn some real money –'

‘Doing what?'

He shrugged. ‘Waitressing?'

‘And who'd look after Olek?'

‘We could do shifts. I could work on a – I don't know, a building site or something. Or be a waiter. Decent food, decent clothes, no more queuing. We could do a lot for the parents, with that kind of money.'

‘We'd do a lot for the parents if there was – God forbid – an invasion, and we were swanning about in London.'

‘You said you thought Jaruzelski was all right.'

‘No I didn't. I said he seemed all right, but –' She reached over and stroked his arm. ‘I thought you were so excited about everything. Still. What's happened?'

He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I don't know. Perhaps I'm just tired. I thought you were, too. I felt sorry for you. And I don't know – every now and then I think: Have we really got a chance?'

‘Well you mustn't think that. Come on, Stefan!'

‘And to think I was bringing you here to cheer you up.'

‘You have, you have. It's lovely being back.'

He took her hand. ‘All those years ago, my Krysia. How long have we known each other?'

She held his hand against her cheek. ‘Always. It feels like always, anyway.'

Warsaw, 20 March 1981
‘They've beaten up men in Rural Solidarity!' Stefan banged open the door of the apartment, and kicked it shut behind him. Olek, staggering across the floor towards him, sat down with a bump and began to scream.

‘Hey!' said Krystyna sharply. ‘Mind what you're doing, Stefan. It's all right, Olek – come on, come on, that's enough.' She bent to pick him up. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘There's three men in hospital,' said Stefan. ‘In Bydgoszcz. Olek, Tata didn't mean to frighten you. Bad Tata, go on, beat him up, go on.' He took Olek's hand and punched it on his arm. Olek went on screaming.

‘Oh, for God's sake just leave him alone,' Krystyna snapped. ‘It's your free Saturday, isn't it? We've been waiting and waiting for you to come back so we can go to the park. You've been hours.'

‘I know, I'm sorry, but everyone in Szpitalna Street was talking about it, I couldn't leave. Let's go now, come on, let's just take him out, he'll be fine as soon as we're in the fresh air.'

They bundled Olek into his clothes and clattered down the concrete stairs to the ground floor, his yells echoing on the landings, then diminishing. Outside, Stefan lifted him from Krystyna's arms and they crossed the road to the little park, where he put him down. ‘There you are, old chap, off you go now.'

It was late afternoon, the sun sinking fast behind the trees, lighting the patches of snow on the grass. At the far end of the park stood a few old swings, a see-saw. Olek toddled off along the path towards them, a small square teddy bear in his boots and snowsuit, chatting away to himself.

‘He knows seven words,' said Krystyna. ‘And he understands almost everything I say.'

‘Does he? I hope he knows the right ones, that's all; one day he's going to need them. Do you want to know what's happened or not? You're supposed to be the fighter.'

‘Just tell me, all right?'

‘Okay.' Stefan began to walk fast. ‘There's a meeting yesterday in the Provincial People's Council in Bydgoszcz. Local Rural Solidarity reps invited to attend, including the leader, that Rulewski guy. They want to press for full registration, and so on. They wait. Meeting suddenly adjourned in the early afternoon before they've had a chance to speak. They stay, anyway. They're asked to leave. They refuse. At eight o'clock – presto! The riot police. Get out or we'll get you. They stay firm, and start singing the national anthem, and then the militia move in with truncheons and just grab them, one by one, and drag them out of the building, shouting: “Get Rulewski!” Twenty-seven people beaten up, three very badly, including Rulewski and one old guy they suspect of being brain-damaged.'

Krystyna whistled. ‘Bastards.'

‘Yes, you teach Olek that.' He drew a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I think Wałęsa's calling a strike. And so he bloody well should.'

They had reached the swings; Olek was pulling one of them back, and calling: ‘Mama!' He let it go and it swung forward: as it came back, it would hit him straight in the eyes. They both ran towards him. ‘Olek!' Stefan grabbed him, and Krystyna the swing.

‘Phew.'

‘Naughty Olek. You mustn't touch the swings till Mama gets here, all right?'

She brushed melted snow off the seat and lifted him on, pushing him gently towards Stefan, back and forth. The chains were very cold, and needed oiling at the top: with every swing they creaked and squeaked. Olek clung on, smiling.

When it got too cold to stay out any longer, they went back to the apartment, and made tea. The news on TV played down the incident at Bydgoszcz.

Next day, the whole family went into Szpitalna Street. The walls of the three rooms at the top of the stairs were plastered with photographs of Rulewski and the two others, bruised and bleeding: in red and white across the top was lettered
Prówokacja!
– Provocation! Warsaw radio and the television could no longer play anything down, but their coverage was exclusively biased against Solidarity.

‘Wałęsa's called a four-hour strike for the 27th,' said one of the printers. ‘And a general strike for the 31st if the authorities don't meet our demands.' As they left, they caught a glimpse of Bujak, arriving, waving his arms.

Solidarity's demands included the immediate sacking and punishment of those responsible for the beatings; recognition of Rural Solidarity; guarantees of freedom from harassment of all Solidarity members and closure of all cases pending against people arrested for opposition in 1976 – when KOR was founded – and 1980. On the 25th, Wałęsa and the new Deputy Prime Minister, Rakowski, met for talks which became almost a shouting match. On the 26th, Cardinal Wyszyński, on his deathbed, summoned Wałęsa for a last meeting.

Everyone, now, was talking about the possibility of an invasion; As the day of the four-hour strike approached, the whole of Warsaw was covered in flags: on buildings, fluttering from windows, painted across posters. There were instructions being telexed from Gdańsk to all the regional offices of Solidarity: No. 1 – in case of a General Strike; No. 2 – in case of a State of Emergency; No. 3 – in case of a Foreign Intervention … In case of No. 3, street names were to be painted out, signposts turned round. That was what they'd done in Czechoslovakia, in 1968. The mood was united, defiant. Everyone seemed to be wearing an armband, a badge. ‘It's like this all over the country,' said Stefan, the night before the strike. ‘Did you see that poster on Marszałkowska about the building site?'

‘Yes.' Krystyna was stitching up her armband. The poster proclaimed:
No Entry! Building in progress.
Beneath it was an outline map of Poland. ‘I suppose,' she said slowly, slipping the armband on, ‘that it must have been a bit like this getting ready for the Uprising. In 1944.'

Stefan lit a cigarette. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it must have been.'

‘Except they were at war.'

‘We are, almost.'

‘But not quite,' said Krystyna. She held out her arm. ‘How do I look?'

‘Wonderful,' said Stefan. ‘My militant librarian.'

They got up early next morning, and Krystyna took Olek with her to the library. ‘After all, if I'm not going to do any work …'

‘What about this afternoon?'

‘Oh, he can stay for once, for a treat. Why not?'

They took the same bus, hoping to get into the centre before the strike began. At five to eight they got off; five minutes later, they stood listening to the factory sirens, hearing every bus, every tram, come to a halt and sound the horn. It was a bright, sharp morning: hard to know whether they were shivering from cold or from the sense of drama, listening to the strange music of horn and siren, blaring across the city as the morning wind lifted the flags.

Afterwards, they kissed goodbye and hurried off, Krystyna to the library, pushing Olek, Stefan to the factory. Not until midday was the strike ended. ‘You realize,' said one of Stefan's workmates, ‘that there's never been anything like this in the whole history of the communist bloc. Not even last August.'

‘I do,' said Stefan. ‘I can't wait for the 31st. A general strike!' He punched the air. ‘Bloody hell.' He suddenly remembered saying to Krysia the night in the candlelit bar, that perhaps, really, they didn't stand a chance. How could he have said that? The whole country was speaking with one voice, nine and a half million members. Nine and a half million!

On the 30th, negotiations between Wałęsa and Rakowski were still going on. That night Stefan and Krystyna sat waiting for the 7.30 news. ‘Pass me a cigarette.'

‘What? You don't smoke. You've never smoked.'

‘I'm smoking now,' said Krystyna. ‘Just for tonight. I can't bear it any longer.'

He passed her one, lit it; she began to cough. ‘Ugh.' But she didn't put it out; she sat with it between her fingers, then got up and began to pace up and down the room. Stefan watched her. In a corner, his packed bag was waiting – two changes of clothes, a torch, notebook and pen, flask waiting to be filled with tea tomorrow morning. He saw Krystyna look at it and look away. She hadn't packed a bag – general strike or not, how could she stay night after night in the library with Olek? Should he be taking him in to the factory? What would it be like to be barricaded in there, perhaps only able to talk to Krysia and Olek through the gates, as the shipyard workers had done?

‘All right, Krysia?'

‘Very jumpy. Aren't you?'

‘Yes. A fantastic feeling, I've never felt like this before.' There was a new poster on the wall in Szpitalna Street, a quotation from Brecht:

When things remain as they are

you are lost.

Give up what you have and take

what is denied you.

‘It's starting,' said Krystyna. ‘Look!'

She grabbed his hand and they sat waiting for the grim-faced announcer to tell them in solemn, regretful tones that from tomorrow all Poland was on strike. Instead –

‘Wait a minute.
What?
' Wałęsa was flashed on to the screen; he looked nervous. Beside him stood his deputy, Andrzej Gwiazda, holding a piece of paper.

‘It has been decided, after long talks with the authorities, in particular with Deputy Prime Minister Mr Rakowski, to suspend the call for a general strike from tomorrow. We have here an agreement …'

‘They can't have! They
can't
have.' Stefan was out of his chair, banging his fist on the wall beside the television. ‘Idiots! Cowards!'

‘Sssh! You'll wake Olek.' Krystyna was looking shaken.

‘I don't care if I wake him! The whole bloody country ready, our real chance to show them …' He glared at the television.

‘Shut up!' said Krystyna. ‘Just listen for a minute, can't you?'

The agreement was being read out: punishment of those responsible for the beatings at Bydgoszcz; Rural Solidarity recognized, pending full registration …

‘Well, that's not so bad, is it?' she demanded. ‘We've won, without a strike.'

Stefan looked at her. ‘One minute you tell me I'm running away when there's everything to fight for – the next you can accept
this!
Remember what you said about it being like preparing for the Warsaw Uprising? How do you think our parents would have felt if it had suddenly been called off? Just as they thought they were about to get their revenge? Do you think we'll ever be able to get to this point again? With everyone behind us, everyone ready to go?'

From the bedroom, Olek was wailing.

‘I told you …' Krystyna was crying. She made for the bedroom, and Stefan caught her wrist.

‘Okay, go and get him, but what does it matter, now? What does anything matter? I told you, didn't I, that I sometimes thought we didn't really stand a chance? You were the one who spurred me on. But I was right – I don't think this precious agreement means a thing, I think it'll all come tumbling back down on top of us, I think we should get out now, and if you won't come, I'll go by myself.'

‘Stop it, stop it!' Krystyna wrenched her wrist away and ran to the bedroom. ‘Go on, then, go. You're completely wrong-headed, but go.'

Stefan grabbed his cigarettes and his jacket and banged out of the apartment. He ran down the stairs and stood at the bottom, panting. It was cold and dark and beginning to rain. He lit a cigarette, and walked round to the front of the block; he crossed the street and paced up and down for a few minutes, trying to get calm, looking up at the small lighted square, three floors up, which was their living room window. He waited for Krysia to come there, with Olek, to draw back the curtains and look out for him, but she didn't. After a while, he began to walk, not caring where he was going. There was a man coming towards him, walking his dog. He nodded to Stefan as he drew near, and he recognized him, he lived in the next block.