This Noble Land (30 page)

Aware of his deficiencies, he had protested: ‘I am not competent,’ but the party officials had growled: ‘Nonsense. A good Communist can do anything.’ Polish Communism promoted men according to their party loyalty, not their demonstrated ability.

But Bukowski made himself an able administrator, and since the high command had ordered him to placate these farmers and nip this rural uprising, he intended doing so. ‘You’ve stated your concerns forcefully, and I understand them. Indeed, I appreciate them, and I concede that you have real problems. On your part, you must concede that I am limited in what adjustments I can offer at this time. Poland faces many crises. Yours is only one, although I agree it’s a crucial one …’

He continued in this placatory way until one of the farmers asked bluntly: ‘What can we expect?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can certainly expect consumer goods to start flowing from the rejuvenated factories—’

‘When?’

‘How can I be held to a specific date?’

‘When can we expect spare parts for our Czechoslovakian tractors?’

‘You can be sure the government is looking into that. Most seriously.’

‘When?’

The tension was broken by a delegate from Warsaw, who cried with almost boyish enthusiasm: ‘Let’s have some of these delicious sandwiches!’

Tea was poured and little glasses were brought for the brandy, but Buk reached for the dark currant juice, which he preferred above all other drinks. However, even as he put his hand out, Bukowski already had the bottle of sok and was pouring himself a large glass.

‘Your preference too?’ he asked, as he passed the half-empty bottle across the table.

‘I love this drink,’ Buk said. ‘Tastes like the fields. Like the forest.’

‘Speaking of the forest,’ Bukowski said easily. ‘I see it’s visible from these windows.’

‘It must be,’ Buk said carefully. ‘I’ve not been in this room before. We don’t get into the palace much.’

Without saying so in words, Bukowski intimated that it would be good if Buk accompanied him to the window that overlooked the forest. There he indicated with the slightest movement of a finger that Buk should look past the cluster of stately beech trees that stood just beyond the village houses.

Since Janko Buk knew well what was in the forest, he looked not at it but at Bukowski, who nodded sagaciously. Then Buk stared into the shadows and saw the sight with which the villagers were. so familiar: the glint of sunlight flashing back from metal. ‘They’re still there,’ he said, and Bukowski replied with considerable firmness: ‘And there they stay, permanently.’

Bukowo was one of three dozen strategically scattered locations in Poland in which powerful concentrations of Russian tanks were kept on steady assignment, threatening none of the nearby villages, menacing none of the cities. They just stayed there, always on the ready, always waiting for that signal from the east which would spring them into action, as had happened in 1956 in Hungary and in 1968 in Czechoslovakia. The soldiers who manned these tanks were highly disciplined and never appeared on the streets of any Polish community; there were no soldier-civilian brawls, no arrogant displays. It was as peaceful an occupation as Europe had ever known, but there the tanks were, immensely powerful objects equipped with immensely powerful armament. One such tank could destroy the entire village of Bukowo in ten minutes, riding down whatever its guns had not pulverized. Fifteen of them could take defenseless Krakow in a day. But they made no show of their power to crush. They just waited.

‘They also are a part of our discussion,’ Bukowski said, and Buk replied: ‘I know.’

When the session resumed, Bukowski acted as if he expected his reminder to Buk to deaden the latter’s outcry against the central government, but it did not. Buk said in his quiet way: ‘We’re not fools, Mr. Minister. We know your government is limited in what it can do … well, I mean, in what it can permit.’

‘You’re very wise to keep that limitation in mind, Pan Buk.’

‘We do. We realize that Poland is one part of a much bigger unit. The great bloc of the socialist republics. And we’re mindful of our obligation within that bloc. But we’re now talking about the management of a food program for a great nation of nearly thirty-six million people. The program is in confusion. Even the food we do grow is not reaching the people who need it.’

‘We are taking steps—’ Bukowski began, but one of the farmers interrupted: ‘If we say that our baby is taking steps, we suppose that pretty soon he’s going to walk, and if he’s strong, maybe even run. We no longer have any confidence that your steps will ever lead to walking, let alone running.’

‘These readjustments take time,’ Bukowski argued, but the farmers were adamant: ‘You’ve had since 1944. And things have grown constantly worse.’

Now Bukowski grew angry. He wanted to shout at these clods: ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, you simpletons who have never traveled fifty miles from home. Have you been to Rumania? Poland is ten times better off. East Germany? Poland is superior in all respects. Czechoslovakia—where they’re afraid to breathe? Hungary? Even Yugoslavia? And what about Bulgaria? Who in his right mind would trade with Bulgaria?’ But as a loyal Communist he could not denigrate the other bloc countries, so he listened in bitterness as the farmers argued.

‘I hear Czechoslovakia’s much better off for food than we are,’ one said, but another pointed out: ‘I’m not so sure about Russia. Why did they stop their people from visiting in Poland? Because they didn’t want their citizens to see how much better we ate.’

Now Bukowski had to speak: ‘Poland is a paradise. Everyone else knows it, and you better not forget.’

At this, the farmers fell silent, for each knew that of all the Iron Curtain countries, Poland was the one that was relatively free—no heavy police, no army in the streets, and until recently, no rationing of food or clothing. Travelers familiar with other countries within the bloc had liked to play the game ‘If you didn’t live in Poland, which other socialist country would you prefer?’ Universally, Bulgaria rested at the bottom; life there was deplorable, beyond rescue. Rumania stood next to the bottom, then East Germany. Czechoslovakia stood in the middle, a land of great promise but soft in spirit. Hungary stood very high, partly because it had braved a massive showdown with the Soviets and survived.

About Yugoslavia the players had to be cautious. One couldn’t afford to praise it too highly because it wasn’t really a part of the bloc, and to acknowledge that life there was superior, which it was, would be disturbing. People didn’t say much about Yugoslavia except in whispers: ‘That’s a gorgeous country.’ They also used whispers in evaluating Russia; ‘May God preserve me from being forced to take my vacation there.’

This last judgment was shrewd and accurate; the Poles knew what they were talking about. Prior to 1980, Russian tourists had been a familiar sight throughout Poland; they arrived in big buses, stayed severely together under the rigid discipline of a tour director, marveled at the abundance and variety of consumer goods available, and stood gazing in wonder at the displays of flowers. They looked very much like peasants from the eastern part of Poland, good, lively people strong in body, suspicious in mind, and it was obvious that the free, varied life in Poland surprised and made them envious. They were rarely allowed to talk with Poles but they did seem to extend friendship rather than animosity.

Some years back a knowing Pole had summarized it this way: ‘A Russian coming to Poland is like a Pole traveling to West Germany. He can’t understand the freedom and the surplus of food and consumer goods.’ And that was what the silent farmers were thinking about as they compared their Poland with the other nations.

‘Our problem,’ Bukowski said at last, ‘is to preserve the great good things we have in Poland. And keep our independence.’

One of the farmers burst out laughing. ‘It’s crazy to talk about our independence when we’re free to make no important decisions.’

This was moving close to forbidden comment, and Bukowski was about to reprimand the farmer when another remarked: ‘You think we have trouble in Poland. You ought to spend a winter in Bulgaria!’ At this, even Bukowski had to stifle a chuckle.

The recital of grievances continued, and Bukowski felt that it was healthy to allow these rural people who had never before met with a high official to present their complaints before getting down to the real negotiating, and this was not a new tactic devised for this occasion. Discussion had generally remained free and open in Poland, which had never imposed a censorship as rigid as Russia’s. Poles tended to say what they thought, and it was only during the first harsh years of Russian domination that they had suffered for doing so. It was not like Czechoslovakia or, God forbid, Bulgaria, where the citizens were terrified and muted.

At the lunch break everyone, even old-hand Bukowski, was startled by the large number of reporters delivered to this little village by the press bus. They had come to report on the talks: London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Tokyo, Washington and Moscow being represented. Television crews came from most of the nations and double teams from Japan and America. Bukowski, looking toward the Forest of Szczek, saw that the Russian tanks had drawn back, and he was relieved.

Buk spoke no foreign language, but Bukowski could handle German and English, so he stepped forward to offer a résumé of what had been happening, but this did not satisfy the reporters: ‘We want to hear from the little guy. It’s his fight.’

Interpreters from among the government people volunteered, but reporters from Paris and Berlin spoke Polish, and they wanted to interrogate Janko Buk directly, so the interpreters were used only to translate Buk’s answers to the others, and it became obvious that the newspeople were going to report this meeting as a battle between Buk and Bukowski.
BUK VERSUS BUKOWSKI
,
The New York Times
would proclaim, and the reporters were right. This was David going up against Goliath.

Buk, who had never before been publicly interviewed even by Polish reporters, showed remarkable self-confidence and restraint in giving his answers. He did not assume the posture of one who had told the government what it must do.

‘Could we say,’ the Paris man asked, ‘that you explored differences?’

‘That would be accurate,’ Buk said.

‘And what were those differences?’ a young woman from Berlin asked.

‘The problems that you can see all about you,’ Buk replied.

‘Centering on food?’ one of the Japanese television people asked.

‘We’re farmers. Always we center on food.’

‘And about other shortages?’ the Berlin woman pressed.

Buk smiled at her, the gap between his teeth showing attractively. ‘We men worry about food. Our wives, they worry about shortages in the stores.’ When this brought chuckles, he added: ‘But at night we hear about the store shortages too.’

Now the Americans began to bore in: ‘Is it true, Mr. Buk, that you and Minister Bukowski come from this same little village?’

Buk deferred to Bukowski, who said: ‘We do.’

But again the reporters wanted to keep the focus on Buk, so they asked him: ‘Would it be correct to say he’s your cousin?’

Buk looked up at the much taller Bukowski and smiled again. ‘I never saw this man before today. But I’ve heard about him all my life. He would be more like my uncle.’

‘Does he lecture you like Big Uncle?’ This was too difficult for the interpreters to handle, not linguistically, for one of them knew the locution well, but no one wished to introduce any word or idea that might represent Russia. The illusion must be maintained that this was a purely Polish debate with no intrusion being made by the Soviet Union.

‘What is the exact relationship between you two?’ the American asked, and again Buk deferred to Bukowski.

‘My grandmother,’ Bukowski said very carefully, ‘was Pan Buk’s great-grandmother, so he was correct. I am of the generation that would be his uncle.’ He paused, then left the steps of the palace where the television people had asked them to stand, and walked to a spot from which he could point toward the village. He was not engaged in a game and he wished to bring the interview back to a proper level of sobriety. ‘The woman we’re speaking of was hanged over there in 1939 for grinding her own wheat. My mother, that would be Pan Buk’s great-aunt sort of, she was shot against that wall, a few days earlier.’

‘For what?’ the woman from Paris asked in Polish.

‘Because she was here when the Nazis arrived,’ he replied in English.

That ended that line of interrogation. Now a man from Berlin well versed in economics asked: ‘What solutions do you see to the food shortage, Herr Buk?’ and Buk said with great caution: ‘One, to grow any food at all, we face a grave shortage of fertilizer and spare parts. Two, if we want to increase production, we must have more of everything. Three, to distribute even what we do have, we must change present patterns.’

This was a bold, sharp answer, and pencils scribbled rapidly. Both the Japanese and American television men asked if Buk would repeat his three points for their cameras and he said yes, but before doing so he asked that Bukowski appear with him: ‘Because we’re not fighting, you know. We’re talking.’

So the two Poles with-such similar backgrounds and such contrasting positions stood side by side to face the cameras, and after Buk had repeated what he had just said, Bukowski smiled thinly and added his comment: ‘We’re exploring every avenue to relax the present crisis.’

‘Even a farmers’ union?’ the Berlin man shouted, and the two Poles merely smiled.

But in their afternoon session both sides began cautiously to explore exactly that question, and Bukowski tried to stamp out the first tentative proposals: ‘Unions have always been for workers in cities. You can’t find a major nation in the world which amounts to anything that allows agricultural unions.’

‘Maybe it’s time,’ Buk said, and the debate was joined.

Bukowski had been warned by his superiors in Warsaw, who had been warned by
their
superiors in Moscow: ‘You can make almost any reasonable concession you wish. Prices, schedules, priorities, spare parts, lower rates for agricultural gasoline … But under no circumstance should you even discuss a farmers’ union. That would imperil the state.’