This Noble Land

by James A. Michener

  It was appalling to a sensible man like Janko Buk to see that the planners in Warsaw seemed invariably to choose precisely those plans of action which were guaranteed to diminish the output of the soil. ‘Don’t they want to feed the people?’ he often asked his wife and his mother. ‘Don’t they want to feed themselves?’ At first he had assumed that the errors stemmed from the fact that the government contained very few experienced farmers; in those days he had supposed that in the manufacturing field the government men, all of whom seemed to have come from that sector, were making sensible decisions, and sometimes he was prone to agree with them: ‘When they get the factories humming and goods appear everywhere, we’ll all be better off. Then we can wrestle with the problems of the farmers. I’m willing to wait.’

  But now the outspoken leaders of Solidarity were revealing that conditions in the factories were just as chaotic as on the farms, and this was disgraceful. When Buk could buy no spares for the community tractor and it could be kept operating only by stealing from some other farmer, when consumer goods began to disappear from store shelves, when he or his wife had to stand in long lines to buy even the simplest product, then he began to suspect that everything, and not only the farmer’s life, had begun to collapse.

  At last he was ready to speak. Using the concise sentences he had preferred since his reticent childhood, he said with almost painful slowness: ‘Mr. Minister, the evidence is on the table. We all accept it. Government is doing everything for the factory worker, nothing for the farmer.’ This brought assent from the farmers. ‘I wouldn’t object if factory workers got more, so long as they produced more for us.’

  ‘That would be all right!’ one of the farmers cried.

  ‘Like if my women could get the things they need,’ the first farmer pressed.

  ‘But from where we stand,’ Buk said, ‘it looks as if the factory workers are getting more and producing less. And that puts a cruel burden on us. We pay in two ways. We don’t get the money due us, and what money we do get is worthless.’

  Buk tried to speak precisely, and he used words which two years previously he had not even heard, for his education was proceeding at a gallop. His tough-minded mother had never had formal schooling, but when the Nazi invasion had closed down all institutions, in those darkest hours of the occupation when the Germans were trying to eradicate all Polish learning, she had valiantly conducted a secret school of her own, determined to keep Polish learning alive, and this, had forced her to educate herself. She knew a lot and saw to it that her daughter-in-law learned something, too. There were lively discussions in the Buk kitchen, and often the two women lectured Janko so severely that in self-defense he had to master the arts of logical thinking and clear presentation. He was a man trained in that great university of rural Poland with its two colleges: the farm soil and the kitchen argument.

  ‘It seems to me, Mr. Minister,’ he said slowly, ‘that your government offers us farmers no protection whatever. You no longer import improved strains of seed. You don’t print the instruction books you used to. You take our taxes but you refuse to provide spare parts in return. And you use the police and army to prevent us from selling our food in a free market where we would be clever enough to protect ourselves. Maybe what these men say is true. Maybe your whole system is falling apart.’

  This persistent charge infuriated Bukowski, for out of a wealth of harsh experience in the bad years of 1939 through 1944 he had concluded intellectually and emotionally that Communism offered Poland infinitely more than any alternative. In the bad years prior to the Great War peasants in this village had kowtowed to the Bukowskis who owned the palace. Children received a pitiful education. People in the city slaved for capitalist owners and participated neither in management nor in profits. The government had been corrupt; it had failed to protect the nation; and it had refused to form an alliance with Soviet Russia, the only country that could protect it. For Szymon Bukowski the arrival of Communism in Poland had signaled the awakening of a bright new day, and he had been proud to be a part of that awakening.

  At first he had been merely one student in the new university at Lublin, next a minor member of a Communist study cell, then its leader, and finally a recognized spokesman for the new system. Even when membership in the party had been less than two million Poles out of a total population of more than thirty million, he had faith that this small fragment contained the leadership that would save Poland. This dedicated six percent of the population knew what the slothful ninety-four percent needed, and was prepared to provide it.

  It was decades before he became even a minor part of the leadership, but during that time he was perfecting himself as a Communist, mastering the precepts of Marx and Engels, studying the steps whereby Lenin and Trotsky achieved power and the procedures by which Stalin stabilized it. Szymon Bukowski, at age forty, had been a knowing, devoted Communist and the quality of his thinking attracted those less well trained. Finally the high command recognized his ability and promoted him grudgingly from one level to the next, always testing him, until the day he was made dictator for housing, which was reasonable, since he was an architect, and now of agriculture, which was not, because although he had been reared on a farm and was vaguely familiar with the basic problems, he had never managed land of his own or been in control of even the smallest agricultural process, let alone the complex matters of buying seed, finding fertilizer, and then marketing the results.

  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 f
armers. 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.’