Poland: A Novel

by James A. Michener

  Bukowski stiffened. ‘This is to be a socialist republic, that’s basic. It’s to remain in close alliance with the Soviet Union. That’s forever. And if what Buk proposes endangers those two fundamentals, he becomes an enemy of the state.’

  The bishop extended his hand to touch Bukowski’s. ‘But isn’t what your side is doing, doesn’t that endanger the state even more? Can we tolerate food riots this coming winter?’

  ‘There will be no food riots,’ Bukowski said. ‘We won’t allow them.’

  ‘One never allows or disallows the rioting of hungry women. There the riot is, right in your lap, and you either shoot the women down or you accommodate them. Mr. Minister, I’m not only honored that you’ve come to talk with me, I’m really quite excited, for it gives me a chance to share my views with a high official of the government. Mr. Minister, we are in deep, deep trouble.’

  ‘And that’s why we wanted to talk with you,’ Buk interrupted.

  The bishop sighed. ‘I am so glad you’re talking. I’m so very pleased you asked me to join you, even if you were afraid to do so publicly. Because nations sometimes really do stand at crossroads, and I think this autumn of 1981 has been such a time for Poland. I’ve been reading, these days, about other periods when fate hung in the balance. In 1658, Poland-Lithuania joined Ukraine in a union—sagacious laws, social justice, protection of minorities, Roman Catholics, Uniates and Orthodox, each church with its guaranteed rights. However, it lasted six months, torn apart by jealous, narrow-minded men, the Polish magnates the worst of the lot, with Count Lubonski of this very town leading the wreckers. Well, we tried again in 1920, and this time our Lubonski was the principal builder, but again it all came to ashes … shadows … despair. I often wonder, as I read, what proportion of their goods the Lithuanians and Ukrainians would give today to be living safe with such a union? I wonder how much we Poles would give had we been wise enough to bury our prejudices in 1658 or 1920?’

  ‘Those chances are lost,’ Bukowski said. ‘We live in a new world now.’

  ‘Indeed we do,’ Bishop Barski granted, ‘and it is the protection of that world, such as it is, that concerns me. You men, together and individually, you must do nothing that will destroy your world. You must move with great caution.’

  ‘We understand the gravity,’ Bukowski said quickly. ‘And I’m terrified that this man’s drive to disrupt the countryside—’

  ‘No!’ Buk cried. ‘It’s your rules that are doing the disrupting.’

  ‘Are you two so far apart?’ the bishop asked, and before they could give their answers he gave his: ‘Surely the three of us can find common ground … I mean we three in particular.’ And as he spoke he allowed his left arm to stretch forward rather awkwardly, but far enough so that the men could see that ugly purplish line of identifying numerals which had been tattooed upon it in the concentration camp, and when he was satisfied that each of his visitors had seen it, he spoke at some length.

  ‘Szymon Bukowski, in the interrogations at Lublin and at Majdanek you went through two of the worst hells that this earth can provide. That you survived when so many others didn’t is a tribute to your courage and the strong body your parents gave you. But I am equally impressed that on your release you dedicated yourself to the rebuilding of our nation. Here in Gorka, I see your reconstructed castle every day, and it’s a monument to you. On my visits I see what you accomplished at Baranow, that dear little gem, and at the palace. Few men are ever given the chance to build their own memorials. You were offered that chance, and you built exceedingly well.

  ‘Because of what you saw during the war and the occupation, you became a Communist, a very wise one I’m told. I suppose you understand the theory rather better than you do its application, but because you were so savagely treated at Majdanek, you exercise your own authority with gentleness and even love. Poland can be grateful that so many of its Communist leaders are like you and not like the Nazi officials who terrorized this land in their day.

  ‘Mr. Minister, there is no warfare between you and me. I know you and I love you for the brave man you are. Your governmental decisions? Well, that’s another matter.

  ‘And you, Farmer Buk. What a distinguished son of Poland you are. Did you know that on the dreadful morning when the Nazis arrived in your village and lined up the people to be executed, your great-aunt Miroslawa—that’s Pan Bukowski’s mother—did you know that the man who stood next to her when the machine guns fired was my uncle, Father Barski of this parish? Yes, I dedicated myself to the priesthood that awful day. I told my mother. “They’ve killed Uncle Pawel. I must take his place.”

  ‘So we three are bound together in ways we might not recognize at first. We are three men of this soil, products of the fertility of this fortunate land. We’ve followed three very different paths, but we have all come to the same critical moment, in a bare little room on the banks of the Vistula: a member of the government, a bishop of the church, a local farmer who gallivants about the world appearing on television and meeting presidents and popes. Tell me, Pan Buk, how was the Holy Father?’

  ‘President Reagan has recovered from his bullet wound. Jan Pawel Drugi has not. He was thin and I think he was in pain.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘We laughed most of the time. I told him two jokes and he told me two jokes, and we spoke of you.’

  ‘You did?’ The bishop’s two hands reached out to clasp Buk’s. ‘And what was said?’

  ‘I said we thought, in these parts, that you should be a cardinal.’

  ‘My heavens! And what did the Holy Father say to that?’

  ‘He laughed.’

  ‘I should think he might. I’m barely qualified to be a bishop, and here you go promoting me to cardinal.’ He chuckled and said: ‘I read about it in a report from America. The Peter Principle.’

  ‘Saint Peter?’ Buk asked.

  ‘Heavens, no! This Peter was an advertising man, I believe. He said that organizations like the church or General Motors promote a man up and up till he reaches a spot which he is obviously incapable of filling, and there they let him rest. So that big organizations are constantly being run by men like me who have attained the demonstrated level of their incompetency.’

  He grew very serious: ‘But we three are competent to discuss the future of a nation we love. And I suppose that’s why we’re here tonight.’

  ‘The basic,’ Bukowski said firmly, ‘is that we must remain socialist and we must remain in tandem with the Soviet Union.’

  ‘But not dictated to by them,’ Bishop Barski said. ‘We’ve fought that battle in the church, and we’ve won.’

  ‘Russian Communism takes economic production rather more seriously than it takes religion.’

  ‘Don’t you believe that! The pressures the Russians—and your own people, Mr. Minister—the pressures you put on the church were tremendous. Because Communism has always seen the church as competing for the souls of men like Farmer Buk here.’

  Bukowski dropped his arrogance. ‘Do you think the two can coexist?’

  ‘They do coexist,’ Bishop Barski said.

  ‘Happily?’

  ‘How many married couples coexist in total happiness? Not too many, if I can believe my ears. But the years roll on and they live together and a sense of decency develops, and children of good quality are produced and brought to manhood, and I suppose that’s what love is.’ He stopped to reflect on how this related to governments, then said: ‘I’d say, and I think Wyszynski would have said before he died, or Jan Pawel Drugi would say right now, that we’ve spent the last thirty years in reasonable relationships with you Communists in Warsaw and their Communists in Moscow. Not happily, no. But acceptably? Under the circumstances that Our Lord Jesus referred to—granting Caesar what is always due Caesar—yes, we have coexisted.’

  ‘That’s what we want to do now,’ Jan Buk said. Up to this point he had been principally a listener as Bukowski and the bishop parried, but the meeting h
ad been called by him to provide guidance in the areas of his concern. ‘Is it possible to have a farmers’ union which will do for us what Lech Walesa has done for his factory people?’

  Bukowski was overeager to settle that question quickly: ‘Nations do not allow farmers to have unions. No nation does.’

  ‘Up to now,’ the bishop said. ‘Go on, Buk.’

  ‘So far,’ Buk said accurately, ‘every gain that Solidarity has obtained for its city members has been at our expense.’

  ‘I wonder if that’s true.’

  ‘It seems so to us.’

  ‘Seem and is are two vastly different words.’

  ‘Then let’s consider what’s actually happening. We farmers are being so savagely mistreated, paying more for all we need, getting less for all we grow, that we’re going on strike. Yes, that’s what I said. We are already on strike, producing less and allowing less of what we do produce to filter into regular channels of distribution. We’re on strike, and if we continue, the people of Poland will go hungry.’

  ‘Are you proud of that?’ Bishop Barski asked.

  ‘I am mortally ashamed,’ Buk said.

  ‘Then why do you do it?’

  ‘Because it’s the only way we can make men like this one listen to our complaints.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Bukowski broke in. ‘Do you know of any major nation that allows its farmers to combine in unions? Does Russia?’

  ‘No, Russia does not,’ Bishop Barski said very quietly, ‘and I suppose that’s why that great nation with all its power and all its marvelous agricultural land cannot feed itself. For two decades their farmers have been doing exactly what Buk says he’s doing. They’ve been on strike, and not even machine guns can make them stop.’

  ‘How does this happen?’ Bukowski asked.

  ‘Because a field is like a human soul, Mr. Minister. It must be nurtured in specific and careful ways. It must be tended with love. The man cultivating it must respect it and want to see every seed mature. He must feel that if he does not do well with his field—his little field, the corner of the earth allowed him—all the rest of the earth will starve. And you cannot dictate that attitude, because if you try, you see what the cultivator of the field will say: “To hell with this. Let the field rot.” It’s an indecent thing to say, and I am broken-hearted to hear a man like Janko Buk say it, but that’s what they say. And if I were a farmer, I think I would say it too. I would feed myself and say: “To hell with you bigidea men in the city.” ’

  There was a long silence. Finally the bishop rose, went to the door and called for the assistant, who brought in a decanter of brandy and three small glasses. The men drank, still silent, until suddenly the bishop began to laugh. Rummaging in his pockets for a slip of paper, he said: ‘We must remember that Poland is a unique place. It sometimes produces extraordinary interpretations of events.’ He fumbled with the paper. ‘I’ve copied down a few lovely judgments I’ve come upon recently. “At the battle of Legnica against the Tatars in 1240, Boleslaw the Stupid placed his right wing under the command of his cousin Mieszko the Obese, who was not too bright and who ran away with all his troops at the flight of the first Tatar arrows.” Almost everything in the passage is wrong. It wasn’t Boleslaw, it was Henry the Pious. It wasn’t 1240, it was 1241. And Mieszko didn’t flee because of the arrows. It was the mysterious black smoke from the giant’s head. And how about this one? “In their raid deep into Poland in 1655 the Cossacks did little permanent damage, killing only magnates, Jews and Roman Catholic priests, of whom they slew some twenty-nine thousand.” And this one which appeared the other day seems especially relevant for us tonight. “The present disruptions will have limited consequences; only the people in the cities will starve, not those who live near villages where food will be available.” ’

  The two visitors understood what this wise old man was saying, but neither was prepared to comment on its application to himself. Finally Bukowski switched course completely to raise an extraordinary point, which caught Bishop Barski quite unprepared: ‘Tell me, Bishop, how do you react when you realize that Italy with its fifty-seven million population, at least half of it non-practicing Catholics, has about thirty cardinals running your church, while Poland with nearly thirty-six million population, most of it devoutly Catholic, is allowed only one?’

  ‘Two, if you count the one serving not in Poland but in Rome.’

  ‘How do you view such a discrepancy?’

  ‘I don’t like it, but recently I’ve been able to find consolation. We may have only two Polish cardinals, but we do have one Polish Pope.’

  The men laughed, and Bukowski explained why he had raised such an issue: ‘I feel the same about Poland’s relationship with Russia. We have only two Communist cardinals, but they do run the country.’ He then asked bluntly: ‘Would the church be willing to step in, and support the unions? Factory union or farmer union?’

  This was about as difficult a question as Bukowski could have thrown at the bishop, for it was asking the latter to lend his imprimatur to what amounted to a new system of government, and Bishop Barski could see grave danger in this. Leaning back, then forward to pour himself some more brandy, he said very slowly: ‘Our church has survived in the modern world by refusing to ally itself with any one form of government. In a country like Italy, that would be a difficult course to follow. The Holy Father did break the rule and advise the Italians to vote against divorce and abortion, and they ignored him completely. He’s better when he speaks on the general principles of good government and labor relations. Then they listen.

  ‘It seems to me that whenever our church has taken a participatory stand this way or that in the actual governing of Poland, it has performed poorly. I doubt it will intrude now. Governing is up to you politicians, and I would advise my church not to allow itself to be used to fortify your position this week and your adversary’s next week. Our job is to provide permanent solace and spiritual leadership to the people as a whole, whatever their government at the moment, so long as it stays within the bounds of moral decency.’

  ‘Have the Communists stayed within those bounds?’ Janko asked.

  ‘According to their definitions, yes.’

  ‘Can you, as a good Catholic priest, love the Communists?’ Bukowski asked.

  ‘I do. I love you, Szymon. If I had a son, I would want him to be a man much like you, fighting each battle as it roared at him from whatever new horizon. I bow down before you, Szymon, because I know … I know.’ Again his left arm revealed that horrible collection of purplish numbers, and Bukowski thought: Isn’t it the damnedest thing? The Nazis were so orderly in everything, but they slapped their numbers on their slaves in such haphazard fashion. I’d think they’d be ashamed of such disorder, no two numbers lined up with any other two. Then, suddenly, in a blazing vision, he saw coming through this barren room the little girl from Zamosc, striding along so proudly in her good overcoat, which would soon be stripped from her, and as she disappeared through the wall he knew that he had nothing more to say this night.

  At the meeting next morning Bukowski presented a surprise to his troublemaking farmers: from Warsaw he had brought with him one of the chief Communist theoreticians, a man of considerable intellectual and political strength, eager to do some serious headknocking.

  He was a tall, cadaverously thin man in his sixties, with deepset hawklike eyes, a furrowed face, a dominant chin which he kept thrusting forward when he talked, and a fierce addiction to Communism. He was Tytus Chalubinski, one-time schoolteacher at Lodz, long-time prisoner at Majdanek, and for a short time before the Russian armies arrived in 1944, a partisan fighting in the Forest of Szczek.

  He sat beside Minister Bukowski as if to reinforce that administrator’s flagging resolve, and it was he who spoke first: ‘Fellow workers, when you ask for more fertilizer and better pay for your produce, that’s one thing. But when you threaten the state with a strike against its food supply, that’s quite another. There is no place in Communis
t theory for a union of farmers. There is no place for a strike against the food supply of the nation.’

  Janko Buk, aware that the Polish and Russian governments were trying to overwhelm him, knew that he must fight back, and with whatever energy he possessed. ‘If Communist theory means that people must go hungry, Pan Chalubinski, then maybe you better restudy your theory.’

  Chalubinski flushed at this rebuke from a peasant and was about to lash out, but Bukowski reached forth a hand to restrain him, and after a brief pause the visitor from Warsaw allowed a wintry smile to possess his envenomed face. ‘Pan Buk, we have followed with interest your travels to Japan and the huly-huly girls in Hawaii …’ Here everyone laughed, for he did a little dance with his ten fingers. ‘And we know you’ve talked with that warmonger President Reagan and with our fellow Pole in the Vatican, and all this must seem very exciting. You must have felt when you reached home as if you had three hundred million friends around the world. But now the mazurka is over. Now we come to hard realities, Pan Buk. Poland has only one real friend in all the world. Japan will do nothing to help us. China less, believe me. America will talk big, as she did with Hungary, but she will send you not one gun. And while the Pope is a fine man and a very brave one to have fought back against the assassins, he will not help you, either. And as for our good neighbors Czechoslovakia and East Germany … Let us not laugh. Our only friend in this world is the Soviet Union, and for us to take any action which might move us away from the protection of that friendship would be insanity.’

  Buk waited for the whispers to halt, then said: ‘Pan Chalubinski, surely friendship with the Soviet Union, which we all cherish, does not mean that our farmers have to make all the mistakes that their farmers have been making for fifty years. It can’t mean that Poles must go hungry the way Russians go hungry.’