Fervent Unity, and a Ban on Vodka

At every shop and factory, red-and-white Polish flags fluttered in the faint breeze off the Baltic Sea, giving Gdansk the festive look of a holiday. But traffic was only a trickle of the normal midday rush. At high noon on a working day, the streets were almost empty of people. The only crowd converged on the Lenin Shipyard, the center of the strike and the focal point of the nationwide crisis. TIME Eastern Europe Correspondent Barry Kalb visited the strike scene:

The workers of Gdansk have taken possession of their own city, in defiance of everything the world knows as Communism. Bakeries, though they continued operating to keep bread on the tables, flew the flag out of solidarity. A taxi driver said that although supplies were low, people supported the strike: "Even when there is no strike, there's little in the shops. They must not let it fail."

If solidarity was one of the strikers' strengths, so was shared religiosity. The shipyard was festooned with pictures of Pope John Paul II and icons of the Virgin Mary. Each day at 5 p.m., hundreds of citizens gathered outside to kneel and hear Mass with the strikers inside. Once a Communist Party member from a nearby factory suddenly grabbed a silver Crucifix and held it aloft. "I swear on this Cross that I am with you," he cried. The Crucifix was later placed on the front wall, slightly higher than the statue of the shipyard's namesake, Nikolai Lenin.

Discipline and organization inside the shipyard were remarkable. Workers with red-and-white armbands were stationed at the gate, screening all who entered. Small trucks that normally haul shipbuilding materials shuttled back and forth with food and drink. Beneath a sign, THANK YOU FOR GOOD WORK, thousands of workers lounged and read a strike newspaper called Solidarity.

Food was delivered by supporters outside, but alcohol was strictly banned. Once the guards found two bottles of vodka inside a food package. A man with a microphone at the gate held up the bottles and exclaimed: "We can't have this!" Then he ceremoniously poured the vodka onto the asphalt road.

The hub of strike life was a dirty brick building in the center of the sprawling shipyard. A press center inside issued journalists' credentials, and worker-translators wore yellow armbands indicating which foreign languages they spoke. In the conference hall, representatives of striking factories sat at four long tables. Tape recorders took down the proceedings, to be replayed for comrades back in other factories. From a corner table, women in white smocks distributed sausages, cheese and sandwiches.

A young worker had a typical explanation of why he was on strike. Working conditions at the plant were terrible, he said; the pay was only 3,500 to 4,500 zloty a month. Yet he had to spend 5,000 zloty a month to feed his family of five. "We can't afford meat, even if it's available," he said.

Jan Jacewicz, a technician at the shipyard, explained why this strike was more effective than the riotous protests of 1970: "We were not well prepared in 1970. Our mistake was that we left the shipyard, and the clash with the police occurred. Now we are united and well organized." Gesturing at a Danish laborer who was pledging the support of the Danish trade unions, he added another reason for the strike's success. Said Jacewicz: "We have the support of the whole world."

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