A Flowering of Democracy

By Thomas A. Sancton

It's one man -one vote as the party congress meets to chart the future

The extraordinary gathering was dominated by new faces, new ideas and new expectations. The members came from all over Poland: brawny shipyard workers from Gdansk, deeply tanned farmers from Poznan, professors from Cracow. Their average age was only 40. They had been chosen by secret ballots in elections at their local party units; 91% had never before taken part in such a referendum. But when the 1,955 delegates converged last week on Warsaw's Palace of Culture and Science, a towering marble-and-granite edifice given to the Polish people by Joseph Stalin in the 1950s, they seemed determined to make the Ninth Congress of the Polish Communist Party a historic turning point for the whole nation.

The congress convened at a critical juncture. Nearly a year after Poland's striking workers had won an unprecedented set of liberal concessions from Warsaw's Communist bosses, the country was reeling under a deepening economic crisis, and the party was in disarray. Hard-liners were calling for repressive measures that could spark a new wave of labor unrest; radicals demanded sweeping reforms that some feared might send Soviet tanks rolling across the border. What was needed, above all, was a strong, credible leadership and clear policies for dealing with the country's problems.

For all its importance, the congress was initially greeted with skepticism and indifference by some Poles. Explained one Warsaw accountant standing near the Palace of Culture on opening day: "It's hard to be enthusiastic. Society's expectations have been disappointed so many times before." Yet the delegates approached their task with a sense of mission and hope rarely seen in the Eastern bloc these days. Explained Delegate Jozef Gajewicz, the mayor of Cracow: "A great explosion of democracy brought the delegates here. They have come to fight for what they believe in."

Fight they did. First they waged a battle to reverse the order of business. Party Boss Stanislaw Kania had hoped to ram through his re-election on the first day of the congress, and thus gain effective control over all subsequent proceedings. The delegates would have none of it. Instead, they decided to elect a new 200-member Central Committee first and then choose a leader by secret ballot from among its ranks. Never before in the Soviet bloc had such a tactic been used. Said one congress official: "They tried to push the delegates too far too fast, and they rebelled."

Next the delegates held up voting on the Central Committee to discuss a long-awaited report on official corruption. Result: ex-Party Boss Edward Gierek and six former associates, including ex-Premier Edward Babiuch, were summarily expelled from the party. More heads rolled in the Central Committee voting, when candidates on the liberal and conservative extremes were rejected, leaving the centrists in control. Among the prominent officials who went down to defeat were Politburo Hard-liners Mieczyslaw Moczar and Tadeusz Grabski; the latter had led an unsuccessful drive to oust Kania last month and was deemed a strong challenger for the party leadership. One of the highest vote tallies, 1,615, went to Premier Wojciech Jaruzelski--a solid expression of support for his pragmatic policies.

In the end Kania held on to his job. But the way in which he was chosen--after four days of procedural delays and under new rules that pitted him against several other candidates--must have been a chastening experience. In effect, observed a French expert on Eastern Europe, the first-time delegates at the congress were conveying an unmistakable message to their leader: "Although we are re-electing you, we do not intend to give you a blank check. On the contrary, you are going to have to reckon with us."

Before his election, Kania had to reckon with a powerful conservative challenge to his leadership. It was boosted by the circulation of a letter, allegedly written by former Party Boss Wladyslaw Gomulka, implicating the party leader in the decision to use police force to suppress the 1970 Baltic coast riots, in which some 45 workers died. Though the letter was widely believed to be a fake, it prompted some sharp questions from the floor about Kania's ambiguous role in the events of 1970.

Nor did Kania help his own cause with his 2 1/2-hr. keynote speech on behalf of the outgoing Central Committee. Reading in a dry monotone, scarcely glancing up at the semicircular chamber before him, Kania inveighed against extremists both in the party and in the Solidarity union federation. He promised to cooperate with the "constructive" elements within the union, but blasted "reactionary" forces for seeking to make Solidarity "a political party opposed to the socialist state." Attacking "Western centers" for trying to wrest Poland out of the Communist camp, he described the alliance with the Soviet Union as "the cornerstone of our policy." The speech drew only a lukewarm response.

Kania's main purpose may have been to reassure his East-bloc allies that liberalization would be kept within tolerable limits. For his part, Soviet Delegate Viktor Grishin seemed satisfied. While stating that Moscow could not remain "indifferent" to Polish problems, he expressed confidence that the Polish party and people could "overcome the current crisis" by themselves. His speech was greeted by relieved applause from delegates worried about a possible Soviet intervention. Observed one Western diplomat: "It looks as if the Soviets have ruled out a military solution."

The most exciting orator was Deputy Premier Mieczyslaw Rakowski, a 54-year-old magazine editor and outspoken liberal. Clutching the burgundy velvet lectern, Rakowski accused the old Central Committee of indecisiveness and called for a new "leadership, bold in thought and action, credible for society and our allies, able to rebuild confidence." He warned of "bloodshed" unless the party and people could join hands in solving the nation's problems. "If we act wisely," he concluded, "instead of being the sick man of Europe, Poland can emerge as an inspiration for socialism." His words sparked a thunderous burst of applause.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about last week's sessions was their freewheeling, democratic atmosphere. Observes Helmut Sonnenfeldt of the Brookings Institution: "There was no hero worshiping, no ovations Soviet-style, which are the hallmark of Communist gatherings." Indeed, delegates openly questioned their leaders from the floor, huddled in caucuses, lobbied for their favorite candidates, debated policy recommendations. The final policy decisions will not be made until this week, but the congress seems unlikely to abandon--and may extend--the present course of reform.

Just as an unprecedented measure of democracy has crept into the party, other freedoms have started to blossom in Polish life during the past year. The Polish press and the broadcasting networks, for example, have become by far the freest in the East bloc. Newspapers regularly carry articles criticizing past government policies or discussing formerly taboo social topics such as crime and alcoholism. Says a Polish journalist: "You have to watch the 7:30 news now. Before, it was an excuse to go out for a drink."

Since passport regulations were eased last April, Poles have enjoyed an unaccustomed freedom of movement, although, ironically, not to Warsaw-bloc countries. Fearing a contagion of the strange stirrings in Poland, the Communist nations have virtually closed their doors to their neighbors. But Poles have been flocking to such countries as Austria and West Germany, where some "tourists" have caused problems for their host governments by turning into refugees seeking a better life.

Poland's parliament, the Sejm, has evolved from a rubber-stamp body into the most outspoken and representative assembly in the Soviet bloc. About half of the government's bills are now sent back for revision. Explains a party congress delegate from Cracow: "The Communist deputies are beginning to act like what they are supposed to be: representatives of the working class."

Since last August, however, the real representative of the Polish workers has been Solidarity, a movement born in a spontaneous eruption of proletarian anger. The historic agreements negotiated in Gdansk and other strike centers last summer by Lech Walesa gave Polish workers prerogatives without parallel in the Soviet bloc, including the right to form independent unions and to strike. Solidarity, striking--and threatening to strike--with great skill, grew into a 10 million-member federation capable of bringing a beleaguered government to its knees.

Paradoxically, the greatest threat now facing Solidarity may be its own success, a stunning series of tactical victories, the union has won repeated promises from the government--higher wages, shorter hours and improved food supplies. Many union leaders now admit that they must scale their demands to fit realities. "The government signed everything we put in front of them," says Stanislaw Zawada, a member of Solidarity's national commission. "Now it is impossible to count all these agreements. We must begin to analyze them to see which ones can be carried out." As Walesa put it in an interview with BBC-TV last week: "If we go on strike now, we'll destroy ourselves and the economy." Nonetheless, dockers on the Baltic coast and employees of the LOT national airline were threatening new strikes this week.

A major moderating influence over the union during the past year has been the Roman Catholic hierarchy, especially the late Stefan Cardinal Wyszynski, the primate of Poland. A trusted adviser to Walesa, Wyszynski helped mediate settlements of some potentially disastrous labor-government confrontations. The hierarchy has made some significant gains of its own, such as getting the right to broadcast Sunday Mass and erect new churches. Still, some observers feel that the church's political effectiveness may be diminished as other popular institutions develop within Poland. But Kania, who last week praised the country's religious leaders for the "responsibility they showed during the crisis," has called for a "national unity front" in which the church would join hands with the party and the unions to solve Poland's formidable problems.

Foremost among them is a sick economy, currently groaning under a $27 billion foreign debt and a projected drop of 15% in national income for 1981. Wages have risen 20% in the past year, but there are far less consumer goods to buy. Meat, butter, sugar and cereals have been rationed for months, and still the queues grow longer. In Silesia, some miners reportedly have fainted because of malnutrition, and doctors report more ailments linked to poor diets.

Yet the Poles manage to get by some how, and life goes on in Poland's bustling cities almost as if there were no crisis. As the party congress convened last week, Poland seemed more gay than stoic, perhaps because more than half of its population is under 30. While they know full well about the tragedies of World War II, the young people of Poland are not pessimistic about life or the future.

Perhaps this calm is merely "the eye of a cyclone," as one actress suggested last week. On the other hand, it may just be that this time the Poles feel they have gained something worthwhile--and lasting--by undergoing so many hardships: the breath of freedom that has warmed their country during the past twelve months.

--By Thomas A. Sancton. Reported by Richard Homik/Warsaw

With reporting by Richard Homik

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