An Ominous Tremor in Gdansk

By Jamie Murphy

Tensions mount amid political and economic stalemate

When Lech Walesa stepped from the portal of St. Brigid's Church in Gdansk last week, carrying a bouquet of red and white carnations, the former Solidarity leader hoped to walk peacefully to the monument of three crosses half a mile away. It was the 14th anniversary of the food riots of 1970, in which dozens of Polish workers were killed by troops and police, and Walesa and some 3,000 followers planned to lay flowers and wreaths at the memorial erected in honor of the martyrs. Linking arms with Bogdan Lis, a former Gdansk Solidarity leader, Walesa strode off, and the crowd fell in behind.

Only a few hundred yards away, the marchers encountered a line of policemen stretched single file across the street. Undeterred, Walesa, Lis, about 100 supporters and some foreign newsmen elbowed their way through. Regrouping, the police kept the main body of the demonstrators from advancing. A little farther down the street, the Walesa group pushed through a second police line as the rest of the demonstrators began to chant, "Solidarnosc! . . . Solidarnosc!" By then, Walesa had encountered a third group of police, this time elite ZOMO riot cops; helmeted and armed with batons and shields, the troopers stood several rows deep. Walesa stopped and, dropping his bouquet to the ground, muttered, "Do what you want with this." A riot policeman kicked the flowers away.

What followed amounted to the most serious clash between government forces and Solidarity supporters in more than a year. Wading into the crowd, the police began beating demonstrators as smoke flares burst and mobile water cannons spewed icy streams at the marchers. From windows above the melee, residents cursed and taunted the police. "Gestapo go home!" two elderly women shouted from the safety of their flat. Among the dozen people detained by the police was Andrzej Gwiazda, once Solidarity's vice chairman and one of the most outspoken of Poland's dissidents; he was later sentenced to three months in prison. Walesa retreated to St. Brigid's, coolly explaining that "we marched as long as it seemed logical to march."

The confrontation came at a time when Poland is mired in political stalemate. The government of General Wojciech Jaruzelski has shown itself incapable of winning the support of more than a fraction--perhaps 10%--of the population; the opposition, still centered in the banned Solidarity movement, is divided over questions of leadership and tactics and lacks the power to force the government into a dialogue. Walesa may have been trying to give the opposition a fresh sense of purpose last week. Before the demonstration he circulated copies of a speech that he planned but was unable to deliver at the monument. "Solidarity is alive!" he wrote. "What we need now is new open action for trade-union pluralism on a national scale. I call upon all union activists to take action now!"

Walesa still commands more respect among workers than any other opposition figure, but his restrained statements have led to charges that rather than leading the opposition he is merely reacting to events. Under pressure from moderates, especially in the church, he has become cautious, asking the authorities for little more than the right to discuss opposition demands with them. His supporters explain, with some justification, that a more radical position could touch off widespread violence, inevitably triggering more government repression.

Lis, 32, who was released from Warsaw's Rakowiecka Prison earlier this month in an apparent concession to the U.S. (which subsequently dropped its three-year-old objection to Poland's participation in the International Monetary Fund), leans toward Walesa's restrained stance but thinks that occasional street demonstrations are necessary to force the government into change. Says he: "This is not a period of spontaneous protest. People are afraid. If Solidarity could be reactivated now, legally, in the same form it had in 1980, it would not bring about the same mobilization. People will not immediately believe in changes for the better. They need a period of time to adjust to them, to see that they are permanent and not something to be taken away."

Gwiazda, 49, who ran against Walesa for Solidarity chairman in 1981, pursues a tougher line, ultimately espousing preparation for a guerrilla war. Says he: "In moral terms, I believe that this situation entitles us to use methods of personal terror. I think it's politically the wrong method, but morally justified."

If the opposition is frayed and undecided, Poland's Communist leadership too is stymied--and split. The murder of Father Jerzy Popieluszko, a Roman Catholic priest and opposition activist, allegedly committed by three secret-police officers in October, exacerbated a long-smoldering struggle between the party's mainstream, which supports Jaruzelski, and Politburo hardliners, who have been urging a continuing crackdown against dissidents. At a Central Committee plenum in October, Jaruzelski narrowly headed off a direct challenge to his leadership: the hard-liners hoped to use the Popieluszko killing as an issue that would force Interior Minister Czeslaw Kiszczak or Jaruzelski himself to resign. The scheme was abandoned for reasons that remain unclear.

The government's worst failing remains its economic performance. Poland's debt to Western creditors stands at $26.4 billion; industrial production and exports have barely risen over last year's. While the fall harvest was abundant enough to forestall fears of a winter famine, meat, clothing and other basic items remain in short supply, and long food lines, reflecting more than a pre-Christmas rush, form outside stores in Warsaw and other cities. No relief is in sight. Said Gwiazda before his arrest last week: "The party is not doing anything, the government is not doing anything, and the opposition is not doing anything."

--By Jamie Murphy. Reported by John Moody/Warsaw

With reporting by John Moody