The Other October Revolution: Poland, 1956-57 9783506791719, 9783657791712, 1956195775, 3506791710

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The Other October Revolution: Poland, 1956–57

FOKUS NEUE STUDIEN ZUR GESCHICHTE POLENS UND OSTEUROPAS NEW STUDIES IN POLISH AND EASTERN EUROPEAN HISTORY Publikationsserie des Zentrums für Historische Forschung Berlin der Polnischen Akademie der Wissenschaften/Series of the Centre for Historical Research of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Berlin

Herausgegeben von/Series Editors Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg, Dietlind Hüchtker, Maciej Górny, Igor Kąkolewski, Yvonne Kleinmann, Markus Krzoska Wissenschaftlicher Beirat/Advisory Board Hans Henning Hahn Dieter Bingen Eva Hahn Joanna Jabłkowska Kerstin Jobst Beata Halicka Jerzy Kochanowski Magdalena Marszałek Michael G. Müller Jan M. Piskorski Miloš Řezník Isabel Röskau-Rydel Izabella Surynt

VOLUME 14

Jerzy Kochanowski

The Other October Revolution: Poland, 1956–57 Translated by Anda MacBride

The author: Jerzy Kochanowski is Professor at the Faculty of Culture and Arts at the Uniwersytet Warszawski. He was Research Fellow at the German Historical Institute in Warsaw, Visiting Professor at the Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz as well Senior Fellow at the Imre Kertész Kolleg Jena. His main areas of interest are the social and cultural history of Poland and Eastern Europe in the 20th Century. The Publication has been co-financed from the state budget of the Republic of Poland within the framework of the programme National Programme for the Development of the Humanities, implemented by the Minister of Education and Science, project no. NPRH/U21/SP/495549/2021/10, in the amount 83,744.00 PLN, the total value of the project being 124,939.00 PLN.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data available online: http://dnb.d-nb.de All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. © 2023 by Brill Schöningh, Wollmarktstraße 115, 33098 Paderborn, Germany, an imprint of the Brill-Group (Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands; Brill USA Inc., Boston MA, USA; Brill Asia Pte Ltd, Singapore; Brill Deutschland GmbH, Paderborn, Germany; Brill Österreich GmbH, Vienna, Austria) Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Brill Wageningen Academic, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau and V&R unipress. www.brill.com Copyediting: Patricia Chetwyn Cover image: Juliusz Puchalski’s Fashion 1957, Szpilki, February 1957. Cover design: Evelyn Ziegler, Munich Production: Brill Deutschland GmbH, Paderborn ISSN 2698-5020 ISBN 978-3-506-79171-9 (hardback) ISBN 978-3-657-79171-2 (e-book)

Table of Contents Series Acknowledgement  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Instead of an Introduction: Who Came Out of the Armoured Closet? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi 1.

Peaceful People are Dying; Or Troubled Times . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

2.

An Open Secret; Or Let’s Stop Being Embarrassed and Take (Sensible) Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

3.

‘Easier to Unleash than to Rein in Later’; Or Women’s Glamour, Women’s Hell  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 October and Brigitte Bardot; Or Women Show their Faces – and More! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 To Get Pregnant or Not to Get Pregnant?; Or Conscious Motherhood  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

4.

Factory Revolutions 1956–1957 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 ‘Social Demand for Wheelbarrows’; Or Settling Matters in the Factory  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 ‘Live and Let Live’; Or a Rotten Compromise  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 ‘We Now Have a Workers’ Council’; Or Factory Hopes and Disappointments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

5.

‘Those Surplus to Requirements Must Leave’; Or the Spectre of Unemployment 1956–1957  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 ‘It’s a Special Kind of Unemployment’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 ‘For Them, it’s Just Like Paradise’  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 ‘Small Towns are Dying …’; Or How the Centre Wanted to Save the Periphery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 ‘They Can Hardly Go Back to the Shovel’; Or the Special-Case Unemployed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 ‘Give Me a Chance to Go Abroad’; Or a (Temporary) Return of Hope for Economic Emigration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108



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6.

‘We, the Youth of the Atomic Age’; Or the Young Generation between Marx and Einstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 ‘There is a Demand for Peace and Quiet’; Or Revolutionaries are Tired . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 ‘All They Want is a Better Standard of Living …’; Or the Findings of a Certain Questionnaire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

7.

‘The Offensive of the Clergy Continues’; Or a (Temporary) Role Reversal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 ‘The Introduction of Religion Followed a Peaceful Course, on the Whole …’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 ‘A Wave of Clericalism is Spreading …’  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 ‘We Have so Many Staunch Clericals in our Party …’  . . . . . . . . . . . 163

8.

I Will Go Abroad This Year, No Matter What! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

9.

Culture? It is in the West! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

10. We Want to Be Modern! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 ‘The Great Transformation’, Or Dreaming in Vain about a Car of One’s Own . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209 ‘We’re about to Step Over the Threshold’; Or The Wonderful Plastic World of the Future …  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226 11.

‘We All Want a Decent Standard of Living’; Or Money, Poverty and Wealth in (post) October Poland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235 Money Matters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235 ‘We All Want a Decent Standard of Living’  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238 ‘A Case of Politics and Social Fairness’  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 Only the Poor See Eye to Eye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249 ‘Money Converts’; Or the Beginning of the (Semi-) Legal Relationship between the Zloty and the Dollar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252

12. ‘The Horses Have Gone Wild’, Or How Long Does it Take to Privatise the State? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263 ‘A State-cum-Private Enterprise Partnership’  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 ‘Chain Trade’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272 Side-lines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276

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13. ‘We’re in Business’; Or the Hopes and Disappointments and Private Entrepreneurs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283 ‘An Act of Grace Dictated by Necessity’  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283 ‘Workshop Repatriation’, Or a Green Light to the Crafts . . . . . . . . 286 ‘We are the Ones in the Centre of the Action – You Stay Out in the Sticks’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290 ‘There is Simply Nothing to Work With’, Or How to Manage Despite Everything  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 296 ‘Blockages in Some Sections’; Or Light Flashing Amber . . . . . . . . . 302 Instead of an Ending: What’s Left? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309 List of Abbreviations  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 315 Bibliography  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 335

Publication Series of the Centre for Historical Research of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Berlin FOKUS. New Studies on the History of Poland and Eastern Europe This book series aims to gather scientific monographs and anthologies dedicated to the newest research on the history of Poland and Eastern Europe. The works published in the series link different disciplines from cultural and social history. Even though the emphasis of the series is on Poland and Eastern Europe, there shall be works published that cover the past of this part of our continent within the scope of a wider research perspective and thereby inspire research on similar topics in other regions of Europe. The book series FOKUS: New Studies on the History of Poland and Eastern Europe will, inter alia, also publish excellent academic qualification works, such as dissertations that have been submitted for the Scholar Prize of the Polish Ambassador to Berlin.

Instead of an Introduction: Who Came Out of the Armoured Closet? Following Stalin’s death in 1953, the period of 1953–1956 in the Soviet Union brought gradual liberalisation, which came to be known as the ‘thaw’, and found its symbolic culmination in 1956, when Nikita Khrushchev, the first secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, in his speech at the 20th Congress of the Party condemned the cult of the individual and denounced Joseph Stalin. This watershed brought a weakening of censorship and repression and a cultural renewal both in Russia and throughout the Eastern Bloc. Although the Soviets put down the revolt in rebellious Hungary 1956 with ruthless brutality, Khrushchev wanted to introduce a model of peaceful coexistence in relations with the West, and in 1957 became the first Soviet leader to open the Iron Curtain to visit the USA. The present book, however, does not intend to add to the proliferation of run-of-the-mill volumes on the political aspects of the momentous year of 1956 and its aftermath.1 Thus, little space is devoted to the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), the death of Bolesław Bierut, the FirstSecretary of the Polish United Workers’ Party in March 1956, the June workers’ revolt in Poznań, the 8th Plenum of the Central Committee of the PZPR which restored power to Władysław Gomułka or the tragedy of the Hungarian Revolution (also known as the Hungarian Uprising). The focus of the present book is rather on facts of life in the Eastern Bloc such as hooliganism and prostitution, work and unemployment, money and corruption, pageants to elect the Beauty Queen of a country, and the concept of ‘deliberate motherhood’, on the region opening up to the world, its citizens now dreaming of having their own car. Unlike most books on the post-Stalinist thaw, which rarely go beyond 1956, this one also covers the year that followed – for social phenomena, unlike political ones, do not comply with the strict rigour of the calendar. They depend on it too, of course, but their dynamics are completely different. Some social processes may precede political breakthroughs 1 Cf, i.a.: P.  Machcewicz, Rebellious satellite: Poland 1956, Washington (DC) 2009; E.C.  Król, J. Szymoniczek (eds.), Das Jahr 1956 in Polen und seine Resonanz in Europa, Warszawa 2010; W.  Bartoszewski, M.  Komar, Wiosna jesienią: październik ’56, Warszawa 2012; P.  Bojarski, 1956. Przebudzeni, Warszawa 2016; P.  Codogni, Rok 1956, Warszawa 2006; J.  Karpiński [M. Tarniewski], Porcja wolności (październik 1956), Paris 1979; Październik 1956 roku: początek erozji systemu, eds. M. Jabłonowski, S. Stępka, Pułtusk 2007; Z. Rykowski, W. Władyka, Polska próba. Październik 1956, Kraków 1989.

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and others may inspire them, but they usually have a longer lifespan than political events. Although as early as the end of 1956 there was no shortage of those saying that the ‘Polish October Revolution’ was over, at the same time it was noted that it irreversibly closed the chapter called OLD, while releasing the NEW. ‘What will happen now and how will it go?’ wondered the writer Jerzy Zawieyski on 1  January  1957. ‘What happened in Poland at the end of last year does not herald stabilisation. On the contrary – everything is uncertain, dynamic and permeated with conflict. One thing is clear: nothing will be returning to the old styles and practices. The things that have taken place are irreversible.’2 Indeed, the totalitarian character of Stalinism influenced both the speed and extent of change, affecting and involving practically all social, professional or ethnic groups in the years 1956–1957, while the scope, intensity and diversity of manifestations of activity and (self) mobilisation of society are probably comparable only with the immediate post-war period, or the beginning of the transformation after 1989. There is no doubt that processes which in other countries lasted for years, in Poland took place at the turn of 1956–1957 during the course of no more than a few months. This was due to the exceptional coincidence and accumulation of internal and external factors. On the one hand, the infusion of ideology into political, social, economic and cultural life under Stalinism had created the conditions for a rapid and profound reaction. This was all the more so because there was no shortage of social actors ready to engage in that manner, both among the – hibernating – former elites and among young people, for whom the breakthrough offered new opportunities. Many years of isolation and hopelessness had resulted in the burn-out seen amongst survivors of natural disasters – of people, who have ‘lost their possessions in the conflagration […] and are trying to rebuild them, but to rebuild them according to patterns developed in societies of mass consumption. These patterns reach [Poles] through films, television, the press, illustrated magazines, tourism, family visits, and so on’.3 The sociologist Jan Szczepański wrote these words in the mid-1970s, but they illustrate perfectly the situation of two decades earlier, when citizens had finally had a chance to unwind from the arid years of Stalinism. On the other hand, Gomułka’s team was keen to maintain and reinforce its pro-social, reformist image, while the economic reforms undertaken and consent to more sophisticated 2 J. Zawieyski, Dzienniki, vol. 1: Wybór z lat 1955–1959, ed. A. Knyt, Warszawa 2011, p. 333. 3 J. Szczepański, Zagadnienia konstruowania i realizacji modelu i wzorów konsumpcji socjalistycznej, in: idem (ed.) Badania nad wzorami konsumpcji, Wrocław–Warszawa–Kraków–Gdańsk 1977, p. 33.

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consumption made it possible to at least mitigate the deep economic collapse. What was also of enormous significance was the fact that both the party apparatus and the apparatus of supervision and repression had been temporarily – yet significantly – weakened, from the institutions of political control, through the courts and prosecutors’ offices, all the way down to the Citizens’ Militia, commonly abbreviated to ‘MO’ (which in 1944 became the predominant means of policing in Poland, having replaced the pre-war police force, until 10  May  1990, when it was transformed back to ‘Policja’, or the police force.) Despite the name, the MO had nothing in common with the military, but recruited ordinary citizens. The international conditions were also favourable. Without the thaw in the USSR, the changes in Poland would not have been so profound, or might not have happened at all. There is no doubt that the decision of the Soviet authorities in 1955 to liberalise the abortion laws had a decisive influence on similar legislation in other countries of the bloc, including Poland. The Moscow Festival of Students and Youth in the summer of 1957 brought a breath of fresh international air into the Soviet bloc, just as its Warsaw counterpart had done two years earlier. In early 1957, experiments began with introducing market elements into the Soviet economy. Although the thaw did not last long, not all of society returned to its previous state of hibernation. Some, especially the metropolitan intelligentsia, warmed to the changes and ‘thawed out’.4 However, for the average citizen of the People’s Republic of Poland in the mid-1950s, the role model was not the USSR – however ‘thawed’ it might have become, but Western Europe, which had finally left the Second World War behind, and the pace and scope of the changes taking place there were so enormous that already by the end of the decade the slogan the ‘golden 1950s’ was being taken for granted.5 The years 1955–1957 were momentous both politically and economically (with the agreement on Germany’s accession to NATO and the Treaties of Rome forming the foundations of the EEC) as well as socially. 4 E. Zubkova, Russia after the War. Hopes, Illusions, and Disappointments, 1945–1957, Armonk London 1998, p.  201; Cf. D.  A.  Field, Private life and communist morality in Khrushchev’s Russia, New York etc. 2007; Khrushchev and Khrushchevism, ed. M. McCauley, Houndmills 1987; William Taubman, Khrushchev. The Man and His Era, London 2003; Soviet State and Society under Nikita Khrushchev, eds. M.  Ilič, J.  Smith, London-New York 2009; S.  E.  Reid, Destalinization and Taste, 1953–1963, “Journal of Design History”, Vol. 10 (1997), No. 2 (Design, Stalin and the thaw), pp.  177–201; K.  Smith, Moscow 1956: the silenced spring, Cambridge, Mass. 2017. 5 A.  Schildt, Moderne Zeiten: Freizeit, Massenmedien und “Zeitgeist” in der Bundesrepublik der 50er Jahre, Hamburg 1995, p.  16. Generally about the changes in Europe: H.  Kaelble, Sozialgeschichte Europas. 1945 bis zur Gegenwart, München 2007.

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They also proved a watershed for the political landscape in Poland.6 On the one hand there was a return to bourgeois traditions and mores, while on the other the Americanisation of Europe advanced with gusto and was manifest in both mass culture and consumption.7 The most significant modernisation was very apparent in the more developed European countries, both those untouched by the war, like Sweden, or those comparatively less damaged physically by it, such as Britain, but also in countries that the war had destroyed and impoverished, notably West Germany. A car, a television set or a refrigerator became the norm not only for the well-off middle class.8 While the car increased the mobility of society, inducing people to take a trip out of the city or travel abroad, the TV caused them to vegetate on their sofas, especially since the number of sets was increasing much faster than the number of cars: in West Germany at the end of 1954 there were 84,278 TV subscribers, and just three years later – 1.2 million, while as many as 18 manufacturers offered between them 130 types of sets! As a result, the number of cinema outings began to decrease rapidly, while the amount of alcohol consumed at home kept increasing.9 The well-equipped kitchen became a symbol of both modernity and the return of bourgeois Gemütlichkeit. The products that now filled fridges and cupboards were more and more highly processed, requiring less time and energy. Increasingly, they were no longer bought not in the corner shop, but in self-service supermarkets. Food ceased to be merely a means of survival, as it had been in the hungry post-war years, but became a pleasure, a placebo for 6 On the global importance of the year 1956 see i.a.: 1956: European and Global Perspectives, Carole Fink, Frank Hadler, Tomasz Schramm (eds.), Leipzig 2006; Simon Hall, 1956. The World in Revolt, London 2016. For an original view of the years 1956–1957 see compiled studies: J. Kochanowski, J. von Puttkamer (eds.), 1956. (Nieco) inne spojrzenie. Eine (etwas) andere Perspektive, Warszawa 2016; A. Gallus, W. Müller (eds.), Sonde 1957. Ein Jahr als symbolische Zäsur für Wandlungsprozesse im geteilten Deutschland, Berlin 2010. The importance of 1957 as a boundary marker is pointed out, among others, by David Kynaston, author of Tales of a New Jerusalem – a history of Britain, planned to have six volumes, in the period 1945–1979. From our point of view of particular interest is volume 2 (Family Britain 1951–1957, London–New York–Berlin 2007) and volume 3 (Modernity Britain: Opening the Box, 1957–1959, London etc. 2013). 7 Cf. A. Stephan (ed.), The Americanization of Europe: Culture, Diplomacy, and Anti-Americanism after 1945, New York–Oxford 2006; idem (ed.), Americanization and Anti-Americanism: The German Encounter with American Culture after 1945, New York–Oxford 2005. 8 A broader approach: S. Haustein, Vom Mangel zum Massenkonsum. Deutschland, Frankreich und Großbritannien im Vergleich, 1945–1970, Frankfurt–New York 2007. 9 K.  Hickethier, Der Fernseher. Zwischen Teilhabe und Medienkonsum, in: Fahrrad, Auto, Fernsehschrank. Zur Kulturgeschichte der Alltagsdinge, ed. W. Ruppert, Frankfurt/Main 1993, pp. 162–187.

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the soul. From the mid-1950s, cuisine became cosmopolitan, reaching out to other national cuisines, mainly European.10 That was soon also to change, as Western societies began to diversify more and more along ethnic lines. In colonial states, especially Britain, from the mid-1950s onwards, Africans and Asians became neighbours rather than guests.11 Higher incomes, shorter working hours and pension reforms (as in West Germany in 1957) blurred the lines of the existing social hierarchies. Individual social groups, especially workers, were changing their traditional image, as evidenced for example in Richard Hoggart’s famous book The Uses of Literacy,12 published in 1957. Popular media such as the cinema (especially American films), television, illustrated magazines and cheap novels led to new, increasingly uniform patterns of behaviour and cultural patterns, especially among young people.13 It is, of course, open to debate to what extent the parallels between the Polish Thaw and the changes in Western Europe contributed to the leap in modernisation observed in Poland in 1956–1957. In some areas, the changes were so extensive and profound that one might even risk the thesis that in that short time, the foundation of modernity had been laid, on which social life would in practice be based until the systemic transformation more than three decades later. These were areas such as science, broadly conceived consumption, design, sport, cultural life, the opening up to the world and new ways of looking at it, the emergence of a modern social structure, the private sector and also the early green shoots of ecology – as well as the sphere of dreams and the imagination. The word ‘revolution’ came to be used to characterise the reality of the turn of 1956 and 1957. One can safely assume that it was not only politics, but also these profound civilisational changes that determined the ease and ubiquity with which the term came to be used. It is, of course, difficult to fit this ‘revolution’ into its classical definitions. For those ‘there and then’, at the end of 1956 or in the first months of 1957, what mattered was not so much scientific theories as feelings. ‘Revolution’ was therefore a term used with abandon – in all possible contexts, political, cultural or social. It is thus the Zeitgeist of the time that has inspired the title of the book. Although the transformations in culture, science or consumption had begun 10

M.  Wildt, Am Beginn der “Konsumgesellschaft”. Mangelerfahrung, Lebenshaltung, Wohlstandhoffnung in Westdeutschland in den fünfziger Jahren, Hamburg 1995, p. 105, 126, 145–146, 162–171. 11 D. Kynaston, Family Britain …, p. 449. 12 The Uses of literacy: Aspects of Working-Class Life with Special References to Publications and Entertainments, London 1957. 13 G. Pearson, Hooligan: A History of Respectable Fears, London–Basingstoke 1983, p. 19.

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before the October U-turn, it was nevertheless that U-turn in which the term ‘revolution’ had its starting point – indeed it was often even referred to as the ‘October Revolution’ – qualified by the distinguishing adjective ‘Polish’. Thereafter, in Polish, the term ‘October’ lost its exclusively calendar meaning, and came to signify not so much a month, as the ‘zero hour’ – the beginning of a new era, with immediately understood significance. Therefore we shall from now on use the word ‘October’ as it is used in Polish, abandoning inverted commas around it. This could be seen not only in Polish narratives, but also in observations made by foreigners. ‘When one […] crosses the Polish border,’ wrote Werner Friedmann, a prominent West German journalist and editor‑in‑chief of one of the leading German dailies, the Süddeutsche Zeitung ‘one encounters a phrase that then accompanies one across Poland: ‘since October’, and one has to admit that since the bloodless uprising against Moscow in October 1956, which was a success – in contrast to the righteous revolt of the Hungarian people that ended in a bloodbath – many things have changed in the country.’14 While the starting point of this ‘revolution’ is fairly uncontroversial, the ending point is more debatable. For some, it had already ended in the autumn of 1956, while for others the end did not come until the January elections of 1957. However, it was undoubtedly in the autumn of 1957 that the slowdown came in political liberalisation and the modernising changes – especially in the prevailing social mood. It was then that the process of solidification and stabilisation of the post-October state structures finally came to an end, ready for a counter-attack on the political, economic, social and cultural fronts. The decision to close down the weekly magazine Po prostu – the flagship of the changes – together with the riots that followed in Warsaw, were of symbolic significance, but constituted only a fragment of a much wider puzzle. On 5 October 1957, on the fourth and final day of the demonstration, Gomułka met with journalists, and his lengthy peroration left no-one with any illusions. Any notions of a ‘revolution’ had to be firmly abandoned. Even the symbolic word ‘October’ was edited out of the transcript of the speech, and replaced by ‘the policy decided on at the 8th Plenum of the Party’.15 However, the warnings addressed to the press had to be taken more widely: ‘The period of dissociation between words and activity is over,’ Gomułka warned. ‘We have discussed 14

W.  Friedmann, “Seit Oktober” – heißt das Zauberwort in Polen, “Süddeutsche Zeitung”, 13/14  Jul 1957. Cf. H.  Balfour, A Tourist in Poland: Nation Balanced on a Tight Rope, “Manchester Guardian”, 3  Jul 1957. The view of October  1956 as a bloodless revolution was much more common. See i.a.: J. Maas, Polen im Zwielicht. Ein wirtschaftlich-politischer Bericht, Bonn 1957, p. 17. 15 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-255, p. 8, W. Gomułka meets with journalists, 5 Oct 1957.

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extensively the measures we will use in the event of disobedience to the party line. Until now we have not used such measures. But that period is over. What we have announced we are now beginning to implement’.16 In fact, these measures had already been implemented for some time: the ‘green light’ for the newly resuscitated private initiative had been turned off, opportunities for private travel abroad were restricted, ‘culture’ was put under tighter censorship, and a radical turn was observed in historical policy, for example in relation to attitudes to the Home Army and the 1944 Warsaw Uprising. The end of the ‘revolution’ was clearly reflected in the social mood. In letters sent during and immediately after the Warsaw demonstrations (5–7  October  1957) one can see deep pessimism and a sense that the victories and gains of October had been squandered. ‘We are again being muzzled,’ wrote an unknown sender in a letter to someone in Argentina, ‘the party is getting harsh again. The people are despondent’.17 ‘All we need now is a show trial of the editors of Po prostu, proving their links to foreign intelligence and Free Europe radio,’ wrote a resident of Lublin, ‘and we will have a perfect little vignette going back to the old Stalinist times’.18 And let us not underestimate the USSR’s launch into orbit of the Earth’s first artificial satellites: Sputnik I on 4 October 1957 and a month later (on 3 November) Sputnik II, with the first living creature, the dog Laika, to travel into space. Regardless of the huge dose of propaganda, for the public it was a clear signal of the superiority, and not only technological, of the USSR over the USA. ‘America has been punched in the nose’, noted the writer Maria Dąbrowska19 on 8 October 1957. The young writer Marek Hłasko, an iconic figure on the literary scene of the mid-1950s, wrote on 29 November 1957 to the founder of the Paris-based Literary Institute, Jerzy Giedroyc: ‘I am sending this letter from a different country from the one from which I dispatched to you my previous ones. […] Of course, everyone is hoping that this is a transitional state – but what of it? The last transitional state lasted twelve years [1944–1956 – JK].’20 Although the next such phase would last two decades longer, until 1989, the experience of 1956–1957 effectively inoculated Polish society to enable it to survive in reasonably good health. *** 16 Ibidem, p. 9. 17 AIPN BU 1585/2924, k. 65, Ministry of the Interior (hereinafter: MSW) note on the events in Warsaw 3–6 Oct 1957, 8 Oct 1957. 18 ODiZP TVP, 1050/21, Letters bulletin 68, 14 Oct 1957, Jan Kozicki, Lublin, 10 Oct 1957. 19 M. Dąbrowska, Dzienniki powojenne 1955–1959, ed. T. Drewnowski, Warszawa 1997, p. 256. 20 M. Hłasko, Listy, ed. A. Czyżewski, Warszawa 2014, pp. 129–131.

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Looking from a distance at the thaw of 1956–1957, it is sometimes difficult for us to reconstruct its social rather than political dynamics. Which of the changes were noticed most quickly? Which of them were considered the most significant? What has turned out to be a lasting phenomenon, and what has not stood the test of time? No public opinion polls were carried out in this regard, and official documents, newspaper articles or even the various surveys carried out with enthusiasm at the time were no adequate substitute for them. And those who kept contemporaneous diaries rarely had the analytical skills to enable them to diagnose a wide range of problems. Although it may sound paradoxical, amongst the best guides to the social landscape of Poland in the years 1956–1957 were the satirists of the time, especially caricaturists, accustomed to insightful observation of reality and instant topical commentary, often in concise form – a few lines were all that was required. Caricature, with all its inevitable subjectivity, is at the same time, as Jacques‑Marie Boyer‑Brun maintained (and in 1794 he paid for his propensity for satire with his head), ‘a thermometer indicating the state of public opinion’.21 Firmly rooted in space and time, it was a tool showing not only the temperature, but also the hopes or disappointments, sometimes better than a long, analytical text. The thaw brought a boom for satirists. Of the numerous excellent drawings22 produced at that time, two come to mind as guides to the social panorama of the years 1956–1957. Both were published in the very popular and opinionforming weekly magazine Szpilki. The first of these, The Terrible Dream of the Personnel Officer by Karol ‘Charlie’ Ferster, was published on 15 July 1956. The thaw was already palpable, but no one could as yet have anticipated how it would turn out, or indeed whether it would continue at all. After all, less than three weeks had elapsed since the Poznań tragedy, where the protests were repressed in a brutal and bloody manner, and the arrested participants, now awaiting trial, were still being spoken of in unmistakably Stalinist terms. Armed, or high-security, cupboards, similar to the one depicted by Ferster, could be found in the office of the personnel officer of every major institution, 21

22

Quote from: T. Szarota, Niemcy i Polacy. Wzajemne postrzeganie i stereotypy, Warszawa 1996, p. 104. On the role of caricature as a historical record see, i.a.: L. H. Streicher, On a Theory of Political Caricature, “Comparative Studies in Society and History”, Vol. 9, No. 4 (July 1967), pp. 427–445; W.A. Coupe, Observations on a Theory of Political Caricature, “Comparative Studies in Society and History”, Vol.  11, No.  1 (Jan 1969), pp.  79–95; T.  M.  Kemnitz, The Cartoon as a Historical Source, “The Journal of Interdisciplinary History”, Vol.  4, No.  1, (1973/1974), pp. 81–93; Ch. Achterberg, Karikatur als Quelle. Determinanten sozialwissenschaftlicher Interpretation, Frankfurt am Main (and others) 1998. See catalogue of the exhibition in the Museum of Caricature, Warsaw Nov 2016–Mar 2017: Rewolucja (po) październikowa. Polska 1956–1957, Warszawa 2016.

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who usually worked for the widely feared state Security Office (the Polish equivalent of the KGB or the Stasi) or collaborated closely with it. These cupboards stored one of the many dreaded props of Stalinism: secret opinion statements and intrusively detailed personal questionnaires, which informers and ordinary citizens were made to fill in at any and every opportunity. On them depended people’s fates and careers, and being asked to complete the form was a source of trepidation and a dilemma. Was it better to admit to your grandfather’s damning landed gentry background or having an uncle in Argentina, to your own participation in the anti-communist Home Army (AK) or to your son’s altar‑boyhood, thus calling into question your promotion or admission to university – or to conceal these damning biographical facts and, if discovered, expose yourself to even worse consequences? In 1956, this Stalinist Pandora’s box was opened and all secrets released, with as yet unknown consequences. The other significant timeline-tagging cartoon, Juliusz Puchalski’s Fashion 1957, published six months later, on 3  February  1957, may serve as a kind of control variable. Despite the initial disappointments, the thaw was in full swing, especially in its social aspects, which is of more interest to us. These few months were enough to confirm some observations, while sweeping others under the carpet (or hiding them in the cupboard again). Of course, these drawings should not be treated literally, but as a tool for organising the layout of the book. They could not reflect the full panorama of the thawing Poland. Fortunately, Ferster had the foresight to make us guess the identity of the last person crawling out of the cupboard, and we do not know who else remained in it. This vagueness gives both the author and the readers room for their own interpretations and additions. It should not come as a surprise that the cartoonist chose a young man dressed in fashionable Western style, reviled by the authorities – a so-called ‘bikiniarz’, or a beatnik, to open the parade, as it was the young who were both the pioneers and the first beneficiaries of the changes (cf. We, the Youth of the Atomic Age). Ferster could not have predicted, however, that the charismatic and rebellious beatnik, a symbol of moral opposition to the system, would lose much of his kudos in the coming year. In 1957, beatniks, effectively assimilated by the revolution, did not arouse strong emotions. On the other hand, the same cannot be said of the internally diverse group of Polish hooligans, commonly but wrongly associated with the beatniks. The explanation for why the hooligan theme is missing from both drawings, however, seems simple. In mid1956 they were an everyday element of public space – threatening, but already tamed. Six months later not much had changed, even though the phenomenon had assumed greater proportions and a more dangerous, aggressive form.

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Fig. 1 Karol ‘Charlie’ Ferster, The Terrible Dream of the Personnel Officer, 15 July 1956. Museum of Caricature, Warsaw.

Fig. 2 Juliusz Puchalski, Fashion 1957, “Szpilki”, February 1957.

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Although alcohol consumption shot up with the thaw, the figure of the drunk was also absent from visual satire, and this can be explained in a similar way. The beatnik in Ferster’s drawing is holding a bottle of the mythical Coca-Cola, while the bottle at the feet of the 1957 dandy is a testimony to the fascination with the West that prevailed at that time. This could be considered a paradox, as both hooliganism and drunkenness, often referred to in the same breath, were considered the most dangerous bane of Polish society during the thaw (See my first chapter Peaceful People Are Dying; Or Troubled Times). The prominent position given to an attractive, scantily clad young woman can be interpreted in two ways. On the one hand, as early as mid-1956 a discussion raged about – theoretically non-existent – prostitution, quickly recognised as one of the scourges of the thawing Poland (Chapter 2: A Public Secret). On the other hand, the events of 1956–1957 emphatically demonstrated that it was women, even more than men, who had clearly expressed their desire to throw off the bonds of the puritanism of the Stalin era in order to show their own identities, driving towards a different attitude to sexuality and able to be in charge of their own bodies and expose them with a sense of empowerment. Chapter 3: Easier to Unleash than to Rein in Again Later; Or Women’s Glamour, Women’s Hell, attempts to throw a light on both the new look at the role models for femininity and sexuality (October and Brigitte Bardot; Or Women Show Their Faces – and More!), and the directly related struggle for conscious motherhood (illustrated by the cartoon To Get Pregnant or Not to Get Pregnant?). To publish an image of a smiling socialist over-achiever, a Stakhanovite, a mere two weeks after the workers’ protest in Poznań must be seen as an ironic farewell to the idealised world of manual labour. In mid-1956, the situation in the factories came to boiling point; in the autumn, alongside the youth, it was the workers who were the engine of the revolution, and the factories became October’s most important battlefields, together with the universities. Workers are the subject of Chapter 4: Revolution in the Factory 1956–1957. Unemployment was one of the most prominent phenomena during the thaw yet has rarely been mentioned, despite the fact that it affected not only workers but also, and perhaps above all, the diminished intelligentsia as well as military and security officers. Chapter 5: Those Surplus to Requirements Must Leave; Or The Spectre of Unemployment 1956–1957 shows the economic, social, geographical and historical conditions of the slump in the labour market and the attempted state intervention. In portraying the attitudes of young people, Ferster displayed both keen powers of observation and excellent intuition. For good reason he equipped the member of the communist youth organisation ZMP with a double, Janus‑like

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face – because these young paragons of the ideology began to rebel to such an extent that they became the main force of the anti‑Stalinist revolution. But they were to become its first victims, and – disillusioned – moved away from politics to focus on the less ideological and more practical aspects of everyday life. It is thus for a reason that the chapter on the young generation (We, the Youth of the Atomic Age) tracks its journey from Marx to Einstein. Both Ferster’s bourgeois woman with a rosary and the symbolic citizen of the year 1957 holding a prayer book (while sporting the amalgamated token attire of the different social classes, from the peasant’s rubber boots, to the new dandy’s fancy socks), not only signal the change in the relations between the state and the church that had taken place at the end of 1956, but also point to – in juxtaposition with the volume of Marx’s Capital held by someone else to provide a counterbalance – the ambiguous consequences of this transformation. For this reason, the chapter The Clergy Offensive Continues; Or A Temporary Role Reversal aims not so much to present the coexistence of the communist Gomułka and the Polish Primate Wyszyński, as the social context of the return of religion to schools or the wave of the so-called ‘clericalisation’, which also affected the party, the army and the police. To fearlessly admit to having family abroad – and in the USA, to boot! – as the man does in Ferster’s drawing, has a much more profound significance. The next three chapters show Poles’ attempts to break through the suffocating isolation of their country, to take a peek at the world, to affirm Poland’s place in the Western world, not a straight-forward matter at the time. In the chapter I’m Going to Take a Trip Abroad this Year, No Matter What!, the points of interest are not only the quantitative effects of the borders becoming less hermetically sealed, but also the strategies developed by society to enable travel abroad and the means of financing it. The chapter Culture Is in the West! has a double function, presenting both Poland’s accelerated cultural westernisation between 1956 and 1957 and the key importance of Kultura, the leading Polish émigré literary and political magazine, published in Paris. Finally, the chapter We Want to Be Modern! looks at attempts to implement Western patterns of modern consumption, focusing on cars and plastics, the twin symbols of modernity. I have deliberately refrained from dwelling on the aspects of the two leading cartoons that refer to the immediate and more distant future, because on the one hand the motif of the Home Army (AK) has been thoroughly exploited,23 23

Cf. J. Z. Sawicki, Bitwa o prawdę. Historia zmagań o pamięć Powstania Warszawskiego 1944– 1989, Warszawa 2005; M. Napiórkowski, Powstanie umarłych. Historia pamięci 1944–2014, Warszawa 2016; J. Wawrzyniak, Veterans, Victims, and Memory: The Politics of the Second World  War in Communist Poland, translated by Simon Lewis, Bern 2015; M.  Zaremba,

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and on the other the historic thaw of the years 1956–1957 had a much broader scope, that in itself merits a monograph. At rallies or in letters to the authorities or the media, people were not afraid to ask questions about taboo topics such as relations with the USSR, the matter of the lost Eastern Borderlands, or Katyń – a village near Smolensk where in 1940 the Soviets murdered 4,400 Polish officers, prisoners of war, giving rise to the term ‘Katyń Massacre’, which came to extend to the extermination in the spring of 1940 of some 22,000 Polish citizens also in other locations, most of them officers and intelligentsia. The wave of social activity reactivated, or created, new regional institutions involved with the local past, such as the Silesian Institute in Opole or the Pojezierze Socio-Cultural Association in Olsztyn. They dealt not only with describing the past, but also with saving from final devastation the material evidence, including cultural relics of the Polish gentry and nobility. However, this was not the reason why elements of the traditional costume of the Polish gentry feature in both drawings. Although several more years had to pass before Małgorzata Szejnert’s ground-breaking reportage on aristocratic families living in the People’s Republic of Poland (1947–1989, always referred to by its Polish initials ‘PRL’),24 the systemic harassment of former landowners (such as discrimination in university admissions) had ended and Polish toffs ceased to be painted as the baddies.25 On the contrary, they returned to their former function as cultural role models, a position they maintained unofficially until the end of the PRL. ‘After 1956, my family background helped rather than hindered me,’ recalled the aristocrat Xawery Krasicki. ‘So much so, that when I went to Moscow on a number of business trips, they referred to me at all times as “comrade Graf”’.26 (This meant ‘comrade Count’, so clearly a contradiction in terms). In the years 1956–1957 some dispossessed landowners made attempts to regain at least part of their lost estates; sometimes they succeeded – interestingly, with the support of district officials and usually in the face of strong resistance from the villagers.27 Although this is undoubtedly a fascinating thread, from the national perspective it is incidental. In contrast, there is no doubt that one significant Communism – Legitimacy – Nationalism: Nationalist Legitimization of the Communist regime in Poland, Berlin 2019. 24 M. Szejnert, Mitra pod kapeluszem. Życie książąt oraz hrabiów w PRL, “Polityka” 16, 21 Apr 1973 and 17, 28 Apr 1973. 25 A. Łoś, Styl życia ziemiaństwa polskiego po drugiej wojnie światowej, Lublin 2008, pp. 61–62. 26 M.  Miller, Arystokracja, Warszawa 1998, p.  198. Cf. M.  K.  Schirmer, Arystokracja. Polskie rody, Warszawa 2012. 27 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-24, Letters Bulletin 62, 31 Oct 1957; Ibidem, 237/XXV-25, Letters Bulletin 17, 18 Mar 1958.

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outcome of October was a new attitude to the concept of making and spending money and the status of being poor or wealthy. Although this motif tends to be overlooked in the context of the 1956–1957 thaw, there can be no doubt that the new attitude to earning and spending, to wealth and poverty, was an offshoot of October. It is characteristic that not only in Ferster’s drawings, but also in the general discourse, these topics were practically absent until the autumn of 1956. In October 1956, this peculiar conspiracy of silence ended and the ‘fashionable Polish citizen 1957’ sported the paraphernalia of the middle class, aspiring to become consumerist. This was by no means just the ‘cartoonist’s view, both domestic and foreign observers noticed the arrival on the scene of this demographic. They are the protagonists of the last three chapters: Chapter 11: We All Want to Make a Living One Way or Another: Money, Poverty and Wealth in (post)October Poland, Chapter 12: The Horses Are Running Wild; Or How Quickly Can a Country Be Privatised? and Chapter  13: Business Is Business; Or The Hopes and Disappointments of Private Enterprise. The book presents only a fragment of Polish reality in the years1956–1957, leaving out areas, phenomena or social groups subject to equally revolutionary changes at that time, which deserve separate, extensive monographs: the countryside, the artistic community, literature, sport, education, housing issues, national minorities, or the post-German Western Borderlands and Northern Territories. But even without taking these topics into account, the number of potential sources is practically inexhaustible, which demanded making a radical selection. The basis for this study was materials from the Party, state administration, State Council and Sejm stored in the New Files Archive in Warsaw, which guaranteed a more general perspective. Detailed analysis was based on materials from the State Archives in Lublin, Gdańsk (Gdynia branch), Poznań, Wrocław and Krakow. The security apparatus, weakened in the years 1956–1957, focused on national minorities, strikes and ‘enemy’ circles (former members of the Home Army, National Democrats, Sanacja, etc.), paying little attention to most of the issues discussed in this book. Thus, materials kept in the Archives of the Institute of National Remembrance were used only sporadically. Their absence was compensated for by ego-documents: letters sent to the authorities, the radio and the press, Jerzy Giedroyc’s correspondence kept in the Archives of the Literary Institute in Maisons-Laffitte near Paris, or materials compiled by representatives of Radio Free Europe on the basis of conversations with the recently-arrived from Poland. They required careful analysis, but provided a truly grass‑roots perspective set in a specific time and place, a perspective which was often radically different from the picture emerging from the

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relatively numerous diaries of the intelligentsia. Free Europe Radio is also to be thanked for its diligent monitoring of Polish radio stations, thanks to which a lively contemporaneous source has survived. It is difficult to be original in pointing out the exceptional role of the press as a historical source for the years 1956–1957, including social history. A full search was impossible, especially taking into account the heyday for the information about the thaw, so an attempt was made at least to keep a balance between the central and the provincial, the satirical and the serious, and between Polish and foreign titles.28 In the case of the latter, the author relied above all on collections of clippings kept at the Open Society Archive in Budapest, the Herder-Institut in Marburg and the Archive of the Literary Institute in Maisons‑Laffitte. Analysing the press, it was difficult not to pay attention to the illustrative layer, especially the cartoons, which play an important role in the book. The diversity of the problems tackled – from conscious motherhood to plastics – demanded reaching out for an equally wide range of literature. One can only ask for understanding, and if something has escaped the author’s attention, let us hope it should not cause too much detriment to the overall picture.

28

Most recent on the press at the time of the thaw: M. Przeperski, P. Sasanka (eds.), Nie tylko”Po Prostu”. Prasa w dobie odwilży 1955–1958, Warszawa 2019.

Chapter 1

Peaceful People are Dying; Or Troubled Times ‘What kind of country is this,’ the Poznań councillor Eugenia Kobylińska lamented in April 1957, ‘where you can’t let your suitcase out of your sight lest it be dragged away, where young lads rob kiosks, crooks run black market rackets, hooligans accost peaceful citizens, drunks enjoy leniency and the most foul insults are the order of the day; a country where prostitutes occupy cafés, and where anybody can wreck state assets. Enough is enough!’1 Notably, she listed hooliganism and drunkenness high on the list, as the twin evils were considered the worst of the many afflicting Polish society of the time, far more so than the last of the pathological triad – prostitution. ‘The perception of drunkenness and hooliganism as inseparable is to a large extent justified, as both these factors that contributed to the sudden intensification of both phenomena and their narratives ran in parallel. The historian Krzysztof Kosiński wrote: ‘The 1956 watershed resulted in the problem of drunkenness being discussed in several different idioms: pragmatically or as a phenomenon to castigate and eradicate, but also from the point of view of sociology and medicine. The diversity of these languages (and the divergence of interests behind it) contributed to the lack of a coherent alcohol and anti‑alcohol policy in the PRL. What is more, the language of describing drunkenness, in its different shades and hues, was entangled in ideological formulae. These reappeared after the abandonment of the October liberalisation and persisted with varying intensity until the very end of the People’s Republic of Poland.’2 One may safely say that very similar if not identical language was used to discuss hooliganism, which became the subject of research by lawyers, pedagogues and sociologists.3 The texts by Stanisław Manturzewski4 published in Po prostu resonated widely. It is no coincidence that the statistical picture of the twin problems of hooliganism and drunkenness began to change markedly in the second half of 1956 (although one cannot discount some under-reporting 1 AAN, Chancellery of the State (further: KRP), 69/134, p. 232, Poznań Voivodeship Council (hereinafter: WRN) session, Poznań, 9 April 1957. 2 K.  Kosiński, Historia pijaństwa w czasach PRL. Polityka-obyczaje-szara strefa-patologie, Warszawa 2008, pp. 260–261. 3 Chuligaństwo. Studia, ed. J. Sawicki, Warszawa 1956; T. Cyprian, Chuligaństwo wśród młodzieży. Problem społeczny i prawny, Poznań 1956. 4 S. Manturzewski, W zaklętym kręgu drętwej mowy, in: “Po prostu” (hereinafter: PP), 30 Dec 1955 and Furtki wdechowej twierdzy, PP, 13 Nov 1955.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_002

2

Chapter 1

on the part of the militia, in view of the changed circumstances). This is more noticeable in the case of alcohol, the consumption of which is easier to quantify, whether in litres, bottles or zlotys spent. The statistics spoke for themselves, even bearing in mind that alcohol from illicit production was not included: Table 1

Product

1955

1956

1957

1958

Beer (mln litres) Vodka (converted into 100% spirit; mln litres) Wine (mln litres)

517.0 62.8

519.5 65.8

569.1 80,6

611.6 73.6

68.6

79.4

101.9

114.7

Statistical Yearbook 1959 [Rocznik statystyczny 1959], Warszawa 1959, p. 353.

Hooliganism was less easy to pigeonhole and tabulate, to such an extent that the author of a study on hooliganism in the Łódź voivodeship in mid-1957 was surprised by the scale of the complications in the methodology that he had encountered, writing: ‘[…] already the first contact revealed great difficulties. One cannot help but wonder whether the problem of hooliganism seems to be somehow jinxed, which has made it impossible even to crystallise the very concept of hooliganism, and which continues to prevent us from grasping this common social disease by the throat. […] Neither the authorities appointed to fight hooliganism, nor society as a whole, actually know what should be included in the concept of hooliganism. Everything bad is included in the concept of hooliganism, and relevant statistics have to be compiled to quantify it. In prosecutors’offices, too, there was a shrugging of shoulders when the case registers were taken; it took months of work to establish the correct figures. The Citizens’ Militia also shows a complete misunderstanding of the concept and subsumes under it all crimes of disturbing the public peace, etc.’5 The term ‘hooliganism’ was usually understood as ‘aggressive behaviour disturbing the public peace and order, including in particular attacks on people and their bodily integrity and the destruction of property.’6 5 AAN, KS, 164, Tadeusz Nowakowski, Report on fighting hooliganism in the Piotrków, Radomszczański and Bełchatów districts of the Łódź voivodeship, 30 May and 20 Sep 1957, p.  269. The report stressed that there was ‘not a single party in these districts, whether in the countryside or in the city, without a brawl and the need for police and ambulance intervention – even at the best prepared social parties and in the best establishments.’ Ibidem, p. 270. 6 A. Wądołowska, Istota chuligańskiego charakteru czynu, “Prokuratura i Prawo”, 12, 2010, p. 121.

3

Troubled Times

Regardless of the definition and legal category, all observers were unanimous – from the second half of 1956 onwards it was becoming easier on Polish streets and in parks or pubs not only to lose your wallet, but also your health or even your life. Table 2

Indictments in cases of hooligan offences (against the authorities and public offices, bodily harm, participation in a fight or GBH) 1956–1957

Period I half of 1956 II half of 1956 I half of 1957 II half of 1957

Indictments No. of cases

No. of defendants

8,340 15,451 19,539 21,589

12,485 23,328 30,507 34,080

Source: AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-163, k. 72.

Hooliganism had previously been perceived primarily as an urban phenomenon; however, statistics for the first nine months of 1957 showed no significant difference between incidence in the city (20,209 cases) and in the countryside (19,025). In rural areas, outbreaks of hooliganism tended to be more violent and often ended tragically. In total, in the first three quarters of 1957, 180 people lost their lives in hooligan brawls, and 7,177 were seriously injured. While in the whole of 1956, the militia had detained 20,083 people for hooliganism, of whom 13,567 had been arrested (7,566 in cities and 6,001 in the countryside), from January to the end of September 1957, 19,720 people were detained, while 13,208 were arrested; the majority were young people aged between 18 and 30. There were more group incidents, turning into street clashes, involving different social groups and sometimes with a clearly anti-Soviet edge. From August to December 1956 alone, 284 such incidents were recorded in Poland, the most serious on 18 November in Bydgoszcz and on 10 December in Szczecin.7 In the countryside, such mass events were, for logistical reasons, rarer and tended to have different triggers, for example religion or conflicts between individual

7 See i.a.: A. Dudek, T. Marszałkowski, Walki uliczne w PRL 1956–1989, Kraków 1992, pp. 31–36; S. Pastuszewski, Bydgoski Listopad 1956, Bydgoszcz 1996; A. Paczoska-Hauke (ed.), Przełom po przełomie. Bydgoskie wydarzenia roku 1956, Bydgoszcz 2006; P.  Skubisz, Nocna rewolta. Antysowieckie zamieszki w Szczecinie 10 grudnia 1956 r., Szczecin 2009.

4

Chapter 1

farmers and the ‘state’ (ie., State Agricultural Farming, PGR) or ‘co-operative’ farmers.8 The correlation between the increase in ‘hooligan acts’ and alcohol consumption was striking. Between January and September 1956, 164,623 people were arrested for committing a crime or offence under the influence of alcohol (including 1,272 minors), but just a year later, the number had risen to 212,916 (an increase of 23.3%), including 1,851 minors (an increase of 53.4%).9 And it was alcohol-fuelled aggression that included reaching out for weapons such as bottles, knives or knuckle-dusters. The ‘traditional’ factors that accounted for aggression included the devastating effects of war, industrialisation and urbanisation, leading to the ‘proletarisation’ of drinking, which, following the abolition of private pubs, had been literally thrown out into the public space. This in turn was thoroughly ghettoised after the war and the antics of aggressive youth, which before 1939 had been concentrated in specific neighbourhoods, now spread throughout the cities. As the sociologist Mikołaj Kozakiewicz explained, hooliganism lost its former knife-wielding character, and took on that of mass hooligan-style “entertainment” and “the blowing off of steam” for particular youth groups from all social strata.’10 Alcohol and/or aggression were the panacea to alleviate the frustrations caused by the hopelessness of their lives and jobs. In the second half of the 1950s, street violence was a global phenomenon (more in the chapter We, the Youth of the Atomic Age). Polish hooligans were at times compared to British Teddy Boys or German Halbstarken; they had, however, little in common with these postwar, adolescent working-class subcultures, predominantly male. Polish hooligans were much more like their Soviet namesakes, the ‘khuligans’, who engaged in disorderly conduct, often under the influence of alcohol.11 It is not without reason that in the USSR the problem of youth aggression began to grow at the same time as in Poland.12 The cultural, social and economic transformations which had brought about 8 9

10 11 12

Dudek, Marszałkowski, Walki …, pp. 36–39. AAN, KS, 164, Internal Affairs Committee, Information on combating hooliganism and drunkenness, 25 Oct 1957, p. 247. The increasing number of young people not in education or employment was also pointed out as a factor in hooligans getting younger (approx. 65,000 in the school year 1956/57). AAN, KS, 129, Committee for Education and Science, 20 Nov 1957, k. 454. Not surprisingly, a ‘phenomenon unprecedented in previous years’ was reported: ‘the formation of gangs led sometimes by 14 or 15 year old boys’. “Życie Warszawy” (hereinafter: ŻW), 27 Mar 1957. M. Kozakiewicz, Rycerze noża i kastetu, ŻW, 19 Sep 1957. M. Kozakiewicz, Problem ogólnoeuropejski, ŻW, 7 Feb 1958. While in 1955 Soviet courts had sentenced 126,772 persons for ‘hooligan’ acts, in 1956 the number increased to 196,558, in 1957 – 185,035 and in 1958 – 207,587. B.  LaPierre,

Troubled Times

5

Fig. 3 The depiction of all phenomena related to excessive consumption of alcohol became so common in 1956–1957 that to make any impact at all, artists would try surrealism and innovation. Juliusz Puchalski’s cartoon employs both angles: ‘Excuse me, but how did you manage to get in there?’ – ‘Under the influence.’ Juliusz Puchalski, “Szpilki” 31, 1957.

youth rebellion in the West, were in both the USSR and Poland compounded by the political thaw. As Mikołaj Kozakiewicz noted, hooliganism became a ‘by-product of the rightful transformations we have experienced in Poland over the past 18 months, especially since October last year. Social order, formerly based on the now condemned methods of the former Ministry of Public Security (MBP) has not been replaced quickly enough by a new system of order based on democratic foundations.’13 The militia, previously widely accused of brutality or lawbreaking, now refrained, as a precaution, from more radical actions, sometimes even lapsing into inaction. In June 1957 the Warsaw Provincial Committee of the Party complained ‘The mistaken criticism of the previous period’ […] ‘formalised the

13

Hooligans in Khrushchev’s Russia: Defining, Policing, and Producing Deviance during the Thaw, Madison (Wisc.) 2012, p. 18. M. Kozakiewicz, Rycerze noża i kastetu, ŻW, 19 Nov 1957.

6

Chapter 1

process of prosecuting the criminal even more than before.’14 Militiamen were blamed for trying not to ‘hurt’ the suspect and for often taking in good faith the statements of the suspect and defence lawyers.15 On the other hand, the MO was under-invested, poorly paid and poorly equipped (e.g. militiamen received batons only at the end of 1956). ‘They say that a militiaman turns away at the sight of a hooligan or he runs away and does not intervene. I ask you, what on earth is he supposed to tackle the hooligan with, with what can he defend himself? With dialectics?’16 The justice system was equally restrained in its responses. Prosecutors often refused to use pre-trial detention or dismissed cases, and, when it came to trial, the sentences, if any, were usually low or suspended. Hardly surprising that those who represented the authorities, mainly militiamen, became more and more frequently the target of aggression. While in the first nine months of 1956, 2,814 officers were victims of GBH, in the same period of 1957 there were 3,830, the most in Katowice (752) and Warsaw (375).17 Many more contributing factors related to the thaw could be found that fuelled hooliganism. One was that supervision of work places had become slack, with a blind eye often turned to absenteeism, drunkenness and endemic theft. Another, more significant, factor was increased cash in the pocket, with the pay increases given in 1956–1957 to workers, often unqualified rural migrants lacking aspirations. Much of their comparatively high wages was ‘spent on vodka, the pub and tarts’, as the writer Jalu Kurek commented in March 1957 on the social ambiance in the workers’ new town Nowa Huta near Krakow.18 The countryside, hardly an oasis of peace previously, in 1956–1957 received a massive financial injection, largely spent on alcohol. In the first six months of 1957, rural shops sold 3.174 mln złotys’ worth of alcohol – exceeding by more than 870 mln the amount sold in the same period of 1956.19 Although City Councils had measures at their disposal to limit the number of points of sale and the permitted hours for selling alcohol, in practice they generally 14

State Archive in Warsaw (hereinafter: APW), Warsaw Voivodeship Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party (hereinafter: WKW PZPR) 60/X–6, vol. 1, p. 14. 15 Ibidem, p. 15. 16 A. Kłodzińska, Milicja – to autorytet i siła, ŻW, 9 Nov 1956. 17 AAN, KS, 164, Internal Affairs Committee, Information on combating hooliganism and drunkenness, 25 Dec 1957, pp. 244–245, 248–250; M. Kozakiewicz, Rycerze noża i kastetu op. cit. 18 AAN, KRP, 69/46, session of the WRN Krakow, 14  Mar 1957, p.  12. Similar comments about the Warsaw Motorcycle Factory – AAN, KS, 147, Employment and Social Affairs Committee, 17 Nov 1957, pp. 14–14v. 19 AAN, KS, 146, Employment and Social Affairs Committee, 16 Nov 1957, p. 454; “Trybuna Ludu” (hereinafter: TL), 242, 2 Nov 1957.

Troubled Times Fig. 4 + 5: The thaw period media were quick to lampoon the lackadaisical attitude of the Citizens’ Militia, whose officers often refrained from decisive intervention. The Jerzy Zaruba cartoon of 1956 and the Zbigniew Kiulin one of early 1957 are no different in that respect; what has changed, however, is the appearance of the militiamen. For at the end of 1956, the militiamen were kitted out with service batons. They quickly learned how to use them – with excessive enthusiasm, leading to a disappearance of articles and cartoons criticising the force. Fig. 4: ‘You guys hooligans?’ – ‘No, gov, we’re political. We are off to give Kapuściak a good talking-to for his politically suspect stance in the previous era.’ – ‘Ah, in that case, I’m sorry to bother you.’ Jerzy Zaruba, “Szpilki” 52, 1956. Fig. 5: ‘Is he moving?’ – ‘No, he isn’t.’ – ‘Right, we can take him in then.’ Zbigniew Kiulin, “Szpilki” 7, 1957.

7

8

Chapter 1

ignored them.20 Since taking chances became less risky and supervision more relaxed, moonshining and the illegal alcohol trade spread rapidly. Even the official shops often ignored the regulations, ‘selling vodka to everyone at any time of day or night, without any restrictions, which [did] not have a positive impact on the fight against hooliganism or the improvement of safety in the area.’21 Despite widespread calls to take up the fight against alcoholism, the results were meagre. As already mentioned, the City Councils were ineffective. Paradoxically, the increase in alcohol prices in August 1957 had the opposite effect to that intended, as even more alcohol was sold.22 It was argued that the families of alcoholics would feel the higher prices most acutely. This was not groundless, because in the first nine months of 1957, an average Pole spent 101 zloty on shoes, 171 on sugar, 193 on cigarettes, 218 on bread, 219 on fats, 374 on meat products, 433 on textiles, as against 452 zloty on alcohol.23 In September  1957, the Parliamentary Commission for Labour and Social Affairs dealt with the problem by proposing an extensive information campaign, co-ordinated by an inter-ministerial commission and spread over a number of years, as well as the imposition of limits on the amount of alcohol sold, reduction of its strength, an increase in the production of nonalcoholic beverages, and the establishment of ‘drunk tanks’ in large cities. On  21  November  1957, Prime Minister Józef Cyrankiewicz issued an order appointing a permanent Committee of the Council of Ministers to Consider Matters and Prepare Motions Aimed at Coordinating and Intensifying the Efforts of Ministries in the Fight against Alcoholism.24 It is difficult to say whether this creation with its long-winded name was effective, but in any case

20

E.g. Miejska ofensywa przeciwko pijakom, ŻW, 49, 26 Feb 1958; Suchy Wołów. Na krawędzi prohibicji, ŻW, 9  Dec 1957; Herder-Institut Marburg (hereinafter: HIM), P-518, Item No 291/58, Stricter measures against abuse of alcohol. Crucially, it was the City Councils that were responsible for granting permits to open private bars and restaurants vending alcohol. In the early part of 1957 their number increased from 863 to 2,150. TL, 17 Nov 1957. 21 National Archive in Krakow (further: ANKr), Krakow Provincial Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party, 29/2216/65, Bulletin about the activities of the Primary Party Organisation (POP) at the District Headquarters of the Citizens’ Militia (MO; hereinafter: MO) and the state of security in the Krakow district 1 Jan–1 May 1957, 13 May 1957, k. 255. Cf. Jerzy Kochanowski, Through the Back Door: The Black Market in Poland 1944–1989, Frankfurt am Main-New York 2017, pp. 229–251. 22 Mimo podwyżki wzrasta spożycie wódki, ŻW, 13 Nov 1957. 23 “Gazeta Pomorska” (Bydgoszcz), 5 Jan 1958. 24 A.  Kochański, Polska 1944–1991. Informator historyczny, vol. 1: Ważniejsze akty prawne, decyzje i enuncjacje państwowe (1957–1970), Warszawa 2000, p. 69.

9

Troubled Times

Trybuna Ludu, the press mouthpiece of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR), assessed its creation as the ‘beginning of a great offensive’.25 Staying with the militaristic metaphor, this campaign ended with the passing of a really far-reaching anti-alcohol law on 10 December 1959, which remained in force until 1982.26 Slightly earlier, a parallel front had been launched to combat hooliganism, accompanied to such an extent by other criminal offences that the authors of Polish crime stories appearing in the years 1956–1957 had no trouble finding domestic inspiration. This increase in crime can be seen from the following table. Table 3

Indictments in cases of theft of private property, robbery and aggravated theft and homicide

Theft of private property

Robbery and aggravated theft

Homicide

Number Number of Number Number of Number Number of of cases defendants of cases persons of cases defendants I half 1956 II half 1956 I half 1957 II half 1957

7,469 13,739 13,130 15,887

9,448 16,343 16,556 19,426

379 631 687 652

638 1,062 1,162 1,127

246 296 326 344

364 414 449 484

Source: AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-163, pp. 72–73.

Analysing the above data, one has to remember that it is an incomplete picture, including only those cases that ended up in court. With the aforementioned restraint of both law enforcement bodies and the judiciary in pursuing cases and bringing them for prosecution, especially between the autumn of 1956 to the spring of 1957, even more serious crimes were not necessarily always brought to court. What is striking, however, is the sudden collapse of public order in the second half of 1956, and the slow stabilisation – albeit at a higher level – in the following year. The final months of 1956 brought not only quantitative, but also qualitative changes to Poland’s criminal landscape. The press commented: ‘More and more often peaceful people, passers-by and passengers are being killed by criminals. Banditry is assuming alarming proportions’27 25 Początek wielkiej ofensywy, TL, 28 Jan 1958. 26 “Dziennik Ustaw” (Journal of Laws); hereinafter: Dz.U. 1959 No. 69 item 434. 27 Obywatelom należy zapewnić bezpieczeństwo, “Głos Pracy” (hereinafter: GP), 29 May 1957.

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Chapter 1

This, alas, was a factual statement rather than merely an opinion chipped in by a sensation-seeking hack. In 1956 the government announced an amnesty to reduce prison population and release political prisoners; unfortunately those who regained freedom included criminals. Along with the perceptible weakening of robust rule of law, the decision contributed to the brutalisation of crimes, which were now committed more often in organised groups and with the use of weapons. While in March 1956, 126 robberies were recorded, in December the number rose to some 400. In the first half of 1957, 41 armed robbery gangs and 86 minor gangs were eliminated.28 Almost every day, the press reported events that bore a striking resemblance to the immediate post-war period of chaos and lawlessness. In mid‑September  1956 in Grudziądz, during a shootout, a bandit killed a passer‑by and wounded several others.29 In November a gang of robbers was eliminated in the Częstochowa area. In January 1957, Poland was shaken by the kidnapping of Bohdan Piasecki, the son of a prominent politician (an astronomical reward of 100,000 zloty was promised for assistance). However, the last straw was the brutal murder of a Warsaw student, Bolesław Orman, at the beginning of March 1957 in Bukowina Tatrzańska.30 It is difficult to say whether the open letters to the authorities – such as that signed by 188 builders on 15 April 1957 – were spontaneous or orchestrated, but they did show the prevailing mood. ‘Our voices,’ the builders wrote, ‘echo the opinion of the morally healthy part of society. The leniency that has been displayed so far has led to disastrous consequences. We call for a swift taking up of the path to an aggressive fight against crime, because citizens have the right to demand safe conditions, since they have put such great efforts into working towards a better future for the country.’31 The reaction of the authorities was swift. The policy of lenient sentencing was abandoned (for example a murderer had already been summarily sentenced to life imprisonment in May 1957), and the Citizens’ Militia, which dealt with criminal offences, was reorganised. Already at the end of 1956, officers had been equipped with truncheons, which, as it soon turned out, were often misused, even against women. ‘I think there are two reasons for this,’ hypothesised a Życie Warszawy journalist. ‘One is psychological; it can be described as 28 ŻW, 27 Jul 1957. 29 “Słowo Powszechne” (hereinafter: SP) 19  Nov 1956; ŻW, 19  Nov 1956; K.  Strzelecki, W trybie doraźnym, SM, 115, 15 May 1957; Obywatelom należy zapewnić bezpieczeństwo, GP, 29 May 1957; Pijani chuligani zamordowali robotnika, “Dziennik Polski” (London) 14 Aug 1957. 30 Cf. J. Kochanowski, “Wolne miasto”. Zakopane 1956–1970, Kraków 2019, pp. 87–88. 31 List otwarty do Ministra Sprawiedliwości, TL, 27 Apr 1957.

Troubled Times

11

a kind of “revenge” for that bad period of feeling helpless against criminals, for the colleagues who had been assaulted and insulted. In such a psychological frame of mind, one does not distinguish between the guilty and the innocent and sometimes hits out at random. Add to that verbal provocation by hooligans, such as: “You can’t get me anymore, because this is now a free country.” The second reason is, to my mind, the insufficient level of education of some in the militia, especially those from small, underfunded provincial towns. The only education such militia officers sometimes have is no more than four or five years of primary school, and they have almost no cultural interests. Their only leisure time “entertainment” is the local pub – the port of call for the local drunks and hooligans, where it is not difficult to cause a brawl.’32 One solution was to expel the most demoralised and corrupt militiamen. In the first half of 1957 alone, almost 900 were dismissed, including 59 officers, mainly for drunkenness, brawling and abuse of power, 3,700 were penalised (including 346 officers), and 175 were prosecuted.33 On the other hand, with an eye to the future, both the education of police officers and the restoration of public trust came into focus. The old role of the district policeman was restored, as a kind of local overseer, who would personally know the local residents and keep in touch with them, and keep an eye on law and order, ensuring that it was enforced, if need be. The militia received additional equipment, including police cars. The Forensic Institute was established and the first mobile laboratories created, with investigative experts who were now trained on special courses. Specialised investigation squads were set up, and increased use was being made of civilian intelligence and the infiltration of criminal circles.34 The militia promised that extensive use would be made of ‘the experience of police and militia services all over the world.’35 However, this was applied selectively, with the aim of learning first and foremost not so much about the latest forensic techniques as about modern methods of dispersing rallies and hostile demonstrations. For that purpose, 12 water cannons were bought from the GDR. They did not arrive in Poland until the end of 1957, so the riots that 32 Z pałkami ostrożnie, ŻW, 12 Mar 1957. 33 Milicja oczyszcza swoje szeregi, TL, 22 Nov 1957. According to Krzysztof Madej, in 1957, one in five militiamen (10,370) was put on a disciplinary procedure: some 2,000 were expelled on disciplinary grounds, while 1,500 were dismissed due to ‘low standards and immoral attitude’. K. Madej, Bezradność lub represja. Władze wobec przestępczości gospodarczej w PRL (1956–1970), Warszawa 2010, p. 131. 34 AAN, KS, 164, Information on the battle against hooliganism and drunkenness, 25 X 1957, k. 253–254; M. Kozakiewicz, Przestępczość anno 1957. Milicja od kuchni, ŻW, 224, 23 Nov 1957; Lepszy sprzęt – i lepsi ludzie. MO coraz silniejsza, ŻW, 21 Jun 1957; MO coraz lepiej pracuje, TL, 23 Mar 1958. 35 MO wprowadza zmiany, ŻW, 23 Mar 1958.

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Chapter 1

took place after Po prostu was closed down were still pacified by traditional means.36 There is no doubt, however, that it was the October riots that contributed to the militia changing tack and adopting a radical approach to the problem of hooliganism, having been provided with a convenient pretext for cracking down on all demonstrations and their participants. On  4 and 5 November 1957, exactly one month after the events in Warsaw, the Sejm committees of justice and internal affairs began to deliberate on the matter, arriving at the conclusion that a new law had to be passed to intensify the fight against hooliganism, making repression of criminals more severe, especially for repeat offenders, and providing better protection for militiamen.37 Finally, the Sejm passed the act on strengthening criminal responsibility for hooliganism on 22 May 1958 (Journal of Laws 1958, no. 34, item 152). The hardening of the line, however, could already be observed earlier. While on 1  January  1957, immediately after the amnesty, there were 35.9 thousand people in prison, on 1 May the number went up to 41.2 thousand, on 1 August to 46.6, and on 1 November jumped again to 55.7 thousand. The Commission of the Central Committee announced that ‘there are reasons to believe that the influx of prisoners into our penal institutions will continue to increase’.38 This was not an altogether optimistic forecast.

36 Polska-Niemcy Wschodnie 1945–1990, vol. 3: 1956–1957, eds. J.  Kochanowski, K.  Ziemer, comp. and ed. M. Górny, M. Hartwich, Warszawa 2008, pp. 345–350, 474–477. 37 AAN, KS, 169, Justice Committee, 5 Dec 1957, pp. 232–235.; TL, 7 Dec 1957. 38 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-163, Central Committee for Justice, Security and Public Order, Note on the situation in the prison system, late 1957, p. 36.

Chapter 2

An Open Secret; Or Let’s Stop Being Embarrassed and Take (Sensible) Action Of the triad of social pathologies – alcoholism, hooliganism and prostitution – which due to the post-Stalinist thaw ceased to be taboo as topics of discussion, it was the last that was met with the greatest reluctance. Although the authorities had addressed the problem of prostitution as early as the beginning of 1956, it was not until the autumn of that year that it became the main topic, rather than one of the asides in analytical texts, reportages or cartoons. On the other hand, there is no doubt that Paragraf Zero [Article Zilch], one of the most important in the ‘black series’ of Polish documentaries of the thaw, made in 1957 by Włodzimierz Borowik, became a time capsule preserving an audiovisual record of the problem,1 even if it did not necessarily have any great impact on the discussion of the problem at the time. It is not the aim of this chapter to describe the history of prostitution in Poland or the People’s Republic of Poland, but rather to highlight the postwar renaissance of the problem and to analyse the reaction of society and the authorities to it, bearing in mind that these had been coloured by the the experiences of the interwar period.2 In the Second Republic of Poland (1918–1939), the process of (neo) rationing had been used in relation to women engaged in prostitution; they were registered by the police and obliged to have special health books. Immediately after the war, there was no shortage of supporters of both rationing and abolitionism, the latter based on working to prevent causation and in favour of rehabilitation. The medical conference of venereologists held in July 1945 represented the wide spectrum of views held, from

1 For more, see: G. Nastałek-Żygadło, Filmowy portret problemów społecznych w czarnej serii” (1956–1958), Warszawa 2013, pp. 77–92. Cf. N. Hülbusch, Die “Schwarze Serie” des polnischen Dokumentarfilms 1955–1959 im diachronen Kontext dokumentarfilmtheoretischer Diskurse, Alfeld/Leine 1997, pp. 189–200. 2 See, i.a.: P.  Gołdyn, Pogarda dla zawodu, litość dla człowieka. Społeczno-edukacyjne formy działalności wobec kobiet zagrożonych prostytucją w Polsce (1918–1939), Kalisz 2013; R. Suchenek, Nierząd w województwie poznańskim w latach 1918–1939, Poznań 2013; M. Lipska-Toumi, Prawo polskie wobec zjawiska prostytucji w latach 1918–1939, Lublin 2014. U. Glensk, Historia słabych. Reportaż i życie w dwudziestoleciu (1918–1939), Kraków 2014 (chapter: “Plaga miast” – kobiety międzywojennej ulicy, pp. 80–196).

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_003

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Chapter 2

declaring that ‘rationing is the disgrace of the 20th century’, through describing it as the ‘golden mean’ to advocating sending prostitutes to labour camps.3 In reality, during the several post-war years of chaos, destabilisation, mass migration and pauperisation, conditions were not favourable for undertaking any specific method of dealing with prostitution, and the militia had many other, more pressing tasks. Nevertheless, in some cities, such as Katowice, Warsaw or Szczecin, a kind of neo-regulation was carried out, including providing registered prostitutes with a health record signed by a doctor.4 However, this lasted only a few years and with Stalinisation, the official view was that in the social vision of a socialist country, there was no room at all for such bourgeois and capitalist pathologies as unemployment or prostitution. In accordance with the prevailing dogma that the eradication of the channels of these undesirable phenomena from the past would cause the problems themselves to disappear spontaneously in the new social, economic and political conditions, the usual tried and tested Soviet methods were adopted. The registration of prostitutes was abandoned, which significantly improved the statistics, and an ‘abolitionist’ resocialisation began, with women involved in prostitution being evicted from certain cities, sent to State Agricultural Farms (PGR) or housed en masse in designated care homes, which continued to exist until 1952, but which had much in common with labour camps. ‘The statistics seemed to indicate that women were being exploited in a variety of ways. The statistics also showed the effectiveness of the measures; in the second half of the 1940s, it was estimated that there were about 6,000 prostitutes in the country, but that was down to a quarter of that number in 1952.5 This enabled Poland to accede to the UN Convention for the Suppression of the Traffic in Persons and of the Exploitation of Prostitution, ratified by the Sejm in April 1952 – as the fourth country after Israel, Norway and the South African Union.6 The decision had tangible legal consequences, as the signing of the Convention, which prohibited the prosecution and control of prostitution, automatically invalidated the pre-war legislation still in force, and thus work on the Act on Combating

3 P.  Barański, Walka z chorobami wenerycznymi w Polsce w latach 1948–1949, [in:] Kłopoty z seksem w PRL. Rodzenie nie całkiem po ludzku, aborcja, choroby, odmienności, ed. M.  Kula, Warszawa 2012, pp. 85–86. 4 Ibidem. More on prostitution in postwar Poland: Anna Dobrowolska, Zawodowe dziewczyny: prostytucja i praca seksualna w PRL, Warszawa 2020. 5 K. Kosiński, Historia pijaństwa …, pp. 593–594; Cf. idem, Prostytucja w PRL, “Polska 1944/45– 1989. Studia i Materiały”, vol. 9, 2010, p. 92; M. Karpiński, Najstarszy zawód świata. Historia prostytucji, London 1997. 6 Dz.U. 1952, No. 36, item 254.

Let’s Stop Being Embarrassed and Take (Sensible) Action

15

Prostitution was abandoned.7 Since prostitution no longer officially existed, the militia sections dealing with prostitution were reduced, and in 1954 completely abolished. A businessman from Western Europe who visited Warsaw in 1954 commented in an interview with Radio Free Europe that a ‘foreigner looking for casual sex in Warsaw can find it without any particular difficulty. Although the regime wiped prostitution off the streets, in cafés and restaurants frequented by foreigners you can meet girls who work in prostitution or treat it as an extra income on top of a regular job.’8 It soon became apparent that the situation regarding prostitution was similar to, or worse than, with unemployment: not even the symptoms had been eradicated, and the entire ‘resocialising’ drive on the part of the authorities had the opposite effect. It is also no coincidence that both problems returned more or less at the same time. The crisis in the labour market, which extended the reach of poverty, affected women first, especially those with a lower level of education and less rooted in large cities. This was compounded by social atrophy, the crisis of the traditional family model and the tragic low level of sexual awareness, and not only in less educated social groups. ‘I have frequently encountered,’ lamented a Krakow venereologist, ‘evidence of complete ignorance regarding the most basic information on venereal diseases, even when talking to patients with university education.’9 Mass migration for work, mainly by young people, combined with a natural weakening of social restraints, an abandonment of previous ethical norms. The replacement of the family home, usually a country dwelling, with a workers’ hostel near some factory or construction site, where the usually poor living conditions were accompanied by total absence of any educational or leisure opportunities, created fertile ground for the development of drunkenness, hooliganism, various forms of prostitution and the spread of venereal diseases.10 The latter phenomenon in particular, integrally linked to prostitution, reached alarming levels in the years 1954–1956, taking the authorities by surprise – particularly as, a few years earlier, immediately after the war, the dismal situation in this regard had been brought under control and the number of cases radically reduced thanks to ‘Operation V’,11 as it was known, which began 7 8 9 10 11

Kosiński, Prostytucja …, p. 92. HIM, P-000, Item 6659/54, Entertainment in Warsaw, 2 Aug 1954. Potrzebna nowa akcja “W”, “Przekrój”, 633, 26 May 1957. N.  Jarska, Kobiety z marmuru. Robotnice w Polsce w latach 1945–1960, Warszawa 2015, pp. 180–183; Cf. M. Fidelis, Women, Communism, and Industralization in Postwar Poland, Chicago 2010, pp. 170–202. P. Barański, Walka z chorobami wenerycznymi …, pp. 11–97.

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in 1948. The government’s determination and the use of penicillin had led to morbidity in Poland falling to a level closer to that of Scandinavian countries. In 1947 the number of newly reported cases of syphilis per 10,000 inhabitants was 50, in 1951 it was 1.44 and in 1953 – a mere 0.81! However, success can sometimes weaken vigilance and provoke one to rest on one’s laurels. This was also the case in Poland, especially as the entire operation was extremely costly and funds were needed to expand industry. As a result, funding for treatment was cut, staffing levels reduced, and the allocations to venereal disease clinics withdrawn, causing many professionals to leave. The venereal disease wards shrank so much that in the mid-1950s even in the capital there were 200 fewer beds than before the war, and in the Warsaw province there were none at all. The education of society was abandoned, and the information publications (albeit some of them now outdated) about venereal diseases were running out, and no new ones were being printed.12 Paradoxically, penicillin made things worse, as it lulled people into a false sense of security with the assumption that now, with the antibiotic available, syphilis or gonorrhoea had ceased to be a problem. As a result, ‘fear of the diseases disappeared, there was less urgency in rushing to the doctor, and those already sick became less conscientious about avoiding further contacts with those still healthy.’ There was also a suspicion that the emphasis on quick treatment with antibiotics at the expense of classical treatment meant that some patients had not so much been cured as merely temporarily improved.13 These social changes, compounded by prostitution and the growing consumption of alcohol from 1952 onwards all contributed to the spread of venereal diseases. While, on the national scale, the incidence of the disease doubled between 1954 and 1956, the situation in the largest cities – Warsaw, Kraków, Wrocław, Szczecin, Gdańsk and Gdynia – where the accumulation of factors facilitating the incidence of the disease was highest, was described as an epidemic. For example, in 1956, Warsaw had over 900 new syphilis cases – almost a quarter of all the cases in the whole country! In comparison with 1954, this was a fourfold increase in the capital, but the increase in Krakow was eightfold (from 15 to 122) and in Gdynia elevenfold (4 to 45).14 Like unemployment, both prostitution and the venereal epidemic could no longer be swept under 12 HIM, RFE, Radio broadcast, 98/1957, 8  May  57, radio station Warszawa II: Talk about venereal diseases, dr Janusz Bachurzewski. 13 L.  Gangel, H.  Minc, “Szlachetne zdrowie nikt się nie dowie  …”, PP, 11  Nov 1956; see the polemic thereon: J.  Bachurzewski, Stefania Jabłońska, T.  Stępniewski, J. Suchanek, J. Towpik, W sprawie akcji zwalczania chorób wenerycznych, PP, 25 Nov 1956. 14 HIM, RFE, Radio broadcast, 98/1957, 8 Apr 1957 (Warszawa II: Talk about venereal diseases, dr Janusz Bachurzewski); Potrzebna nowa akcja “W”, “Przekrój”, 633, 26 May 1957.

Let’s Stop Being Embarrassed and Take (Sensible) Action

17

the carpet. They slowly became an open secret, arousing the interest of journalists, criminologists (Bruno Hołyst15) and sociologists (Magdalena Jasińska, who since 1955 had been conducting field research on, among others, juvenile prostitution16). Prostitution, uncompromisingly portrayed by the poet Adam Ważyk in his Poem for Adults, was undoubtedly the last straw, prompting the authorities at the very top to tackle the problem. The issue of prostitution was addressed at the meeting of the Secretariat of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR) on 23 November 1955, with an emphasis on both the intimidating scale of the problem and the need for an effective, coordinated counter-offensive.17 The corollary came two months later: on 23 January 1956 the Chief Commander of the MO, General Józef Konarzewski issued the order ‘to intensify the fight against prostitution’ and provided the relevant, specific guidelines. The ideological foundation was still deeply rooted in the previous era. The Guidelines on Intensifying the Fight against Prostitution, which accompanied the order, proclaimed that ‘in our circumstances, the phenomenon of prostitution is a remnant of the capitalist system and stems from the habits of bourgeois morality engrained in society. By eliminating the economic and social relations, unemployment and poverty inherent in the capitalist system, the people’s power removes the sources of demoralisation and the basis on which prostitution develops. At present, there is objective potential in our country for effectively combating prostitution and its accompanying phenomena such as procuring sexual services, pimping and various other forms of aiding and abetting. Insufficient combating of all these negative phenomena connected with prostitution by the apparatus of the Citizens’ Militia [MO] leads inevitably to an increase in crime and delays the formation of a new socialist morality in our society’.18 It was symptomatic that the blame was being laid at the feet of the Militia, rather than at the feet of the authorities, who had been responsible for the creation of ‘article zilch’ (in reference to a situation that there was no section in Polish law under which any aspects of prostitution could be prosecuted). This brought about self-criticism by the Militia commanders, with an admission of negligence in this field.19 15 16

B. Hołyst, Prostytucja – problem zagubiony, “Wiedza i Życie” 1957, No. 1. M. Jasińska, Problematyka prostytucji młodocianych w świetle badań terenowych, “Państwo i Prawo”, 4–5, 1957, pp. 855–867. 17 M. Zaremba, Nierząd w Stalinogrodzie, “Polityka”, 28 Sep 1996. 18 AP Wrocław (hereinafter: APWr), Presidium of the Voivodeship National Council (WRN) in Wrocław, XVIII/304, p. 62, MSW, Citizens’ Militia Main Headquarters (hereinafter: KG MO), order No. 2/56, 23 Jan 1956. 19 Ibidem.

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The directive urged a break with passivity and use of the existing regulations more effectively, pointing out, for example, the possibilities offered by the prosecution of acts often connected with prostitution such as hooliganism, fights, theft or drunkenness.20 On the one hand, policemen who were lenient or collaborated with the underworld were censured and threatened with expulsion from the Militia. On the other hand there was at least a partial return to the solutions from the interwar period. In the cities with particularly high levels of prostitution, such as Warsaw, Łódź, Szczecin, Gdańsk, Gdynia, Sopot, Krakow, Katowice, Zabrze, Gliwice, Bytom, Wrocław, Poznań, Częstochowa and Bielsko-Biała, the plan was to establish specially prepared and trained ‘women’s sections’ at all levels, from voivodeship (province) headquarters to police stations, whose task would be to keep records, analyse prostitution and related phenomenon, and to gather experience in order to ‘work out appropriate forms and measures to effectively combat these crimes’.21 With an awareness of the legal constraints, the instruction was to concentrate on those who were profiteering from prostitution, from pimps to the owners of brothels. In the case of prostitutes themselves, more ‘abolitionist’ methods were envisaged such as prevention, face-to-face talks and assistance in finding work.22 The vice squad of the People’s Republic of Poland is still waiting for its historian, but there is no doubt that its enduring existence began in the spring of 1956, when, in accordance with the above-mentioned directive, militia ‘women’s sections’ started operating in larger cities. This also made journalists’ jobs easier, as they now had access to a previously hermetic community, which had naturally aroused media interest. The result was analytical articles (P. Tarkowski),23 serious, insightful reports (Salomon Łastik, Marek Konarz),24 and purely sensational texts.25 Borowik’s outstanding documentary Article Zilch – made in close cooperation with the Warsaw militia and partly filmed with a hidden camera in one of the downtown police stations – together with press reports, helped to focus the social lens on prostitution. It was now possible to roughly assess the 20 21 22 23 24

25

Ibidem, p. 59. Ibidem, pp. 60–63. Ibidem. P. Tarkowski, Dość fałszywego wstydu, “Przekrój”, 27 Jan 1957. J.  Kalkowski, Potępić? Nie! Pomóc? Tak!, “Przekrój”, 17  Feb 1957; M.  Konarz, Poznajcie środowisko, “Wyboje”, 1, 1956; idem, O tym się nie mówi. Reportaż z doliny upokorzenia, “Wyboje”, 2, 1956; S. Łastik, Czy przyczyną jest nędza?, “Nowa Kultura” (hereinafter: NK), 17 Feb 1957; idem, O “praworządności” i sutenerach, NK, 10 Mar 1957. Z. Adrjański, Z. Zapert, Poznane o zmierzchu, “Kulisy”, 2, 1957; A. Tylczyński, Warszawa w nocy, “Kulisy”, 29, 1957; A Bajkowski, W potrzasku MO, “Kulisy”, 20, 1957.

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scale of the problem, draw a collective identikit of the women plying the trade (as not much was written about the clients, and homosexual prostitution also remained taboo) – the ways of and reasons for recruitment, the internal hierarchy, the modus operandi, strategies, language, and codes of behaviour of the oldest profession – while at the same time demonstrating the legal absurdities regarding the limiting or at least civilising of prostitution. For the assumptions behind the above-mentioned directive of the commander of the MO were not realistic and there was still no legal basis to deal with the problem more effectively. Those involved in the sex trade were also perfectly aware of this and effectively took advantage of the thaw to weaken the militia. Of course, the militia forces were to a large extent aware of the prostitutes’ hideouts, the locations of the brothels, the women’s relationships with their ‘protectors’, or the identities of the people renting the flats (more often no more than just the beds) as well as those of the managers of restaurants or taxi drivers involved. But none of this helped much in the absence of a law to back up action. A policewoman from Krakow told us, ‘sometimes all that we can do is just harass the prostitutes with patrols, prevent them from making street contacts or vet people let into the premises. All we can do is talk and talk … Sometimes we use half-measures such as removing benches from a square near a spot where prostitutes congregate or moving a taxi rank. Because, as it turns out, in view of the awkwardness of the premises … this can also be important.’26 The detention of prostitutes continued to be based on pretexts such as other offences they had committed. Sometimes, on such an occasion, the detainees would be subjected to a medical examination, which was basically unlawful. This was one way of providing evidence about the reasons for the venereal disease epidemic. For example, 106 out of 272 prostitutes examined in a Szczecin venereological clinic in 1956 had a VD. Not surprisingly, of 29 seamen from a Turkish merchant ship docked in the local harbour, 20 went back on board with venereal disease, 19 of them with syphilis.27 There was also little chance of arresting and prosecuting the pimps, against whom the prostitutes, as a rule, did not want to testify. The more so, since these ‘guardians’ were as diverse as their charges. While in Wrocław, for example, pimps came mainly from the criminal underworld, in Upper Silesia or Poznań, they were in many cases ‘people with some social standing and often of good social reputation.’28 It was also difficult to intervene if prostitution was 26 27 28

Kalkowski, Potępić?… Tarkowski, Dość fałszywego wstydu. Of the 130 prostitutes stopped by the militia in Gdańsk in 1957, 86 had a venereal disease. Kosiński, Prostytucja …, p. 97. Konarz, O tym się nie mówi. …

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sometimes an accepted family strategy. ‘The insolence and shamelessness of men,’ wrote Salomon Łastik, ‘especially husbands, whose wives earn their living by prostitution, is astonishing. And this is only because they are sure of complete impunity in Poland. When one husband, a typesetter earning 2,000 zloty a month, was summoned to point out to him that his wife, one E.B., travels from Chorzów to Katowice almost every evening to go on the game, he replied: “I’m sorry but this is my business. My wife isn’t selling her arse on your behalf.” With these words he left. And that wife is a “society” lady; with whom there are working another two married women with aspirations to the intelligentsia. I could mention many names […] of other husbands, whose wives engage in professional hustling with their blessing.’29 Nevertheless, even such limited means as the militia had at their disposal made it possible to assess, albeit only roughly, the scale of the problem. In 1954, 937 prostitutes were identified in 16 provincial cities; at the end of 1956 the number had increased to 3,137.30 The militia were obviously aware of the existence of further layers of prostitution that they were hazy about. Although the militia were able to recognise and register women seeking clients on the street, as they more often found themselves in conflict with the law, they had much less information about the prostitutes who frequented cafés and restaurants (called ‘artists’, and in Warsaw, ‘Polish students’ (‘polonistka’), as they plied their trade in the hotel Polonia).31 The statistics were also obscured by the practice of destroying the files of prostitutes who took up other work, although in many cases, they continued to be engaged in prostitution.32 For example, in Poznań, in mid-1956, only some 60 prostitutes were recorded, although there was no doubt that their number was many times higher.33 In the port city of Szczecin, at the turn of 1956 and 1957, their number was estimated to be as high as 900, while a year later, only 383 prostitutes were listed in police files.34 There is no doubt that the situation was similar in other large cities.

29 Łastik, O “praworządności” i sutenerach. 30 ŻW, 26 Jul 1957. 31 According to the data of the Section for the Fight against Prostitution of the Metropolitan Police Headquarters in Warsaw, out of 463 prostitutes registered by the end of 1956, 73% were classified as ‘railway station’ or ‘streetwalkers’ and 27% as ‘premises-based’. Jasińska, Prostytucja młodocianych …, p. 859. 32 Łastik, Czy przyczyną jest nędza? 33 Konarz, O tym się nie mówi … 34 Tarkowski, Dość fałszywego wstydu; Najwięcej prostytutek w Warszawie, “Trybuna Mazowiecka”, 13 Aug 1958.

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The social analysis of prostitutes conducted at that time is telling. Even if we bear in mind that the following data are random, they clearly show how naïve had been the declarations that all it took was to get rid of the corruptors of old to ensure that the young generation would be free of the bad experiences of the past. It turned out that Stalinist repressions against prostitutes and their expulsion from some big cities had had the opposite effect to that intended – this part of the underworld grew more numerous and younger. While in Wrocław, where repressions against prostitutes in the late 1940s and early 1950s were not as ruthless as, for example, in Warsaw, Krakow or Poznań, estimates carried out during the thaw showed that 62% of women involved in prostitution were 26 to 40 years old, 23% were 18 to 25 and 7% were under 18. Meanwhile, in Warsaw, for example, the rejuvenation of the group was evident: 13% of prostitutes were underage, and half were under 25!35 Out of 463 prostitutes identified in Warsaw by the militia between 1 March and 31 December 1956, 58 had become prostitutes before 1945. It was not the only city where prostitution suddenly increased in 1956 – in Szczecin the number grew by 112 (to 285 women), in Gdańsk by 51 (to 196), in Poznań by 40 (to 108), and in Częstochowa 13 (to 46).36 One of the reasons for such a rapid expansion of the cohort in 1956 (and subsequent years) lay in the increased financial incentives for prostitution compared with the pre-war period. Now, many women were not so much driven into the trade by poverty as by the opportunity – unique for some poorly educated women from the provinces – to attain a higher standard of living. This context becomes clearer after analysing the social and professional status of the women choosing this path. Among the 256 prostitutes about whom more detailed data were collected in Szczecin in 1956, seven of the women were illiterate, 126 had completed no more than five forms of primary school, 56 had completed the full seven forms of primary school, 25 had completed secondary school, and seven had completed higher education. Among them were 160 manual workers, 21 white-collar workers, 22 waitresses, three hairdressers, eight nurses, and seven classified as ‘other’.37 The vast majority came from working-class families and, surprisingly, women socialised into the 35 Łastik, Czy przyczyna jest nędza? 36 Jasińska, Prostytucja młodocianych …, p. 856. 37 Tarkowski, Dość fałszywego wstydu … At the end of 1957 and the beginning of 1958, 8% of all registered prostitutes were illiterate, 43% had incomplete primary school education, 41% had completed primary school, 7% had secondary education, and 0.73% – higher education (mainly in Krakow). Najwięcej prostytutek w Warszawie, “Trybuna Mazowiecka”, 13 Aug 1958.

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intelligentsia class came second.38 The explanation for this phenomenon, however, seems quite simple. On the one hand, the start in life was often even more difficult in working-class families than in farming ones, and they were also affected to a greater extent by the crisis of ethical norms. On the other hand, young people from the working-class environment, especially from big cities, were every day confronted with increasingly sophisticated consumer models, attractive and at the same time hard to attain.39 It is, of course, difficult to assess to what extent the analysis carried out in 1956 in Szczecin was representative of the whole country, especially bearing in mind that it included mainly ‘rank-and-file’ prostitutes. Of the 256 women interviewed, 99 cited difficult material conditions as the reason, 62 had been persuaded by their girlfriends, six induced into prostitution by their husbands or cohabiting partners, 42 declared family experience as the reason, while 12 chose this path ‘out of preference’.40 Of course, there was no shortage of poverty-driven decisions, and some of the scenes in Article Zilch or in the reportage by Łastik or Konarz were vividly reminiscent of reports from pre-war mean streets. In many cases, however, women were motivated by economics, having done the sums on the difference between the income from prostitution and the wage from a factory or office job. Such a justification was repeatedly given by prostitutes quoted by journalists in 1956–1957. ‘Why should I work 8 hours a day for 800 zloty,’ argued a woman from Wrocław, ‘when I can earn 3,000 zloty working no more than every other day, and in a much easier way?’ A journalist from the Poznań newspaper Wyboje wrote about female workers giving up their factory jobs for prostitution: ‘[Monthly] earnings of 500–800 zloty correspond to [their] qualifications, but they are not sufficient to satisfy their needs, which, as we know, are constantly increasing.’41 Indeed, ordinary working wages could not compare: the most attractive Warsaw prostitutes in Hotel Polonia earned as much as 20 to 30 thousand zloty a month, while even street prostitutes brought home 3 to 5 thousand zloty. Even if they had to pay the lion’s share to their pimps or to cover the costs of accommodation, this was not the kind of money they could hope for in a

38

Konarz, O tym się nie mówi …, On the other hand, according to the statistics of KG MO from 1957, out of about 3,200 registered prostitutes, 77% were of working class origin, 18% of peasant class origin and 5% belonged to intelligentsia. Kosiński, Prostytucja …, p. 105. 39 Łastik, Czy przyczyną jest nędza? 40 Tarkowski, Dość fałszywego wstydu. 41 Konarz, O tym się nie mówi …

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respectable job.42 Salomon Lastik heard two eighteen-year-old prostitutes who came to the capital from the provinces brag that they were ‘doing great business, earning 9 to 12 thousand a month, they had over ten pairs of shoes, a different pretty dress every day, a lot of nylon stockings, and of course fur coats. In one such jolly chat I was able to learn that the young blonde Venus […] now lives in Żoliborz renting from a nurse, who also makes extra money after work by making love.’43 Little wonder that attempts at the resocialisation of prostitutes were generally unsuccessful. It was one thing to find a job for them (which was not easy) and another for them to keep it. Leaving aside the radical drop in income, prostitutes sent to factories, hospitals or state farms often faced exclusion, harassment and sometimes molestation. ‘I know of a case,’ wrote a journalist on Przekrój ‘when a manager of a company, as soon as he found out that his new employee used to a prostitute, brazenly wanted to take advantage of her.’44 In the face of the helpless militia, the total silence of social organisations such as the Women’s League and the lack of initiative on the part of the government, the media became the pioneers in suggesting possible solutions. ‘Let us stop burying our heads in the sand and finally admit that prostitution does exist and is expanding,’ wrote Jan Kalkowski. ‘Today an ad hoc legal and social fight against this phenomenon is no longer adequate. We must make decisions.’45 The range of proposed solutions was wide, from repression to rationing and typical abolitionist measures. The former, more radical proposal, although it seems widely held throughout society, appeared only rarely in the press.46 More common were calls for return to the solutions applied in the interwar period, the Second Republic. Similarities in terms of legal proposals, echoed also in iconographic commentaries, such as topical cartoons – as in the drawing by Stanisław Jerzy Jankowski-IBIS from the Łódź satirical magazine Karuzela (No.  7, 15  April  1957) reproduced below with the archetypal demimonde attributes: the lantern – just like the legislation, of pre-war design.47

42

Tarkowski, Dość fałszywego wstydu; Adrjański, Zapert, Poznane o zmierzchu; Tylczyński, Warszawa w nocy. 43 Łastik, Czy przyczyną jest nędza? 44 Kalkowski, Potępić? 45 Ibidem. 46 Łastik, Czy przyczyna jest nędza? 47 Cf. J.  Jankowski, Tego statystyki nie notowały, “SM”, 52, 1957; J.  Puchalski, Wielka nocna babka, “Kulisy”, 9, 1957; idem, Aktywizacja małych miasteczek, “Szpilki”, 24 Feb 1957.

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Fig. 6 + 7

Artists often employed the motif of the streetwalker, or ‘girl under a streetlight’ – in Poland, a synonym for a streetwalker – popular in the interwar period.



Jerzy ‘Ibis’ Jankowski, Publiczna tajemnica, “Karuzela” 7, 1957 (Fig. 6) and Tego statystyki nie notowały, “Sztandar Młodych” 52, 1957 (Fig. 7).

Piotr Tarkowski wrote in one of his first post-thaw texts on prostitution: ‘I believe that prostitution should be legalised in Poland. Please don’t be appalled and fly off the handle but make an effort to listen calmly to all that I have to say.’48 He proposed that women who engage in prostitution should be registered, issued with relevant documents and subject to compulsory health checks and medical treatment, while their living accommodation should have regular inspections for hygienic conditions. At the same time, he called for severe penalties for pimping and soliciting. Thus the proposed package was regulation accompanied by prevention and re-socialisation. Significantly, Tarkowski referred to contemporanous examples of effective practice: ‘To cite the experience of other countries – Western ones, which are highly developed in this field – would perhaps be ironic. But nevertheless they really have regulated these things there somehow. And those who are familiar with Marseilles, 48

Tarkowski, Dość fałszywego wstydu.

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Naples and Hamburg agree that Szczecin and Gdańsk are not much far behind those ports in terms of the number of women of easy virtue, but they are cities where contacts with these women certainly involve serious risk to health, life and property. That being so, prostitution in Poland should either be actually got rid of – which will be quite impossible – or formally legalised, which has already become a vital necessity. In general, we should stop being embarrassed about a phenomenon that mankind has known for several thousand years and start acting sensibly.’49 These proposals were viable either with backing from social assistance and the law, or the proposed legalisation, combined with a concentration of the prostitution ‘in certain public venues and districts only’.50 The latter solution was also attractive to at least some of the prostitutes themselves, exposed as they were to aggression from both clients and ‘minders’. A journalist on Nowa Kultura reported prostitutes asking ‘whether it would be possible to establish some kind of prostitutes’ cooperative or state-owned brothel’ which they claimed, probably without much exaggeration, ‘would be mutually beneficial’.51 The writer himself also declared himself, albeit temporarily so, inclined to go along with the postulate of rationing prostitution, because, as he argued, ‘it is easier to cure an open ulcer’.52 While journalists had comparative freedom in suggesting therapeutic solutions, the authorities shunned any radical cures, opting for a form of social homeopathy. They were prepared to turn a blind eye to matrimonial dating services or Miss Poland contests, but controlled prostitution was a bridge too far for compromise. It was nevertheless necessary to rise to the challenge, especially in view of the increasingly obvious fact that the militia could play but an auxiliary role, unable as it was to replace the extensive, co-ordinated activities of the state authorities and social welfare. Thus it is reasonable to assume that it was most likely the militia leadership that prompted the Central Committee of the Party to address the issue of prostitution. A meeting organised in mid-June  1957 was attended by representatives of Parliament, the Ministry of Labour and Social Welfare, the militia, the Women’s League, the Union of Socialist Youth and representatives of the cities most inundated with prostitution. They all agreed that the prevailing methods of combating prostitution were inadequate and that new, modern and effective ways of dealing with the problem had to be implemented; in unison all the participants placed 49 50 51 52

Ibidem. Kalkowski, Potępić? Nie! Pomóc? Tak! Łastik, Co nieco o “reliktach drobnomieszczańskich”. Ibidem.

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the burden of this task on the Ministry for Labour and Social Security (MPiOS). The representative of the Ministry voiced opposition to the motion, but he was outvoted, and so the draft resolution ‘On Limiting and More Effectively Counteracting the Development of Prostitution and Related Phenomena’ was adopted, entrusting that department and the relevant bodies of the city councils53 with the bulk of the planned tasks. The conference simultaneously reached the conclusion that an interministerial committee, consisting of social activists, educators, scientists, and representatives of bodies including the ministries of labour, health, justice, and education, the Central Committee of the MO, the Women’s League, the Union of Polish Youth (ZMS) and the City Councils, should work out a precise blueprint for the way forward. A general direction was also indicated – which had little in common with the rationing advocated by the media: robust assistance should be provided to those single women who were the most vulnerable to prostitution. This should be done initially by setting up in the larger cities ‘transitory homes’ for the destitute, until they found work and accommodation. While this would be the task of the City Councils, the MPiOS should create ‘open houses’ for those homeless prostitutes who appeared capable of submitting themselves to rehabilitation, where they could live, receive treatment and work. For the ‘incorrigibles’ there would be ‘closed houses’. The plan of action included a more vigorous fight against pimping and looking into whether it would be possible and indeed desirable to introduce measures to impede prostitution by for example limiting access to entertainment venues to relevant individuals. The action was to be accompanied by widespread prevention and propaganda against prostitution, venereal disease and alcoholism, carried out in schools and the media.54 On 9 July 1957, the central party authorities considered the proposals, and accepted most of them, although there had been many dissenting voices, some raising powerful objections. It was acknowledged that there was no legal basis for the creation of closed homes; on the other hand, there were demands for the compulsory treatment of venereal diseases or even a legal ban on prostitution. Nevertheless, there was a majority consensus that it was imperative to draft a ‘fundamental legal act, based on abolitionist principles, which would create a basis for the fight against prostitution’.55 Two days later, Prime Minister Józef Cyrankiewicz received the draft resolution ‘for the Government to

53 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-156, Note on fighting prostitution, pp. 4–5. 54 Ibidem, pp. 6–9. 55 Ibidem, Minutes of the meeting of the Central Committee of the Party, 9 Jul 1957, pp. 10–13.

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consider […] and take appropriate decisions’.56 The press noted with approval that the authorities had taken on board the issue of prostitution.57 Then all serious action was put on hold, confirming the tried and tested principle that the most effective way of sweeping a difficult problem under the carpet was to set up a commission to study it thoroughly. In this matter, the project never progressed beyond plans, the commission was never set up, and only two conferences were held, in May and June 1958, at which nothing concrete was agreed. Paradoxically, in spite of the consensus that ‘not prosecution and repression, but care and assistance [were] the main means of combating prostitution’, all the activities were still in the hands of the MO, which was not very effective in the field of providing social assistance such as treatment, or help with finding housing or work. Nothing came out of the planned network of houses or development of preventive measures, and work on applicable legislation died in its infancy.58 Faced with the impotence of the authorities, social activists and local governments tried to act on their own. In Łódź, which had a long tradition in this area,59 doctors Leon Nitecki and Henryk Ziomkowski founded the Committee for Fighting Prostitution and Venereal Disease, which dealt with prevention in schools and workplaces. In Szczecin and Katowice, there were Social Commissions for Combating Prostitution, offering assistance such as help for prostitutes in finding jobs. The provincial venereological disease clinic in Wrocław set up a closed facility where 45 women could not only be treated, but could also participate in vocational courses. On the coast, the League of Women came up with a project (it is not clear whether it was ever carried out) of ‘rehabilitation homes’.60 However, this was a drop in the ocean of needs, especially since, as Życie Warszawy reported at the end of 1958, ‘sex work is on the boil’.61 This was not an unfounded opinion: in mid-1958, official (and therefore underestimated!) statistics put the number of prostitutes at around 5,300, and the cohort was getting younger (67% were by then apparently under 30), at least 12,000 cases of syphilis and 25,000 of gonorrhoea were being recorded

56 AAN, KC PZPR 237/XIV-158, J. Albrecht to J. Cyrankiewicz, 11 Jul 1957, p. 136. 57 ŻW, 26 Jul 1957. 58 J. Hibner, Pomocna dłoń i surowość prawa. Trzeba wreszcie ustalić środki działania, “Express Wieczorny”, 24 Jan 1959. 59 W.  Berner, Działalność zawodowa, społeczna i naukowa dermatologów i wenerologów łódzkich w okresie II Rzeczypospolitej, “Rocznik Łódzki”, vol. LVIII, 2011, pp. 41–58. 60 Ten problem wciąż istnieje  …, ŻW, 12  Nov 1958; D.  Majewska, Kobiety na marginesie, “Tygodnik Demokratyczny” (hereinafter: TD), 15–21 Nov 1961. 61 Ten problem wciąż istnieje …, ŻW, 12 Nov 1958.

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annually, and the number of crimes related to prostitution was also on the rise.62 Of the triad of social scourges, legislation considered hooliganism as of the first order and that was the one it took on board (22 May 1958) in the first instance. From 1957 onwards work was also underway on an anti-alcohol law, finally adopted in December  1959.63 This raised hopes that the problem of prostitution would also be addressed.64 From time to time, the Ministries of Health, Justice, Labour or Education would announce new ideas and projects, usually quickly diluted.65 As a result, tracking the official activity at the time proves that the only institution taking any action was once again the MO. The order of the Commander-in-Chief, issued on February 6, 1959, and in due course amended several times – on the prosecution of prostitution as a criminal offence, counteracting prostitution and co-operation of the militia in the fight against venereal diseases – together with the subsequent order, issued two months later, on the training of officers at the MO Training Centre in Łódź in order to improve the prosecution of prosecution and reduce prostitution,66 were (probably) the last official acts referring directly and exclusively to prostitution until the transformation of the political system after 1989.67

62 63

Ibidem; Majewska, Kobiety na marginesie. Act on Strengthening Criminal Liability for Hooliganism (Journal of Laws 19581958, No. 34, item 152); Act on Combating Alcoholism (Journal of Laws 1959, No. 69, item 434). 64 E. Orkiszewski, Dwa tory walki z prostytucją, TD, 2–8 Dec 1959. 65 M. Jasińska, Jak przeciwdziałać prostytucji?, ŻW, 13 Dec 1958. 66 A.  Kochański, Polska 1944–1991. Informator historyczny, vol. 1I Ważniejsze akty prawne, decyzje i enuncjacje państwowe (1957–1970), vol. II, Warszawa 2000, pp. 149, 156. 67 Kochański, Polska 1944–1991. Informator historyczny, Ważniejsze akty prawne, decyzje i enuncjacje państwowe (1971–1991), vols. III/1–2, Warszawa 2005; Dobrowolska, Zawodowe dziewczyny.

Chapter 3

‘Easier to Unleash than to Rein in Later’; Or Women’s Glamour, Women’s Hell October 1956 had a great impact on Polish women. Unemployment affected women more than men. Women had a newly found desire to shed the puritanical armour of Stalinism and regain full rights to both their soul and body. There were attempts to redefine gender roles in marriage, and abortion and conscious motherhood came under the lens. Notwithstanding the (petty) bourgeois counter-revolution, which from the turn of 1957/1958 tried to relegate women primarily to the roles of housewives and mothers, the models of femininity propagated by Stalinism had now been bidden farewell.1 ‘The thaw of the late 1950s marked a process of liberation of the discourse and it brought increasing autonomy, individualism and personalisation; with little exaggeration one could say that it was then that the ego was born anew in the Polish public space.2 This process had been going on in Poland since at least 1955, when, simultaneously with the beginning of the media discourse on sexuality, the Warsaw Festival of Youth and Students3 had dealt a blow to Stalinist prudery. However, the breakthrough did not occur until the end of 1956, gaining momentum – both in terms of the various issues coming to the fore and the behaviour and role models now opted for, with the accompanying appropriate visualisation – in the following year. A relatively comprehensive presentation of the women’s issues during the thaw would require a separate volume. In this book there is only scope for an outline of just a few aspects of the (post-) October overcoming of taboos: 1 M.  Fidelis, Młode robotnice w mieście: percepcja kobiecej seksualności w Polsce w latach pięćdziesiątych XX wieku, in: Kobieta i małżeństwo. Społeczno-kulturowe aspekty seksualności. Wiek XIX i XX, ed. A. Żarnowska, A. Szwarc, Warszawa 2004, p. 458. Cf. K. Stańczak-Wiślicz, P. Perkowski, M. Fidelis, B. Klich-Kluczewska, Kobiety w Polsce 1945–1989. Nowoczesność, równouprawnienie, komunizm, Kraków 2020. 2 I.  Kurz, “Satyra na niemożność miłości”. Filmowe konteksty dyskursu wokół małżeństwa i seksualności w dobie odwilży, in: Kobieta i małżeństwo.., p. 385. 3 In fact, the Moscow Festival in 1957 played a similar role. It is still considered to be the first moment of the youth finding an escape from the claustrophobic Soviet reality. According to many commentators, the festival was a genuine ‘sexual revolution’, and the breaking of the fetters of puritanical morality was important especially for young women. K. Roth-Ey, ‘Loose Girls’ on the Loose?: Sex, Propaganda and the 1957 Youth Festival, in: Women in the Khrushchev Era, ed. by M. Ilič, S. D. Reid, L. Attwood, Houndmills 2004, pp. 82, 85.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_004

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from focusing on sexuality, albeit with a somewhat tabloid and indeed commercialised slant to the discussion on conscious motherhood, which proved a clearer and more significant determinant of social modernisation than abortion, made legal in April 1956.

October and Brigitte Bardot; Or Women Show their Faces – and More!

‘Young girls and women’, a young woman from Wrocław told a reporter from Radio Free Europe in the autumn of 1956, ‘wait with a beating heart for every French film in order to catch some glimpses of typical French fashion. Such novelties spread like lightning: the day after a French film comes to the screen, new details in women’s clothing can be spotted. One only wears what is fashionable in the West; any influence from the East is in bad taste.’4 However, Western films and literature were not only the source of information about desirable dress styles, accessories and new hairstyles, but increasingly also about patterns of behaviour. All the more so that hardly anyone had heard of Simone de Beauvoir’s feminist treatise The Second Sex, published in 1949, and even fewer Poles had read it, as it did not come out in Polish until 1972, while the translation and publication of books by Sartre or Camus had only just begun. Thus existentialism, with its emphasis on individualism and a hedonistic approach to life, accompanied by the rejection of religion, entered Poland stealthily through culture – literature and the cinema.The role of Brigitte Bardot, in this process must not be underestimated, together with Françoise Sagan’s groundbreaking Bonjour Tristesse.5 The novel, published in Poland in a large edition at the end of 1956, caused quite an earthquake among Polish people, and especially young women, and played a formative role. The protagonist, seventeenyear-old Cécile – only a year younger than the precocious writer herself – was an object of envy on account of her flat in Paris, holidays on the Riviera, a life of luxury and freedom and an unpretentious approach to sex and romantic love.

4 HIM, P-63261, Item 9751/56, Youth Fashion in Wrocław. Cf. ibidem, Item 9776/56, A Polish state furriery and tailoring enterprise; Jak ubiera się dziś młodzież w Polsce, “Polak”, 40, 18 Nov 1956. 5 Probably the first substantial critique of her writings was the article by Dominique Desanti entitled Nowe zjawisko literackie we Francji: Françoise Sagan in “Przegląd Kulturalny” (hereinafter: PK), 13–19 Sep 1956. Subsequently, Sagan frequently became the subject of articles in the press (eg. “Warmia i Mazury” of 15 Jan 1957 or “Kierunki” of 3 Feb 1957).

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The protagonist declared that her love of pleasure was the only consistent side of her character.6 This hedonistic goal corresponded with the dreams of young Poles, whether male or female. While the party superintendents of culture were clearly disgusted that Sagan was put ‘on a par with Camus’,7 the youngsters were quicker to identify with Françoise Sagan’s Cécile than with her namesake from the novel Nad Niemem by Eliza Orzeszkowa (1888), part of compulsory school reading. On  19  December  1957, Jerzy Zawieyski noted in his diary his impressions of his encounter, as a writer, with teachers and young people in the county town of Płock: ‘A discussion ensued about young writers – Françoise Sagan, Hłasko and others. A secondary school pupil spoke up and said that these young writers write the truth, that young people are just as they portray them. And that neither educators nor parents have any idea about what young people think and what they do.’8 We can only assume that what the boy had in mind was sex and sexuality, which, unlike in the puritanical years of Stalinism, could now be talked about and displayed. Although with today’s hindsight, the visualisation of sexuality at that time may seem naïve, in comparison with the preceding era, the display of the female body in comparatively scanty clothing in the press, fine arts, on stage or in film was a revolutionary, conspicuous and symbolic break with Stalinist prudery.9 On the other hand, the relative nudity that flooded the media from the beginning of 1957 also evoked ironic reactions. For example, the trade union periodical Głos Pracy ran a front-page cartoon showing an American film-star-style, sexy young woman in a lacy négligée, speaking on the phone: ‘Hello? What, the newspaper can’t go out without me? I’ll be getting undressed in no time at all! Hold a space on the front page!’10 And the satirical magazine Karuzela in Łódź, which unabashedly supported the authorities, ran the following little poem:

6 7 8

See Francoise Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse, Rene Julliard; Jan 1954. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-173, p. 42. J. Zawieyski, Dzienniki, vol. 1: Wybór z lat 1955–1959, ed. A. Knyt, Warszawa 2011, p. 468. Cf. K.T. Toeplitz, “Synczyzna”. Porażka starszego pokolenia, “Prawo i Życie”, 5, 24 Feb 1957. 9 A similar phenomenon could be observed in the USSR during the Khrushchev thaw. For example, in early 1957, in ‘Leningrad’s House of Workers’ Art, an exhibition has recently opened in which a young art student Ilya Glazunov presents three of his works depicting female nudes. […] The exhibition opened for a month, aroused incredible interest and was filled with a crowd of visitors every day.’ Nagość po latach, PP, 1 Apr 1957. 10 GP, 15 Mar 1957.

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Fig. 8 This model was hired in 1957 by the weekly magazine “Przyjaźń” (Friendship), which was itself surprising, but particularly so, as the weekly was the official publication of the Polish-Soviet Friendship Society. Photo: Romuald Broniarek, KARTA Centre collection.

The missy has breasts so flaunts her chest all over the paper, full spread. But now she can, dammit! She has the go-ahead – with the public for years kept famished! The missy has … bits So she shows her bits. But the editor winced, not quite convinced: Hang on, she’s got too much on, I want more bum and tits!11 It was not the Miss Polands, however, who became the icons of sex and nudity, but the French film star Brigitte Bardot, present not only on cinema screens but also ubiquitous in other media, and not to universal applause. A radio broadcast on 16 February 1957 commented on the increasing number of advertisements in the Polish press: ‘The October breakthrough was strictly political in character, so it would seem that there can be no logical connection between 11 GG czyli golizna w gazetach, “Karuzela”, 5 Feb 1957.

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the Gomułka government blueprint and the type of advertisements in daily newspapers. Yet it turns out that there is some natural, indeed spontaneous connection. […] Advertisements used to occupy a single page, but now they have spread over the whole column. Spontaneous responses are not so simple to manage. They are easier to unleash than to rein in later, because if one can understand the connection between the October reforms and, for example, the increasing number of various commercial advertisements, which indicate a revival of the so-called private enterprise – which until now has been frowned upon and condemned, then there can be absolutely no connection at all between October and the steady drip of photographs of the French actress BARDOT, each time in a different, although at all times, incredible, state of undress. First, it was the popular Krakow weekly PRZEKRÓJ that introduced this regular service, and now the Katowice-based PANORAMA has hurriedly jumped on the bandwagon. Competition in this field leads to excellent results, as long as B. BARDOT can keep up with the undressing.’12 As a matter of fact, the author asked a rhetorical question, and then answered it himself, as the links between October and the titillating photos presented in the press were obvious. The societal reaction against the recent puritanical era, now mercifully gone, was one of the connections, and another was the role of skimpily dressed women in marketing and advertising – and these two dovetailed in perfect unison. This put women into a new political, social and economic situation: they had become a media commodity that sold very well, whether in the press or on stage, attracting customers or viewers, especially so since the authorities had loosened their grip on censorship and at the same time there was a new emphasis on profitability and financial self-sufficiency, prompting newspaper editors and theatre managers to think in terms not only of commercialisation, but outright consumerism. The result was, as the writer, playwright and politician Leon Kruczkowski noted, ‘a cultural policy made by accountants’.13 Thus any magazine that had no hope of receiving a state subsidy – from Nowa Wieś (New Countryside) to the popular weekly Przekrój or the satirical Szpilki – went in with gusto for more or less daring sexual references so that at least they could count on a male readership. A good example is the weekly Panorama Północy, published from August 1957 by Pojezierze, the Olsztyn Socio-Cultural Association, which provided a panorama of the country’s north. In the assessment of the Party press office concluded the following year, the ‘concept of Panorama Północy,’ was born in an 12 Październik a B. Bardot (Felieton Lubicza), HIM, Radio broadcasts, 1957, pp. 994–995. 13 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-167, Note from the meeting of the Cultural Affairs Committee of the Central Committee of the PZPR, 31 Dec 1957, p. 19.

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atmosphere of commercial pressure to make a profit at any acceptable price. This was an indispensable, sine qua non condition for the sustainability of the magazine and the Association’s activities. At that time there was demand for magazines that placed a generous emphasis on sensationalism, detective stories, photos of cities or film stars, etc. Panorama had to fight to win readers. Therefore, the first issues were saturated with the sensational, the babes and the sexy competition between Gina [Lollobrigida] and Sophia [Loren] and seasonal literature (Hłasko’s short story).’14 The strategy was effective and Panorama Północy soldiered on for almost a quarter of a century, only giving up the ghost in the clash with Martial Law. The fresh breath of the liberal spirit brought on by the thaw should not be over-idealised, as there was no shortage of tawdry trash both in the press and especially on the stage. Despite widespread complaints from the authorities that ‘in culture a vigorous struggle is taking place between Marxist and bourgeois ideology’,15 the latter had been relatively widely embraced, at least until mid-1957. The demand for this kind of entertainment was enormous, especially in the provinces, and it provided a counterbalance to the wave of religious fervour, which had also raised its head. It was easier to digest such plays as the Recruitment of the Virgin or The Matchmaker than The Life of Saint Genevieve. Another aspect was that the institutions that made huge profits from such activity were those that had little in common with any cultural activity, such as the League of Soldiers’ Friends, the Polish-Soviet Friendship Society, the Association of Polish Journalists, the national lottery Toto-Lotek and newspapers such as Express Wieczorny, or the youth paper Sztandar Młodych and the party paper for peasants Chłopska Droga. Most of them employed a private businessman producer, often with pre-war experience. One of the most respected of these was one Tymoteusz Ortym, a pre-war entertainer and organiser of cabarets and revue theatres, which he also ran, with a smutty, often soft porn repertoire, [considered ‘pornographic’ at the time – Translator’s note], during the German occupation. This time he operated under the banner of Express Wieczorny.16 The combination of sex and politics, common at such events, guaranteed popular and financial success: ‘A company from Warsaw arrives, putting on a little bit of pornography, some light-hearted poems 14 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIX-230, Press Office, KC PZPR, assessment of “Panorama Północy” (late 1958), p. 5. Cf. M. Żmijkowska, Magazyn ilustrowany “Panorama Północy” 1957–1981. Analiza treści i formy, Olsztyn 2013. 15 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3672, p. 48, Minutes of the meeting of the Executive Committee of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party, 23 Nov 1957. 16 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-173, p. 28; Jadwiga Plucińska’s documentary film Teatr dla mas raised the issue of the deluge of mass culture by vulgar trash (1957).

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(sometimes even acceptable) and a lot of criticism, ridiculing everything that can be found in Poland, starting with the authorities and all the manifestations of our life, and mocking what is happening, as well as individual people, phenomena and cultural customs of the Soviet Union.’17 The huge demand for ‘Western’ and ‘bourgeois’ experiences was vividly manifest in the extraordinary popularity and fame of striptease from autumn 1956 onwards. The first response giving witness to this meteoric rise was the poem published in Szpilki, usually quick off the mark in responding to new phenomena: The press brings the West to our door, Reports from Paris and much more. Their night life analyses In the forefront put striptease.18 While in October 1956 the editor felt obliged to provide a precautionary note to explain what ‘striptease’ was, explaining that it was a ‘form of entertainment found in night clubs, where the dancers gradually remove their clothing in full view of the audience’, by early 1957 this new form of entertainment had become an icon of the new morality on a par with Brigitte Bardot. Popularised by the press, gossip and cabarets, striptease affected the popular imagination in inverse proportion to the number of those who could boast of first-hand ‘participant observation’. Striptease became one of the subjects of choice most frequently used by cartoonists and satirical journalists. ‘The biggest sensation of the annual Pelargonium Growers’ Ball was to be the strip tease,’ the satirical Karuzela parodied the craze for undressing. ‘Everyone in the area knew about it. A group of those closest to the inner circle knew the spicy details of this fascinating show, while ordinary mortals had to be content with the snippet that someone was going to go starkers. However, the show did not take place as the organisers were unable to agree which of the numerous female candidates was sufficiently worthy of the privilege.’19 The concept of the striptease was often creatively adapted to Polish reality, as for example in Szymon Kobyliński’s cartoon The Warsaw Striptease (Szpilki, 7, 17 February 1957), where a gang of street robbers remove the outer clothing of late passers-by, or Ibis-Jankowski’s Striptease in the Sejm, in which The 17 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-167, p.  66, Note from the meeting of the Cultural Affairs Committee of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party, 31 Oct 1957. 18 T. Polanowski, “Strip-tease” czyli o wyuzdanej prasie, “Szpilki”, 14 Oct 1956. 19 I. Ira, Strip tease, “Karuzela”, 5 Feb 1957.

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Truth Bares All in Front of the Nation, sheds clothes symbolising official secrets and confidential documents including those marked Top Secret (Karuzela, 27 February 1957). The Krakow literary cabaret Piwnica pod Baranami, founded in 1956, followed a similar path in 1957. ‘It is embarrassing to admit that I also peformed striptease,’ recalled the writer Joanna Olczak-Ronikier. ‘It was a political striptease. Various items of my clothing had notes pinned on them with words such as COAL, CEREAL, and PERSONAL FREEDOM, and I was being relieved of them by a Soviet soldier.’20 The actress Barbara Nawratowicz performed a Dutch Striptease, which caused a furore. Despite the fact that it consisted of stripping off a bicycle, it was ‘an extremely erotic number. She used a spanner and pliers to dismantle an old, antediluvian bicycle, but this was accompanied by highly suggestive gestures, and exclamations such as ‘Tyre! Here it is!’ set the senses on fire so much that the men lost their heads and began to imagine God knows what.’21 The Warsaw cabaret Stodoła was the only one to ‘go all the way’, located – to provide an additional snigger – in the former canteen of the builders of Stalin’s Palace of Culture and Science. The programme There’s a Method in This Madness, put on in May 1957, included an actual striptease, performed by a female nude model from the Warsaw Academy of Fine Arts.22 Beauty contests became an accessible substitute for that type of event, which only a few had witnessed, and probably only in the capital. A wave of such contests began to sweep through Poland from the autumn of 1956, the following year reaching a climax in the form of the Miss Polonia contest. The explanation for this boom is by no means straightforward. Elections of ‘the most beautiful woman’, especially at a national level, had not been a common and well-established feature in the collective memory of Poles. The last such event had taken place in 1930 in Lviv. Another one had been organised in 1932 in Paris by the French Polonia, and later a few more sporadically, with photographs sent from Poland. Despite the relative liberalism in culture, including popular culture, the social climate in Poland immediately after the war was not conducive to organising such events, and Stalinism ruled them out altogether, as an extreme example of bourgeois mass culture, which insulted the dignity of women. The relaxation of the rigours of socialist morality from 1955 20 21 22

J. Olczak-Ronikier, Piwnica pod Baranami czyli koncert ambitnych samouków, Warszawa 2003, p. 46. Ibidem, p.  58. Cf. Piwnica, “Przekrój” 28  Jul 1957; B.  Nawratowicz, Kabaret ‘Piwnica pod Baranami’. Fenomen w kulturze PRL, Kraków 2012. W.  Staszewski, I to by było na tyle, “Gazeta Wyborcza” (Duży Format), 7  May  2007; J. T. Stanisławski, Zezem. O wyższości świąt Wielkiej Nocy nad świętami Bożego Narodzenia, Warszawa 2004, pp. 25–28, 37, 40–42.

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onwards made it somewhat easier for Polish borders to become less hermetic, also allowing Western media influence into the country, which contributed to the renaissance of this particular niche of pop culture. Therefore the initiative came not from groups with any pre-war memories of beauty contests, but from young people who were most familiar with, and aspiring to, Western popular culture. The first nationwide post-war beauty contest accompanied an equally pioneering event: the First National Jazz Music Festival in Sopot in August 1956.23 It was more than just a musical event. It was a manifestation by young people against ‘gloom and doctrine, boredom and greyness, against official methods of mindless nannying, and the stifling principle of making people happy against their will.’24 The coffin carried during the opening parade symbolised not only the funeral of the old musical hits, but the whole world of the young until then. The closing of the festival with the Miss Sopot pageant was also symbolic. ‘Never before have such crowds been recorded on the pier. The stage on which Paweł Gruenspan’s band was to play and on which the candidates for the title of Miss Sopot was to appear collapsed under the storming crowds.’25 A 19-year-old student from Wrocław, Elżbieta Sosińska, became Miss Sopot. The metaphorical barrier was also broken and the authorities did not stand in the way of further events of this kind. The question as to why they did not remain open, as the thaw and the weakening of power cannot explain everything. The total absence of any negative opinion from the authorities in charge of culture, including pop culture, allows us to assume that beauty contests were treated as entertainment which channelled social moods in an acceptable direction, while harmlessly fulfilling hidden needs. It must have been convenient for the authorities that such entertainment was unlikely to be accepted by the Church, but it also helped integration and animation of local communities. Such contests were also organised in the provincial back of beyond and promoted by the regional dailies, while the local prominenti, including the political elites,26 were at the front of the audience. Last but not least, these were very profitable events. 23

24 25 26

Chronologically, the first such beauty pageant was probably the election of the queen of the Krakow Juwenalia in early May 1956. Characteristically, the term ‘Miss’ was not yet used at the time. A. Bratkowski, Nasz rok (1953–2003), Warszawa 2003, p. 61. Cf. W. Czuma, L. Mazan, Pępek świata nazywa się Kraków, Kraków 2000. W. Fułek, R. Stinzing-Wojnarowski, Kurort w cieniu PRL-u. Sopot 1945–1989, Gdańsk 2007, p. 121. Ibidem, pp. 118, 319. Jerzy Morawski, a member of the Political Bureau of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party, was spotted backstage at the Miss Warsaw contest in June 1957. He

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Silesia was the first to exploit this popular trend; the competitions organised in Wrocław and Chorzów aroused huge emotions. As early as October  1956, the Miss Wrocław contest attracted so many spectators to the People’s Hall that several thousand young people waiting outside tried to force their way in ‘shinnying up the drainpipes, through cellars and broken windows. The crowd swarming around the People’s Hall trampled the entire surrounding area.’27 Equally besieged was the Miss Chorzów contest, organised a month later.28 It is difficult to say whether the organiser of these first commercial events, a salesman from Wrocław, one Zbigniew Mirosław, after his success in Silesia, set out to conquer the rest of the country; in any case in 1957 beauty contests became a common component of (pop) cultural life, in the provinces as well, attracting biting remarks from the capital elite. The weekly Polityka, founded at the beginning of 1957, quoted with considerable satisfaction an article from a Białystok newspaper about the local election of Miss Białystok: ‘Probably no event organised in Białystok for a number of years has enjoyed such great interest from the city’s inhabitants. Well, fashion rules above all – if other cities and towns have already held their beauty contests, why should Białystok lag behind? Thus […] Miss Białystok was chosen, but this does not mean that she is the most beautiful woman in our city. […] The number of candidates was too small. On the other hand, all of them were admitted to the contest, which meant that on the stage we saw some that could hardly be called beauties.’29 As a matter of fact, regardless of the actual beauty of the candidates and the procedure for selecting the finalists, local newspapers, which as it has been pointed out, were often behind such events, usually approached them in an affirmative manner, which also provoked ironic comments from Warsaw periodicals. A Szpilki columnist scorned the election of the most beautiful female inhabitants of the voivodeship initiated by the paper Życie Lubelskie, which managed to ‘arouse the healthy enthusiasm of the masses and attract to the pageant the widest possible stratum of Lublin’s residents’, which made it possible to elect not only Miss Voivodeship of Lublin, but also, respectively, Misses of such small provincial towns as Biała Podlaska, Puławy, Biłgoraj, Zamość, Krasnystaw, Hrubieszów, Chełm or Świdnik. ‘Beauty contests for the masses,’ the columnist concluded, ‘are proof of the skilful combination of caring for readers while promoting the essence of the Great Breakthrough. Rightly so! made the point of stressing tha he was there purely in his ‘private capacity’. J. Steinmayr, Parade der Schönen in Warschau, “Süddeutsche Zeitung”, 4 Jun 1957. 27 Festyn piękności i chuligaństwa, ŻW, 11 Oct 1956. 28 HIM P-512, Item 1219/57, Election of the Silesian Beauty Queen. 29 Reporter o “Miss”, “Polityka”, 17–23 Apr 1957.

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The masses must always be approached with slogans expressing their aspirations and dreams, just as the organisers of beauty contests do.’30 Eventually, in 1957, such pageants were held on the Coast, in Silesia, in Greater Poland, Warsaw, Bydgoszcz, Szczecin, Białystok, Rzeszów and Lublin. The contest finals in Warsaw and Gdańsk31 attracted the most publicity, including abroad, due to their attractive, central and holiday locations, the large number of candidates (in Warsaw, there were 167, with 20 of these selected) and the fact that they were based on western standards, e.g. in the rules of the Miss Pomerania contest in Gdańsk the rules and regulations of the Miss Universe contest were employed. The prizes were no longer dresses or mascots, but a trip to Copenhagen on board the luxurious ocean liner MS Batory, a holiday in Hungary or Bulgaria, or participation in the Moscow Festival of Youth and Students. The finalists of regional contests were also able to take part in the first post-war Miss Polonia contest, quite spontaneously organised by Dziennik Bałtycki and Express Wieczorny, in the hall of the Gdańsk Shipyard, on 2 and 4 August 1957. The winner was 21-year-old Alicja Bobrowska, a student of the Theatre Academy in Krakow. She won a six-week tour of Canada and the USA with the Wagabunda theatre, in the following year representing Poland in the Miss Universe contest (indeed with some success).32 Although the candidates declared purely idealistic reasons for participating in the competitions, the truth was much more banal. They made no secret of hoping that participation in such widely publicised events would have a major impact on their future. The survey carried out during the finals of the Gdańsk pageant revealed stereotypical aspirations. Candidates named a diplomat, film director, actor, doctor or painter as a dream husband, while Italy was picked as the best country for summer holidays.33 Similar dreams were shared by many Polish women at the time, since marriage to a foreigner represented an opportunity to go abroad. From the turn of 1956/1957 the opportunities increased, not only due to more widely opened borders, but also the return of matrimonial agencies, closed down at the end of 30 W stronę pięknych pań, “Szpilki”, 24  Mar 1957. The weekly Nowa Wieś announced its own beauty contest on 17 March 1957. The editors were flooded with 6,000 letters, and 2,000 candidates competed for the title of Miss Nowa Wieś. “Nowa Wieś”, 17 Mar 1957. 31 See, i.a.: J. Steinmayr, Parade der Schönen …; Idem, Erste Miss-Wahl hintern dem Eisernen Vorhang, “Weser-Kurier” 13 Jun 1957; Miss und Wodka, “Frankfurter Rundschau”, 7 Jun 1957. 32 Najpiękniejsza dziewczyna w Polsce. Wybory “Miss Polonii” 1957, “Dziennik Bałtycki”, 6 Aug 1957; P. Borzych, Najpiękniejsza sprzed 26 lat, “Głos Wybrzeża”, 8 Jun 1983; Z. Fura, Najpiękniejsze wybory, “Czas Krakowski”, 14  Sep 1992; B.  Bombolewski, Miss Polonia w pigułce, “Głos Szczeciński”, 3–4 May 1997; Królowe piękności, “Gazeta Krakowska”, 24 Sep 2004. 33 Borzych, op. cit.

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the 1940s. It would not be entirely fair to say that their renaissance was fuelled by the export of Polish wives, since such agencies were not only a way out, but often the only option, for the shy and socially inept. They offered an antidote to the stifling moral conventions and stereotypes, which Stalinism had not only failed to eradicate, but sometimes even reinforced. Paradoxically, the advent of the new era, which overturned the existing social structure and ethical rules, made it no easier to find a partner particularly with a prevailing low standard of living. ‘As a result,’ commented a Sztandar Młodych journalist, ‘there are many lonely people, desperately lost and dumbfounded, who, not knowing how to find themselves in all this, find a true friend in the good old monster known as a matrimonial bureau.’34 The report from the first week of activity after Warsaw’s first matrimonial bureau opened, revealed which groups had the most difficulties in that matter: manual workers constituted about a quarter of the clients, while ‘all the others were people in good posts of employment and most of them university graduates.’35 No wonder that private marriage bureaux, springing into existence in 1957, at least the ones in Warsaw, such as Małżeństwo (Marriage), Warszawianka (Warsaw Girl) or Syrenka (Mermaid), focused on a modern approach to matchmaking. They recorded conversations with their clients ‘on tape, so that candidates for marriage could familiarise themselves with the sound of their future wife’s or husband’s voice,’ offering a whole package of services – from matching the couple, through dealing with the formalities in register offices (church weddings were not mentioned), to renting dresses and suits, organising the reception, hiring the car, and organising the photo service and finally the honeymoon. ‘They also took the first steps in making contact with one of the housing co-operatives building single-family houses in order to help their clients put their names down on the waiting list, on the usual terms.’36 In mid-1957, Polish marriage bureaux established contact with their counterparts in countries with large Polish communities such as Australia, Canada, Britain and France. There was interest on both sides – in Poznań, for example, an advertisement for 30 foreign candidates for husbands attracted several times as many female applicants.37 It should also come as no surprise that the most exotic proposal – from Australia, where several hundred offers had been 34 35 36 37

Ibidem. W ciągu tygodnia poznasz swoją żonę lub męża, SM, 25 Mar 1957. DP, 25 Mar 1957 and 23 Apr 1957; ŻW, 24 Apr 1957. SM, 14 Aug 1957; Polnische Mädchen als Exportware, “Neue Zeit” (Klagenfurt), 3 Jul 1957.

Women’s Glamour, Women’s Hell

Fig. 9 + 10 Despite their vital social role, the resurrected matrimonial agencies of 1956–1957 were treated somewhat ironically by the media. As was the first ‘Singletons’ Ball’ which they organised on 9 November 1957 in Warsaw’s Nowy Świat café. Fig. 9 New Fortune Matrimonial Agency, Warsaw, 1957. Photo: Tadeusz Rolke, Agencja Wyborcza. Fig. 10 ‘Singletons’ Ball’, Nowy Świat café, Warsaw 9 November 1957. Photo: Tadeusz Rolke, Agencja Wyborcza.

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sent – received the most media coverage. However, the response was overall disappointing; it turned out that ‘the women in with the best chance of marriage are mainly those with modest requirements, and with an occupation useful in every country, such as a dressmaker. […] Also sought after are wives for farmers, that is, women who can run a smallholding. […] The Australian matrimonial agency also makes clear that photographs of the aspiring wives cannot look as if they are pre-World War One, something that the clients of Warszawianka are not always mindful of.’38 In the big cities, where foreigners were not merely virtual, but often very real, young women tried other, direct strategies. ‘The phone rings in the hotel room,’ a German journalist reported, ‘and a bright, young female voice speaks in French: ‘I am eighteen years old. Do you have a car? Are you from the West?’ Knee-jerk assumptions about the young lady turned out not to be entirely accurate. Grilled by the journalist, she finally confessed: ‘I would like to make a career. In the West.’ Her friends also try their luck sometimes in a similar manner. They ask the hotel switchboard for a random room number and hope to find a fairytale prince. The younger the Warsaw girls are, the less they want to believe that there are no miracles in the West either.’39 It is hard to tell how successful such strategems were. The key aspect, however, is not how many Polish women actually managed to leave the country and/or launch a career. What comes to the fore here is the increasingly clear change in women’s proactive attitude, with the emphasis on themselves rather than the collective ‘we’, as used to be the case. There is no doubt that thanks to the thaw there were many more areas in which women wanted to take making decisions about their own destiny into their own hands.

To Get Pregnant or Not to Get Pregnant?; Or Conscious Motherhood

The cartoon40 below (which shows a Polish woman twiddling her fingers in trepidation – scared to enter a chemist’s that sells contraceptives, and pondering whether she should or should not get pregnant) captured and highlighted the context and implications of the problem: the low level of sexual education in society, including the educated urban class, the prudery, the fear of social stigma and limited access to contraceptives. And yet the very fact that 38 SM, 14 Feb 1958. 39 H.J. Stehle, Die Furcht darf nicht wiederkehren, “Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung” (hereinafter: FAZ), 18 Jan 1958. 40 J. Królikowski, Zajść, albo nie zajść, “Szpilki”, 4 Nov 1956.

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Fig. 11 To Get Pregnant or Not to Get Pregnant?, Janusz Królikowski, Zajść, albo nie zajść, “Szpilki”, 4 Nov 1956.

a cartoon like this could see the light of day – and it was by no means either an isolated case or the first ever on the topic – proved that the issue of conscious motherhood had moved beyond the narrow circle of specialists and that another barrier had been broken. The clash between the political, cultural and social thaw and the reality of the Act on the Permissibility of Abortion, passed on 27 April 1956,41 had undoubtedly played a part. From the authorities’ point of view, the new legislation represented a step towards equal rights for women. It was, however, widely perceived as a tool for regulating the birth rate, albeit the first which, at least theoretically, a woman could herself decide on to such an extent. Theoretically so, because the new legislation – already highly controversial while still in the preparatory stage – continued to be divisive after its enactment. The procedures for authorising an individual abortion were unclear and often humiliating for women, and there were loopholes that made it possible for doctors to refuse to perform the procedure in hospital, not for medical 41

A.  Czajkowska, O dopuszczalności przerywania ciąży. Ustawa z dnia 27 kwietnia 1956 r. i towarzyszące jej dyskusje, in: P. Barański, A. Czajkowska, A. Fiedotow, A. Wochna-Tymińska, ed. M.  Kula, Kłopoty z seksem w PRL. Rodzenie nie całkiem po ludzku, aborcja, choroby, odmienności, Warszawa 2012, pp. 99–186. Ibidem, large bibliography.

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reasons, but so as not to antagonise the local community. This became a significant consideration in the face of the determined offensive by the Catholic Church from mid-1956, which quickly ventured beyond the bounds of faith to delve into matters of conscience. The Permissibility of Abortion became one of the targets of the Church’s criticism. The Primate, Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński, took up the stance that this act had to be opposed as the ‘law of death of the nation’.42 This fight, promoted by the clergy at parish level, was not without impact on doctors’ decisions. As a result, in the first months after the Act had been passed, some hospitals were carrying out more than 100 abortions a month, while in other, comparable institutions no more than a few were carried out. The Act itself, ambiguous and poorly structured, made it possible to refuse abortions by providing doctors with a whole range of means, from diagnosing a medical condition or illness which made abortion impossible, to creating bureaucratic obstacles in the form of lack of appropriate consent or certificates, leading to setting a date for surgery which exceeded the permissible limit of the twelfth week of pregnancy.43 Individual doctors in a decision-making position were motivated to take this course of action by considerations of their own conscience or by pure pragmatism, as to perform abortion in hospital meant taking away a sizeable slice of the doctor’s income from their private, and typically illegal, practice.44. Desperate women, laden with files of applications and certificates, wandered from clinic to clinic, often ending up in a private surgery, or worse, opting to have the procedure in some random place. As a result, the number of hospital interventions to save lives after illegal home abortions did not decrease at all.45 This state of affairs had arisen out of a combination of ingrained circumstances which only surfaced during the thaw. The deep crisis of the family was nothing new, and its various aspects, such as an increase in the number of divorces, had already been observed since the beginning of the 1950s. Now, however, the problem, already diagnosed, was subjected to a meticulous vivisection.46 The growing percentage of marriages breaking up was attributed to the immaturity and tender age of those tying the knot, but also to material factors. The wide-spread pauperisation of society eliminated to a large extent the material incentives for getting married, such as the dowry, and there were no significant barriers preventing one spouse from abandoning the other (more 42 43 44 45 46

Ibidem, p. 161. W. Strzałkowska, Bez fałszywego wstydu, GP, 30 Aug 1956. W. Majewska, Lekarz i pacjentka, “Przyjaciółka”, 30, 1956. Cf. M. Fidelis, Kobiety, komunizm i industrializacja w powojennej Polsce, Warszawa 2015, pp. 218–220. W. Strzałkowska, Bez fałszywego wstydu … J. Kulczycka-Saloni, Atrofia etyczna, ŻW, 20 Feb 1957.

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often a female partner). As a result, the husband risked ‘nothing but losing a wife of whom he had grown tired, and children who could be fobbed off with a pittance of alimony provision’.47 In the media discussion on the family crisis, there were thus proposals put forward to formalise the divorce procedure even further, to abolish divorce altogether, or to introduce a ‘democratic prenuptial agreement’ that would contain provisos such as, for example, a commitment not to abuse alcohol, and specify the desirable number of children, the manner of marital money management or the proscribed ways of spending holidays.48 Paradoxically the thaw brought many returns to the bourgeois past. It contributed to a renaissance of traditional family roles, restoring women’s role as the caretaker of the home hearth, which almost invariably entailed resignation from any professional activity.49 A survey on family benefits announced at the turn of 1956 and 1957 by the editors of the popular daily Życie Warszawy garnered over a thousand responses. Men opined that all mothers (and often childless wives) should give up work, while the women who took part in the poll demanded the right to choose between a job and staying at home – demanding, moreover, that the role of the homemaker be made easier.50 It was not easy for women, and particularly working-class women, to hold a job, in view of cramped housing, empty larders, astronomical prices and long queues, nor was the situation conducive to planning or having children. Added to this, in 1956–1957, was the threat of unemployment, a much more hazardous prospect for women than for men. Under the circumstances, getting pregnant or having children became factors that minimised job opportunities. The aforementioned opinion polls, announced by various editorial boards, paved the way for new channels of information and encouraged the breaking of social taboos. The voices in the discussion showed that domestic violence or various forms of family exclusion were by no means the domain of poorer and less educated social groups. A characteristic case was that of a female civil servant who married her former superior in one of the ministries. The husband gave her no house-keeping money, so she maintained the household out of her own salary. ‘We eat mostly soup, sometimes a second course, but sometimes all we eat is dry bread. My husband eats out in restaurants. He is only a guest at home. He usually comes back at midnight or in the morning to take a nap, wash, shave, put on aftershave, etc. and then he goes out again, looking for luck and thrills outside the house. […] He treats me like his property, like an object 47 48 49 50

M. Kozakiewicz, O trwałości małżeństwa, ŻW, 4 Mar 1957. Ibidem. A. Szlagowska, Modele kobiecości …, p. 250. M. Parzyńska, Rozwiązanie musi się znaleźć, ŻW, 27 Feb 1957.

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with which he can do whatever he wants. He often insults me, beats me or shuts himself in his room in front of me and the children.’51 The low level of sexual awareness in society was appalling, thanks in no small part to the perfect symbiosis in their attitudes to this matter between the Communist Party and the Catholic Church. As sexologist Michalina Wisłocka observed, ‘After the war, communists and Catholics were equally hostile to sex. Poland was a Catholic country and communism was transplanted lock, stock and barrel into that Catholicism.’52 In short, the result was, on the one hand, a demographic boom, much needed to make up for the population losses during the war, and on the other, a conspiracy of silence on all matters relating to sexuality, including birth control and the use of contraceptives. Even future doctors received no instruction in these issues during their studies, and the publications that appeared just after the war were put on the banned list.53 If doctors did not know much, no wonder a large part of the general populace was characterised by sexual illiteracy, or indeed sexual anarchy. This was the result of a lack of basic knowledge about sexual intercourse, physicality, hygiene and contraception. This ignorance bolstered by prudery rendered many people helpless when faced with intimate issues.54 Ignorance was not helped by the lack of widely available publications. The first ones published after the thaw, such as a brochure by Rafał Pumpiański entitled Hygiene in Woman’s Life (1956), sold out in a flash despite being printed in a run of half a million copies. Contraceptives were scarce, difficult to obtain, expensive and unreliable. And if someone did managed to overcome embarrassment enough to walk into a pharmacy, often even the pharmacists did not have adequate knowledge about the use of the pills or creams they were selling.55 ‘These items sell as if they were contraband, only those in the know are buying.’56 The results were lamentable, often with no metaphor involved, as the following situation described by the Życie Warszawy journalist shows – regrettably, the norm rather than the exception: ‘I spoke to one such woman, a mother of four, who for the third time in a relatively short period of time, duly equipped with the appropriate documents, approached a doctor capable of authorising an abortion. She tearfully admitted that she had not been taking any precautions. Yes, in the hospital where she had already had two abortions, the doctor 51 “Druga żona”, ŻW, 21 Feb 1957. 52 L.  Ostałowska, D.  Szymborska, Wojna o brzuch. Aborcja po polsku, “Gazeta Wyborcza”, 3 Dec 2011 (magazine). 53 R. Pumpiański, Przede wszystkim – zapobieganie, TL, 1 Apr 1957. 54 Ibidem. Cf. T. Bilikiewicz, Klinika nerwic płciowych, Warszawa 1959, pp. 124–125. 55 W każdej aptece, “Przyjaciółka”, 27, 1956; Czajkowska, O dopuszczalności …, p. 171. 56 W. Strzałkowska, Bez fałszywego wstydu, GP, 30 Aug 1956.

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did explain something or other to her and gave her something to take, but she didn’t really understand how to use it and was ashamed to go and ask afterwards. And her husband, an unskilled factory worker, laughed at her: What are you worried about? You’ll just go and get yourself scraped out on the state.’57 There is no doubt that it was precisely the increasingly widespread use of the widely accessible abortion as the ‘contraceptive’ of choice that was one of the key factors behind the drive to promote conscious motherhood. For although in the period preceding the passing of the abortion bill, there were discussions raging on compulsory sexual education of society and the promotion of contraception, once the legislation had been implemented, public opinion settled into a fait accompli, and all the thorny issues related to conscious motherhood, and parenthood in general, were in practice limited to abortion.58 Even experts such as doctors, lawyers or publicists who were firmly in favour of liberalising the legislation on abortion, began to be alarmed at the prevailing cavalier approach to pregnancy termination, pointing out that the current situation should not be tolerated lest it endanger the health of an entire generation.59 Leaving aside the ethical and medical issues involved, it was estimated that ‘even the wealthiest countries could not afford such an extension of hospital care as would make it possible to carry out some 300,000 hospital abortions a year’.60 An emphatic point was being made that in the West, both in countries where the abortion legislation was by no means liberal – France, England and Holland – and where there was abortion practically on demand, thanks to wide preventive action, the number of terminations was not comparatively high.61 Thus, there was a drive to draw on Poland’s own experience from the interwar period and to employ contemporaneous Western solutions, especially from Britain. The latter was facilitated by the fact that, thanks to the wider opening of borders, at the turn of 1956 and 1957 there was lively co-operation with British specialists.62 Moreover, the sanctioning of abortion in the USSR in 1955 not only had an impact on the liberalisation of birth control legislation in almost the entire Eastern Bloc, but also demonstrated the scale of related problems. In the 57 58 59 60 61 62

M. Parzyńska, Wystarczy trochę światła, ŻW, 7 Sep 1957. M. Kowalewski, Sprawy najbardziej ludzkie, TL, 9 Aug 1957. R. Pumpiański, Przede wszystkim – zapobieganie, TL, 1 Apr 1957. Ibidem. Ibidem. Cf. S. Kuźma-Markowska, Międzynarodowe aspekty działalności Towarzystwa Świadomego Macierzyństwa w latach 50. i 60 XX w., in: Problem kontroli urodzeń i antykoncepcji. Krytyczno-porównawcza analiza dyskursów, eds. B.  Płonka-Syroka and A.  Szlagowska, Wrocław 2013, pp. 274–277.

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USSR, this was primarily the issue of single mothers, whose legal situation worsened considerably after the July 1944 amendment of family legislation and the introduction of a provision that did not recognise unregistered marriages. With social atrophy in Russia even more deeply rooted than in Poland, the number of single mothers increased rapidly – from 280,000 in 1945 to 3.2 million in 1957, prompting a discussion that culminated in a memorandum published in October 1956 in Literaturnaya Gazeta, signed by the composer Dmitry Shostakovich, the writers Ilya Erenburg and Samuil Marshak, and finally the world-renowned paediatrician Georgi Speransky. They pointed out the tragedy of single mothers, whose ‘illegally’ born children were stigmatised by the law. They backed their argument with quotations from Lenin.63 This illustrates the deep belief in the salutary power of personalities, rather than institutions, in the east of the continent. Poland in the years 1956–1957 followed suit, especially as organisations that by their very nature were predestined to address the problem of conscious motherhood in the first place, such as the League of Women (Liga Kobiet, LK), had failed to live up to expectations. Many women hoped that the LK would provide counselling services that, unlike the state health service, would ensure anonymity. It was also not uncommon for women to approach the League with a request to encourage a doctor to perform a termination.64 Nevertheless, during the congress of the League in the spring of 1957, the problem of promoting conscious maternity was not part of the agenda. Individual LK Voivodeship Boards tried to organise individual solutions, e.g. in Poznań a consultation point equipped with contraceptives was set up.65 All this was only a drop in the ocean of need. It remained for social activists, many engaged in this field before the war, to take up the gauntlet. They had the support of the Ministry of Health, which proposed the setting up of an association, organised along the lines of a similar body that existed during the inter-war period, with the participation of not only doctors, but also intellectuals, artists and social activists. Such an association would launch a wide-reaching campaign for conscious motherhood.66 63 64

65 66

H. Carlbäck, Lone mothers and fatherless children. Public discourse on marriage and family law, in: Ilič, Smith (eds.), Soviet State …, pp. 91–94. W. Strzałkowska, Bez fałszywego wstydu, GP, 30 Aug 1956. On the activity of the League of Women, also during 1956–1957, see Barbara A. Nowak, Serving Women and the State: the League of Women in Communist Poland, The Ohio State University 2004, https://etd. ohiolink.edu/apexprod/rws_etd/send_file/send?accession=osu1091553624&disposition= inline (22 Dec 2021). APWr, Liga Kobiet, 15, pp. 66–67, Minutes of the meeting of the Presidium of the Provincial Executive of the League of Women, 2 Oct 1957. Czajkowska, p. 173.

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The atmosphere was also increasingly favourable. Despite the alarming medical and social context, the awareness campaign fitted in perfectly with the anti-Church counter-offensive of the authorities, which had been intensifying since the spring of 1957. Leading the way were the editors of Życie Warszawy, traditionally involved in various social campaigns, while Trybuna Ludu, which in 1956 had been reluctant to take up such sensitive issues, also became active in 1957.67 The most influential women’s weeklies (Przyjaciółka, Kobieta i Życie), long involved in the fight for women’s emancipation, played an important part. The authorities approved, viewing such involvement as a chance to deprive the Church of its monopoly on the moral renewal of society.68 In the first months of 1957, the awareness-raising campaign progressed timidly, within the confines of what was acceptable to the Church, for instance publishing the Woman’s Diary, which indicated the fertile days according to the Ogino-Knaus rhythm method of natural birth control.69 In mid-1957, the campaign gained steam. Apparently with only minimal input by the authorities, it embarked on a robust and outspoken crusade to break the ‘conspiracy of silence’ and to re-shape the backward social attitudes to sex. ‘Everything concerning sexual matters is hidden in our conspiracy of silence and prudery. And behind the cloak of hypocrisy there lurks cynicism, tragedies and practices as if out of the Middle Ages.’70 Postulates included improved education on this long-neglected topic, raising the level of awareness of both sexual partners and availability of and easy access to a wide range of contraceptives. Another proposal was to establish a Society of Conscious Motherhood, which would co-ordinate the entire campaign, with a drive to rationalise attitudes across the divided medical community. ‘Once again I appeal to my fellow gynaecologists: If you are against abortion, do everything in your power to prevent women who do not want or cannot give birth from getting pregnant!’ urged Professor Tadeusz Kielanowski, himself a medical authority.71 Like other specialists, he called for abandoning the demographic dogma that the strength of a state is determined primarily by the number of its 67

As Jerzy Baumritter, who worked at TL, recalled, in 1956, ‘At the meeting a proposal was made to publish an article on the abolition of the ban on abortion. I think it was proposed by Wilhelmina Skulska. I remember the resistance. […] At the time, we wondered whether it was “appropriate” for “Trybuna Ludu” to raise the issue of abortion and pregnancy prevention. Skulska’s energy and common sense prevailed – the article was published, and we won the gratitude of millions of women.’ Ostałowska, Szymborska, Wojna o brzuch … 68 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIX-208, k. 5, Comments on women’s magazines, May 1958. 69 “Kalendarzyki kobiet” już w tym miesiącu, SM, 12 Apr 1957. 70 M. Kowalewski, Sprawy najbardziej ludzkie, TL, 9 Aug 1957. 71 T. Kielanowski, Regulacja urodzeń i przerywanie ciąży, “Służba Zdrowia”, 30 Jun 1957.

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citizens.72 More and more often the focus was on the negative impact of overpopulation. The point was being made that the high fertility level in Poland was not the cause of poverty, but rather its effect, as became clear from the analysis of the relationship between the civilisational level of society and its birth rate. In Poland in 1955, the annual birth rate was 19.4 live births per 1,000 inhabitants compared with 3.4 in Austria, 4.9 in West Germany, 3.7 in Britain, 5.4 in Sweden and 10.5 in Czechoslovakia. “‘As economic conditions improve’, a Życie Warszawy columnist concluded, ‘and the cultural level of society rises accordingly, the fertility rate becomes self-regulating, arriving at a level most favourable for individual families and for the country as a whole’.73 Previously strictly taboo topics were now aired, such as the fact that Poland had one of the highest infant mortality rates in Europe (in 1955, it was 82 per 1,000 live births; only Romania, Bulgaria and Yugoslavia had a worse record). The reasons for this state of affairs were examined, with the finger pointed at the conceiving of children by the mentally ill, alcoholics or people with VDs as a contributory factor. ‘How many tragedies could have been avoided, had the spouses sought sexual counselling before deciding to have children?’74 Unfortunately, counselling services were practically non-existent. Although the Act of April 1956 brought a significant step forward in comparison with the inter-war period, in other areas, especially education, People’s Poland remained far behind. In the years 1931–1939 conscious motherhood clinics operated in Warsaw, Łódź, Krakow, Gorlice and Białystok. Yet after the war only two such clinics opened and not until 1957 – the first one in Warsaw and the second one in Łódź, visited by – as the press ironically noted – in this ‘city of women’ (so dubbed on account of being the mainstay of the Polish textile industry, with its feminised labour force) an average of just one patient a day. According to the ministerial order of 1956, doctors in the women’s clinics were supposed to educate and raise awareness. This usually remained in the realm of theory, especially since such centres were visited almost exclusively by women who were already pregnant.75 It became obvious to an increasing number of doctors, social workers, lawyers and ministerial officials that due to the social and economic situation it was imperative to anchor the problem of conscious motherhood in reality and to finally move off the starting blocks of several decades earlier. The 72 73 74 75

Ibidem. A. Korolkiewicz, To nie przyczyna lecz skutek!, ŻW, 22 Jun 1957. Cf. idem, Niepohamowana fala, ŻW, 28 May 1957. A. Popielarska, Z. Zaremba, O jaki przyrost nam chodzi, ŻW, 22 Sept 1957. M. Parzyńska, Wystarczy trochę światła, ŻW, 7 Sep 1957; Głosowałabym “za”, TL, 27 Oct 1957.

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most frequently proposed solutions were the setting up of special counselling centres in all the voivodeship cities, in the districts appointing a gynaecologist to conduct awareness-raising campaigns, and the recommendation that the Gynaecological Society should resume its pre-war lecture campaign in the countryside.76 Another idea was to establish in the cities, discreet counselling centres, perhaps as many as a dozen or so in Warsaw alone, modelled on the British ones – without signs or boards, so that women would not be embarrassed to enter.77 A novel take was to extend the educational campaign to men, since there could hardly be conscious motherhood in the absence of conscious fatherhood. ‘I have no hesitation in saying,’ one of the best-known Polish doctors, Mieczysław Michałowicz, proclaimed in a Warsaw daily, ‘that currently only 30% of men would deserve to be called human beings if it were to be known how they treat women who are their sexual partners. The behaviour of the rest could be described as sexual hooliganism: to get their way, regardless of the price the woman would pay.’78 Michałowicz did not have much faith in the effectiveness of official action without support from a social organisation.79 From at least mid-1957, all voices in the discussion, whether a professor of gynaecology, a journalist or a social activist, called for such a body, referred to as the Society for Conscious Motherhood (TŚM). ‘It must be an organisation whose main and only aim is to preach the idea of conscious motherhood. It must be a new organisation in order to bring together people who really and truly want to work for the benefit of society, and not those who have been given this task by chance or due to the office they hold.’80 The Society would only gain universal social acceptance if it gathered a diverse cross-section of members – doctors and teachers, professors and social activists, writers and scientists. ‘I would vote’, concluded the anonymous author, ‘for the Society to be established as soon as possible, since everything that could be said in this matter has probably already been said.’81 By coincidence, and with a little bit of help from the authorities, her wish would come true days later, on 13 November 1957. Although most subsequent Polish narratives about the context of the origins of the TŚM usually play down her involvement, there is no doubt that the British physician and precursor of 76 M. Parzyńska, Wystarczy trochę światła … 77 Lekarze specjaliści mówią o akcji świadomego macierzyństwa, ŻW, 15–16 Sep 1957. 78 Świadome macierzyństwo? – Tak, ale i świadome ojcostwo (rozmowa z Mieczysławem Michałowiczem), ŻW, 27 Sep 1957. 79 Ibidem. 80 Głosowałabym “za”, TL, 27 Oct 1957. 81 Ibidem.

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universal sexual education and propagator of conscious motherhood Helen Rosa Wright (1887–1982) acted as the catalyst. Wright was one of the leading activists of the International Planned Parenthood Federation (IPPF) and cofounder and long-time president of the National Birth Control Council (NBCC), founded in 1930 and renamed the Family Planning Association (FPA) in 1939.82 She became known both as a creative organiser of a network of marriage counselling centres and the author of a groundbreaking work on sexuality.83 The fact that Helen Rosa Wright’s father came from the part of Poland that at the time was annexed by Austria, combined with her ambition to spread modern family planning methods to less developed countries, prompted her involvement in the establishment of the Polish Society of Conscious Motherhood. The thaw made such activities possible not only in India or Egypt, but also in Poland, as the first country, not counting Yugoslavia, behind the Iron Curtain. Wright’s involvement accounts for the fact that the majority of Polish supporters of conscious motherhood drew on the British experience when looking for international parallels. An opportunity to give the British perspective direct exposure in Poland came in the autumn of 1957. At the end of October, Jadwiga Beaupré, an activist doctor from Krakow (or to be precise from Nowa Huta) founder of a modern birthing centre and the first birthing school in Nowa Huta, and Professor Jan Lesiński attended a congress in West Berlin as observers. Wright was also present. She agreed to visit Poland for a fortnight to give a series of talks and to participate in the founding meeting of the Society for Conscious Motherhood.84 This international dimension to the issue of conscious motherhood and its institutionalisation suited the authorities. On the one hand, it legitimised and lent credibility to their intentions, while on the other hand, Wright, a world authority, provided an opportunity to convince the more conservative part of society that natural methods of contraception, although widely used as recommended by the Church, did not offer a hundred percent guarantee. Wright took up this theme during her Polish tour, which began on 1 November 1957; she visited Kraków, Nowa Huta, Upper Silesia and Poznań. The highlight of her

82

B.  Evens, Freedom to Choose. The Life and Work of Dr Helena Wright, Pioneer in Contraception, London 1984. 83 I.a.: Birth control. Advice on Family Spacing and Healthy Sex Life, London 1935; The Sex Factor in Marriage: A Book for Those Who Are or Are about to Be Married, New York 1938; More about the Sex Factor in Marriage, London 1947; What is Sex?, London 1947; An Outline for Young People. Birth Control, London 1962; Sex and Society: New Code for Social Behaviour, London 1968. 84 ŻW, 2 Nov 1957.

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stay was 13 November, when the Conscious Motherhood Society was founded in Warsaw. The conclusive meeting was attended both by social workers and doctors involved in the promotion of conscious motherhood, including Henryk Rubinraut-Babiniak, co-founder in 1931 of the first Polish advisory centre, and by the participants of the previous campaign.85 Most of them in fact found themselves on the board of the Society, which, as Trybuna Ludu wrily put it, ‘was born legally and consciously’.86 At the birth, Helen Wright acted as a specialist midwife, and more. She urged the production of modern contraceptives and invited representatives of the rubber and chemical industries to Britain, facilitating access to manufacturers and technology as well as – until they developed their own production lines – imported contraceptives at preferential prices. She also promised to persuade publishers to cede translation rights to professional literature, including her own books, free of charge.87 Although, in the end, none of Wright’s works were translated and soon her obstetric role in the establishment of the TŚM was radically reduced, the contacts that had been established in Britain were nurtured, and over the next few years some twenty doctors and social activists from Warsaw, Krakow, Katowice, Białystok, Zielona Góra, Łódź, Gdańsk, Lublin and Poznań visited London. Their twoweek internships financed by the IPPF contributed to the transfer of knowledge, experience and technology, although it is difficult to define and assess the scale of the actual impact.88 There is no doubt, however, that in spite of the prophetic warnings uttered in the autumn of 1957 that ‘for at least another half-century [Poland would] be following the example of those societies which have analysed the concept of the family, incorporated it into moral models, developed specific social campaigns and based them on appropriate legal regulations’,89 the campaign for conscious motherhood undertaken at that time must be considered one of the most important and lasting achievements of October.

85 Kuźma-Markowska, op. cit., p. 268. 86 Świadome narodziny, TL, 14  Nov 1957; Komitet Organizacyjny Towarzystwa Świadomego Macierzyństwa, TL, 15 Nov 1957. 87 ŻW, 16 Nov 1957. 88 Kuźma-Markowska, op. cit., pp. 275–276; Towarzystwo Świadomego Macierzyństwa 1957– 1960, Warszawa 1961. 89 Świadome macierzyństwo? Tak, ale i świadome ojcostwo, op. cit.

Chapter 4

Factory Revolutions 1956–1957 The eminent American sociologist Erving Goffman examining the oppressive conditions of large numbers of inmates cooped up for long periods of time in punitive confinement under a formal administrative regime – in setups ranging from prisons and psychiatric asylums to ships – created the concept of a ‘total institution’. Although factories did not exactly fall into his classification, Stalinist construction or industrial plants did fulfil many of the required criteria. In Poland, the Act on Safeguarding Socialist Labour Discipline of 19  April  1950 did make a major contribution to this state of affairs. The Act stood out even against the backdrop of the repressive system prevailing in the first half of the 1950s. ‘It is rare in history for legislation to result in millions of people being punished by routine penalties, more than 800,000 workers being brought to court, some 350,000 people being convicted and more than 30,000 being sent to jail.’1 Factory managers were given the powers of prosecutors and were supposed to carry out the initial proceedings that culminated in putting a worker on trial. Every major institution had the so-called ‘security offices’ – local cells of the feared Security Service (Służba Bezpieczeństwa, SB). To heighten the intimidation, no attempts were made to conceal the ubiquitous presence of security officers and the extensive system of informers.2 In many factories and construction companies, work was literally a struggle for survival. Low wages forced workers to steal, and unrealistically excessive standards inspired them to develop defensive strategies, such as making extra money on the side, for example by providing services according to their area of expertise outside the factory for cash in hand. The disastrous working conditions were the opposite of the staged images of thoroughly modern factories full of enthusiastic workers, created by the state propaganda and relentlessly reinforced in cinema newsreels. In Wrocław, it turned out that in 1956 the number of sick days taken per 100 employees had risen by almost a quarter, from 101.9 to 125.7, in comparison with 1955. The increase in skin diseases, tuberculosis, women’s diseases and respiratory tract diseases testified ‘not only to the difficult living and economic conditions of the workers, but also to the poor, 1 J. Chumiński, Robotnicy polscy 1945–1956. “Stary” i “nowy” ośrodek przemysłowy na przykładzie Krakowa i Wrocławia, Wrocław 2015, pp. 283–284. On the social and economic consequences of the Act, see ibidem, pp. 278–286. 2 Ibidem, pp. 336–407.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_005

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and above all, inadequate, preventive work carried out in industrial health care institutions.’3 For example, out of the 2.6 million workers employed in the chemical industry, as many as 1.5 million worked in conditions harmful to health. An extreme example was the Celwiskoza factory in Jelenia Góra (until 1945, Hirschberg im Riesengebirge), producing synthetic fibres – described as a ‘mortuary of a factory, notorious throughout Poland. People died of gas poisoning on the factory premises as a result of gross negligence in the area of occupational safety. Several hundred people lost their health.’4 The scale of the suffering could be judged by the determined action of the Poznań workers in June 1956 – the first general strike in the People’s Republic of Poland, accompanied by street protests. They were bloodily suppressed by the army and the militia, and the revolt itself was played down by the state propaganda, and euphemistically referred to as ‘the June events’ at best, but mostly passed over in silence. These protests were followed by a veritable tsunami of others, which the authorities were unable to stem either by repression or wage increases.5 Thus workers, besides young people, were the engine of the changes that took place in the autumn of 1956. When in October 1956 Władysław Gomułka, a former left-wing activist and political prisoner, became First Secretary of the Polish United Workers’ Party and the country’s leader, he enjoyed instant popularity and broad social support. However, in the event, both workers and young people were to be exploited and abandoned by Gomułka, albeit that the workers resisted for much longer.6

3 APWr, Presidium of the City Council of the city of Wrocław, 294, Social Security Board to the Health Committee of the City Council of Wrocław, 21 Jun 1957, p. 33. 4 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3869, Transcript of the Constitutional Convention of the Union of Socialist Youth, 25–27 Apr 1957, p. 181. Cf. HIM, P-63241, Item No. 8406/56, Inadequate safety measures cause many accidents in the K. Gottwald cellulose factory. 5 See P. Machcewicz, Rebellious satellite … 6 On workers, see: J.  Chumiński, Robotnicy polscy 1945–1956…; P.  Kenney, Rebuilding Poland: Workers and Communists, 1945–1950, Ithaca 2012; N. Jarska, Kobiety z marmuru. Robotnice w Polsce w latach 1945–1960, Warszawa 2015; M. Tymiński, PZPR i przedsiębiorstwo. Nadzór partyjny nad zakładami przemysłowymi 1956–1970, Warszawa 2001; D.  Jarosz, Robotnicy ’56-’57. Czy rozczarowanie komunizmem, [in:] Komunizm. Ideologia. System. Ludzie, ed. T.  Szarota, Warszawa 2001, pp. 325–337; P. Szymaniec, Postawa i zachowania robotników w Październiku 1956, [in:] “Wrocławskie Studia Erazmiańskie. Zeszyty Studenckie. Prace Prawnicze, Administratywistyczne i Historyczne”, eds. M.  Sadowski, P.  Szymaniec, Wrocław 2009, pp. 19–40.

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‘Social Demand for Wheelbarrows’; Or Settling Matters in the Factory

Work establishments, especially large ones, tend to be beset by conflicts, but from October (and in some places even earlier) 1956 to the end of 1957, Polish factories were the scene of a full gamut of exceptionally intense discord: economic, social, political, stratum, class, ideological and cultural, with different social strata and classes battling over values and goals.7 Besides the traditional conflicts between workers and the administration, there now emerged, or deepened, disagreements between party members and the unaffiliated, Stalinists and revolutionaries, recent Stakhanovite over-achievers and victims of the SB security, believers and non-believers, supporters of self-government and those in favour of centralisation, town dwellers and those who hailed from the countryside, men and women … The first challenge, however, was to come to terms with the recent past. The scale of tensions was so great and the list of grievances so long that, as a result, the ‘October transition was understood in workplaces as a time for settling accounts with those who had hitherto been the greatest bane of the workers’s lives. […] Workers drove the hated directors and party activists out through the factory gates in wheelbarrows. This was something that happened all the time, with only occasional discussion afterwards as to who had been taken away justly and who unjustly. […] Wheelbarrowing became one of the symbols of October.8 Such radical settlements of accounts in the factory setting should not come as a surprise. In the inflammatory setting, young men were not difficult to incite to action, especially since they felt safe in the group and felt they could get away with it, while the weakened authorities usually did not react. It was also a good opportunity to settle purely personal scores. These acts of reckoning were characteristic of smaller towns, where no one was anonymous, all offences were an open secret – and the management of the factory, in many cases the most important or even the only local employer, was strongly linked to the hated local political elite, whose representatives also often ended up on wheelbarrows. In Tarnów, the workers oversaw the punishment of the former city notables to make sure that they would get evicted from the city. When the

7 J.  Sztumski, Konflikt społeczny, Katowice 1987, p.  110. See  I.  Salejko-Szyszczak, Klasyfikacja konfliktów w przedsiębiorstwie, “Acta Universitatis Nicolai Copernici. Zarządzanie”, vol. XXXVIII, z. 404, Toruń 2011, pp. 137–148. 8 J. Karpiński [Marek Tarniewski], Porcja wolności (październik 1956), Paris 1979, p. 124. Cf. KTT [Krzysztof Teodor Toeplitz], Proszę państwa do taczek!, NK, 16 Dec 1956.

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secretary of the City Committee of the Party objected, the workers’ delegation threatened to expel him from his post.9 Employment was hard to come by in the provinces, and those who did have a job were badly paid. ‘Thousands unemployed, hopeless housing prospects, the Party in paralysis,’ wrote a journalist from Sztandar Młodych, commenting on the situation in Radom, ‘[…] these are phenomena which, to a greater or lesser extent, we have to deal with throughout the entire country. […] And in this situation, any opposition against the evils of the past – that are still with us and still persist – is capable of garnering support.’10 It is at times like that, the journalist noted, that ‘there appears a social demand for wheelbarrows’,11 and someone ends up being taken away on one. There was no shortage of those ready to deploy the wheelbarrow. In the militia and party reports those who led the perpetrators were described with a wide range of labels such as ‘troublemakers’, ‘postwar gangsters’, ‘blacklegs’, ‘prewar provocateurs’, ‘Christian Democrats’ and ‘hooligan and criminal elements.’ And all of them, by spreading ‘demagogic slogans, are gaining a so-called popularity, sowing discontent among the workers, inspiring them to make unrealistic demands and inciting them to various kinds of protests, often attracting confused, dissatisfied parts of the factory workforce.’12 Regardless of who initiated the rally, those targeted had no effective defence against the accusation of being a ‘Stalinist’. Just as there was no effective defence against accusations – usually well-founded – of mismanagement, links with the Security Office, a brutal attitude to workers, or merely being a party member. No distinction was made between degrees of guilt, between the idealists and the opportunists; commitment to the system was incriminating enough. ‘In our Gdynia Repair Shipyard,’ wrote an employee to the Central Committee, ‘the attitude is that anyone who worked in the party and the security apparatus, who actively participated in party life and implemented party orders and resolutions, should be expelled from the party, sacked from their job and removed from social and economic life. Some workers think that all these comrades are Stalinists and should be got rid of.’13 Party organisations became effectively paralysed. They remained in that state until mid-1957. The party cell of the Świdnik aircraft plant near Lublin 9

AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-20, p.  6, Note on the situation in the party organisation in Tarnów, 5 Mar 1957. 10 I. Lewandowska, Taczki, SM, 7 Dec 1956. 11 Ibidem. 12 AIPN, BU 1585/1691, p. 52. 13 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-20, Bulletin of letters 47, 15 Nov 1956. p. 27, Mieczysław Siennica to the Central Committee of the party.

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did not deviate from the nationwide average in that respect. From the autumn of 1956, its members ‘stopped focusing their lives on party issues and organisational structure. […] They succumbed to disorientation in the face of quite an all-encompassing discussion and slanders hurled at our party. The executive did not know how to brief members for specific tasks in order to repulse the slanderous attacks on the party. We could not work with the old methods and we were unable to use the new ones. […] There was no longer any bond with the working teams.’14 However, it is easy to fall into the trap of generalisation, since much depended on local conditions, and as a result the range of behaviour differed considerably. On the one hand, some instigators of rallies were in fact party members.15 On the other hand, factory managements developed defence and adaptation strategies of their own. The simplest was to wait out the revolutionary wave, keeping out of sight of the workers. For example, the director of the Łódź Paper Works ‘ran away and was absent for a whole month, because surely if he had stayed put, the whole crew would have thrown him out. He knew what awaited him and did not turn up.’ This was an effective course of action, as just a year later the subordinates complained about ‘our director and ruler’, who is not ‘a director but a dictator’.16 However, even a dictator requires appropriate backup. So the director would either assemble a new team, or, probably more frequently, he would rely on the existing factory clique, which usually included trade unionists, accountants and some of the technical staff. The situation in the Krakow United Industrial Installations was no exception. The local ‘tight clique headed by the chairman of the works council, dedicated to having his way and bullying workers into submission, who recorded and filed away every instance of insubordination’ went into hiding immediately after October. Members of the clique did, however, retain their posts, so they were able to gather supporters, including in the Workers’ Council. They were also well connected externally, so complaints of nepotism or abuse disappeared into the drawers of friendly prosecutors and local party officials. A year later, in October 1957, the group was again strong enough to proceed to sack opponents. ‘The objective was achieved – the 14 AP in Lublin (hereinafter: APL), KP PZPR in Lublin, 76, pp.  95–96. Cf. AP in Poznań (hereinafter: APP), KW PZPR, 74/V/48 No.  21, Information on the attitude in some workplaces towards former activists of the Communist Party, 11 V 1957, p. 120. More in: Tymiński, PZPR i przedsiębiorstwo … 15 Biuletyny Komitetu do spraw Bezpieczeństwa Publicznego. Grudzień 1954-listopad 1956, intro. M.  Filipiak, eds. W.  Chudzik, M.  Filipiak, J.  Gołębiowski, Warszawa 2009, p.  736 [Bulletin of the Committee for Public Security No. 77/56 of 7 Nov 1956]. 16 AAN, KRP, 63/2, Complaint against the Director of the Łódź Paper Factory, 22 Jan 1958, pp. 67–68.

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workers were intimidated,’ the workers wrote in their petition to the State Council. ‘In the office they are all frightened, no one wants to speak out. There is an atmosphere of despondency. The clique has spread the news that the whole enterprise will be decimated.’17 Conflicts between plant managers and workers were being resolved in a different way. Some bosses, like the director of the Paper Mill in Klucze, southern Poland, gave in and looked for another job.18 Other directors ostentatiously went out of their way to meet the mood – dismissing party functionaries or former security employees, who were sometimes employed as ordinary workers.19 Those sacked had almost no redress, and interventions on their behalf by the provincial party committees were ineffective. For example, when the Party Voivodship Committee in Poznań took up the case of such an expelled worker, the factory management, the works council, and even the party organisation shied away from inflaming the situation, declaring that his possible reinstatement was a matter for a collective decision by the whole workforce; the latter did not, however, want to work ‘with a security collaborator in the factory.’20 It is difficult to say how common it was for party members and security officers to demonstratively cross to the other side of the barricade. Yet at times the strategy was successful, with paradoxical results. A case in point was the Szczecin Municipal Transport Company, where the group striving to provoke a strike was headed by the secretary of the Party’s Workers’ Committee, who had moreover previously served as a so-called ‘labour protection guard’ on behalf of the security service. ‘Such people,’ commented the director of the company, ‘are capable of doing anything at all just to rehabilitate themselves in the eyes of the worforce, gain popularity and go with the flow, perhaps even by supporting strikes.’21 In the end it was the the party secretary who kept his job, while the director was forced out of the job – on the orders of the municipal party authorities and the town hall. Where the party maintained a stronger position in the plant, it did not shy away from reprisals against its own comrades if they took the side of the 17 AAN, KRP, 63/1, Employees of the Krakow Association of Industrial Installations to the State Council, Nov 1957. 18 ODiZP TVP, 1050/18, Bulletin of letters 76 of 24  Nov 1956, letter from Stanisław Biela, Żywiec, 15 Nov 1956. 19 OSA, PL-114.612, Warszawa  I, radio broadcast “Przeglądy i poglądy”: “Stalinowiec! Stalinowiec! Wyrzucić go! Do rzeki! Dzierżymorda! Na taczki!, 30 Dec 1956. 20 ODiZP TVP, 1050/20, Bulletin of letters No  16 of 12  Mar 1957, letter from the Central Committee of the United Polish Workers’ Party to Polskie Radio, 30 Jan 1957. 21 AAN, KC PZPR, WO XII-2591, Mieczysław Finster, Szczecin to the Central Committee, 19 Aug 1957.

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Fig. 12

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‘Feluś, don’t you reckon we’ve gone a little over the top with this wheelbarrowing business? We are the only two people left …’ Zbigniew Kiulin (?), “Gazeta Krakowska” 300, 1956.

rallying workers. In the Boruta works in Zgierz, ‘soon after October, the party removed […] from his post the secretary of the local party cell, because, fearing that changes would be made in the party, he had become a completely different man and tried to win over the workers. He now works in a garage. He was replaced by Jacek Leon […]. After October, almost all the workers left the party. The only ones to remain were those in higher positions.’22 The often ridiculous excesses of the pragmatic wheelbarrowing deployed in the factory revolutions of 1956 are aptly summed up in the above cartoon. At the Zawiercie steelworks, the crew threw out 16 people (some taken away on wheelbarrows), but quickly asked them to return, albeit offering the position of director to a senior, non-party engineer (who, it should be noted, survived seven post-war directors at this plant).23 In plants where the management had already demonstrated managerial skills, the autumn of 1956 often passed without much turbulence. For example, in the Krakow Electrical Materials Manufacturing Plant) the managers were able to ‘create among the staff an interest in the economic well-being of the plant, combined with personal 22 HIM P-6324, Item 217/58, No improvements in Boruta factory since October. 23 R. Juryś, Tragedia Marii Gajeckiej, NK, 3 Feb 1957.

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benefits for the staff. […] This atmosphere made it possible for the plant to avoid, despite the heated post-October period, any ill-considered actions by certain groups trying to milk the October changes for their own personal ends or or making unrealistic demands for their own benefit.’24 And at the Oświęcim Chemical Works – before October, the management embarked on reforms that made possible a reduction in working hours without any lowering of the wages, and conditions had begun to improve – there was neither a crackdown on ‘Stalinists’ nor any incidents involving wheelbarrows.25

‘Live and Let Live’; Or a Rotten Compromise

We can safely assume that the principle of ‘live and let live’26 was a common way for the management to arrive at a consensus with the workforce. One manifestation of this status quo was the condoning of unjustified absenteeism among workers. Between 1956 and 1957, absenteeism was often ranked with such social scourges as drunkenness, hooliganism, thievery or corruption as responsible for a ‘crisis of social discipline’ in the workplace. In fact, the increase in absenteeism was more pronounced than those of alcohol consumption and hooligan incidents. In the first six months of 1956 the working hours lost were, according to the estimates of the Central Trade Union Council (CRZZ), 11,180,000; in the same period of 1957 it more than doubled – to 26,407,000. In plants subordinate to the Ministry of Heavy Industry the increase was threefold; elsewhere it was even five or sevenfold.27 In 1957, the lawyer Ludwik Krąkowski distinguished three premises of the problem: ethical-cum-political, legal, and economic. In the first half of the 1950s, relations in workplaces were based on fear and coercion, ideologically reinforced. However, on 10  September  1956 the law on work discipline was abolished. A month later the remnants of the previously upheld ideological principles were thrown on the scrapheap and the people who had symbolised 24

ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 1110, Evaluation of the Work of the Party Organisation and the Economic Situation of the Company, pp. 561–573. 25 AAN, KC PZPR, 37/XXXI-213, Minutes of the meeting of the secretaries of the seven leading factories in the country, 25 Jun 1957, p. 9. 26 ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 1110, Information on the course of meetings of party organisations in the Chemical Works, Construction Company and Brzeszcze Mine 21–23 Nov 1957, p. 575. 27 L.  Krąkowski, O kryzysie dyscypliny pracy, “Przegląd Zagadnień Socjalnych”, Oct 1957; AIPN BU 1585/1691, p. 35, Note on the situation at individual workplaces, 19 Aug 1957; OSA, PL-769.4, Radio Warszawa II, Cyfry, które niepokoją, 16 Aug 1957); Co wykazały wyniki badań nad przyczynami absencji w Kielecczyźnie, TL, 16 Sep 1957.

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them left. As a result, in those who had previously submitted to the disciplinary rules out of fear, opportunism was replaced by a sense of freedom and even a disregard for work. And those who had followed the former path out of ideological conviction, were now faced with a baptism of fire, trying to regain the sense of doing something meaningful. However, the toppled pillars of fear and coercion had not been replaced by any reasonable, convincing argument, and workers fell into an ideological nihilism. ‘The old sanctions fell away, but there was no legal basis for the new ones. As a result, the administrators of workplaces became more and more acutely powerless against skivers not turning up for work without any good reason.’28 During the Stalinist years, workers could not see the economic purpose of their daily job, since work had ceased to be a means to prosperity. Workers toiled first and foremost to survive; there was no question of enjoying the fruits of their labour. Even those who were doing well, prudently concealed their income from others, often even from their family members. The year 1956 brought a sea change in the way people thought about money, how they earned it and how they spent it. This began with the acceptance of wider and more sophisticated consumption (see Chapter XI, Everybody Wants to Get a Life). ‘Today, however, working people observe the tempting splendours of the easy life of others,’ wrote Krąkowski, ‘noting the prosperity and indeed luxury enjoyed by people who do no work but who are instead “on the fiddle”. Moreover, the prices of the slightly more luxurious items sold by the state – which were absurdly high in relation to wages – not only were not an incentive but rather a disincentive to work, since ‘in the in the mind of many a working citizen they effectively [undermined] respect for and confidence in their own work. This glaring contrast between what a sound, solid worker could achieve economically in comparison with the enviable prosperity of a contemporary Polish small businessman, [could not] fail to affect the will to work and the sense of work discipline.’29 There was much truth in a joke that did the rounds in Krakow at the time: ‘Two men are chatting. “What do you do for a living?” “Well, I work at the post office, my wife’s a teacher, one daughter works for the county council, the other is a clerk at the tobacco factory, and my son is unemployed. But we all live quite well.’ The first man sympathetically exclaims: “How come your son has no job? How can you let him remain unemployed?” The father replies: “My friend, but he cannot afford to work – someone has to make the money to keep us all, or we’d all soon kick the bucket on those four miserly paychecks!’ 28 Krąkowski, op. cit. 29 Krąkowski, op. cit.

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Since it was not possible to achieve a higher standard of living on an official, ‘state’ salary, many workers returned to the not-so-distant, and still wellremembered, strategies from the time of the German occupation, when employment in a factory provided some protection against deportation to forced labour, but survival was made possible by theft, trade or any additional, more remunerative work elsewhere. From 1956 onwards, the previously discouraged but now growing private enterprise sector – including construction services, accompanied by higher demand, offered the chance to earn wages that were twice or three times higher than those in a state-owned factory or construction site. Not to mention the fact that the worker could inobtrusively pilfer tools or raw materials without much fear of intervention from supervisory staff. Some such supervisors were themselves involved in various nefarious networks, profiting from such appropriation.30In the absence of moral qualms, it made good economic sense to simply not turn up to one’s ‘day job’, in the knowledge of impunity. It was even more profitable to take sick leave, which the company’s doctors granted without much difficulty, generally not bothering to find out why workers usually tended to be ill from Saturday to Monday inclusive. Checks carried out by the insurance company were sporadic and not very effective, due to the fact that a large number of workers lived in the countryside, where access was difficult. Such a Saturday-to-Monday cycle of being unfit for work (e.g. in a Warsaw car factory every Saturday and Monday some 1,000 workers would be missing) gave the employee an opportunity to earn a considerable amount ‘on the side’, while the ‘official’ wage was not lost. ‘For example, a pieceworker earns on average 80 zloty for an 8-hour working day; it is easy to calculate that his or her earnings during this cycle would be: Saturday 60 zloty plus Monday 80 zloty i.e. 140 zloty in total, and sick pay during the same period would also be approx. 140 zloty (or 138.60, to be precise).’ This calculation explained, in a nutshell, the cyclicality of the handy sick leave. It also had its sources in bad organisation of work. ‘If there is a shortage of raw material and there are stoppages, workers suffer, thus workers prefer to evade work, since they have a guarantee of sick pay, at 70% of average earnings.’31 This easy calculation led to a prevailing cynicism, encapsulated in the pragmatic saying: ‘Down you lie or up you stand, either way you’ll earn a grand.’ Estimates of the amount of business losses due to absenteeism were appalling. An analysis of no-reason-given absences and sick pay in 25 key plants in Katowice voivodeship, from steelworks and mines to textile factories, showed

30 Przyczyny absencji – środki zaradcze, ŻW, 6 Sep 1957. 31 Krąkowski, op. cit.

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losses of an astronomical 367 million zloty in the first half of 1957 alone.32 Bafflingly, despite such huge losses, low productivity and constant stoppages, the plan targets, a fundamental feature of the socialist planned economy, were usually achieved. This was evidence both of much higher than declared reserves and of ‘creative’ planning.33 At the same time, however, it also testified to the low effectiveness of the new forms of factory management introduced from autumn 1956, in which an important role was assigned to a new actor: workers’ councils.

‘We Now Have a Workers’ Council’; Or Factory Hopes and Disappointments

Workers’ Councils at the time of the thaw already have an extensive literature,34 allowing us to focus on them as a forum for factory conflict. We should concur with Maciej Tymiński that ‘Workers Councils […] were the first independent organisations to break the domination of the party in the factories and as such constituted a breach in the prevailing system’,35 and also with Jan Skórzyński, who emphasises their key, pioneering role, with the accompanying mythologisation.36 In Poland, such councils were modeled on the Workers’ Councils which had existed in Yugoslavia since 1950 and managed their factories. The workforces of Polish factories liked the idea, with the Warsaw Car Factory (FSO) the first to lead the way as early as mid-1956. They hoped that the structures would become a remedy leading the Polish economy out of decline. However, hopes outweighed both calm analysis and actual knowledge of the Yugoslav system, in which the party retained control over such Workers’ Councils. Nor were the economic effects as promising as the official Belgrade propaganda implied.37 Nevertheless, when, in the autumn of 1956, workers’ representations – autonomous councils or committees – began to spring up 32 TL, 344, 13 Dec 1957. 33 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-221, p. 2, some data from Łódź voivodeship, 16 Jul 1957. 34 A.  Babeau, Les conseils ouvriers en Pologne, Paris 1960; V.  Grevenmeyer-Korb, Die polnische Diskussion um die Arbeiterräte, Berlin 1978; J. Skórzyński, Upadek rad robotniczych, “Zeszyty Historyczne” (Paris) 1985, z. 74, pp. 21–29; K. Kloc, Historia samorządu robotniczego w Polsce 1944–1989, Warszawa 1992; M. Tymiński, PZPR i przedsiębiorstwo, pp. 163– 192; K. Kloc, Historia samorządu robotniczego w Polsce 1944–1989, Warszawa 1992. 35 Tymiński, p. 163. 36 Skórzyński, p. 21. 37 P. Sasanka, “Czy pójdziemy drogą jugosłowiańską?” Fascynacja jugosłowiańskim modelem ustrojowym i narodziny idei rad robotniczych w Polsce w 1956 r., “Przegląd Historyczny”, vol. CXII, 2021, z. 3, pp. 699–734.

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spontaneously in Polish factories, demanding to have a say in running them, Gomułka’s team had no choice. One cannot be certain of the government’s real reasons for consenting to the demands? Did they think that the Workers’ Councils would improve the situation by providing respite, giving the state and party apparatus time to recover from the crisis? Or did they want to share the responsibility and shift onto the workers themselves the onus of introducing unpleasant but necessary changes such as reduction of staff, intensification of supervision and increase of productivity? Much points to the latter as reasons. The opinion of a Belgian businessman, well acquainted with both Yugoslavia and Poland, dating from late 1956, is much to the point: ‘The Poles, i.e. the managerial spheres […] cannot fail to be aware of what Yugoslav workers’ self-government really looks like. This is indicated by the fact that the concept of self-government was ‘helpfully’ suggested to state enterprises which have been completely totally unsuccessful for a long time, if not from the very beginning. […] But the masses of Polish workers know nothing about how workers’ self-government really works in Yugoslavia. These masses regard self-government as a success of the working world. Gomułka and his people have nothing against self-government in Żerań or Lublin factories, but – aware as they are of the real face of Yugoslav self-government – they fear this innovation in plants working normally and without deficit. It is doubtful that Gomulka will succeed in limiting workers’ self-government to the zombie factories only. And if such workers’ selfgovernment becomes universal, while maintaining the existing administrative structure, who will be covering the deficits?’38 These words were in no small measure prophetic. In the years 1956–1957, Workers’ Councils became a de rigueur element of the Polish political, social and economic landscape. The first wave of establishing such Councils passed through Polish factories in the autumn of 1956, and was characterised by the euphoria, spontaneity and chaos of a revolution. Councils were set up spontaneously, often at rallies and mass gatherings, and their leaders became part of the new bodies. As was the case with the settling of accounts with the factory elites, the results varied. In some factories party members were ousted; in others the local party cells themselves took up the initiative, while representatives of the existing management entered the Councils.39 The Councils numbered in their ranks accidental people, elevated by the revolutionary wave, but also 38 HIM, P-621, Item No. 11528/56, Comments on the “Workers’ Councils” in Poland and Yugoslavia, Dec 1956. 39 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3862, Comments of the first activities of the Workers’ Councils, 22 Mar 1957.

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true professionals and strong, charismatic leaders. In the case of the latter, they often succeeded in reaching, if only temporarily, consensus with the other factory factions such as the management, and the party. Where the workforce was passive and the party organisation and the resident company ‘clique’ were in a position of strength – and these often went together; Or Factory Hopes the Councils were not independent; they soon withered away or never even came into being at all. The Act on Workers’ Councils passed on 19  November  1956 did not give them executive powers. They were to perform a supervisory function in relation to the management and act as an advisory body expressing the opinions of the workforce, contributing to the management decision-making in matters within the responsibility of the plants. Many points of the Act were unclear, some contradictory, and there was a lack of precise implementing regulations. Worse still, it was not obvious who should be in charge of issuing them. The Act was intended to prevent anarchy in the creation of Councils, but through its lack of detail and vagueness it only succeeded in adding to it.40 Just as the October factory revolts did not all follow the same pattern, neither did the modus operandi of the individual Councils, especially bearing in mind that by May 1957 there were already some 3,300, and by the end of the year close to 5,600! For some, the starting point was a thorough analysis, of the situation of the factory, a study of actual production capacity and a search for financial reserves with the participation of engineers and economists. Attempts were made to streamline and reorganise work, to launch secondary production during downtime, to combat absenteeism and to rationalise employment.41 They did not shy away from radical measures, such as those undertaken in the port in Gdynia, where the most bumbling brigades were disbanded, or in the brewery in Zwierzyniec, where the Council terminated the work of all employees and engaged them on new conditions, without exceeding the wage fund.42 The Councils in the establishments earmarked for ‘experiments’ – of which there were only 39 in the whole country! – worked better, as they had more freedom and were able to make decisions about a part of the

40 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-234, Stanisław Piotrowski, Chairman of the Car Factory Workers’ Council, Comments on the Act on Workers’ Councils, Sep 1957. 41 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-2332, pp. 11–12, WE KC PZPR, Note on situation and development of Workers’ Councils, 4 Feb 1957. 42 APG OG, KM PZPR w Gdyni, 102, Minutes of the executive meeting of OOP No. 1, 16 Dec 1957; HIM, P-680, Item No. 7045/57, Activity of Workers’ Councils; Przyczyny absencji – środki zaradcze, ŻW, 6 Sep 1957; Rady Robotnicze walczą z absencją, TL, 7 Aug 1957.

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profit, including diverting them to the wage fund for workers.43 However, even these more successful Councils could not withstand the rapidly deteriorating climate in 1957, both inside the plants and in the country as a whole. At the same time, the party apparatus was regaining strength and the needs of the workers were growing; in turn, they were quick to develop adjustment strategies. The potential for conflicts widened, especially as – after an initial period of euphoric consensus – it became increasingly clear that each of the actors concerned, from the ministries to the workers, harboured different perceptions of the role of the Councils. ‘The process of decentralisation,’ the treasurer Alexander Ivánka summed up the first year of experimentation in the industry, ‘is born under conditions of resistance from the central apparatus. This is understandable, as it is a general characteristic of the struggle between the old and the new.’44 It must be added, however, that the central apparatus had much more effective tools at its disposal than the Workers’ Councils did. When, in September 1957, the Krakow Provincial Committee of the party and the daily Gazeta Krakowska sent a questionnaire to workplaces about Workers’ Councils, asking also about any limiting factors, the respondents named negative co-operation with higher authorities, both Central Management and ministries. Both administrative strata flooded the Workers’ Councils with regulations that were barely comprehensible and often contradictory. The aim was not so much to strengthen the Councils in their role of plant managers as to reduce them to a body that would mobilise the workforce while approving decisions from above. Often the decisions were arbitrary and did not take into account the actual possibilities of the given factory. There were cases when the Council agreed with the management to increase production by two per cent, but then a superior authority raised it to – a quite unrealistic – six per cent!45 A central national headquarters was set up to settle disputes between the councils and plant directors. And disputes were numerous, as the directors expected the councils to advise them and not to govern. These objections were not, in fact, unfounded, because, especially at the beginning, the Councils concentrated on personnel policy, e.g. interfering in the composition of the economic administration or technical supervision. Some Councils even decided on 43 Pierwsze wyniki, TL, 20 Jul 1957; Doświadczenia warte uwagi, ŻW, 25 Dec 1957; Po trzech kwartałach eksperymentowania, ŻW, 27 Dec 1957. 44 AAN, Office of the Council of Ministers, (hereinafter: URM), 22/191, p. 15. 45 OSA, PL-764.8, Radio Warszawa II, 26  Dec 1957, Mieczysław Ciep, Trzy kwartały Rad Robotniczych. Cf. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-311, p. 27, Lecture on Workers’ Councils (Apr 1957).

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every dismissal and new appointment, even when hiring ordinary workers.46 On the other hand, plant management often pushed onto the Councils all unpopular decisions, such as dismissals or the setting of work standards, while the information presented by the management to the Workers’ Council was ‘often superficial, without providing an opportunity for a full assessment of specific problems and phenomena. What is worse, no conclusions are drawn as to how the the management wants to move forward in these matters. A number of Workers’ Council meetings are conducted in silence and do not produce results.’47 The range of measures allowing the management of the factories to control the Councils was actually much wider, from management representatives sitting on their presidiums to various forms of economic persuasion. ‘We elected the Workers’ Council,’ complained the workers of Celwiskoza in Jelenia Góra, ‘the best people from among our crew in order to be in constant contact with us and the management, to guard our workers’ rights. […] These very privileges are often violated by the management and the board, while the Branch Council and the Works Committee remain silent because its members are apparently afraid of the director. Only the Workers’ Council stands firm – defending the workers’ cause. But the management have managed to find a weapon even against them, which is temporarily effective. Some members of the Workers’ Council have already given up their activities, and the rest are slowly withdrawing for fear of being expelled from work. There is nothing we can do,’ […] the employees complained bitterly, referring to a ‘handful of masters’48 who ruled over them like slaves. Conflicts also proliferated between the Workers’ Councils and the factory or district party organisations, which believed that the Councils should be subordinate to them, or at least co-operate closely. Since, as already mentioned, the attitude to the party was reluctant or even hostile49 in a considerable number of factories, there were many in which party members were not on the Council at all, especially in their early days. But even later, in some of the factories, they were not eager to participate in the workers’ self-government. For example, in the Gdynia harbour as late as in June 1957, when the party cells had begun to

46 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-302, p. 7, Information on the activity of Workers’ Councils in industrial plants in the Poznań voivodeship, Feb 1957. 47 Ibidem. 48 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Bulletin of letters 26, 11 May 1957, letter of Celwiskoza workers to Gomułka, Apr 1957, p. 72. 49 APL, KP PZPR in Lublin, 881, WE KW, Information on the work of party units with Workers’ Councils in the Lublin Woivodeship, end of 1957, pp. 80–81.

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revive, party members refused, under various pretexts, to stand for election to the Workers’ Council.50 As a result, the participation of party members in the Councils depended on a number of factors. In factories, where, at the beginning of the transformation, ‘troublemaker elements’ took control, or where a large part of the workforce consisted of so-called ‘peasant workers’ – farmers who combined work on their own smallholding with work in non-agricultural occupations, mainly related to industry – the party members on the Council were few and far between. According to the party’s own assessment, the figures from its Central Committee in the beginning of 1957 show that party members usually constituted around a third of the members of the Council, rarely exceeding half.51 The factory party committees complained not only about the harassment inside the factories, but also about the lack of support from higher authorities, because municipal or regional party committees often simply did not know how to treat the self-governing bodies.52 At times, there were attempts to influence the composition of the Council by deploying the old Stalinist methods.53 On the other hand, however, where there were many party members on the Council, that fact would put paid to the frequent causes of conflict.54 It soon became apparent that the Councils were often ‘Workers’ Councils’ in name only and rarely reflected the real proportions of different employee groups; particularly in large enterprises, not all occupational groups were represented. Although the working-class, or manual workers, were theoretically supposed to constitute two thirds of the Council, in reality it was white-collar workers and technical staff who usually predominated. It was not uncommon for workers to make up just 10 per cent or less of the Council. Workers’ Councils with a Chair who hailed from the working class were among the exceptions. ‘This state of affairs is to a large extent the result of a widespread view,’ the party explained in attempts to mitigate the situation, ‘that service on the Workers’ Council is beyond the capabilities of ordinary workers and 50 APG OG, KM PZPR in Gdynia, 79, Information from the party organisation at the Port of Gdynia Authority on pre-election meetings to the Permanent Workers’ Council 13–14 Jun 1957. 51 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-2332, WE KC PZPR, Note on the situation and development of Workers’ Councils, 4 Feb 1957, pp. 9–10. 52 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-302, Information on the activity of Workers’ Councils in industrial plants of the Poznań voivodeship, Feb 1957, pp.  9–10. Cf. APL, KP PZPR in Lublin, 881, WE KW, Information on the co-operation of party units and organisations with Workers’ Councils in the Lublin voivodeship, end of 1957, p. 82. 53 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-2332, Note on the situation and development of Workers’ Councils, 4 Feb 1957, p. 16. 54 ANKr, PZPR KW Kr 1110, p. 561–573.

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that therefore only white-collar workers should be elected to the Councils, as they will make a better job of governing the workplace. This erroneous view is not opposed by the local party cells and organisations, which do not explain the wrongness of such theories.’55 Nevertheless, the less well-educated Council members were simply afraid to take on more complicated economic or technical problems.56 Just as often, passivity resulted not so much from incompetence as from the disillusionment of the workforce, who had hoped that the creation of the councils would bring a rapid improvement in their lives and, above all, a wage rise. It soon turned out that this could not be counted on, especially without ‘rationalising employment’ – or sacking employees – and improving productivity. Unsurprisingly, more and more often the support of the workforce for the Workers’ Council was linked to wage increases. There were some who voiced the opinion that local governance was more harmful than helpful.57 Even attempts to rationalise expenditure that were justified from the economic point of view of were resisted if they hit workers in the pocket. It is also not surprising that Councils avoided radical moves, leaning towards creative accounting rather than taking decisions to introduce new, labour-intensive and technologically complex production methods.58 Under pressure from the workforce, a huge number of the Workers’ Councils began to fulfil the role of trade unions (the so-called Work Councils) by allocating housing and bonuses, dealing with complaints and grievances, carrying out the registration of working mothers and monitoring the earnings of their husbands.59 These and many other minor or practical matters not only consumed time and caused conflict of interest for workers but also entangled those on the Council in complex workplace relationships, so they would find themselves sucked into the cliques that existed in the factory or else create new ones. They were more and more frequently accused of losing their ‘revolutionary character’ and turning into yet another bureaucratic company structure. Indeed, in some factories, the function of the Chair or Secretary of the Workers’ Council became a paid post, 55 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-2332, WE KC PZPR, Note on the situation and development of Workers’ Councils, 4 Feb 1957, pp. 8–9. 56 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-302, Information on the situation and development of Workers’ Councils in the industrial plants in the Poznań voivodeship, Feb 1957. 57 APL, KP PZPR in Lublin, 881, Information on the co-operation of party units and organisations with Workers’ Councils in the Lublin voivodeship, pp. 80–81; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-253, Typed minutes of the Meeting of the First Secretaries of the Polish United Workers’ Party, 28 Sep 1957, p. 7. 58 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-311, KW PZPR in Warsaw, Lecture on Workers’ Councils, (Apr 1957), p. 21. 59 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-2332, p. 11.

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‘Our meetings are now open for all workers to attend.’ Roman Kibalenko, “Głos Pracy”, 5 April 1957.

and its holders would be excused from ordinary work duties.60 Meetings were often kept secret and decisions taken behind closed doors, with the workforce kept in the dark (cf. below the drawing by Roman Kibalenko in Głos Pracy, 5 April 1957, where the ironic caption reads: ‘Our meetings are now open for all workers to attend.’). Even at the Car Factory (FSO) in Warsaw, widely held up as a model plant, a new system of wages and industry standards was developed without consultation with the workforce. ‘The result was that […] the Workers’ Council began to be referred to as a “management outpost”. […] Strangely, what often happens now is this: when displeased with a decision taken by the Workers’ Council, the factory workforces turn to their party organisation for help, which in turn intervenes with the Council, often with successful results. A paradoxical situation 60 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3862, Comments on the initial activity of Workers’ Councils, 22 Mar 1957.

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has thus arisen in which the party stands up to the Council on behalf of the workers, while the management always supports the decision of the Workers’ Council. Under these circumstances, the authority of the Council among the workers is non-existent.’61 From about mid-1957, Workers’ Councils found themselves in permanent conflict with all the structures of the plant, which led to their isolation and marginalisation. Their authority was rapidly declining, with workers losing trust in their erstwhile leaders, who were being replaced by more docile ones.62 Significantly, it as in the summer of 1957, when the Councils had lost any executive power they still had and the workers had lost hope that their existence would improve, that a wave of strikes brought about increases in the cost of living swept through the country, the most famous, though by no means isolated, being the August protest of the Łódź tramway workers.63 ‘In the case of each of these strikes, the workers had had enough of the workers’ organisation set up to defend their rights and interests,’ reported an eye witness of the mood of the workplaces, ‘They felt that – despite the democratic slogans, they were not the hosts of these factories, but that they continued to be exploited and wronged.’64 Ultimately, Workers’ Councils lost any point with the creation in 1958 of the Conference of Workers’ Self-Government, a common platform in the workplace for the party, trade unions and what passed for workers’ representation. This inadequate Conference of Workers’ Self-Government was abolished in 1981, swept aside by another revolution – brought about by the trade union Solidarity. The reasons for its victory should paradoxically also be traced back to the defeat of workers’ representation a quarter of a century earlier. Indeed, Workers’ Councils were an experience from which the right conclusions had finally been drawn.65

61 HIM, P-000, Item No. 1379/58, Problem of Workers’ Councils and other problems at Żerań. 62 Tymiński, p. 182. 63 K.  Kozłowski, Strajki robotnicze na Pomorzu Zachodnim 1956–1970, in: Robotnicy przemysłowi w realiach PRL, eds. G. Miernik, S. Piątkowski, Radom–Starachowice 2005; J.  H.  Wiśniewski, Stłumienie tramwajarskiej rewolty w 1957 roku: zapomniany strajk, in: “Kronika Miasta Łodzi”, 2003, z. 2, pp.  87–91; R.  Kozłowski, Strajk w bydgoskich Zakładach Naprawczych Taboru Kolejowego (marzec 1957 r.), in: “Kronika Bydgoska”, vol. 21, 1999, pp. 42–53; K. Lesiakowski, Strajki robotników łódzkich w Październiku ’56 i okresie “popaździernikowym”, in: Łódź w latach 1956–1957, eds. L. Próchniak, J. Wróbel, Łódź 2006. 64 HIM, P-680, Item No. 566/58, Recurrent strikes in Silesia, Poznań and Łódź, Jan 1958. 65 Tymiński, PZPR i przedsiębiorstwo …, p. 192.

Chapter 5

‘Those Surplus to Requirements Must Leave’; Or the Spectre of Unemployment 1956–1957

‘It’s a Special Kind of Unemployment’

‘There is a shortage of jobs everywhere and unemployment and misery are increasing daily in every town and city,’ wrote an anonymous sender from Warsaw to Gomułka in early 1957. ‘The unemployed gather in clusters and keep pondering what will happen in a few more days or weeks. When some people were still commuting to Warsaw, the poverty was still somehow in check. Since October [1956], 50% of jobs have been cut and more reductions are constantly being made. As a result, there is terrible poverty and hunger, because job centres have no employment to offer anywhere. In no town of the Warsaw voivodeship can anyone earn a penny, and all one can hear is, ‘We trusted Gomułka, who was supposed to improve the lot of the worker. Everyone kept repeating that when Gomułka came, there would be sausage and bread rolls, and now people say: “When Gomułka did come, with him there came unemployment, and it is still growing. Instead of the promised bread rolls, all we got was extreme poverty.”’1 The missive is vividly reminiscent of images from the Great Depression of the early 1930s, which was still fresh in the minds some twenty years later. Although there were indeed some similarities, from profound human tragedies to queues in front of job centres and revolts within factories, the unemployment of the 1950s, which was an experience most acutely analysed and commented on in 1956–1957, was not a mirror image of that of a quarter of a century earlier. Although the comment cited in the title and made in February 1957 referred to women’s jobs, it could just as easily have been applied to a much wider spectrum of problems, from economic and political conditions through the most affected social groups to the geographical distribution of unemployment. The very fact of the existence of unemployment in a socialist country was deemed proof enough of the failure of the economic policy so far pursued. ‘Until recently, it was a certainty – or rather a dogma – in our political economy that unemployment was something that only happened in capitalism,’ wrote * Cited from the title of an article by P. Stefański, in: “Tygodnik Demokratyczny”, 21 May 1956. 1 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-21, Letters Bulletin No. 8, 19 Feb 1957.

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Mieczysław Kabaj, to this day one of the greatest pundits on the problem of unemployment at the beginning of 1957. ‘But history played yet another trick on economists. The phenomenon of unemployment emerged in Poland, which was building socialism. But not just in Poland. It also made an appearance in Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. Many well-known economists continue to shy away from this concept. Rather than refer to unemployment, they prefer to speak of “local labour surpluses”. This phrase lays no blame at anyone’s door, it evokes no threatening connotations, but at the same time it fantastically distorts the truth about our reality. Unemployment, like any other economic category, arises under certain specific conditions and has a specific content. What is the content of this concept in our country?’2 It is not straightforward to provide a definition of the specific nature of Polish unemployment. There was a plethora of contributing factors, as is plainly evident from the note of complaint, dated September 1957, by the Municipal Employment Office in Sopot, a popular sea spa, sandwiched between the two industrial and port cities of Gdańsk and Gdynia. The institution felt overburdened having to deal with too many diverse issues: employing graduates of higher, secondary and vocational schools after the abolition of compulsory work orders; finding jobs for all those who had recently left prison following the amnesty, persons repatriated from the USSR, various ranks including officers released from the army; the requirement to galvanise cities and towns; training and retraining persons dismissed from the administration, as well as juveniles and women; organising the cottage industry work sector; allocating allowances to sole family breadwinners; recruitment to the mining industry (where there was always a shortage of workers) and, finally, being in charge of private enterprise and crafts.3 The above sweeping overview is not representative of the whole country and does not reflect all aspects of Polish unemployment in the second half of the 1950s. Sopot, a city itself devoid of major factories, did not have a major problem with factory workers. It was not some forlorn town in the middle of nowhere in Małopolska or Mazovia, where the lack of jobs really did pose a problem. Outside the competence of city officials were also most of the issues related to the employment of former employees of the Ministry of Public Security (later: Security Office), Ministry of the Interior and the Polish United Workers’ Party. In one respect, Sopot’s officials were no different from those in cities across the country, in that the case-load that got 2 M.  Kabaj, Problem bezrobocia, “Życie Gospodarcze” (hereinafter: ŻG), 17  Feb 1957. Cf. K. Mlonek, Bezrobocie w Polsce w XX wieku w świetle badań, Warszawa 1999. 3 APG OG, MRN Sopot, 551, Breakdown of the activities of the Independent Employment Office, 27 Sep 1957.

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as far as their desks represented only a fraction of the actual numbers of citizens looking for work. Official statistics revealed only a fraction of the reality. Unemployment was a serious social ailment, yet until the mid-1950s, only its symptoms were being treated, at the expense of diagnosis and prevention. A scarcity of jobs proved a major problem immediately after the war. In 1947, there were 81,000 people registered as looking for work, with 21,000 vacancies available; in 1948, the situation worsened (125,000 and 25,000 respectively). In 1949 the ratio of job-seekers to posts available began to even out (71,000 to 75,000), so that with the intensive industrialisation of the Six-Year Plan, the trend was finally reversed – and by 1952 there were 2,000 registered job-seekers, with 165,000 jobs offered.4 As early as the following year, however, the scales began to tip the other way, and in 1955 almost 26,000 people were seeking work (of these, 17,700 were women), while 70,300 jobs were waiting for applicants (57,700 of which were only suitable for men).5 From mid-1955 onwards, lack of work ceased to be a taboo subject, meriting repeated press coverage. In the spring of 1956, the very term ‘unemployment’ was brought back from the vocabulary of the pre-socialist past, with many newspaper headlines reminiscent of those of the inter-war period.6 Despite the extent to which the problem featured in public discourse, the statistics did not look too bad at all. In 1956, 38,000 people were said to be looking for work, with 48,000 vacancies; in 1957 the situation improved further – with 32,000 job-seekers and 56,000 potential places, and over the course of the year, employment in the state economy alone increased by 127,000 people.7 The reality looked less rosy, however. On the basis of studies carried out in several towns in the Katowice and Opole provinces, it was estimated that the average ratio of the real number of unemployed to registered unemployed was 5:1 for women and 3:1 for men. Thus, at the end of November 1956, there could have been some 180,000 unemployed people in Poland (of whom almost 144,000 would have been women).8 And even this figure is probably an underestimate. One reason that the official statistics did not reflect reality was that job seekers 4 D.  Jarosz, Polacy a stalinizm 1948–1956, Warszawa 2000, p.  65; Cf. A.  Rajkiewicz, Problemy zatrudnienia, Warszawa 1959. 5 AAN, MPiOS 2/3, Memo on economic emigration, 16 Dec 1957. On unemployment immediately after the war, see M. Zaremba, Entangled in Fear. Everyday Terror in Poland, 1944–1947, trans. by Maya Latynski, Bloomington 2022, pp. 110–116; M. Zgłobica, Czy naprawdę w Polsce Ludowej nie istniało bezrobocie?, “Przegląd Historyczny” CVII, 2016, z. 4, pp. 619–656. 6 E.g.: W.  Strzałkowska, Gdy młodzież szlifuje bruki, GP, 5  Apr 1956; eadem, Czy rzeczywiście bezrobocie, GP, 7 Apr 1956; B. Wiśniewska, Bezrobotni, ŻG, 23, 26 Nov 1956. 7 AAN, MPiOS, 58, p. 2, Report on the activities of the ministry for the year 1957. 8 M. Kabaj, Problem bezrobocia, op. cit.; AAN, KS, 146, p. 298, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 14 May 1957.

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were not reporting to the job centres, which had a poor reputation9 – there was a dearth of decent job offers, especially for women, and such as there were tended to be temporary, causing frustration. For example, in the autumn of 1956, the work offered to Krakow’s unemployed consisted of plucking feathers for pay of 25 to 30 zloty a day, which, it was commented, might have been suitable for old people in sheltered accommodation, but not for young people, especially professionals.10 Clearly, not all vacancies were being registered either; the intelligentsia in particular were mainly looking for jobs on their own initiative, relying on social networks. The poorly educated, however, were mostly resigned to relying on the job centres, however ineffective. ‘In the job agency, there are so many people;’ complained an eighteen-year-old girl from Szczecin at the beginning of 1957, ‘to get a better place in the queue you have to get up at 4 am. I have to take three trams. But here’s the question: where do I get the three zloty every day for the tram?’11 Her question put another problem in a nutshell: there were no statutory benefits for the unemployed. It is true that from 1956 onwards, allowances were paid to some unemployed people, but only those in difficult circumstances or those who were the sole breadwinner. The allowances were difficult to obtain and the available funding small – 9 million in 1956 and 18 million in 1957. Compared to the 30 million zloty which was paid out in severance packages to 5,900 people made redundant from the central administration in the first half of 1957, these amounts were pitifully inadequate.12 In fact, the Ministry of Labour and Social Welfare itself admitted that –apart from the so-called intervention fund established in August 1956, and intended above all to alleviate the situation in villages and small towns, but also criticised as insufficient to meet the need – no co-ordinated policy to fight unemployment was being pursued at a central level. The powers of the Ministry and the Management Board of Labour Reserves were insufficient; there was no legislation to enable the provision of employment offices that would meet the realistic needs of the population; instead there was no shortage of institutions with unregulated powers getting in the way.13 The studies referred to above were conducted in urbanised and industrialised regions. One such was Upper Silesia, which actually suffered from a 9 10 11 12

APG OG, MRN in Gdynia, 1874, Information on the unemployment situation, 2 Apr 1957. Wł. Figiel, Prasowaczka do pralni potrzebna, GP, 28 Nov 1956. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-21, p. 87, Letters Bulletin No. 8, 19 Feb 1957. AAN, KS, 146, p. 22, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 15 Mar 1957; Wyniki zwolnień z administracji, TL, 1 Aug 1957. 13 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-302, Memo on Employment Situation in Poznań voivodeship, before 7 Aug 1957, p. 19. Report on the activities of the ministry for the year, p. 28.

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shortage of labour, in contrast to many regions of central or eastern Poland, and elsewhere on the outer peripheries of the country, where unemployment was structural. Whereas before the war, unemployment had affected primarily men and skilled workers, now it was primarily women and workers with poor qualifications. The persisting elements of pre-war unemployment were a lack of work for the lower middle class and for young people just entering the labour market, as illustrated by research conducted in the autumn of 1956 by the Institute of Social Economy, covering 1,044 people from Zamość, Tomaszów Mazowiecki, Świdwin, Lidzbark Warmiński and Koło. As many as 37.4% were looking for a job for the first time. More than half of the unemployed were between 26 and 55 years old; 23% were aged 19 to 25. (In Przemyśl, however, in another survey, the latter age group represented 38% in January, and 60% in November 1957). There was a small percentage of young people under 16 (1%) and of the over 55 – just 5.5%. The majority of unemployed women were under 18 and between 26 and 55 years old. More than half (53%) had primary education, 20% were graduates of non-vocational secondary schools, 17% of vocational secondary schools, 3.7% had higher education, and 2.6% of the unemployed had no education at all.14 The comparatively low qualifications of the job-seekers were largely due to the fact that a high percentage (nearly 74%) of the unemployed in these towns were women. This was in fact a phenomenon that reverberated through the whole country; as of January 1, 1957, there were 26,361 women among the 38,247 registered job-seekers. Statistically, only one in three could count on finding a job – among the 48,112 job offers, only 8,263 were perceived as intended for women – either because they were for the traditionally ‘female’ jobs such as teachers, nursery workers or nurses, or because they required less technical knowledge or sheer brawn, such as the less physical demanding factory jobs.15 A huge proportion of the female job-seekers, indeed more than 80%, had no qualifications, especially those needed in modern industry.16 Not surprisingly, they were first in line for dismissal and last in line for recruitment. Difficulties in the employment of women had emerged as early as 1953, with the reduction in investment, and over the following years they had worsened to such an extent that it was not easy to find work even in large cities. The problem was particularly acute in Łódź voivodeship (22 women registered for each vacancy), Kielce 14 Pierwsze wyniki badań nad kwestią bezrobocia w Polsce, TL, 17 Dec 1957; Pierwsze studia o bezrobociu, ŻW, 17 Dec 1957. 15 AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, Number of registered job-seekers as of 1 Jan 1957, 23 Jan 1957. 16 AAN, MPiOS, 42, Memo on the employment of women, p. 40; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI302, Memo on employment situation in Poznań voivodeship before Aug 1957, p. 28.

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voivodeship (16 registered women per each vacancy) and Bydgoszcz voivodeship (11 registered women per vacancy). At the beginning of November 1956, there were 460 registered women per vacancy in Włocławek and as many as 920 in Radom. In many towns, such as Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski, Wadowice, Sieradz, Łęczyca, Suwałki, Nowy Sącz, Wołomin, Tomaszów Mazowiecki, Radomsko, Skarżysko, Kalisz, Płock or Piotrków Trybunalski, at the turn of 1956–1957, there were times that job centres had nothing at all for women. Problems also arose in the western and northern regions – which before 1945 were part of Germany and had a German population; until then these had tended to experience labour shortages. Even in large, industrialised cities, such as Gdańsk or Wrocław, there were 7 to 8 applicants for every job.17 Even when a job did turn up, it was usually not the kind of job that young and healthy unmarried women were willing to take. The conditions were often so poor and not very woman-friendly, that single mothers, who had been categorised as ‘sole breadwinners’ and who had priority in the job queues, were unable to take them.18 The fact was that women were now seeking employment in large numbers – even those who were married and who, until then, had stayed at home and for the most part lacked professional qualifications. This phenomenon was not so much a spectacular success for the propaganda of equality, but rather a pragmatic corollary of the fact that the low wages of men were often insufficient to support even the most modest family existence. The situation was all the more difficult, because previously finding a job had not been a major problem, even for the very young and unqualified.19 One reason was that from the turn of the 1940s and 1950s, employment policy had been excessively generous, and far more people were deliberately being hired than were needed. This approach was both ideological and entirely pragmatic, as it was believed that an energetically developed industrial sector would absorb everyone, and such over-employment, which was assumed to be temporary, was in any case better, from an economic, political and ethical point of view, than unemployment. This seemed all the more realistic in view of the fact that industrialisation was based not so much on technical progress and new technologies as on the extensive use of the huge reserves of low-skilled or indeed unskilled labour supplied by the Polish hinterland. Overall, in the socalled Six-Year Plan (1950–1955), employment outside agriculture increased by 17

Ibidem, p. 39, 46; Ibidem, 2/1, Minutes of the national meeting on employment issues, 5–6 Feb 1957. 18 APG OG, MRN in Gdynia, 1874, Information about employment situation in Gdynia, 26 Nov 1957. 19 AAN, KS, 146, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 14 May 1957, p. 291.

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around 2.2 million – by around one million in industry (to 2.7 million), and in construction from 300,000 to 700,000. The vast majority of these were young people, aged 16 to 20, most often poorly educated. The overemployment, estimated on average at 20 or 30%, led to the creation of ‘unemployment of the employed’ (with too many people allocated to the same task or crew members with little to do) and a dilution of the labour force. As a result, in many factories, quite a few people were pretending to work rather than actually working, and ‘the essential skill [was] to skilfully avoid the eyes of the foreman, so he would not notice the crew’s idleness.’20 Ethical issues aside, overemployment was a powerful disincentive to the introduction of any improvements – whether organisational or technological – that might result in a reduction of the number of workers needed. Even where new technologies had been introduced and the technical level achieved was up to world standards, the excess of workers was a burden on the factory, and hindered its efficiency. Thus, in factories there was widespread antipathy to any rationalisation of the modus operandi, introduction of organisational changes or new technical solutions that might result in a reduction of the size of the workforce. In the years 1956–1957, this factor contributed to the failure of the Workers’ Councils, to which the managements often delegated difficult personnel decisions but which, fearing the reaction of the workforce, would deliberately shirk such decisions, as mentioned earlier. The low wages earned by men, often insufficient for even the most modest family existence, were also, to a much greater extent than the propaganda of equal rights, the reason why women, usually those who had previously stayed at home and to a large extent lacked professional qualifications, took up work. The geography of Polish unemployment differed from that of before the war, as it moved from big cities to small towns. The disparate development was further exacerbated by poor investment policy: new plants were sited not in overpopulated regions, where jobs were sought, but in less densely populated locations, where the new workplaces created remained unfilled, waiting to be taken. As a result, even in the most crisis-ridden first half of 1957, there was work to be had. In some regions, such as Upper Silesia, plants were scouting for workers, especially after compulsory labour by prisoners was no longer on tap. There was a shortage of approximately 20,000 unskilled workers, and of 20

A. Jelenkiewicz, Skąd się bierze bezrobocie w Polsce, “Dziennik Polski. Dziennik Żołnierza”, 21 Feb 1957. Cf. Czy błędne koło?, GP, 25 Jan 1958. As mentioned at the beginning of 1957, for example, the Gdańsk Shipyard could have laid off 3,500 workers immediately with no detriment to production. AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, National conference on employment, 5–6 Feb 1957.

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at least 7,000 highly skilled.21 In Gdynia, where in mid-1957 there were almost 1,000 vacancies for blue-collar workers, only two job-seekers were registered with the agency.22 As it happens, the port Tri-city (Gdańsk, Gdynia and Sopot) was the only place in Poland where one could encounter unemployed who owned cars – a luxury even amongst those in work at the time. They had been sailors –the best paid manual occupation – and had brought a car from abroad when they were still working on the ships. But when some took up the option to be laid off as land-based surplus labour, for meagre remuneration, they no longer had the means to maintain the cars, often selling them. Thus ‘unemployed sailors became ordinary unemployed, but they no longer had cars.’23 In Krakow, workers could afford to pick and choose amongst the offers, looking for the most profitable ones; by the end of 1957, there were only 193 applicants out of 2,635 vacancies.24 Unlike in the inter-war period, the economic pressure was not so strong that the unemployed felt they had to accept just any job on offer. Due to low wages, there were no people willing to work in trade, communications, public utilities or health care, let alone on State Agricultural Farms (PGR), the onerous work in the latter being refused even by those who had been repatriated from the USSR, and who had their backs to the wall. Having to relocate for a job was not popular with anybody, and it was only the young and single people, and those poorly educated, who were prepared to uproot themselves for cross-country migration. Professionals, especially if they had already started a family, only exceptionally took the risk of moving, which involved looking for accommodation and establishing new social networks.25 Overstaffing affected not only the working class but also white-collar workers, both in industry and in the broader state administration, in which bureaucracy was a ‘malignant growth’.26 However, the problem was not only the number of staff surplus to requirement, but also, as in the case of manual workers, their inadequate qualifications. This was due both to the eradication of the intelligentsia during the war (at the beginning of 1957, statistically, there were 6.8 people with higher education per 1,000 inhabitants in Poland, while in the USSR there were almost 11), and to a singular personnel policy which 21 Śląsk odczuwa brak robotników, TL 139, 22 May 1957. 22 APG OG, MRN in Gdynia, 1874, Report on the situation on the labour market, July 1957, pp. 34–36. 23 S. Bratkowski, Skok przez pięć miast: bezrobocie, “Świat”, 11 May 1958. 24 AAN, KRP, 69/47, Summary of the activities of the City Council in Krakow, p. 69. 25 HIM, P-613, Item No 9325/56, Unemployment and wages; AAN, MPiOS, 58, MPiOS report for 1957, p. 2. 26 OSA, PL-761.5, Radio Warszawa II 26 Jan 1957, report by Danuta Barzach.

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favoured not so much education as servility. This approach favoured the social advancement of the alumni of Stalin’s educational system, which – just like Polish industry – produced prolifically, but its output was of poor quality and did not reflect demand. As a result, at the beginning of 1957, out of 86,000 managerial positions in industry (directors and their deputies, chief mechanics, etc.) 14,960 post holders had higher education, 32,700 had been through secondary education (though only some of them had completed it), while the remaining 36,410 lacked not only a high school diploma, but sometimes any education at all.27 In every conceivable institution, from the post office to ministries, there was no shortage of civil servants promoted beyond their level of competence thanks to their correct social origin or their membership of the party. The case of a secondary school leaver, employed at the beginning of the 1950s in one of the ministries, was not so much the exception as the rule: ‘The personnel department at the ministry was satisfied, since she was yet another employee with a working-class background. This raised their status, testifying to their acuity in picking staff. The fact that four years earlier Ela, a 17-year-old girl, had been making spelling mistakes while typing and was slow at dictation was of no importance and had had no impact on the work of the Ministry. If the ministry wasn’t worrying about it, all the more so it wouldn’t worry Ela herself …’28 While general secondary schools produced semi-intelligentsia, vocational schools produced semi-skilled workers, often in specialisms for which there was no real demand.29 Thus, there were too many locksmiths, lathe-operators or tractor mechanics, while there was a chronic shortage of bricklayers, roofers, stove builders, carpenters, confectioners and dressmakers. This was an aftermath of Stalin’s policy on crafts, which radically limited the natural reproduction of professionals.30 As a result, vocational schools in the years 1956–1957 became in effect factories for churning out the unemployed. For example, in the Poznań voivodeship, in 1957, there were 2,858 young graduates of such schools, of whom no more than 592 (22.8%) would find employment. Especially as many factories, even those that did have vacancies, were not keen on taking on vocational school leavers, since they tended to have inadequate knowledge, but required special treatment (a shorter working day, the need to provide accommodation, etc. due to the fact that they usually hailed from 27 AAN, KS, 146, p. 303, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 14 May 1957. 28 W. Strzałkowska, Rozbitki, GP, 94, 20–22 Apr 1957. 29 S. Barański, Szkolnictwo zawodowe w okresie stalinowskim: “produkcja kadr” czy instytucja awansu społecznego?, “Przegląd Historyczny”, CII, 2011, z. 2, pp. 221–239. 30 W. Strzałkowska, Gdy młodzież szlifuje bruki, GP, 5 Apr 1956.

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the countryside).31 In Kraków, the Solvay chemical factory had been training women since the early 1950s, but they were never actually employed because of the hazardous conditions.32 Similarly, in higher education, there came to light suddenly a huge overproduction of little-needed art historians, visual artists, university geologists, hydraulic engineering specialists or industrial economists.33 This mismatch between educational supply and social demand appeared all the more bewildering in a socialist system, based on long-term centralised planning. One reason was that Stalinist ideology saw education as a means of social advancement, with less emphasis on the quality of education. And of course, vocational training – done properly, with the appropriate financial and material resources – would have been too expensive. In both vocational and academic training, in underdeveloped post-war Poland the emphasis was on churning out maximum supplies of a – however underqualified – labour force, with quantity rather than quality the hallmark of the era.

‘For Them, it’s Just Like Paradise’34

This is how a resentful female worker from Nowa Huta, in her letter addressed to Gomułka described the conditions in her plant. Although this assessment applied exclusively to the preferential treatment of married women from the countryside employed there (of which the writer was not one), it bears witness to a range of social conflicts caused or reinforced in 1956–1957 by fears of losing one’s job or difficulties in finding one. Some of these wrangles can be described as traditional antagonisms, baked into the social mix since the second half of the 19th century. Other, new specific, and indeed endemic, animosities appeared with the thaw. Older workers are at all times wary of the younger ones, more finely tuned into the contemporaneous diktat and better prepared for the challenges of modernisation – while uncompromising and ruthless. In 1956–1957, however, a different facet of this conflict was revealed. The established workers now also feared the unqualified cadres – promoted to reward their working or 31 APP, Presidium WRN, 977/II, Employment of graduates of basic vocational schools, pp.156–166. 32 AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, Minutes of the national meeting on employment issues, 5–6 Feb 1957. 33 AAN, KS, 146, Committee on Labour and Social Affairs Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 14 May 1957, p. 297v. 34 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-21, Letters Bulletin No. 8, 19 Feb 1957, Józefa Hyla from Nowa Huta to Gomułka, pp. 89–90.

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agricultural class social origin or party membership. They were suddenly out of their depth, feeling that their political stability had been removed, as they were being displaced by the generation of young university graduates.35 Their positions threatened, they dug in, looked for allies, and perfected adaptation strategies, usually described by observers and competitors as forming a ‘clique’. ‘They are all good mates,’ wrote an anonymous contributor, using the pseudonym ‘Provincial Observer’, to the state radio station in the autumn of 1957. ‘Each knows what the others have been up to, so it’s to everyone’s advantage not to throw any dirt at the others. So the cliques will remain, not only intact, but even emboldened, because those who cannot and will not be able to defend themselves will leave. For the most part, this will be the working intelligentsia […] as a possible competitor for more lucrative posts […], because these posts, both before October and now, are the domain of all kinds of people, and in many cases semi-illiterates who had benefited from social origin based preferential treatment.’36 And indeed there were cases of the dismissal of professionals, often with pre-war experience and on the verge of retirement, leaving behind firmly ensconced young Turks.37 They were being ‘let go’ in a comparatively gentle manner, since the authorities wanted to maintain a relative consensus in the plants; as Deputy Labour Minister Tadeusz Kochanowicz noted at the beginning of August 1957, staff turnover ‘cannot be carried out by revolution’.38 Fig. 14 The wave of discussion about the position of women, brought on by the thaw, made it possible, probably uniquely so in communist Poland, to highlight the issue of sexual harassment at work, a phenomenon, widespread – judging by the complaints of female workers. Remarkably, this caricature appeared in the journal of the communist trade unions. ‘Take it easy Miss Kitty. After all, if I give you a squeeze, you won’t get squeezed out in the downsizing.’ Roman Kibalenko, “Głos Pracy”, 297, 1956. 35 36 37 38

AAN, KS, 146, Committee on Labour and Social Affairs, 14 May 1957, p. 296v. ODiZP TVP, 1050/21, Letters Bulletin No. 77 of 17 Dec 1957. ODiZP TVP, 1050/20, Letters Bulletin No. 16 of 12 Mar 1957. AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, National briefing of SOZ managers in MPiOS, 2 Aug 1957.

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A new line of entrenchment set out by the thaw was that created between rank-and-file members of the working class and the previously laid-off whitecollar workers who had gone into production as well as the military, full-time party apparatchiks, especially functionaries of the security structures. The latter three groups were sometimes treated with hostility, based on their previous work rather than through being perceived as competition. The attitudes to the intelligentsia castaways were however of a different nature. It is difficult to say to what extent workers remembered the situation during the war, when a large part of the intelligentsia was forced to perform manual labour, without always achieving successful assimilation into the new environment. ‘I see that there are a lot of intelligentsia workers performing physical labour these days,’ wrote a Warsaw worker to the clandestine Information Bulletin in mid-1941. ‘They aren’t all alike. There are those with whom one can get on with as comrades, with honesty, friendship and mutual help. But there are also those who don’t know how to behave well and constantly get hold of the wrong end of the stick, irritating other workers – and in this way harm their own interests. What is really irksome is how former white-collar workers, who have today become part of the manual labour force, try to elevate themselves above the simple working man and exploit their connections as much as they can in order to obtain various favours.’39 A similar mechanism was set in motion with the placement of downsized officials in factories. The case of a group of some 30 former ministry employees redeployed to manual work was no exception. At first, the former officials were well received in the factory, but the reception soon soured; the group became known as the ‘intelligentsia riffraff’ who ‘knew too much, demanded too much and wanted to change too much. Perhaps the changes they wanted to introduce could even have been for the better. But the group did not want to accept, above all, the fact that the factory was managed by people with a lower standard of general education and of a lower intellectual level than theirs and a social savoir-faire inferior to theirs’.40 The old-timers found it difficult to accept that the johnny-come-latelys were exploiting their previously established social networks. The newbies took at their word former ministerial superiors when told to let them know ‘if any problems should arise’ and were thus taking the problems of the shop floor, factory canteen or cloakroom directly to the ministerial offices. It is easy to imagine the barrier that must have been created by the fact that a member of the working brigades had direct contact to the Powers That Be. To add insult to injury, the state treasury for a period of 39 40

“Biuletyn Informacyjny”, 3 Jun 1941. W. Strzałkowska, Rozbitki, GP, 94, 20–22 Apr 1957.

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time was compensating the redeployed ministerial workers for the difference between their former salaries and their present wages.41 Whereas the above situation, characteristic mainly of large cities – especially Warsaw – was transitory, even more widespread was the traditionally hostile attitude to the working wives of well-paid men, which raised its head with each major slump in the labour market. As has already been mentioned, a not inconsiderable number of women were forced to work by the fact of being the sole breadwinner, since single mothers, rarely seen before the war, now abounded – both as collateral damage of the war itself and of the post-war social turmoil. Some married women had to seek work due to the meagre salaries of their partners. However, when there were no women’s jobs to go round, the very fact that someone’s husband had employment – especially when, in the opinion of other women in the plant, he could perfectly well support the family on his own – caused the wife’s earnings to be perceived as an unfair contribution to better-than-average, thus excessive, consumption, thereby giving rise to conflict. ‘People openly comment that in some of the ‘better’ factories (such as chocolate or cigarette factories) every worker you can name is the wife of an activist or of a well-known party member. People find this very, very upsetting  …’42 Despite the fact that it was indeed a problem that was undermining workplaces, no systemic solutions were attempted, and the conclusion was arrived at was that these were matters that ‘should be dealt with individually’.43 Another, much broader phenomenon was similarly swept under the carpet, namely the antagonism between city dwellers, intellectuals and workers, and migrants from rural areas, both men and women.44 The townies levelled numerous accusations against the country bumpkins, whom they considered unqualified simpletons. A sore point was the fact that they often had their own smallholding, which provided subsistence living. It was thought that a smallholder with a job in a city was bound to neglect either one or other of their commitments, as well as having the unfair advantage of additional income, which gave them sway in bribing those in a position to hire new employees, to the disadvantage of the local applicants, albeit that they were more experienced and better qualified. 41 Ibidem. 42 W. Figiel, Prasowaczka do pralni potrzebna, GP, 28 Nov 1956. 43 AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, Minutes of the national meeting on employment issues, Minutes of the national meeting on employment issues, 5–6 Feb 1957. 44 L. Rudnicki, H. Woźniczka, Chłopi-robotnicy, Katowice 1989; D. Jarosz, “Chłopskość” jako element stygmatyzacji w przestrzeni miejskiej w Polsce po 1945 r., in: Dzieje partii stronnictw chłopskich w Europie, vol. 2: W podzielonej Europie, Pułtusk-Warszawa 2007, pp. 393–408.

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Józefa Hyla from Nowa Huta, she who wrote the above-mentioned letter to Gomułka, fulminated that, ‘men with a family to support should be given a job’ rather than ‘married and unmarried peasant women. How will I feed my children when I’m fired from work? I have already been through a famine and I am very much in fear of it.’45 In general peasants were perceived as taking jobs away from the permanent residents of cities. ‘I happened to find myself in the office at my workplace,’ wrote an inhabitant of Stara Bystrzyca in Lower Silesia at the beginning of 1957 in a letter to Polish Radio, when an ‘unemployed man came in – he had a wife and three children to support, he explained, asking for work. He said he had no other options, no food at home. He was not taken on, because there was no full-time position. The very next day, they took on three [new] workers, but only as long as they were from the countryside, because they would be young and healthy. But they have their own land, food to eat, and they only work to buy themselves a motorbike and clothes for their family. In addition, the manager of the plant benefited, because he was given two kilos of butter and bacon. The unemployed man had not been taken on because he had nothing to give him.’46 Corruption and nepotism were factors constantly highlighted in complaints against newcomers from the rural periphery.47 This narrative recurred in the press and radio coverage, pointing out various advantages that would accrue if recent rural migrants were to return to the countryside. A radio commentator opined that when it came to making surplus labour redundant, the priority should be to sack those ‘who don’t have to start their lives from scratch in the first place […] but who can return to their village, to their home, to their family, to their land.’48 This would solve both the problem of urban unemployment and that of abandoned farms and land lying fallow. It would also restore the healthy social relations that had been disrupted by the social advancement artificially accelerated under Stalinism. There was awareness that such a course of action would give rise to accusations of squandering some of the cumulative achievements of the social revolution, and would also be an impediment to modernising development. Yet it was argued that ‘such a rationale is only illusory. The point is how to understand the concept of social advancement. Undoubtedly, the past era, a period of the omnipotence of bureaucratic administration, shaped a false understanding of advancement, belittling the importance of productive work. […] And in these circumstances, a young man who broke free and got away from the plough and secured a job re-arranging piles of papers in some office, had the perception 45 46 47 48

AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-21, pp. 89–90, Letters Bulletin No. 8, 19 Feb 1957. ODiZP TVP, 1050/20, Letters Bulletin No. 16, 12 Mar 1957. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Letters Bulletin No. 23, 27 Apr 1957. OSA, PL-761.5, Radio Warszawa II, Fala 56, 17 Feb 1957.

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that he had secured some promotion in life. […] But is this really the case? What defines a person’s position in our society, in our lives? There is no doubt that it is social usefulness. […] Do we really need to prove that every hectare of ploughed land, every quintal of crops harvested, gives incomparably more to society than moving 100,000 pieces of paper from one shelf to another.’49 However, neither the decisions of individual directors, nor press articles or radio broadcasts actually amounted to official support from the authorities for such a solution, which would in fact have undermined some of the achievements of the post-war social revolution. Resolution No. 521 of the Council of Ministers of 17 August 1956 made it evident initially that the validity of favouring the employment of city-dwellers in local factories had been accepted.50 However, exactly three months later, the resolution was revoked, after criticism inter alia from the ZSL, the party of agrarian workers and country dwellers and activists.51 ‘The dismissal of people hailing from the countryside should be carried out with consideration, without violating the worker–peasant alliance, but nevertheless taking into account the fact that some of these workers do have sizeable farms. These matters must be decided individually. In the present situation in the country, the exodus of people from the countryside should be curtailed.’52

‘Small Towns are Dying …’; Or How the Centre Wanted to Save the Periphery

In truth, the problem was not so much in the countryside – where the situation had clearly stabilised, land prices had risen and peasants, who had come to the conclusion that the time of the doldrums was over, again started to invest – but mainly in small towns and villages, symbolised by Wincentowo (actually Staszów) in the well-known documentary by Jerzy Ziarnik.53 ‘Small towns are dying …’, the narrated voice-over concluded gloomily. Theirs was not a sudden death, however, but rather a slow agony from exhaustion. The process of the 49 Ibidem. 50 “Monitor Polski” (hereinafter: MP) 1956, No. 78, item 953. 51 MP, 1956, No. 99, item 1140; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-302, A Memo on Employment in the Poznań voivodeship, before 7 Aug 1957, p. 21. 52 AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, Minutes of the national meeting on employment issues 5–6 Feb 1957. 53 Miasteczko, directed by J. Ziarnik, 1957; G. Nastałek-Żygadło, Filmowy portret …, pp. 118– 123. Cf. Halina Jarnuszkiewicz’s review of press articles on the problem of (chiefly) small towns: 70 miast i miasteczek w zwierciadle prasy (za okres styczeń-maj 1957 r.), “Kultura i Społeczeństwo”, vol. 1, 1957, z. 3, pp.  211–267. See: https://ninateka.pl/vod/dokument/ miasteczko-jerzy-ziarnik/ [accessed 29 May 2022].

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undermining of small towns had been going on since the second half of the 19th century, when at least some industrialisation and efficient transport links became essential for survival. As a result of modernisation, there was a growing tendency for the population to concentrate in towns, but above all in large cities, which not only offered more employment opportunities, but which were also able to satisfy increasingly diverse needs.54 This was particularly important in Poland, where towns, often of an agricultural character, continued to dominate after World War II. In 1950, among 748 towns, as many as 660 (88%) had fewer than 20,000 inhabitants (a total of 3,348,800, or 31.7% of the total urban population). More than half (409) of the urban centres had fewer than 5,000 inhabitants.55 As long as these small towns were the immediate local administrative and economic base of the agricultural area, they functioned effectively. The Second World War and its aftermath brought profound regression: destruction, the extermination of the Jewish population, forced and voluntary migrations, nationalisation and centralisation. As a result, only some of these towns, ‘especially those which were located in the areas with exploitation of raw materials or which found themselves in the orbit of arbitrary state decisions on their industrialisation, managed to survive in good social shape. Mostly, however they were engaged in a losing battle with the larger cities.’56 The Poznań voivodeship may serve as a relatively representative example for the whole of Poland. At the turn of 1955 and 1956 there were 97 urban areas in the region. Poznań occupied an exceptional position, with over 373,000 inhabitants, or 37% of the urban population of the entire voivodeship. The five autonomous towns, that governed themselves separately from the poviats or counties – Gniezno, Kalisz, Leszno, Ostrów and Piła – were inhabited by over 196,000 people (20%) in total and the remaining 23 poviat towns by 222,000 (22%). Further down the list there were 68 towns with more than 212,000 inhabitants (21%) between them. While the population of the first 54

A.  Suligowski, Urbanizacya jako nowe zjawisko w życiu społecznym, Warszawa 1919; Urbanizacja i społeczeństwo, ed. B. Górz, Kraków 2006. 55 F. Grzelak-Kostulska, D. Szymańska, Małe miasta w Polsce – zmiany ludnościowe i funkcjonalne w drugiej połowie XX wieku, [in:] Prace Naukowe (Akademia Ekonomiczna w Katowicach), 2005, pp. 59–90, here: pp. 65–66. https://repozytorium.umk.pl/bitstream/ handle/item/545/Ma%C5%82e%20miasta%20w%20Polsce%20-%20zmiany%20%20 DOC230513-004.pdf?sequence=1 [accessed 23  Dec 2021]; E.  Bagiński, Małe miasta w strukturze osiedleńczej Polski, Wrocław 1998; Miasteczka polskie w XIX–XX w. Z dziejów formowania się społeczności, ed. R.  Kołodziejczyk, Kielce 1992; J.  Kochanowski, Od Wincentowa do Miastka, czyli długa i niezbadana “prześniona rewolucja” małych miast, “Przegląd Historyczny”, CXI, 2020, book 4, pp. 1017–1021. 56 Grzelak-Kostulska, Szymańska, Małe miasta …, p. 60.

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two groups had increased significantly since 1931 (from 389,300 inhabitants in 1931 to 542,419 in 1955), the population of the remaining groups had actually decreased (from 430,000 to 422,466 respectively). During that period, the population increased in 30 centres, in 12 it remained at the pre-war level and in 49 it decreased.57 Wartime deportations from the cities and towns of Greater Poland had also resulted in a decline, but that had been largely temporary as most of the displaced who had survived did return to their home town. However, the extermination of the Jewish population brought about a permanent demographic decline, which affected primarily small towns. In the province of Poznań, this fate was experienced above all by the cities and towns in the eastern part, which had once been under Russian annexation. However, the further east and south you went, the greater the toll of the Holocaust in the small towns and cities, and the decline in the population persisted for many years after the war. The Warsaw region is a case in point: Table 4

City/town

Population as at 9 Dec 1931

Jewish population as %

Population as at 30 Jun 1955

Góra Kalwaria Kałuszyn Mogielnica Mszczonów Nowe Miasto Pułtusk Serock Wyszków Zakroczym

7,097 5,827 6,423 5,523 3,877 15,487 5,413 10,772 6,114

53,1 82,2 51,2 43,6 48,9 43,8 48,8 48,5 38,0

5,403 2,388 3,244 3,159 1,957 9,573 2,170 5,195 3,290

Source: S. Misztal, Za rogatkami stolicy, ŻG, 24, 10 Dec 1956.

57 APP, PWRN, 974/II, Issues of economic activation of small towns in the Poznań voivodeship, pp. 122–123. Cf. M. Kiełczewska-Zaleska, Problemy geograficzno-gospodarcze małych miast w Polsce w świetle dokonanych opracowań, in: Studia geograficzne nad aktywizacją małych miast, eds. K.  Dziewoński, M.  Kiełczewska-Zaleska, L.  Kosiński, J.  Kostrowicki, S. Leszczycki, “Prace Geograficzne” 9, Warszawa 1957, pp. 37–51; J. Dangel, Przekształcenia sieci miejskiej w Polsce pod wpływem rozwoju ludności i uprzemysłowienia kraju w okresie 1946–1960, Warszawa 1968.

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The annihilation of the Jews meant that a large proportion of the merchants and craftsmen servicing the countryside had disappeared, and the post-war period completed the havoc wreaked. The ‘battle for trade’, which began in 1947 and concluded during the Six Year Plan carried out between 1950 and 1955, left only residual private trade and crafts, with deplorable results. The state sector was unable to compensate for the gaps in trade, services and small-scale production. This was all the more so because even already nationalised factories, agricultural processing plants, mills, dairies, concrete plants, sawmills and brickyards were closed down as unprofitable on the basis of arbitrary decisions taken without any economic or social analysis. For example, in the Gdańsk voivodeship, in the town of Tczew alone, four distilleries and a coffee roasting plant closed down; in Kościerzyna – a vodka factory, a sawmill, a distillery and three mills, in Lebork – a tar paper factory, three fish smokehouses, five distilleries, five dairies and 14 mills.58 This sometimes led to absurd situations. For example, as a result of the closing down of entire complexes of brickyards concentrated around Warsaw itself (e.g. in Radzymin), on the new construction in the capital used bricks were used – acquired from demolition as far away as Szczecin or Wrocław.59 The undermining of the traditional roles of small cities and towns as local administrative, cultural and infrastructure centres also proved disastrous. On the one hand, more and more frequently health centres, maternity wards, cinemas and sports facilities would be located in small villages in order to move them forward in the process of modernisation, but often without any possibility of providing them with the appropriate economic, personnel or know-how backup. The retrospective assessment was that the development of efficient public transport between the countryside and the cities would have proved more effective for the necessary rapprochement between the two. On the other hand, sound local government was abolished in the small towns through relentless centralisation. Before the war, with funds from municipal taxes and income from municipal facilities at their disposal, local councils could choose the direction of local development, and if this was not possible, at least they were able to take care of their municipal assets. Centralisation made it impossible to take any major decisions, further leading to the degradation of smaller local hubs, regardless of the good intentions of its administrators. The prolific press coverage of the provinces in the years 1956 to 1957, as well as letters sent from their inhabitants to the authorities or the media, painted a desperate picture. This is how a letter to Głos Ziemi Lubelskiej presented the 58 AAN, KS, 107, p. 247, Statement by the President of the WKPG in Gdańsk. 59 S. Misztal, Za rogatkami stolicy, ŻG, 24, 10 Dec 1956.

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small town of Hrubieszów: ‘Everybody who takes a look at this town and judges it from any point of view at all, will agree that this is a town that has been forgotten, a town that is dying. We, the citizens of Hrubieszów, are ashamed that this town is spoken of with revulsion and disgust, called sloppy and dirty. […] In fact, nothing is still being done, nothing is happening in the medieval little town of Hrubieszów in the back of beyond. One simply cannot believe that we are living in the 20th century …’60 The small town of Sochaczew near Warsaw fared no better in a newspaper report: in ‘the main street leading from the railway station to the town square […] on a street pump we learn that “when drawing water from a spring, one should press the handle until the bucket is full.” Not far from the pump, there is a municipal dump with picturesque mountains of rubbish.’ In the market square with its whitewashed church, ‘a number of houses ground down by time, cobblestones, horse-drawn carts with grazing horses. And that is all: this is a suburb of a million-strong capital city.’61 Comparisons with the interwar period tended to be unfavourable. Here is a letter from a despondent Przemyśl resident, commenting on the regression in the city’s life: a drop in population, the closing of most of the old workplaces, the cutting of public transport, the abandonment of renovation. ‘Before the war,’ he wrote, ‘the construction of hard surfaces in the city and county had begun. But nothing has been done since 1944, and the condition of the pavements was probably better in the 17th century than it is now.’62 Even if some roads were being built here and there, the degradation of small urban centres throughout the country and the disruption of traditional links with their natural historical and agricultural hinterland led to a deep crisis in the labour market. As a result, in many cities and towns there were either no jobs on offer at all or they were sufficient for only a small fraction of the registered unemployed. In Radom in the summer of 1957 there was not a single job offer, with 1,022 registered unemployed. The situation was similar in Łomża (510 registered) and Konin (326). In Lublin there were 775 unemployed competing for two vacancies, in Radomsko 354 faced a fight for nine, in Włocławek 665 were in the running for 23, and in Tomaszów Mazowiecki 596 – for just 28 vacancies.63 The vast majority of the unemployed inhabitants of small centres had no choice but to keep walking the cobblestones in the hope of an elusive job, commute daily to bigger towns or leave for a permanent job elsewhere. 60 APL, Głos Ziemi Lubelskiej, 3, Letter to the Editor of “Głos Ziemi Lubelskiej”, end of 1957, p. 37. 61 J. Barszczewski, 50 km od Warszawy, TL, 21 Dec 1956. 62 ODiZP TVP, 1050/17, Letters Bulletin No. 55, 14 Sep 1956. 63 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-302, Memo on employment situation in the Poznań voivodeship, before 7 Aug 1957, p. 16.

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Fig. 15

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Even the small town of Pruszków, with excellent transport links to the nearby capital city of Warsaw, could at times look quite bucolic. Photo: Tadeusz Rolke, Pruszków, 1957, Agencja Wyborcza.

There were more than 100,000 daily commuters to the capital,64 whose daily round trips often amounted to several hours. Over 61,000 people – every seventh resident according to the statistics – commuted to work every day from the small towns of the Poznań voivodeship.65 From Monday to Saturday, many of the towns must have resembled Babimost, which would depopulate ‘during the day, to welcome residents back in the evening. In daytime, Babimost, a singularly charming town’, seemed uninhabited, an impression that was only ‘contradicted by the curtains in the windows and the smoke rising from a chimney here and there.’66 But despite the dire labour situation, not everyone was able to leave for good. ‘These people have no work,’ the official report commented on the situation of small towns in the Kielce region, ‘and for a number of other reasons such as owning a flat and a small piece of land, they cannot move away (most of them are women). Left to themselves, they take up jobs that contravene legal regulations in force in Poland, e.g. in Raków they illegally 64 AAN, KS, 146, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 14 May 1957, p. 300v. 65 APP, PWRN, 974/II, Issues of economic activation of small towns in the Poznań voivodeship, pp. 123–124. 66 W. Strzałkowska, Archipelag wysp zapomnianych, GP, 14 Feb 1957.

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tan leather and also sell illegally made shoes.’67 In the Poznań voivodeship 30,000 inhabitants of the urban periphery were unemployed, including 22,000 women.68 It followed that the majority of the authorities’ efforts to alleviate unemployment were directed at small towns, especially since it was the residents of these who were primarily affected by the reductions in the number of workplaces in large cities. Hopes that the opening of small private industrial, craft and commercial enterprises would radically improve the situation were unlikely to be fulfilled, even in those places where there was a genuine drive in that direction. A case in point was Zgorzelec, located on the Polish-German border with the Nysa river separating it from the German town of Görlitz – which had been parts of the same city until 1945, when they were separated by the new border. Paradoxically it was due to what should have been an advantageous location that after the war Zgorzelec had been losing importance, because strict regulations made it difficult to settle and move about, and most of the Greek refugees who had settled there had been removed. The town attempted to attract dynamic new residents. ‘We would like to see locksmiths, carpenters, joiners,’ the chairman of the Presidium of the Commune Council urged, ‘locksmiths’ workshops, tailoring and dressmaking workshops could be opened in Zgorzelec. Fruit and vegetable processing plants and other food production plants would also be useful. Premises are available and there is also a raw material base. South of Zgorzelec, for many kilometres, there stretch orchards full of fruit trees, but there is no one to process the fruit.’69 However, not even the existing housing base – albeit in need of renovation – would attract the number of settlers that the local authorities dreamt about, and Zgorzelec, like other divided cities on the Odra and Nysa rivers, only experienced a revival after the border with the GDR opened in January 1972. In smaller towns, inertia prevailed, due to the procrastination of poviat (county) and City Councils.70 Under the circumstances, the decision was undertaken to create an intervention fund to reactivate economic life in cities and towns. On 17 August 1956, the Presidium of the Government decreed that 100 million zloty in 1956, followed by another 200 million in 1957, would be allocated from the budget to towns with ‘labour reserves’, as mass unemployment was euphemistically referred to. The order was to be implemented by the Ministry of Labour and Social Welfare. 67 68 69 70

AAN, KS, 147, p. 23, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 17 Sep 1957. APP, PWRN, 974/II, Activation of small towns in the Poznań Voivodeship, pp. 123–124. Zgorzelec czeka na ludzi z inicjatywą, TL, 10 Mar 1957. APP, PWRN, 974/II, Activation of small towns in the Poznań voivodeship, p.  127; W. Strzałkowska, Manna nie spada z nieba, GP, 6 Apr 1956; Eadem, Czy rzeczywiście bezrobocie, GP, 7 Apr 1956.

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The funds were to be given to the Presidiums of the City Councils, with the intention that they ‘use them to stimulate economic life in cities and towns, quickly employing job-seekers and, as far as possible, increasing permanent employment.’71 It was recommended that the initial thrust be the ‘the setting up of new production capacities’, above all by making use of local raw material resources and improving the state of municipal facilities. Apparently, the fund was received by the periphery as both a godsend and a curse. On the one hand it offered a real chance for improvement, but on the other – especially given the already mentioned low level and corrupt nature of some local officials – it led to problems, as a source of potential discord and competition. The goals of the head office were often, wilfully or otherwise, misunderstood. As a result, the simultaneous recommendations to improve the local infrastructure, with the stipulation to – ‘if possible’ – increase permanent employment, were often interpreted in favour of the former option, with as much money as possible being allocated to seasonal intervention works, which brought a quick but short-term effect. Additional funds were also often used to plug holes in the budget, such as building repairs, and in Zamość, for example, even to maintain animals in the local zoo.72 When the principles of the fund allocation became established and the preference for creating permanent jobs was no longer in doubt, further obstacles were encountered, both at the central level (with the ministry having the final say in the allocation of credit to a company) and locally. The regional up-andrunning industrial plants wanted to deploy the funds from Warsaw to develop the most profitable production possible, rather than aiming to take on the largest possible number of the unemployed. Restarting the plants that had closed down was proving to be even more of an uphill struggle. In 1956, the government commission’s national tally of such enterprises stood at some 3,000 in total throughout the country. Of these, the commission deemed 98 as being of national importance, and allocated them to various ministries, making the local City Councils responsible for the remaining ones. But the councils were often unwilling or unable to cope with the burden, especially as many of the plants were only fit for demolition.73 Some incidents that took place discouraged hasty investment. For example, in Sulechów, 80,000 zloty was invested in one of the plants that still merited reconstruction. But when another 10,000 zloty needed to be invested to finalise the project, ‘the plant was visited by 71 AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, Resolution of the Presidium of the Government No. 520, 17 Aug 1956, p. 1. 72 AAN, KS, 146, k. 299, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 14 May 1957. 73 W. Kawalec, Największa rezerwa … 3.000 obiektów czeka na gospodarzy, ŻW, 22 May 1957.

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Deputy Prime Minister Jaroszewicz, who ordered work to be stopped immediately, as the facility, in his opinion, should be used by a key industry. Local industry responded to the order so quickly and so meticulously that it abandoned the facility in an unfinished state. Unfortunately, to this day no key industry has taken on the project.’74 This was not the only such white elephant. It is of course difficult to generalise, but the way in which the intervention fund was used depended to a large extent on what we would today call the level of engagement in civil society. The higher the economic awareness, the more established local government and civil servant traditions, and/or the higher the level of civilisation, the better were the results of the funds invested in the planned economic ‘stimulation’, and the lower the percentage of funds wasted or misused. The best results were achieved in the Poznań voivodeship, where government decisions were approached in a far-sighted, broad and methodical manner. Efforts were made to avoid acting spontaneously – and as a result chaotically – but to look at the issues from the perspective of the entire region rather than the narrow focus of the district or commune. Decisions were preceded by economic, historical and geographical analysis – taking into account the post-war economic changes, population structure, transport network and tourist attractions. Efforts were made to maintain the role of towns as the backbone of the agricultural environment, not just in economic terms, but also as the driver of modernisation. The plan was therefore to focus on mechanisation and the development of modern branches of specialised production, such as electrical and radio engineering. It was also hoped that a consensus could be preserved between nationalised industry and private crafts and manufacturing enterprises, regarded as a ‘permanent element of our economic model’. The approach taken to the distribution of funds was different from, say, that adopted in the Kielce region, where they were dispersed equally among the poviats. Instead, the funds were directed to the most successful centres. Thus, it was proposed that 42 towns should be covered by the stimulus programme, at the same time acknowledging that in 28 towns conditions for successful implementation were not present, while yet another 23 centres (such as Chodzież, Jarocin, Koło, Kłodawa, Kościan, Ujście, Wronki, and Września) would manage on their own.75 It was clear that it was ‘on the economy and initiative of the City Councils that the stimulation of the economy of cities and towns in our

74 W. Lemiesz, Gdy kucharek sześć i brak odpowiedzialności, GP, 2 Jun 1957. 75 APP, PWRN, 974/II, Stimulation of small towns in the Poznań voivodeship, pp. 119–120, 129–131.

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voivodeship would largely depend, and this must be their priority.’76 And in the Poznań voivodeship that aim was realised. Also in other regions, such as the Rzeszów voivodeship, with its tradition of self-government, the focus was on creating permanent jobs, and moving away from seasonal communal work in most districts. However, where seasonal workers really were indispensable, as in Przemyśl, 200 people were employed on this basis even in winter. Thanks to the fund, the city’s streets were finally repaired, embankments on the river San were built, and waterworks were improved. Rzeszów was a leader in the monitoring of how the fund was spent. In the first quarter of 1957 alone, 20 inspections were carried out in several districts, eliminating abuses of the system.77 However, in the majority of voivodeships auditors were sent from Warsaw to look for any irregularities in the disposal of the funds. It is difficult to say, of course, to what extent these resulted from the fact that local authorities ‘did not fully understand the intentions of the fund’,78 or whether they were deliberate acts, aimed for example at bolstering local client networks. In most cases, they chose the easiest option – patching up rather than starting from scratch and thus, without much ado, allocated the financial resources proportionally between the ring-fenced autonomous towns and the poviats, not bothering with complicated analyses. Sometimes the money stayed in the poviat’s principal town, without reaching any others, and if it did reach them, it was often used in ill-considered, haphazard ways. The Opatów poviat, typical of the socially backward parts of the country, derogatively labelled ‘Poland B’, may serve as an example. Although the county had mineral deposits (clay and limestone), experience in using them, huge reserves of labour and, finally, financial support from the fund, it was difficult to get started. The parlous state of the transport system was used as an excuse, but realistically, the reason was that the local officials feared to make any bolder decision, and the funds received were allocated chaotically and without any planning.79 Sometimes funds were used to support local social networks rather than the unemployed,80 but municipal investments were often ill-considered and followed no guidelines or project and costing documentation. Such cases occurred all over the country. Amongst the enterprises in the Gdańsk voivodeship, there was little enthusiasm for taking advantage of the funds offered, and 76 77 78 79 80

APP, PWRN, 1018/III, Minutes of the 12th Meeting of the WRN, 5–6 Mar 1957, p. 68. AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, National briefing of SOZ managers in Presidiums of WRN, 15 May 1957. Analiza sytuacji opatowskich i kaliskich miasteczek, TL, 18 Sep 1957. AAN, KS, 147, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 17 Sep 1957, pp. 22–26. AAN, MPiOS, 2/16, Use of the fund in the Lublin voivodeship, 4 Mar 1957.

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the proposals submitted were often unrealistic or poorly structured. There was also a dearth of people willing to take up intervention works. For example, most of the 470,000 zloty allocated to Sopot for employing 100 people, mainly women, had to be returned, because just 23 people volunteered.81 In Wrocław and Pruszków near Warsaw part of the funds was spent on paying office workers.82 In Siedlce, the fund allocation was spent on buying a TV set. Serious abuses were reported in several towns in the Łódź voivodeship.83 In total, in 1957 as much as 70 million zloty – or more than 1/3 of the funds allocated for that year – proved impossible to deploy, and the situation followed suit in 1958, when the programme continued, by sheer impetus rather than anything else.84 An unambiguous assessment of the project is difficult. On the one hand, there was no shortage of errors and shortcomings, many investments were misguided, and some weak and inefficient enterprises were created in its wake. Of the 52,000 new jobs planned by the end of 1957, less than half – just around 23,000 (of which more than 10% were in the Poznań voivodeship) – were created – some of them not at all in the provincial backwater as the intent had been – but in larger cities. On the other hand, it is difficult to say whether these people would have had jobs without the fund, especially as more than 70% of the new workers were women. The improvement was visible even in such unemployment hotspots as Radom, Gniezno, Jarosław, Łomża, Elbląg or Zduńska Wola.85 Several tens of thousands of people found work in intervention projects, which somewhat improved the parlous state of cities and towns.86 But its overriding value was that the Centre tried to give the periphery not so much fish as a fishing rod. It was, of course, used in various different ways and with different results, but to a certain extent it did contribute to building civil society. Importantly, the problem of the periphery had become so visible that it could not later be swept back under the carpet.

81 APG OG, MRN Sopot, 713, Meeting of the Commission of Labour and Social Assistance of the City of Sopot, 7 Feb 1957; Ibidem, 466, Meeting of the Commission of Labour and Social Assistance of the City of Sopot, 5 Nov 1956. 82 APWr, Presidium of the City Council of the City of Wrocław, 1661, MPiOS to the Chair of the Presidium of the City Council of the City of Wrocław, 7 Feb 1957, p. 34. 83 AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, National briefing of SOZ managers of the Presidium of the WRN, 15 May 1957. 84 W. Tycner, Fundusz pod lupą czyli o rzeczy wartej dyskusji, TL, 18 Dec 1958. 85 AAN, KS, 147, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 27 Nov 1957, pp. 162–162v.; Jak jest wykorzystywany fundusz interwencyjny, TL, 30 Nov 1957. 86 AAN, KS, 147, p. 26, Committee for Labour and Social Affairs, 17 Nov 1957.

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‘They Can Hardly Go Back to the Shovel’; Or the Special-Case Unemployed

It bears repeating that even during the period of the greatest labour market crisis in the second half of the 1950s, there was no co-ordinated, uniform policy to combat unemployment; the measures taken were chaotic, diluted and generally ineffective. This affected to the greatest extent unemployed seamstresses, repatriates from the USSR or office clerks dismissed from a cooperative, who were usually left to their own devices. A much more privileged situation was enjoyed by civil servants from ministries or central offices who lost their jobs as a result of reorganisation or dissolution, as well as officers and non-commissioned officers from the Polish Army which since 1955 had been downsized (in 1955 by around 30,000, in 1956 by 50,000, in 1957 by 44,500 and in 1958 by 47,000),87 members of the party apparatus and, finally, security officers. Special resolutions specified in detail their financial, housing or educational rights and privileges. That the authorities made efforts to cushion their fall from often quite elevated positions, and make it as painless as possible, is understandable. First and foremost, it was a large group: tens of thousands of professional NCOs and officers had to leave the army, the Budget Act for 1957 alone provided for the elimination of 40,000 posts in the central administration and on City Councils; the Polish United Workers’ Party and its annexes (such as the Union of Polish Youth) had to let go approximately 8,000 full-time employees, while the security structures had to get rid of almost 11,500 officers between 1 November 1956 and 31 March 1957 alone.88 Although they could hardly be said to persevere with an esprit de corps as such, they were perfectly aware of their privileged position – political and social as much as economic. The common denominator for the various parts of this polarised assortment was their symbiotic relationship with the authorities – quite apart from the fact that more than a few of these former employees considered themselves to be no less than a part of the edifice of power. In return for their loyalty, the military, the apparatchiks and the security officers as well as many of the civil servants were 87

P. Piotrowski, Śląski Okręg Wojskowy. Przekształcenia organizacyjne 1945–1956, Warszawa 2003, p. 88. Cf. J. Babula, Wojsko Polskie 1945–1989. Próba analizy operacyjnej, Warszawa 1998; J. Kajetanowicz, Polskie wojska lądowe w latach 1945–1960, Toruń 2005. A significant portion of those laid off were full-time basic service soldiers, non-professional officers and non-commissioned officers. 88 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-166, Central Committee for Justice, Security and Public Order, p. 42; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-302, Employment situation in the Poznań Voivodeship, before 7 Aug 1957, p. 17.

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rewarded not only with stability, but also with unprecedented opportunities for career and social advancement, independent of their social background or education.89 When the concerned member of the highest state authorities, Roman Zambrowski, commented on the plight of the redundant party officials saying that they could hardly be expected to return to their previous level of unskilled manual labour, or ‘go back to the shovel’, as he put it – evocatively pointing out their humble origins. These words could have been equally well applied to quite a number of officers, apparatchiks and security men, as well as administrative employees. And indeed, for quite a number of them, the loss of their previous position was a social demotion that pointed to, if not outright pauperisation, then at least a radical reduction in living standards. In particular, officers of the Polish Army and security personnel, who had previously lived a privileged life in their departmental enclave, relieved from thinking about everyday concerns, now had to confront reality. The army, the Security Office and the party did not promote the continued education and improvement of the qualifications of its personnel, and often there was simply neither time nor scope for it. This was something that their former employees realised and complained about bitterly once they had lost their jobs. ‘Because I had been busy putting in a lot of dedicated work for the party and other organisations,’ complained an apparatchik who had been ‘let go’, ‘I did not acquire any profession, while others of my age, often completely hostile to the building of socialism in Poland, gained an education in engineering, technology and so on …’90 Officers dismissed after 8 or 10 years of service, often spent languishing in garrisons in the back of beyond, shared his sentiment. Two of them wrote in August 1956: ‘We do not see any prospects for development at present, and it will probably be our lot to vegetate like this until we die.’91 Without help, they now had little chance of finding any job at all let alone a good one. Their lack of qualifications was one obstacle; for former Security Office and party staff, an even greater one was the nature of their previous employment. While not so long before it had been membership of the Home Army, an ‘incorrect’ (read: too middle- or upper-class) social origin or having family members abroad which had been the impediment to getting on in life, 89 Aparat bezpieczeństwa w Polsce. Kadra kierownicza. Vol. I: 1944–1956, ed. K.  Szwagrzyk, Warszawa 2005, p. 67. “In terms of general education, our staff is deplorable,” said in 1950 Stanisław Radkiewicz in reference to his department. The situation did not change radically over the following years. Vol. 1, ibidem, p. 72. 90 AAN, KC PZPR, WO, XII-2590, Alfons Krawczyk, Second Secretary of KZ PZPR in Szombierki coal mine, Bytom, to Gomułka, 16 Nov 1956. 91 ODiZP TVP, 1050/17, Letters Bulletin No. 49, 27 Aug 1956.

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now just the opposite affiliations were frowned upon: previous service in the Security Office, the party apparatus or the Union of Polish Youth.92 The provincial secretary of the party unit in Opole, Paweł Wojas, complained at the end of November  1956 that throughout the organisation, especially among nonprofessional workers, there was fear of dismissal and an uncertain future. ‘It is the same story in the Security Office,’ he added, ‘there they are sacking 400 people, and yesterday morning they came here to see me, asking for help.’93 They would not be left in the lurch after all, as Roman Zambrowski made clear in November 1956, stressing that the ‘comrades who are leaving the party apparatus must be looked after.’ Material aid, such as three months’ severance pay and compensation for lowered wages paid for three times as long as to other workers were only part of the generous severance package.94 Moreover, Zambrowski declared, ‘we want to give comrades as much help as possible in getting a job, in setting themselves up. We also want to help comrades who had interrupted their studies to complete them. A separate matter is to help them gain qualifications. Some of the party apparatus came from, as the saying had it, working with a shovel. Well, and by the time that these comrades have, after all, made a name for themselves and worked as white-collar workers for a number of years, they can hardly go back to the shovel; so it is a question of setting them up in the right job.’95 On one level, this had a ring of the sovereign’s declaration to the faithful vassals who had helped him to gain power and to maintain it. But to leave them in the lurch would have also represented a betrayal of the revolution, still as relevant as ever. Without a doubt, the authorities had no desire to create a sizeable group of dissatisfied and embittered people, who still had access to the instruments of pressure and were still well connected in the social networks. Even before the war, direct service to the state was considered an exceptionally advantageous position to have, as it not only guaranteed a stable existence but also acted as an insurance policy in difficult times, when support from the state could be relied on. Thus characteristically the fate of the three state groups – army, security and administration – was regulated by government decree, and only that of the party apparatchiks – by internal party regulations.

92 Czy powrót “haczyków”?, ŻW, 15, 18 Jan 1957; Biuletyny Komitetu do spraw Bezpieczeństwa Publicznego. Grudzień 1954-listopad 1956, intro. M. Filipiak, eds. W. Chudzik, M. Filipiak, J. Gołębiowski, Warszawa 2009, p. 755. 93 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-244, Meeting of the First Secretaries of KW, 23 Nov 1956. 94 However, the assistance only applied to those who had been employed within the party apparatus for longer than three years, and dismissed after 1 Oct 1956. 95 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-244, Meeting of the First Secretaries of KW, 23 Nov 1956.

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Government resolutions took into account the adaptability of different groups, and clearly the military and security officers, who often had no experience in civilian life, had the greatest problems with this. Both the document regulating the future of security officers and the three resolutions related to the military emphasised that they should be provided with work that corresponded to their experience, education or state of health. They were promised the possibility of retraining, completing their education or studies, and the provision of relatively – in comparison to other ‘rank-and-file’ unemployed – good conditions such as generous grants, free food and accommodation. There was pressure (theoretical rather than actual, as it turned out) on workplaces to accept them. All the more so because, although the resolutions included the possibility that these redundant staff would have the option of setting up their own companies or co-operatives, the chances of success, especially for former military personnel, were not very high. If, in the case of military and security officers, the aim was to anchor them in civilian life, in the case of the dismissed civil servants it was above all about not keeping them behind yet more desks, but directing them to industry, crafts, trade, municipal services, health care or education.96 Their previous workplaces were supposed to help them find a new post or set up a business enterprise such as a workshop of their own as well as provide them with training or pay several months’ severance pay. If the new job was paid at a lower rate, the previous employer was obliged to make up the difference for a certain period. Poorly qualified officials, especially women or the elderly, were undoubtedly in the worst situation. Not only were they uncompetitive, but they usually had the least social capital – or, in plain words: contacts in the right places – to help them get out of a crisis situation. With no profession, no studies and some who had not even completed their secondary school education, they took a long time looking for work. Often so unsuccessfully that there are records of whip-rounds organised by concerned ex-colleagues. In extreme cases, some committed suicide.97 The jobs on offer in trade, health care or industry were usually much lower paid and in incomparably worse conditions. There was a great gap between the prospect held out to the downsized officials and reality. The case of the 200 women dismissed from the Ministry of Construction is an example par excellence. Those dismissed had been promised clean jobs, and a single shift job on a 1,000 to 1,600 zloty monthly wage in one of the Warsaw 96 Uchwała Rady Ministrów nr 25 z 18 I 1957 o zasadach zwalniania, przeszkalania i zatrudniania pracowników w związku z reorganizacją administracji, MP, 1957 No. 6, sub-section 37. 97 HIM, P-680, Item 11470/56, Unemployment in Poland, Dec 1956; “Prawo i Życie”, 16 Dec 1956.

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factories. In the end, only one in four redundant employees was offered a job, and one which involved dirty work in three shifts, for a maximum of 900 zloty a month. Most did not take up the offer.98 Not surprisingly, a large proportion of those dismissed from central offices avoided official mediation, preferring to take their severance pay and seek their own fortunes. This was in fact to the advantage of their employers, relieving them of an onerous obligation, although the option was costly. By 1 May 1957, some 18,000 of the 27,000 laid-off officials had opted for this solution; some 30 million zloty was spent on 5,900 severance payments from central offices alone.99 In the autumn of 1957, the Ministry of Labour and Social Welfare analysed the fate of the 529 members of staff dismissed from the Ministry of Culture and Arts and the State Economic Planning Commission. Approximately 25% had found a place in a service industry, small-scale production and cultural institutions, 3.2% had gone into industry, about 14% to ‘various institutions’, 7.6% had started their own business, 4.3% – mostly women and pensioners – had given up on employment altogether and another 12% remained unemployed (mostly those who took severance pay). The results demonstrate the woefully extreme divergence between the official assumption that the ex-civil servants could be thrust into production and what actually happened: only 0.2% decided to undergo training and acquire a new profession, while 33.5% landed back in the state administration, albeit often at a lower level, in turn causing the dismissal of those with lesser or no qualifications.100 The ex-employees of City Councils had the least problems finding a new job.101 Without a doubt they owed this good fortune to the social networks they had previously established when still at work. In fact, the further away from the capital and large conglomerations one was, the less employee downsizing procedures depended on qualifications and more on local ties. For example, in the Koszalin voivodeship – and this was by no means an exception – employees dismissed from the administration received large compensation payments and then promptly took up another position, which they had cunningly secured previously through their contacts. It was also common for poorly qualified

98 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-20, Letters Bulletin No. 48, 17 Nov 1956, p. 37. 99 Wyniki zwolnień z administracji, TL, 1 Aug 1957. The Ministry of Finance introduced special loans for people laid off from the administration to start their own business. Loans of up to 20,000 zloty were granted for three years at a very low interest rate (2%). TL, 36, 6 Feb 1957. 100 Jak przebiegają zwolnienia z administracji, TL, 4 Nov 1957. 101 Ibidem.

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employees to remain, while those with more seniority and better education were made redundant.102 Military officers and, to a lesser extent, the redundant security officers and employees of the party apparatus – often without a profession or any preparation for civilian life – required a much more considered approach than civil servants. All the more so because even the experiences of officers downsized at the turn of 1955/1956, when the labour market situation was not yet dire, were not particularly encouraging. ‘I found out for myself,’ wrote a dismissed captain to a radio station in May 1956, ‘that resolutions and articles in the press written with rosy-coloured spectacles, all those photographs and statements by those dismissed have little to do with reality.’103 Fifteen ex-officers complained in a collective letter about the impossibility of finding a job, pointing out that the condition of being taken on by the militia forces meant having to give up their officer rank. In the event, just one officer was desperate enough to take up that option.104 One point to bear in mind, however, is that it is the negative phenomena that are most clearly visible in the surviving materials, whereas normality is taken for granted and ignored. Meanwhile, much effort was indeed invested in launching suitable classes, for those seeking redeployment, at technical schools, vocational schools, pedagogical high schools, courses organised by the Craftsmen’s Training Centre, individual factories (e.g. in Warsaw, Wrocław, Lublin, Płock, Jelcz, Łabędy) or ministries (e.g. the Ministry of Railways offered training for traffic officers with a guarantee of instant employment).105 Both military and security officers benefited during their studies (of up to two years), in addition to scholarships and a part of their previous salaries, from a wide package of privileges related to housing or transport.106 Although it was recommended that commissions allocating places in schools or courses should be guided by ‘the given officer’s interests and hobbies, as well as qualifications acquired during military service’, the depressing awareness of social degradation meant that the training offered was often treated as a scourge. It simply wasn’t worth it for an officer to go through the hoops to become a ticket cashier, and for an all-powerful officer of the Ministry of Internal Affairs to retrain as a lab technician or roadman, especially as such 102 AAN, MPiOS, 2/1, Minutes of the national meeting on employment issues, 5–6 Feb 1957. 103 ODiZP TVP, 1050/17, Letters Bulletin No. 49, 27 Aug 1956. 104 Ibidem. 105 APG OG, Sopot City Council, 558, Information on conditions of training and employment of officers released from military service, 18 Dec 1956. 106 Ułatwienia w szkoleniu zawodowym dla zwalnianych z wojska oficerów i podoficerów, SP, 31 May 1957.

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a demeaning lowering of their station in life was likely to be combined with the prospect of harassment in the future workplace and a meagre salary. For a good reason the above-mentioned government resolution of 1957 on the redeployment of officers stipulated that ‘officers undergoing training who abandon their training or are expelled from schools and courses for violating the rules of training lose, as of the date of their deletion from the list of students, all rights provided for in this resolution.’ The situation was similar in the case of Security Office officers, some of whom, in spite of having been provided with almost ideal conditions, ‘treated learning as a necessary evil’, and cases of breaching school discipline, […] improper and even hooligan behaviour of some students’ were a not infrequent occurrence.107 While former security officers were taken care of by the state, thanks to which we have relatively precise aggregated data, we know little about the assistance for apparatchiks and officers organised at the provincial level. However, we can assume that the following examples from Poznań, Gdańsk, Wrocław and Lublin are representative of the whole country. In the Poznań voivodeship, out of 766 people dismissed from the apparatus, 54 were unemployed at the beginning of March 1957. In the case of the majority, however, Zambrowski had not been correct: they could – and did – ‘return to the shovel’. Only some 10% took up the option to carry on their education, mainly in technical schools, while the majority, usually with no professional qualifications, returned to manual work, often in the very same factories which they had once left behind in order to move on to work for the party. The transition from sitting at an office desk to operating a factory machine was often not easy, mainly due to the negative attitude of their new colleagues. There were cases of workers’ meetings adopting resolutions not to accept a given apparatchik for work. However, by midOctober 1957, practically all of them had found a new placement, albeit usually less well-paid.108 In Gdańsk, by the end of 1956, more than 250 officers had been sent to technician posts (in mining, agricultural mechanisation, ceramics, mechanics, the railways, commerce, telecommunications, forestry and chemistry), as well as to training courses for ticket cashiers, engine assistants, stokers, fitters or

107 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-166, Report on retraining and employment of former BP officers, 17  Apr 1959, pp.  135–136. E.g., out of 3,500 officers sent to technical schools, 357 dropped out during their training (some were expelled) and 284 failed their final exams. Ibidem, p. 135. 108 APP, KW PZPR, 74/V/48 No. 21, Information on the situation of former employees of the party apparatus, 13 III 1957, k. 56; Ibidem, 74/V/48 No. 22, Information on the situation of former employees of the party apparatus, 16 Dec 1957, p. 94.

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laboratory technicians.109 In Lublin, some of the 350 officers who had fallen victim to the downsizing in 1957 were sent to state technical colleges, while the rest, after completing craft courses, were encouraged to set up a co-operative, deploying ‘workshop equipment from the military demobilisation and partial assistance from the army.’110 However, we do not know whether this was successful. In Wrocław, out of almost 480 officers from the same round of dismissals, 228 found work, 202 were sent for retraining and 48 continued to look for employment.111 It was not easy, as they demanded only well-paid work.112 Although the chances of getting it were nil, the officers disappeared in late 1957 and early 1958 from the reports of the employment offices. While the struggle of officers of the Polish Armed Forces or apparatchiks for their future revolved around writing complaints and waiting for a response, security officers often took a demanding stance, and did not shrink from employing pressure. For example, in Kraków, the dismissed officers, fearing harassment or even a lynch mob, demanded that ‘the personal safety of the dismissed employees be secured by law and that those guilty of this be officially prosecuted. Otherwise, employees dismissed as part of the reorganisation reserve the right to keep their service weapons.’113 As mentioned earlier, between 1 November 1956 and 31 March 1957, 11,476 officers were dismissed – 2,569 in the headquarters and 8,907 doing field work (10,437 men and 1,039 women). Half of them had worked for more than five years, and over 305 for longer than 10! Some (3,320) found employment without the help of the head office, 5,100 were sent for training in technical schools, factory courses or courses organised by the Crafts Training Centre.114 However, their completion did not guarantee a job and ‘in principle all workplaces where trainees had served their apprenticeships refused to hire them, despite the fact that previously […] these workplaces had undertaken, after the completion of the training, to hire trainees.’115 This is not surprising, as workers commonly protested against the admission of ex-officers, and the managements of the factories already preferred discord with a distant headquarters to discord with their 109 APG OG, Sopot City Council, 558, Plan for the allocation of places on courses for officers. 110 APL, KM PZPR in Lublin, 166, Resolution of the State Council in Lublin on assistance for officers, 8 May 1957. 111 APWr, PRN of the city of Wrocław, 1661, p. 75, Memo on the activity of the SOZ in the first quarter of 1957. 112 Ibidem. 113 ANKr, PZPR District Committee in Krakow, 29/2216/64, Resolution of the POP for BP in Krakow, 12 Nov 1956, pp. 351–352. 114 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-166, Employment and retraining of BP staff, pp. 42, 134–135. 115 Ibidem, p. 136.

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own staff. The Poznań-based Cegielski factory and the Warsaw Car Factory, among others, refused to hire former security officers. Initially, no pressure was exerted; less rebellious plants were sought, but later, as it was emphasised, ‘with the help of party organisations’, a comparatively large number of these workers were sent to the factories.’116 Both their exclusion from the new workplaces and the low salaries of the former functionaries encouraged their attempts to return to the Ministry of the Interior. Not all their efforts were in vain. By the spring of 1959, 1,119 people had returned to the service; they were those ‘whose political and moral attitude was blameless and who possessed professional qualifications’.117 This does not mean that the rest were content with their fate, and the Ministry of Internal Affairs continued to be inundated for some time with requests for benefits or accommodation or complaints about pay and working conditions. Their problem, it was pointed out, was that they were mainly ‘made to abandon working with the shovel’, yet lacked qualifications or education.118

‘Give Me a Chance to Go Abroad’; Or a (Temporary) Return of Hope for Economic Emigration

At the turn of 1956 and 1957 there was no shortage of factors that supported the renaissance of permanent or temporary economic emigration: starvation wages and the lack of prospects in Poland, helped by a relaxation of passport restrictions that brought about an increased number of trips abroad, including to the West as well as mass permanent migrations (such as that of Poles from the USSR, or Germans and Jews from Poland), to the fact that such a move now required less courage than it once did.119 It should also not be forgotten that legal labour migration, both overseas and within Europe – to France, Germany, Czechoslovakia or Latvia – had taken place before the war, and was thus still vivid in the collective memory, as was the high unemployment of that era. No wonder then that, from the beginning of 1957, any institution thought to have any influence, from radio and newspapers to the Central Committee of the PZPR and the State Council, was inundated with letters asking if and when emigration would be given a green light by the law.

116 Ibidem, p. 138. 117 Ibidem. 118 Ibidem. 119 See D. Stola, Kraj bez wyjścia? Migracje z Polski 1949–1989, Warszawa 2010, pp. 80–102.

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Requests for permission to travel abroad were mainly motivated by the lack of any job offers or the inability to survive on starvation wages. ‘Despite having a diploma from the Mechanical Technical Secondary School in Radom,’ a young man from Kielce justified his request for a visa to any western country in order ‘to earn money’: ‘I have been fruitlessly looking for work in Kielce and outside Kielce for six months. […] If I am allowed to leave,’ he hastily added, ‘I undertake to return to my homeland after 6 or 8 years, when the dearth of jobs has receded. Over that time, I will have been able to organise a new life for myself in one way or another.’120 A resident of Tomaszów Mazowiecki, one of the unemployment hubs in the country, felt even more desperate. He was offered work for 500 to 600 zloty a month – woefully insufficient to feed his family of six. ‘If there is no better work to be had in Poland, then give me the opportunity to go abroad,’ he appealed to the Central Committee, adding bitterly, ‘It was better under Stalin, and now we are to repeat the pre-war Sanation regime.’121 To some, the thaw appeared to provide an opportunity to rectify the mistake they had made of returning to Poland after the war. A resident of Łódź, who in 1947 had left Great Britain to go back home with her husband, now wanted to emigrate to South Africa or Australia, explaining, ‘I don’t work professionally and my husband is a mechanical engineer. And despite that, we cannot afford the most necessary things, because the whole salary is spent on food. I see no future for myself, but rather see myself becoming a beggar.’122 The media, so eager to discuss unemployment, were holding back on the issue of possible emigration. The only paper to take up the theme was Po prostu, which suggested that it would be worth examining which country might accept Polish labour migrants, for example by checking the need for workers in French colonies in Africa. In the view of the paper, this task should be undertaken by a specially appointed state commission which, in co-operation with foreign companies and Polish institutions, would both organise the journeys and later take care of the migrants.123 The article provoked an outcry, and the party paper, Trybuna Ludu, countered by proposing instead migration to Poland’s Western and Northern Territories. Nevertheless, the Polish Ministry of Foreign Affairs took the possibility of economic emigration quite seriously, not only conducting an analysis of the problem, but also arranging preliminary talks with possible Western contractors.124 120 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Letters Bulletin No. 23, 27 Apr 1957. 121 Ibidem. 122 ODiZP TVP, 1050/20, Letters Bulletin No. 16, 12 Mar 1957. 123 “Po prostu”, No. 8, 1957. 124 AAN, MPiOS, 2/3, Memo to the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party on emigration for work, 16 Oct 1957.

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The analysis presented in the autumn of 1957 did not bode well for the Polish labour market, predicting that in the years 1964–1968 there might be insufficient posts for as many as 400 or 600,000 people. A ‘moderate’ temporary emigration was seen as one of the ways out; it was judged that in principle it would be ‘without detriment to the country’, if it was appropriately matched to its needs, labour force reserves and the long-term development plan.125 It was argued that, in any event, Poles were in fact taking on even the most backbreaking jobs abroad – in mining, metallurgy or agriculture – and not only in the West but also in nearby socialist Czechoslovakia, which tempted Polish workers not only with better wages, but also with the opportunity to buy industrial goods that were cheaper or unavailable in Poland. ‘The working women only work for 4 or 5 days a month, and the rest of the time they spend trading goods. From Poland, they take over there headscarves, sausages and, above all, spirits, and in Czechoslovakia they buy linoleum, rubber coats, toys and other things, which they then bring back to Poland, paying the customs duty on some – but if they can get away with it, not all – of the goods.’126 To work in our southern neighbouring country was so attractive that ‘every notification of vacancies in Czechoslovakia caused the inhabitants of some districts of the Katowice, Opole and Krakow voivodeships to dash to apply for work permits in Czechoslovakia.’127 As soon as the war ended, several thousand Poles who hailed mainly from the border counties had been working there without any legal regulation.128 With a simple calculation of profitability, people refrained from taking up a job in Poland, waiting instead to see if any chance of employment in Czechoslovakia might come their way. The corollary was that the material benefit went to the Poles, the economic benefit to the Czechoslovaks and the Polish state lost out. In mitigation, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs postulated that bilateral agreements would be preferable as well as the creation of a common labour market within Comecon, which would make it possible to

125 Ibidem. 126 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-25, Letters Bulletin No. 16, 12 Mar 1958, p. 152. Cf. J. Kochanowski, Naczynia połączone, czyli polsko-czechosłowackie Schleichwege 1945–1989, in: Amicus Poloniae. Teksty ofiarowane profesorowi Heinrichowi Kunstmannowi w osiemdziesiątą piątą rocznicę urodzin, eds. K. Ruchniewicz, M. Zybura, Wrocław 2009, pp. 203–214. 127 AAN, MPiOS, 2/3, Memo to the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party on emigration for work, 16 Dec 1957. 128 O.  Klipa, Polskie robotnice w Czechosłowacji: czy przyjechały, by pozostać?, in: Bocznymi drogami. Nieoficjalne kontakty społeczeństw socjalistycznych 1956–1989, eds. W. Borodziej, J. Kochanowski, Warszawa 2010, p. 280; J. Kochanowski, Naczynia połączone, p. 204.

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also employ Poles in the GDR and Hungary, as both countries were also experiencing labour shortages.129 Only as a secondary option did the government consider state-supervised economic emigration to ‘economically backward’ countries – as some of the post-colonial states were called – for example assessing the option of sending Polish surplus plumbing specialists to India and to the West. In the latter case, some steps were indeed being taken: ‘The Swiss proposal, although unofficial, is worthy of consideration from the point of view of the economic benefits and from the point of view of the political and moral aspects of the matter. The proposal concerns the employment of some 50,000 – mostly unskilled – workers for a period of 5 years. The workers would earn approximately 150 dollars a month, but 50% of this labour wage would be transferred by Switzerland to Poland.130 In the end, the agreement with Switzerland came to nothing and the deal with Czechoslovakia also failed to materialise, despite the fact that some preliminary discussions had taken place on the employment of Poles in the border town of Osoblaha. The official reason given was the poor results of recruitment for work on Polish state farms (where there was a shortage of 32,000 workers) and in the construction industry (8,000). As the Board of Labour Reserves argued, the prospect of going to Czechoslovakia would make recruitment in the country even more difficult, because there was a ‘high probability that the population, in anticipation of new work opportunities abroad, would refuse to take up work offered by the employment authorities, since work abroad would seem more attractive.’131 The final nail in the coffin of these projects was hammered in by Deputy Labour Minister Tadeusz Kochanowicz, who, in a staggering understatement, informed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in April 1958 that the issue of recruitment for work in Czechoslovakia, and by implication in other countries, ‘was no longer topical’.132

129 AAN, MPiOS, 2/3, Memo to the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party on emigration for work, 16 Oct 1957. 130 Ibidem. 131 Ibidem, Board of Worker Reserves to the Presidium of PRN in Nowy Sącz, 17 Jul 1957. 132 Ibidem, T. Kochanowicz to MSZ, 22 Apr 1958.

Chapter 6

‘We, the Youth of the Atomic Age’; Or the Young Generation between Marx and Einstein ‘You don’t know the bitter taste of the disrespectful, contemptuous, or outright hostile treatment the elderly are subjected to,’ a man from Lower Silesia wrote in a letter to a radio station in August 1956. ‘Just look at how the old bow and scrape before everyone and are everywhere aware of their own vulnerability. They hear how a young whipper-snapper of a technician scolds an old engineer, how a clerk from the social promotion (formerly a janitor) strikes clownish poses in front of an old, humble lawyer, how a manager gives orders to an old clerk whose qualifications and intellect are superior to his. The elderly are treated in this manner regardless of how many years of professional work they have behind them, or their achievements, or the many years of party membership, or committed social work. […] Even if the elderly were to complain to someone, no one would stand up in their defence. They will treat the elderly person as someone oversensitive or a downright idiot.’1 It is possible that in the following year this criticism would have been less likely to arise, as some of the older generation became beneficiaries of the drive to bring back the traditional hierarchies and were able to regain their position on the basis of age and experience. The period from spring 1956 to spring 1957 had a fundamental and transformative significance for the image and situation of youth.2 The time had come for the most aware and mature universal participation of young people in political and social life to date. And indeed for a time they were highly effective.3 It was the young who were the 1 ODiZP TVP, 1050/17, Bulletin 45, 13 Aug 1956. 2 Lucjan Motyka, First Secretary of the Voivodeship Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party in Krakow had good reasons to conclude, in early April 1957, that ‘especially for the young, it was a year of disappointment, crisis of faith and loss of illusions. Confidence in socialism was shaken, often even undermined.’ ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 77, Minutes of the meeting of the Voivodeship Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party 5 Apr 1957. 3 As early as 10  November  1956, the sociologist Maria Ossowska wrote to Jerzy Giedroyć: ‘Having become intoxicated with sovereignty, the young who continue to engage in heated discussions in our Warsaw clubs have taken a vigilant attitude when it comes to guarding our civil liberties and constitutional guarantees of us being able to oversee our governance. We are joyful that so many sensible and honest young people have managed to survive the times we have left behind us.’ Archive of the Literary Institute in Paris (hereinafter: AIL), folder Osadczuk J-Osten.

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real engine and high-octane fuel of the 1956 revolution, it was they who set its pace and vibrancy, sometimes going to extremes, and at other times preventing excess. They were also probably the only generation of young people in the People’s Republic of Poland who perceived their actions as a revolution and defined them as such. The young were driven not only by anti-Stalinist political rebellion, but also by the hope for a better tomorrow in an entirely down-to-earth, ordinary sense – from the hope for a higher standard of living to the aspiration of freedom of choice in seeking a job, the music to listen to, or the colour of one’s socks. But such deep commitment on the part of some youth also led to equally deep disillusionment. ‘October 1956 was for us, the children of the war, the first and greatest battle of life,’ reminisced the writer Jarosław Abramow-Newerly. ‘We grew up amongst the ruins and the fact that our bloodless uprising ended in victory filled us with pride. Our hopes were as high as they had been in August 1944. The coming down proved all the more painful, when everything turned out to be a pipe dream. My generation could have truly “changed henceforth the old tradition” if it hadn’t had its wings clipped. Betrayed, it abandoned its romanticism and drew conclusions.’4 And the most common conclusion was simply to say goodbye to politics and move on to everyday life, which was less ideological and, although not necessarily in line with expectations, offered incomparably more opportunities. Political servility was no longer an indispensable condition to get on in life, and accepting the limited consumerism on offer brought new opportunities, including self-expression. As a result, one might risk the hypothesis that it was only then that the young became youth in the modern sense of the word.’ October was a formative experience for an entire generation of youth. Even if the most committed participants had left politics or changed their beliefs, the October experience remained embedded. ‘October 1956 therefore defined to a significant extent the entire subsequent history of the People’s Republic of Poland,’ wrote the historian Krzysztof Pomian. ‘And for us, born in the thirties, who came of age after the war, it was a breakthrough event: an experience which shaped us as a generation. It gave us the first real lesson in politics in our lives – politics that involved the masses, politics that had to reckon with spontaneity and chance. It demonstrated the capacity for self-organisation that lies within society. It provided food for thought for many years to come. It confronted each of us with choices that, in many cases, influenced our future lives. It was the beginning of our own journey.’5 4 J. Abramow-Newerly, Lwy STS-u, Warszawa 2005, p. 5. 5 K.  Pomian, O Październiku, in: Książka dla Jacka. W sześćdziesiątą rocznicę urodzin Jacka Kuronia, Warszawa 1995, p.  170. Looking at no more than just the relevant publications

The Young Generation between Marx and Einstein



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‘There is a Demand for Peace and Quiet’; Or Revolutionaries are Tired

Just as in the USSR, where youth played an important role in the implementation and maintenance of communism, also in post-war Poland, dependent on Moscow, a generation of young foot soldiers was to be bred. Its core […] would be the young people born in the late 1920s and early 1930s […]. That’s how it was supposed to be, but it turned out completely differently … Instead of foot soldiers, there sprang up rebels.’6 Hanna Świda-Ziemba7 conducted a thorough vivisection of that generation. She singled out those born between 1926 and 1930, a generation that had begun their education before the war and during it had often participated in the underground movement, usually the Home Army. They joined the Union of Polish Youth or the Polish United Workers’ Party out of genuine ideological conviction. This is what made them different from the generation born in the first half of the 1930s, who came of age as aware members of society in the new post-war Poland, and Stalinism was the only reality they knew. They had to be seen to nail their colours to the mast, and this they did without protesting too much, but often their commitment was skin-deep; they were pragmatic conformists who often did not give up completely on their former ‘petty-bourgeois’ ways, such as observance of religious practices.8 However, there were also some dyed-in-the-wool ideological activists among them, who looked up to the older comrades in the Union of Polish Youth, whom they held up as examples to follow, and whose goals and values they shared, such as altruism, social commitment, a readiness to make sacrifices, and above all a ‘sense of mission in being the vanguard, building a new and better world and rejoicing in the expression of youth, activity, and struggle.’9 This attitude often went hand in hand with criticism or an outright rejection of traditional

6 7 8 9

of the last ten or fifteen years the following spring to mind: Jesteście naszą wielką szansą”. Młodzież na rozstajach komunizmu 1944–1989, eds. P.  Ceranka, S.  Stępień, Warszawa 2009; T. Junes, Student Politics in Communist Poland: Generations of Consent and Dissent, New York 2015; J. Kochanowicz, ZMP w terenie. Stalinowska próba modernizacji opornej rzeczywistości, Warszawa 2000; J.  Sadowska, Sercem i myślą związani z Partią. Związek Młodzieży Socjalistycznej (1957–1976). Polityczne aspekty działalności, Warszawa 2010; H. Świda-Ziemba, Młodzież PRL. Portrety pokoleń w kontekście historii, Kraków 2010; M.  Wierzbicki, Związek Młodzieży Polskiej i jego członkowie. Studium z dziejów funkcjonowania stalinowskiej organizacji młodzieżowej, Warszawa 2006. R. Turski, Skoro nas nie sadzają, idziemy naprzód, in: Październik 1956…, p. 9. H. Świda-Ziemba, Młodzież PRL…, pp. 98–219. Ibidem, p. 105. Ibidem, pp. 98–99.

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values, even those represented by their closest family. Many activists amongst the intelligentsia had hang-ups about their own non-working-class origin and idealised the proletariat as the salt of the earth.10 This group of true ideological believers, born between 1926 and 1935, made their mark on the history of the ‘Polish October Revolution’, with the older followers acting as theoreticians setting the direction for the younger acolytes. They differed significantly from the generation of 1936–1941, whose representatives participated in the compulsory rituals of the party, while often belonging to a kind of moral opposition that rejected Stalinist ideology with its puritanism and collectivism in favour of an individualism and consumerism that followed Western models.11 They found it easiest to part with their ideology, since they only participated in October as witnesses and as more or less accidental fellow-travellers, rather than conscious actors. Daniel Passent, born in 1938, recalled: ‘Imbued with a revolutionary spirit, I went with Andrzej Garlicki […] to Katowice to disband the local Union of Socialist Youth, and to set up some new organisation, but we failed in both. The only thing we succeeded in doing was eating some unforgettable buns in a café. We were café revolutionaries. I didn’t understand much of any of this.’12 But back to their older colleagues. It seems paradoxical that it was precisely this group – the most distinctive vanguard of the thaw – that had not long before played such an important role in the implementation of Stalinism. They had instilled fear even among people much older than themselves and forced them into conformist behaviour, a kind of ‘make pretend’ life, which Karol Modzelewski aptly described thus: ‘a mixture of fear, falsehood and feigned enthusiasm with genuine, sometimes even fanatical support for the dictatorship and its actions. It is impossible to disentangle this knot, because almost everyone uttered the same words and sentences and chanted the same slogans, and, if they did not fully believe in them, they did not reveal their disbelief, not even in front of their own children.’13 And yet, how had it come about thatformer, and quite recent, Stalinist fundamentalists went on to lead the anti-Stalinist rebellion, and in doing so were accepted with enthusiasm by society? It seems that a concatenation of several factors was at work. On the one hand, they were perceived as liberators from Stalin’s ‘occupation’. As Hanna Świda-Ziemba noted, ‘society that had been battered by Stalinism […] 10

K.  Modzelewski, Zajeździmy kobyłę historii. Wyznania poobijanego jeźdźca, Warszawa 2013, p. 70. 11 Świda-Ziemba, pp. 159–161; Wierzbicki, Postawy …, pp. 64–65. 12 D. Passent, Passa [talking to Jan Ordyński], Warszawa 2012, p. 80. 13 K. Modzelewski, Zajeździmy kobyłę historii…, p. 60.

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treated the thaw like a breath of fresh air, of truth; people got an inkling of a different kind of life. That is why young people who criticised everything that had been oppressive were looked upon with sincere sympathy.’14 On the other hand, many of the citizens of the People’s Republic of Poland tied their future to the prevailing political system. They did not want it to be dismantled, but merely reformed. The young leftists held out just such a prospect – a chance of a third way, something between syndicalism and social democracy.15 For some of the young fundamentalists, the period that followed the death of Stalin in 1953, and particularly the years 1955–1956, brought about a veritable ideological earthquake. While they remained faithful to the idea, they could no longer abide its embodiment. Many could see clearly that reality was far from the image they were themselves propagating, often with great commitment.16 Stalin’s youth organisation was a school of servility – but not just that. At the same time, active participation encouraged research and debate; it instilled sensitivity to social issues coupled with a sense of justice and equality, all along developing an affirmative attitude towards workers. The more the erosion of the system became evident, the more the political horizon of quite a number of young activists broadened, even if this was often a painful experience. This is well reflected in the memoirs of Karol Modzelewski, a historian and politician who would later become one of the leading figures of the democratic opposition. Between 1954 and 1956 he became convinced ‘time and again that the foundation of the indoctrination to which I and my generation had been subjected was a gigantic lie. Now it had collapsed in collision with the truth, and as a result my view of the world fell apart. This new information had to be understood and somehow explained in order to make sense of it and to piece together a new world view from the shards. Most of my peers found themselves in a similar situation in the spring of 1956.’17 The press became a tool for shaping that generation, especially the popular weekly Po prostu, which from 1954 made an effort to explain the world and point the way forward.18 Its editors successfully kept breaking yet more barriers and taboos, taking up new, forbidden subjects – from the Home Army to the crisis of the Union of Polish Youth. In the face of still effective censorship, it involved, at least until the spring of 1956 being familiar with the coded 14 15 16 17 18

Świda-Ziemba, pp. 294–295. A. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna w PRL 1945–1980, London 1994, p. 71. Ibidem. Modzelewski, Zajeździmy kobyłę historii …, p. 81. Cf. D. Rafalska, Między marzeniami a rzeczywistością. Tygodnik “Po prostu” wobec głównych problemów społecznych i politycznych Polski w latach 1955–1957, Warszawa 2008; Przeperski, Sasanka (eds.), Nie tylko “Po prostu”…

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messages, forcing the reader to decipher the truth from pointers, euphemisms and allusions.19 There were, of course, many more factors at work that were shaping the attitudes and ways of thinking of the younger generation – from the impact (if hard to evaluate) of the songs and poems from the student theatres to the Warsaw Youth and Students Festival in the summer of 1955, with the clubbing lifestyle promoted by Po prostu, not forgetting the Poem for Adults by Adam Ważyk, published in August 1955 in Nowa Kultura, which provided a ‘painful but invigorating impulse’.20 That was all upping the ante. The momentum – set in motion by the 20th Congress of the CPSU, with Khrushchev’s supposedly secret paper soon made public, and the reshuffle of the highest echelons of power necessitated by the death of the First Secretary of the PZPR Central Committee Bolesław Bierut on 12 March 1956 – only slowed down a year later. The ferment spread in everwider circles, not excluding students of the Main School of Foreign Service, theoretically the forge of the most trusted cadres. Nota bene, it was they who, thanks to having easier access to sources of information than their peers, ‘had a window on the world that was open wider and also more open minds’.21 The list of issues under debate thus became longer, such as curricula, the autonomy of the universities or the removal of some disciplines, also widened. The structure of the Union of Polish Youth (ZMP) came under scrutiny – its statute, role, democratisation and relations with the PZPR (Polish United Workers’ Party).22 The boundary between theory and practice, between discussion and taking action, was being crossed more and more boldly. What was being intuitively tested was the boundary of consent – in the absence of any reaction from the authorities, pushed back further and further.23 More and more frequently, voices were heard that there was nothing left worth saving in the ZMP, that a new organisation ought to be created, and not necessarily under the patronage of the Party. The first ‘revolutionary groups’ were forming at universities and they were not operating in a vacuum but were, rather, looking to share experiences, so that for example delegates from the Gdansk Polytechnic would travel to Warsaw, Łódź, Katowice, Wrocław and Szczecin, while delegates from Olsztyn would seek further know-how in the capital. Some young people began

19 20 21 22 23

M. Głowiński, Kręgi obcości. Opowieść autobiograficzna, Kraków 2010, pp. 200–201. Świda-Ziemba, p. 281. S. G. Cichocki, Nasza niedoszła partia, in: Październik 1956…, p. 103. The article entitled Co robić?, published in “Po prostu” (8 Apr 1956), gave rise to an open discussion. A. Bratkowski, Nasz rok (1953–2003), Warszawa 2003, p. 61.

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to ostentatiously surrender their ZMP identity cards, and specific groups were being dissolved, as for instance that at the Szczecin University of Technology.24 The so-called clubbing life flourished in big cities, but it also came to life on the outskirts, striking a ‘blow against the shabby backwardness of the small town. It was a blow to the musty “social consensus” of the confessional, the corner shop and the cushy chair in the office.’25 The initiatives taken up by the young teachers, doctors, engineers and lawyers were breaking through, albeit with considerable difficulty, becoming an important factor in building the foundations of civil society. On 28 June 1956, simultaneously with the bloodily suppressed protest in Poznań, delegates of 130 clubs meeting in Warsaw established the National Centre of Intelligentsia Clubs.26 The coincidence was purely coincidental, yet poignant. The Poznań protests proved a catalyst for the already germinating idea of workers’ self-government, which was immediately picked up by young leftist rebels, since it dove-tailed perfectly with their ‘revolutionary Prometheism’, aimed at transforming reality. Young workers, such as Lechosław Goździk, the twenty-five-year-old head of the Primary Party Organisation (POP) at the Warsaw-based Fabryka Samochodów Osobowych (FSO) – an incubator of the Workers’ Councils, sought contact with young intellectuals. The same was true in the steelworks new town Nowa Huta and in other centres. ‘We established contacts with the factories,’ recalled Jacek Kuroń – a prominent opposition leader, who after the fall of communism would join the government, but who at that time was a political activist – ‘we held discussions at the university and among the workers. That is how October began, completely unnoticed.’27 The young revisionists recognised the watershed for what it was, echoing the assessment of the events by the journalists Ryszard Turski and Eligiusz Lasota, the editor of Po prostu: ‘What has happened in our country? To put it as simply and succinctly as possible: the country has undergone a revolution. A genuine economic, political, social and ideological revolution.’28 The newspapers, the reports of the security forces and the diary entries of the contemporaries followed by their published memoirs – regardless of whether they concerned Warsaw, Krakow, Zakopane or Białystok – unanimously show that the weeks, and some would say – months, that followed the breakthrough 8th Plenum of the PZPR (19 to 21  October  1956) was a singular time: extremely 24 25 26 27 28

AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3859, Field reports, 28 May 1956, pp. 207–208. J. Ambroziewicz, Z. Grzelak, Osiem miesięcy na ziemi obiecanej, PP, 16, 15 Apr 1956. J. Mikke, Nie żałuję niczego, in: Październik 1956…, p. 60. Kuroń, Wiara i wina …, p. 107. Polski Październik, PP, 44, 28 Oct 1956.

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active and tense, filled with pride, hope and disappointment. A student at Warsaw University, Andrzej Krzysztof Wróblewski, later a well-known journalist, wrote in his diary on 21  October  1956: ‘I don’t know whether today one should say “we have experienced” or “we are experiencing” a revolution, but it has become certain in the last few days that we do have a revolution. Things are happening! People are extremely excited, and at the same time full of poise.’29 Stefan Bratkowski, later a journalist, but at the time a student in Krakow, was, even a mere three months later, unable to ‘reconstruct the events at the turn of October and November, as the events were coming up thick and fast’, while his brother observed that ‘it was hot and probably there weren’t many of us who did not participate in what was taking place in the entire student community.’30 The newly found potential for expressing ideas in a frank and almost unhindered manner, coupled with a sense of being able to exert a decisive influence on the course of events, led to a veritable outcrop of various sociopolitical clubs, ideas for new periodicals, revolutionary groups and committees throughout the country. They were formed usually (but not exclusively!) at universities and sometimes played, especially on the periphery, the role of singular, temporary power hubs. A good example is the activity of the Krakow Student Revolutionary Committee, whose delegates ‘travelled everywhere, all over the Krakow voivodeship and beyond; young whippersnappers, as long as they carried our ID cards, were treated with deadly seriousness and were able to dissolve production co-operatives and party committees.’31 Young rebels had the power to dismiss local officials or replace factory managers. In Zakopane, the Revolutionary Youth Council led by Wojciech Niedziałek, a member of the Home Army in the war, brought about a spontaneous dissolution of the local branch of the Union of Youth, removal of the director of the state travel company Orbis – a former officer of the Security Office in Wrocław, appointed by a rehabilitation committee – the aim of which was to restore the good name of those with formerly frowned upon biographical facts – and the replacement of both the First Secretary of the PZPR City Committee and the Chairman of the Presidium of the City Council.32 On some occasions, young people would incite radical action. Thus it was in Białystok, 29 30 31 32

A. K. Wróblewski, Dzienniki zabrane przez bezpiekę, Warszawa 2008, p. 76. S.  Bratkowski, Pod znakiem pomidora, in: Październik 1956: pierwszy wyłom w systemie, Bunt, młodość i rozsądek, ed. S.  Bratkowski, Warszawa 1996, p.  75; A.  Bratkowski, Nasz rok …, p. 68. Ibidem; Cf. J. Huczkowski, Studencki Komitet Rewolucyjny w Krakowie i jego losy, in: Polski Październik na Uniwersytecie Jagiellońskim, ed. R. Klimek, Kraków 2004, p. 19. J. Kochanowski, Wolne miasto …, pp. 143–152.

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where on 24 October groups of students went around schools, preparing the ground for a rally to call for a public trial of the Security Office agents, the Citizens’ Militia and ‘all those at the top’.33 On other occasions, the young activists were a restraining influence, as when preventing the above-mentioned Andrzej Bratkowski from the SKR in Bochnia meting out rough justice to a local school headmistress or in Nowy Targ to the commandant of the District Security Office.34 The revolutionary wave kept rising, most of all in provincial Poland, until early November 1956. To take Białystok – an average Polish medium-size town par excellence – the Revolutionary Committee was formed on 3  November at the Medical Academy, on November 6 at the Teacher Training College, on November 7 at the city theatre, and on November 8 at the Engineering School. “They are temporary organizations,” commented the Białystok committee of the PZPR, “formed in the absence of a progressive, active and creative youth organisation; their aim is to carry out with consistency the Polish October Revolution initiated by the 8th Plenary of the Party.’35 They had hit the nail on the head: the ZMP was indeed in disarray and was not playing any unifying role. On the other hand – although the youth initiatives constituted a veritable archipelago of various groups and communities – maintaining a tactical alliance with the party liberals kept alive the hope that the young movement could yet emerge as a kind of third force, representing the real goals of the Polish ‘October Revolution’.36 However, for this to happen it was imperative that the youth movement be relatively quickly institutionalised. This was not easy due to the aforementioned polarisation, which meant that the working class, the intelligentsia and agricultural youth nurtured different goals. The compromised and discredited Union of Polish Youth could not become the foundation of a youth organisation fit for the new era. The analysis published on 21  October  1956, the final day of the 8th Plenary, in the influential and opinion-forming daily Sztandar Młodych,37 which targeted young people, encapsulated the problem. The authors – themselves activists of the Union of Polish Youth – did not 33

M.  Kietliński, A.  Pasko, Na Fali Października 1956 roku. Białostocczyzna w świetle dokumentów archiwalnych, Białystok 2006, pp. 116–118. 34 A. Bratkowski, Nasz rok …, pp. 69–71. 35 Kietliński, Pasko, op. cit., p. 153. 36 A.  Friszke, Polski Październik 1956 z perspektywy półwiecza, in: idem, Przystosowanie i opór. Studia z dziejów PRL, Warszawa 2007, p. 112; D. Gawin, Wielki zwrot. Ewolucja lewicy i odrodzenie idei społeczeństwa obywatelskiego 1956–1076, Warszawa 2013, p. 25. 37 A. Bratkowska, A. Drożdżyński, F. Rapaport, M. Renke, Myśli o Związku Młodzieży, SM, 21 Oct 1956.

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‘Revolutionary’ youth organisations were a widespread phenomenon in late 1956. One of the best known was the Revolutionary Youth Union (RZM) in Zakopane, not least because of its founder and chairman Wojciech Niedziałek (1922–1995), who had been in the sights of the communist political police for more than three decades. (Zakopane, November–December 1956. Photo: Irena Jarosińska, KARTA Centre collection.)

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The ‘discussion fence of progressive youth’, in operation in Zakopane at the end of 1956, was an original idea of the Zakopane Revolutionary Youth Union. This form of public communication through wall displays, made famous by the Chinese ‘wall newspapers’, only became popularised in Poland a decade after the Polish October. (Zakopane, November–December 1956. Photo: Irena Jarosińska, KARTA Centre collection.)

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spare bitter words, describing the organisation as an artificial creation, a juggernaut unconnected with any idea. They considered it unrealistic to revive the youth movement on the basis of the ZMP, postulating the creation of a Union of Communist Youth, which, using ‘native traditions of the progressive youth movement, [would] also restore the dignity and good standing of the communist Polish youth movement, which [had] been taken away from it by provocation’. In contrast to the bureaucratic ZMP, they envisaged the Union of Communist Youth (KZM) ‘as a union in which all members are equal, in which no function gives the right to elevate oneself above others’ per se, but rather involves more duties and greater personal responsibility.’ They realised that such a near-utopian solution would be neither quick nor a mass social movement: ‘How and when to do all this? […] Certainly not right now, right away. A period of preparation is certainly needed. […] Today, we can only be certain of one thing – a discourse is in order.’ In the weeks that followed, that is exactly what happened, practically to the exclusion of all action, with various centres trying to win people over to their views or trying to impose them. On 24 November, during the Warsaw Meeting of Activists (workers, intelligentsia, students, and representatives of schools and the military), the formation of the Revolutionary Youth Union (RZM) was announced: a Marxist-Leninist organisation – but one that drew also on more than just the communist traditions of the youth movement. ‘The Union will wage an uncompromising struggle against all remnants of the past period, regardless of who represents them, and introduce with revolutionary courage Leninist norms in relations between people.’38 A Co-ordinating Committee was elected, and it announced that a constitution would be drafted. Four days later, on 28 November, at the Jagiellonian University and the Lenin Steelworks in Nowa Huta, the Revolutionary Youth Union’s own organisational committees were set up, declaring the ‘political unity of the workers, peasants, students and young intelligentsia.’39 The 30th of November was particularly eventful, with the establishment of the Christian Democratic Union of Young Democrats, whilst students and employees of Warsaw University established the Socialist Youth Union, simultaneously dissolving the Union of Polish Youth.40 The organisational committees of the recently established unions – Union of Communist Youth (KZM), Workers’ Youth Union (ZMR) and Union of Socialist Youth (ZMS) – supported 38 Młodzież Warszawy postuluje: Nadszedł czas utworzenia Rewolucyjnego Związku Młodzieży, TL, 25 Nov 1956. 39 SM, 29 Nov 1956. 40 Powstają nowe organizacje młodzieżowe, ŻW, 1 Dec 1956.

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by the editors of Po prostu and Walka Młodych, called for the creation of a uniform organisation on a national scale, proposing that a founding meeting be held on 5 December.41 The imminence of the deadline was a considerable challenge for both the supporters of the idea and its opponents. The former were prompted towards a consolidation and accelerated formulation of programmes. On the other hand, while youth communities became more socially active, they tended to lean towards evolution rather that revolution, having adopted a less ideological and more pragmatic approach to reality. This could be observed particularly well in factories, technical universities, and smaller centres, where the young workers, engineers and economists – unlike their humanist peers – were more concerned with practical issues, such as the economy, the functioning of enterprises and concerns related to making a living, than with the complex problems of Marxism.42 Another group consisted of the former apparatchiks of the Union of Polish Youth. While in the metropolises, especially in intelligentsia and university circles, they were not necessarily ostracised, in the provincial industrial plants, they were thrown overboard, with the stigma of being Stalinists attached, depriving them of any possibility of taking action.43 Fearing not only political exclusion, but also the loss of their livelihood, they became natural allies of the Gomułka party leadership, which eagerly exploited the legitimising power of the youth movement, but had no intention of supporting the creation of a social democratic party, which the nationwide Revolutionary Youth Union could easily have turned into. A trial of strength took place at the national Congress of Revolutionary Youth, which finally opened on 6  December in Warsaw’s Palace of Culture and Science. Instead of the planned 800, some 1,400 delegates arrived, and no wonder that the assembly hall was pullulating with palpable excitement. The main point of contention was the number of potential organisations. The atmosphere became so heated that there was a threat to send people home without any binding decisions having been made, but finally committees were appointed to work out the programme and statute of the Revolutionary Youth Union, which, as it was stressed, ‘already actively exists and has proved itself to be functioning in practice’.44 Success had, however, been proclaimed too soon, because on the same day (7 December) in Katowice a rival Union of Worker Youth (ZMR) was established, bringing together mainly former Union of Polish 41 Propozycja zwołania krajowej narady przedstawicieli grup rewolucyjnych, SM, 288, 2 Dec 1956. 42 Sadowska, Sercem i myślą …, p. 60. 43 J.  Wielgosz, Związek Młodzieży Robotniczej w Krakowie (grudzień 1956), in: Polski Październik na Uniwersytecie Jagiellońskim …, p. 193. 44 ŻW, 8 Dec 1956.

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Youth activists from Upper Silesia, Krakow, Opole and Szczecin, thus adding yet another confusing abbreviation to the alphabet soup of vying organisations. The ZMR, supported by the authorities and attractive to a considerable number of young people from industrial hubs, quickly became an important supra-regional player.45 As a counterbalance to the ‘revisionist’ Revolutionary Youth Union (RZM), it gave the authorities a strong advantage when dealing with the youth problem. On  13  December, the Politburo of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR) approved the creation of local organisations of workers and rural youth, and of their autonomous counterparts at universities, but drew the line at agreeing to any unifying national structure.46 Gomułka immediately conveyed this to the RZM delegation. ‘There will be no Revolutionary Youth Union (ZMR),’ he said, ‘There will be a Union of Workers Youth, and within it there may exist an Academic Union of Socialist Youth – by the way, it’s up to you to make up the name yourselves. The students would like to lead the workers?! The party will not allow that. These are two distinct communities – and there will be two distinct organisations. You want a common political programme, you say? You want to play together? Play soccer. The student movement is anarchist and in many cases counter-revolutionary. We shall put paid to that. […] Learn one thing: the party is always right. Whoever speaks against the party will be swept aside. What the party says and the party wants, the party gets.’47 Significantly, however, Wróblewski sums up the situation as follows in his diary: ‘Here there is really nothing to comment on. Unity must be preserved at all costs until the elections. For the party to lose in the elections means immediate Russian intervention. […] Afterwards, we will try to achieve unity among the most serious political force – the youth – who will get the bastards the fuck out: be it Zambrowski, Cyrankiewicz, or Gomułka. And now I’m off to see Agnieszka.’48 These words demonstrate up to a point the political intransigence and naivety of the young radicals, but above all their suspension between two worlds – the public and the private. The young people increasingly felt tired of, and soon discouraged by and bitter about the former, naturally sought refuge in the latter. ‘I was deathly tired of the whole of the last year, and especially the last month,’ Stefan Bratkowski recalled the end of 1956, ‘I believed that my role 45

B. Hillebrandt, Sytuacja polityczna PRL w roku 1956…, p. 37; Sadowska, Sercem i myślą.., p. 60. 46 Centrum władzy. Protokoły posiedzeń kierownictwa PZPR. Wybór z lat 1949–1970, eds. A. Dudek, A. Kochański, K. Persak, Warszawa 2000, pp. 244–245. 47 Wróblewski, Dzienniki …, pp. 108–109. 48 Ibidem, p. 109.

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as a “professional revolutionary” […] was over. […] Most people like me reacted in a similar way: we were yearning to return to normality.’49 Seemingly, everything went on as usual. The campaign before the parliamentary elections scheduled for 20  January  1957 was unusually stormy by socialist standards, thanks in no small measure to the involvement of young people. The alliance of young revolutionaries with the party liberals, although not without friction, was still holding. However, in the press, even in such militantly oriented papers as Sztandar Młodych, one could sense a shift of emphasis, articles pointing to the chaos that characterised ‘revolutionary youth’,50 or suggestions that local chapters of the Revolutionary Youth Union should be set up for a specific purpose, e.g. to provide support for elections to Workers’ Councils or the Sejm. At the same time, there was opposition to discrimination against former activists of the Union of Polish Youth, on the grounds that ‘it is not the label, but the concrete activity of a person that constitutes the basis for his or her evaluation.’51 Retaining these ex-Union of Polish Youth activists was important in view of the plans to unify the youth movement on the one hand, and the decreasing political activity of youth on the other. The deepening alienation became apparent when neither the formal amalgamation of the ZMR and the RZM into the Union of Socialist Youth during the youth activists’ convention in Warsaw on 2 and 3 January 1957, nor the decision to dissolve the ZMP a week later, aroused much interest.52 The disillusionment of the young with politics was further exacerbated by the Sejm elections, in particular Gomułka urging voters to ‘tick all the boxes’ – thereby accepting all the party candidates by default – which was unfavourable for youth-supported candidates, who were usually placed lower down the list, and were thus unlikely to win a mandate. The election results reaffirmed the position of Gomułka and his team, allowing for radical moves against youth such as refusing to recognise either the Christian Democratic Union of Youth (ZMD) or the Wici peasant party, dissolving revolutionary committees and closing down one periodical after another. With the creation of the Union of Socialist Youth (ZMS), the wind was in the sails of not only the former activists of the Union of Polish Youth, who saw an opportunity for themselves but also the party apparatchiks, who – especially in the provincial backwaters – could finally return to hands-on control over the younger generations. And in smaller industrial towns, the young 49 50 51 52

S. Bratkowski, Pod znakiem pomidora, pp. 78, 80. SM, 20 Dec 1956. SM, 23 Dec 1956. Wróblewski, Dzienniki …, pp. 122–123; Lipski, Dzienniki 1954–1957, p. 228.

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were joining the ZMS; through pinning their colours to the socialist mast they saw a chance to protect themselves from downsizing – their guiding principle economic considerations rather than ideological issues.53 The young radicals did not lay down their arms completely. For example, in Krakow alone, 23 clubs, associations and committees were still active at the turn of February  1957. An attempt at a defensive strategy was made in March  1957 with the launching of the Political Centre of the Academic Left (POLA) in the city, followed in early June by the dissolution of the Students’ Revolutionary Committee which continued its activity with funding from and under the aegis of the ZMS. In Poznań, students demanded the release of political prisoners in February 1957, in Wrocław they demonstrated against the closure of the journal Poglądy.54 At times, the resistance took a surprising turn, such as the forming of Revolutionary Committees for the Fight to Restore Religion in Schools in Krakow.55 In Zakopane, the activist Wojciech Niedziałek who flirted with anarchism, used as a propaganda forum the ‘discussion fence, “on which all sorts of questions were posted to individual activists and even the Ministry, demanding answers be posted in the same place.”’56 However, these were the last gasps of the youth revolution, and with it young people’s hopes of playing an independent political role faded away. The swan song was the October riots following the dissolution of the social and cultural weekly Po prostu. But the symbolic final kiss of death was the significant, if overlooked, words of Władysław Gomułka at the Constitutional Convention of the Union of Socialist Youth on 25 – 27 April 1957: ‘The life of the nation is expressed in the process of one generation replacing another. The old will be replaced by the young, and you will take our place. That is the law of life. Another law of life, just as unchangeable as the first one, is that the old generation is always the teacher of the young generation. The young are taught by the old and the young must learn from the old. This is true not only in the field of professional qualifications – this applies to life as a whole. […] Each new generation […] has more knowledge and experience than the previous generation. It is even smarter than the old one. […] This is the reason that the young tend 53 APL, KP PZPR in Lublin, 881, Information on the situation in the ZMS in the Lublin Voivodeship, Feb 1957, pp. 143–144. 54 IPN BU 2396/161 vol. VI, pp.  7, 14–15, 17, 19; J.  Michalewski, Mój Październik 1956, in: Klimek, p. 40; Sadowska, Sercem i myślą …, pp. 76–78. 55 ANKr, KW PZPR Kr, 75, Minutes of the meeting of the Voivodeship Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party, 13–14 Feb 1957, p. 242. 56 Ibidem, 442, Analysis of the situation in hostile circles from 20 January until the present time, 22 Feb 1957.

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to look down on the old. They consider themselves better, wiser than they. […] The young, however, often fail to see the truth that the superior armament of each next young generation comes from the combined experience acquired in the school of life by all the preceding generations.’57 This was not the only symbolic statement made to coincide with the official birth of the ZMS. Jerzy Grotowski, later a famous theatre reformer but at the turn of 1956 and 1957 a staunch youth activist in Krakow, felt discouraged and embittered. He made it clear that there must be no return to the aberrations of Stalinism, yet he pointed with concern to the collapse of the democratisation process, the increasingly bold interference of censorship and the return of bureaucrats and apparatchiks compromised under the previous regime. Grotowski’s assessment of the condition of the country was bleak: ‘at the moment it is still closer to the 19th century […] than to the atomic age. A country of dark nooks and crannies, where bureaucracy, cliques, coteries, thievery, speculation, waste, human injustice, ignorance, superstition, still nestle, presided over by the priest houses – a country, where people are tormented by nightmares, where people are full of foreboding about whether they will be fired from work or hounded out – today, tomorrow or next month. […] In this country, youth longs for civilisation, for a humane standard of living, for justice, for being able to decide their own destinies, for technological progress. This yearning is their lodestar. Civilisation and freedom – there is no other socialism; Karl Marx and Albert Einstein.’58 Yet the scales of history were clearly tipping in favour of Einstein, supported by the precursor of hedonism, Aristippus of Cyrene, who taught that the goal of life was the pursuit of pleasure – if need be, by adapting the prevailing circumstances to that end.

‘All They Want is a Better Standard of Living …’; Or the Findings of a Certain Questionnaire I’d like to take a scooter for a run and see the Eiffel Tower in the sun, to attend a vaudeville and get a little naughty thrill.

57 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3869, Minutes of the Constitutional Congress of the ZMS, 25–27 Apr 1957, p. 16. 58 Ibidem, pp. 41–43; Grotowski’s statement was published in “Walka Młodych” on 7 May 1957 under the title Cywilizacja i wolność – nie ma innego socjalizmu.

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I’d like my shoes made out of plastic, and see a bullfight – how fantastic! And watch a Sophia Loren movie in the evening – oh, how groovy! I’d like to get a TV set, see Mona Lisa too, you bet! And to visit Cinerama to experience real drama. I would like to win the pools, get a car – but Skoda rules! Glug Coca-Cola … yes, with glee! And no vodka – not for me! Visit La Scala I’d like, too and, let me say without ado, I’d like to smoke opium, if just once, and holiday in the South of France … Finally, to find out I would like: am I wrong – or am I right that these little dreams of mine could … democracy undermine?59 The above poem can rightly be viewed as a manifesto of the young generation, all the more important, since it was published in the spring of 1956, when changes were beginning to show, even if they were not immediately obvious for what they were. The events of the politically hot autumn of that year did suppress the material and cultural longings – but only momentarily. Political emotions soon subsided, but the dreams of getting a breath of fresh air after the years spent in Stalin’s dour parochialism did not. On the contrary: Poland’s very own ‘October Revolution’ loosened the restrictions, opened new possibilities, broadened the horizons and expanded the scope for dreaming by radically changing the angle of vision. In embracing this new Zeitgeist, young Poles were not an exception in this respect, but a cog in the engine of a global rebellion of youth, rejecting old values which no longer corresponded with the changing 59 Włodzimierz Scisłowski, Chciałbym, “Ziemia i Morze”, No.  2, 1956, p.  7. I would like to thank Maciej Górecki for drawing my attention to this poem.

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economic, social or cultural landscape.60 Post-war poverty was becoming more and more a thing of the past, and by the mid-1950s many goods had become more accessible to workers and to some of the middle class, although this was still not a prevalent phenomenon; the real breakthrough in consumption would only come at the end of the decade and the beginning of the following one.61 It was enough, however, in the words of the German sociologist Helmut Schelsky, to lead to a ‘levelled-out’ society of a ‘petty-bourgeois middle class, as little proletarian as it was bourgeois.’62 Young people spontaneously concurred in that diagnosis; on the one hand they were driven by wishing to make use of their difficult (post-)war childhood, and on the other, the need to demonstrate that they did not conform, and were in opposition to, the prevailing scale of values. Significantly, at more or less the same time young people, first of all in Europe, but also e.g. in Japan or South Africa, started to draw on similar role models and behave similarly. Although there were differences between the British Teddy Boys, the East- and West-German Halbstarken, the Danish laeder-jakken, Spanish gamberros, Dutch nozems, French blousons noirs or Viennese Plattenbrüder, they all set out to distinguish themselves – whether through their behaviour, dress code or hairstyle – from the traditional, outdated world of adults.63 They drew their models from across the ocean, where their peers, who had not been through the traumatic experiences of Europe and Japan, quickly crossed the cultural-consumption border and became ‘modern’ youth in the current meaning of the word. The term ‘teenagers’ had been coined in the USA a mere decade earlier, as a marketing term that recognised the spending power of adolescents. European teenagers imitated the behaviour, gestures, mannerisms, hairstyles and music of idols from across the 60 See W. Lindner, Jugendprotest seit den fünfziger Jahren. Dissens und kultureller Eigensinn, Opladen 1996. 61 T. Grotum, Die Halbstarken. Zur Geschichte einer Jugendkultur der 50er Jahre, Frankfurt– New York 1994, pp. 72–74. 62 Grotum, Die Halbstarken …, p. 70. 63 K.  Ko, Jugendproteskleidung: Halbstarke, Existenzialisten, Teddyboys, Rocker, Gammler, Hippies. Mode und Desing der 1950er und 1960er Jahre, München 2014; K.  Nathaus, “All dressed up and nowhere to go?”: Spaces and conventions of youth in 1950s Britain, “Geschichte und Gesellschaft. Zeitschrift für Sozialwissenschaft”, Bd.  41, 2015, H.  1, pp.  40–70; The German Halbstarken are the best researched of these phenomena in central Europe; in the 1950s there were in-depth analytical studies on this trend: M.T. Vaerting, E. Elmerich, Unverstandene Jugend, Darmstadt-Eberstadt 1956; H. Schelsky, Die skeptische Generation. Eine Soziologie der deutschen Jugend, Düsseldorf [i.a.] 1957; G.  Kaiser, Randalierende Jugend. Eine soziologische und kriminologische Studie über die sogenannten “Halbstarken”, Heidelberg 1959; T.  Grotum, Die Halbstarken…; W.  Janssen, Halbstarke in der DDR. Verfolgung und Kriminalisierung einer Jugendkultur, Berlin 2010.

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ocean, above all James Dean and Marlon Brando. They were not averse to acts of active rebellion, sometimes provoking – as, for example, the Teddy Boys or Halbstarken had, especially in the years 1956–1958 – clashes with the police to such an extent that Rock ‘n Roll often came hand in hand with riots.64 While the British Teddy Boys or German Halbstarken were both aggressive and American, the further east you went, to the socialist and then Stalinist countries, the youth subcultures split into two, usually barely connected, strands. Alongside the proletarian hooligans, there also existed a youth ‘moral opposition’: bikiniarze in Poland, magalambista in Romania, styljagi in the USSR, potápka in Czechoslovakia or jampec in Hungary.65 All these subcultures had endemic characteristics of their own, with a common denominator of fascination with all things Western; their clothes, hairstyles and music so reviled by the Stalinist authorities were a protest not so much against the social structure – as they were in the case of their Western counterparts – but against the political system itself.66 But these usually spontaneous behaviours were not only a protest, but also a declaration of modernity and identification with the contemporary world outside the regime in their respective countries. In the interviews with young people that the sociologist Hanna Świda-Ziemba conducted from 1954 onward, the phrase that kept recurring in that era was, “We, the modern youth’.67 From 1956 onwards, the claim was largely justified, and the previous ‘shared norms of peer groups […] lost their inherently oppositional character. They could start to be treated as an expression of “normality”. Customs, inevitably, ceased to be an ostentatious manifestation, an ironic challenge thrown at political and educational reality on a daily basis.’68 Once the euphoria of the 64

G.  Pearson, Hooligan. A history of respectable fears, London–Basingstoke 1983, p.  24; Grotum, Die Halbstarken.., pp. 84–85. 65 Czechoslovakia: Jaboud [Jaroslav Boudný] Trafouš, páskové, Vyšehradští jezdci a jiné vzpomínky. Dětství a mládí v Praze padesátých let, Praha 2011; Soviet Union: J.  Fürst, Friends in Private, Friends in Public: The Phenomenon of the Kompaniia among the Soviet Youth in the 1950s and 1960s, in: Borders of Socialism. Private Spheres of Soviet Russia, ed. L. H. Siegelbaum, New York 2006, pp. 229–249; G. Tsipursky, Coercion and Consumption. The Khrushchev Leadership’s Ruling Style in the Campaign against “Westernized” Youth, 1954–1964, in: Youth and Rock in the Soviet Bloc. Youth Cultures, Music, and the State in Russia and Eastern Europe, ed. W. J. Risch, Lanham 2015, pp. 55–77. Poland: R. P. Potocki, The life and Times of Poland’s “Bikini Boys”, “The Polish Review”, Vol. XXXIX, No.  3, 1994, pp.  259–290; M.  Chłopek, Bikiniarze. Pierwsza polska subkultura, Warszawa 2005; Hungary: S. Horváth, The Making of the Gang. Consumers of the Socialist Beat in Hungary, [in:] Youth and Rock in the Soviet Bloc…, pp. 101–116. 66 M. Chłopek, Bikiniarze, p. 38. Por. Świda-Ziemba, pp. 167–178. 67 Świda-Ziemba, p. 163. 68 Ibidem, p. 305.

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autumn of 1956 had subsided, politics ceased to be a major point of reference. ‘From our contacts with young people we are in a position to say,’ the report presented during the plenary of the Krakow Voivodeship Committee of the Party in April 1957 noted, ‘that […] for a young person politics is about earning money, it is about the composition of the factory management and the Workers’ Council, it is about the functioning of the industrial administration and the foreman’s attitude to the young worker, it is about fighting […] for decent entertainment after work.’69 Indeed, young people had been recovering from Stalinism in a truly hedonistic way. The concept of ‘carnival’ regained its pre-war prominence in social life, as Western journalists70 noted, and the dress-down fancy-dress parties organised by students became the stuff of legends. In 1957, the Student Juvenalia were a festival of freedom, with triumphant parades of colourfully dressed, celebrating students taking possession of the city. The ‘Student Goats’ festivities in Poznań stood out, with their individual events – with performances by five jazz bands and students dressed as cosmonauts commented on by newspapers even in distant cities.71 At the same time, the Poznań event had such an antisystem and anti-Soviet overtone that it provoked ‘protests and indignation’ from the military, the militia, intelligentsia and workers as well as coming to the attention of the proverbial ‘Moscow’.72 A characteristic feature of the eruption of youth culture between 1956 and 1957 was a veritable flood of youth theatres, cabarets and clubs. The most important ones, such as Warsaw’s Studencki Teatr Satyryków (Student Satirical Theatre), the Stodoła and the Hybrydy clubs, or Krakow’s Piwnica pod Baranami (Cellar under the Rams) are etched in collective memory. Although those in the provincial landscape sometimes flew under the radar of Polish journalists, they were often noted by Westerners. Ernst Halperin, a well-known Swiss journalist, described with some surprise the Fourth Dimension Club in Rzeszów, which brought together around 200 young people to organise literary soirées and discussion meetings on issues ranging from Polish foreign trade to Western automation and the crisis in the institution of marriage.73 69

ANKr, PZPR KW Kr  77, Minutes of the meeting of the Voivodeship Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party 5 Apr 57. 70 For example Warschau tanz wieder!, “Revue” (Munich), 2  Mar 1957; L.  Zimmerer Ausgelassenes Silvester in Polen, “Die Welt”, 2 Jan 1958. 71 For example “Głos Koszaliński”, 8 May 1957. 72 APP, KW PZPR, 74/V/48 No. 21, pp. 115–116; Polskie Dokumenty Dyplomatyczne 1957, eds. K. Ruchniewicz, T. Szumowski, with the collaboration of P. Długołęcki, Warszawa 2006, p. 431. 73 “Münchner Merkur”, 9 Apr 1957.

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Fig. 18 Mirosław Pokora, ‘He is against!’, 3 March, 1957.

The transformed dress code of young Poles also received considerable attention. If cartoonists can be viewed as a legitimate, sensitive barometer of social trends, then in the second half of 1956 hooligans were still going strong, while the ‘bikiniarze’, or Polish beatniks, with their slim-cut jackets and loud socks practically disappeared, displaced by existentialists, with men sporting their signature black turtlenecks, stubble and artistically dishevelled hair, and women – black blouses, ponytails à la Marina Vlady or fringes modelled on Juliette Greco.74 Jazz began to replace rock n’ roll as the music of choice. New behaviours and patterns that deviate from the norm are always more visible (see the cartoon above), giving the impression of prevalence, whether justified or not. In reality, we don’t know what percentage of young people at the time were aware of the existence of Hybrydy or the Cellar under the Rams and identified with their cultural message. ‘What does Poland know today about Krakow’s youth?’, a ZMS activist complained to a journalist in the spring of 1957, ‘Just that they grow beards and hang around in Under the Rams? Who pays attention to the clean-shaven – the 99% of the males? But everyone notices the bearded 74

Cf. A.  Pelka, Z (politycznym) fasonem. Moda młodzieżowa w PRL i NRD, Gdańsk 2013; D. Williams, G. Sołtysiak, Modny PRL, Warszawa 2016.

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man.’75 The mere fact of active participation in a student club or theatre did not rule out consumerist aspirations. On the contrary, it rather expanded their scale. ‘The young openly declared their appreciation for material values,’ Hanna Świda-Ziemba noted. ‘I have not come across such a demonstrative appreciation of these values in research conducted on any other generation during the People’s Republic period. Such attitudes only became noticeable again during the transformation in the 1990s.’76 Material issues determined prestige and position in the group; they were a signpost for the future. The notion of a Western standard of living was treated as a permanent point of reference.77 What was the Polish young generation really like at the turn of 1956–1957? Sociological studies conducted at the time focused on their political rather than consumerist attitudes.78 Fortunately for researchers, the press at that time was obsessed with surveys. Of these, the survey published by  the editor-inchief of Sztandar Młodych, Marian Turski, and published in mid-February 1957, enjoyed the greatest response, also abroad.79 The questionnaire was addressed to ‘young people of the atomic age’,80 in the hope of drawing their collective portrait. The editors appealed to the readers ‘to answer the following questions honestly and as comprehensively as possible’: […] 1. Do you think it is worth believing in any ideals? To strive for them? To make a sacrifice for their sake? 2. Is it worthwhile being a hero in the 20th century? 3. Have you found your purpose in life? What is it? 4. What is your greatest dream? 5. What is your passion in life? 6. What was your greatest experience ever? 7. And what was your greatest difficulty (in the past or at present)? 8. What books do you like to read the most? (explain why, listing a few titles) 9. Do you have a ‘personal’ hero (from literature, history or living today)? 10. What films and plays do you like to see (name the ones that have made the greatest impression on you)? 75 76 77 78

J. Barszczewski, Pożyteczny kult, TL, 4 Jun 1957. Świda-Ziemba, p. 192. Świda-Ziemba, pp. 193–194. See: M. Jarosińska, H. Najduchowska, Młodzież w okresie kryzysu (Z badań pracowni socjologicznej PAN), “Nowa Kultura”, 28 Apr 1957. 79 “So sind wir”– die jungen Menschen Polens, “Die Presse”, 10 Mar 1957; Die polnische Jugend hat das Wort, “Nürnberger Nachrichten”, 14 Apr 1957. 80 The author talking to M. Turski, 9 Jul 2016; Nasza ankieta. My, młodzież wieku atomowego, SM, 16–17 Feb 1957.

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11.

Do you remember the French film Avant le déluge?81 What do you think about the attitude of its characters? 12. What kind of music do you think is most in keeping with the spirit of the 20th century? Why? 13. Are you interested in politics? 14. Five years ago, Albert Einstein said that the world was on the edge of a precipice with the development of nuclear weapons … Do you share Einstein’s pessimism? 15. What do you think about recent world events? Are you optimistic or pessimistic? The final question, No. 16, was left unformulated – besides asking the participants of the ‘atomic survey’ – as it was called – to add ‘to your answers anything you think is appropriate’. Within a few weeks, the editors had already received 510 letters in response. ‘Some answers are short and laconic, others some ten pages long. One letter arrived from a student at the Technical University in Kharkov. Another of the participants of the atomic survey wrote to us in Esperanto.’82 The survey can hardly be considered representative sociologically, of course, especially since only 80 women wrote in. And this was unquestionably a self-selected sample: well-read, mostly active young people, interested in politics, who had also taken active part in activism during the previous period. In the name of objectivity, the editors of Sztandar Młodych added this proviso: ‘In our opinion, therefore, it would be unwise to regard the findings of the survey as fully reflective of the views and moods of the entire young generation.’83 Nevertheless, thanks to the geographical and social diversity of the participants, the survey did provide valuable insights.84 Almost exactly half of the respondents (255) came from small towns, 78 from villages, 104 from Warsaw and 73 from capital cities of other voivodeships. The age of the participants ranged from 13 to 45, with the most numerously represented being those from 17 to 25 (there were as many as fifty 18-year-olds!). The largest group was secondary school pupils (100), followed by students (84), military personnel (75), white-collar workers (40), engineers and technicians (28), teachers (27), workers (26), farmers (25), craftsmen (9), the unemployed (8) and sailors (5). There was also a sprinkling 81

In the film Avant le déluge, directed by André Cayatte in 1953 a group of Paris teenagers, fearing the ‘new deluge’ in the shape of a nuclear conflict, plans a robbery that results in the death of two people. 82 Tacy jesteśmy? Konflikty. Nadzieje. Rozterki. Marzenia, SM, 26 Feb 1957. 83 Tacy jesteśmy, SM, 23–24 Mar 1957. 84 See M. Turski, Bohaterowie są zmęczeni …, “Polityka”, 24–30 Apr 1957.

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of artists, actors, geologists, economists, mathematicians and musicians.85 The source material for the survey has not survived; fortunately, we still have access to the final findings and snippets of individual contributions as they were published in Sztandar Młodych, and Kultura i Społeczeństwo, Nowa Kultura and Polityka each ran an assessment at the time.86 The insights below are derived from extracts from questionnaires published in Sztandar Młodych (issues No. 48, 26 February 1957; 52 (2/3 March 1957), 58 (9/10 March 1957) and 70 (23/24 March 1957). From the very first question one may find the answers surprising. Despite years of brazen propaganda, the majority (312) of the participants still proclaimed a belief in the regime’s ideals, even if every eighth participant (72) did so but with caveats, whereas 20 % (106) were totally opposed to them. A worker, aged 22, wrote: ‘I think it is worth keeping the faith. You have to live up to those ideals that are within human capabilities.’ A 19-year-old student echoed him: ‘An ideal, in my opinion, is a compass that guides us on our journey. A journey into the unknown is hopeless without a compass, just as life without a goal, without an ideal, is pointless and offers no hope.’ However, while the ‘pro ideals’ voices tended to follow a standard formula and lacked passion, those dissenting reflected young people’s deep disappointment and frustration, their uncertainty and discouragement. ‘For what does an “ideal” mean?’ mused a young office worker. ‘Fighting for world peace? Building socialism? For so many years we were fed such ideals until they became empty, meaningless platitudes. Grey, colourless was our youth … I don’t know what ideals one can believe in? But can one live without knowing what for? A vicious circle …’ A 24-year-old unemployed man from Warsaw, until recently an apparatchik, was more emphatic: ‘No, and again no. I did have faith in the ideals for 12 years. Then everything burst like a soap bubble. Do you sacrifice yourself for ideals? Absolutely not. What if afterwards you find out abruptly that the last ideal you held was not the ideal, either, and then what is the point of sacrificing oneself? I made sacrifices for twelve years. What’s left of it is a few dozen certificates of merit, a heap of bitterness and no job.’ A 22-year-old office worker from Warsaw declared: ‘We learnt to lie, to be hypocritical, we learnt not to show our face, because any shadow of a suspicion of “inauthenticity” could derail our career for life, cancel our plans, do away with our dreams. […] Ours was a strange generation – young without being young.’

85 Ibidem. 86 My młodzież wieku atomowego, “Kultura i Społeczeństwo”, vol. 1, 1957, book 2, pp. 225–230; M. Turski, Bohaterowie….

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Fig. 19 + 20 The thaw of 1956–1957 brought about a veritable flood of autonomous youth activity, from play and sports to debating film clubs. The authorities were unable to appropriate this movement, which had been an inheritance from the Polish October Revolution. While the tradition of the fancy dress ‘ragman’s ball’ quickly disappeared, student clubs, for example, kept going strong until the end of the People’s Republic.

‘Ragman’s Ball’ in Warsaw, 1957 (Fig. 19), and the entrance to the student club Hybrydy on Mokotowska Street in Warsaw, 1957 (Fig. 20). Photo: Tadeusz Rolke, Agencja Wyborcza.

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Others pointed to non-ideological (and non-historical) causes: ‘I am fine with not having any ideals,’ a young woman from Warsaw declared. ‘I shall be guided only by my reason, and if I allow myself to have a feeling, […] I will do it consciously, without being constrained or “infected”. I don’t want disappointments, I don’t want ups and downs.’ There were many that took a pragmatic approach. One such was a commercial trader from Warsaw: ‘you have to make sacrifices now so that there is something to eat and that is the ideal. As for other, “higher” ideals? In your dreams!’ Some were outright cynical. A student wrote: ‘I saw the following slogan on a wall in Warsaw: “Every idea put into practice turns into shit.”’ For his contemporary from Łódź, the absence of ideals was part and parcel of the zeitgeist: ‘In the nuclear age, illusions quickly fade away. You will say, and what about love, the joy of life, personal happiness? I will answer that we live on Earth, not on Mars, and in the atomic age. That is all.’ There were even fewer enthusiasts of outright heroism: for 269 participants such behaviour was rational, whilst 240 disagreed. But even those in favour did not necessarily support the traditional meaning of the concept. ‘We don’t need heroes,’ J. W. opined. ‘It’s enough to just be human, since neither socialism nor capitalism has a monopoly on compassion, on the readiness to help others, on having a deep sense of injustice.’ There was also a noticeable trend away from seemingly ingrained patterns of patriotic heroism, for young people to be willing to lay down their lives in defence of their country, as the Szare Szeregi (Grey Ranks), teenage boy scouts and girls, had done in their thousands during the Warsaw Uprising in 1944, or the child soldiers, the Lvov Eaglets, who had died defending the city of Lvov in the Polish–Ukrainian war of 1918–1919. ‘The twentieth century is the century of the greatest heroism and the greatest crimes,’ claimed a 24-year-old planner from Warsaw. ‘I believe that heroes such as the Lvov Eaglets or members of the Szare Szeregi offer a type of hero too romantic for our times, which should be replaced by another kind of hero – people with civil courage, who will fight corruption, iniquity, and human injustice.’ The participants in the survey wanted to look for heroes not on the battlefield, but rather ‘in science labs and in the courage to speak up for the truth’. As a 17-year-old student put it, ‘in the 20th century, it is worth being a hero, but not in the field of politics, simply in the field of science.’ There were 367 survey participants who professed to have a ‘goal in life’; 24 were still looking for one and 119 had already given up hope of finding one. An 18-year-old student wrote that she wanted ‘to have an attractive, joyful and interesting life’ But for the vast majority (301), the most important goal was a personal one – to start a family, to study, to get a job or a professional promotion and a decent standard of living. A young civil servant confessed, ‘My plans

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are as prosaic as they could be: I would like to earn a good wage, live well and have a certain number of “cultural experiences” per month, and that’s pretty much all for now.’ The Warsaw planner’s goal was similar: ‘to live, have decent accommodation and a civilised job’. A shop worker revealed that his everyday goal was ‘to earn a decent wage and have a decent standard of living, to dress reasonably well, and not have to walk around in cheap trousers that cost less than a 100 zloty (yes, I’m afraid so!).’ But, for the 17% of participants who proclaimed they had a life goal, more general and indeed altruistic issues were important, such as living a worthy life and contributing, at least in a small way, to the happiness of others. In this group, the genuinely enthusiastic voice of a young teacher from a village in Białystok stood out. He perceived his goal in life as ‘elevating the level of those around me’. He explained, ‘I was the first in my village to buy a radio. I was the first to get a fluorescent light, as there was not a single one in the district, apart from the one in my flat. I bought a record player and I teach songs in the village from my records. I bought the first tape recorder in the district and I record songs, conversations etc. on tapes. I devote all my earnings to this …’ On the whole, however, both the idealistic answers and those that abjured idealism tended to be similarly detached or even defeatist: ‘Nowadays, we are slaves – and not masters of our own destiny,’ with the most succinct comment calling it all ‘shit’. A ‘minimalist’ approach to life was a natural consequence of this lack of acceptance of reality, accompanied by quite pessimistic views about the future and a crisis of faith in ideals that went hand in hand with the low standard of living. As a result, the answers to the question about their ‘dreams’ were predominantly (424) very personal ones, far outstripping more general aspirations (75). The majority (174) dreamed simply of raising their standard of living, with the ultimate wish come true seen as getting their own flat, car or motorbike (‘have my own detached house,’; ‘have money and a car’). Sixty-seven people dreamed of travelling. For 41 participants, the dream was to gain a profession, as in the case of a young man from Krakow: ‘I would like to become a good geologist in the mining industry and gain a reasonable social position and a decent standard of living (I don’t have excessive requirements).’ He was not the only one with very modest dreams. A 22-year-old soldier from Grudziądz dreamt of a ‘life where you don’t have to fight for things’, while a 24-year-old worker wanted to ‘live like one should in the second half of the 20th century’. But a few did also have dreams such as the student from Zamość who wanted nothing but ‘getting a permanent subscription to Dookoła Świata (Around the World – a geographic magazine) (a) or the above-mentioned teacher from Białystok, who ‘with all [his] heart’ wanted ‘to get a good TV set and install it

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in the village’. His reason was that many people in his village had never been to the cinema. Society- or state-oriented dreams, such as, e.g., ‘to devote myself wholeheartedly to the cause of Poland and defend it’ were however, sporadic. Question No. 7, concerned their greatest difficulties, past and present, and the answers it elicited were directly related to life goals and dreams (we will return to the fifth and sixth questions in a moment). The past was rarely revisited, and if at all, it would be the most recent past. A 22-year-old militiaman commented that he found it a nightmare to have to answer ‘personal questionnaires making unsuccessful attempts to convince me that I am not responsible for my forefathers’ sins’. Since the difficulties and problems were related to the there-and-then, there were two, clearly distinct groups – those already living an independent life, for whom hardship meant problems with housing, work or meagre salaries, and young people who were still dependent on their parents, whose problems revolved around their romantic life, difficulties at school or fears about whether they would get into university. The respondents were clearly very aware and active young Poles, as evidenced by the small percentage of people devoid of any passionate interest in anything (38). The majority expressed themselves in various ways, and thus there were ‘as many different pursuits’ as the editorial board of Sztandar Młodych commented with journalistic panache, ‘as there were participants’. Nevertheless, there was indeed a broad range of interests on display: 87 respondents were passionate about books, 53 about sport, 44 about cinema, 29 about travel and 28 about science. Interestingly both music (with 24 fans) and politics did not seem to elicit as much passion; politics – despite being the explicit subject of question 13 – notched up interest barely ahead of ‘finding out about people’s characters’. There were 12 young people interested in theatre, 11 in writing (poetry and prose), 7 in reading the press, in bridge and in collecting stamps. Even lower down featured an interest in poetry, foreign languages, ‘fighting evil’, aviation, ‘desire for peace’, painting, singing, day-dreaming, being contrary, a lust for fame, crosswords, Esperanto (presumably that contribution from the author of the answer sent in that language) or Eastern philosophy … Again, the country teacher from a village near Białystok stood head and shoulders above the rest: his passion was ‘learning literally everything’, acquiring several foreign languages and completing his library (which already consisted of over 1,000 volumes in several languages). One in ten (51) participants had not experienced anything that would leave a lasting impact on their lives. Contrary to expectations, out of these young people, no more than 56 counted love among their greatest experiences. For them, ‘personal experiences’ included graduation from secondary school (20), the death of a relative (16), illness (14) or getting married (3). Two people each

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declared the following as of lasting import: going abroad, not getting a job, poverty, divorce and experiencing a fire. The remaining participants were animated mainly by the events of the previous year and by the war and the Stalinist period. For 31 young people, the most important experience of their lives was the October of 1956, and for 29 – the war, followed by prison (11), the 20th Congress of the Polish United Workers’ Party (9), the Hungarian Revolution (8) and the June bloody riots in Poznań (8). The liberation from occupation in 1944/45 was perceived as the most important experience by three people. And each of the following was chosen as their most important experience by two participants: being interrogated in the Security Office, anti-Semitism, Stalin’s death, the collapse of ideals, the dissolution of the Union of Polish Youth, the Warsaw Uprising, joining the party. Each of the following – being subjected to the reality of Auschwitz, being part of the partisan movement, Bierut’s death and being removed from the Union of Polish Youth. – were named as the most poignant experience ever by one person each. When asked about their favourite reading matter, it is probably hardly surprising that, with such memories, the largest group of participants in the survey (156) preferred light reading, especially fantasy (Lem) and crime thrillers, which included Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie – authors previously banned by censorship (books had been banned for content that did not coincide with either the ideology or picture of society desirable from the regime’s point of view). Travel books were the favourite read for 96 people and works on historical topics were also quite popular. Thus popular Polish classics were dominated by such well-known mainstream authors as Henryk Sienkiewicz, Ignacy Kraszewski, Bolesław Prus and Stefan Żeromski with a sprinkling of the most popular contemporary authors (Marek Hłasko, Janusz Meissner, Maria Dąbrowska, Arkady Fiedler and Adolf Rudnicki). A similar mixture of classics and contemporary authors was seen in the selection of favourite foreign literature. Young Poles were most likely to read Balzac, Stendhal, Hugo, Zola, Dumas and Rolland, and prose of their own time – Hemingway, Sagan, Thomas Mann, Remarque, Alexei Tolstoy, Steinbeck, Ehrenburg, Sholokhov and Caldwell. This diet was largely dictated by what the state publishers of the day – since there were no others – deemed ideologically or educationally desirable or at least harmless, leaving only a narrow margin for personal preference. One in twenty respondents did not read any books. The combination of the reading matter on offer and the young people’s recent lived experiences probably had a decisive influence on the choice of their own personal heroes. To be asked to name one’s ‘personal hero’ – seemingly a simple question – in view of the respondents’ general lack of cultural sophistication – must have posed quite a problem for these young people – as

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many as 145 participants gave up their attempts to address this question, and the responses given were strikingly polarised, with contemporary characters accompanied by historical, literary or even legendary figures. As in the case of ideals, bitterness towards the fall of recent heroes was palpable. ‘I had the four in history, they are always painted together [Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin – author’s comment],’wrote a 28-year-old from Jelenia Góra, laid off on health grounds, a former activist in the Union of Polish Youth. ‘As for contemporary characters, I guess we are all “heroes”’. There was only one ‘hero’ – Władysław Gomułka – who collected as many as 30 votes. He was followed by: Tadeusz Kościuszko (24), Martin Eden (17), followed by the hero of the novel Hornet by E. L. Voynich (understandably, since after all he had been a young revolutionary fighting against tyranny – admittedly that of the Church), then ex aequo Mickiewicz and Wołodyjowski (12 each), Napoleon (11) and finally Tito (10). The political and cultural confusion of young Poles is also shown at the end of this peloton of heroes. Four people each pointed to, inter alia, the fictitious protagonist of The Good Soldier Švejk, Lenin, Winnetou, Yves Montand, Nehru, Julian Sorel, Karol Świerczewski, Stalin and the 1956 Hungarian revolutionaries; one vote each went to Arsène Lupin, Bierut, Chou En-Lai, Churchill, Marie Curie-Skłodowska, Christ, Dzierżyński, Winnie the Pooh, the crew of the Kon Tiki raft, Mao Tse Tung, Gina Lollobrigida, Piłsudski and Washington. Stefan Batory, Einstein, Garibaldi, Jack London and Żeromski each had three votes. The answers to the question about the most frequently watched films and plays were probably determined not so much by the respondents’ actual views on these areas of culture as by offerings facilitated by school, chance, fashion and the coincidence of recently seen performances. ‘Cheap rubbish cheek by jowl with masterpiece,’ Sztandar Młodych summed up the responses. Polish films were not very popular, losing out to French and Italian cinematography. ‘I like watching comedies best,’ the previously quoted J.W. declared. ‘One can get fed up with all these torments, torture, tears and human wrongs.’ Polish Romantics (Mickiewicz, Słowacki) and Fredro dominated visits to the theatre, probably linked to the school curriculum. However, the authors of the survey clearly overestimated the interest of Polish youth in French socially engaged cinema, since the film Before the Deluge, which dealt with the nuclear threat, had been watched by so few participants that it was difficult to draw any further conclusions. However, there was no shortage of expressive opinions about the type of music most in keeping with the spirit of the 20th century. Most votes (381) were cast for jazz and dance music (including 135 for rock’n roll). The predominance of the former, however, was clear. ‘I am interested in, but not impressed by, rock and roll,’ wrote a student from Krakow, a former activist of the Union of Polish

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Youth (ZMP). ‘But I really don’t know which music I consider the most relevant to the spirit of the twentieth century. After all, it’s only the middle of the century, and rock and roll will surely soon die out.’ The young Warsaw woman had no doubts: ‘Naturally – jazz! The twentieth century – constant motion, life at a rapid pace, vigorously pulsating, with short, swift impressions and instant reactions to everything! Jazz is like a faithful image of this life. […] We, the “youth of the atomic age”, love jazz!’ A colleague from Łódź echoed her: ‘Jazz. Jazz and more jazz. Perhaps this is because I do not understand the music of Messrs Amadeus M. and Johann Sebastian B. […] Jazz is perhaps most attuned to the spirit of the twentieth century with its dynamic power of rhythm and temperament.’ The lack of understanding of classical music and even traditional music was widespread. ‘It’s simply not done to dance the polonaise anymore,’ claimed the teacher from Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski. As a result, classical music attracted only 23 fans and folk music a mere 10 among the participants of the survey. Not entirely in keeping with the spirit of the question about personal passions, as many as 449 participants of the survey expressed an interest in politics. According to a Krakow student, that was not surprising since, ‘after the October events, we have become a nation of politicians.’ Another student from Warsaw felt the same way: ‘I am very interested in politics. But only now, when there is genuine, credible news in the press, when you can discuss and even argue fiercely. In high school I slept through the press release lessons, but now I amaze my family and friends with my political interests.’ Interest in politics did not depend on the respondents’ age or profession. ‘Politics shapes my life and that is why I have to be interested in it,’ explained the planner from Warsaw. A shop assistant echoed him: ‘Politics is life. I have to be interested. The most difficult part is the evaluation, because in the past I believed in 60%, now I observe facts and draw my own conclusions.’ Interest in politics was, nevertheless, synonymous with active participation in it. ‘It is characteristic,’ commented the journalist of Sztandar Młodych, ‘that the majority of the participants take an observing stance towards politics; they are interested in what is going on, but they do not show any desire to themselves actively participate in political life.’ Political or social organisations were mentioned only incidentally. ‘Although I am interested in politics,’ declared a 19-year-old student, ‘I will not join the ZMS.’ In relation to the international situation, there were more pessimists (259) than optimists (188, including 32 who described themselves as optimistic, ‘with reservations’). In particular, Hungary (84) and the situation in the Middle East (55) gave most cause to worry, while the Polish October was a positive factor (42). The question of international issues provided an opportunity to

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comment on the situation in Poland, where there were also reasons to worry. ‘What bothers me most is that there are anti-Semitic sentiments in Poland …’ wrote a 20-year-old soldier. ‘This makes me ashamed and I sense an impending tragedy. Some ordinary people want to shrug off responsibility, and so they say, “Look! It’s the Jews who are to blame for everything!” Hitler said the same thing …’ Reflecting the predominant pessimism, as many as 260 respondents shared Einstein’s fears of a possible nuclear holocaust, while 240 did not, but nevertheless some of those agreeing with the great physicist hoped that reason would prevail and the world would escape annihilation. There are quite a few adventurers in the world,’ remarked a Krakow student, ‘but probably sensible people are in a majority.’ There did not seem to be many strikingly revealing personal views expressed, or perhaps the editors were, unsurprisingly, reluctant to quote them due to introducing a jarring note. A student from Łódź commented pragmatically: ‘Had I answered your questionnaire soon after buying your newspaper, I would have given you answers reeking of platitudes such as: “My greatest experience has been the 20th Congress of the Party.” I am afraid that, familiar as I am with the mentality of my fellow students, their answers will reflect the books and pamphlets they read rather than do justice to your questionnaire from the bottom of their hearts.’ An eighteen-year-old female student from Warsaw significantly summed up the generation gap: ‘The issues and views of youth are so distant and incomprehensible to the older generation that it is doubtful that the two sides will ever be able to come to an understanding. In my opinion, such agreement is completely impossible.’ The divergent evaluations of the survey, especially from the perspective of another generation, concurred. A good example here was the reaction of the writer Maria Dąbrowska (1889–1965): ‘Had a phone call from Sztandar Młodych,’ she noted in her diary on 5 March 1957. ‘They have produced a questionnaire entitled We, the Youth of the Atomic Age and they want to send me some of the responses. I agreed, but reading the material made me uneasy. The general and cursory impression was: youth without youth. Reading it I felt as if they were old people and I were a young person. Complete spiritual abnegation, no creative attitude towards existence, not even betraying any sense that such a thing exists. Absolute indifference to nature, art, love, friendship. A desire for sharp, strong sensations, as if they were some blasé old people, no longer sensitive to the fundamental passions of life. Can all this really be blamed on the “period of errors and distortions” – on Stalin? On Auschwitz, on Hitlerism, which, moreover, they had not themselves experienced?’87 Similar accusations were made by repre87

M. Dąbrowska, Dzienniki powojenne 1955–1959, ed. T. Drewnowski, Warszawa 1997, p. 221.

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sentatives of the older generation during public discussions about the survey: ‘How down-to-earth and pragmatic these young people are!’ Ironic questions were asked, ‘What is it that they dream about? What are their goals?’ In private conversations, some remarked with dismay on the ‘youth of today, brutally materialistic’.88 The questionnaire provoked the younger publicists to make international comparisons, especially as the focus on youth in the post-war period prompted similar surveys also in other countries. In Nowa Kultura, the journalist and publicist Andrzej Wasilewski (1928–2009) compared the Polish questionnaire with the French one, published in the Parisian weekly Arts.89 He showed how fundamental were the differences of the Polish and French youth in their approach to modernity, using the example of the heroes of youthful imagination. In the French survey, the winner was unquestionably Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, not necessarily because of The Little Prince or his mysterious death as an airman, but because he was perceived as a ‘powerful organiser of emotions and imagination for the romance of industrial construction, the great adventure of conquering nature, the almost mystical dignity of modern technical professions, […] the cult of technology, professionalism, the discipline of the profession elevated to the point of mystery.’90 Meanwhile, people of science proposed by young Poles, such as Einstein or Curie-Skłodowska, received many times fewer votes than the Polish patriotic hero Kościuszko or the fictional character invented by Sienkiewicz, the unruly but patriotic nobleman Kmicic. ‘What was significantly almost absent in the Polish responses illustrating an array of personal role models, as Wasilewski commented, was the modern ‘trend for rationalism, enchantment with thought [and] the cult of great philosophical minds’.91 The spiritual was indeed underrepresented, and even the defenders of the image of youth emerging from the survey found only one reference to the beauty of nature. A 17-year-old country tailor, who had only once seen a film at a school screening and had never been to the theatre, showed his poetic spirit, however, saying that ‘since I have no entertaining diversion in my life whatsoever, my biggest dream is to go outside and listen to the birds singing in the forest …’92 The young people, nevertheless, fiercely defended their generation, repelling accusations of being bereft of ideals, of being materialistic 88 89 90 91 92

M. Turski, Bohaterowie …; K. Wolicki, Bezideowa?, SM, 7 Mar 1957. H. Blondet, Arts: La culture de la provocation 1952–1966, Paris 2009. Wasilewski, Bigos polski … Ibidem. Wolicki, Bezideowa?

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or undermining the role of the recent past, both the war and Stalinism. They stressed that the only thing that existed for the youth of today was ‘this particular time in history in which we did not ask to be born, and which has indeed been the worst one so far’. Both activists and those who had been in prison shared a sense of wasted youth; they all ‘saw the futility of their efforts and suffering’.93 As a result, ‘cynicism and lack of idealism is the modern rebellion. We speak of a lack of idealism without saying precisely what this means: that this denial of ideas itself takes on the characteristics of moral protest.’94 The Sztandar Młodych journalist Dariusz Fikus added that ‘they have been hardened. “Occasional heroism” does not suit them. They prefer to be simply decent people. Are they cynical and calculating? No. They are sceptical. […] They are afraid of making grand declarations, they are neutral and reserved. This much is true. And can one be surprised at them?’95 Instead of empty words and bankrupt ideas, the young wanted concrete things. Brought up in specific circumstances, practically without property, where material comforts were sparse, they dreamt of a house, a car, a scooter, of better clothes and travelling to see the world. For espousing those dreams, they did not merit accusations of materialism, argued young publicists. Above all, their dreams, albeit difficult to fulfil quickly under the prevailing conditions, were nevertheless ‘of their time’. They dreamed of living a little better, of being able to dress better and having ‘a place for their bed’.96 It did not matter that these dreams were mundane and devoid of bravado. Marian Turski argued: ‘My answer is this: the dying never had any worries about housing, work or earnings. Our heroes, on the other hand, must “primum vivere deinde philosphari”.’ Indeed – first live, then talk of philosophy. Turski elaborated: ‘And besides, our heroes are tired. Tired not only figuratively – tired of spiritual dilemmas, doubts, ideological earthquakes. They are simply tired of a difficult life, of struggling for existence. […] No, we must not belittle their dreams of a car, a flat or a job. Whoever disregards them forgets that the first thing people understand in the concept of socialism is a tolerable, better life.’97 All the more so because, at least according to Krzysztof Wolicki, money, which appeared in the majority of the statements, played the role of a tool for consumption, which indeed it was, giving reasons for optimism rather than 93 94 95 96 97

Metryka naszego urodzenia, SM, 20–22 Apr 1957. Ibidem. D. Fikus, Koniec królestwa pomników, SM, 29 Mar 1957. Ibidem. Turski, Bohaterowie … In stressing that the ‘heroes were tired’, Turski made a reference to the French–West German drama Les Héros sont fatigués, directed by Y. Ciampi in 1955, starring Y. Montand and Curt Jürgens.

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complaint.98 A point stressed by the analysts who took part in the discussion was that although the respondents’ hero of choice was Gomułka rather than Einstein, at the same time, when asked about heroism, they emphasised work and science. It was especially the latter that was seen as the engine of change, giving hope for a slightly brighter future, a factor that could lead to the realisation of what were after all modest material dreams. ‘And again,’ Fikus concluded, ‘it is not being calculating or mercenary that makes their ideals so pragmatic, their dreams so mundane. […] They are calculating – but differently. […] They are economical with their words and do not overuse slogans, as those they have long ceased to believe in. They walk firmly on the ground. They fear prophets and manipulators, they do not believe in myths, they do not bow to monuments. But they are on a quest.’99 Whether their quest was successful and what it was that they had eventually discovered was another matter, but more importantly, it was for the first time in their lives that they were the ones deciding which path to take.100

98 Wolicki, Bezideowa? 99 Fikus, Koniec królestwa pomników … 100 Małgorzata Fidelis points out the fundamental significance of the thaw for the Polish young generation in the following decade, the ‘Global Sixties’. M. Fidelis, The Polish Thaw: Youth Carnival, Domestic Revolution, and Transnational Encounters, NCEEER Working Paper, Washington 2014.

Chapter 7

‘The Offensive of the Clergy Continues’; Or a (Temporary) Role Reversal The years 1956–1957 have been perceived as a time of thaw in state-church relations. Nevertheless, the official statements of the authorities on this topic bristle with military rhetoric, with references aplenty to ‘struggle’, ‘offensive’, ‘attack’ and the advancing ‘front’. Yet – with a difference. This time, the boot was on the other foot: now it was the Church – rather than the State, as had been the case during Stalinism – that was on the ‘offensive’, and it was the Party that was being pushed into a corner.

‘The Introduction of Religion Followed a Peaceful Course, on the Whole …’

One of Stalin’s early declared aims had been to eradicate religion, both the institution of the church and the concept of God, and this was also taken up by the Polish authorities during the Stalinist period. However, they soon realised that total laicisation was impossible, so the goal became to at least weaken and neutralise the Church. This was done by expropriating land, schools and hospitals that belonged to the Church. The teaching of religion was withdrawn from secular schools. Catholic newspapers were closed down. Clergy were subjected to repression and some sentenced to years in prison. In 1953 Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński1 was interned. The struggle against socalled religiosity2 among party members, state employees, military personnel or militiamen, some of whom were profoundly Christian believers, often forced them to live a double life, with a dichotomy between their private 1 A. Dudek, Państwo i Kościół w Polsce 1945–1970, Kraków 1995; A. Dudek, R. Gryz, Komuniści i Kościół w Polsce (1945–1989), Kraków 2003; B.  Fijałkowska, Partia wobec religii i Kościoła w PRL, vol. 1: 1944–1955, Olsztyn 1999; P.  Kądziela, Kościół a państwo w Polsce 1945–1965, Wrocław 1990; Propaganda antykościelna w Polsce w latach 1945–1978, eds. S.  Dąbrowski, B.  Rogowska, Wrocław 2001; W.  Ważniewski, Państwo laickie. Polityka ograniczania bazy materialnej Kościoła katolickiego w Polsce przez władze komunistyczne w latach 1945–1970, Warszawa 2015; Die Katholische Kirche in Polen (1945–1989). Eine Quellenedition, ed. and trans. Bernard Wiaderny, Berlin 2004. 2 See K. Kosiński, “Religianctwo”. Napięcie między ideologią a religią w świadomości członków i działaczy PZPR, in: “Polska 1944/45–1989. Studia i Materiały”, vol. 12, 2014, pp. 107–203.

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In May 1956, children were able to participate in their First Communion completely openly, no longer in fear of exposing their parents to unpleasant repercussions or repression. (First Holy Communion at Saint Lawrence’s Church in Warsaw, May 1956. Photo: Romuald Broniarek, KARTA Centre collection.)

values and those professed officially. The secularisation drive had proved so ineffective that in order to maintain a minimal social consensus, the authorities found it necessary to turn a blind eye to the existence of a façade ‘behind which people’s actual convictions were hypocritically concealed. The authorities often settled for appearances being maintained, by demanding that people of influence not practise religion at least in the sight of others.3 The result was a ‘re-catholicisation’ of the working class, which had been much more secular 3 P.  Lewińska, Pomówmy po partyjnemu w sprawie nauczania religii w szkole, “Polityka”, 10–16 Apr 1957.

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before the war than it came to be in the mid-1950s,4 especially in the big cities. In another paradoxical twist, the exclusion of religion from schools ended up actually increasing its appeal.5 Under the circumstances, there were frequent attempts to maintain a partychurch consensus, especially on the periphery. Let us look at a few examples from the Małopolska region, representative also of other parts of the country. In November 1955, the name-day celebration of the parish priest in the village of Kąclowa near Nowy Sącz was attended, besides the clergy, by the manager of the local state sawmill, the chairman of the local council and the secretary of the local party organisation. According to one of the participants, ‘political topics were discussed at this gathering, in particular by Father Cabaja, who said that relations between village activists and the local priest were good in Kąclowa, as could be seen from the fact that everyone invited had turned up […]. At the end of the party, the priest, Cabaja, had a long, confidential conversation with the secretary of the local party organisation, Litwinski, but they spoke so quietly that it was difficult to hear them.’6 And at the end of 1955, the parish priest of Gorenice near Olkusz ‘sent a letter to the secretary of the Presidium of the GRN, Parish Council, in Niesławice enquiring why he did not go to church and confession. The secretary, a comrade Helena Kasprzyk, a member of the ZMP, the Union of Polish Youth, went to see the priest in order to make her excuses why she did not go to church and confession.’7 After the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), when, clearly, ‘courage got cheaper’ (as the critic and writer Artur Sandauer would later comment), reports of overt ‘religiosity’ became more frequent with every passing month. In 1956, ‘large numbers of party members, militiamen or military officers were noticed to be participants in the Easter processions. May Day, the international day of the working class, was widely downplayed, and instead celebrated two days later – on the 3 May, Constitution Day, which honoured the 3 May Constitution of 1791. That anniversary had been re-established as a national holiday when Poland had become independent – only to be abolished again under communism and was not brought back into official favour until after the fall of communism in 1989. Thus, any unofficial celebrations at that time had powerful symbolic political significance. A novelty in the Corpus Christi processions was not just the participation of party members, but also

4 5 6 7

Kosiński, “Religianctwo”…, pp. 135–136. A. Bukowska, Dzieciom, które “nie wierzą w Boga”, “Nowa Kultura”, 3 Feb 1957. ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 655, Nowy Sącz, note on activities of the clergy, 20 Feb 1956. Ibidem, Note from KP PZPR in Olkusz, 26 Jan 1956.

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that of schoolchildren.8 In mid-June 1956, from many voivodeships, including Krakow, Opole and Poznań, there were reports of an ‘intensification of clerical activity and increased religiosity among party members and activists’.9 The so-called Jasna Góra National Vows gathered nearly a million believers in Częstochowa on 26 August 1956. Naturally, during the Polish ‘October Revolution’ the religious component played an extremely important role through co-creating ‘the language of communication of the crowds gathered at rallies and demonstrations, constituting an important point of reference facilitating identification and creating a sense of community’.10 There were demands for the release of Cardinal Wyszyński (on one occasion, during a mass rally of several hundred thousand people in Warsaw on 24 October), the restoration of religious symbols in public institutions, the return of religion to schools, the broadcasting of mass on the radio, and the right of the military to participate in religious rites.11 Some of these postulates were commonly put into practice, with schools starting and ending lessons with prayer and hanging crosses in the classrooms; institutions also put crosses on display. As was the case with the factory revolts, the eruption of religiosity led, especially on the periphery, to reprisals against teachers or school managers accused of secularisation, who were often ruthlessly removed from their jobs. The reactions of the clergy ranged from encouraging active participation or remaining neutral if approvingly so – to attempts to calm the hotheads in the pro-religion rallies and preventing the mob from dishing out summary ‘justice’ to party members, Security Office officers or teachers.12 Cardinal Wyszyński’s release from internment on 28 October 1956 brought a brief period of normalisation of relations between the state and the Church. Soon, the so-called Joint Commission was established, which was to watch over the shape of mutual relations. A communiqué published on 8 December 1956 set out the principles of the co-existence. Both sides made concessions: the state, among other things, liberalised its supervision of the filling of church posts, agreed to the return of religion to schools as an optional subject and the provision of religious care to hospitals, prisons and educational establishments, 8

Ibidem, Note from KP PZPR in Limanowa, 5  May  1956 and Note from KP PZPR in Limanowa on the Corpus Christi celebrations in the Limanowa district, 1 Jun 1956; Ibidem, 655, Nowy Targ, Report on the retreat and Easter celebrations, 3 Apr 1956. 9 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3835, WO KC PZPR, Note of 18 June 1956. 10 Cf.: Machcewicz, Rebellious satellite, p. 197. 11 Dudek, Gryz, Komuniści i Kościół …, pp. 176–177. 12 APL, KP PZPR in Lublin, 873, Information on the introduction of religious instruction to schools in the Lublin voivodeship, p. 2; APWr, WRN Presidium in Wrocław, XVIII/304, Report, KW PZPR Wrocław, Note of 21 Nov 1956, p. 364.

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while the Episcopate declared its ‘full support for the work undertaken by the Government aimed at strengthening and developing the People’s Republic of Poland, to focus the efforts of all citizens in concerted work for the good of the country, conscientious obedience to the laws of the People’s Republic of Poland and the performance by citizens of their duties to the state’. The exchange of good-will gestures continued. On Christmas Day, all radio stations broadcast the Midnight Mass celebrated at Saint Aleksander’s Church in Warsaw. The Episcopate effusively supported Gomułka’s team, in January 1957 even going as far as to issue a communiqué that participation in elections to the Sejm was a ‘duty of conscience’. However, a battle for the spiritual leadership of the nation soon ensued. With the weakening of state structures, the scales began to tilt in favour of the Church, which was building more and more permanent institutional bridgeheads.13 Following the restoration of religious instruction in schools, they became the main battleground. Since, according to the ordinance of the Minister of Education of 8 December 1956, if the teaching of religion was to be restored in a given educational institution, a desire for such a course of action had to be declared in writing by parents. Local priests, especially in rural areas, did not shy away from employing gentle coercion, by providing parents with ready-made forms that declared just such an intent, which only had to be completed and signed.14 The agreement reached between schools and the government stated that, as an optional subject, religion classes should be timetabled for the beginning of the end of the day, for the convenience of pupils who did not wish to attend them. Contrary to this agreement, however, school managements did not usually object to placing religion classes in the middle of the day, which made it awkward for any pupils from non-Catholic families or families who did not want their offspring to attend religion at school. The return of religion to state schools generated strong emotions. In the Lublin region, for example, the ‘introduction of religion generally took place peacefully, without beatings or any removal of staff on wheelbarrows, etc. In Krasnystaw, however [the local people] demanded the immediate dismissal of the head of the school, accusing him of administrative abolition of religion. Under pressure from the assembled residents, he resigned.’15 In such cases – which were relatively frequent – the teacher under attack could not count on help and protection from the ministry, teachers’ union or local authorities, also usually uncertain 13 Dudek, Gryz, Komuniści i Kościół …, p. 119. 14 APL, KP PZPR in Lublin, 873 Information on the introduction of religious instruction to schools in the Lublin voivodeship, p. 1. 15 Ibidem.

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of the immediate future.16 In some cases, even the party organisations sided with the local parish priest.17 ‘Today, a group of hysterical women or religious zealots’, a complaint stated in Tarnów, ‘can smash windows in a teacher’s house or force them to leave the school, and no one stands up to defend them.’18 Numerous party activists acquiesced in their children attending religion classes. Some had, indeed, already gone along with it secretly before the lie of the land had changed. On the other hand, such classes offered an opportunity for instruction in ethics, filling the breach caused by Stalinism in the traditional code of moral norms. One ought thus to take at face value the declaration of a non-believing worker that she was sending her child to religion classes ‘because someone has to teach him that it is wrong to steal.’19 Most frequently, however, parents signed their children up for their own sake, as emotions were running high, with the parents – both believers and non-believers – transferring them to their offspring. School classrooms, corridors and playing fields frequently became a distorting mirror, reflecting opinions and conflicts from homes, factories and streets. There are no statistics on the percentage of schools in which this peculiar, and sometimes ruthless, pupil-on-pupil religious conflict played out, but there were some in which the children of non-believers or those from Jewish families were subjected to ostracism or frank aggression. Importantly, this stratification was taking place in the context of increasing anti-Semitism.20 ‘The phenomenon of animalistic nationalism,’ wrote a Polityka journalist, ‘spiced with religious fanaticism, which has been kindled in our nation today, has raised its head with full force on school premises. […] At school, children learn the satisfaction of fighting in the name of faith with the godless and the religious dissenters. Children beat up their Jewish classmates not because they are Jewish, but because a Jew equals not being a Catholic.’21 Subjected to such psychological pressure or out of fear of being excluded from the peer group, some children decided to attend religion classes of their own accord.22 Their options were limited, as at the end of 1957, out of approximately 26,000 schools, only 46 were completely secular and in some 800, there was no religious instruction due to a lack of catechists.23 The shortage of religious 16 Lewińska, Pomówmy po partyjnemu … 17 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3863, Reports from the Krakow voivodeship, 28 Jun 1957. 18 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-20, Note on the situation in the Tarnów organisation, 5 Mar 1957, p. 14. 19 Bukowska, Dzieciom, które “nie wierzą w Boga”… 20 P. Machcewicz, Antisemitism in Poland in 1956, “Polin”, 9, 1996, pp. 170–183. 21 Lewińska, Pomówmy po partyjnemu … 22 Bukowska, Dzieciom, które “nie wierzą w Boga”… 23 APL, KP PZPR in Lublin, 863, p. 68.

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teachers was so widespread that, in addition to priests and organists, some 2,000 monks and nuns were also sent to schools, despite being ‘detached from life and the most fanatical element. This was not acceptable even to the prewar concordat between the bourgeois Polish government and the Vatican.’24 Paradoxically, the authorities were now paying the price not only for their former repression of the Church, but also of the independent anti-clerical associations, leading to the liquidation of the ‘social movement of the irreligious and free-thinkers, which had a bold and beautiful tradition in our country’.25 Now it became necessary to embark on the reconstruction of this movement, with considerable effort and in unfavourable circumstances. There was no need for the party to dress it up as a grass-roots movement, since there were numerous genuine supporters of a secular view of the world who were horrified at the spreading wave of clericalism. Naturally, the authorities encouraged and facilitated such initiatives by every means possible. Thus, in the port city of Gdynia, for example, in February 1957 two anti-religious initiatives were founded – the Freethinkers’ Club, one of the aims of which was to achieve a total secularisation of society,26 and the Secular School Society. The latter project had been modelled on an earlier initiative in Warsaw,27 and included representatives of three walks of life: party functionaries from the Municipal Committee, progressive teachers and army officers. The aim was to remove religion from as many schools as possible. The strategy to release them from the grip of clerics was not only through ideological arguments, but also, and probably more effectively, with material incentives. The Secular School Society, with state funds at its disposal, was in a position to bribe schools with subsidies for the purchase of teaching aids, additional education for weaker pupils, musical instruments, equipment for scouts, and so on. As a result, by 1958 there were four schools without religion classes in Gdynia, and in 1959, by when the thaw was already in the past, as many as fifteen.28 The creation of a secular school, or at least a secular form within a school, was not tantamount to party activists or administrative employees automatically opting for it for their own children. For example, in Czarnków in the Greater Poland region, the establishment of a class without religion was agreed upon, but once ‘practical steps were taken, a number of activists withdrew their 24 25 26 27

AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-319, analysis W sprawie klerykalizmu, Aug 1958. Lewińska, Pomówmy po partyjnemu … APG OG, MRN, 1934, Application to MRN in Gdynia, 18 Feb 1957. See  A.  K.  Wróblewski, Dzienniki  …, pp.  136–137; Dudek, Gryz, Komuniści i Kościół  …, pp. 128–130. 28 APG OG, MRN in Gdynia, 1934, Report on the activities of the Secular School Society in Gdynia, 5 Feb 1957–31 Dec 1959.

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consent, hiding behind their wives’ decisions, etc. […] After the school year began, a number of children were sent to the school. […] Once the school year started, it turned out that the children of the activists, including the children of the chairman of the Presidium of the District Council, were attending religion classes.’29 The parents explained that they had had to bow to the wishes of family members or feared peer ostracism of their children. Nevertheless, towards the end of 1957, reports of cases of school intolerance became sporadic. One cannot be sure whether this was due to the greater number of secular schools/classes with the thaw clearly coming to an end, or perhaps to the notion of religion in school having lost its allure of novelty and becoming routine. A contemporary observer remarked that attendance at religion classes had fallen ‘simply because young people, when not strongly pressured by their parents, are eager to wriggle out of additional lessons’.30

‘A Wave of Clericalism is Spreading …’

The influence of the Church’s influence on young people did not, however, diminish. On the contrary, the Church was able to reach the young with an offer filling the gap caused by the crisis of the previous forms of cultural activity. Leaving aside the ideological issues, many community centres, bands and cultural centres had fallen victim to the thaw, and those that had survived had had their budgets cut. Taking advantage of the weakening of state structures, the Church often stepped into the vacuum in emerging or reviving associations and organisations, such as the Scouts.31 This strategy was especially successful in the countryside and in small towns, with their more conservative population and an inadequate or unsuitable official cultural offer, and so the Church was progressively consolidating its influence. As a result, in late 1956 and early 1957, the clergy commonly became animators of local leisure culture. ‘Not far from us, right under our noses in Borek Fałęcki,’ a party communique reported in April 1957 from Krakow in frustrated tones, ‘the parish priest has organised a group of about 100 young people. They have a volleyball and football pitch, they go on trips. And our comrades keep discussing what the main danger for 29 APP, KW PZPR, 74/V/48 No. 22, Information on agitating the clergy in Czarnków, 16 Sep 1957, p. 60. 30 HIM, P-000, Item No. 4945/58, Relations between workers and intellectuals, 30 Jun 1958. 31 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-173, Cultural Commission of the KC, Comments on the situation in visual arts, 18 Dec 1957, p. 34. O ZHP, See A. Friszke, Związek Harcerstwa Polskiego 1956–1963. Społeczna organizacja wychowawcza w systemie politycznym PRL, Warszawa 2016.

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us is, whether the enemy is the bureaucratic communist, or the external enemy, the classic bourgeoisie.’32 The situation was similar in the Lublin region, where parishes massively initiated new forms of influencing young people through sports events, church choirs, music courses and dance parties. The Church offered entertainment which might not be particularly sophisticated, but which was, importantly, widely accepted, as it corresponded perfectly with the expectations of a rural or small-town audience. Whereas in the Lublin voivodeship, not a single religious play had been staged in August and September 1956, a year later, church groups produced as many as 23. They were to be performed in churches, fire stations, or indeed on the stages of state cultural centres33 – despite the prohibition by the National Councils of any organisation of church events in official cultural institutions, a policy that was less than effective. Such restrictions tended to be simply ignored, sometimes with the tacit approval of the local party committee, or premises would be rented elsewhere, for example from the fire brigade. But in Wołomin, near Warsaw, for example, it was the parish that had the only theatre in town!34 There were also cases of the Church frowning upon state-organised events. For example, in Jasło a priest ‘accompanied by two juvenile adolescents barged into the Church Centre, tore down the decorations of dancing women from the walls and then burnt them in public in front of a crowd of fervent female worshippers. In Koszalin local female worshippers, incited by a priest, tried to remove paintings depicting nudes from the exhibition and exerted pressure on the local authorities to not allow persons below 18 to enter the exhibition.’35 The level of church events varied, of course, but occasionally professionals were involved in their preparation. All the more so because PAX, the Catholic Association, with its Committees for the Moral Salvation of the Nation, which aspired to the role of moraliser and spiritual leader and was the chief event organiser in mainly rural areas, e.g. in Kielce or Lublin, had at its disposal an army of qualified and well-paid cultural instructors, and the means to engage professional actors and directors, offering them very good conditions. PAX successfully combined cultural and economic activities; it established cooperatives and opened workshops in the western parts of Poland, attracting 32

ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 77, Transcript of the plenary session of the KW PZPR in Krakow, 5 Apr 1957. 33 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-253, Transcript of the meeting of the First Secretaries, KW, 28 Sep 1957, pp. 2–3. 34 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3672, Minutes of the meeting of the Warsaw Executive KW PZPR, 23 XI 1957, pp. 41, 60. 35 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-167, Sitting of the Commission for Culture, KC PZPR, 31 X 1957, pp. 142–143.

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those willing to participate with large tax breaks.36 Not surprisingly, it often became the main actor in provincial cultural life, gaining popularity through such gestures as, for example, in one of the communes in the Gostynin poviat, finding ‘funds for the finishing of a common room, which the Presidium of the local National Council had unfortunately not been able to complete’.37 The Church was able to mobilise not only the periphery, but also the centre. This was evidenced both by the network of Catholic clubs, committees and groups, which differed in many ways, but which all had – as a police study correctly pointed out – ‘one feature in common, i.e. being very active, with the underlying drive to take advantage of the current situation to expand their influence’.38 The greatest dynamic potential of the Church was demonstrated not by the clubs of the Catholic intelligentsia, by their very nature elitist, but by the dynamically growing branches of the Society of Friends of the Catholic University of Lublin. For example, its Gdynia branch, officially founded in March 1957, had around 1,100 members on 1 January 1958, and just six months later – twice as many.39 The mass pilgrimages of 1957 to the National Shrine of Our Lady on Jasna Góra in Częstochowa were the most spectacular manifestation of both the national attachment to religion and the breaking down of the barrier of fear. Significantly, these were attended by various professional groups, including doctors (who used the occasion to propose the repeal of the Act legalising abortion!), health-care workers, students and Catholic teachers. It was, however, the First National Pilgrimage of Catholic Lawyers to Jasna Góra, on 3 November 1957, that had the greatest resonance. According to the authorities, the event, launched by circles connected to the Catholic weekly Tygodnik Powszechny, had 2,000 participants, whereas according to Catholic observers there had been 4,000. These were university professors and lawyers, including judges, employed in various state institutions.40 The political declarations they made in Częstochowa resonated loudly through the media. ‘They spoke in such a way,’ reported Życie Literackie, ‘as if, in their understanding, God alone was the legal arbiter of humankind, as if Catholic moral laws were the sole 36 37 38 39 40

Ibidem, p.  143; Ibidem, 237/XVIII-173, Commission for Culture, KC, Comments on the situation in the visual arts, 18 Dec 1957, pp. 74–75. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3672, Minutes of the meeting of the Warsaw Executive KW PZPR, 23 Nov 1957, p. 41. APL, KW PZPR, 854, Mjr L. Morawski, On activities of the clergy, Personnel and Training Department, MSW, Aug 1957, p. 34v. APG OG, MRN in Gdynia, 1934, pp. 5, 19. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-163, Information about the Convention of Catholic Lawyers in Częstochowa, 23 Nov 1957, pp. 29–30.

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legitimate legal basis for legislation, as if only a Catholic judge could be a just judge.’41 Incidentally, Częstochowa, with its singular character of a nationally revered shrine, was a perfect, if extreme, illustration of the subordination of social life to the Church. Local organisations and associations, from the historical and medical to tourist ones, worked ‘essentially on behalf of Jasna Góra, with the entire social activity of the area involved in these actions, including the large concentration of workers at the Bierut Steelworks, situated within the sphere of the shrine’s influence’.42 The involvement in religious life of workers, and sometimes of entire workplaces and their managements, was by no means a feature of Częstochowa alone. The ‘re-Catholicisation’ of these communities was determined by several factors. Not even Stalinism had been able to destroy the traditional links of Polish working communities with the Church. For example, the Rolling Stock Repair Plant in Nowy Sącz was probably the ‘only railway organisation in the world to have in its inventory items such as chasubles and all manner of liturgical devices’.43 In Upper Silesia, mining traditions were integrally linked to the Church and institutional participation in religious rites. The socialist and communist groups and associations which had promoted the secularisation of workers before 1939, and which had been embedded in the left-wing circles which were part of the workers’ culture, did not survive the war. The factory community had undergone a radical change, with migrants from the countryside bringing their own traditions and customs, of which religious devotion was one.44 In the autumn of 1956, it remained unclear where the boundary of consent lay. Nevertheless, in 1956, the traditional festivity of miners, Saint Barbara’s Day, the 4 December, was widely celebrated in Upper Silesia according to religious rites. From the turn of 1956 and 1957, workers assumed the explicit declaration of religious beliefs and collective participation in church celebration as their prerogative; something to be taken for granted. ‘After that historic October,’ the workers of the Mechanical Equipment Factory in Andrychów wrote in their letter to a radio station, ‘we began to truly open our hearts to the authorities and to thank the Lord God fervently that he had sent us authorities who began to lead us in the manner that our Catholic hearts had long prayed for. For this 41 “Życie Literackie”, 24 Nov 1957. 42 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-167, Sitting of the Commission for Culture, KC PZPR, 31 Oct 1957, p. 143; Por. Ibidem, 237/V-258, meeting of the secretaries for propaganda, KW, 7 Feb 1958, p. 14. 43 ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 228, k. 62, Minutes of the meeting of the Executive, KW, 2 Feb 1957. 44 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-167, Sitting of the Commission for Culture, KC PZPR, 31 Oct 1957, p. 147.

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reason, when the terror and fear had passed, we employees of the Mechanical Equipment Factory in Andrychów, naturally Catholics, and we represent more than 90% of the workforce, wanted to thank the Lord God for the graces received and to ask for peace in the world. And we started a collection, a few zloty each, for the Holy Mass. We would like to emphasise that when we were about to start the collection, we notified the Workers’ Council and the Works Council, which did not put any obstacles in our way. We did not go to the general director because we thought it was unnecessary at the present moment, free from terror, and the Workers’ Council and the Works Council are in touch with the director every day anyway.’45 The management, including party management, of factories rarely objected to religious events, indeed they were more likely to participate in them, especially where the factory or mine played a prominent role in the local community. In the village of Wapno near Wągrowiec in Greater Poland, on 9 May 1957 Bishop Lucjan Bernacki of Gniezno consecrated the mine chapel, in a nonetoo-rare example of church and state symbiosis. ‘On that day the salt mine plant was closed from early morning; preparations were already underway to welcome the bishop. […] At 10.50 a.m. Bishop Bernacki and his ecclesiastical entourage arrived in two cars. They drove into the mine site, where the bishop was greeted by the mine’s representatives, mine director Jankowski, who kissed his hand, the chairman of the Works Council, the warehouse manager and by the assembled priests who had arrived from various locations […]. The bishop descended into the mine, where he performed the consecration and inauguration of the chapel. More than 800 people took part in the ceremony. The ceremony lasted until 1.30 pm. From there, the bishop went by car to the newly built chapel in the Wapno residential area, where the ceremony continued from 2 pm onwards. After the ceremony, the bishop, escorted by motorcyclists, set off for the return journey.’46 The whole event was organised without consulting the district authorities, the party or the militia. Shops were closed that day and the school day was shortened to two hours. From mid-1957 onwards, however, the authorities made attempts to limit the participation of factory workers in religious celebrations; there was repression of the instigators or any consenting management representatives. On the one hand, this aroused understandable bitterness, such as the aforementioned workers from Andrychów, who were banned from organising mass. ‘We Catholics, in unison with the entire Polish Episcopate and people’s authorities,’ 45 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Letters bulletin 34, 28 Jun 1957, pp. 134–135. 46 APP, KW PZPR, 74/V/48 No. 21, Information on an unauthorised ceremony in the Wapno salt mine, 17 May 1957, p. 129.

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they complained in their letter to Fala radio, ‘wanted to go to Mass again on the occasion of May Day and to go to church before joining in the parade. […] We wrote to the director and the Works Council about this but, out of fear, we sent an anonymous letter, so that they would answer us over the radio, telling us whether we were allowed to collect for the Holy Mass or not. We received a harsh reply that no answer would be given to anonymous letters. We ask Fala to give us an answer. Maybe our director will be repentant and the majority of workers will be satisfied, and next year, May Day will be celebrated with a Holy Mass and a parade, not like this year, where 5% of the workers went to the parade, while almost 95% of them were in the church, because a general Mass was held at that time. But we didn’t have our Mass because of Mr Director.’47 Some workers took an even firmer line against the authorities, such as the Silesian miners, who blamed Gomułka for denying them the right to traditional Saint Barbara’s Day celebrations as they had had in 1956. ‘We Silesian miners have a request to make of you,’ they wrote to the First Secretary of the Party, ‘let us go to church with the procession this year, as well as give us some information about the “thirteenth salary payment” [promised] bonus. Because otherwise you can expect one big strike which nobody will be able to break.’48

‘We Have so Many Staunch Clericals in our Party …’

Naturally, Gomułka himself was not in favour of church processions. The most important factor preventing factory activists from indulging in so-called ‘religiosity’ was the verification of Polish United Workers’ Party members which began at the end of 1957, the goal of which was to identify those who were believers. It became an effective tool to separate the wheat – i.e. those party members who had displayed some religious sympathies during the thaw simply because of opportunism – from the chaff, i.e. those who, when faced with a moral and ethical choice, would decide to say goodbye to the party card rather than compromise their religious faith. This was a significant problem, because the religious renaissance encompassed party activists en masse, also at the middle level, throughout districts and large work establishments. In the Florian steelworks in Świętochłowice, to give one example, ‘a large part of the party activists […] are going to church and baptising their children, even those already teenaged. One of these activists who baptises their children is the ex-secretary of the Municipal Committee of 47 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Letters bulletin 34, 28 Jun 1957, pp. 134–135. 48 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-24, Letters bulletin 68, 21 Nov 1957.

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At the beginning of 1957, the censors were still turning a blind eye to jokes about party members trying to reconcile faith in God and belief in communism – trekking piously between the church and the party committee (POP). Later, the cartoonists realised that, as with, for example, the ineptitude of the militia, it was better to look for safer subjects. (Karol Baraniecki, The Faithful…, “Karuzela” 8, 1957.)

the party in Świętochłowice.’49 In the Warsaw voivodeship, ‘one can generalise that in almost all districts, members of the plenary of the party Committee are believers to a greater or lesser degree.’50 The conflict of conscience also affected professional military personnel. One political officer, secretary of the Primary Party Organisation in his unit, had a characteristic dilemma. A non-believer himself, he had secretly married in a church in 1953, under the influence of his deeply religious wife. After the baby was born, a problem arose, the solution to which he could only see in an intervention by Wiesław Gomułka himself: ‘If I have the child baptised,’ he wrote to the First Secretary at the beginning of 1957, ‘I will be expelled from the army and from the party. […] If  I don’t, there will be no consent in our family, and my wife will have him baptised 49 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-213, Note of a meeting of the secretaries of the seven leading factories in the country, 25 June 1957, p 7. 50 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3672, Minutes of the meeting of the executive of the Warsaw Voivodeship Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR), 23 Nov 1957, p. 58.

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surreptitiously. And then, when the authorities find out, the consequences for me will be just the same. I, Comrade Wiesław, would agree to everything, but I fear for my party card. I believe in the party and I will give everything for the party. […] Lately, however, my work has not been going well, because I cannot reconcile the two. Which is to say, if I don’t agree to the child being baptised, I have to completely break with my family, but if I do agree, I might lose my party card – and I would like to keep both my family and my party card. Help me, Comrade, to solve this question. […] I ask you not to send it anywhere, but to answer it yourself.’51 We do not know how this turned out for the officer, but a similar situation was faced by many of his colleagues, and above all by militiamen, who had much closer, everyday ties with the ‘civilian’ part of society. They would also explain their inclination towards ‘religiosity’ by the family pressure, especially the wife’s. Interestingly, the families of militia officers appeared more involved in religious life than those of rank-and-file militiamen.52 The further away from big cities, the more officers were dependent on the local community, and thus their participation in religious life was more open, sometimes indeed institutional. For example, in the village of Przytuły near Łomża in the north east of the country, militiamen ‘kept guard of honour in full uniform in front of Christ’s tomb during Easter. In Augustów a priest announced a mass for the militia as a token of appreciation for their apprehension of the perpetrator of a theft from the church.’53 Without a doubt, in 1957, in the provinces, the opinion of the parish priest carried much more weight than that of the secretary of the local party committee. Emboldened, priests took on the party. We can safely assume that the local priest in Przydonica near Nowy Sącz was not the only one, when in April 1957, he began his crackdown on the local party, giving during his sermon an ultimatum to members of the party: they must surrender their party membership cards within 24 hours, or be excluded from the local community. ‘Party members are not permitted to come to church; […] if a party member gets married, only a single candle will be lit, and if a party member dies, he shall not be buried in the cemetery.’54 Remarkably, it was not until six months later that the priest was reprimanded by the authorities. Not that the admonishment 51 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-21, Letters bulletin 13, pp. 143–144. 52 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-164, Note on the political and moral situation and discipline in the militia units in the Białystok voivodeship, 11 Sep 1957, p. 79. 53 Ibidem, p. 80. 54 ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 656, Nowy Sącz, testimony about statements made by the priest in Przydonica, 5 Dec 1957, p. 479; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3863, Reports from the field, 28 Jun 1957.

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made any great impact on the priest or on his war against the party. Almost immediately thereafter, on 24 November 1957, instead of giving a sermon from the pulpit, he read out an article from the party newspaper Trybuna Ludu on the verification of party members. He divided them into believers and nonbelievers, calling them names, saying that there were narrow-minded bunglers in the community and stooges in the district and that party members from Przysietnica were taking bribes from the Central Committee of the party and that was the reason why they did not want to give up their party cards. Through his recent similar outbursts he achieved a situation that most of the party members did give up their party cards because they were being completely ostracised by the villagers – on the orders of the priest no one wanted to talk to them. And now the priest announced sternly that if he saw a party member in church he would throw them out …’55 Paradoxically, the party’s own ‘verification’ of its members gave the Church an effective weapon. The resolution about verification was passed at the autumn plenary of the Polish United Workers’ Party in order to rid the organisation of passive members who were insufficiently ideologically committed. An excess of zeal was, however, no longer viewed as an unqualified merit, with the best party members now considered to be those who paid their subs and did not rock the boat by asking awkward questions. Thus the decision revealed the party’s internal contradictions. The Church seized the arguments for verification and employed them to its own ends. The party reported that for example in Gostynin and Piła, priests were appealing to party members to – ‘now that there is an opportunity to do so, surrender their party cards. In their announcements, the clergy reminds party members that in these appeals that they have been excommunicated by the church. […] The clergy says that after verification, rank-and-file party members will not be allowed to go to church or to send their children to religion lessons.’56 Issues of faith became a dominant topic of the deliberations for the verification commissions. As often happens in such organisational stock-taking, there were incidents of revenge and personal score settling. The old class divisions raised their ugly heads: rich vs poor and workers vs intelligentsia. The members of the intelligentsia, in particular, were much afraid of negative verification, and this worry often had a remarkable effect on cooling their religious feelings. A year earlier, a “Stalinist” and an “idealist” were almost synonymous to many; now the discussions revealed 55

ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 656, Nowy Sącz, testimony about statements made by the priest in Przydonica, 5 Dec 1957, p. 479. 56 APP, KW PZPR, 74/V/48 No. 22, Information on the progress of meetings of party organisations on verification, 3 Dec 1957, p. 157.

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“‘much misunderstanding about such concepts as who was simply a believer and who – a clerical activist”.’57 As a result, it tended to be an either-or situation for the party member: stick with your faith – or with your party ID. In turn, this stark choice made it easy for the Church to sway the undecided. The verification meetings generated heated and frank discussions, the likes of which had not been seen in months. ‘Many of the meetings bring to light some very interesting things […],’ the perplexed party report commented on the situation in Kraków. ‘Little did we know […] that we would have so many fervent supporters of clericalism in our party. […] If we were to carry out a secret ballot, it would turn out that 60% of members would hand back their party cards, because they were believers. We have secretaries of party organisations who are simultaneously chairmen of church committees.’58 In such circumstances, anything could provide the spark – a heated statement thrown in in the heat of discussion was enough for the participants to hand in their party cards. In Izbica Kujawska, to take just one village, after a representative of the local party Committee opined that ‘every believer is double-faced and unfit to be a party member’, six of the 21 present at the meeting immediately resigned from the party.59 This by no means meant the final eradication of ‘religiosity’ from the party ranks. On the contrary. Apparently, the after-effects of the October thaw immunised the remaining religious believers within the party and bolstered their stamina in standing up to pressure. In any case, it was not just in Dąbrowa Tarnowska that the participation of party members in the Corpus Christi celebrations in 1958 was much ‘more numerous than in previous years. A member of the party plenary was even seen carrying the canopy’60 in the procession.

57 Ibidem, pp. 155–156. 58 ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 81, Situation in local Councils, 17 Dec 1957. 59 APP, KW PZPR, 74/V/48 nr 22, Sitting of the organisational secretaries, KP-KM-KD PZPR, 6 XII 1957, pp. 161–162. 60 ANKr, PZPR KW Kr, 656, Information on the course of the Corpus Christi celebrations in the Dąbrowa Tarnowska district, 9 Jun 1958, k. 73. See Kosiński, “Religianctwo”, pp. 143–157.

Chapter 8

I Will Go Abroad This Year, No Matter What! ‘When the bus that I was on set off from the gate of LOT airlines at 7 am,’ the renowned writer Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz noted in his journal on 13 November 1951, on the occasion of departing for Italy, ‘I looked at Marysia and Wiesio waving good-bye to me, and I pitied them in my heart. […] It was they who deserved such a trip, rather than me, blasé as I was and having quite a few such journeys under my belt already. For them, this would have been a surprise, whereas I would find things already familiar and sometimes even a little boring. I pitied their youth, ignorant of one of the most important human entertainments, which stimulates thinking and creativity – the diversion of variety.’1 The entertainment provided for the population by Stalinism was radically different from the refreshing discovery of the world that the writer had in mind.2 In the first half of the 1950s, Poles dreamt about feasible trips within their own country, which oscillated at best between the mountain resort of Zakopane in the south of Poland and the seaside resort of Sopot in the north. In contrast, in the western part of the same continent, people were increasingly looking beyond their own borders for a respite from dull everyday life. Obviously it was the younger, wealthier and better educated westerners who were going abroad more often, but also holidays abroad ceased to be an unrealistic dream for the lower social classes, especially as both the developing tourist infrastructure – such as camping sites, the number of which in Bavaria alone rose from 26 to 107 between 1953 and 1957 – and the increasing car ownership facilitated inexpensive individual trips and independence from travel agencies. Whereas by 1956 domestic travel had increased by 45% compared to 1928, foreign travel had increased by 372%! By mid-1957, almost every fourth West German citizen (23%) had already taken a holiday abroad.3 * A. K. Wróblewski, Dzienniki …, p. 167 (recorded on 2 Apr 1957). 1 J. Iwaszkiewicz, Dzienniki 1911–1955, eds. A. and R. Papieski, intro. R. Gronczewski, Warszawa 2007, pp. 315–316. 2 On the culture-forming and modernising role of tourism and its role in the emergence of a new social class, see the now-canonical work by D. MacCannell, The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class, London 1976; Cf. Freizeit in der Erlebnisgesellschaft, eds. H. A. Hartmann, R. Haubl, Opladen 1996; A. Wieczorkiewicz, Apetyt turysty. O doświadczaniu świata w podróży, Kraków 2008. 3 A. Schildt, Moderne Zeiten: Freizeit, Massenmedien und “Zeitgeist” in der Bundesrepublik der 50er Jahre, Hamburg 1995, pp. 189, 193–195, 198–200.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_009

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Meanwhile, for Poles it was quite different. Stalinism had closed Poland so effectively that only a small group of its most trusted citizens had any chance of crossing the Iron Curtain into the coveted dreamland of the West, which remained for most a land of myth and imagination rather than reality,4 or even just crossing the Polish border to venture into another Soviet Bloc country. The average citizen could only dream of travelling further afield. ‘What awaits me,’ wrote the Catholic activist Janusz Zabłocki on 5  July  1957, before his imminent departure for France, ‘somehow surpasses my imagination; it does not fit into the scale of my experiences to date. So what dominates my feelings is probably curiosity – curiosity about that other world from which, by Stalin’s will, we were to be separated once and for all, and which is now opening its gates unexpectedly before us.’5 There was little tangible fodder for the feverish imagination. Cars of foreign diplomats could be glimpsed in the streets of the largest cities, titillating curiosity. Western films – only sporadically released in cinemas – or Western glossy magazines sourced cunningly from contacts beyond the Iron Curtain and perused avidly to the point of absolute destruction, provided some insight into how the ‘West’ lived. The only permanent link remained radio stations such as Radio Free Europe; listening to those crackling broadcasts was a labour of love, as they were more or less successfully jammed by the authorities. Parcels from friends and acquaintances in the West were the only supply channel for getting hold of coveted items of clothing or accessories, the significance of which exceeded the usual cultural boundaries of fashion rising to symbolise a link to a better, Western way of life. For it was the sterile isolation from most of the world that brought a growing frustration to an ever-increasing section of the population, spreading beyond the best educated and financially secure. Throughout the Soviet bloc, along with the progressing modernisation, the scope of citizens’ aspirations was expanding, going beyond the satisfaction of the simplest, everyday consumption needs. This trend had been steadily progressing since the early 1950s, as was evident in the enthusiastic affirmation of foreign products, allocated a disproportionate standing in the individual and collective hierarchy of values, as well as in dreams of personally getting to know this other world.6 Every encounter with it triggered high emotions, especially for the young. A teenager recalled an encounter in the mid-1950s: ‘One Sunday we went hiking on 4 On the Stalinist lockdown of Poland – D. Stola, Kraj bez wyjścia? Migracje z Polski 1949–1989, Warszawa 2010, pp. 23–48; idem, Opening a Non-exit State: The Passport Policy of Communist Poland, 1949–1980, East European Politics and Societies, 29, 1 (2015), pp. 96–119. 5 J. Zabłocki, Dzienniki 1956–1965, vol. 1, Warszawa 2008, p. 92. 6 L.  Chelcea, The Culture of Shortage during State Socialism: Consumption Practices in a Romanian Village in the 1980s, “Cultural Studies”, 16, 2002, p. 35.

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Śnieżka. There, on the summit, I spoke to a Czech girl aged 15 or 16, who was on an excursion with her father. With excitement we swapped addresses. […] We were curious about each other as people from a different world.’7 But in her very first letter, the Czech teenager asked for chewing gum, which was not available in her country! No wonder, since the many years of isolation of the socialist countries resulted in citizens trying to rebuild their shattered lives according to new standards. The dream of the twenty-two-year-old Andrzej Krzysztof Wróblewski – to go abroad this year, no matter what! – was echoed by a huge part of his generation, And, at the turn of 1956–1957, it suddenly became more tangible. The changes to foreign travel brought about in these years can be seen in the table below: Table 5

Year

1955 1956 1957 1958

Temporary trips abroad 1955–1958

Socialist countries

Capitalist countries

Official Group Private IN TOTAL trips trips and sports tours trips

Official Group Private IN trips / trips TOTAL and sports tours trips

IN TOTAL

12,751 13,751 26,502 4,074 668 4,742 31,244 17,046 16,547 112,015 145,608 11,043 604 11,245 22,892 168,500 20,683 23,317 94,190 138,190 16,341 6,278 54,735 77,354 215,544 22,143 22,392 48,089 92,624 15,587 4,150 30,059 49,796 142,420

Stola, Kraj bez wyjścia …, p. 486.

The first signs of a cross-border thaw became noticeable as early as 1955. A significant breakthrough came with the 5th World Festival of Youth and Students in Warsaw in the summer of that year, when thousands of young people from all over the world came to the Polish capital. ‘Our wall of peace cracked a little, and through that crack, I had a glimpse of another world,’ is how the student, later a writer, Jarosław Abramow-Newerly encapsulated his feelings, that

7 J. Kochanowski, “Jesteśmy za biedni, aby urlop spędzać w kraju”. Masowa turystyka i nielegalny handel w latach sześćdziesiątych XX w. Perspektywa polska, “Roczniki Dziejów Społecznych i Gospodarczych”, vol. XLVIII, 2008, p. 127.

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resonated with most in his generation.8 The jamming of foreign radio stations stopped, more information about the West appeared in the media, now more diverse rather than exclusively critical. ‘One cannot overestimate the significance of these experiences’, Dariusz Stola noted, ‘in terms of their impact on the shaping of ideas about life in the West and the revival of interest in and urge to visit the world behind the Iron Curtain.’9 The number of official trips was the first to increase, followed by the number of private trips. Between 1954 and 1955, the latter increased more than eightfold (from 1.7 to 14.5 thousand), and trips to the West showed an even higher increase. Even so, in 1955 this still amounted to fewer than 700 people.10 Family and friends abroad ceased to be a blot on one’s CV – an obstacle or hindrance to a career, and something that automatically turned a citizen into a questionable character. International family and professional ties were revived,11 and both academic internships or scholarships and the visiting of long-lost family abroad became a reality. The Polish authorities, following the example of the USSR, recognised that reducing the draconian restrictions on travel was an essential component of democratisation and would help both to soothe the social mood and to make their own image more user-friendly. Greater cross-border mobility was, among other things such as wider car ownership, another form of official consent to a limited and closely monitored consumerism. The unclear and sometimes contradictory regulations were interpreted by the public to their advantage and the authorities turned a blind eye to this status quo, which resulted in an increasing number of those travelling abroad. 8 9 10 11

J. Abramow-Newerly, Lwy STS-u, p. 166; Cf. A. Krzywicki, Poststalinowski karnawał radości. V Światowy Festiwal Młodzieży i Studentów o Pokój i Przyjaźń, Warszawa 1955 rok, Warszawa 2009. Stola, Kraj …, p. 85. Ibidem, p. 88. For many families separated by the war, the thaw made it possible to meet, usually for the first time in almost two decades. ‘London has been truly swamped by Poles from the home country, ‘wrote Juliusz Mieroszewski to Jerzy Giedroyc on 27 December 1956. ‘Some thousand people arrived in London from Poland for Christmas alone. My acquaintance Major Lewandowski, who works in a nail factory, was visited for Christmas by his wife and his 17-year-old son, whom he saw for the first time in his life. In many cases, these visits by wives to their husbands after 17 years of separation bring only disappointment. Another friend of mine, whose wife also came to visit, told me frankly yesterday that after talking to his wife for a few hours, they both came to the conclusion that after 17 years they had nothing to say to each other, because they did not understand each other.’ J. Giedroyc, J. Mieroszewski, Listy 1949–1956. Część druga, intro. K. Pomian, eds. J. Krawczyk, K. Pomian, Warszawa 1999, pp. 481–482.

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This trend accelerated rapidly, especially once the granting of foreign travel passports was liberalised in mid-1956. Previously, the Passport Office of the Ministry of the Interior had been responsible for all matters related to passports, but an order of the Minister of the Interior came into force on 20 June 1956, allowing them also to be issued by Provincial Headquarters of the militia, and now citizens could apply for a passport at District Headquarters, which improved the processing of the paperwork. And the waiting time for the issue of a passport was specified: four weeks for trips to socialist countries and two months otherwise. Applicants were entitled to replies in writing, and had the right of appeal. Another step that greatly facilitated travel, albeit only to socialist countries, was the possibility of travelling with just an identity card, provided that it had the appropriate passport endorsement.12 Nevertheless, in hindsight, the procedures for jumping through the administrative hoops required to travel out of the country seem like a bureaucratic ordeal. ‘It is necessary to submit an application, a curriculum vitae, an invitation from the family [living abroad], […] and a certificate of leave of absence. Applications for a trip to capitalist countries require […] proof that a visa for the given foreign country has been issued. Once the application has been submitted, […] a check is conducted to find out whether the citizen in question is already on file, i.e. has already applied for or has previously received a passport […], as a passport can only be issued once every two years, and only for the purpose of visiting immediate family.’ This may well baffle today’s reader, so an explanation is in order: at that time a Polish passport was issued for a single, specific trip abroad, and had to be handed back to the authorities immediately on return. Applications for trips to capitalist countries were examined in great detail, as an investigation of the applicant would be undertaken.13 The acceleration in administrative processing was evident. In 1956, out of 11,000 documents authorising a venture beyond the Iron Curtain, over 9,000 were issued in the second half of the year. Nevertheless, 70% of the 48,000 submitted applications had not been examined at all by the end of the year! Of those that had been processed, 25% were refused – and that was in fact an example of a hitherto unknown liberalism. In 1957 of the 70,000 applications for a passport needed to travel to the West, 49,000 were accepted, so the percentage of refusals rose slightly – to 30%, but was still incomparably lower than that of earlier and later years.14 12 TL, 15 June 1956. 13 HIM, P-580, Item No. 1155/58, Pass section of the district militia kommandatura in Olsztyn: restrictions on travel. 14 Stola, Kraj …, p. 95.

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The fate of an application for travel to the West depended to an extent on Polish officials, which left the door open to the possibility of occasionally being able to arrive at some settlement in the matter. When it came to favourable treatment of applications for travelling to the USSR – which constituted the vast majority of applications for travel to socialist countries – it was the staff at the Soviet consulates who were able to approve or decline the application. From the beginning of the Polish October Revolution, they became much more cautious about issuing permits. In Wrocław, for example, around 1,400 applications for travel to the USSR were processed by October 1956, but more than a further 30,000 remained to be cleared.15 On the other hand, the immediate hinterland of the border no longer resembled a fiercely defended fortress. In 1957, the draconian restrictions on staying or settling in areas adjacent to the borders were liberalised. New border crossings were opened in Zgorzelec – to East Germany, Kuźnica (to the USSR (todays Belarus), as well as Dorohusk and Terespol – to the USSR (today’s Ukraine). Border checks and controls on trains were simplified and shortened, although they remained onerous and time-consuming by today’s standards, in ports, guards no longer stood watch on the lookout against transgressions by Polish crews, and sailors under foreign flags were now allowed to disembark. All the attractive tourist trails were re-opened to the public, even those along the borders, especially those in the Tatra and Karkonosze Mountains – thus along the Czechoslovak border, and the Border Protection Troops (WOP) ceased their incessant stop-and-demand-ID checks of the local population. On the border with Czechoslovakia, the former regulations that permitted limited local border traffic were re-introduced.16 This removal of restrictions mainly brought relief to the local population. But a real cross-border breakthrough for all citizens was the Tourism Convention with Czechoslovakia, Poland’s southern neighbour, signed in 1955 and in force from April 1956. An easily obtained pass made possible a visit to the convention zone, as it was known – an area extending several kilometres from selected sections of the border. By the end of 1956, over 186,000 people had used these passes, including 102,000 citizens of the Peoples Republic of Poland.17 However, only a small number of these went backpacking in the mountains (according to estimates from August 1956 – a mere 3%!). The goal 15

APWr, Presidium of the WRN in Wrocław, XVIII/304, Voivodeship Headquarters of the Citizens’ Militia (KW MO; hereinafter: KW MO) Wrocław, report for the period of 1 to 21 Oct 1956, 2 Nov 1956, p. 322. 16 HIM, Radio Warszawa I, 16 Feb 57, p. 958; Wzrasta ruch na naszych granicach, TL, 8 Aug 1957; W pasie granicznym-duże zmiany, TL, 14 Aug 1957. 17 TL, 10 Dec 1956.

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for the vast majority was a shopping trip to Czechoslovakia. Moreover, due to a restricted and very modest allocation of Czechoslovak currency, the resourceful Polish tourists resorted to barter, turning the squares of the Czech resorts close to the border such as Smokovec or Tatranská Lomnica into small, bustling bazaars. A dismayed Życie Warszawy journalist commented, ‘It is sad that among foreign tourists such as Hungarians, Romanians or Bulgarians, it is Poles who have taken the lead in this particular trade and speculative craft.’18 The locals did not need much persuasion, however, to buy Polish sausages, vodka or the chewing gum that Poles had been sent in parcels from the West, and which was not available in their country.19 These brief trips only whetted the appetite for more. The Radio Free Europe study emphasised that this limited tourism to Czechoslovakia was not really as attractive as trips to other countries, since in that country ‘liberalisation had not gone as far as it had in Poland, people are distrustful and suspicious, and living conditions in the border strip are not much different from those in Poland. […] “What kind of tourism is this?!” says one tourist, “It’s like moving from one room to another in your own flat.” ’20 The real excitement was aroused by travel to the West, which – regardless of the costs and difficulties involved –was a common dream. Wróblewski’s dream of travelling abroad – ‘no matter what!’, shared by most of his compatriots, did not refer to Slovakia, but to the terra incognita (or rather terra imaginata) beyond the Iron Curtain. This was the reason why applications for visas to the West outnumbered those for socialist countries (nota bene, the reason that, of these, the USSR was a preferred destination was not so much prompted by tourist curiosity as by complex sentiments, since for many Poles, such trips meant a visit to Poland’s former Eastern Borderlands). Of the nearly 120,000 passport applications submitted between 2 January and early November 1956, 45,000 were for travel to the USSR, 20,000 to the other Communist countries and 55,000 to the West.21 The tickets were relatively affordable – at 206 zloty for a railway ticket to Paris or 252 zloty to sail to England22 – but the financial difficulties started on arrival. The average Polish monthly wage in 1956 was 1,120 zloty, and in 1957 – 1,280, which, at the official exchange rate of 24 zloty to the dollar in 1957, was the equivalent of some 50 dollars – a paltry amount in comparison to Western wages. This provides some insight into what travelling Poles were up against 18 19 20 21 22

ŻW, 24 Aug 1956. Cf. SM, 18 Aug 1957. See A.K. Wróblewski, Dzienniki …, pp. 231–232. HIM, P-645, Item No 9354/56, Poles find it hard to travel in West. HIM, P-580, Item No 437/57; 119,000 Applications for passports. Stola, Kraj …, p. 96.

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in the Cold War reality. No wonder that those who had a family in the West, preferably kind and wealthy enough to provide board and lodging at the very least, were best placed to explore the continent. Those not fortunate enough to have family in the West could try to join one of the organised trips, arranged from mid-1956 by, for example, the Orbis state travel agency, and later even by individual work establishments, from factories to ministries. The first press reports of such organised tours to Yugoslavia, Italy or France appeared in June 1956.23 At the beginning of September 1956, the Polish media reported with frank satisfaction, ‘among the coaches carrying American, English, Belgian, German, Spanish, Dutch and other tourists around the streets of Paris, since Monday there has been a newcomer – one with 35 Polish tourists on board. They have arrived for a two-week stay in France as part of the first post-war trip organised by Orbis.’24 A few months later, Radio Free Europe reported that ‘tours from Poland in the French capital are neverending; when one leaves, another one arrives the next day. For example, on 17 July, two such tours were enjoying Paris at the same time, and a day later, yet another arrived.’25 The cost of an Orbis tour was not insignificant. Whereas in 1956, the most expensive trip had involved an expenditure of around 5,000 zloty, by 1957 it had become twice as expensive – thus some eight times the monthly salary. Despite this, there was no shortage of people wanting to join an Orbis trip. This was, however, easier said than done. To be amongst the lucky ones able to see Paris, Rome or Copenhagen with an Orbis tour required patience, luck and a creative approach, combined with the right connections and sufficient financial resources. Places on any group trip were scarce – especially for ordinary walk-in punters, with no connections or clout; most were distributed by travel agencies and through various institutions. An observer from Radio Free Europe commented that those best placed to strike lucky were only those with Orbis connections and lots of money. The station described the experiences of a would-be tourist who fortunately had both. Thus, one Monday in March he had had a tip-off that Orbis would be starting to sell tickets for a 17-day trip to Italy the following Thursday, with an itinerary that included Vienna, Venice, Rome and Florence. The cost of the trip including hotel and meals was 6,500 zloty. The trip was to take place on 1 June 1957. ‘Immediately on receiving the telephone message, at midday that Monday, our man dashed off to the Europejski Hotel, where the Orbis office is located, and joined the queue. He 23 ŻW, 25 Jun 1956. 24 Nasi za granicą, ŻW, 10 Sep 1956. 25 HIM, P-645, Item No 4577/57, Reported regime move to limit excursions to France.

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was 17th in line. At the same time he sent a telegram to his wife who lived in Chorzów. The queueing took three days – he was taking turns standing in line with his wife and friends. […] That was what it took to secure a place on the trip.’26 The London-based Polish-language daily Dziennik Polski recorded in detail the dogged determination of those hoping to join an Orbis tour in March  1957. ‘They queued for days on end, equipped with field beds, mattresses and blankets, having formed a queue committee to oversee order. But most of the few hundred people hoping to see the castles on the Loire were sadly disappointed, when it turned out that there were only a few places to be allocated between them.’27 The demand should not be surprising – a trip to the West meant many dreams coming true at once. For some, it was a chance to meet family members usually for the first time in almost two decades. It allowed one to increase one’s social prestige while breathing in the mythical air of the West; it was a chance to get a first-hand reality check, to see landscapes and monuments familiar from photographs and the cinema. It was an opportunity to catch up on culture, such as going to see the legendary film Gone with the Wind, which was yet to reach Poland but which, as Radio Free Europe noted peevishly in a September  1956, had already been in circulation in Italy for at least eight years and was now only shown in mediocre, provincial cinemas.28 Last but not least, a trip to the west of the continent also had lucrative potential. It was an opportunity to buy items that in Poland were either unavailable or much more expensive. Since prices in the West were prohibitive, and the pitiful fivedollar allowance barely adequate to buy a snack or two, creative Polish tourists attempted first to get the necessary wherewithal by means of selling items that they had brought with them, in the hope of achieving the benefits of what economists call arbitrage, or the exploitation of price differences between different markets. Unfortunately, these amateur economists were not best placed to assess the demand for goods in the West, bringing with them objects that were difficult to sell.29 ‘Often, clueless tourists would task their hapless Paris and London relatives or acquaintances with acting as intermediaries in selling 26 HIM, P-645, Item No 506/57, Orbis tours to the West. 27 “Dziennik Polski”, 77, 29 Mar 1957. 28 HIM, P-645, Item No 9354/56, Poles find it hard to travel in West. Cf. W.  Górny, Paryż, Paryż…, “Kamena”, 15 Apr 1957. 29 HIM, P-645, Item No 4577/57, Reported regime move to limit excursions to France. ‘A lot of people come to Paris from Poland, not only to visit their families, but also on individual trips and group tours. There are painters, writers, architects … Sometimes such a group brings its own provisions […] and has to feed itself on tinned food or dry sausage for weeks.’ Paryż patrzy na Polskę, “Dziennik Polski”, London, 14 Feb 1957.

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Fig. 23

While until mid-1956 commercial tourism was illegal and primarily the domain of the elite, it later became more democratic, also becoming a popular subject for journalists and satirists. (Our people abroad or tourism’s bitter fruits, Ryszard Zbrzezny, “Nowa Wieś” 43, 1957.)

these cameras, albums, family silver sugar bowls, […] even […] an authentic floor rug, which was supposed to pay for a two-week stay in Paris.’30 Nevertheless, trips organised by travel agencies were so expensive that participants would try to make a profit one way or another to compensate. ‘Rather than visiting the park, many people dash off to go shopping in Fredensborg’, Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz recounted in his impressions from a trip to Copenhagen in August 1957. ‘I suppose some people also try to sell things … Some lady tells me what she bought (for her father!) and how it paid off. “I have to do this so that I can recoup at least half the cost of the journey.” And she does her accounts: “so many socks, so much toothpaste … When we get back to Copenhagen, I still have to go shopping again.” And then suddenly she adds, “But I must go to the 30

A. Kuśniewicz, Nasi zagranicą (broadcast on 25 Jul 1957 by Polskie Radio), later published as Co tu sprzedać na paryskim bruku, “7 dni w Polsce”, 23, 4 Aug 1957.

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museum, there are meant to be wonderful Courberts and Gauguins there.” […] How does she square these things – the socks and the painting?’31 What Iwaszkiewicz failed to record in his diary, however, was that as many as 70 of his fellow travellers to the Danish capital aboard the pre-war transatlantic liner MS Batory failed to return to Poland. From 1956 onwards, for those who wanted to start a new life beyond the Iron Curtain, joining an organised tourist group was regarded a fool-proof, if not the cheapest, means to that end. Practically no such group ever returned to Poland with its original complement. Sometimes just one person would stay behind in the West; at other times, on the return journey, a third or almost half of the group could not be accounted for. Such an unauthorised gambit meant, of course, burning one’s boats. It was a life-changing decision that had been generally prepared in advance. It meant that the abscondee would be considered a ‘traitor’ by the authorities back home and probably not ever see their family left behind in Poland again, or not for a very long time. Staying behind beyond the authorised period led of course to having to ask for political asylum, which was generally granted, since the propaganda value of such elopements from communism had great propaganda value to the West. For example, out of the 99 participants in one such trip to Prague and Vienna, 36 did not return, and out of 38 who set off to visit France – 15 went AWOL. By early August 1957, out of 1,148 people participants in organised trips (excluding trips to East Germany, West Germany and Belgium), 191 (17%)32 failed to report back to the home country. Some justified their refusal to go back to Poland by quoting a difficult financial situation or problems with finding a job, but there were plenty of the well-off among these asylum seekers. The aforementioned passengers of the MS Batory who jumped ship to stay behind in Copenhagen were hosted by the aristocrat Dagny Plum at her Smidstrup estate. The Radio Free Europe journalist commented that, surprisingly, this particular group of asylum seekers did not look like typical refugees from behind the Iron Curtain, nor did they in any way seem out of place in the well-kept park and stylish chambers of the Smidstrup country house. ‘The tall young man, his 31

J.  Iwaszkiewicz, Dzienniki 1956–1963, eds. A. and R.  Papieski, intro. R.  Gronczewski, Warszawa 2010, p. 163. Even parliamentarians were involved in shady dealings during official trips to the West. ‘The behaviour of some [MPs],’ the embassy in Brussels reported, ‘must have aroused great reservations (one example was Mr Najder MP, who brought along from Poland, for purposes unknown to us, a spare gold watch, a gold pen and a collection of Polish postage stamps worth more than 1,000 zloty, which he allegedly lost at the end of his stay).’ Polskie Dokumenty Dyplomatyczne 1957…, p. 821. See Turystyka czy handelek? Piękna Francja w wydaniu “Orbisu”, GP, 2 Jul 1957. 32 Polskie Dokumenty Dyplomatyczne 1957…, p. 598.

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clothes understated but elegant, whom I meet at the entrance seems to have been transplanted straight from the English aristocracy. I meet an engineer who looks just like a typical Western director of a large company; a Polish artist is dressed just as casually as his Western counterparts, but with a better sense of colour, a comme il faut gentleman turns out to be a tailor, but his manner and comportment would find approval in all the better bourgeois circles in the West. There is no doubt that this group represents the Polish elite, and in a good way. The dozen or so engineers are really competent professionals. […] There is a teacher of Latin, and two priests from the national Church. Artists are represented above all by the cartoonist from the Szpilki magazine, Piotr Baro, here with his wife, and several architects. Finally, there are also several workers, who are in their own way the aristocracy of the working class – highly qualified foremen.’33 The Polish authorities, dismayed by the seepage of citizens, instructed travel agents to employ tougher criteria in vetting tourist applications, and in particular to accept applications through various associations, unions, institutions, clubs, etc.34 As a result, even in the case of strictly private trips, additional official identification was sought to confirm such affiliation; this increased the chances of being issued a passport, and sometimes also the possibility of the cost of travel being subsidised with an allocation of foreign currency. The Holy Grail was to cross the Iron Curtain; once on the other side, individuals trusted their own ingenuity to make the best of the opportunity thus put in their grasp. For example, the actors of the Student Satirical Theatre, delegated by the Union of Polish Students (ZSP) to France to work in the grape harvest, succeeded in greatly extending and diversifying their stay, including a visit to the Literary Institute in Paris, founded by Jerzy Giedroyc, and already famous as the publisher of cultural forbidden fruit.35 Another group of students from the Warsaw Academy of Fine Arts enjoyed a several-month long boat trip around West Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium and France,36 also under the auspices of the ZSP. And thanks to securing appropriate patrons, five students from Gdańsk were cleared to sail to Sweden on a hand-built raft.37 ‘The obstacle that I now face’, noted the young journalist Andrzej Krzysztof Wróblewski, when planning his trip to the West, ‘and one on which the success of my expedition largely depends is money. I have been trying to get foreign 33 34 35 36 37

HIM, P-542, Item No. 5568/57, Refugees from the “Batory” pessimistic about Gomulka. Polskie Dokumenty Dyplomatyczne 1957…, p. 599. J. Abramow-Newerly, Lwy STS-u, pp. 342–363. Za 17 dolarów – trzy miesiące za granicą, SM, 148, 23 Jun 1957. Polska Kon-Tiki gotowa do wyjścia w morze, ŻW, 194, 16 Aug 1957.

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currency in eighteen different places, selling my work in advance; unfortunately, I’m still considered a young nobody, so my name means nothing, and I don’t stand an equal chance in this game against most people.’38 He had hit the nail on the head, since in the years 1956–1957 many newspapers’ editorial offices functioned as efficient travel agencies. The destination of a trip was determined by its attractiveness rather than any other consideration, and in many editorial offices there was a marked tendency to send out as many journalists as possible, at the cost of shorter stays. From January to the end of September 1957 alone, the journalists of the magazines published by the RSW Prasa travelled on 556 occasions (to 43 countries). Capitalist countries were more popular (294), while socialist countries, including Yugoslavia, were visited 262 times. Had it not been for the World Youth Festival in Moscow, which was attended by almost 80 journalists, skewing the proportion towards the socialist countries, the discrepancy would have been even more striking, as was the case with Polish Radio, where out of 132 foreign trips, as many as 95 were to the West.39 This asymmetric distribution was true of all official trips, or rather a category that the Życie Warszawy Paris correspondent Zygmunt Szymański described as a hybrid category of the official-cum-private traveller.40 In 1957, the Passport Office of the Ministry of the Interior issued 32,508 passports for the purposes of an official trip, authorising 37,024 trips. This was 32% more than in 1956, but the number of official trips increased by only 9%, while cultural and social trips increased by as much as 52%. By a strange coincidence, a large proportion of these trips took place mainly in the attractive summer months and to such countries as Italy and France. This raised the justified suspicion that some institutions were eager to finance and pay for trips abroad which were essentially private.41 Numerous official or business trips, sometimes of several dozen people at a time, to various congresses, conventions, conferences and exhibitions were a benefit in kind and a tool facilitating the strengthening of the network of social relations – but also, importantly, they represented a form of privatisation of the state, to which the lion’s share of the costs of these essentially private sojourns was transferred. For as long as the trip was classified as

38 A. K. Wróblewski, Dzienniki …, p. 168. 39 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIX-91, Note on foreign travel, pp. 97–101. It was a similar story with sportspeople. In 1956, 60% travelled to Soviet Bloc countries and the remaining 40% to capitalist countries. In 1957, the ratio reversed. AAN, KS, 173, Health and Physical Culture Commission, 14 Nov 1957, p. 567v. 40 Z. Szymański, Paryska wiązanka, ŻW, 12/13 May 1957. 41 AAN, KS, 164, Commission for Interior Affairs, p. 429.

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official, thus business, tourist and sightseeing, the state would cover the cost of daily allowances, hotels and travel for the participants.42 Although the state pragmatically accepted the subsidising of such trips, it put a great strain on its less than bottomless foreign currency resources, particularly in the circumstances that many institutions for the economic regulation of relations with foreign countries, such as the foreign exchange commission and customs offices had been dissolved or operated less efficiently. Moreover, the currency exchange rate was not adapted to the sudden lifting of administrative barriers.43 In 1957, the official exchange rate was set at an unrealistically low level of 24 zloty to the dollar, which did not reflect its purchasing power in the West – represented more accurately by the black market rate of some 200 zloty to the dollar. The government was hoist with its own petard, since under the regulations in force, state institutions were expected to pay for the foreign trips at the former, official rate, while they were then obliged to settle their accounts with foreign contractors at a much less favourable rate, closer to the black market one. In 1956, 2 million dollars were spent from the state coffers for this purpose; in 1957 the pace accelerated, with 2.2 million spent in the first six months of that year alone. Nor were citizens content with settling for bargains. On the contrary, courtesy of the state largesse, they opted for the most expensive and best foreign means of communication. ‘No one wants to go first or second class, but always in a sleeper car, or the best foreign ship; they won’t fly Polish LOT, but insist on SABENA or KLM.’44 Tourists’ entitlement to the five-dollar allowance at the low official exchange rate proved another painful blow to the state. The tourist only needed to pay a total of 120 zloty for five dollars, not much more than half the price of just one dollar on the black market. The government footed the bill. To cap it all, revenues from inbound tourism turned out to be many times lower than the expenditure that facilitated Polish citizens’ outbound tourism. During the first three quarters of 1957, revenues from foreign visitors amounted to 3.5 million dollars (1.5 million from visitors from capitalist countries, 2 million from the Eastern Bloc), while subsidies for Polish outbound tourists came to 9.3 million (5.8 million on trips to capitalist countries, and 3.5 million to other socialist countries).45 Inevitably, in July  1957, the Ministry of Finance brought about a radical reduction in travel, especially to the West, with no more than 10,000, and later only 5,000, passports issued by the end of the year. It also radically restricted 42 43 44 45

Za dużo służbowych “wycieczek” za granicę – stwierdziła komisja, TL, 30 Jul 1957. Polskie Dokumenty Dyplomatyczne 1957…, p. 741. Przejściowe ograniczenia w wyjazdach prywatnych za granicę, TL, 268, 28 Nov 1957. Ibidem. AAN, KS, 173, Commission for Health and Physical Culture, 19 Mar 1957, p. 480.

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the no-hard currency trips – with no entitlement to a small dollar allocation per person – organised for example by work establishments or social or professional organisations, where sometimes a collective passport was issued for all the participants. In 1956, 12,000 people had been able to travel in this manner, five times more than with Orbis.46 Yet – despite passport restrictions that involved submitting an even larger number of documents and enclosures, despite the lengthening of procedures and the fact that the issuing of travel documents for Western countries had been moved back to the Passport Office of the Ministry of the Interior, and away from the more convenient, respective Voivodeship Headquarters of the Citizens Militia – in August  1957 alone, as many as 8,679 passports for private trips to capitalist countries were issued.47 Nevertheless, an inter-ministerial committee formed in mid-August with the participation of the Ministry of Finance, Ministry of the Interior and Ministry of Foreign Affairs took only two months to put forward a uniform position on the financing of trips. Much earlier, however, both the Polish and the national press had begun to hint darkly at the imminent end of relatively cheap travel.48 Finally, on 1 November 1957, a decree came into force providing for the strict rationing of travel paid for in zloty, authorised by the National Bank of Poland and subject to the limited finance available. The decree made clear that, until further notice, such permits would be issued only sporadically and only for Polish planes, trains or ships. The issue of a passport was made conditional on the applicant submitting permission received from the National Bank of Poland, or alternatively a statement by Orbis, LOT Airlines or Polish Ocean Lines (PLO) to the effect that the costs of travel had been paid in foreign currency by the applicant’s family abroad or by the passport holder himself – as long as proof could also be shown of the legal origin of the dollars or pounds spent.49 This was a painful blow, especially since most applicants not blessed with family in the West bought dollars on the black market. To add insult to injury, this was followed by an increase in the fee for a passport to the West from 300 to a (discounted!) 1,000 zloty, or even to 7,000 zloty for travelling outside Europe, as of 19 January 1958. There was also a reduced tariff of 500 zloty for those travelling for scientific or cultural reasons, journalists or young people, but even this amount was onerous, representing as 46 Stola, Kraj…, pp. 91– 93. 47 Polskie Dokumenty Dyplomatyczne 1957…, p. 742; HIM P-580, Item 1155/58, Pass section of the District Militia Kommandantura in Olsztyn: restrictions on travel. 48 Bilety będą opłacane w £ i $. Skończą się dopłaty skarbu do podróży zagranicznych, DP, 9  Aug 1957; “Czasowo” mniej wyjazdów dla oszczędzenia obcych walut, DP, 2  Dec 1957; Przejściowe ograniczenia w wyjazdach prywatnych za granicę, TL, 28 Nov 1957. 49 TL, 1 Nov 1957.

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Fig. 24 A trip abroad was a longed-for aspirational goal, with the promise of financial gain – hence the disappointment was bitter if it failed to come to fruition, as illustrated in this cartoon. All the would-be traveller can do is sit with his Coca-Cola (no doubt bought on the black market, since it was first produced in Poland only in 1972), longingly window-shopping in front of the ‘komis’, where foreign goods could be bought, at a price. (‘He was refused permission to travel abroad, and so he’s just been sitting here like this …’ Barbara Rutkowska, “Szpilki” 15, 1957.)

it did an administrative fee for issuing a passport that exceeded a third of the average monthly wage; moreover, this option required lengthy procedures and appropriate certificates. The increase was the straw that broke the camel’s back. This time, there were public protests, with letters from citizens worried about the withdrawal of one of the last achievements of October reaching the editorial offices of the popular publications, the radio stations and the authorities. Employees of the Institute of Horticulture in Skierniewice – who thanks to the thaw had benefited from academic internships in Scandinavia – wrote to Trybuna Ludu: ‘We believe that this ordinance will act as an iron curtain above all for us, young academics who earn on average 1,100 to 1,500 zloty a month […] It will be the exceptionally well-off and speculators who will continue to be able to travel abroad.’50 And a resident of Legnica asked Trybuna Ludu: ‘Please explain how we are to acquire the amount of 40,000 zloty for a trip abroad to France to visit family we have not seen for 16 years. My mother, my sister and I want to go to France. My mother’s mother and three of my mother’s sisters live there. My mother’s father died recently and it is clear from the amount quoted above that all our relatives in France and we here in Poland 50 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-25, Bulletin of Letters 6, 31 Jan 1958, pp. 63–64.

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are likely to die before we can expect to see each other again.’51 The Warsaw daily Kurier Polski began a campaign for a reduction in passport fees, which brought moderate success; eventually the Ministry of Finance backed down from its previous decisions, setting the passport fee at 1,000 zloty.52 Thus the authorities succeeded in limiting the cross-border mobility of Poles both through fiscal measures and by tightening recruitment for participation in group tours; now practically the only way in was being nominated by a trade union. It took another four years for the number of travellers to exceed that reached in 1957, and the numbers travelling to the West would not reach that level before the end of the next decade, in 1969. The authorities began to think of cross-border traffic not only in ideological terms, but increasingly from the point of view of economics, seeing in tourism an opportunity to earn foreign currency. In 1958, Orbis set out to bring to Poland 50,000 guests from the West, primarily from the Polish-American community, since they were the only tourists capable of bringing in dollars. Other targeted tourists were Polish compatriots from Great Britain, Canada and West Germany. Inflow of tourists from France was not in the sights of Orbis, since the exchange rate of the franc was too weak.53 The opening up of Poland as a destination for Western tourists revealed, however, the extent of the underdevelopment of the country’s infrastructure. Not more than a tenth of the 60,000 tourist beds available met international standards and the same was true about the quality of other services. There was little prospect of rapidly bridging the gap with the West in developing the tourist industry, nevertheless Poland ambitiously entered the modernisation race on this new front. The real winner was Polish society – since, having tasted the satisfaction of foreign travel, especially to the West, it was in no mood to give up this privilege. Once breached, the Polish borders, including the Iron Curtain could no longer be effectively closed. This dovetailed with another factor which favoured individual tourism: the years 1956–1957 brought the beginning of private car ownership in Poland. Although a passport, like a car, remained a valuable, rare and elusive commodity, it was no longer as inaccessible as before. The social, private and professional networks that had been established outside the country became unbreakable, with international links becoming constantly closer. During the thaw, Poland dared to reach out to the great abroad and for the following three decades this trend kept going from strength to strength.

51 Ibidem, p. 65. 52 “Kurier Polski” (hereinafter: KP), 6 Feb 1958. 53 HIM P-645, Item No. 2398/58, The “Orbis” travel agency.

Chapter 9

Culture? It is in the West! This was the title under which Syrena in Paris published, in mid-1957, the impressions of a young student, a Pole settled in France, of his visit to Poland.1 Although his words can be interpreted in several different ways (more on that later), the author himself was mainly concerned with the traditional, affirmative attitude of his compatriots to Western culture, especially material and popular culture. ‘For Poles, the West has become’, he wrote, ‘something external, something from which Poland has been separated, something that is very far away, something that Poland – affiliated against its will with another world – can only gaze at with rapture. Poles have developed an inferiority complex. Everything Western is automatically considered to be superior, something that in Poland one must not even dream about. […] I travelled around Poland in the kind of clothes that an average Parisian student living on a scholarship could afford. But my clothes were so different in quality from the dreadful trashiness which constitutes the normal clothing of my compatriots in my motherland that I kept causing a sensation. In provincial towns, the news would immediately spread: someone from the West had arrived! An hour later, a thousand people knew about it – and came, shyly knocking on the door, hoping to at least have a chat for a few minutes. Old people would come to outpour their frustrations, young people would ask questions: what is it like in this wonderful West? Their shining eyes and enthusiastic expressions showed that for them, all things Western, without exception, were an unrivalled ideal – American jazz, French songs and the cut of my trousers. They would utter the names of Gerard Philipe and Françoise Sagan with a sigh of infinite admiration.’2 1 GIEZ, “Kultura – jest na Zachodzie!”, “Syrena” 22, 1 Jun 1957. 2 Ibidem. ‘The Poles’ admiration for Western ways and Western products amounts to nothing less than a craze,’ a well-known American journalist commented. ‘One of my friends here calls this “a revolution against the social revolution”. It is a preoccupation that touches on all manner of things. The romance between Princess Margaret and Peter Townsend, for instance, created as much of a stir here as it did in London; […] Smart young women in Warsaw wear chemise dresses and Brigitte Bardot hairdos; the young men wear slim-look trousers and either crew cuts or Elvis Presley sideburns and fringes. Not many of either sex have the money to dress well, but everybody tries to look fashionable and Western, the two words being synonymous here.’ J. Wechsberg, Letter from Warsaw, “The New Yorker”, 16 Aug 1957. Cf. remarks by John Kenneth Galbraith: Journey to Poland and Yugoslavia, Cambridge (Mass.) 1958, p. 74.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_010

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The narratives that present the 1950s in Poland, including to an extent this one, are dominated by a similar perception, as is our collective memory of that time. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that from mid-1956 onwards, the process of losing the awe of the West gained momentum. In the years 1956–1957, quite a few Poles were able to experience it at first hand, especially in comparison with the years of Stalinist isolation. However, this was still a negligibly small section of society, mainly the wealthiest and most creative Poles or those with families abroad, and these families tended to be quite wealthy. The rest were condemned to seeking different kinds of contact. Some, taking advantage of the lowering of the fear barrier, tried to strike a bargain in the mythical, rich West by correspondence. ‘Whoever can go to Paris – does. Those who cannot, and that is the vast majority, at least write,’ reported the London-based daily Dziennik Polski in February 1957. ‘The Polish section of the French radio has recently been receiving an enormous number of letters. The walls of its studio are covered with strangely addressed envelopes. Here are some examples: “Poles living in France” – and nothing else. Or: “The Polish Question on Radio France”, or “Pologne Francaise, Paris”, or “Radio Nile, Paris oral” – the latter being a distorted address that should have read: “Radio Lille” and “Paris VIII arr.”. […] My favourite was the following address: “Radio francais, Sex polonaise”’.3 It is difficult to estimate the scale of the phenomenon, but it was undoubtedly a mass phenomenon, encompassing many more people than those who could physically travel to the West. People sought out any and all possible addressees – radio and newspaper editors, the British Queen, Polish immigrant organisations, national branches of the Red Cross – anywhere from Sweden to Japan – or even private individuals who had unwisely disclosed their addresses, e.g. looking for relatives. Such letters frequently included requests for financial support, medicines, clothes, cars or photographs of film stars. However, there were also non-standard appeals. A resident of Łódź wrote to the Union of American Polonia in New York: ‘This letter is the same as an SOS on a sinking ship. We beg you, dear compatriots for fraternal help! … We believe in your goodness and compassionate hearts. I am speaking on behalf of several people (women, children and men) who need material help.’ The letter contained a list, which included: 15 sewing machines, five weaving machines, two tractors and woollen yarn.4 Marian  D.  from  Gdynia asked the New York Rescue Committee for a tenor saxophone and modern jazz sheet music. A schoolgirl

3 Paryż patrzy na Polskę, “Dziennik Polski”, London, 14 Feb 1957. 4 Listy o pomoc czy żebranina?, ŻW, 28 May 1957.

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from Strzelce Krajeńskie asked her compatriots abroad to send her father, who farmed five hectares of land, a corn mowing machine and a thresher.5 One can view these attempts to reach out and communicate with dismissive irony, but in reality these were naïve and desperate attempts to rebound from the culturally and economically barren years of Stalinism, an attempt to grab an opportunity at a time when Poland briefly became the focus of global attention. One should view in a similar light the veritable Occidental tsunami of Western culture which swept through Poland in the years 1956–1957, affecting and changing individual social groups with varying intensity – a phenomenon still waiting for a monograph of its own. From 1956 onwards, Western culture became increasingly noticeable in the Polish press, radio, bookshops, cinemas and theatres, coming to be the dominant force in 1957. This proliferation of Western culture had a symbolic overtone. Not only did it shape taste and ways of thinking, but it also played a crucial role in healing the Polish sense of being a cultural backwater, accompanied by feelings of inferiority, isolation and cultural exclusion.6 This focus on Western culture, both popular and highbrow, became so prominent that from early 1957, Warsaw and other large Polish cities began to deviate from the all-socialist cultural norm. Culturally, unlike other countries in the Soviet Bloc, Poland now looked west.7 The key that opened the door to Western, and above all American, popular culture was the European tour of New York’s Everyman Opera with Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess, which in late 1955 and early 1956 visited the USSR, Poland and Czechoslovakia. With hindsight, we know that this opera, set in the most deprived and crime-ridden circles of the African-American community – had at various times a mixed reception and has since been accused of cultural appropriation and stereotyping of that culture. Yet in post-Stalinist Poland, Porgy and Bess was a much awaited breath of cultural fresh air from the USA, no less, which offered a perfect compromise – it was based on the rich musical and dance folklore of some of the least privileged citizens of the USA – Black Americans; thus in depicting America as poor, the opera presented no great ideological threat. The party authorities in the Soviet Bloc viewed the very fact of allowing the American ensemble onto their stages as a manifestation of openness and a desire for cultural rapprochement between nations. 5 Ibidem. 6 See M. Fik, Kultura polska po Jałcie. Kronika lat 1944–1981, London 1989, pp. 226–296. 7 One example is Żak, a club in Gdańsk, with its own Cinema Discussion Club and musical and theatre stages. See  A.  Cybulski, Pokolenie kataryniarzy, Warszawa 1989; L.  Bokiniec, Wspomnienia filmowców, przyjaciół i entuzjastów gdańskiego DKF Żak, concept and ed. H. Tronowicz, Gdańsk 2011.

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The party top brass themselves flocked to see the performance during the historic premieres in Moscow, Prague and Warsaw, as did audiences in their masses, joining enormous queues to buy tickets from touts, paying multiples of the original price. The writer Maria Dąbrowska was one of the few to offer a rational overview of the situation: ‘The show cocked a snook at everyone. At our governmental minders and propaganda bosses – because how was it possible that there we had the “racist and anti-immigrant” America as seen by our propagandists, and yet the U.S. ambassadors in Moscow and Warsaw went out to railway stations with their entire staff to welcome and throw parties for the black opera singers […] it also cocked a snook at anti-communist “reactionaries”, because how could they, themselves anti-Semitic and to a certain extent racist, pay homage to the coloureds by being ready to “kill” for a ticket […] And not without the participation of Jews; the authors of both the libretto and the music are Jews (Gershwin even came from Poland).’ Dąbrowska saw the actual opera as crude and infused with cheap European sentimentalism.8 But the crowds who stormed the performances in Moscow, Warsaw and Prague9 were not so much driven to discover the operatic merit as by the desire to see – at least in this way if no other – a piece of the West. In Poland, they would soon be able to do so without major obstacles, even in the case of such an openly imperialist genre as the musical. In May 1956, in the popular weekly Przekrój, the music journalist Lucjan Kydryński published a review of Cole Porter’s Kiss Me Kate which was also enjoying great success in Europe (and which he had seen in Vienna).10 His attempts to transfer this stage form more widely to Polish stages failed, and the Polish premiere of the musical, at the Komedia Theatre in Warsaw on 14 September 1957, passed off with little attention from the media.11 As far as traditional theatre was concerned, however, in the 1956/1957 season it was not easy to find contemporary plays by Soviet or Czechoslovak playwrights. The repertoire was firmly skewed towards the West, or in the words of a comment made during a meeting of the Cultural Committee of the Central Committee – ‘the repertoire leaned towards the opposite geographical and ideological pole to that of before: as many as 91% of authors came from the 8 9 10 11

M.  Dąbrowska, Dzienniki powojenne, 1955–1959, ed. T.  Drewnowski, Warszawa 1997, pp. 76– 77. “Dziennik Polski”, Kraków, 4 Feb 1956. Truman Capote described the reception that the Everyman Opera had in the Soviet Union in his reportage The Muses Are Heard, which first appeared in “The New Yorker”, and later came out as a book (New York 1956). L. Kydryński, Pocałuj mnie Kasiu!, “Przekrój” 13 May 1956. J. Mikołajczyk, Musical nad Wisłą. Historia musicalu w Polsce w latach 1957–1989, Gliwice 2010, pp. 21–23.

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West (51% French, 26% English and American, 6% Italian, 8% German and Austrian). The remaining nine percent was shared by all other playwrights, also those from socialist countries – including the USSR!’12 ‘Street advertising pillars are interesting,’ commented the periodical Kultura i Społeczeństwo. ‘You can get a lot of information from them. For one, that Warsaw lies in Europe. The Gioconda Smile by Huxley, The Lark by Anouilh, The Phantom by Ibsen and Beckett’s Waiting for Godot – these are just a few of the many posters. This confrontation, signalled by the posters, is a phenomenon that we – Europe – will find confirmed when browsing through socio-cultural magazines.’13 Samuel Becketts Waiting for Godot, put on stage from January  1957 by Warsaw’s Współczesny Theatre,14 became undoubtedly a symbol of the success of Western contemporary drama. ‘The auditorium was filled to capacity. I was lucky they had put in an extra seat for me’, reported a journalist from Wyboje in Poznań. ‘It was not just the stage that had my total attention; I was just as curious about the audience. […] There was not a rustle to be heard, not a creaking chair, not a whisper. People sat transfixed, attentive to every word uttered on the stage.’15And these words did have an impact. ‘After the performance of Godot’, commented the well-known columnist Kazimierz Koźniewski in Przekrój,’ people go at it hammer and tongs. During the interval at the theatre, I saw a couple of spectators – complete strangers to each other – arguing fiercely. Having overheard each other’s opinions, they confronted each other in discussion.’16 The title of Beckett’s play was quickly absorbed into everyday language, even percolating down to non-sophisticates, and finding application in the most unexpected contexts, as in the cartoon, where two burglars – clearly engaged in casing the joint in front of a jeweller’s shop – asked by a militiaman, ‘What are you doing here?’, reply, ‘Waiting for Godot.’ In 1956–1957, the theatre was not the only territory where the West encroached with gusto. A similar phenomenon could be observed in the field of publishing, music, literature, and above all in the field of entertainment repertoire, stage events, and so on.17 Amongst these, jazz stood out, given a 12 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-167, Transcript of the meeting of the Cultural Commission of the Central Committee, 31 Oct 1957, p. 24. 13 “Zachód” literacki w tygodnikach i na scenie, “Kultura i Społeczeństwo”, vol. 1, z. 2, 1957, p. 214. 14 http://www.wspolczesny.pl/archiwum/spektakle/czekajac-na-godota (27 Dec 2021). 15 “Wyboje” 11, 12 Mar 1957. 16 “Przekrój”, 10 Mar 1957. Cf., i.a., J. Kott, Nuda prawie genialna, PK, 21 Feb 1957; Jaszcz [Jan Alfred Szczepański], TL, 6 Feb 1957. 17 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-167, Transcript of the meeting of the Cultural Commission of the Central Committee, 31 Dec 1957, pp. 24–25.

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‘What are you doing here at this time of night?’ – ‘Waiting for Godot.’ Eryk Lipiński, “Szpilki” 14, 7 April 1957.

prominent place in the Sztandar Młodych questionnaire discussed earlier. The jazz pianist and composer Dave Brubeck toured seven Polish cities, Glenn Miller’s orchestra played Warsaw’s Congress Hall, and an entire constellation of Western musicians performed at festivals in Sopot in 1956 and 1957. The Cleveland Orchestra under George Szell performed in Poland with a more classical repertoire, as did the Philadelphia Orchestra conducted by Eugene Ormandy, who also hailed from Hungary (which, at the turn of 1956–1957, thus shortly after the Hungarian revolution against the USSR, was not without significance). Polish viewers could see the American Ballet Theatre and listen to Arthur Rubinstein, Yves Montand or Lucienne Boyer. In 1956, 46 out of 115 cinema premieres were of Western films, in 1957, the number grew to 88 out of 124. The following year, the list of Western authors on sale in Polish bookshops included William Faulkner, Thornton Wilder, Graham Greene, James Joyce, Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus, François Mauriac, André Maurois, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Jean-Paul Sartre, Heinrich Böll and Franz Kafka. On the

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other hand, Russian and Soviet authors, banned until recently, returned to the shelves – Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Ivan Bunin, Aleksandr Blok or Boris Pilniak.18 The weekly Krakow magazine Przekrój was a periodical that played a crucial and impossible to overestimate role in transposing Western culture to Poland and ultimately to other countries in the Soviet Bloc under its erudite, Francophile editor-in-chief Marian Eile.19 Conspicuously absent until early 1956, Western themes and accents appeared during that year and came to dominate overwhelmingly throughout 1957, far exceeding the aforementioned theatrical 91%! In 1957, it is difficult to find an issue of Przekrój with no Brigitte Bardot. In stark contrast, there was just one issue that year that featured a report from the USSR, about the Moscow Festival of Youth and Students.20 Fellow socialist countries only merited similarly grudging coverage, with the only correspondence in 1957 sent from Czechoslovakia by Roman Burzyński (Snapshots from Czechoslovakia, 26 May), who, however, soon moved on to the more attractive Vienna (Six Visits to Vienna, 2  June), also covered by Juliusz Kydryński (Vienna until Midnight, 6 January). No stone was left unturned in Western Europe by the emissaries of the Krakow weekly; there was no corner of the continent that they had not traversed. Never before had the reader been treated to correspondence from the Vatican, San Marino and Liechtenstein (by Olgierd Budrewicz, 30 June;, 7 June; 25  August). Andrzej Klominek wrote in from Naples (10  March) and Artur Sandauer from Israel (From the Israel Diary, 12 May and 9 June). Coverage of less off-the-beaten track destinations such as France, Italy, West Germany or Britain also changed. It was now more casual and user-friendly, abandoning politics in favour of everyday trivia or related to the dream object for Poles: a car of their own (for instance, Miscellanea from London by Leona and Kazimierz Koźniewskis, 6 December; or Belgium Teeming with Cars by Olgierd Budrewicz on 1 January or His Majesty the FIAT, 11 August). Even Western Europe, however, was only a backdrop to set off the most important actor – the USA. Never before had the Polish reader been offered such a generous spread of geographically and thematically diverse, and relatively impartial, information about this country that had until recently been the capitalist bogeyman, set up as an almost symbolic enemy. Now in Przekrój, one could read regular correspondence from New York – the new capital of the 18 Fik, Kultura polska po Jałcie …, pp. 270–271, 295–296. 19 J.  Jaworska, Cywilizacja “Przekroju”. Misja obyczajowa w magazynie ilustrowanym, Warszawa 2008; Cf. A. Klominek, Życie w “Przekroju”, Warszawa 1995. 20 E. Jugendfein, Festiwal, telefonem z Moskwy, “Przekrój”, 4 Aug 1957.

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world – by Maria Zientarowa (such as New York in Springtime, on 5 May), and Marian Podkowiński’s letters from Texas and Florida (13 January and 16 June). The coverage moved away from the hitherto obligatory propagandist canon in favour of new topics and protagonists, infused with frank fascination with and admiration for all things American, and not shying away from criticism or difficult problems (e.g. K. Beylin, The Crime of Little Frank Santana, 24 March). The articles by Maria Zientarowa brought the Polish reader closer to American everyday life, with a particular emphasis on the role of television, still in its infancy in Poland (24 February; 31 March; 2 June). Przekrój was probably the first periodical to write about teenagers as a distinct group of young people (K. Beylin, Johnny and Ellen: Teenagers – the Youngest Young Ones, 10 February), the following week switching to the pleasure pursuits of the American adult (The Cocktail Party; Or On American Snobbery, 17 February). The editors took it upon themselves to explain to Poles what these new drinks were: ‘The cocktail – its name derived from the cock’s tail – is made by mixing various alcoholic and non-alcoholic liquids and spirits with ice, according to a recipe. It is tasty, light and attractive to look at.’ The paper set out to educate the nation in the correct way of drinking these beverages: taking but small sips, and never downing a cocktail in one gulp in response to a toast. Readers were instructed not to bother with typical Polish appetisers such as pickled cucumbers or herring, and to opt instead for one-bite little nibbles such as roasted nuts, salty pretzels, sliced lemon, sliced oranges, or tiny sandwiches (Let’s Drink a Cocktail, 7 April). Such advice must have been sorely frustrating, considering the scarcity of citrus fruit on the Polish market. Nevertheless, the Easter issue of the magazine pursued the topic with specific advice and recipes (627–628, Easter 1957, Let’s Drink a Cocktail continued). Przekrój’s final issue of 1957, a special, triple, Christmas-cum-New Year edition brought a pop-cultural cross-section, perhaps making its readers pause for reflection on the crazy year just coming to an end. The magazine carried excerpts from Helena Mniszkówna’s popular romance The Leper, written in 1909 – dripping with sentimentalism and infused with class snobbery and adoration of aristocracy that seemed out of place in a socialist country; this offering was coupled with a chapter from Kaputt by Curzio Malaparte, a disaffected supporter of Mussolini with a taste for cavalier lifestyle and high living. This risqué nostalgia was juxtaposed with thoroughly modern prose by Sagan and Hemingway. The latter two names were symbolic of French and American culture vying for supremacy on the Old Continent. Przekrój was at the forefront of this cultural battlefield. Despite the relentless presence of French actresses and fashion in almost every issue, the USA as the symbolic beacon of global modernity had the upper hand. Nevertheless, ‘High Culture’ – the term itself

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always capitalised and in inverted commas – was in Poland at all times associated with France. Reams have already been written on the stance of the Polish émigré community in France – and in particular the circles related to the prestigious literary-political Polish-language magazine Kultura – towards Poland during the (post) October thaw.21 Kultura had been founded in Paris in 194722 by the writer and political activist of noble Polish-Lithuanian descent Jerzy Giedroyc, its editor-in-chief. Let us now examine how the magazine was perceived and treated in Poland.23 After the war, Polish émigré circles in the West, particularly in countries such as Britain and the USA, refused to have anything to do with the government in Warsaw, to the extent that the émigré leaders in London styled themselves as the Government in Exile. Without doubt, amongst all of them after the war, the Paris Kultura and its editorial team had from the very outset pursued the least isolationist policy towards the socialist government in Poland. This put it in good stead to have an exceptionally strong presence between the Oder and the Bug from autumn 1956 to autumn 1957, both in Polish discourse in private homes and in the offices of party apparatchiks. This does not mean, of course, that bilateral contacts had not existed before that. Even at the height of Stalinism, both Kultura and the books published by Instytut Literacki were reaching Poland by more or less legal means, and were avidly read, albeit by a narrow elite. The cultural traffic was a two-way street: ‘I have been reading the Polish press from the very beginning,’ reminisced Giedroyc, ‘receiving it thanks to an arrangement I had with the Warsaw University Library, and that had worked well throughout the worst years. They subscribed to my magazines and sent me the books I needed, and I supplied them in return with French and English books.’24 From the mid-1950s onwards, when Poles were travelling more frequently to the West, and the cultural contacts had become livelier, since the penalties for making such overtures had become less frightening, Kultura and its milieu became not only more recognisable, but indeed mythologised. 21 1956. Polska emigracja a kraj. Antologia źródeł, ed. M.  M.  Drozdowski, Warszawa 1998; P. Ziętara, Emigracja wobec Października. Postawy polskich środowisk emigracyjnych wobec liberalizacji w PRL w latach 1955–1957, Warszawa 2001; A. Z. Cichocka, “Na zimno kalkulowana rewolucja”: “Kultura”“ i kraj 1957–1958, “Zeszyty Historyczne” 167, 2009, pp. 3–72; L.  Szaruga, “Kultura” – księga otwarta, Kraków 2011; Z.  Girzyński (ed.), Jerzy Giedroyc a “przełom październikowy” w Polsce, “Archiwum Emigracji”, No. 5/6, 2002/2003, pp. 143–153. 22 https://kulturaparyska.com/en/index (27 Dec 2021). 23 More on the activity by the authorities: M.  Ptasińska-Wójcik, Inwigilacja Instytutu Literackiego przez Służbę Bezpieczeństwa w czasach Gomułki, in: Aparat bezpieczeństwa wobec emigracji politycznej i Polonii, ed. R. Terlecki, Warszawa 2005, pp. 105–184. 24 J. Giedroyc, Autobiografia na cztery ręce, ed. K. Pomian, Warszawa 1994, p. 186.

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Regard for Kultura had been evident even before October 1956, although the majority of those who held the magazine in high esteem based their opinion on the magazine’s hearsay reputation rather than on any actual first-hand familiarity, somewhat as was the case with the Polish experience of striptease. ‘Not everyone has had the opportunity to read Kultura or clap their eyes on it,’ wrote Juliusz Mieroszewski, who was living in London, to Giedroyc on 22 November, ‘but everyone knows about it. […] Would you believe that a few days ago Inka received a letter from Gdańsk, from a school friend of hers who works as a clerk in a fish warehouse, who asked her whether the Mieroszewski who writes in Kultura was her husband. Oliwa is not Warsaw, and this friend of Inka’s is hardly an intellectual. We are undoubtedly getting a lot of resonance.’25 Giedroyc was well aware of the impact that Kultura was having. The Ford Foundation representative Shepard Stone, who visited Warsaw in September 1956, had already reported to him his impressions that dozens if not hundreds of people, both from the Party as well as Catholics, the Opposition, writers, scholars and suchlike spoke to him in superlatives about Kultura and its role in liberalisation. […] ‘A little more of this and we will be told that October was not Gomułka, not Goździk etc., but Kultura.’26 Kultura’s aura was fuelled both by the myth that surrounded the magazine spreading amongst the intelligentsia, and the increasingly conspicuous presence of the publication itself and its associated authors in the Polish press and on the shelves of bookshops. Newspaper editors and publishers in Poland spared no efforts to lure émigré authors into co-operation, and not just for political reasons. The Kultura team from Maisons-Laffitte (near Paris; the magazine’s original address, which became associated with the publication) did not turn down such opportunities, which were attractive for the émigrés both in terms of royalties and – an important consideration for any author – extending greatly their readership. They made any collaboration subject to a proviso that any material published in Poland had to be entirely faithful to the original.27 Its reception in Poland had a huge impact on the tactics of the Kultura editorial team, and Giedroyc was quite explicit about hoping to consolidate his position in the home country and tame the authorities while gaining the widest possible readership. The prospects were good, as the Kultura milieu had invested considerable confidence in the Gomułka political transformation, 25 26 27

J. Giedroyc, J. Mieroszewski, Listy 1949–1956. Część druga, comp. and ed. K. Pomian, eds. J. Krawczyk, K. Pomian, Warszawa 1999, p. 462. Cichocka, p. 32. M. Ptasińska, Jerzego Giedroycia potyczki z cenzurą w okresie Października ’56, “Biuletyn IPN”, 2, 2004, p. 45.

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while, in turn, the new Polish government had entered into a more relaxed stance towards the émigré community hoping to receive a seal of approval from it that would give it popular legitimacy. In the summer of 1956, in order to test the water and assess how far the process of thawing the regime had got, Giedroyc sent off formal approaches to all publishing houses and to the editors of periodicals with a proposal to swap and review their respective issues. ‘I received’, he noted,’ enthusiastic replies from Nowe Drogi, Życie Warszawy, Problemy and Kronika. I wonder what the response of all the others will be. I have written to about 80 periodicals.’28 At the same time, Giedroyc came up with the novel idea of an exchange of issues between Kultura and Po prostu.29 He had similar plans with regard to Przegląd Kulturalny [Cultural Review], which, as Giedroyc emphasised, ‘has not only accepted the proposal to swap issues but did so enthusiastically. The swap would mean that I would produce one issue of Przegląd and they would produce one issue of Kultura, and they would be published simultaneously. This is not the whole story, however, because I demanded that their issue come out first, so that I could be sure that I was not being taken for a ride. They are nice guys, but decisions on how such things play out are not theirs to take.’30 The not-too-distant future proved him right. The project, prepared on both sides in total secrecy – with just nine people in the know – soon leaked out, with ‘le Tout-Paris’ talking about it. As a result of the indiscretion, ‘the matter of this extremely interesting experiment has been completely thrown out, as I have just been informed. Worse still, my credibility has been seriously damaged amongst some people in Poland. We are now entering a new phase of contact or collaboration with the home country, which in a sense can be called 28 AIL, Kor Red. Broncel, vol. 1, 1946–1957, Giedroyc to Z. Broncel, 12 Sep 1956. The sheer scope and volume of contacts established at the end of 1956 can be appreciated from looking at a randomly selected folder containing correspondence with journals with titles beginning with the letters P and R. At the end of 1956, exchanges were established with, among others, the editors of the “Przegląd Techniczny”, “Przegląd Ustawodawstwa Gospodarczego”, “Przegląd Zagadnień Socjalnych”, “Przemiany”, “Przemysł Chemiczny”, “Przemysł Ludowy i Artystyczny”, “Przewodnik Katolicki”, “Przyjaciel Żołnierza”, “Przyjaciółka”, “Robotnik Rolny”, “Rocznik Literacki”, “Ruch Muzyczny” and the Russian-language journal “Russkij Golos” [Technical Review, Economic Legislation Review, Social Issues Review, Transformations, Chemical Industry, The People’s and Artistic Industry, The Catholic Guide, Soldier’s Friend, Friendly Woman, Agricultural Worker, Literary Yearbook, Musical Movement and the Russian-language journal The Russian Voice]; AIL, WW-K 0180–1021, Exchange of Publications – Correspondence P-R. 29 J. Giedroyc, J. Mieroszewski, Listy 1949–1956, part 2, p. 415. 30 AIL, Kor Red J.M. Bocheński, vol. 1, JG to JMB, 1 Nov 1956. Cf. J. Giedroyc, J. Mieroszewski, Listy 1949–1956, part 2, p. 445 [JG to JM, 1 Nov 1956].

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the creation of a new Polish underground. In these circumstances, the issue of discretion and mutual trust is fundamental.’31 Early in 1957 it did, however, become apparent that the idea of an exchange with Przegląd Kulturalny was by no means dead and buried. ‘I received a telephone message from Warsaw today,’ Giedroyc reported to Mieroszewski on 23 February 1957, ‘that, following a discussion at the [party’s] Central Committee (!!!), it had been decided to accept the idea of an “issue swap” between Kultura and Przegląd Kulturalny, and that I would be sent an official invitation in the near future. I attach the utmost importance to this project, as it will allow us to present ourselves in Poland in the most independent manner. If this does come to fruition, I intend to also append the texts we wrote for the issue of Przegląd Kulturalny edited by us to our regular Kultura as a supplement, so that émigré readers will know what we wanted to say to the home country. This will put an end to all rumours and misunderstandings, it is thus worth making this considerable financial effort.’32 Although the project ultimately came to nothing, the very fact that the Polish authorities had contemplated it at all reflects a revolutionary change in the perception and impact of Kultura in Poland. Even before the October watershed, reviews of its new issues would appear in dailies. ‘Among the numerous Polish émigré periodicals,’ remarked a journalist from Życie Warszawy, reviewing the September issue of Kultura – ‘which even the most fervent believer in the principle of audiatur et altera pars finds off-putting due to their abysmal standard of writing, the Paris-based Kultura is undoubtedly somewhat exceptional. At the very least because, unlike the others, it makes the effort to see and understand the process of transformation that has already taken place and is still taking place in Poland.’33 And although euphemistically calling Kultura ‘somewhat exceptional’ can be seen as the journalist hedging his bets, there was also no shortage of critical texts (e.g., in Nasza kronika or in Świat, on 23 September 1956), nevertheless the Paris monthly itself, its writers and the books published by the Literary Institute were becoming increasingly established in Poland, and indeed giving rise to heated polemics.34 There is no doubt that the turning point in how Kultura was being perceived in Poland, including by the authorities, was the congress of the Union of Polish Writers at the turn of December 1956, where demands were made for the removal of censorship, the expansion of ‘relations with Polish writers in exile’ and the lifting 31 32 33 34

AIL, Kor Red M. Pankowski, vol. 01, 1949–56, JG to MP, 7 Nov 1956. AIL, Kor Red Mieroszewski, vol. 8, 1957, Giedroyc to Mieroszewski, 23 Feb 1957. Między emigracją i krajem, ŻW, 19 Sep 1956. Co piszą inni, “Przekrój”, 21 Oct 1956.

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of restrictions on dissemination of the émigré press in Poland, with a special emphasis on Kultura.35 It has to be said that those writing about Kultura were given to choosing their words very cautiously, even in the most liberal period from late 1956 to spring 1957, and this was true even of the writers on Przegląd Kulturalny,36 despite the paper’s flirtation with Giedroyc. On the other hand, however, there were also others who boldly voiced acceptance of and admiration for Kultura. Characteristically, this was true not only about Przekrój, which had nailed its colours to the Western mast, or in magazines created on the wave of the thaw,37 which were also affirmative about the West, but also, for example, in Głos Koszaliński, a paper of the Provincial Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party. ‘The Paris-based Kultura,’ the paper commented in mid-March 1957, ‘has a distinct position among these [émigré] periodicals, and enjoys a well-deserved authority. It is certainly not a philo-communist periodical, but its editors and contributors are notable for their moderation; they strive to show sobriety and political common sense, and above all realism in their assessment of and approach to current issues of life in Poland and that of Polish emigrants.’ This reassuring assessment was followed by a review of individual issues of Kultura.38 Let’s bear in mind that the Institute published books that had been banned by the Polish censorship, such as George Orwell’s 1984, works of the Polish dissident Czesław Miłosz or the Diaries of Witold Gombrowicz. At the turn of 1956–1957 the Polish press carried numerous articles as well as political texts that had been published earlier in Kultura as well as excerpts from books published by the Literary Institute, including ones by Gombrowicz, Miłosz and Andrzej Bobkowski. In 1957, the National Museum in Poznań (in June and July 1957) and the Society of Friends of Fine Arts in Krakow39 organised an exhibition of works by Józef Czapski, who lived and worked in Maisons-Laffitte. Now that opportunities to travel to the West had been increasing from mid1956 onwards, Paris continued to draw visitors like a magnet, and a visit to the headquarters of the Literary Institute at Maisons-Laffitte became de rigueur on the intellectual traveller’s itinerary. ‘When I visited Paris recently,’ noted the writer Edmund Moszyński, ‘I naturally made an almost ritualistic pilgrimage 35 TL, 3 Dec 1956; AIL, OH 020/1 vol. 1, Impressions from the congress of the Union of Polish Writers, Dec 1956. 36 A. J. Wieczorkowski, Nad paryską “Kulturą”, PK 7–13 Mar 1957. 37 E.g., Zbigniew Kubikowski published in the “Nowe Sygnały” in Wrocław a perceptive analysis of the Kultura publications (Paryż jest blisko, “Nowe Sygnały”, 10 Feb 1957). 38 Kultura. Szkice. Opowiadania. Sprawozdania, “Głos Koszaliński”, 17 Mar 1957. 39 See J. Guze, Wystawa Józefa Czapskiego, NK, 21 Jul 1957.

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to Maisons-Laffitte, where the headquarters of the superbly edited Kultura is located.’40 This sudden popularity soon became a burden to the editors, particularly as they were not in a position to control the flow or selection of visitors.41 Although the editors did not close their doors to these impromptu visits, not everyone was welcomed as heartily as, for example, the group from the Student Satirical Theatre had been. Konrad Eberhardt, an expert on French literature and film, wrote on 13 June 1957: ‘I visit Maisons-Laffitte, a small town near Paris […] where the editorial office of Kultura is based. Nowadays, for Poles coming to Paris, this trip is a must during their stay in the city. […] The reception is reserved and reticent. […] Since no one encourages me to stay longer, despite the oppressive heat, I set off on the return journey. My reward for the heat and hardship is a parcel of émigré publications, which I have been given to take with me.’42 The opportunity to stock up on publications of the Institute of Literature, whether books or issues of Kultura, was a very good reason for visiting Maisons-Laffitte. And for Giedroyc, too, visitors from Poland constituted an important conduit into the home country, since in spring 1957 postal deliveries to Poland had virtually ceased.43 But it was the correspondence route that constituted the primary means of contact between Poland and Maisons-Laffitte. Looking through the huge collection of editorial correspondence in the archives of the Literary Institute, one is struck by the sudden deluge of letters from Poland in 1956, which lasted until the autumn of the following year; such an abundance of correspondence would only be repeated some three decades later, albeit in very different circumstances – when the communist regime was falling, and Kultura again came to play an important role in Polish politics. The individual bar of fear was lowered more slowly than the institutional one; while long before October, newspaper editors or publishing houses were openly corresponding with Kultura, individuals brave enough to do so in their private capacity were few and far between. They were either determined non-conformists such as the colourful and erudite writer Stefan Kisielewski, who first wrote to Giedroyc in 1954,44 or the prosecutor Stanisław Piotrowski, 40 41 42

E. Moszyński, Spotkanie po latach, “Express Wieczorny”, 25 Apr 1957. Cichocka, op. cit., p. 23. K.  Eberhardt, Powitanie Paryża (Notatki z paryskiego kalendarza (1)), in: “Za i Przeciw”, 14 Jul 1957. 43 On the transfer of publications of the Literary Institute to Poland, see, i.a., M. A. Supruniuk, Zobaczyć inną Polskę. Pomoc paryskiego Instytutu Literackiego dla Polski w latach 1946– 1990. Koncepcje i realizacja, Toruń 2011; P. Sowiński, Tajna dyplomacja. Książki emigracyjne w drodze do kraju 1956–1989, Warszawa 2016. 44 Giedroyc, Autobiografia …, p. 185.

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who had also been corresponding with Kultura since 1954, protected by the institution that employed him, the Ministry of Justice. Another way out was to camouflage the addressee. Thus Aleksander Jałosiński, then still working at the National Library’s Institute of Books and Reading, or Giedroyc’s cousin Hanna Rewska both wrote to him from early 1956 addressing him as ‘Dr Władysław Pietrzak.’45 As the thaw progressed and the presence of Kultura in Polish discourse became ever more prominent, the easier it became to boldly write Kultura’s address on the envelope. Academics involved in fields that had until recently been banned, such as sociology, were the first to stick their heads above the parapet. For them, the exchange of ideas and free speech were as essential as air to breathe, and this was their only route to access professional publications, entirely unavailable elsewhere. The publications of the émigré publishing houses were a singular totem of prestige and social standing. ‘For a long time now I have been dreaming in vain of acquiring perhaps just a few outof-date issues of your magazine – the magazine that is held in such esteem by us,’ wrote the Warsaw-based Danuta Ciepieńko to Giedroyc in mid-March 1957. She was not the only one. From the autumn of 1956 onwards, an avalanche of requests for publications and attempts at establishing intellectual contact descended on Maisons-Laffitte from different circles and centres. In the domestic correspondence from 1956–1957 that I perused in the archives of the Literary Institute I could find no letter to which Giedroyc had not responded, even if only perfunctorily, nor any refusal to dispatch Kultura. On the contrary, he would usually encourage the letter writer to select some books from amongst the Institute’s publications. Professor Maria Ossowska, a sociologist, and her close associate, Ija Lazari-Pawłowska, an assistant professor at the University of Łódź, entered into regular correspondence with Giedroyc. Two young scholars from the Catholic University of Lublin, Bohdan Bejze and Wojciech Górny, asked for specialist books on literary studies. The Poznań harpsichordist, physicist, translator and astrologer Kazimierz Flatau enquired whether he would be able to receive Kultura, as did the Krakow writer Tadeusz Kwiatkowski (who visited Maisons Laffitte in December  1957),46 Alicja Mrozińska, a barrister from Gdynia and Jacek Ambroziak, a student from Warsaw. Even with people completely unknown to him before (and usually never seen afterwards), Giedroyc would sometimes enter into an extensive exchange of letters; a specific bond was established, and the topics discussed went beyond the technical 45 This and all subsequent fragments of letters are taken from the correspondence of the editors of Kultura, stored in the Archives of the Literary Institute. 46 T. Kwiatkowski, Ważne, nieważne. Dziennik 1953–1973, Kraków 2019, p. 91.

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issues of sending publications. Sometimes Giedroyc entrusted his new nonacquaintances with delicate missions, such as requesting Bohdan Bejze to help him find suitable candidates for Western scholarships. Not even oddball missives ended up automatically in the editorial rubbish bin. One example is an exchange of letters with Helena Wójcik from Tarnów, who, on 2 July 1957, reached out to the ‘Kultura Company’, asking if the ‘Company would like to print my three books, which together constitute a diary of my life against the background of events in Poland. I wrote the books in Polish. They have not yet been published, so they are typewritten. I will handle this matter directly with your Company myself, without the intermediary of any Polish publishing companies, but please let me know how I could deliver these typescripts to the Company, in order to assure with utmost certainty that they are not lost in transit.’ Six days later, Giedroyc replied that Kultura was ‘not a company, but a monthly that also publishes books’, at the same time asking for the typescripts to be sent. These soon arrived, accompanied by a request to the editors: ‘1) that all three books be published in one volume, and separated only by accompanying engravings; 2) that the outer cover be beautiful, the format large, the cover hardback, and on it an engraving depicting an angel lifting up souls and near the lower edge of the engraving the inscription: “Raise your soul high above the earth, so that only the rays of the sun and the wings of angels may touch it.”’ This time, Giedroyc replied – gently – that the proposal ‘was not compatible’ with the Institute’s publications. A constant feature of the correspondence coming in from Poland, usually in the very first letter sent, was a question about how payment should be made. ‘I am very keen to subscribe to your magazine (or other items published by the editors of Kultura)’, wrote a woman from Warsaw on 30 November 1956, ‘but I have no idea in what way I can pay you.’ In the absence of bank transfers, official subscription was impossible, and any legal transfer of foreign currency was difficult. Therefore, the correspondents usually proposed sending Polish books or magazines in return. As a rule, Giedroyc would accept this solution. Occasionally, as in the case of the student from Warsaw mentioned above, he suggested that a payment of 200 zloty be made to repatriates from the USSR and a receipt sent to him as proof. While magazines and books from Gdynia, Warsaw or Lublin travelled to Paris without major obstacles, a transfer in the opposite direction was more problematic. In the first months of 1957, when the authorities’ flirtation with Kultura was still in progress, shipments from Maisons-Laffitte arrived without major difficulties. However, in April 1957, there came, as Giedroyc noted, ‘a tightening of censorship that I find incomprehensible. I would say that censorship

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at the moment is harsher than in the Stalinist period.’47 Indeed, most of the letters from home contained complaints that parcels sent a long time earlier had still not been delivered, and described the complex bureaucratic procedures at post offices and customs required when querying such non-delivery, and the censorship, which even lawyers seasoned in such battles were not always able to tackle. Many individuals resorted therefore to other methods such as asking for letters to be addressed to the academic institution where they worked or looking for a prominent intermediary (such as the well-known philosopher Professor Tadeusz Kotarbiński), whose intervention would be more effective.48 In the end, the most foolproof way of receiving a parcel was to seek a favour of acquaintances travelling to the West hoping that they would agree to bring the books or magazine back. Another alternative for those who were planning to travel to any Western destination, was to ask Kultura for despatches to their temporary address abroad. The whole operation required tight logistics and determination and was not for the faint-hearted. Even early in the summer of 1957, the Kultura milieu was still hoping to normalise the situation and gain a stronger position in Poland, selling at least 2,000 copies there.49 This would presumably have been possible had Giedroyc made far-reaching concessions and abandoned his previous line. But his answer was no. This caused the authorities to abandon the tactics of mere harassment and move to an open attack on Kultura. Now, the texts published in the most important party periodicals – Nowe Drogi and Trybuna Ludu50 – not only attacked the editors of Kultura, but were also intended as a warning to put off anybody potentially interested in collaboration with the magazine. At the time, the top party authorities were pondering reducing the number of legitimate recipients of Kultura, from 220 to 87.51 Their hinted warnings did not fall on deaf ears, and in the final months of 1957, the hitherto lively exchange of letters between Maisons-Laffitte and individual Poles virtually came to a standstill. The Warsaw-based Maria Różycka sent her last letter on 9  September. Eight days later, Danuta Ciepieńko, in her own final letter observed emphatically, if cryptically, that ‘in general the atmosphere – despite the approaching October – was less than amazing’. The lawyer from Gdynia wrote for the last time on 1 October. In the same month, even the correspondence with the 47 48 49 50

AIL, Kor Red J. Ficowski, JG to JF, 11 May 1957. See Jerzy Giedroyc, Jan Józef Lipski, Listy 1957–1991, ed. Ł. Garbal, Warszawa 2015, p. 39. AIL, Kor Red Mieroszewski vol. 8, 1957, JM do JG, 24 Jun 1957. W rok po VIII Plenum, “Nowe Drogi” 10–11/ 1957; A. Werblan, Kontakt, ale z kim i jaki, TL, 10 Dec 1957. Cf. Cichocka, pp. 36–38. 51 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XVIII-172, Tadeusz Daniłowicz to Jerzy Morawski, 21 Dec 1957, p. 9.

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director of Warsaw’s National Museum, Stanisław Lorentz, which had carried on since the spring of 1956, came to an abrupt end. Those who had the most reason to be concerned or fearful were not the recipients of publications from Maisons-Laffitte but Polish writers who wrote for the publishers. They were threatened with having their passports and foreign grants withdrawn.52 ‘A few weeks ago, I sent you my poem entitled In the Name of the Earth, Jerzy Ficowski wrote to Giedroyc at the end of October 1957, ‘with the suggestion it be published in Kultura. Meanwhile, it has come to my notice – unverified for the time being – that legislation is being drafted that would prohibit the publishing of works abroad, on pain of severe penalties. Since I have heard about this from several fairly reliable sources, I would prefer to refrain from publishing the poem in Kultura until the final confirmation.’53 On 14 December 1957, a writer from Nowa Huta, Natalia Rolleczek, sent a telegram to the Literary Institute asking them to refrain from publishing her play Fairground. Giedroyc received this panicky flight with anxiety and dismay. ‘Recent events’, he wrote on 11 November 1957 to the art historian Zofia Kossakowska, ‘do not encourage optimism or joie de vivre. Besides, I am irritated less by the stupidity or short-sightedness of the authorities than by some peculiar passivity of the Polish intelligentsia, which on the one hand reveals unwarranted excitability and lack of realism, and on the other, a desperate lack of any, however rudimentary, plan of action or resilience. As the recent spring suddenly began to wind down in October, all that I can see, to put it bluntly, is nothing but overblown fear. And yet a return to the past is truly impossible.’ Not everyone, of course, fell silent immediately. Just as before October, there were still those who continued to send off missives, feeling to an extent more secure thanks to being shielded by their employing institution, such as the lawyer Stanisław Piotrowski (who corresponded until 1959), or simply the brave ones, such as the sociologist Professor Stanisław Ossowski, who also corresponded with Giedroyc in the 1960s. For others, mere contact from Maisons-Laffitte even through writing letters played a therapeutic role. ‘Today,’ wrote Ija Lazari-Pawłowska at the beginning of 1958, ‘Mrs Ossowska stayed the night with us. We talked late into the night. About the current situation, of course. We carry on living as if nothing had changed. No top-down directives have reached us in our area of work. And even if they had, for us to not acknowledge them is actually our only way of consolidating the gains of October.’ 52 AIL, Kor Red Broncel, vol. 1: 1946–1957, JG to ZB, 10 Dec 1957. 53 AIL, Kor Red J. Ficowski, JF to JG, 28 Dec 1957. Ficowski did not send another letter to Maisons-Laffitte until 1978.

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One may advance the thesis, albeit applicable only to a narrow elite, that one of the ‘gains of October’ was the very awareness of the existence of the emigration, especially the Kultura circle, as a realistic and acceptable intellectual power base. ‘Yesterday’, wrote Mieroszewski to Giedroyc on 6 October 1957, ‘I received a call from Zbigniew Grabowski [working in the BBC’s Polish Section – JK], who had spent nearly two months in Poland. He told me that everywhere he went – and he had visited Poznań, Warsaw, Krakow, Wrocław and Silesia – people asked him to send their greetings to Kultura. He commented that from his vantage point at the BBC in London, he had been aware of the extent of Kultura’s influence in Poland, but said that he would never have believed to what extent this was true, had he not witnessed it for himself.’54 Regardless of all that was yet to come, the time of Poland’s own ‘October Revolution’ left a lasting mark, consolidated the formative role of Kultura, and established its quarters in Maisons-Laffitte as a Mecca for independent thinkers. ‘A few days ago,’ Ija Lazari-Pawłowska wrote to Giedroyc on 22 December 1991, ‘I saw the exhibition about Kultura in Warsaw, and straight away I felt the profound certainty that I must write to you. And now, just a moment ago, I watched the programme “In the circles of the Paris Kultura” on television, and so I have written straight away […] Today, I am writing to join in the words of recognition, admiration and gratitude that you have received from so very many Polish people. Of course, over the years I have taken every opportunity to familiarise myself with the texts you have published. This has been of great importance for my development.’

54 AIL, Kor Red Mieroszewski vol. 8, 1957, JM to JG, 6 Dec 1957.

Chapter 10

We Want to Be Modern! The manifesto text by the architect and designer Jerzy Hryniewiecki (1908– 1989) published in the first issue of Projekt1 was symptomatic of its time. It was representative of popular views, held even by those not involved in art and design. In the mid-1950s, ‘modernity’ was one of the most frequently used words in Poland, reflecting the topical significance of the concept itself. The political sea change had brought on a widespread feeling of a breakthrough, and modernity stood for the spirit of the new era.2 The word itself became a catchword to match ‘revolution’ and ‘democratisation’, although uttered with incomparably more conviction and enthusiasm. In the spring of 1957, an exhibition of interior design at Zachęta, Warsaw’s flagship gallery, was acclaimed as a manifestation of ‘fully-fledged, mature modernity’, understood as a ‘complete fusion of the achievements of knowledge and technology with the new conditions of life in order to produce the new style for our era – a style that does not yet have a perfect, definitive form, but that is being born before our very eyes and made by our own hands.’3 The stage designer Stanisław Ledóchowski (b. 1932) – yet to attain his later fame – made this pronouncement in the context of interior design, in reference to furniture, graphic design, ceramics and textiles, as these were, and remain to this day, the most striking and eye-catching visual signs of the modernity brought about by the thaw. The achievements were indeed spectacular, but at the time they reflected only elitist aspirations. The Picasso-esque stylisation, despite being insistently promoted by the popular Przekrój, had only then come into its own, 60 years later, having failed at the time to excite the interest and tickle the fancy of society; besides proving to be a logistical challenge to mass production. Six months after the exhibition at the Zachęta Gallery, which had aroused such strong emotions and high hopes, the journalists on 1 J. Hryniewiecki, Kształt przyszłości, “Projekt”, 1, 1956, pp. 5–9. Published until 1997, the magazine was dedicated to ‘visual art and design’. It played an important role in the history of Polish design. 2 A. Frąckiewicz, Chcemy być nowocześni. Kształt przyszłości, czyli styl lat 50. i 60., in: A. Demska, A. Frąckiewicz, A. Maga, Chcemy być nowocześni. Polski design 1955–1968 z kolekcji Muzeum Narodowego w Warszawie, Warszawa 2011, p. 14. 3 S.  Ledóchowski, Opowiadamy się za nowoczesnością. Ogólnopolska Wystawa Architektury Wnętrz, “Słowo Powszechne”, 18 Apr 1957.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_011

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Sztandar Młodych investigated to what extent the designs presented there had had any impact on the design of the furniture commercially available in the capital. The results were not encouraging; all over Warsaw they found nothing but ‘the same old, traditional kitchen sets, beds and wardrobes …’4 It turned out that the industry had not been able to reach a viable agreement with the designers – who had demanded exorbitant fees – nor did it find all the designs viable.5 Warsaw shoppers did ask daily for ‘furniture from Zachęta’, but this did not mean that such aspirations spread throughout society. The commercial market had to wait for another decade to witness the victory of the modern wall unit over the old-fashioned, bulky sideboard and three-door wardrobe complete with mirrors.6 In the mid-1950s, neither in Poland nor anywhere else throughout the entire Eastern Bloc, including the USSR, was the great pursuit of the Western consumer revolution a priority area, despite being seen as important.7 The Soviet Bloc had not given up playing catch-up with the West, but for the time being there was little realistic chance of achieving the French, British or West German standard of living, as measured by food consumption, prevalence of modern appliances such as washing machines, fridges and television sets, advance of motorisation and the way in which leisure time was spent, including foreign travel. However, not all of the above markers of consumer prestige aroused similar emotions in Poland. In the years 1956–1957, the television set had not yet become an object of desire,8 nor did any other household appliance quicken the Polish pulse. The one material possession that was truly 4 Tajemniczy los mebli z “Zachęty”, SM, 8 Nov 1957. 5 Ibidem. 6 M. Jarmuż, “Nie chcemy być nowocześni”. Z badań nad sposobami urządzania mieszkań w PRL, in: “Polska 1944/45–1989. Studia i Materiały”, vol. 11, 2013, pp. 45–66. 7 D.  Crowley, S.  E.  Reid, Style and Socialism: Modernity and Material Culture in Post-War Eastern Europe, in: Style and Socialism. Modernity and Material Culture in Post-War Eastern Europe, eds. S.  E.  Reid and D. Crowley, Oxford-New York 2000, pp.  1–24. Cf.: Communism unwrapped: consumption in Cold War Eastern Europe, P. Bren, M. Neuburger (eds.), New York 2012; Elitza Stanoeva, Inventing the Socialist Consumer: Worker, Citizen or Customer? Politics of Mass Consumption in Bulgaria, 1956–1968, in: New Perspective in Transnational History of Communism in east Central Europe, ed. K. Brzechczyn, Berlin-New York 2019, pp.  171–198; G. Ivanova, S. Plaggenborg, Entstalinisierung als Wohlfahrt. Sozialpolitik in der Sowjetunion 1953–1970, Frankfurt/Main 2015. 8 Polish Television, which had existed since 1952, was in an experimental stage until 1960 and the thaw did not change its position in the media, where it lingered far behind the press and radio. The authorities treated television as an educational and artistic medium rather than a tool of propaganda. The number of cameras available was also small – with some 10,500 in 1957, when they began to be manufactured in Poland. K. Pokorna-Ignatowicz, Telewizja w

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coveted as a status symbol and tangible proof of being ‘modern’ was the car – an unattainable dream for most. The authorities seemed willing to pander to citizens in this respect, no longer treating car owners as enemies of the system (while treating the purchase as an opportunity as a means to effectively drain their pockets) – yet their enthusiasm for mass motorisation was tempered by recognition that this goal was at the time unrealistic for the country . They had, after all, their own yardsticks of modernity – chemistry and plastics, which were supposed to solve many problems.

‘The Great Transformation’, Or Dreaming in Vain about a Car of One’s Own

‘This is where the dreams of the western motorist come true,’ was how a West German journalist described Warsaw in the second half of the 1950s. ‘A million-strong city with no parking problems, no jungle of road signs, no maze of one-way streets.’9 None of these were of course necessary, as cars were few and far between. But the residents of the Polish capital, or any other Polish city for that matter, were bound to feel that these were poor reasons to gloat. They would have given their eyeteeth for the opportunity to be stuck in a traffic jam – as long as the car they were in was their own! Most had to wait several decades for the dream to come true. If, at the beginning of the 21st century, the term two-speed Europe had a rather metaphorical and symbolic meaning, used in international discourse, it could still be understood absolutely literally long after the end of the war, and the Iron Curtain also divided the continent in automotive terms. The metaphor of a two-speed Europe entered the political discourse after the end of the Cold War, when the eastward enlargement of the European Union began to materialise. But in the 1950s the term could still be used quite literally, since the Iron Curtain also divided the continent in automotive terms. In the West, even before the war the car had already been a relatively common asset, with for example some 2 million cars in Great Britain, with its population of 34.4 million in 1938; the production of cars for the average consumer was treated as an important factor for economic development as soon as the war had ended and the production lines for military vehicles could be systemie politycznym i medialnym PRL. Między polityką a widzem, Kraków 2003, pp. 52–53. Cf. M. Wojtyński, Telewizja w Polsce do 1972 roku, Warszawa 2011. 9 H. Stehle, Die Furcht darf nicht wiederkehren, FAZ, 18 Jan 1958.

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Fig. 26 July 1956. The W-Z route was in the 1950s one of the most important throughfares in Warsaw, cutting across the entire city from east to west. The lack of cars on the road is not a result of the city emptying for the summer holiday but simply reflects the state of Polish car ownership at the time. Photo: Romuald Broniarek, KARTA Centre collection.

again redirected to passenger cars. Particularly decisive was the decade 1949– 1959, when the number of cars increased on average three and a half times in Western Europe, and indeed tenfold in West Germany (from 7 to 69 per 1,000 inhabitants; in France from 37 to 123; in Great Britain from 42 to 96; in Belgium from 26 to 78; in Italy from 6 to 32; in Norway from 18 to 55; in Sweden from 28 to 145). Growth was also seen in the lagging countries of the South: in Greece from 1 to 5, Portugal from 7 to 16, Spain from 3 to 9. The introduction of

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popular and affordable models such as the Volkswagen ‘Beetle’ (or ‘Hunchback’ as it was known in Poland) – with the millionth vehicle rolling off the assembly line in 1955, the Renault 4, the Citroen 2CV or the Fiat 500 increased the availability of the car to the less affluent, ordinary worker, effectively changing social habits.10 No wonder Erich Kästner remarked in 1956 that ‘we live in a motorised Biedermeier’.11 East of the Iron Curtain, the car was, with the exception of Czechoslovakia, a rarity before 1939. In the inter-war period Poland was at the back of the automotive queue in Europe, and the importance of this branch of industry as the flywheel of the economy was recognised too late. The ravages of the war exacerbated the automotive wilderness, and naturally, Poland had other priorities in the decade following the war. The focus on reconstruction, coupled with intensive industrialisation and the compulsory collectivisation of agriculture, determined the standard of living of average citizens, which lingered at a level where owning a private car was an unaffordable extravagance. The car was a possession only for those in positions of authority and their privileged associates and favourites. The average Pole was dependent on public transport.12 Nevertheless, even during the war, some in the underground resistance force, the Home Army (AK), had already been drawing up secret plans for the future reconstruction and redevelopment of the motor industry, eager to avoid past mistakes. ‘When thinking of motoring, we must embrace its totality, keeping in mind the law of harmony,’ a study by Home Army Headquarters noted in probably 1943. ‘This is something we had never paid attention to. We had been like an old manor house that some incompetent builder would tinker with every now and then, adding something pointless.’13 The Home Army, whose allegiance was to the Polish Government-in-Exile in London, was of 10

S. Haustein, Vom Mangel zum Massenkonsum. Deutschland, Frankreich und Großbritannien im Vergleich, 1945–1970, Frankfurt-New York 2007, pp. 7–8, 122–125. 11 A. Schildt, Moderne Zeiten: Freizeit, Massenmedien und “Zeitgeist” in der Bundesrepublik der 50er Jahre, Hamburg 1995, p. 23. 12 L.  Gatejel, Warten, hoffen und endlich fahren. Auto und Sozialismus in der Sowjetunion, in Rumänien und der DDR (1956–1989/91), Frankfurt-New York 2014; L.  Gatelej, J. Kochanowski, Transport, infrastructure and communication, in: The Routledge History Handbook of Central and Eastern Europe in the Twentieth Century. Vol. 1: Challenges of Modernity, eds. W.  Borodziej, S.  Holubec, J.  von  Puttkamer, London-New York 2020, pp. 129–182; C. Kuhr-Korolev, M. Grieger (eds.), Towards Mobility. Varieties of Automobilism in East and West, Wolfsburg 2009; L.  H.  Siegelbaum, Cars for Comrades. The Life of the Soviet Automobile, Ithaca 2008; idem (ed.), The Socialist Car: Automobility in the Eastern Bloc, Ithaca 2011. 13 AAN, Home Army Headquarters, 203/III-24, k. The study ‘On Motoring’.

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course in no position to pursue its goals after the war, as it was denounced as an impediment to the Communist-friendly new regime and disbanded. Regardless of the political system that prevailed in Poland, after the war the country was a no-man’s land as far as the motor vehicle was concerned, a tabula rasa awaiting any input at all. However, while the ruined state was just about capable of re-erecting factory buildings, it was in no position to provide or ensure modern technology, coming inevitably to rely on foreign experience. Various concepts were considered, from setting up a General Motors assembly plant in Poland to lengthy talks with Italy’s Fiat. It was with Fiat that a licence agreement was finally signed in April 1948, and the FSO, Passenger Car Factory, was built in Warsaw to meet the terms of the contract with the Italian manufacturer. At the end of 1951, the first cars left the factory – but these were not modern Fiats, but the already obsolete, Russian, fuel-guzzling GAZ-M20, known in the Soviet Union as the GAZ-M20 Pobeda (Victory), and in Poland patriotically re-named the Warszawa M-20.14 Although the press enthusiastically endorsed the new product, the chances of it breathing new life into a car-worthy Poland, ready for the road, were practically nil, quite apart from the fact that the communist authorities frowned upon such a capitalist fad as private car ownership. In the first year of production, 75 vehicles left the conveyor belts of the FSO, and by the end of 1955, some 8.8 thousand. These meagre numbers were not sufficient to fill Polish streets and highways with traffic; most of the 40,000 cars on the roads in 1955 were what was left of the civil and military vehicles produced mostly before the war, and many of those abroad, over the last few decades.15 Only half the passenger cars belonged to private owners. The authorities made every effort to make life difficult for them: petrol was sold to private car owners at a much higher price than that charged to drivers of state vehicles, and there were limits on the mileage permitted. Despite these inconveniences, very many town dwellers craved a car of their own, even though they knew that there was little hope of actually fulfilling 14

15

H. Wilk, “Nawet samochodów nie ma, zostały graty po Niemcach” – motoryzacyjny punkt startu – Polska 1944–1949, in: “Polska 1944/45–1989. Studia i Materiały”, vol. 12, 2014, pp.  301–330; idem, Między pragmatyzmem a oczekiwaniami. Społeczeństwo, władza i samochody w Polsce 1945–1970, Warszawa 2017, pp. 19–93. It was estimated that ‘more than 40% are pre-war vehicles, whereas about 18% are vehicles from the first post-war quinquennium (including a significant percentage of Soviet vehicles), i.e., not of the best material quality, and also with very numerous design flaws’. HIM, P63221, Item 5372/57, The Polish motor industry: 40 per cent of private cars are prewar, Nov 1957.

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that dream. Their frustration was all the more acute because, leaving aside the luxuries of the mythical West, even neighbouring socialist countries, both the traditionally more industrialised Czechoslovakia and the GDR, shrewdly realised that giving citizens a chance of buying a car of their own was a great incentive to make them more favourably disposed towards socialism. In 1955, the first Škoda 440, a car commonly known as the Spartak, rolled out of the Czechoslovakian factory in Mlada Boleslav, while the P70 ‘Zwickau’, a small family car and precursor of the Trabant – later to become very popular and affectionately known as the ‘Trabi’ – was born in East Germany. In Warsaw, too, in mid-1953 the authorities concluded that a ‘popular, time-saving means of transport should be built for entrepreneurs, work leaders, activists, scientists and leading representatives of the intelligentsia.16 Work on the design began, but with the aim of saving money by employing as many elements of the Warszawa model as possible. In the end, the first Syrena did not leave the FSO until March 1957. Both the 200 Syrenas produced that year and the 3,000 or so made in the following year were useful propaganda rather than a realistic transport solution, especially in view of the suddenly awakened zest for universal motorisation.17 The effect that that had on the motor vehicle market was felt acutely across the Soviet Bloc, with all these countries in the mid-1950s separated from Western Europe by an automotive chasm. This is clearly illustrated in Table 6. Table 6

Number of people per car in Europe (1 January 1956)

Country Sweden France Great Britain West Germany Austria Finland Italy Czechoslovakia Spain Greece 16 17

Persons per vehicle

Persons per passenger car

9.5

11.6

10.2 11.0 22.7 32.6 29.4 39.2 73.3 132.0 174.0

14.4 14.4 32.0 47.5 49.3 55.0 117.5 260.0 490.0

K. J. Mórawski, Syrena. Samochód PRL, Warszawa 2005, p. 17. Ibidem, pp. 18–20, 30–32.

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Table 6

Number of people per car in Europe (1 January 1956) (cont.)

Country

Persons per vehicle

Persons per passenger car

Poland Romania

207.0 610.0

642.0 1,133.7

Yugoslavia Bulgaria

434.4 439.6

1,504.0 1,577.0

Hungary

600.0

1,745.4

Source: Przyszłość polskiego samochodu, TL, 19 Dec 1957.

The above figures show not only quantitative but also structural differences: whereas in the West the ratio of cars to trucks averaged 3:1, in the East the relationship was the opposite. Here, too, the majority of vehicles were motorbikes, widely regarded as an intermediate step in the evolution of private transport. They were cheaper and easier to produce, and could cope better with Polish roads, the standard of which left much to be desired. In Poland, Hungary and Romania, the car was a feature of the landscape in the big cities and their immediate surroundings, but was a rare sight in much of the countryside. For example, in Poland, in 1957, of the 44,790 passenger cars, 8,200 were registered in the Warsaw voivodeship, 7,167 in the Katowice, 4,127 in Warsaw, 4,019 in Krakow, 3,886 in Poznań and 2,601 in Gdańsk. In the Białystok province there were, however, just 731.18 The hope prevailed that the political thaw would also breathe some life into the motor car industry, especially as even in the Soviet Union the ambition to own a vehicle had ceased to be political anathema. The hopes of Soviet citizens had been raised to such an extent that Professor Hans Rogger, the Russia expert at the University of California in Los Angeles entitled his report on the USSR of the early Khrushchev era with the 1928 Republican Party slogan: ‘A chicken in every pot and a car in every garage’. He envisaged a Russia where there would be a Moskvich in every garage.19 Poland’s ‘automobile thaw of 1956’20 caused frustration on the one hand, and fuelled optimism on the other. The former is demonstrated by the considerable 18 19 20

O. Budrewicz, Cuda na kółkach, “Przekrój”, 16 Jun 1957. H.  Rogger, Complacency, Conformity, and a Moskvich in Every Garage, “The Reporter”, 17 Dec 1957, pp. 31–34. H. Wilk, Samochód dla towarzysza Wiesława. Dyskusje nad kierunkiem rozwoju motoryzacji indywidualnej w Polsce 1955–1970, in: “Polska 1944/45–1989. Studia i Materiały”, vol. 11, 2013, p. 287.

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number of newspaper articles as well as letters sent to the radio or the authorities. When the magazine Motoryzacja published a questionnaire inviting readers to propose possible ways of increasing the number of cars in the country as swiftly and cheaply as possible, responses from readers containing ‘unprintable statements directed against those responsible for the current state of our motorisation’ outnumbered constructive suggestions.21 But on the other hand, Poland’s situation, although worse than that of Czechoslovakia or the GDR, was still better than that of Hungary, Bulgaria or Romania. There were signs of improvement. ‘In the years 1956–1958 there was a Great Transformation,’ wrote Krzysztof Wolicki in Polityka in 1962, in reference to the state of private transport provision in the country. ‘A number of factors contributed to this: a marked increase in the standard of living of society as a whole; a shift from collective to individual consumerism; increased contacts with the West; a certain relaxation towards entrepreneurism in the cities, a new agricultural policy, and finally a new approach to economics,with a focus on material incentives.’ This would lead, in effect, to the spread of ‘a consumerist model in which the private mechanical means of locomotion play[ed] a dominant role’.22 The new authorities also seemed to understand this need, and even Władysław Gomułka, who was critical of more sophisticated consumption, was at first fulsome with enthusiasm and support.23 At the FSO’s Żerań plant in Warsaw, the production of the Warszawa passenger car was being modernised, as was the design of the Syrena, yet to be built. The system for selling cars was reformed. Until now, due to the enormous pent-up demand in comparison to the shortage of cars available, they could only be purchased at a reduced price with a coupon. These were few and far between and issued only to a favoured few such as artists or journalists lionised by the system and occasionally, for propaganda reasons, also miners and steel workers, and there was a months-long wait to buy the allocated car. Now, the distribution of coupons was mostly, though not entirely, abandoned and a number of vehicles, both those made in Poland and those imported, became available on the open market. It is difficult to say whether what was behind this decision was an attempt to calm the mood of the public or a clever ploy for siphoning off surplus funds from citizens’ pockets. If so, the move was certainly more successful in achieving the latter aim. ‘Importing cars often drains income,’ argued the economist Professor Michal Kalecki, ‘people would have had nothing to spend the money on if they had not bought a car. They would just be hoarding the money. If you 21 22 23

Ibidem, p. 289. K. Wolicki, Droga do raju, “Polityka”, 11 Aug 1962. H. Wilk, Samochód …, p. 295; idem, Między pragmatyzmem, pp. 131–138.

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make cars at a lower price for people such as doctors, etcetera, set the price at some reasonable level and allow the [open market] price to go up, and this is how an average person buys a car, it will be a way of draining their pockets. […] In doing this, cars come to the fore!’24 Meanwhile, car prices were increasing exponentially. For example, a Wartburg from the GDR, which in 1956 cost 12,000 zloty with a coupon, by spring 1957 cost 83,000 zloty – a prohibitive price for the vast majority of citizens. The price of Polish cars also rose to astronomical levels, for example the price of the Warszawa also rose rapidly and reached over 100,000 zloty in 1957.25 In that year the average price of a car was 102,400 zloty – the equivalent of 80 average monthly wages (1,279 zloty)!26 In spite of this obstacle, there were still many more people willing to buy a car than vehicles available, with funds derived both from legal and unlawful income and from savings. The state automobile supply chain Motozbyt managed to sell 70 Simca-Aronde cars to individual buyers, despite their eye-watering price of 125,000 zloty. Despite resorting to asking hopeful customers to put their name on a waiting list, there were so many people who wanted their own four-wheelers that by January 1957 Motozbyt had stopped accepting applications for the purchase of imported small engine cubic capacity cars, and at the end of February, also for the Polish-made Warszawa car. And no wonder. At best, some 7,700vehicles were earmarked for open sale – with 134,000 registered applications on the waiting list.27 With industrial production and capacity as it was at the time, it would have taken almost two decades to satisfy the registered hopefuls, whose numbers would have continued to multiply daily. Increasing the pool of vehicles available for sale was not an option, so from mid-1957,28 the government introduced extensive discouragement measures. These came to a crux in November, with the decree issued by the Minister of Communications which imposed oppressive restrictions on the rules for the sale of vehicles to private 24 AAN, URM, 22/11, minutes of the Council of Economics, 1 Jun 1957, p. 76. 25 HIM, Broadcast of the European Community Council, 2 Apr 1957 (Warszawa I: discussion on speculation). 26 Rynek motoryzacyjny, ed. Z. Krasiński, Warszawa 1980, p. 89. There were also high operating costs. In 1959, they were estimated to amount to 33,000 zloty for the Syrena, and 44,000 zloty a year for the Warszawa, or 2,750 and 3,680 zloty per month, respectively. M. Piłacki, L. Mikołajków, Samochód – narzędzie pracy czy luksus?, “Wiedza i Życie” 10, 1959. 27 Kupujemy więcej towarów przemysłowych, TL, 21 Aug 1957. 28 TL, 8 Aug 1957 and 29 Dec 1957.

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individuals.29 Prospective buyers from specific provinces were assigned to one of nine regional branches of the Motozbyt car supply chain: in Warsaw, Łódź, Kraków, Poznań, Lublin, Wrocław, Katowice, Gdańsk and Olsztyn. The monopoly on the sale of the Warszawa make was, nomen omen, allocated to the capital. Prospective owners had to present an official certificate that they needed ‘their own car in order to perform their duties or professional, social, sporting or other activities’. If they had owned another car during the preceding three years, they were obliged to resell it to Motozbyt on the purchase of the new one or else present a certificate that the car had been written off as unfit. The newly bought vehicle could not be sold for another three years and could only be resold to Motozbyt, to pre-empt speculation. And the killer clause: at the time of putting their name on the list of applicants, with the prospect of months of waiting, the hopeful buyer had to make a down payment which was in fact equal to the full amount due – as well as sign a commitment to cover any future price increase, practically giving a blank cheque. Failure to pay the entire amount or to collect the car within two weeks resulted in the ‘deletion of the interested party from the list of buyers’. This, for the authorities, was a cunning way to ensure that, when their number came up, purchasers were obliged to accept without complaint the common predicament that they were being required to buy whichever car Motozbyt happened to have in stock at the time, irrespective of the make that they had specified in their application. However expensive it was to acquire a car through this process, it nevertheless offered a better deal than looking for one on the open market, since the discount for the privileged amounted in mid-1957 to 1.5 times the average annual salary, thus 17,000 – 20,000 zloty.30 Unsurprisingly, there were those who resolved to improve their chance of jumping into the right place in the car queue through corruption and the use of social networks, including parliamentary intervention. In April 1957, for example, the MP Michał Zając addressed the Prime Minister about the Wartburgs that had in 1956 been allocated to doctors in Katowice. However, miners and steelworkers had been given priority over those in medical professions; the medics who had signed up for the delivery of the car in spring 1957, had not foreseen that its price would double. The MP called for a reduction in the price under the circumstances or at least for the doctors to be allowed to pay in instalments.31 Another dimension of frus29

Ordinance of the Minister of Transport of 29 November 1957 on the sale of new passenger cars to individual buyers, MP 1957, No. 98, item 572. 30 H. Brestel, Polen heute. Eine Bilanz kommunistischer Wirtschaftspolitik, FAZ, 15 Jun 1957. 31 AAN, KS, 185, p. 239, Michał Zając to the Prime Minister, 30 Apr 1957.

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tration can be illustrated by the case of the ex-party apparatchik who applied for a car so as to be able to make a living as a taxi driver. However, the price of the Warszawa was rising faster than he could lay his hands on additonal funds now necessary, so he appealed to the highest authorities in the country – from the Chairman of the State Council to the Prime Minister to the Central Committee – to help him speed up the deal: ‘Help me, comrades, to get a positive response to my request from Motozbyt’. He received a disingenuous reply that the Central Committee was unable to influence the order of car sales.32 Those most determined or the most well-heeled could seek their luck with buying a, usually very expensive and past-its-prime, car on the open market or try to have one brought in from abroad, most frequently from Belgium, since Antwerp had become the European hub of the second-hand car trade. And for a good reason, as used cars were three times cheaper there than in West Germany, and four to five times cheaper than in other European countries. The customers included Scandinavians and the French, and from 1956 also Poles. The operation was profitable, as for 150 to 200 dollars you could buy a car worth 70–100,000 zloty in Poland, thus the equivalent of some 800 USD in 1955, and 1,000 USD by April 1956.This was a trade made in heaven for Polish merchant seamen, who had at their disposal both foreign currency and access to free transport.33 Their good luck was short-lived, as they were soon taxed retrospectively,34 and the duty on imported cars was radically increased. As a result, the laws of the market took over. With huge demand and little supply, what happened was, as the writer Stanisław Lem, a great motoring enthusiast observed that ‘there are in fact no cars in Poland, old or new, from the year 1935 or 1955, accessible to an average or even reasonably well-off person. Every car comes with an astronomical price tag. This is the origin of the phenomenon that we do not have a price range that corresponds to the real difference in the value of the car; I have not come across a situation where the most expensive car costs more than three times as much as the cheapest one, while in the West the difference can be expressed as a multiple of 12.’35 The exorbitant price of cars allowed the authorities to claim that it was still too early for mass motorisation. This peculiarly Calvinist perspective can also be clearly seen in the approach to the issue central to mass motoring, loudly 32 33 34 35

AAN, KC PZPR, WO, XII-2590, Jan Miedziński, Piotrków Trybunalski do KC, 10 Jan 1957. O. Budrewicz, Belgia samochodami płynąca, “Przekrój”, 1 Jan 1957. HIM, P-542 Item No 6730/57, A Polish seaman’s views: “Gomulka has cheated”. Stanisław Lem o polskiej drodze do motoryzacji, “Przekrój”, 18 Aug 1957.

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Even in a city of over a million inhabitants, as Warsaw was in the late 1950s, a quality western car was a rare phenomenon, instantly attracting a curious crowd. (Warsaw, March 1957, an American Imperial car parked on one of the capital’s streets. Photo: Romuald Broniarek, KARTA Centre collection.)

articulated by both specialists and the public; that there was an overwhelming need for a small and affordable but reasonably modern vehicle. ‘It is time to consider a small, cheap, economical car,’ the journalist Andrzej Wróblewski exhorted in November  1956. ‘Its production need not require the setting up of a large factory. Individual parts could be produced by various key industry plants as a side product. The small parts could be made by co-operatives, local

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industries and crafts. The motorcycle industry could supply many other parts. All that is required is the entrepreneurial spirit.’36 And there was no shortage of it, at least at first glance. On 7 and 8 January 1957, the National Automotive Conference was held in Warsaw, which a journalist from the popular magazine Motor renamed ‘the Sejm of Polish motoring’. Many bitter words were spoken about the past, and numerous proposals put forward for the future. There was a general acceptance of the fact that the funds that had been invested in the production of Warszawas and Syrenas were too great for their production to be abandoned. The point was made that there was a continuous need to improve these models while the goal of a new popular car should be nevertheless pursued, best of all based on a Western model. The most important outcome of the Conference was the decision to set up an Automotive Council to guide the authorities along the right path towards automotive success.37 However, by the time the Council was officially set up in September 1957 and had held its first meeting in January of the following year, decisions had been taken that steered Polish motorisation not so much onto the motorway as down a blind alley, and many important initiatives and ideas, especially concerning the popular car, had been lost. A possible reason for this was the growing awareness that the automotive initiative was slipping away from the hands of the Warsaw monopoly. For in the Polish hinterland, there was no shortage of talented engineers and others, who had for years been obsessed with building a ‘people’s car’. With the thaw, their ideas became increasingly more realistic, all the more so as, due to the significant reduction in armaments production, many factories were looking for other solutions to keep their throughput steady, while the car seemed to be a product in almost unlimited demand. The story of the ‘Brzdąc’ (‘Tyke’) microcar, whose production was planned at the Mechanical Works in the Łabędy district of Gliwice, shows that a social initiative with enough motivational drive behind it – even without the backup of large funds and resources – could have succeeded had the authorities chosen to be sympathetic. It is difficult to say when exactly the idea was born, but in any case, by the end of 1956, the initiative to build a ‘Silesian people’s car’ was already well advanced, and the committee set up for this purpose began to analyse the local possibilities, mainly with the help of the local Mechanical Engineers’ Association. It turned 36

A. Wróblewski, Na przykładzie Czechosłowacji. Czym będziemy jeździć?, ŻW, 288, 30 Nov 1956. 37 Wilk, Między pragmatyzmem…, pp. 138–141; SM, 6, 8 Jan 1957; Resolution No. 379 of the Council of Ministers of 20  September  1957 on the establishment of the Automotive Council, MP, 1957, No. 81 item 487.

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out that ‘without going beyond the borders of the Katowice voivodeship, in the first year of mass production it would be possible to build and assemble more than 3,000 cars’ – and affordable for the average mortal. Although it was based on the parameters of popular western microcars (weight 500 kg, engine capacity 500 cubic cm, petrol consumption no more than five litres per 100 km), Brzdąc was an original design, well thought out and adapted to Polish needs, roads and the dreadful quality of fuel. The engine was designed by the well-known inventor Fryderyk Bluemke from the Engine Factory in Bielsko, the bodywork by Stanisław Łukawski from Katowice, and the chassis by two engineers from Gliwice. It was announced that the car would be a ‘combined purpose vehicle, very popular in the West at present, i.e., behind normal seats it would have a rear door that could open with space for larger luggage, useful beyond everyday use also for tourism or transporting small loads.’ The plan was to start series production between 1958 and 1959, with a target of 5,000 vehicles per year. Apparently, the powers that be in Warsaw were not overly taken with the Silesian initiative, and the Mechanical Works in Łabędy were lumbered with such a plethora of tasks imposed by the authorities in Warsaw that it took several hundred specialists to carry them out. Attempts to persuade the top brass that the present workforce would be sufficient to undertake car production, while milling machine operators and turners for central production would still have to be found, and that outside Silesia, fell on deaf ears: ‘[I]f you have such reserves that you are capable of making Brzdąc,’ argued the Party head office, ‘then you can surely also manage the jobs we have given you.’ The mediation of the Workers’ Councils was to no avail. Brzdąc was consigned to the dustbin, and it was only more than a decade later that mass production of a people’s car could begin in Silesia.38 In the end, the only Polish car that was a side-line product was the unsuccessful Mikrus, produced at the aircraft factory in Mielec. Although 4,000 to 5,000 were promised in the first year of production alone, increasing to as many as 10,000 annually,39 in the end only 1,728 had rolled off the production line by the time the Mikrus was abandoned in 1960. Although it was a decidedly inferior product, as the traumatic experiences of its users would confirm, it had considerable advantages for the authorities. On the one hand, the Mikrus showed that a sensible grassroots initiative had a chance of being 38 SM, 297, 12  Dec 1956; R.  Prot, “Brzdąc” – marzenie na kółkach, GP, 41, 18  Feb 1957; G. Kuźnik-Majka, Śląski Brzdąc mógł podbić cały kraj, ale był za dobry i nie dostał szansy. Historia zapomnianego mikroautka https://dziennikzachodni.pl/slaski-brzdac-moglpodbic-caly-kraj-ale-byl-za-dobry-i-nie-dostal-szansy-historia-zapomnianegomikroautka/ar/c4-15558370 (27 Dec 2021). 39 Polskie auta po 15–20.000 zł, SP, 4 Jan 1957.

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implemented; on the other hand, the small car presented no competition to the automotive plans of the Warsaw headquarters. The authorities, in turn, spent a long time pondering – as the government had in the inter-war and immediate post-war years – the purchase of a Western licence for a popular, modern car. There was no shortage of proposals: Renault offered to produce the Dauphine model, while Simca suggested assembling the Aronde 1300.40 And of course the Italian Fiat was also still in play. It is difficult to say whether Prime Minister Cyrankiewicz, in issuing an order in July 1957 to set up a committee to work on the production of a popular car, thought that this was a realistic possibility. In any case, the chairman of the committee, Eugeniusz Szyr, was given until 5 August to submit a firm proposal, including naming the location of a prospective new factory and assessing its labour requirement. Had these suggestions been implemented, Poland would have had a chance to catch up with the European average, even if not exactly to become a motor car powerhouse. The production proposals defined the basic features of the future Polish popular car: designed for four people, with a four-stroke engine of 1,000–1,200 cm³, a maximum speed of 110 km per hour and burning up to 8 litres of fuel per 100 km. Taking into account internal and export needs, production would be 60,000 cars per year at the start-up stage, with a target of twice that number within five years. It was envisaged that initially the car would be assembled in one of the already existing plants, e.g. at the FSO in Warsaw, but profitable mass production would have to be undertaken in a new, purpose-built factory. Warsaw was deemed to have the most favourable conditions, although Lublin, Poznań and Łódź were also considered as possible locations. The conclusion was reached that the most advantageous option would be to buy the licence, with the proposals made by Renault and Fiat seen as the most interesting. It was acknowledged that in view of the poor state of Polish highways, it would be necessary to reinforce some parts of the car and to do something about Polish fuel, the quality of which was judged ‘inadequate for any of the models in question’.41 Further negotiations were planned. These had, unfortunately, no chance of success at all in view of resolute resistance by Gomułka, who was not interested in any positive solution for the Polish motorist. Although the First Secretary had criticised the production of the Warszawa during the 8th Plenary of the Central Committee of the Party in October 1956 and had declared his support 40 ADH PRL (Pułtusk), Kolekcja E. Szyra, S III/17; Director General of Renault, P. Dreyfus, to Minister Trąmpczyński, 28 June 1957; Director General of Simca, H.T. Pigozzi, to Minister Secomski, 24 Jul 1957. 41 Ibidem.

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for the idea of a popular car at a convention of engineers and technicians a few months later, he did not share the vision of mass motorisation. Gomułka was convinced that the country could not afford it, and saw other needs as much more pressing. In any case, it was ‘Comrade Wiesław’, as Gomułka was known, that Eugeniusz Szyr, on 1 September 1995, held responsible for the abandonment of the project to build a car factory for making a small-capacity engine car based on a contract with Renault or Fiat. ‘Gomułka’s resistance,’ Szyr wrote, ‘played a decisive role in the rejection of the proposal. Much later, a far inferior version of Fiat 125 production was adopted. Thus an extraordinary opportunity had been lost, because the credit conditions and the type of car had been much better than in the later decision.’42 The prospect of Poles changing to Italian or French cars seemed to be gradually waning. In late October 1957, diverse opinions were still heard. On the one hand, Trybuna Ludu, in its analysis of the future of Polish motorisation, echoed the findings of the Szyr commission: the basis would be a licensed car, supplemented by micro-cars, such as the Mikrus, together with vehicles with a large engine capacity, such as the Warszawa, but used mainly for official purposes or as ambulances or similar utilitarian functions.43 A conversation with the chairman of the Automotive Council, Prof. Ryszard Strzelecki, published three days later by Sztandar Młodych, brought the public down to earth, however. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that we should begin the realisation of these [motoring] dreams mainly with the dissemination of the most accessible vehicles – scooters, motorbikes and even mopeds, and by these means above all we should satisfy, for the time being, the needs of the aficionados of horse riding  … mechanical horse power, that is.’44 Along similar lines in 1958 the Press Office of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR) critically assessed the weekly magazine Motor, selling 130,000 copies, which encapsulated the general public’s ideas and longing for a car of their own. The Party reviewer came down heavily on the magazine’s negative approach to motoring policy and its glorification of Western lifestyles (deemed by the Party ‘an unhealthy lure for the younger generation, who often form a false judgment of life and its values’) and, above all, the magazine’s emphasis on the need for universal car ownership. ‘Any logically thinking person will surely say that this is absurd,’ argued the Party journalist. ‘The majority of citizens are unable at the moment to buy a woollen suit, let alone think about a car. […] Instead of propagating the slogan “A 42 Ibidem. 43 Przyszłość polskiego samochodu, TL, 19 Dec 1957. 44 SM, 22 Dec 1957.

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car for every citizen”, we would be better off with the slogan “A motor-assisted bicycle for everyone in Poland” – to be replaced, at a later date, with the slogan: ‘A motorcycle for everyone”. Meanwhile, Motor jumps straight to “Let’s buy a car”.’45 The statistics supported this view: Table 7

Motor vehicles in Poland 1955–1958

Type

1955

1956

1957

1958

Passenger cars: Inc. privately owned HGVs Inc. privately owned Motocycles

40,259 20,475 73,186 3,599 169,732

44,790 24,746 82,780 3,502 236,483

61,944 40,846 93,480 4,394 331,189

83,935 58,580 102,436 5,643 461,363

Inc. privately owned

163,007

229,885

325,098

454,164

Statistical Yearbook 1959, Warsaw 1959, p. 230.

Although the number of cars more than doubled between 1955 and 1958 (and the number of motorbikes tripled!), and the number of private vehicles also increased proportionally, it is difficult to speak of a radical transformation. It turned out to be no more than a transformation of dreams – from the completely unrealistic to the slightly less so. The numbers alone said little about quality. ‘A car is  … a car,’ Wolicki wrote. ‘Differences between models were of course noted. But people would not refer to anyone as having a ‘Fiat’ or a ‘Spartak’, or another person driving ‘just an old DKW’. What one had was a car, as simple as that, and that was enough of a definition. There were still no better-quality cars on the open market, the old ones from previous eras had not yet died out. Even the Warszawa was an object of desire.46 The car remained a luxury item, a festive testimony to prestige, rather than an everyday working tool. Let such an insightful observer and reviewer of reality as Stanisław Lem comment: ‘The function of the car,’ he wrote in the summer of 1957, ‘and in fact EVERY car that we own privately, is, first of all, to shine – to spread a peacock’s tail, to plunge a knife into our friends’ hearts and turn it (the knife) slowly. […] The car thus becomes an object of veneration to a higher degree than an object of use; it is not so much a means of moving from place to place as a miraculous 45 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIX-224, Motor, 1958, pp. 1–4. 46 Wolicki, op. cit.

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Produced between 1957 and 1960, the Mikrus failed to live up to its hopes as a popular car. Coming off the production line only in very small numbers as a by-product of the aircraft factories in Mielec and Rzeszów, the Mikrus was uncomfortable and extremely unreliable. A year after production ended, it could only arouse the interest of a child. (Warsaw, August 1961, Poland. Photo: Romuald Broniarek, collection of the KARTA Centre.)

device for transporting its owner out of the grey crowd into the Echelons of the Exquisite Elite. The very fact of owning a car provides sensual pleasures, as evidenced by watching its owners celebrating the Car Key, the Windscreen Demister, Each and Every Door Handle and Wiper.’47 And yet, despite the fact that for more than another decade Poland would still belong to the ‘motorbike civilisation’48 rather than the car civilisation, the hope of owning a car had by then been instilled so deeply that it could not be uprooted.49

47 Stanisław Lem o polskiej drodze do motoryzacji, “Przekrój”, 18 Aug 1957. 48 Cf. Cywilizacja motocyklowa, “Polityka”, 3 Nov 1959; J. de Mezer, Cywilizacja motocyklowa. Motoryzacja motocyklowa w Polsce 1945–1965, Warszawa 2011 (ebook). 49 Eloquent proof of that was, in Lem’s opinion the fact that ‘every conceivable driving manual has completely disappeared from bookshops in recent months. They have disappeared from the shelves despite the fact that there were certainly many more such manuals than my fellow Poles who can afford to buy a car.’ Stanisław Lem o polskiej drodze …, op. cit.

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‘We’re about to Step Over the Threshold’; Or The Wonderful Plastic World of the Future …

‘You say that coffee tastes best in Dresden china?’ asked rhetorically a Sztandar Młodych journalist in June 1958. ‘That is a matter of taste. A plastic plate or cup does not break, hot liquids do not make it crack, and it looks deceptively like ivory. And then there is the price. For a mere 100 zloty you can buy an entire set of tableware that the most discerning hostess would be proud of.’50 Even the unsophisticated products of the Warsaw Plastics Factory inspired similar admiration. After all, the second half of the 1950s, when efficient technologies of advanced plastics – polyethylene, polypropylene or polycarbonates – were invented, perfected or applied, was immediately hailed as the ‘polymer era’.51 In the West, and especially in the USA, by the end of the decade the best-known articles made of plastic were the fun objects the Frisbee and the hula-hoop, which sold in hundreds of millions. In Eastern Europe, however, at least until the early 1960s, one would look in vain for such a massive market in equally trivial applications. Although the state-run media were prophesying the ‘wonderful plastic world of the future’,52 there the new products were not only an icon of modernity, but hailed as ‘socialist materials’ per se. This was particularly the battle cry of the German Democratic Republic, where there was a strong tradition of a chemical industry – now expected to help square the circle of the East German economy: how could the country develop a modern economy without most of the basic raw materials, with limited labour resources and modest export opportunities? Plastics, however, were not intended to be an ersatz – a second best – but rather were looked up to as fit to become the foundation of a consensus between industrial development and meeting consumer needs, providing modern, aesthetically pleasing and practical articles, while closing the technological gap that separated the GDR from the West.53 In 1957, in an atmosphere of growing international tension, the East German party apparatus launched a wide-ranging discussion of the role of science and technology in communist society. In line with the exhortation employed in 50 Serwis do kawy? Proszę bardzo – z masy plastycznej!, SM, 5 Jun 1958. 51 Cf. P.  Spake (ed.), The Plastics Age: From Modernity to Post-Modernity, London 1990; M.  Kaufman, The History of PVC: The Chemistry and Industrial Production of Polivinyl Chloride, London 1969. 52 D. Crowley, S. E. Reid, Style and Socialism …, p. 7. 53 Ibidem, p. 9; R. G. Stokes, Plastics and the New Society: The German Democratic Republic in the 1950s and 1960s, in: Style and Socialism …, pp. 65–80, here: p. 65. Cf. H. Diederichs, Die Plastverarbeitung in der DDR, Frankfurt/Main 2003.

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the title of a pamphlet published that year by the German architect Gerhard Kosel,54 science became a ‘productive force’. The party authorities embarked on a whole series of joint conferences with representatives of various scientific and technological fields. It was no coincidence that the first, extensively publicised meeting was held with chemists, in November 1958 in Leuna, where Walter Ulbricht launched the slogan ‘Chemistry brings bread, prosperity and beauty’ and announced a doubling of chemical production by the middle of the following decade.55 Admittedly, he was largely successful, and Plaste, as plastics were called in East Germany, soon became a common component of everyday life, from household items to car bodies. The polyamide fibre that was to revolutionise everyday life had been in production since 1959. It was, in fact, related to the American nylon, invented in the USA, and was, not without reason, dubbed ‘DEDERON’,56 in a proud reference to its place of birth, the DDR. And also on the other side of the Oder and Neisse rivers, albeit under much more difficult conditions and without any accompanying propaganda hype, from the turn of 1956 and 1957 Polish plastics became an increasingly visible symbol of nation-state modernity. This seems to have been a natural, spontaneous process, and nothing to do with the figure of First Secretary Władysław Gomułka, who had been active in the Trade Union of Chemists and had chaired the National Union of Chemical Workers. Unlike the GDR, in Poland there were no complaints about a lack of raw materials (although, due to the lack of oil, the industry was condemned to more expensive and difficult processing of coal); labour was not a problem, nor was Poland as isolated from the West as the GDR. An important factor was a growing awareness of the country’s technological collapse and low living standards, aided by the easing of censorship and the more lax attitude to Poles venturing abroad. All this boosted demand for modernity from the public, echoed by the government, bringing a shadow of hope for an improvement in the situation. What also mattered was the conviction that plastics could be used to replace at least some of the scarce raw materials, such as wool, cotton, rubber and non-ferrous metals, which were being imported at the cost of foreign exchange. Last but not least, exports of plastics were perceived as potentially profitable.

54 Produktivkraft Wissenschaft, Berlin 1957. Kosel (1909–2003) spent time in the USSR from 1932 building, among other things, Magnitogorsk and Novokuznetsk. After returning to East Germany in 1954, he held posts including Deputy Minister of Reconstruction and a member of the SED Central Committee. 55 Stokes, p. 70; E. Richert, SED als bestimmende Kraft im Staatsapparat, Wiesbaden 1963, p. 36. 56 Stokes, pp. 69–80; S. Sommer, Das große Lexikon des DDR-Alltags, Berlin 2002, p. 68.

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Statistically, the Polish chemical industry did not look too bad. Whilst between 1949 and 1955 industrial production had increased by 270%, the chemical industry had grown by 340%, and its share in the country’s total output went up from 6.9% to 8.2%. If truth be told, however, this branch only began to develop more rapidly from 1954 onwards and, like the whole of Polish industry, could boast neither modernity nor high quality. There were quite a few factories,57 but the key factor was not how many there were but their technological advancement. Modern polymers such as polyvinyl chloride require a whole network of plants producing basic industrial chemicals. These were in chronic short supply in Poland, and often very basic semi-finished products had to be imported. Although the Six-Year Plan (1950–1955) laid a relatively strong foundation, the transition to a more advanced stage was by no means easy. The Polish engineering industry produced only 25% of the equipment needed in the chemical industry, the rest being produced by semi-industrial methods in workshops attached to the plants or imported. As a result, Polish industry could not undertake the export of a complete chemical plant, even one that was not very complex. There was a shortage of specialists, and although the Plastics Institute was founded in Warsaw as early as 1952, the first comprehensive study devoted to modern plastics was a translation from the German.58 The preparation for mass production of PVC was possible thanks to collaboration with the GDR. A huge problem was caused by the sluggishness and poor quality of industrial construction, as well as other chronic ailments of Polish industry such as the low productivity, poor technical culture of the workforce and their inability to co-operate, essential for success. The cooperation between the chemical plants in Oświęcim, Tarnów and Brzeg Dolny, which had been producing Stylon since 1951, was so questionable that it was referred to as ‘partisan collaboration’. The results were similar to those with the car production at the Warsaw FSO plant: only 24 tonnes of Stylon were produced in the first year and 685 tonnes in 1956, a modest fraction of the level that had been targeted. Not surprisingly, in 1956, Poland’s share of European Stylon production was a mere 0.9%, whereas in Spain, a country considered industrially ‘backward’ in Poland, it topped 9%.59

57 Karty z historii polskiego przemysłu chemicznego, vol. 6: E. Drozdowski, Z. Gruszka, Historia polskiego przemysłu tworzyw sztucznych / L. Heger, M. Korzun, Z. Gruszka, Historia polskiego przemysłu materiałów wybuchowych, Warszawa 1998; vol. 7: K.  Hempel, Historia polskiego przemysłu włókien sztucznych, Warszawa 1998. 58 F. Runge, Einführung in d. Chemie u. Technologie d. Kunststoffe, Berlin 1963. 59 E. Zawada, O szybszy rozwój przemysłu chemicznego, ŻG, 31 March 1957; T. Gorzkowski, Rwie się steelonowa nić, ibidem.

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The quality of a considerable proportion of the plastics produced by the Polish industry was abysmal. For example, the standard of the plastic inflow tube produced in Prudnik (Prudnickie Zakłady Przemysłu Bawełnianego) ‘brings the factory neither popularity nor customers. The tube must not be washed in hot water or it will fall apart. […] When soaked even in cold water, it can be torn almost like paper.’60 Such critical remarks understandably intensified in the autumn of 1956, but at the same time the press frequently pointed to the ‘daily’ achievements of Polish chemistry and fuelled the hope that the average consumer should place on the industry. It seems unlikely that this was a media campaign orchestrated from above, since it is hard to imagine that the press could be controlled at all in the autumn of 1956! Rather, the papers were looking for new topics and were aiming to keep up the spirits of the consumer. Trybuna Ludu reported proudly that the Experimental Plants of the Textile Institute in Łódź had produced several new types of fabric from artificial fibres: dress fabric, gaberdine and boston. They were said to be not only of excellent quality but also capable of successfully replacing woollen products. The achievements looked so promising that, on the initiative of the Ministry of Light Industry, a special team was set up to submit a plan to launch production by mid-November1957, allowing a reduction of wool imports.61 The following month brought the news that preparations were under way at the Plush and Carpet Factory in Łódź for the production of nylon fur fabrics, of which some 15,000 metres were planned to come off the looms in 1957.62 Another invention that was much in the news was that of a Krakow engineer, Witold Korecki, who had come up with a technology for producing artificial suede that was just as good as natural suede, but many times cheaper.63 This and similar news that kept percolating throughout 1957 was positive for consumer morale but could not be said to be indicative of a technological breakthrough, which the authorities needed both as a means of improving the economy and their own prestige. The meeting of the parliamentary committee in mid-March 1957 spoke frankly of the fact that the chemical industry was behind schedule in launching the production of new plastics, and the quality of those already being produced was poor;64 nevertheless the chemical industry was the only branch with a chance of at least reducing the gap with the West. ‘The current year has been particularly fertile in bringing a crop of new 60 61 62 63 64

R. Mazurek, Produkcja, ale dla kogo?, GP, 27/28 Dec 1956. TL, 26 Dec 1956. Futra z nylonu i wiskozy, TL, 28 Nov 1956. Zamsz z tworzyw sztucznych, SP, 28 Nov 1956. AAN, KS, 154, p. 111, Committee on Light Industry, Crafts and Co-operatives, 19 Mar 1957.

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facilities for the chemical industry,’ noted a Warsaw daily. ‘A total of 37 chemical plants were put into production in the first six months. Unfortunately, there are major delays in the completion of many of these plants. […] However, as Deputy Minister Taban points out, the authorities have a growing awareness of the importance of chemical investments, as is evident in the recent government decisions making them a priority.’65 The construction of Poland’s first production line for a truly modern plastic material, polyvinyl chloride (PVC), which began in 1955 in Oświęcim, was also progressing slowly. An engineer who was working with the assembly of the equipment for PVC production in Oświęcim complained in early 1957: ‘We are obliged to work under unacceptable conditions. While we are carrying out the assembly work on the ground floor, the builders working on the upper storeys knock down lime, bricks and so on, which keep falling on our heads. […] Equipment is delivered in an untimely way and is shoddy. […] The poor quality of the deliveries results in a whole lot of extra work […]. The documentation also leaves much to be desired, resulting in endless repetitive, additional work. This results in constant improvisation and perpetual juggling of materials.’66 Despite these problems, however, in mid-1957, when the start-up of the plant was expected to take place in a matter of months rather than years, a major propaganda campaign was launched, albeit not by Gomułka or Cyrankiewicz, but only by the Minister for the Chemical Industry, Antoni Radliński; nevertheless, the promises were just as ambitious as those made a year and a half later by the German leader. At a conference held on 19 June 1957, plans were announced for the development of the chemical industry, which, thanks to equipment bought from the West – France, Great Britain and West Germany, in that five-year period was to catch up with the ‘many years of underdevelopment’ and to increase the consumption of plastics to around 2.5 kg per person, three times more than in 1957. The production of PVC (from 1957 onwards) and polystyrene (from 1959 onwards) would not only revolutionise everyday life, but the building materials made from them would save thousands of tonnes of metals and hundreds of thousands of cubic metres of wood. The long-term forecasts were even more optimistic: in 1970, per capita production of plastics was expected to be 7.5–8 kg, so 30 times higher than in 1955. ‘By approximately 1965, Trybuna Ludu prophesied, ‘we should be producing domestically, alongside traditional and mass chemical articles, almost all articles characteristic of modern chemical production of the leading countries in this field – thus, modern plastic materials, with polystyrene and polyethylene at the forefront, 65 Dobre półrocze chemii, ŻW, 5 Aug 1957. 66 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, pp. 15–154.

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as well as synthetic washing agents, and also wool-type fibres such as Orlon and Terylene. And in 1970 the plan is to achieve production rates close to or even equal to those current in the most industrialised countries.’67 The second half of 1957 brought an avalanche of information about new plants and revolutionary inventions in modern plastics. The plant in Gorzów developed a new textile, Elana, which ‘is superior to wool in many respects: it does not crease, it is more durable and it is lighter …’68 The hosiery works in Łódź boasted new products, including meshless ‘Steelon’ stockings. The Plastics Plant in Wąbrzeźno had launched miniature washing machines made of polyester for delicate, high-quality underwear, and announced that ‘antimoth bags made of plastic, […] more durable than paper bags,’69 would be coming soon. However, this was merely the unplanned backdrop to an event described not only as significant for Polish chemistry, but indeed as ‘probably one of the most important events in our economic life’.70 The initial start-up of the PVC production plant at the Oświęcim Chemical Works was duly recorded in mid-October 1957, but the momentous moment would not take place until December, with the launch of the production line. The press waxed lyrical that ‘until yesterday the door to the rooms of the great chemistry of modern plastics had been closed to us all’ – but no longer so. Yet, to follow the metaphor, if the door was now open, the ‘we’ were standing on the threshold, but not yet necessarily able to enter the next room. There was, however, no doubt that ‘this first fundamental step taken by our industry on the way to the hitherto mythical land of plastics makes us look forward to the future.71 Especially since PVC – the ‘first modern plastic produced in Poland on a large industrial scale’ – could, according to the media, be transformed into ‘chemical-resistant pipes, pumps and tank linings’, or even ‘mining helmets and non-flammable transporters for mines … and many other products’,72 as well as a ‘multi-coloured film that can be used to make a mackintosh, a tablecloth or an eye-catching handbag.’ The interest whipped-up by plastics was such that the exhibition ‘Plastics’, which opened in November 1957 in the Warsaw Museum of Technology, had 67

M. Kowalewski, Ambitne zamierzenia polskiej chemii, TL, 30 Aug 1957; Poliwinyl zastąpi importowane metale kolorowe, SM, 20 Jun 1957; Plany rozwoju przemysłu tworzyw sztucznych, TL, 7 Jul 1957. 68 “Elana” – nowe polskie włókno sztuczne, TL, 21 Nov 1957; Cf. Nowy gatunek włókna sztucznego opracowali nasi naukowcy, GP, 16 Sep 1957. 69 GP, 20/21 Jul 1957; TL, 10 Sep 1957. 70 Tajemniczy znak “PCW”, SM, 23 Dec 1957. 71 M. Kowalewski, Gdy właśnie przekraczamy próg, TL, 9 Dec 1957. 72 Ibidem.

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been visited by more than 30,000 visitors by January. Exhibits included the body of an East German passenger car, the P70, as well as construction products and plastic articles of everyday use, from textiles to perfume spray bottles.73 In response to visitors’ comments that ‘technical’ plastic articles in particular were still a rare sight in the Polish reality, the press responded that in one of the new houses on Al. Waszyngtona in Warsaw, a floor had already been laid ‘with tiles made from polyvinyl chloride, much more practical and, more importantly, cheaper than the usual oak parquet floor’, while in a building on Al. Jerozolimskie ‘plastic stair rails had been installed’.74 Both the aforementioned floors and handrails had probably been made from imported material. But in January 1958 the first products made from the already indigenous PVC hit the market. If in the late 1950s, the symbolic polymer product in the West was toys, and in East Germany – car bodies, the flagship Polish plastic product was floors covered with PVC tiles. The production of these in just one factory alone, in Sochaczew near Warsaw, reached 200,000 square metres75 in 1958, the press reported breathlessly. Although they were indeed, as promised, inexpensive, reasonably aesthetically pleasing and easy to maintain, they soon became a curse for those living in these new flats, for two reasons: not only did they provide much worse sound insulation than the oak parquet they had replaced to save money, but, being a product of modern technology themselves, they also came up against a technological (and civilisational) barrier: they required a perfectly even subfloor, which, as was noted at the turn of 1957 and 1958, did ‘not exactly favour our craftsmen’.76 But one effect of plastics – not planned or envisaged by the authorities – was that it revealed the superiority of the private sector over the state, socialist economy. Private entrepreneurs quickly caught on to the plastics boom and in 1957 in Warsaw alone there were around 420 workshops producing plastics. Characteristically, most of these were run by young people, who often came from administration or industry. Despite the problems that private businessmen experienced with obtaining raw materials – obliged as they were to pay 100 to 180 zloty for a kilogram of polystyrene, whereas co-operatives paid less than 17 zloty – forcing them into creative, and often not entirely legal, operations, their activity bore out their declaration that ‘we are a young craft, we want to be – and we are – modern in our organisation of production’.77 They 73 74 75 76 77

Podpatrujemy tworzywa sztuczne, ŻW, 30 Jan 1958. Ibidem. Podłogi z tworzyw sztucznych, TL, 7 Feb 1958. Ibidem; Podpatrujemy tworzywa sztuczne, ŻW, 30 Jan 1958. Najmłodsze najbardziej nowoczesne rzemiosło, SP, 24 Feb 1958.

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were indeed modern, and their product often cheaper and better than the state-owned factories and we are not just talking toothbrushes.78 In spite of the bureaucratic obstacles put in their path every few years, they maintained their positions until the system collapsed in 1989, supplying, with their products – even if not always over-sophisticated – a large part of the socialist countries whose mammoth industries were unable to respond quickly to market demands. One could say that it was thanks to plastics that the People’s Republic of Poland became – behind the backs of the authorities – a kind of early China of the Eastern Bloc in the pile-them-high-sell-them-cheap department. And in a very unexpected turn of event, after Poland’s western border on the Oder and Neisse rivers opened in 1972, Polish craftsmen began to supply their East German neighbours – once the giants of the plastic market – with plastic trinkets, especially symbols of Western pop culture, such as gadgets featuring popular bands and singers. Such are the vagaries of history.79

78 79

Ibidem. A. Mozołowski, Skoczyć na małe piwko, “Polityka”, 22 May 1976. In 1974, Polish craftsmen and traders supplied the East Germans in the border regions with all kinds of gadgets related to the German World Cup. Ibidem.

Chapter 11

‘We All Want a Decent Standard of Living’; Or Money, Poverty and Wealth in (post) October Poland

Money Matters

Nobody could of course say that money had not mattered previously; it both counted and was counted, and diligently so. However, from mid-1956 onwards, both the authorities and society approached finance in a different way. Money matters became a subject of open debate, a tool of realpolitik, a marker of social stratification and an object of desire, envy and often fierce, debate. Importantly, from the autumn of 1956 onwards, Poles could once again count with relative impunity not only the zloty, but also the coveted dollars or pounds in their pockets. For the average person to scrutinise every expense was nothing out of the ordinary, but for the socialist authorities this switch to putting priority on the figures in the national balance sheet was a significant change. Another apparent departure from past practice was to provide figures that were not made up, or at least not as much as before. The greater reliability of the economic data and analysis at the time of the Polish ‘October Revolution’ period was in no small measure due to the stature of the people who commissioned, conducted and oversaw the process. The new institutions, such as the Economic Council of the Council of Ministers, set up in December  1956, had on their board economists of the calibre of Oskar Lange, Michał Kalecki and Czesław Bobrowski. They were not trying to please the authorities, but in the hope, at least early on, of a genuine revival of the economy, impossible to achieve without access to genuine data, fought for ‘democratisation’ and transparency also in the treatment of economic data. The Council embarked on pioneering ventures, such as an attempt to assess the scale of citizens’ illicit incomes.1 In addition, the Central Statistical Office completed a long-abandoned analysis of

1 Szara strefa Października. “Notatka” o nielegalnych dochodach w Polsce 1956–1957, ed. J. Kochanowski, “Przegląd Historyczny”, vol. XCV, 2004, book 1, pp. 77–96.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_012

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family budgets, well aware that without knowledge of citizens’ actual budgets, any financial policy, especially related to prices, was doomed to failure.2 The Ministry of Finance was making desperate efforts to balance the budget and prevent inflation. Rather than being just a convenient pretext for the authorities, inflation was a very real risk that, from mid-1956 on, gained urgency. The government attempted to extinguish this smouldering fire threatening to engulf society with a gushing flood of money. As was to be expected, the flames of inflation were merely dampened, and with the next stronger gust of political wind – and October was, after all, no light breeze – it exploded with compounded force. The conditions were favourable for the conflagration to take off; there was no shortage of fuel and no shortage of those who saw feeding the fire as grist to the mill. But there were also those who were badly burned. Against the backdrop of widespread poverty, the pay rises which immediately followed the Poznań revolt of 28 June 1956 might have seemed, especially statistically, not insignificant. In July 1956, national expenditure on wages was 18% higher year-on-year, in August 21%, in September 22%, in October 25% and in November this increased to 30% year-on-year. Overall, in 1956, the wage budget had doubled in relation to that planned, to 107.2 billion zloty; social benefits and agricultural incomes had also increased. The latter by nearly 8 billion zloty. This was thanks to the fact that individual farmers – the main agricultural suppliers – now benefited from being paid increased prices by the state, accompanied by a reduction in compulsory deliveries of agricultural products they were obliged to deliver to the state retail outlets. This allowed peasants to bring more of their products onto the free market than in the past.3 You cannot please all the working people all of the time, even with pay rises, and the dissatisfied and frustrated are usually more numerous than the satisfied. And this is how it was in the second half of 1956 – since approximately two million workers got sizable increases, a similar number got small increases and three million got nothing.4 With the increasing consumption, the country’s unstable internal situation combined with the authorities’ weakened power, and the situation fuelled by society’s sense of strength, while ‘courage 2 W.  Tycner, Budżet rodziny, TL, 13  Jul 1957; Pierwsze rezultaty badań budżetów rodzinnych, Ibidem. Cf. “Biuletyn Statystyki Warunków Bytu”, No. 1, 1957; S. Akoliński, Uwagi o badaniach budżetów rodzinnych przez GUS, “Przegląd Zagadnień Socjalnych”, No. 12, 1957. 3 AAN, URM, 22/9, Transcript of the Economic Council of the Council of Ministers (hereinafter RE) meeting, 26 Feb 1957, pp. 14–19; Ibidem, 22/16, meeting of the economists from the RE, 8 May 1957, p. 16; Płace w 1957 roku. Narady w Komitecie Centralnym PZPR, TL, 15 Feb 1957. 4 AAN, URM, 22/16, meeting of the economists from the RE, 8 May 1957, p. 11.

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got cheaper’, it became clear that the escalating pay demands would continue in 1957. It was assumed in advance that the wage fund would need to increase by a further 7 billion zloty (to 114 billion), to which had to be added, among other things, 4 billion for wage adjustments (of which 3 billion for miners), an increase in family allowances – estimated at 1 billion, and a reduction in payroll taxes, assumed to cost around 300 million, while payments from workplace funds, one of the most difficult-to-control gaps through which money leaked into the market, were estimated at 400 to 700 million zloty.5 There were many more such precarious factors. For example, from the beginning of the 1950s, the state employer’s debt to employees grew due to its not respecting the commitments it had made. The debt consisted of unpaid allowances or overtime, especially for white-collar workers, failure to refund part of the payroll tax (such as the 30% tax rebate that leading workers were in theory entitled to), the non-payment of bonuses due and compensation for doctors for on-call duty or to workers for Sunday working.6 Between 1 July 1953 and 1 November 1956, even by the most conservative calculation, this debt grew to an astronomical 9 billion zloty or so, and if one were to add, for example, the changes in standards imposed by the authorities for which no compensation was paid or the claims for confiscated property – for which the catalyst was the October thaw – the state’s debt to its citizens would have been many time greater. No attempt was made to estimate these debts, since paying off even these ‘mere’ nine-billion-zloty claims would have risked ‘inflation and a complete uncoupling of our economy, the state of which is, after all, far from functioning correctly’.7 In hindsight, one may wonder whether in the autumn of 1956 the authorities had already been planning to cancel the debt but they surely knew that, in view of the tensions in society, such a decision at that time would have amounted to kicking a hornets’ nest. They opted for prevarication and reassurance. On 19 November 1956, the Sejm, taking advantage of the enormous credit of trust that had been bestowed on the new team, passed a bill, which generally affirmed the legitimacy of citizens’ claims but, on the other, suspended the 5 AAN, URM, 22/9, transcript of the RE meeting, 26  Feb 1957, pp.  14–19; Płace w 1957 roku. Narady w Komitecie Centralnym PZPR, TL, 15 Feb 1957. Another escape route through which money leaked into the market were the hard-to-control payouts to the non-nationalised economy, which in 1957 were double the payouts in 1956. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-252, Secretariat of the KC PZPR, meeting on current situation, 10 Jul 1957, p. 35. 6 AAN, KS, 146, Commission for Labour and Social Affairs, 18 Mar 1957, p. 110. 7 Wiceprezes NBP o konieczności przestrzegania dyscypliny płacy przy regulowaniu żądań pracowników, GP, 7 Dec 1956.

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implementation of satisfying them for four months.8 The bill left a number of things hanging in the air; it did not specify, for example, which claims would be recognised as legitimate and how they would be met. The managements of factories and hospitals found themselves between the devil of regulations and the deep blue sea of anxiety – both for their own wallets and a fear of their employees, who at the turn of 1956 and 1957 were quick to rally and declare a strike or take the manager away in a wheelbarrow. The reaction of the debtors – as it happened, a huge part of society – was thus entirely understandable. They tended to circumvent the new regulations by paying out on the claims but bypassing the banks, or using funds earmarked for purposes other than wages, such as the purchase of raw materials. In total, around one billion zloty of outstanding claims had been paid off by the turn of 1956/1957. As it turned out, those who dared won, yet again – for these were the only funds that would ever be recovered. By another act, on 22 March 1957, the government cancelled all its outstanding debts to citizens.9 By then, the authorities felt robust enough not to have to justify this decision and just brazenly announced the fact of debt annulment, nor did they worry unduly about the wave of post-October strikes which had been triggered by this decision in the summer and early autumn of 1957, in the event the last ones to take place.

‘We All Want a Decent Standard of Living’

The government did not resolve to annul its debt lightly, but the authorities saw the decision as the only viable option. There was an enormous and everincreasing amount of hot money chasing too few goods; at the beginning of 1957 an excess of 2.5–3 billion zloty, and with the diminishing purchasing power of money in circulation, the discrepancy between supply and demand kept increasing. In March  1957 Deputy Prime Minister Piotr Jaroszewicz warned that ‘the restoration of the rule of law requires certain sacrifices and enormous financial resources.’10 What the authorities had in mind, of course, were not so much the sacrifices borne by society as by the state, which would have to generate the funds for the planned increases in wages and family allowances by reducing those spent on investment, defence or administration.11 The 8

Ustawa o uregulowaniu zaległych roszczeń dodatkowych ze stosunku pracy, Dz.U, 1956, No. 53, item 239. 9 “Dziennik Ustaw” (Journal of Laws); hereinafter: Dz.U. 1957, No. 15, item 76. 10 AAN, KS, 146, Commission for Labour and Social Affairs, 18 Mar 1957, p. 103v. 11 GP, 70, 23/24 Mar 1957.

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scale of the measures taken was indeed extensive. The slimming down of the army and administration continued – the latter losing more than 31,000 posts, which resulted in savings of 425 million zloty; budget expenditure and subsidies were blocked, bringing more than 1,160 billion zloty in savings, and the development of the state lottery was predicted to yield another 1.2 billion. It was hoped that rural purchasing power would be limited by price increases for agricultural services and machinery as well as timber and fertilisers, while in the cities it would be reduced through price increases for luxury items such as furniture, cars, furs and also alcohol. Other measures envisaged to rescue the budget involved the sale of redundant stock and equipment, adjustments in the exchange rate of foreign currencies, new forms of saving, more effective collection of tax arrears, more realistic fees for kindergartens and medical treatment, an increase in tax rates and tighter controls on the affluent private sector.12 However, the government exhortations for further sacrifice, even when accompanied by the emphasis on its own self-restraint, were hardly effective. Polish society wanted to recover, not only from Stalinism, but also from the entire post-1939 era. In this respect, it had aspirations similar to the vast majority of European societies which had after the war embarked on a period of increasingly sophisticated consumption. Poles, just like the British or Germans, no longer wanted to save but to spend, not only to survive but also to savour. And the new forms of saving, widely promoted by the Polish authorities as a success of their new monetary policy, ultimately – rather than taking money out of circulation – in fact served consumption. The fact that the General Savings Bank (PKO) had prevailed over keeping money under the bed was a testimony to citizens’ rational view of reality and progressive modernisation, although it also caused the authorities no small amount of concern. On paper, the authorities could congratulate themselves on their success in encouraging savings: in Warsaw in 1954 there were 208 million zloty in savings accounts; in 1957 alone, deposits grew by 550 million, to 1,070 million zloty (22% of the ‘official’ savings of the whole country). However, these were not savings for a rainy day, but aimed at more sophisticated consumption. To encourage people to put money away for a specific, larger goal, the terms of savings accounts were also adapted for the purpose by offering customers ‘target savings passbooks’ for the purchase of, for example, cars or motorbikes (in Warsaw alone, some 24,000 such passbookbased accounts were opened in 1957 alone).13 Introduced in June  1957, the 12 AAN, Ministry of Finance, 6/1, Assessment of the country’s financial situation in 1957. 13 R. Augustyniak, PKO zwyciężyła pończochę, ŻW, 29 Nov 1957.

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‘housing passbooks’, as they were called, obviously could not guarantee swift acquisition of a roof over one’s head (nor was a car passbook a guarantee of coming into possession of one’s own vehicle), but they did offer the chance – after a few years of systematic contributions to the savings – of state credit assistance for the construction of one’s own house or flat, for example. By the end of February  1958 there had been 3,711 such passbooks set up across the country, with a total of 20 million zloty on deposit.14 Another innovation that became a symbol of modernity and financial flexibility was the introduction of password-based and bearer-only passbooks. It is difficult to say whether these were created with the fast-growing group of genuinely wealthy people in mind or whether they were just quickly adopted by this sector of consumers, but the fact remains that they made it possible to carry out large transactions relatively securely while maintaining anonymity.15 The arrival of such financial instruments was a manifest proof of modernisation in banking services, facilitating more convenient money management. Let us bear in mind, however, that the growth in savings deposits was caused by market shortages of goods that were in demand. Besides, people were fearful of keeping substantial amounts of cash at home, with the still vivid memory of the daylight-robbery revaluation of the zloty in the autumn of 1950, when those who had been keeping their money under the bed paid dearly for their lack of trust in banks. Not to mention the fact that at the turn of 1956 and 1957 rumours were rife of the government spoiling for an action replay.16 The new approach to saving reflected both new consumer aspirations and the government’s policy towards them. The authorities could have probably achieved an effective economic reform through an across-the-board increase in the prices of all consumer goods and services, including those of everyday use, but they did not have the stomach for such a radical step. They knew that it was important to maintain the existing prices of basic articles, and that ‘any proposal for an increase […] in the price of a consumer article can only be considered if this is matched by a simultaneous proposal for a reduction in the price of another article.’17 Thus, any increase in the price of scarce goods such as processed fruit and vegetable products or textile articles was only possible on condition of a reduction in, for example, the price of rice. On the other 14 15 16 17

SP, 65, 18 Mar 1958; TL, 124, 7 May 1957. R. Augustyniak, PKO zwyciężyła pończochę … AAN, URM, 22/16, Meeting of economists with the Economic Council, 8 May 1957, p. 50. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-257, Minutes of the meeting of heads of departments of the Central Committee, 11 Jan 1958, pp. 1–4.

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hand, the authorities were relaxed about ‘flexible’ pricing of luxury goods, especially imports, and entertainment, e.g. cinema tickets.18 A new housing policy added to a long-term ‘draining’ of citizens’ monetary resources – a term that rapidly became current at the beginning of 1957 – both through inviting the public to participate in the cost of housing construction, hitherto financed practically exclusively by the state, and due to a broader acceptance of single-family house construction.19 This was, however, a long drawn-out process, as demonstrated by the relatively low number of housing passbooks issued, and the liberalisation of housing policy faced a problem with a shortage of building materials. The fastest tool to slim down the public’s wallets that could be applied was through sales of luxury goods – above all cars, thereby facilitating ‘draining’ of the wealthiest sector.20 The prices of cars were raised to levels that the vast majority of citizens found prohibitive. However, as already noted in the chapter on motorisation, those who could afford to buy, with or without the help of opening a ‘car’ saving account with a passbook, still outnumbered the vehicles available. Those with slightly greater wherewithal rushed, moreover, to buy not only cars but much more besides, as is evident from the statistics on industrial goods sold through state trading in the first six months of 1955–1957. Table 8

Product / Year

1955

1956

Washing machines

10,788

26,475

58,574

Fridges Imported TV sets Polish TV sets Motorcycles Photographic cameras Watches

1,497 – – 16,260 19,173 98,400

2,247 949

4,664 1,205 6,760 33,994 73,656 324,316

– 21,365 26,796 198,857

1957

Source: TL, 21 August 1957

18 19

Ibidem. Cf. D.  Jarosz, Mieszkanie się należy… Studium z peerelowskich praktyk społecznych, Warszawa 2010, pp. 226–256. 20 AAN, URM, 22/11, Transcripts of meetings of the RE Review Committee, 1 Jun 1957, p. 76.

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In the first months of 1957, Poles also bought 4 million more metres of woollen fabrics, 2.75 million more of silk fabrics, 33 million more of cotton fabrics and 3 million more pairs of leather footwear. There was a marked change in food consumption. Over 4,500 tonnes less vegetable fat found its way to the Polish table. Purchases of animal fats (lard and pork fat) increased only slightly – by 1,040 tonnes, while consumption of butter, the symbol of egalitarian luxury, increased by 9,000 tonnes. Butchers and charcuterie shops became a more frequent destination, with purchases rising by 43.6 thousand tonnes of meat and 27 thousand tonnes of cold cuts. Customers bought 680 tonnes more chocolate, twice as much natural coffee as the previous year, and more lemons and oranges. The consumption of spirit and vodka rose by 11 million litres.21 Let us bear in mind that these figures relate only to official trade, and do not include private and unofficial distribution channels. If they had been able to, Poles would have gone on an even bigger shopping spree. Unfashionable and low-quality goods, however, lingered unsold in the shops, while there was a shortage of attractive items to meet the rising social expectations, such as high-quality textiles and shoes. But no improvement was in sight, mainly due to the fact that the country could not afford to import cotton, wool and animal hides (since domestic production of the latter two in particular did not meet the demand), while coal exports were falling and the price of coal on world markets was also dropping.22 Although the official prices of basic commodities remained relatively stable, as Leopold Gluck, Deputy President of the National Bank of Poland, pointed out on 2 March 1957, ‘when there is inflation but prices are being suppressed; money almost ceases to be the carrier of purchasing power, becoming a peripheral factor. The crux of the matter is to have the ration voucher, the entitlement to an allocation. Under these conditions, distribution replaces trade. Under these conditions, moreover, the importance of a secondary market increases – a market for illegal trading, or the black market.’23 Thus, shop shelves were swamped with shoddy goods, while attractive products were sold out in no time at all, mostly re-appearing for re-sale – at much higher prices – in bazaars and private shops. ‘These goods,’ the economist Czesław Bobrowski remarked at the beginning of May 1957, ‘these ladies’ French jumpers or other luxury imported goods are consumed, bearing in mind the Polish standard of living, only by a small part of the population. To raise the prices of these goods does not, therefore, have any impact on the cost of living for a typical 21 Ibidem. 22 AAN, KRP, 69/3, p. 139, Session of the Council of the City of Warsaw, 27–28 May 1957. 23 AAN, URM, 22/9, Transcript of the meeting of the RE 2 Mar 1957, p. 109.

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working-class family. If it should affect any working family anywhere at all, it will certainly be a high-income working family, and it will thus certainly be a handful of working families.’24 And yet, although manual workers did not often buy Swiss watches or French jumpers this did not mean that they did not aspire to such purchases. They were certainly the most bitter and frustrated group among the working class in terms of their earnings and, consequently, consumption. They recalled nostalgically the times before the war, when ‘a worker could afford to buy a pair of shoes and 1/4 litre of vodka for a day’s wages, but unfortunately this is not the case today.’25 No wonder that a significant proportion of the complaints sent in writing to the Polish Radio or the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party came from manual workers. ‘We workers are already on the verge of a nervous breakdown about the rise in prices,’ complained a resident of Kutno in the summer of 1957. ‘In our country, luxury items include shoes, furs, rugs, plush bedspreads and so on. And in America even a car is not a luxury, because every labourer has a beautiful limousine. When you call carpets or rugs a luxury, you are aiming for us to sleep at the back of the kitchen stove on a clay ledge, the way peasants live in Russia. Zambrowski said in Łódź that workers should keep an eye on thieves. How can a thief keep an eye on a thief, because we all steal, and we will steal until the nasty communists raise our wages.’26 This last point throws some light on answering the question of how a not inconsiderable proportion of the population working in the poorly paid state sector or co-operative jobs could suddenly afford to indulge in increasingly sophisticated and expensive consumption. The answer is unlikely to be found in the aforementioned analysis of family budgets carried out at the turn of 1956 and 1957 by the Central Statistical Office (CSO), in which, as on any good accountant’s balance sheet, income and expenditure match perfectly. On the one hand, a relatively small number of families were analysed, both workers and employees in the engineering and administrative divisions of the mining, metallurgy, engineering and textile industries. On the other hand, while the reliability of the methodology used is not in doubt, reliance was placed on data provided by individual families. Also, while we can safely assume that items of expenditure were recorded meticulously, we cannot be equally certain that income, especially when not entirely legal, was dealt with in a similar manner. However, even in the case of working-class families, such additional 24 AAN, URM, 22/16, Meeting of the economists from the RE, 8 May 1957, pp. 18–19. 25 APG OG, KM PZPR in Gdynia, 468, Minutes of the meeting of the POP of the Polish United Workers’ Party in the No. 2 District of the Port of Gdynia, 9 Jul 1957. 26 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-24, Letters Bulletin No. 42, 16 Aug 1957.

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earnings were not insignificant, whether they came in the form of supplementary income from a private employer, who often paid several times more than the state, or from milking the resources of one’s own workplace through fraud or theft.27 The, at first sight paradoxical, phenomenon – encountered neither just in the Polish economy nor in the socialist bloc alone – of expenditure exceeding one’s official earnings yet with no borrowing to account for the gap, took on unprecedented proportions in the favourable conditions of the thaw. It is, of course, difficult to ascertain the scale of the increase, as it was only in 1957 that the problem began to be studied, both on a micro and macro scale. At the beginning of 1958, a party committee travelled to Radom from the capital with the intention of investigating, among other things, to what this city owed its reputation as the richest in Poland. After an analysis of the salaries and expenses of Radom residents, a symptomatic, though not very enlightening, conclusion was reached: the official income of its inhabitants in 1957 was 1,294 billion zloty, and was exceeded by their expenses, which amounted to 1,633 billion. It should be noted that the expenses taken into account were only those incurred locally or paid for with savings in local banks!28 Radom was by no means an exception, as transpired from the estimated and certainly incomplete assessment of the ‘black’ income of Poles in 1956 and the first quarter of 1957 carried out on behalf of the Economic Council. According to that survey, income from theft, bribery, arbitrary price rises, abuse of payroll funds and illegal trade, e.g. in foreign currency or articles from parcels received from abroad, was estimated at 26.66 billion zloty: 21.4 billion in 1956 and 5.26 billion from January to March 1957. For 1956 alone, this accounted for about one-fifth of the total wage fund and 1/12 of the total national income! Let us bear in mind that the authors of the analysis were acutely aware that these were only estimates, in all probability significant underestimates.29 27

Foreign observers also noticed the phenomenon: ‘Inasmuch as few Poles can live on their salaries, most of them have to “mobilize” additional sources of income”’ wrote an American journalist, citing examples ranging from hoping to get lucky by buying tickets for relaunched lotteries to mass theft in workplaces, corruption and petty fraud. “The Poles’, Wechsberg concluded, are ‘old hands at getting by when times are hard and masters at such games’. J. Wechsberg, Letter from Warsaw, “The New Yorker”, 16 Aug 1957. 28 AAN, KC PZPR, XI/281, pp. 25–26. 29 Szara strefa Października …, op. cit. The Militia Headquarters was also supposed to conduct its own ‘study of earnings and non-salary income’. It is difficult to assess the reliability of its findings, according to which in Warsaw in the first six months of 1957 more than 1,300 earned in excess of 100,000 zloty per month, some 3,000 people earned between 50,000 and 100,000, and approx. 4,800 earned 20–50,000 zloty. HIM, P-50, Item No. 5377/57, Legal and illegal earnings: regime plans move against fraud.

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‘Making money’ in Poland between 1956 and 1957 resembled the pioneer times immediately after the war, still very fresh in the collective memory. It was powered by the zest to consume (although of a different nature than that of the post-war devastation of 1945 or 1946), the gaps in legislation and the weakened authority of those in power; the combination of these factors allowed all the assorted chancers, as well as those more astute and creative, to act with relative impunity, particularly so as to date, they had enjoyed the tacit consensus of both the public and some members of the political elite, likewise not averse to garnering some surplus income. Many ordinary citizens felt largely justified in sailing close to the legal wind or venturing into the illicit waters beyond. For in the collective imagination of citizens, the ‘democratisation’ proclaimed at every turn was associated not only with political participation, but also, and perhaps above all, with a perception of an entitlement to a fatter wallet and a higher standard of living for every walk of life. When the new authorities were unable to fulfil these aspirations, people took matters into their own hands. Especially as, initially, the authorities themselves were encouraging a can-do entrepreneurial spirit. Although only a small proportion of citizens would eventually set up their own shops or workshops, the anti-capitalist perceptions that had hitherto been in place, acting as barriers to such initiatives, were broken down in society as a whole, while earning and spending, wealth and poverty ceased to be taboo subjects, burdened with fear and apprehension. ‘Janek Bądkowski,’ the literary historian and publicist Jan Józef Lipski noted in his diary on 22 December 1956, ‘has a concept of making a massive fortune right now. He claims that the times are auspicious.’30 It was no longer ‘to be’ but ‘to have’ that became the de-rigueur rallying cry of every social group – from peasants and workers to the intellectual elite, including the top echelons of the party. Famous actors were not ashamed of appearing in trashy productions – if it paid them to do so; members of the state apparatus, both economic and political, found themselves perfectly at home in the new conditions, rapidly adapting and developing the old techniques, and evolving some new ones, for ‘draining’ the state and citizens. ‘There is now an ethos in society in general,’ complained a participant in a meeting of first secretaries of Provincial Committees of the party, ‘to grab what you can, to get a little richer and improve your material situation. […] People set up breeding farms – of mink, for example, and this is being done by party activists. And through breeding these mink they are drawn […] into various machinations. Two days ago, I was talking to a comrade who was going to set up a mink farm, I told him don’t get involved with breeding mink, because 30

J. J. Lipski, Dzienniki 1954–1957, ed. Ł. Garbal, Warszawa 2010, p. 191.

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[…] they’ll drag you into some sordid business and you’ll maybe have to give up your party membership. […] He says: “Comrade […], I’m not going to be stealing or doing anything bad. A mink costs 4,000 zloty, so why shouldn’t I make money on it, if I can, and I do have some expertise in this field?”’31 This was not an isolated case; signals about fur farming by members of the peripheral party elites were coming from all over the country. The new entrepreneurs successfully exploited the vague regulations governing relations between the state, the co-operative sector and the private sector. Corruption rose to unprecedented levels, at times resulting in a form of ‘privatisation’ of state assets (more on this later). Urban white-collar workers such as teachers, civil servants or engineers were obliged to develop other ‘get-rich-quick’ strategies. The case of a Warsaw family, described in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung by a West German journalist, was fairly typical.32 It was only at the beginning of his stay in postOctober Poland that Hansjakob Stehle wondered how, given the prevailing Polish wages, there were any customers willing to spend ‘half a salary on a pair of shoes, not even particularly elegant, or blow a whole month’s pay for a measure of cloth to have a suit made’. The mystery was solved once he got to know Jan and Joanna, an intelligentsia couple from Warsaw. Using a machine sent to them by their family in England, once they got home from their 9-to-5 (or 8-to4, as was the case in Poland), white-collar day jobs, in their flat in Warsaw’s Muranów district they would spend their evenings producing jumpers and cotton stockings. They commented that by knitting one jumper and twenty pairs of stockings a day, they were fulfilling the task of ‘filling in the gaps’ which the authorities had set for private enterprise. They pointed out that such a broad exhortation gave people ‘plenty of room for manoeuvre’, since, as they pointed out tongue-in-cheek, the Polish economy was ‘essentially made up of nothing but gaps’. Operating such a borderline legal business did, however, force them to keep their eyes open and be flexible. When the housing administration, having found out about their ‘capitalist’ workshop, wanted to increase the rent for their tiny flat tenfold, Jan turned himself into an employee in a knitwear co-operative. In the eyes of the housing administration officials, this change of status legitimised their actually still illegal production. The work of the whole family, including daughters of pre-school age, increased their monthly income 31 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-253, Transcript of the meeting of the First Secretaries of the KW, 28 Sep 1957, p. 139. 32 H. Stehle, Die Furcht darf nicht wiederkehren, FAZ, 18 Jan 1958.

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Fig. 29 It is difficult to say how many Polish families did manage to make a living by relying on a knitting machine or equipment for producing plastic goods, sent to them or paid for by family or friends from abroad. It was, however, a common phenomenon. This advertisement boasts that a knitting machine can ‘support an entire Polish family’. (“Kultura” 6, Paris 1957.)

by five thousand zloty, to the level of a director’s salary. This enabled the family to get better furnishings in the flat and buy their groceries in the superior quality ‘Delikatesy’. They could afford foreign-made clothes and, from time to time, a trip with friends to one of Warsaw’s renowned pubs. Jan and Joanna were no exception. Throughout 1957, the number of advertisements in Polish-language papers abroad for knitting machines to send to Poland as a way to support the family back home did not diminish.

‘A Case of Politics and Social Fairness’

It is not too far-fetched to conclude that it was also thanks to just such home workshops that a new Polish middle class emerged from the post-October transformations. Hardly anyone was aware of this at the time. Moreover, the process of the formation of a wealthier group with more precise and targeted consumption preferences usually aroused criticism from both the authorities and those circles that were not among the beneficiaries of the new opportunities. ‘The workers point to the emerging fortunes of rural and urban speculators,’ noted Michał Kalecki on 1 June 1957. ‘This is not, however, some rare occurrence; it is not just speculation in the strict sense of the word. […] I would indeed say that a new middle class is forming before our very eyes, on a fairly

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massive scale’.33 However, this world-renowned economist also noted the negative aspects of the phenomenon: ‘You hear about some shopkeeper offering 200,000 zloty to take over renting a flat, and so on. These things are common knowledge. To be saying that we cannot regulate wages by more than 10%, yet at the same time allow such fortunes to form, is a very unpleasant situation, to put it mildly. This, I believe, is the most important thing. The very fact that this is an appropriation of income creates an unacceptable situation. The issue of political and social justice is perhaps even more important.’34 Indeed, it was not so much economics, money or even the evident losses to the state caused by economic crime, as precisely the issue of ‘social justice’, one of the most important achievements of the egalitarian ‘revolution that had been but a dream’35 since 1939, described by Andrzej Leder, that prompted the tackling of the ‘unfair’ new middle class. Thus while the authorities were able to turn a blind eye to the financial improprieties committed by the working class – such as embezzlement, scams and workplace pilfering, which economists, including Kalecki, viewed dismissively as a way of ‘supplementing’ their meagre wages – they were not prepared to view the emergence of a new ‘speculative’ class with equal insouciance. The authorities responded by taking steps such as ever-tightening taxes on private initiative and verification of permits to run shops and workshops, accompanied by shrill anti-speculation rhetoric and the creation of further commissions and panels, with marketplaces raided in spectacular swoops, reminiscent indeed of the times of the occupation.36 The authorities turned their attention to the inefficient and inadequate tax system, unsuited to the new economic reality, which failed to capture a substantial part of the incomes of the liberal professions. As a result, the standard of living of doctors, lawyers or artists began to noticeably diverge ‘from the standard of living and from the level of other people’s salaries’,37 and gave rise to protests. Characteristically, the institutionalisation of the fight against speculation, brought about by the change of attitude towards the private sector, which had for the time being been given a warning light, came at the same time as the 33 AAN, URM, 22/11, Transcripts of RE Review Commission meetings, pp.  69–70. Characteristically, the hatching of the middle class was being noticed by foreign observers. See L. Zimmerer, Die Geburt einer neuen Klasse, “Die Welt”, 23 Feb 1957. 34 AAN, URM, 22/11, Transcripts …, p. 70. 35 A.  Leder, Prześniona rewolucja. Ćwiczenie z logiki historycznej, Warszawa 2014. German translation: Polen im Wachtraum: die Revolution 1939–1956 und ihre Folgen, Osnabrück 2019. 36 J. Kochanowski, Through the Back Door: The Black Market in Poland 1944–1989, Frankfurt am Main 2017, pp. 77–92. 37 AAN, URM, 22/11, Transcripts of RE Review Commission meetings, p. 125.

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drive to investigate the incomes of full-time employees and those in the liberal professions, namely in the summer of 1957.38 The Compensatory Tax Bill came before a parliamentary committee in early November 1957. Its purpose, it was explained, was ‘to alleviate income disparities in the population and to reduce market demand from high earners. The law has only become topical now, as until now there have not been significant numbers of relatively high earners.’ The Bill was intended to cover those earning 96,000 zloty a year (i.e. a net average of 8,000 a month) after deduction of tax.39 Only one Member had doubts, foreseeing the negative psychological and social effects of the Bill, as rumours of it had already brought closures of private enterprises and the reduction or abandonment of investments. However, economic arguments could no longer convince anyone. In fact, there was no hiding the fact that the new tax would not bring much revenue to the treasury and was more of a ‘social and moral’ nature, while the law was ‘in line with the demands of people making a living through their toil and brains’.40

Only the Poor See Eye to Eye

The bill, finally became law on 13 December 1957,41 and was indeed more of psychological than economic significance; it was both a sop to those living off their own labour (implicitly, bare wages), and compensation for the poorest citizens, who only became more visible after October, and who had a mere 8,000 zloty to survive on annually. Poverty, sometimes bordering on destitution, had of course existed even before October, but after the thaw it became more visible against the background of a rapidly growing, wealthier social stratum, accompanied by rising consumption and unemployment and the lack of an efficient welfare system. The scale of the problem was shown by the pleas for help received by the local councils throughout the country, while those more desperate or daring appealed directly to the central authorities and in particular to Władyslaw Gomułka himself.42 Even allowing for a likely margin of emotive exaggeration of the supplicant’s dire plight likely in such approaches, the missives painted a depressing and at times desperate picture: a world of old ladies living on a hundred zloty allowance, single women’s salaries of a few 38 39 40 41 42

DP (London), 13 Aug 1957. AAN, KS, 136, Committee on Economic Planning, Budget and Finance, 7 Sep 1957, p. 361v. Ibidem, pp. 363–363v. Dz.U. 1957, No. 62, item 336. AAN, KRP, 45/6, Complaints and grievances 1957, pp. 36–37.

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hundred zloty, long waits for the seriously ill and incapacitated to be granted and then paid a pension. The requests coming to the City Council in Gdynia were typical of the whole country: Rozalia Bohdzielenko, illiterate, a widow ‘about’ 90 years old, lived on a monthly allowance of 150 zloty. A married couple living on a single starvation pension asked for additional help. We don’t know what the decision was in the case of Mrs Bohdzielenko as no records survive. We do know, however, that in the case of the married couple, the plea was refused on the grounds that ‘the petitioner’s husband receives a pension of 429 zloty, in addition to which the citizen has two adult children, who under the Family Code are obliged to provide maintenance’43 to the parents. Similarly, another petitioner was turned away, arguing that ‘he receives a pension of 101 zloty and lives with his son, who is gainfully employed and single.’44 No effort was made to find out how much he had to live on. Meanwhile, let us remember that after the 1956 increase of the lowest wages, the minimum wage was 500 zloty – judged to be the absolute minimum subsistence level for a single person.45 This amounted to a starvation wage, and we must bear in mind that the lowest wages were usually paid to women, often single parents. Despite the increases, in 1957 there were still more than a million people – one seventh of all those employed in the socialised economy! – who were earning less than 700 zloty a month (and some 220,000 of whom earned 500 zloty), while the proposed reform options set the lowest rate at a pitiful 600 zloty.46 Workers’ salaries, however meagre, were nevertheless higher than pensions or annuities, especially the so-called ‘old wallet’ ones – paid to those who had retired quite a while earlier and which had been calculated according to a less favourable formula.47 At the end of September 1957, of the 1,125,000 pensioners catered for by the Ministry of Labour and Social Welfare, 276,000 were receiving benefits under the regulations in force from 1 July 1954 – or the so-called ‘new wallet’. In this group, the average pension was 477 zloty (or 423 zloty of disability pension and 433 zloty of family pension). But some 32,700 pensioners in this group (11.9%) only received the minimum benefits: 150 zloty for a working person and 260 zloty for a non-working person. The plight of 694,000 citizens receiving ‘old wallet’ pensions was more dismal still, as none had more 43 44 45 46

APG OG, MRN in Gdynia, 1829. Ibidem. ŻW, 17 Apr 1956. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-245, Note on improving the material conditions of the lowest paid workers, 5 Dec 1957, p. 12. 47 See  D.  Jarosz., Emeryci i renciści w polskim systemie ubezpieczeń społecznych lat 1944– 1958: sytuacja materialna i strategie przetrwania, “Roczniki Dziejów Społecznych i Gospodarczych”, vol. LXXII, 2012, pp. 191–226.

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Fig. 30 Poverty, sometimes appalling, was a widespread phenomenon, evident also on the streets of major cities. Here, an elderly woman searches for whatever she can find in a street rubbish bin. (Warsaw 1957. Photo: Tadeusz Rolke, Agencja Wyborcza.)

than 260 zloty to look forward to every month. The worst off were undoubtedly the 116,000 or so pre-war pensioners, usually of an age that precluded taking on any bread-and-butter work. On the other hand, the payments to the 155,000 pensioners receiving provisions from other than the ‘old wallet’ and the ‘new wallet’ spanned quite a spectrum, showing that some were more equal than others. Whilst war disabled received, on average, 272 zloty, those designated as ‘victims of the enemies of the democratic system of Poland’ (OWD) and families of fallen participants of the underground and partisan movement (URP) were paid 301 zloty, former professional military, prison officers, militia and security officers all of 669 zloty, and miners as much as 966 zloty. Approximately 120,000 railway retirees, whose pensions were financed from a source other than the MPiOS (Ministry of Communications) each received an average of 355 zloty.48 So, regardless of what kind of employment they had once had, the vast majority of pensioners were only in receipt of starvation benefits that guaranteed not even the most modest subsistence. Thus, pensions were not a factor 48 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-245, Note on the basic principles of improving the material situation of pensioners, 18 Dec 1957, pp. 22–23.

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that would induce people to give up work, and around 30% (208,000) of pensioners on the ‘old’ and 46% (127,000) on the ‘new wallet’ were of necessity still employed. The workplaces were full of the old, the infirm and the sick, unfit for any work and in fact not performing any useful function. They were kept on, however, in the knowledge that dismissal would be tantamount to their total pauperisation. Sometimes, as in the case of the Mechanical Engineering Plant in Poręba, a small town in the Dąbrowa Basin, such old people stuck in various non-productive pseudo-occupations constituted around 10% of the workforce.49 This was not so much the exception as the rule; the Ministry of Labour and Social Policy estimated that in 1957 there were around 170,000 such ‘apparently employed’ people in the state economy. Their presence evoked contradictory reactions, ranging from sympathy to opposition. Workers’ Councils often set up their own pension funds or set aside permanent funds for the pensioners of a given plant, transferring considerable sums from the wage fund for this purpose. This solution led to many different frustrations for those with different vested interests: the authorities feared that the state would become responsible for financing these funds, as well as accusations from staff (for increasing absenteeism), other employees blamed the sham ‘pensioners’ for burdening the wage fund and thus reducing earnings, and the unemployed objected that they were job blockers. Attempts were made to solve the problem not so much by increasing benefits – although the ‘old wallet’ was gradually being phased out – but by administrative methods: on 28 March 1958 legislation was passed to restrict working in retirement.50

‘Money Converts’; Or the Beginning of the (Semi-) Legal Relationship between the Zloty and the Dollar

The cover of the first issue of the satirical magazine Szpilki in 1951 carried an eloquent cartoon by Jerzy Zaruba. It featured Warsaw’s W-Z Route iconic escalator – the first-ever moving staircase in Poland. Built in 1949, the route crossed Warsaw in the direction from east to west (hence the name: W-Z, the first letters of ‘East’ and ‘West’ in Polish). The escalator linked the W-Z Route with Warsaw’s Old Town on the high escarpment. This moving stair connecting two different-level high streets in the capital became an iconic symbol of socialist modernity. Travelling up on the escalator, were a one-zloty coin 49 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-258, Meeting of propaganda secretaries of the Central Committee, 7 Feb 1958. 50 Dz.U. 1958, No. 21, item 98.

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(adorned with a folk Polish hat) and the rouble (in a Lenin cap, of course). As they rode up, they looked down on a decrepit dollar, a paltry pound and fatigued French franc, also in symbolic national headgear, travelling on the down escalator – the capitalist currencies all moving in the opposite direction to that of the strong and optimistic currencies of Poland and the USSR. For the avoidance of doubt, the caption dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s: ‘Up and down. Reduction in prices and strengthening of the currency in the USSR and Poland, and a steady rise in prices and decline in the value of the currency in the capitalist countries.’51 Indeed, the official exchange rate of the Polish currency imposed in 1950 – of 4 zloty to the dollar, was not only quantitatively better than at any time before the war, but also – thanks to its marriage with the rouble, the ‘world’s most stable currency’ at that time – not subject to fluctuations. However, it is difficult to say whether any citizens stopped to consider that, for example, in 1955 they had been earning an average of 252 dollars a month, while a year later in excess of 20 dollars more! If so, it must have been an irksome realisation, as the currency acts of October  1950 that established the above parity of the Polish currency simultaneously forbade Poles from possessing foreign currency – indeed, under penalty of death for illegal currency trading. For one must also spell out here the uncomfortable truth: if Polish society had been given a choice between the ‘winning’ rouble and the ‘losing’ dollar, it would have opted for the latter without any hesitation whatsoever. The fact remained that, however theoretically mighty, the Polish zloty had poor value in terms of purchase parity while there were shortages of goods and no coveted quality goods on the Polish internal market, and it was only the American currency that ensured any ability to acquire any of the coveted foreign goods. Until 1956, only the state had the right to buy and sell foreign currency and to carry out foreign exchange operations with foreign countries and make purchases of foreign goods through authorised banks. No wonder that the US dollar and other capitalist currencies had the value of a symbolic panacea52 and were an effective cure for both the economic and psychological problems of Poles. Hidden in the attic or in the garden, foreign currencies such as dollars or pounds (or preferably gold dollar coins and sovereigns) seemed the best insurance for a rainy day and provided a hope of protecting one’s savings from a ruinous devaluation, like the one that had taken place in 1950, and which still loomed 51 52

“Szpilki”, 1, 7 Jan 1951. M.  Jastrząb, Kilka uwag o funkcjach walut obcych w rzeczywistości Polski Ludowej, in: Społeczeństwo PRL. Historia. Kultura. Pamięć, vol. 1: Historia, eds. S.  Jankowiak, D. Skotarczak, I. Skórzyńska, Poznań 2010, pp. 148–150.

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large in the scarred public consciousness. Citizens were thus less than keen to sell their hard-earned stashes of foreign currency to the state at the imposed exchange rate, however high, or trustingly place them on bank deposit. Most of these treasure troves remained hidden away, waiting for better times. Despite the draconian restrictions, the black market in foreign currencies did not disappear, going ever deeper underground.53 The black currency trading became bolder in 1956, when, with the weakening of the government and the easing of border restrictions, the smuggling of articles sought after in Poland, such as watches, cosmetics or textiles, began to increase rapidly. Regardless of who was bringing such goods back from abroad – and it was usually sailors, diplomats, sportsmen or civil servants – they first had to take foreign currency out of the country thereby increasing demand for it and, as a result, the price. Thus, for example, at the end of 1955, a dollar cost 95 zloty on the illegal market, but by April 1956, it had gone up to 125 zloty.54 Even ordinary citizens with cash to spare became emboldened enough to invest in foreign currency, all the more so since the authorities no longer bothered to intervene. The double standards were becoming intolerable, and it is little wonder that economists and the press embarked on an increasingly vociferous campaign for a currency ‘amnesty’ and for the legalisation of hard currency ownership. However, it was only after the October thaw that the authorities dared to take this step. The directive of the Minister of Finance of 7 November 1956 was brief, essentially confining itself to amending two paragraphs of the Foreign Exchange Act of 1952. Paragraph  33 now read: ‘The possession within Poland of foreign currencies as well as gold and platinum in a form representing foreign exchange value […] is permitted’; the next paragraph permitted a straightforward withdrawal of ‘foreign exchange assets’ compulsorily deposited in banks.55 However, this step was prompted not by any sense of social justice due on part of the authorities, but rather by economic calculation. All criminal proceedings for possession of currency had been cancelled, or that the decision had been made to return some 50,000 dollars that the citizens had obediently put on bank deposits; yet this was not tantamount to compensation for the twelvefold amount of foreign currency which Poles, mostly out of fear, had sold to the state as instructed since the autumn of 1950. At a press conference held on 9 November 1956 at the Ministry 53

J. Kochanowski, Through …, pp. 289–297. Prices on the black market exceeded the official rate 20 times, for example, in 1954 oscillating around 75–85 zloty. HIM, P-612, Item No. 2044/54, Prices of foreign currency, gold, silver and jewels. 54 HIM P-6211, Item No. 8798/56, Foreign exchange trade flourishes. 55 Dz.U. 1956, No. 50, item 223.

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Fig. 31 Despite the harsh penalties, many citizens managed to hang on to the foreign currencies and bullion they had been holding before October 1950. They often had them hidden in what were facetiously known as ‘land banks’ – in other words, literally buried. After the liberalisation of the foreign exchange regulations in November 1956, these secret stashes began to be dug out again. (Autumn Harvest: the aftermath of the enactment of the law permitting the holding of foreign currencies, Eryk Lipiński, “Szpilki” 47, 1956.)

of Finance, the Ministry was quick to point out that ‘the ability to assert their rights is only available to those who are able to prove that they were forced to sell [these assets] in the past.’56 There are no data on how many people succeeded in doing so. At the meeting, Finance Minister Tadeusz Dietrich and his officials made no secret of the fact that it was primarily a matter of ‘activating the currency that is currently being hoarded, using it above all to improve the supply of raw materials and machinery to craftsmen, as well as fertilisers, insecticides, building materials and also machinery for farmers.’57 This liberalisation of the foreign exchange law in order to harvest the private currency hoardings and channel them back into the state coffers paid off. Customers could now spend their dollars on purchases of goods made available for sale by the bank-turnedluxury-department-store, as it were, PeKaO (Polska Kasa Opieki)58 – significantly boosting the value of these ‘internal exports’, the number of operations increased significantly. ‘Immediately upon entering the building,’ reported Sztandar Młodych, ‘one is struck by a big crowd of people looking at the goods

56 W sprawie zniesienia zakazu posiadania walut, złota i platyny, TL, 10 Nov 1956. 57 Ibidem; “Amnestia” walutowa, SP, 10/11 Nov 1956. 58 Z. Landau, J. Tomaszewski, Bank Polska Kasa Opieki S.A. 1929–1999, Warszawa 2002.

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on display, quick to take care of the necessary formalities.’59 However, even judging by the yardstick of that time, the range on offer was not sensational, and the prices were eye-watering: you could buy, for example, fountain pens for 1 to 4 dollars, razors for six, an imported Czech Jawa moped for 340, or an export version of a Polish WFM motorcycle for 180 dollars.’60 Although the possession of foreign currency was thus condoned, the basic issue of free and legal free access to it remained unresolved, as did the absurd exchange rate. ‘Poland’s isolation from the capitalist world and the lack of tourist traffic made it possible to persevere with an artificial zloty exchange rate. A traveller to the West could – in legal exchange for a mere 400 zloty –get 100 quite valuable dollars, but this applied only to a select privileged few: athletes, diplomats, journalists and artists. […] The predicament of sportsmen, diplomats, journalists and artists coming [to Poland] from Western countries was exactly the opposite. They would exchange 100 [valuable] dollars for 400 [measly] zloty – the equivalent of a [single] good dinner in a decent hotel.’61 This state of affairs was just about tolerable when Poland was almost completely cut off from the world; with the wider opening of the borders, however, the prevailing exchange rate began to get more and more uncomfortable. The black-market exchange rate became fifty times higher than the official rate, during the November 1956 Suez Crisis soaring to the sky-high level of 200 zloty to the dollar. It soon fell back, but still hovered around the 150 zloty.62 This was a powerful incentive both at home and abroad to question what the Polish currency was actually worth. There was no doubt that both the official and free-market rates were unrealistic. Both reflected non-financial factors: the former – political decisions, and the latter – fear, unfulfilled aspirations and consumerist dreams, since the inflated exchange rate of foreign currency on the black market was to a large extent driven by the prices of goods considered luxurious in Poland, such as watches, plastic products and quality clothes, which were many times higher than in the West.63 This was not a reliable indicator, so attempts were made to compare the daily basket of prices with, for example, that in Belgium. At the end of 1956, a comparison was made with what one dollar could buy in Antwerp or Brussels compared to Poland. Using that yardstick, for one-dollar’s worth of coffee, a Pole would pay 80 zloty 59 60 61 62 63

Waluty w obiegu, SM, 306, 1956. Ibidem. A. Jezierski, C. Leszczyńska, Historia gospodarcza Polski, Warszawa 1999, p. 537. HIM P-6211, Item No. 5594/57, History of the dollar black market in Poland, Dec 1957. As a “Prawo i Życie” journalist noted in July 1957, in Paris or London nylon stockings cost as much as a kilogram of meat, whereas in Warsaw – the equivalent of 7–8 kg. J. Hibner, Uwaga-przemyt!, “Prawo i Życie”, 14 Jul 1957.

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at home, for pure woollen fabrics – 70 or 90 zloty, butter – 30, bread – 15 to 20, pork – 20, beef – 12 to 14, milk – 16, coal – 3 zloty and electricity 16 zloty. Before concluding that this was the genuine purchase parity of the Polish currency, we must remember that at the time rents and public transport were incomparably cheaper in Poland due to state subsidies. In the end, a rate somewhere between the ‘meat’ and ‘butter’ conversion rates was proposed, setting the new, rationalised dollar price at 20 to 30 zloty.64 Abroad, the discussion of the exchange rate was pursued mainly in Polish émigré circles, both in the hope that visits to the old country would become cheaper and with the fear that families back home would find it more expensive to visit the West.65 Eventually, the new, differentiated exchange rate was introduced on 11 February 1957. The ‘tourist rate’, for foreign visitors and Poles travelling to the West, was now 24 zloty, while for Poles in Poland, such as those to whom families officially sent amounts in foreign currencies via the PeKaO bank and who wished to sell them to the state or use them for purchases in the aforementioned foreign exchange ‘internal export’ shops, the rate was 72 zloty.66 In the wave of the still palpable post-October euphoria, these changes were interpreted as harbingers of the legalisation of free foreign exchange trading. The doyen of Polish economists, Adam Krzyżanowski, took a public stance in the discussion, not only praising the government’s financial policy in the Catholic weekly Tygodnik Powszechny, but also proposed solutions. He advocated convertibility of the zloty on the internal market, suggesting an exchange rate somewhere between the free-market price and the 70 zloty equivalent, which, according to this precursor of Polish libertarianism, would be the closest to the buying power of the dollar abroad. Such a solution would eliminate the currency black market, since citizens would be inclined to sell it to the state.67 Krzyżanowski, however, was overoptimistic, and a similar solution was not introduced until 32 years later. Meanwhile, the black market flourished. The change in exchange rates was only a half measure; although it did indeed slightly improve the situation for tourists and Poles in possession of foreign currencies, it left unresolved the crucial issue: how were Poles to legally acquire foreign currency in their own country? The only available legal way was to apply for the paltry five-dollar 64 65 66 67

J. Rudawski, Ile jest warta nasza złotówka, ŻW, 18 Dec 1956. Lada dzień dewaluacja złotego, DP (Londyn), 1 I 1957. Jezierski, Leszczyńska, op. cit., s. 539. A.  Krzyżanowski, Polityka dewizowa rządu na dobrej drodze, “Tygodnik Powszechny”, 6, 1957; Czy nastąpi legalizacja wolnego obrotu dewizami w Polsce?, “Polak”, No. 7, Mar 1957.

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allowance, allocated to those travelling to the West, which could be redeemed at the tourist rate. This was a drop in the ocean in face of the persistent demand, not always related to tourist trips abroad, so unsurprisingly the black-market exchange rate at times ran wild. In the spring of 1958, the papers commented on the situation in the previous year: ‘A large part of the demand on the black market is always created by stolen money, money derived from embezzlement and fraud, which necessarily needs to be laundered as quickly as possible into means that are easy to conceal and easy to carry.’68 Private entrepreneurs were buying dollars both as collateral and as a form of insurance for the future, in an attempt to conceal part of their income from the financial authorities, and in need of funds for the purchase of raw materials or machinery, unobtainable for zloty. Eventually, even for ordinary savers, the dollar, whether in the form of notes or coins, became a convenient, anonymous and relatively safe form of hoarding. Paradoxically, illegal trade was fuelled by the frustration that customers experienced in purchasing Western-made goods for foreign currencies through the government-supported intermediary, Bank PeKaO. Buyers were often limited in specifying the details of the product they wanted to buy, such as the cut or colour of the item of clothing; moreover, they were often obliged to purchase a specific quantity of the product, regardless of their needs, e.g. not less than 10 metres of poplin.69 Such frustration encouraged the use of unofficial importers, whose cross-border activities soon became highly professionalised and whose transactions sometimes amounted to several thousand dollars.70 Well-functioning international networks were established, in which Western nationals were also willing to become involved. For example, between September 1956 and March 1957, two Austrians visited Poland several times, bringing in some 11,000 Swiss watches, distributed by Polish collaborators. The profits (estimated at at least 48 thousand dollars, plus several hundred kilograms of silver and gold), were transferred to Vienna.71 The growth in private imports – financed after all to a large extent by foreign currency smuggled out of Poland – can be illustrated by anecdotal evidence from the Customs Office in Gdynia, which in 1956 dealt with 338 cases of smuggled goods worth 387,000

68 69 70 71

Sygnały z czarnej giełdy, “Kurier Polski”, 13 May 1958. GP, 28 Feb 1957. Ibidem. APW, KW PZPR, 30/XVIII-7, vol. 1, Fight against economic underworld and economic crime and speculation on the territory of the capital city of Warsaw, pp. 35–36.

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zloty; just a year later, in 1957 the incidents had tripled to 982 and the value increased to 4.5 million zloty!72 The diversified cross-border traffic (tourism, business trips, immigration and emigration), which had been on the increase since 1956, had an equally diversified effect on the increasingly prevalent conversion of foreign currency into zloty (and vice versa). Virtually every single trip abroad, whether private or business, and whether travelling west or even east, fuelled the illegal turnover of currency. Regular travellers, in particular, began to treat travel as a source of steady, high earnings, establishing contacts at home and abroad, collecting orders before departure, and amassing foreign currency and goods for resale.73 Travellers from abroad were also well aware that they were only required to sell a specified minimum of foreign currency to the state on arrival at the low exchange rate that was unfavourable to them; they knew that buyers for any more foreign money they brought in would be found without the slightest problem at a higher black-market rate. All the more so because, in the more permissive, post-October atmosphere, the black market flourished, and alongside the old-school street currency touts there was a group of newcomers – young bloods, who embraced with gusto ‘this get-rich-quick opportunity. […] Their field of activity is foreigners. Their very basic smattering of foreign languages acquired at school is enough to strike up a conversation on “business” topics. Buying foreign currencies at a low price, they earn an average of 20 to 50 zloty per dollar. […] In “civilian life” they are […] clerks, students or unemployed.’74 Anyway, most of the new breed currency streettouts were Polish ex-pats, with whom communication was not a problem in any case, although they tended to be well versed in the prevailing rates and less likely to allow themselves to be fleeced for a bargain to the benefit of the tout. Nevertheless, each one spent an average of 300 or 400 dollars in Poland during their stay, thus the wallets of these ex-pats alone fed some 1.5 million dollars into the market in 1957.75 It was not uncommon for repatriates from the USSR, numerous in the years 1956–1957, to bring Western foreign currency with them, which they had bought mainly in Lvov and Soviet Moldova, where it was supposed to be as much as 40% cheaper than in Poland.76 They hoped to find better opportunities and openings in Poland. With a similar goal in mind, more than 50,000 emigrants 72 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-266, KW PZPR in Gdańsk, Note on customs control by Customs Offices of Gdynia and Gdańsk (before August 6, 1958), p. 99. 73 J. Hibner, Uwaga-przemyt!, “Prawo i Życie”, 14 Jul 1957. 74 HIM, P-612, Item 5169/57, Dollars brought from USSR: Rate for black market gold. 75 DP (London), 31 Jul 1957. 76 HIM, P-612, Item No. 5169/57, Dollars brought from USSR: Rate for black market gold.

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from the Jewish diaspora left Poland in 1957.77 This exodus was referred to as the ‘Gomułka aliyah’; the emigrants took with them as many assets as they could, whether in foreign currency, Polish currency, works of art or goods and furnishings. Although rumours mythologised the wealth that the emigrants were taking out of Poland, the mass departures nevertheless resulted in a temporary rise in the black-market rate of the dollar.78 In fact, quasi-legal ways of converting zloty into foreign currency were developed relatively quickly and at very favourable exchange rates. Until the autumn of 1957, one could pay for international airline tickets or vouchers for travel abroad in zloty, but of course one had to be issued with a passport first to prove the right to travel. Those emigrating took advantage of this by sometimes buying several return tickets per passport, which were sold, after their departure, for hard currency, later to be repaid by the state. Another way was to buy vouchers ‘for unspecified air routes, with limits set only in US dollars. They are bought in Poland for zloty and then the State Treasury is charged in foreign currency.’79 It turned out that if you were mobile and creative enough, it was not that difficult to exploit the system and to find loopholes in it that would allow profitable, though not entirely legal, financial operations. To engage in international speculation no longer required the smuggling of vodka or works of art out of Poland. As a visitor from Poland told a Radio Free Europe employee in the summer of 1957, in West Germany, where the Polish currency was not held in high esteem, you could buy it, getting 50 to 60 zloty for one Deutsche Mark. All you then needed to do was to go to France, where, because of some national commitments in Polish currency, the interest in zloty was greater and its rate thus much higher. Once the zloty had been exchanged for francs, all you had to do was buy any goods that could be easily and profitably sold back home.80 It is, of course, difficult to assess both the credibility and prevalence of such a phenomenon. More credible, albeit equally unverifiable as to how widespread it was, was another speculative gambit, described by the journalist of Życie Gospodarcze. It turned out that some West Berlin banks not only listed Polish currency according to the Zurich stock exchange rates, but it was also possible 77 D. Stola, Kraj …, pp. 129–140. 78 HIM, P-612, Item No. 5169/57, Dollars brought from USSR: Rate for black market gold. HIM, P-6211, Item No. 5594/57, History of the dollar black market in Poland. Significantly, there is no mention of the impact of Germans leaving Poland during 1956–1957 on the blackmarket rate of the dollar. 79 APW, KW PZPR, 30/XVIII-7, vol. 1, Fight against economic underworld and economic crime and speculation on the territory of Warsaw, p. 37. 80 HIM, P-6221, Item No. 5439/57, Polish trade delegates’ currency dealings.

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to open a bank account there and fund it with Polish zloty. As an employee of a West Berlin bank explained to Grzegorz Pisarski, ‘if you send us a written instruction by post, we will transfer the appropriate sums of money from it to the PKO in England, France or, alternatively, to some company which will send you ordered goods to Poland. If you do not wish to correspond with the bank, you can also send your instructions to the private address of our cashier.’81 This extreme discretion was understandable, all the more so as the beneficiaries of the above were usually not so much the usual petty speculators (who by mid-1957 had become the leading bête noire of official propaganda) as representatives of the state such as civil servants, engineers, business people or journalists. They appeared to have no inhibition about this type of activity; we must assume that they felt justified by the fact that state institutions also did not shy away from borderline legal financial operations. A case in point was Baltona, a company that serviced, among others, seafarers. For good reason, since 1945 the Polish merchant navy had been described as ‘trafficking’, and the so-called ‘naval import’ was one of the most important channels for the supply of foreign products to the Polish market. Some these sailors bought themselves when abroad, some they bought in Poland, in the well-stocked Baltona shops, reselling them later at a high profit in the poorly supplied state-owned shops. After October, the procedures of this legal operation were simplified to such an extent that ‘a sailor need not even come into contact with goods bought for foreign currency and then resold for Polish zloty, because at one [Baltona] cash desk he would hand in a voucher for a certain amount of foreign currency, which, for example, he would use to buy cocoa, and at another cash desk he would collect the proceeds in Polish zloty for the sale of this cocoa at the rate of 1$ = 160 zloty’.82 Not surprisingly, for the sailors, their Polish currency pay became in fact just an allowance for minor expenses, mere pocket money, and the real profit was to be made on arbitrage, by skilful use of their foreign exchange allowance, traded to generate the best dollar exchange rate available.83 The turn of 1957 and 1958, however, brought the collapse of the dollar boom, which had lasted more than a year. At the end of 1957, the dollar reached (and briefly even surpassed) the magic level of 200 zloty, only to almost halve in 81

G. Pisarski, Na wschodzie i zachodzie. Notatki berlińskie, ŻG, 19 May 1957; Operacje walutą polską w Berlinie Zachodnim, DP (London) 28 May 1957. 82 AAN, KC PZPR 237/XXXI-248, Conclusions of the party and government commission established to study selected issues pertaining to crews sailing on ships of the Polish Merchant Navy, p. 1. 83 AAN, KS, 107, p. 584, Meeting of the Committee on Maritime Economy and Shipping, 7 Jun 1958.

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value at the beginning of 1958 and stabilise at around 120 zloty. On the one hand, the supply of foreign currency increased, both because of the growing number of tourist arrivals and the change in the strategy of Poles living in the West in sending aid to their families in the old country – they were now sending money rather than parcels. On the other hand, the renewed difficulties in obtaining a passport and the increased cost of international transport had reduced foreign travel. The wave of emigration of Jews and Germans from Poland had also subsided. The administrative difficulties now put in the way of private entrepreneurs limited their income and thus the amounts that they could allocate to foreign exchange hoarding. In December 1957, Bank PeKaO began to withdraw from supplying the craft industry with imported raw materials and machinery, which reduced the pressure on the dollar market from private sector demand. The fight against ‘economic crime’ had also produced tangible results. The prisons, which had been deserted at the end of 1956 and the beginning of 1957, filled up again by the end of the year, regaining their former prisoner numbers.84 All this, however, was only one side of the coin. For in 1956 and especially 1957, Polish society had crossed the dollar Rubicon and it would not be detracted from its chosen path. *** At the end of 1957 and the beginning of 1958, a huge part of the population could not possibly consider themselves financial beneficiaries of the ‘October Revolution’: pensions were still at starvation levels, salaries low and taxes high. However, this was a period when practically the whole of society took an accelerated course in economics, thanks to the wider opening of borders and the legalisation of the possession of foreign currency. The economic strategies that Polish society developed between 1956 and 1957 and carefully nurtured, kept bearing fruit for a long time, and surprisingly enough some continue to do so to this day.

84

W. Teliga, Czy złotówka staje się droższa?, SP, 12 Mar 1958; Sygnały z czarnej giełdy, KP, 13 May 1958.

Chapter 12

‘The Horses Have Gone Wild’, Or How Long Does it Take to Privatise the State? It turned out that if the circumstances were favourable and the participants daring and committed, the process could be rapid and play out in many, often unexpected fields, while the rules of the game were quickly adapting to new circumstances. Especially as at the turn of 1956 and 1957 conditions in Poland were almost ideal for citizens to pursue more or less illegal economic activities. This was brought about by a sudden clash of two currents: Stalinism with its fear, coercion, bureaucracy, disregard for society, asceticism, restrictions, subversion of traditional social roles and its two-dimensional way of living – and the ‘thaw’, which especially immediately after October, was accompanied by the acceptance of a certain level of consumerism, weakening of power, greater money supply, acceptance of private entrepreneurship and a wider opening to the world. As a result, to stay with fluvial imagery, the water became so turbid that not just sharks but also quite small fry could enjoy successful opportunities for striking lucky. ‘Instead of loudly complaining now, you should have thought of preventing this earlier,’ a listener from Rzeszów wrote to the radio in May  1957. ‘When you let go of the reins, the horses run wild. Freedom is freedom. Everyone steals where and how much they can. This is the result of democratisation.’1 Society was frustrated, radicalised and determined to steam ahead, so both the adjustment of the old rules and the elaboration of new ones took place rapidly. This was well observed by the economist Stefan Kurowski in his text Apathy or Seeking, intended for the magazine Po prostu, but in the event this particular issue was confiscated by the censor:2 ‘Since tangible results are impossible to achieve through normal productive and professional efforts in the workplace, other efforts must be made’, he wrote. ‘This is the genesis of speculation, graft, * Of course, not so much in the sense of (re)privatisation, as happened after 1989, but rather the process of a kind of ‘enfranchisement’ of the elites (and others, too) observed in all socialist countries – in the Polish People’s Republic most noticeably in the 1970s. See J. Tittenbrun, Upadek socjalizmu realnego w Polsce, Poznań 1992; M. Djilas, The New Class: An Analysis of the Communist System, London 1957; T. Cliff, State Capitalism in Russia, London 1974. 1 OSA, Pl-III.4, Radio Warszawa II (Fala 56), 23 May 1957. 2 D. Rafalska, Między marzeniami a rzeczywistością. Tygodnik “Po prostu” wobec głównych problemów społecznych i politycznych Polski w latach 1955–1957, Warszawa 2008, pp. 214–215.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_013

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bribery and the theft of social and non-social property. Nihilism in the field of social objectives works hugely in favour of all those practices in which the individual comes into conflict with the interests of society but feels absolved of his crimes because that society has not imbued him with any ideas that could revive his sense of social duty to the collective, his sense of connection with the collective. Social disintegration – that product of Stalinism – continues and fosters all processes of destruction of social morality.’3 Of course, economic crime did not suddenly appear from nowhere in the autumn of 1956.4 Indeed, the Chief Commander of the MO, General Ryszard Dobieszak analysing the year 1957 claimed that in terms of major scandals ‘the share of 1957 […] is not greater than in 1955 or 1956.’5 Nevertheless, it would appear that the general was somewhat tendentious in his optimistic analysis. Overall, some 20,000 more economic crimes took place in 1957 than in either 1956 or 1958 (1956–153,874; 1957–173,226; 1958–152,978).6 This difference was not radical – true – but the official statistics did not cover a significant proportion of cases, especially in the first half of 1957, when the authorities were at their weakest and society on peak bravado form. If one also compares the first six months of 1956 – still fairly peaceful with the corresponding revolutionary period in the following year, the statistics are no longer so optimistic. For example, in the Wrocław voivodeship, losses resulting from just the crimes and corruption actually recorded by the militia reached approximately 15.7 million zloty in the first half of 1956, a year later jumping to 27.4 million!7 The MO, or Citizens’ Militia, state prosecutor’s office and the courts steered away from accusations of abuse of power, so they acted opportunistically. The public prosecutor’s office prosecuted leniently, the courts were eager to dismiss cases, and the ‘operational discernment of the Citizens’ Militia’ lost some of its bite. Thus, the detection rate decreased, while the percentage of cases dismissed accelerated.8 It was not until the latter part of 19579 that institutions to combat economic crime more effectively were established and more 3 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIX-234, Press Office, excerpts from a confiscated copy of “Po prostu”, pp. 25–26. 4 J. Kochanowski, Through …, pp. 72–77. 5 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-8, transcript of the meeting of the Central Team to Combat Fraud and Corruption (ZCWNiK) in the Central Committee, 4 Jan 1958, p. 118. 6 K. Madej, Bezradność lub represja. Władze wobec przestępczości gospodarczej w PRL (1956– 1970), Warszawa 2010, pp. 195–196. 7 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-166, KW MO Wrocław, Note on the situation in the economy of the Wrocław voivodeship, 10 Nov 1957, p. 31. 8 APW, KW PZPR, 30/XVIII-7, vol. 1, Fight against economic underworld and economic crime and speculation on the territory of Warsaw, p. 50. 9 J. Kochanowski, Through …, pp. 77–92.

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citizens stuck their heads above the parapet to report cases of corruption, theft or embezzlement. But they still feared harassment and discrimination through being overlooked for bonuses or promotions, or even losing their job and problems with finding a new one.10 Tellingly, in the summer of 1957, in a letter to Trybuna Ludu, a Warsaw resident called for protection for whistle-blowers on crime in workplaces, such as a ban on their dismissal or transfer to an inferior post. ‘Such a guarantee would give honest people the courage to fight corruption, bribery and other abuses. It would protect them from retribution by a clique of bribe-takers often headed by the factory management.’11 Qualitative rather than quantitative changes were also more important. Whereas in 1956 the state inspectors would detect abuses by ‘individual criminals’, in 1957 ‘the crimes detected reveal the activities of organised speculative groups closely linked to each other, with contacts throughout the country.’12 The increased money flows allowed the more enterprising and ruthless to amass greater amounts of capital than before, ploughing it into ‘carrying out large-scale machinations in companies while obtaining concessions to run them by means of bribery and through links with corrupt officials’.13 Although the majority of economic crime continued to be theft, fraud or speculation in goods, now truly sophisticated methods emerged, which relied on taking advantage of both chaotic and imprecise legislation and inter-sectoral as well as international capital flows. And, as in a system of interconnected vessels, a small fissure was enough for the levelling process to begin. When there was no such fissure, the citizens would see to it that it was soon made deliberately to allow for slow draining of the state resources. The phenomena of bribery and siphoning off of state assets not only became more common and sophisticated but also gained acceptability. ‘The general public is now well aware of the wisecrack that ‘if you don’t grease it, it won’t move,’ wrote the Bydgoszcz resident Jan Borowiecki to Gomułka on 1 April 1957. ‘People in trams, trains, buses, in queues, in shops, cinema waiting rooms, etc., are talking about it. […] It’s only the local representatives of the authorities, often linked to speculators, who hear nothing, or don’t want 10 OSA, Pl-III.4, Radio Warszawa II (Fala  56), 23  May  1957; Kliki – na cztery wiatry!, TD, 11–17 Nov 1957. 11 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-24, Bulletin of the Office of Letters and Inspections No.  41, 12 Aug 1957. 12 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3669, Information on the implementation of the resolution of the Press Office of the Central Committee of the Communist Party on the fight against economic crimes, 2 Aug 1957, p. 29. 13 APW, KW PZPR, 30/XVIII-7, vol. 1, Fight against economic underworld and economic crime and speculation in Warsaw, p. 31.

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to hear anything.’14 Similar views were being expressed in the official media: ‘With regard to the circulation of money, Polish society can be divided into those who have taken bribes, are taking bribes or will take bribes, and those who have given bribes, are giving bribes or will give bribes,’ commented the Katowice radio15 in October 1957. The ‘TGT’ (‘take-it-or-give-it) principle was linked to the emergence of an elaborate client network, its individual meshes symbiotically linked to each other and therefore difficult to unravel. ‘Of course they take more than they give,’ the radio commentator continued, ‘because otherwise there would be no gain. I think that in this convention, which as it were expresses the essence of bribery, lies the danger of this social scourge and the difficulty of catching the bribe-taker in the act. It’s perilous because bribery is a web of a thousand threads and connections. […] Bribe givers and bribe takers […] often take turns; they are very supportive of one another and stand together even under attack.’16 Regardless of which legal category an economic crime fell under – in a system where the majority of the means of production and the entire sphere of decision-making belonged to the state – it always constituted a form of backdoor privatisation, depriving the authorities of some of their property or assets or organisational prerogatives. Indeed, it would have been difficult to find a work role or post that did not offer an opportunity to deplete the state’s coffers – from a humble manual worker carrying out private commissions in his factory workshop, helping himself to raw materials or finished products, or taking sham ‘sickies’ from the factory to earn more on the side, to the factory director himself, adapting the production of the plant that he was managing to the needs of a private entrepreneur. Just as damaging for the wealth of the state were the actions of an official on a municipal or district council who – outside the statutory procedures and often to the detriment of socially-owned establishments – would grant permits for opening a private shop or pub, or those of a private tradesman taking supplies from the state distribution channels, or the manager of a state retail shop selling sweaters or coats ‘through the back door’, in the full knowledge that the final buyer would often have to shell out multiples of the original price. All these mutually interlinked activities constituted a form of privatisation.

14 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Bulletin of the Office of Letters and Inspections No.  20, 10 Apr 1957. 15 OSA, PL-III.4, Radio Katowice (commentary of the day), 14 Nov 1957, p. 11. 16 Ibidem.

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‘A State-cum-Private Enterprise Partnership’

As mentioned above, a large part of society had few moral or ethical scruples related to ‘draining’ the state. The cynical wisecrack that ‘it’s all ours anyway’ in relation to communal assets was sometimes used as a lame excuse for those in need of excuses, particularly in production plants; such actions were further justified on the ground that they were a form of spontaneous and just compensation for all the wrongs inflicted on citizens by the state, of which low wages was one. Nevertheless, there was widespread participation of state representatives in the process of social legitimisation of theft, corruption and embezzlement. They hailed from all walks of public officialdom, from the economic and political elites and local government to the army or the Ministry of National Defence. A cynic might say that theirs was a perverse take on implementing the ideas promoted as recently as the beginning of 1957 as ‘state-cum-private enterprise partnership’. However, instead of producing building materials, erecting housing estates or building ships – as had been envisaged – the activities of these joint state-and-private enterprise ventures were often directed to quite a different end.17 When the Ministry of State Control inspected some military units in the autumn of 1957, it turned out that the losses had multiplied over the previous year. In most units, chaos reigned – with food, cigarettes, shoes, clothing, fuel, furniture, bed linen and building materials going missing en masse. Only external inspections were showing up the shortages; the internal inspections carried out by the units themselves found everything in order and no deficiencies. In order to investigate already identified losses, commanders often appointed line officers unprepared for such tasks, so unsurprisingly, investigations tended to take a long time, documents and interrogation records were lost, and no culprits were found. Most of the proceedings ended with a recommendation

17 At the beginning of 1957, a mixed private-state company producing building materials was to operate in the Poznań voivodeship. On  16  November  1956 the Ministry of Finance authorised the organisation of a company of more than a dozen private investors in conjunction with the Warsaw local government to produce building materials and build entire housing estates. Meanwhile, a mixed shipbuilding company was planned in Szczecin. Little came of these plans, and as early as March  1957, the Minister of Light Industry and Crafts, Z.  Moskwa, stressed that the creation of state-private or limited partnerships was out of the question. DP (London), 42, 18 Feb 1957; OSA, 300-8-3: 39-1-3, Background Reports, Private Industry in Poland, 2 Apr 1957. AAN, KS, 154, Minutes of the meeting of the Committee on Light Industry, Crafts and Labour Co-operatives, 18 Mar 1957, pp. 63–64.

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to write off the losses, with no consequences for any guilty parties. The state picked up the final bill for everything, anyway.18 Different accusations were levelled at the Citizens’ Militia, in the ranks of which, including the officer cadre, there was noted a ‘new, previously rare but now quite frequent, phenomenon of officers engaging in undertakings providing them with material benefits. These activities are in principle not of a criminal nature, but they bring officers from the position of officials to the position of private entrepreneurs, linking them closely to representatives of this private enterprise, who are often speculators. This is altogether incompatible with service in the militia.’19 The fact that a corporal or a sergeant turns a blind eye to the activities of a private merchant or restaurateur, while his wife might open a shop, was usually justified by the low wages in the militia, which did not encourage the employees to stick their necks out taking risks and giving too much of themselves.20 And especially on the periphery, apart from economics, social entanglements played an important role in militia officers getting embroiled in such ventures. However, more for social than economic reasons, entanglement in local networks played an especially important role. This was more evident and had a greater significance in the case of territorial administration officials, above all in the municipal and district national councils, which had an asset of great value – the prerogative to grant permits for private sector activities, deciding on the allocation of premises, building materials or raw materials. Thus, the mutually beneficial coexistence of officials and merchants or craftsmen was, as it were, baked into the system. Particularly as in the second half of 1956 the powers of the lower national councils were significantly increased, leaving them more freedom, for example, to grant concessions to private initiative. These powers were exercised effectively and in fact in many cases excessively so. There were widespread reports, particularly at the end of 1956 and in the first months of 1957, of officials of national councils at all levels issuing concessions not for grocery shops in areas of food supply shortages in villages and suburbs, but instead for the most profitable haberdashery or clothing shops in the central districts. This was done, moreover, in the full knowledge that merchants or craftsmen would seek supplies by draining the official distribution channels. The county of Nowy Dwór (near Warsaw) was probably no different in this respect from more than 300 others: ‘The failure 18 AAN, URM, KT  31/44, Ministry of State Control to the Minister of National Defence General M. Spychalski, 28 Sep 1957, pp. 50–60. 19 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-156, A note on abuse of power and demoralisation in the Militia, 25 Jul 1957, p. 40, 43; Ibidem, p. 48, Stanisław Ehrlich, Note on the MO, 11 Sep 1957. 20 Ibidem.

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to control the development of private trade and private commercial activities is what matters the most,’ the authorities emphasised in July  1957. ‘Permits have been issued without having been authorised at meetings of the council of the County Council (PRN). The deciding vote in these matters was held by a departmental member of the council and the head of the Department of Trade […], who issued permits, following a decision taken by the trade committee in respect of the applications. This procedure left the door open for the possibility of lavishly bestowing shop permits at will, at the discretion of the head of the department. The Trade Department has no information on how many applications for opening a new shop had been submitted; all that is known is to whom they were issued, but it is difficult to determine what the decisions had been guided by.’21 That, however, was an easy guess. While there is no denying that some permits were indeed granted with no ulterior motives, addressing genuine social needs, bribes for issuing licences or allocating premises were endemic. Many apparatchiks, and especially those recruited through social advancement, and with no profession to their name, did all they could to retain their positions, navigating the precarious post-October reefs, in their last-chance efforts to secure the basis of their livelihood in the future. A good example was the chairman of the Presidium of the People’s Communist Party in Puławy, Stefan Lewtak, who ‘after the Eighth Plenary of the Central Committee began to smile at the “whites” and “reds”. A PRN official complained that ‘this approach can be seen in the fact that in addition to two state-owned restaurants, three private restaurants were also established with the right to sell alcohol. […] The opening of private restaurants took place in Puławy under the slogan of fighting alcoholism and eliminating illegal pubs. This is how comrade Lewtak publicly explained the motives behind this decision.’22 It was not uncommon for officials to become the beneficiaries of enterprises in which they had been instrumental in the establishment and subsequent operation. For example, ‘in Grójec the vice chairman of the PRN, comrade Jezierski, took a share in the profits of comrade Nowak’s private restaurant as remuneration for the allocation of premises, concessions and meat rations.’23 And at times, the apparatchiks dispensed entirely with the keeping 21 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3669, Note about the Presidium of the District Council in Nowy Dwór, Jul 1957. 22 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XII-2590, Complaint about methods of distorting the resolutions of the 8th Plenary of the KC PZPR, 28 Aug 1957. 23 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3669, Information on the implementation of the resolution of the Press Office of the Central Committee of the Communist Party on the fight against economic crimes, 2 Aug 1957, p. 29.

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up of appearances and would set up businesses of their own that took advantage of facilities introduced for so-called production teams. In Piaseczno, near Warsaw, a group of PRN officials, including the vice-chairman of the Presidium (incidentally, a member of the District Committee of the party) and several department heads, assigned themselves a brick factory, creating a fictitious brick-firing team. However, they didn’t do the work themselves, but employed ‘labourers pinched from state-owned brick factories, illegally cutting down trees and using them to build sheds for the team. As soon as the bricks had been fired, they were sold to local peasants at 1,200 zloty per thousand.’24 The situation was identical all over the country, even in law-abiding Poznań.25 The establishment of such fictitious teams made it possible to drain the state coffers in various, sometimes sophisticated, ways especially when the participants included senior officials of the territorial administration, members of party structures or officers of the Ministry of the Interior. The most lucrative avenue of agricultural fraud in 1956–1957 was provided by the so-called cultivation teams, especially those set up for growing flax and hemp. They were formed all over the country, usually grouping together employees of purchasing companies and those in leadership positions in the local administration, and they would enter into contracts to cultivate tens of hectares of land. ‘The organisation of the teams and, above all, their membership has been designed in such a way,’ a party report commented in early 1958, ‘that each member of the team undertakes to arrange some specific activity, using his official position and acquaintances in the field, such as obtaining an allotment of land, entering into a contract, receiving advance payments for the crops, ensuring that the land is cultivated and harvested by a machinery centre, clinching sales on the most favourable terms, etc.’26 These ‘most favourable’ terms relied on inflating the quantity of crops sold and claiming that they were of a higher grade then they were in reality. This ploy was often all the easier since the same person acted on the one hand ‘as a grower or supplier and on the other as a representative of the [buying] company’. But the biggest (and easiest) ill-gotten profits came not from growing crops, but from reporting losses from fictitious natural disasters and collecting high compensation, which of course required the involvement of agents of the state insurance company. Running such an operation was not difficult for the teams of these sham farmers, who were 24 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3671, Information on abuse and corruption in the authorities of the Warsaw province, p. 118. 25 APP, PWRN, 1019/III  21/6, Report on the 15th Session of the WRN, 24–25  Sep 1957, pp. 60–61. 26 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-8, Transcript of the meeting of the Central Committee, 4 Jan 1958, p. 153.

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often clerks or accountants. Certainly they found this form of fraud easier than the cultivation itself, which they usually had no idea about. In some extreme cases, the ‘team’ did not have a single piece of land and all the declared production was fictitious.27 Another forum for corrupt social networking fuelling mechanisms of ‘privatisation’ was the new housing policy, more liberal towards individual private construction. This was widely exploited by officials of local councils, whose responsibilities included the allocation of plots of land and building materials. They would start by allocating the most attractive plots of land to themselves and their local cronies and arranging appropriate loans and supplies of building materials. However, the cost of construction sometimes exceeded the available resources, which became an ‘incentive to pursue the necessary funds by any illegal means’. As a result, ‘among the broad collective of responsible people at the district or city level there was a culture of looking out for their own interests rather than focusing on the work that was their primary source of income.’28 The increased demand for building materials throughout the country was a source of considerable profits for administration officials in post-German areas, where residential or municipal buildings, often in good condition, served until the second half of the 1950s as a source of bricks or steel. In the Poznań voivodeship, the illegal demolition of buildings made it possible to ‘source’ more than 100 wagons of brick and some 100 tonnes of girders (bringing in the profit of approximately 600,000 zloty). The manager of a demolition company in Kostrzyn, who was detained as a result of another investigation, had sold almost 3.2 million bricks to a private intermediary. The earnings of both amounted to a million zloty. In Wrocław, malfeasance by employees of the Municipal Demolition Enterprise was estimated at 10 million zloty.29 From mid-1957, there were widespread reports about the dismissal or arrests of city architects, heads of commercial departments and local councillors, often leading to enforced replacement of significant numbers of the councillors, or even dismissal of the entire council.30 The authorities tended to opt for social sanctions rather than legal measures involving prosecution and 27 Ibidem, p. 152; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-8, Meeting of the CZWNiK, 3 Jan 1958, p. 47. 28 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3671, Information on abuse and corruption in government bodies in the Warsaw province, p. 115. 29 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-166, KG MO, List of more serious economic cases handled by the MO and handed over to the prosecutor’s office, 4 Dec 1957, pp. 18, 21, 25. 30 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3836, Information from the WO KC PZPR of 24 Jul 1957; Ibidem, 237/VII-3671, Minutes of the meeting of the Warsaw Executive KW PZPR, 6  Sep 1957, p. 103.

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imprisonment, but to little effect. ‘We dismissed them from their posts and punish them in party terms, and they just laugh at us,’ they complained at a meeting of the Executive Committee of the Warsaw Voivodeship Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party. ‘Unfortunately, we are forced to admit that nowadays corruption has spread beyond the Presidium of the Voivodeship Council, and has also affected the judicial and prosecutorial apparatus. […] There is no other way to eradicate the rot of corruption than by tightening sanctions and conducting show trials.’31 But the officials of the voivodeship or city council did not have a monopoly on such ‘privatisation’. In all the areas beyond the extent of their authority there were many others that soon stepped in to enjoy illicit spoils.

‘Chain Trade’

Undoubtedly, trade in goods was the largest and most prominent field of almost entirely nationalised activity from the point of view of the average observer.32 In the early days, ‘privatisation’ relied on ‘chain trade’, a pathological form of trading that can arise in a centrally controlled economy, which is caused by shortages of goods or low wages and fostered by rationing and administrative control of trade. It is a process where a commodity on its way from the producer to the consumer passes through an excessive number of intermediaries, all of which grab an opportunity to earn, with the goods thus notching up a price increase at each stage. This results in excessive prices and can occur both under conditions of commodity scarcity and overproduction. This phenomenon – which had previously involved individuals buying goods and reselling them on the free market, sometimes having processed them a little to ‘add value’ – a procedure which was known as ‘confectioning’, became after October just a side show. This chain trade became a veritable business modus operandi, and the chain robust enough to anchor the procedure in the economy. When, in late 1957, the Ministry of State Audit analysed 18 cases of scandalous economic fraud – which it was quick to point out had been selected at random – it turned out that as many as 16 of them involved ‘materials 31 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3671, Minutes of the meeting of the Warsaw Executive KW PZPR, 6 Sep 1957, p. 103. 32 More: M.  Mazurek, Społeczeństwo kolejki. O doświadczeniach niedoboru 1945–1989, Warszawa 2010; M. Jastrząb, Puste półki. Problem zaopatrzenia ludności w artykuły powszechnego użytku w Polsce w latach 1949–1956, Warszawa 2004.

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and services transactions’. Often, moreover, these ‘transactions’ were at the same time themselves sui generis services, provided by, for example, the cooperative sector, which after October further consolidated its position as the most important intermediary between private bidders and state distribution channels. Sometimes this was forced by outdated, inflexible regulations. For example, plants operating as part of the so-called experiment, such as the Warsaw Motorbike Factory, were theoretically free to choose their own partners for co‑operation, but the fact was that formally they had no authority to buy directly from private manufacturers. As a result, they were obliged to ‘resell’ the components they produced to some co‑operative, which – of course, at a considerable mark-up – would offer them to the factory.33 In fact, this procedure usually just boiled down to simply ‘re-invoicing’ a good, and the goods travelled directly from the manufacturer to the final customer. When abuses were detected, the representatives of state institutions caught in the act were invariably quick to advance the argument that they had acted out of a desire to ensure that the needs of the enterprise were met in the best possible way, in the vast majority of cases, the true motive had been simply personal profiteering.34 And the scope for enrichment was enormous, since the long chain of intermediaries made possible the off-loading of low-quality products at high prices. The brain behind such a chain was usually a private ‘businessman’, who corrupted an employee of some trade centre or co‑operative. He didn’t necessarily have to be a manufacturer but might just as well have been a contractor using cheap home labour, or a shrewd agent mediating between two state-owned companies. But the reverse was not uncommon, with officials of state-owned and co‑operative enterprises themselves seeking opportunities for creative enrichment by whatever means available, including extortion and blackmail.35 However, regardless of who had initiated the procedure, the whole mechanism was based on convoluted, outdated regulations and relied on off-loading to state institutions goods of often poor quality but always expensive. Sometimes such trade was based on sheer opportunism, led not so much by market needs, but ‘by the prospect of being able to profitably position products for sale with the help of corrupt officials and thus achieve eye-watering profits.’36 The profits must have been enormous indeed, if in the so-called ‘fruit most scandal’, four people bribed 59 officials with three million zloty, assuming that corrupt 33 34 35 36

Kłopoty “wolnej ręki”, GP, 19 Nov 1956. AAN, KC PZPR XI/281, MKP, analysis of 18 cases of economic crimes, Dec 1957, p. 212. S. Orłowski, Dyrektor “Centrogalu” i jego mafia staną przed sądem, GP, 19 Nov 1957. AAN, KC PZPR XI/281, MKP, analysis of 18 cases of economic crimes, Dec 1957, p. 218.

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directors or presidents were content with 10% of the entrepreneurs’ profits. Incidentally, the officials’ earnings in the region of 10,000 zloty would result in losses to the factory where they were employed of several times that order!37 The costs were covered by both the customer and the state, as often low-value goods went into sales, drastically under-priced or even destroyed, in accordance with the procedures in force, of course. One could make money on practically anything – from vanillin sugar and tomato puree or straw mats and brooms to articles imported from abroad. As outlined above, the go-between was usually some kind of co‑operative, which bought – often for cash so as to avoid an incriminating paper trail – from a private individual and at an appropriately high price, goods that would later be delivered, naturally with a large mark-up, to the state enterprise. The task of the employees of both institutions ‘was to ensure that all the documents needed to finalise the transaction were drawn up, and any unforeseen obstacles (regarding the funds or incomplete and delayed deliveries) removed. In doing so, they committed a number of forgeries of documents such as payrolls, receipts, orders and many others.’38 This is not surprising, as the chain trade sometimes required extremely complicated procedures, such as in the ‘tomato affair’ in Gdańsk, involving the purchase of tomato puree from a private gardener, who was, however, not the producer, but would purchase the product from another state-owned company – of course, with the help of an also stateowned co‑operative intermediary. In this way, the ‘state-produced’ product – which by rights was state property and should have gone into a state-owned retail outlet immediately after production – would indeed eventually land up in a state-owned company, but not before it had (theoretically) gone through four stages in the trade chain, to the tune of a 460% mark-up on the price, from 7 zloty to 32 zloty per kilogram. The task of the insider participants in the chain was to skilfully ‘dispose’ of the non-existent, albeit grossly overpriced articles, preferably in a way that was impossible to verify or trace, such as by fictitious use in production or on a construction site.39 The first closer analyses of the phenomenon of corruption challenged the lingering view that the law was being bent primarily by low-ranking officials, burdened by large families and earning starvation wages. This is because elaborate procedures required the participation of people with real decision-making 37

Ibidem, pp. 214, 217–218; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/VII-3669, Information on the implementation of the resolution of the Press Office of the Central Committee of the Communist Party on the fight against economic crimes, 2 Aug 1957, p. 29. 38 AAN, KC PZPR XI/281, MKP, analysis of 18 cases of economic crimes, Dec 1957, p. 230. 39 Ibidem, pp. 215, 230–231.

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powers, whose position and personal connections ensured if not total impunity, at least a sense of greater security. In the big corruption cases uncovered, a significant percentage of the perpetrators held senior and middle-level posts with relatively high salaries and small families: (deputy) directors of trade headquarters, associations or enterprises, chief engineers, mechanics and accountants, presidents and managers of co‑operatives, or managers of state and co‑operative stores. There was a relatively smaller share (keeping in mind the size of each group!) of foremen, warehousemen, cashiers or clerks. However, even if rank-and-file clerks were not direct beneficiaries of the scams and swindles, they were usually well aware of them. For fear of losing their jobs, and with slim chances of finding another white-collar position in 1957, they followed orders obediently without bothering to ask any questions. Even when they refused to co‑operate, they tended to keep their awareness of the situation to themselves, rarely taking it outside the place of work.40 Among the 770 people caught up in abuses detected in the Wrocław voivodeship during the first eight months of 1957 were 83 directors and managers (21 of whom were arrested), 51 (with 10 arrests) engineers and technicians, 143 (with 21arrests) warehousemen and accountants, 235 (with 40 arrests) store managers and expeditors, and 258 (with 45 arrests) other officials.41 The relatively high percentage of retail employees should not come as a surprise, since they were subject to pressures from two sides – encouragement from superiors and bribes from customers, among them also private store owners. The chance for additional earnings was provided not only by work in delicatessens or pawn shops, where one had to come up with a ‘bung’ of tens of thousands of zloty to secure a managerial position.42 The employees of quite ordinary stores were also entangled in the network of corruption via ‘privatisation’, operating according to the above-mentioned principle of reciprocity in the give and take. Much of the internal shop fraud took traditional forms: overcharging, passing off lower-quality goods as superior, and under-measuring or underweighing; these required no outside connections to carry out. But the profits were small, too, and there was always a chance of a slip-up and getting caught – for example, due to the intervention of a disgruntled customer. It 40 AAN, KC PZPR XI/281, MKP, analysis of 18 cases of economic crimes, Dec 1957, p. 220, 224–226; Ibidem, 237/XIV-163, p. 89, Central Committee on Justice, Security and Public Order, memo on economic crime in the Wrocław voivodeship; Z. Łakomski, Jak się da …, TL, 19 May 1958. 41 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-166, KW MO Wrocław, Assessment of the situation in the national economy of the Wrocław voivodeship, 10 Sep 1957, p. 30. 42 AAN, URM  22/9, Transcript of the meeting of RE, 2  Mar 1957, p.  127; Z.  Łakomski, Prowokacja?, TL, 1 Dec 1958.

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was more profitable to enter into an agreement with a unit higher up in the production line, such as wholesalers or manufacturers. Often, straight away on taking up the post, the store manager would be informed by his superior about the amount of the monthly contribution required by the extortion racket (typically from several hundred to several thousand zloty). But on those terms, his establishment had a chance to be promoted to a privileged group. Such stores received disproportionate – both in relation to their needs and in comparison with other, similar units – quantities of attractive items. ‘Hence, the favoured stores become wholesalers supplying all private entrepreneurs. Sometimes, store managers, acting in collusion with the management, would receive invoices and cash for the goods previously offloaded.43 However, when the fraud came to light, it often ended up as it did in the case of the manager of the Wrocław store, who had been forced to pay a monthly bung to the extortion racket and, as a result, obliged to commit fraud. When she finally decided to spill the beans and tell all, the court hearing had a predictable outcome: the director returned to his post but the manager was fired from her job.44

Side-lines

The idea, introduced to a greater extent in 1954 after the Six-Year Plan had effectively emptied shop shelves, was for factories engaged in essential production, such as locomotives or tanks, to also produce consumer items, usually the simplest possible, as a side-line. Although the costs were usually enormous, somehow this process enhanced the supplies available on the market as well as giving the workers an extra income. However, by early 1956, with the relaxation of supervision in factories, the term took on a slightly different meaning, well captured by the cartoonist Karol Baraniecki in a cartoon published in Szpilki on 11  March, 1956: a number of rather-proletarian looking citizens industriously ‘privatise’ (or in fact appropriate) building materials from a factory being built in the backdrop, to use them in their own greenhouses or cottages.45 The drawing proved prophetic. Over the course of the next year the idea of sideline production was creatively transformed in a similar manner.

43 AAN, Ministry of Justice, 558, Information on the work of State Trade Inspectorate (PIH), post-September 1957, pp. 184–185. 44 Z. Łakomski, Prowokacja?, TL, 1 Dec 1958. 45 K.  Baraniecki, Produkcja uboczna. W związku z kradzieżami materiałów budowlanych, “Szpilki”, 11 Mar 1956.

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Many of the workers holding a job chose the line of least resistance, and pursued, as before, theft from factories or construction sites. In the Wrocław voivodeship, quite typical in that respect, in the first six months of 1957, of the 4,148 economic crimes revealed by the Citizens’ Militia, as many as 3,358 (76%) were thefts from the workplace. There were attempts to explain the sheer avalanche of this phenomenon by the low standard of living of the average worker, the poor organisation of labour, an inefficient system of control and security and the jungle of regulation that nevertheless made such wastage possible.46 The majority (in the Wrocław voivodeship, over 90%) of cases involved smallscale individual theft, which nevertheless caused significant losses due to its prevalence. Even so, the worst losses and the greatest problem came from large-scale organised theft. ‘This is no longer petty pilfering; we are talking about goods disappearing by the tonne, by the wagon,’ warned the Minister for State Audit, Roman Zambrowski47 in April 1957. Another major factor behind these crimes was the development of the private sector and the construction industry, which were allowed to operate without being provided with raw materials, machinery or construction materials. For example, in the first six months of 1957, approval was given for the construction of some 43,000 houses, while according to Militia estimates, the state pool of construction materials was sufficient to erect only 25 to 30% of that number. The result was a ‘suction pump that sucks state assets and expands the channel of crime’.48 Private craftsmen, industries or construction companies were urged to use local or waste materials, which were more difficult to produce or build with. This triggered the pursuit of top-grade raw materials, reserved primarily for state institutions, while the private entrepreneurs were only allocated derisory amounts. For example, cement allocations to prefabricated building factories subordinate to the All-Poland Association of the Private Mineral and Building Materials Industry only covered a pitiful 8% of demand.49 The situation was similar in other areas. 46 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XIV-166, KW MO Wrocław, assessment of the economic situation in the Wrocław voivodeship, 10 Sep 1957, p. 29. There was a notable increase in the number and value of thefts in the construction industry. In the year 1955, there were 9,675 prosecutions and losses suffered came to 27.5 million zloty, in 1956 the number of cases increased to 12,261 and losses to 30 million zloty, and in 1957 the prosecutions soared to 13,567 cases, and the losses to 49.3 million zloty. AAN, KC PZPR, XI/281, Note on the situation in the construction industry in 1957, p. 119. 47 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-250, Meeting of the First Secretaries of the KW, 18 Apr 1957. 48 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-8, Transcript of the meeting in the KC, 4 Jan 1958, p. 97. 49 AAN, KC PZPR, XI/281, Note on the situation in the construction industry in 1957, pp. 121–122.

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As was to be expected, a truly massive inter-sectoral transfer of raw materials, components, machinery and means of transportation took off in earnest. The simplest way to proceed, namely theft, even with cover-ups by warehousemen or higher officials with falsified documentation, was at the same time fraught with the greatest risk. In view of this, efforts were made to use quasi-legal solutions, made possible by regulations introduced in early 1957, regarding the management of supplies and raw materials surplus to requirements. Thus, raw materials (such as steel) that were – theoretically – rationed, or machinery and equipment, whose rate of wear and tear was overstated and prices undervalued, migrated from factories or warehouses to private workshops and factories. On occasions, fully functional machines were sold at the price of scrap metal. This was usually accompanied by an appropriate ‘commission’, often a greater incentive to the individuals involved than the company’s interests. For example, in a factory in Tarnów, the sales of sheet metal – as ‘scrap’ – to a private customer were so significant, that they caused stoppage of part of the production line!50 ‘Recently,’ the report on the situation in the construction industry stated, ‘a frequent phenomenon is the fictitious cashing in, or selling below value, of machinery and equipment such as concrete mixers, vibrating tables, moulds, etc., to employees of the company who intend to or have already opened private prefabrication plants. In addition, these people receive full-value raw material free of charge as alleged waste, as well as coal or coke for fuel’.51 The problem signalled in the report reflected the blurring of the clear division line between the state or co‑operative and private sectors, a typical phenomenon at the turn of 1956/1957. It was not uncommon for ‘the director of a stateowned enterprise to be at the same time the co-owner of a private enterprise, [and] for a member of the executive branch to be a shareholder in a repair and construction company, etc.’52 This provided not inconsiderable opportunities for ‘privatisation’, to the point of being legal. For example, in the spring of 1957 a factory producing lights for vehicles contracted private manufacturers 50 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-7, Meeting of voivodeship Teams for Combating Fraud and Corruption, 27 Nov 1957, pp. 67–68; Ibidem, 237/XXXII-8, Central Team meeting, 3 Jan 1958, p. 13; Ibidem, 237/XXXII-9, Information on the work of teams, 13 Dec 1957, p. 32; Ibidem, Information on the work of teams, 22 Feb 1958, pp. 46–47; Ibidem, 237/XXXI-28, Report by the Team of the Heavy Industry Committee of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR) in Krakow on the evaluation of the activities of the M-7 Electric Motor Manufacturing Plant in Tarnów, 14–19 Dec 1957, p. 77. 51 AAN, KC PZPR, XI/281, p. 127, Note on the situation in the construction industry in 1957. 52 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-8, Minutes of the meeting of the Team Chairmen, 18 Feb 1958, p. 196.

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to produce components for 6.4 million zloty. They were handed over not only technical documentation, but also tooling, prefabricated parts and raw materials. Significantly, most of the order worth 5 million zloty ‘was taken over for their workshop by former employees of the plant – the chief accountant, the head of the planning department and the head of the production department – who, while still employees of the plant, prepared the logistics of the transferring of production, and at the same time organised their own enterprise. Thus, the state-owned plant financed the setting up and development of the private enterprise, while it was itself in serious financial difficulties.’53 However, such moves brought profit only to a narrow group of plant decision-makers. Thus, management teams, sometimes with the co‑operation of party organisations, trade unions and Workers’ Councils, had to work out strategies to increase the income of as many workers as possible, while strict wage controls forced them to choose ways close to informal privatisation. The chief engineer of the electric motor factory in Tarnów openly admitted he was following such methods quite deliberately, since after all, he wanted ‘to get a decent standard of living rather than have to leave on a wheelbarrow.’54 Thus, many would turn a blind eye to theft or ‘perks on the side’, coming to accept that the resulting losses were to be considered part-and-parcel of the company’s running costs. ‘Side-lines’ had not been unknown previously, but they had previously been geared to small, usually domestic needs. Now they increasingly took the form of work performed on behalf of private workshops but carried out during working hours and with company materials on company machinery, with the company paying the overheads and involving entire teams, sometimes supervised by the company’s engineering apparatus. They were only rarely exposed and prosecuted, unless they crossed some unofficial, intra-factory boundary or jeopardised the interests of any of the warring company coteries. For example, at the Pokój steelworks in Nowy Bytom, a master crafstman was expelled from the party only after he had made – during working hours and with plant materials! – three rollers weighing one ton each, commissioned by ‘private producers of nylon’.55 There were, moreover, no small number of (quasi-)legal opportunities to ‘privatise’ state means of production. If the factory had so-called ‘production slack’, it was allowed to accept external private orders, which both management and workers were often more interested in than the basic production 53 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-8, Transcript of the meeting at the KC, 4 Jan 1958, pp. 148–149. 54 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-28, Report of the Team of the Committee on Heavy Industry KW PZPR in Krakow, p. 78. 55 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-9, Information on team work, 13 Dec 1957, p. 32.

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on behalf of the state, due to the profits being multiple times higher. Not surprisingly, managements – with the approval of the Primary Party Organisation (POP) – often understated their own production plans in order to ‘save’ more time and raw materials for private clients.56 ‘If an enterprise has production slack, then private entrepreneurs soon take up […] the slack,’ the deputy minister of State Audit explained. They then pay these workers, dedicated work teams are formed in the workplaces, with these workers paid different rates, 3 or 4 times the normal rate. These workers work to meet these orders at night and on Sundays. So then, of course, they don’t turn up to work on Monday. Absenteeism increases, all those who are close to the whole business are bribed, so not only this brigade that performs the order gets paid, but also the engineer with some say in the matter also gets three thousand zloty, and so does the supply officer, another three thousand zloty. […] Factories don’t take state orders to fill in their production slack, they don’t use this production slack to supplement their state plan, but instead they take on an off-plan order from a private entrepreneur. Moreover, efforts are made to artificially create production slack and to use this production slack precisely to carry out orders for private entrepreneurs.’57 Plants all over the country were undertaking services for private clients. Examples include the foundry in Węgierska Górka near the Silesian town of Żywiec, the cable factory in Ożarów near Warsaw, plants in Wrocław and Krakow, the Warsaw Steelworks and, finally, the Aviation Institute in Warsaw. The latter’s workshops were to complete 800 private orders from the summer of 1956 to the fall of 1957, producing candlesticks as well as motorboats and scooters.58 However, a classic example of ‘internal privatisation’, which reflected both a kind of consensus among all the forces involved in the operation of the plant and a desire for an ‘egalitarian’ and ‘equitable’ satisfaction of the needs of the workforce, was unquestionably the strategy developed by the aforementioned Tarnów electric motor manufacturer. In January  1957, the management, the Workers’ Council and the Works Council agreed, without any objection from the party organisation, to launch the production of so-called second-class motors (i.e., made from reject parts) ‘for resale to employees of the Works, and secondarily to employees of the Tarnów plants. The production, reported to the higher authorities as ‘incidental,’ was in fact the payment of two extra salaries to the workers, who, buying a motor for two thousand, would resell 56 Ibidem, pp. 26–27. 57 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-7, Materials from the meeting of the chairmen and secretaries of the Voivodeship Teams 27 Nov 1957, pp. 83–84. 58 Ibidem, pp. 84–85.

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it for seven without much trouble. ‘The most interesting thing in all this,’ the factory inspection report concluded, ‘is that until now the management of the Plant, the Workers’ Council, and the Plant Committee of the Party seem to be unaware of the consequences of the production of second-class motors, even going so far as to advance the theory of “economically justified” drainage of the market and seizure of part of the national income from the peasants of the Tarnów and Rzeszów area, who are mostly the buyers of these motors. […] The management of the Plant seems oblivious to the downright fatal impact of this phenomenon on the creation of production shortages, the increase in theft and various types of fraud and embezzlement, and the creation of ideal conditions for speculation. […] Plant employees signal […] that there are some in the plant who have made 70,000 zloty each on the motors, that there is a clandestine service point for rewinding motors in the plant’s residential apartment blocks, naturally using plant materials […], and that no one at M-7 is concerned about this’.59 With the right backup, both economic and political, the possibilities for ‘privatisation’ were literally endless. This could have ranged from the extremely profitable fur farming already mentioned in the previous chapter to importing cars on the ships of Polish Ocean Lines. Fur-animal breeders in the Kashubian town of Kartuzy, among them the local prosecutor and judge, were unconcerned that the top-quality meat ‘sourced’ at penny rates was being eaten by minks and nutrias rather than the local residents. In Puck, on the other hand, they were concerned about the increase in the ‘lack of ideological commitment […] of the party organisation. This is about the breeding of fur animals by party members. We posited that the breeding of 3 or 4 animals by a party member is not inconsistent with the ethics of the party. On the other hand, there are instances of large-scale breeding by party members, party and economic activists, prosecutors, judges, the commander of the Citizens’ Militia. This is the scourge of Puck County. These farms require a huge amount of animal fodder. In just a single day, an inspection found that 4 tons of flounder went to feed the fur animals. This is the equivalent to a daily catch of 20 fishing boats to supply the breeders’.60 In neighbouring Gdynia, the director of Polish Ocean Lines, Jan Woźniakiewicz, issued a circular in January 1957, with which he arbitrarily and basically illegally exempted each of ‘his’ sailors from paying freight charges for 59 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-28, Report of the Team of the Committee on Heavy Industry KW PZPR in Krakow, pp. 75–76. 60 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXII-14, Minutes of the meeting of the Provincial Team for Combating Fraud and Corruption in Gdańsk, 14 May 1958, pp. 35–36.

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the import from abroad of one passenger car every three years on the Lines’ ships. Although the Ministry of Shipping protested relatively quickly, the regulation remained in effect for more than six months. This is not surprising; after all, the cars imported from Antwerp or Hamburg were to play the same role as the ‘second class’ motors in Tarnów. After all, the entitlements were used not only by sailors, but also by administrative employees, secretaries or people who were not employed by Polish Ocean Lines at all. By the end of June 1957, the ship owner’s losses from lost freight charges alone amounted to some $20,000. What caused it was the, many times more costly, adjustment of ship stops and routes to meet the needs of the entrepreneurial ‘car importers’. This is because it often happened that the ship would sail into a completely unscheduled port to pick up some desired vehicle, and on the way back, when ‘the ship is supposed to come to Gdynia, it goes to Szczecin because it has to unload cars there’.61 *** By the end of 1957, the authorities had the measure of these practices that had been draining and exploiting the state. Relatively effective preventive and repressive measures had been implemented, and some participants had been persecuted. However, the milk had already been spilt, and although such an economic climate as that which came after the Polish October did not return for a long time (not until 1980–1981), a strong foundation was built for the various privatisation strategies that would continue to be developed in the 1960s and especially in the 1970s, in part probably by the same actors.

61 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-253, Transcript of the meeting of the First Secretaries of the KW, 28  IX 1957, pp.  144–145; Ibidem, 237/XXXII-14, Gdańsk, Provincial Deputy Prosecutor Tadeusz Markowski, official record, 20 Nov 1957, p. 54.

Chapter 13

‘We’re in Business’; Or the Hopes and Disappointments and Private Entrepreneurs

‘An Act of Grace Dictated by Necessity’

‘The petty bourgeoisie, that is the small merchants and craftsmen, cannot be taken so lightly,’ wrote Czesław Miłosz in The Captive Mind. “They constitute a powerful force, one that is deeply rooted in the masses. Hardly is one clandestine workshop or store liquidated in one neighborhood or city than another springs up elsewhere. Restaurants hide behind a sliding wall in a private house; shoemakers and tailors work at home for their friends. In fact, everything that comes under the heading of speculation sprouts up again and again. And no wonder! […] If these manifestations of human enterprise were not wiped out it is easy to guess what they would lead to. A worker would set up a plumbing repairs shop. His neighbour, who secretly sells alcohol to people who want to drink in relative privacy, would open a café. […] They would gradually expand their businesses, and the lower middle class would reappear. Introduce freedom of the press and of assembly, and publications catering to this clientele would spring up like mushrooms after the rain. And there would be the petty bourgeoisie as a political force.’1 Admittedly, the poet – who in 1980 would receive the Nobel Prize for Literature – not only put the prevailing state of affairs in a nutshell, but also did a good job of predicting the future! The Stalinist authorities understood perfectly well the dangers that the very existence of this class posed to the system, which throws some light on why the label ‘of petty bourgeois origin’ was allocated its own rubric in all personal questionnaires. On the other hand, although private entrepreneurs were a bugbear for the authorities, who perceived them as the nucleus of a petty bourgeoisie, the war that they conducted against them was not linear; it had its secret fronts and those deemed as more or less dangerous enemies. The former primarily included private merchants and restaurateurs, who were still suffering a crackdown in 1956. As a result, of the 134,991 private stores that had existed in April 1948, only 11,079 remained in 1956. The private catering industry

1 Cz. Miłosz, The Captive Mind, Vintage Books, New York 1955, pp. 184–185.

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suffered even more staggering losses: of the nearly 14,000 bars, restaurants and cafés that existed soon after the war, by mid-1956 a mere 290 or so remained!2 Crafts and services were in a slightly better situation, having reached the peak of their development in 1947 (with 138,613 establishments and almost 313,000 employees). They suffered the greatest losses in 1949–1950, when 36,000 workshops were closed. The crafts sank to the bottom in 1953, when only 82,611 establishments with 123,865 employees were still in business.3 Resolution 581 of the Council of Ministers in 1954 on ‘the development of services to supply mass demand for the urban and rural population’ improved the situation only slightly (at the end of 1955 there were 89,627 workshops with 129,000 workers). In the meantime, 200,000 often highly skilled specialist artisans and tradesmen scattered to other professions, offices, co-operatives and administration offices. They vegetated somewhere on the margins, for example – as did the numerous butchers deprived of their own shop or workshop – taking their services door-to-door …4 The more lenient treatment of artisans was by no means due to ideological reasons – it was purely pragmatic. As far as state distribution was concerned, the supply channels were clogged and inefficient and the workers corrupt, but supply still functioned to an extent. And there always remained the traditional complementary forms of supply: for the privileged there were the so-called ‘shops behind yellow curtains’ and the rest coped by resorting to various forms of self-supply. But the situation was worse in the case of services and smallscale production. Key industries only catered, and poorly at that, for basic supply needs, while craft co-operatives aimed to take orders primarily from state institutions, shunning individual customers. These were less than keen to place their orders there, since co-operative production or services were often of inferior quality, and always expensive. Not only was the price increased by various surcharges, but also it was driven up by the pressure of the deep pockets of state contractors, whose budgets enjoyed allocations for repairs or investments that had to be spent regardless of cost. Thus, state-owned companies, with the whip of the state economic planning constantly cracking over their heads, opted for the co-operative services, and paid little attention to quality, material or delivery time. As a result, in Poland, on the one hand, ‘to hammer a nail into a wall costs more than – in another country – to renovate 2 D. Pick, Fenomen “prywaciarza” w PRL. Warszawa w latach 1956–1970, Warszawa 2003, p. 16 [Master’s thesis written under the supervision of Włodzimierz  Borodziej at the Historical Institute of the University of Warsaw; copy in possession of the author]. 3 AAN, URM, 2.2/69, Ministry of Small Industry and Crafts (hereinafter: MPDiR), Information and conclusions on the activities of crafts and private industry, 20 Feb 1957, p. 84. 4 Ibidem, p. 98.

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Fig. 32 State institutions were hardly ever in a position to provide any services at all, let alone the more sophisticated ones. (Private hairdressing salon in Warsaw, 1957. Photo: Tadeusz Rolke, Agencja Wyborcza.)

an apartment.’5 On the other hand, ‘you couldn’t buy the metal heel plates for shoes or boots, or door hinges, door handles, wood screws, small household goods, curtain holders, master keys,’ or a plethora or other useful items of daily use. ‘Nor could one get a hat repair or dress alteration done, get a run in a stocking fixed, gloves stitched up or made to measure, an electric iron repaired, clothes ironed, and so on.’6 To the aid of individual clients came the craftsmen employed in cooperatives who worked private overtime, using the co-op’s materials and tools – with the tacit consent of their superiors, who often shared in the profits.7 They could also hope to avail themselves of the services of illegal workshops, of which there were around 36,000 – a number that was most likely vastly underestimated, and rapidly increased at the end of 1955. There were about 600 such workshops in the Szczecin voivodeship and some 5,000 in the 5 AAN, URM, 20/18, p. 205, Meeting of the Economic Council Committee on the Economic Model, 11 May 1957. 6 HIM, P-634, Item No 3482/58, Situation of the Handicraftsmen after “October”: Licensing and supplying system, before Jul 1958. 7 Ibidem.

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Katowice (then still known as Stalinogrod) voivodeship, and a similar number in the Warsaw voivodeship (including Warsaw). In Dębica there were 20 illegal tailors working along a single street. They suffered no particular repercussions.8 They paid no taxes (although they certainly had to pay bribes) and they sometimes used cheap subcontractors from the so-called cottage industries, especially numerous in poor eastern and southern Poland, so they could compete effectively with both co-operatives and workshops affiliated to guilds. Moreover, the – illegal – marketing of their products was efficiently organised. One channel was the private peripatetic traders, known as ‘handymen’, who frequented street bazaars where, after paying a small fee, they were allowed to sell second-hand goods or else new ones, as long as they were their own property. They would carry just a few items of clothes as an indication of the range they had to offer. These selling techniques that could be observed in 1957 had been developed much earlier: ‘it is common knowledge that the buildings near the Różycki Bazaar [in Warsaw] are huge wholesale warehouses, housed in various attics and cellars. […] One case we have come across is that of a merchant paying 2,000 zloty a month to rent a wardrobe in a house located close to the Różycki Bazaar as storage for fur-lined winter coats and other furs,’9 The fate of the private shops or workshops that continued to operate legally was, however, unenviable. They were subjected to constant inspections, the results of which often depended on a bribe or even a fixed amount of protection money. Remaining solvent in the face of both official overheads such as taxes and surcharges and the dues necessitated or extorted by corrupt dependencies obliged the owners to try and generate incomes much greater than those they were declaring. This required increased production dependent on sourcing, also usually illegally, additional raw materials and tools as well as having to employ illegally extra workers working overtime. Since their wages were much higher than those in state or co-operative jobs, these workers tended to remain loyal.10

‘Workshop Repatriation’, Or a Green Light to the Crafts

At the turn of 1955–1956, the policy of the authorities towards private entrepreneurs was based on sending pathologically mixed messages. On the one hand, 8 9

P. Stefański, O właściwe spojrzenie na problem nielegalnego handlu, TD, 11–17 Jan 1956. AAN, KS, 110, Report of the Sejm Committee on Domestic Trade on the licensing of private trade, p. 235. 10 HIM, P-634, Item No. 4971/56, Bribes keep private business afloat, before Sep 1955.

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they seemed to be encouraged; on other employment of workers was being restricted, orders from state institutions were conclusively curtailed and the tax screws tightened even further. Under this pressure, in the spring of 1956, the Association of Crafts Chambers alerted the Ministry of Small Industry and Handicrafts that almost half of all workshops – some 40,000 – were imminently likely to cease their activities. On 14 April 1956 the Prime Minister issued an order to City Councils to provide to all those with the required craft certification official ‘craft card ID’ documents in order to recognise their status. This was followed just 16 days later by a circular from the Minister of Small Industry and Handicrafts implementing the changes. It is difficult to say whether this was a response to the warning that had come from the Association of Commerce Chambers – or perhaps the first manifestation of the authorities exercising their own common sense. These guidelines, as well as others, addressed to the territorial financial authorities, aiming for a rational tax policy, or the guidelines for the local government in charge of allocating work premises did not always fall on entirely receptive ears, however, and they were sometimes downplayed or disregarded. As late as the summer of 1956, it was still common, for example, for craftsmen to be re-housed ‘by the arbitrary and unsuccessful imposition of craft “matches”: an optician with a tailor or a milliner with a glazier, and so on.’11 The financial authorities continued to demand additional payments in taxes and other charges, and the promise of improved supplies remained just that: a promise. The Poznań protests in June 1956 – the first of several massive protests by workers demanding better working conditions – may have provided an impetus for change, despite the fact that they were met with violent repression; whatever the reason, since early July 1956 the economy had been accelerating noticeably. On 8 July the writer Jan Józef Szczepański noted that ‘attempts are beginning to be made to break out of the disastrous economic situation by means of a kind of ‘NEP’. Apparently, surcharges on crafts have been abolished and now raw material allocations are to be made even to private crafts.’12 The ‘NEP’ referred to the New Economic Policy – a term used in the former USSR in the reference to the 1920s to indicate a change in the economic policy of the Soviet government from strict, wartime communism to the introduction of some market-based economic mechanisms such as small private ventures, especially in agriculture and services. Now, state institutions would be allowed to co-operate with craftsmen without the previous cumbersome red tape; the 11 12

I.  Gawryluk, Rzemieślnicze handicap’y, ŻW, 2  Jan 1957; W.  Teliga, “Klucz” do rozwoju rzemiosła, SP, 26 Jul 1956. J. J. Szczepański, Dziennik, vol. 1: 1945–1956, Kraków 2009, p. 627.

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audit and financial bodies were instructed to eradicate previous distortions and to settle outstanding taxes and the Minister of Small Industry and Crafts pledged to withdraw the very recently (in 1956) introduced regulation limiting employment to just one worker per workshop. Promises were made to increase the number of workshops to 200,000–250,000 within two years and the number of employees to half a million. It was declared necessary to review those workshops that had been placed under compulsory state management – and to return those that were not working or were badly run to their previous status.13 The change in policy towards the private sector was sealed at the 7th Plenary of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party, held on 18–28 July 1956, which enshrined the improvement of the situation of the crafts sector (with trade left in the shade) in its reform programme, and incorporated it in the forthcoming Five-Year Plan. Provision was made for closer and easier co-operation with state institutions, improved supply, tax reform and loans, a ban on evictions from premises or their re-allocation to different establishments.14 The resolutions were instantaneously followed by action. The authorities had backed out of the previous, destructive tax policy, and the press foghorn of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party Trybuna Ludu openly admitted that ‘one of the reasons for the tardy development of crafts production and services has been the often excessive taxes imposed on craftsmen by the financial authorities.’15 The Ministry of Finance instructed tax offices that the appeals filed by craftsmen against the so-called ‘surcharges’ be resolved ‘thoroughly, fairly and quickly’ and suspended their imposition.16 The press was quick to report on the return of former craftsmen to their erstwhile jobs (although using the phrase ‘return of refugees’, as some did, was a misrepresentation). One prominent example was the well-known Szczecin confectioner M. Kamiński, who had spent four years working as a chauffeur, or the furrier E.  Romańczuk, who had settled for a clerical position in the health service. Local government offices were praised for how efficiently and smoothly they dealt with the public, issuing craft ID cards in just two weeks and allocating business premises.17 The reality, however, was less optimisminspiring, thus both local authority officials and would-be small businessmen, 13 W. Teliga, “Klucz” do rozwoju rzemiosła, SP, 26 Jul 1956. 14 Protokoły VI i VII Plenum Komitetu Centralnego Polskiej Zjednoczonej Partii Robotniczej z 1956 r., ed. W. Władyka, W. Janowski, Warszawa 2007, p. 834. 15 TL, 4 Aug 1956. 16 Ibidem; SP, 7 Aug 1956. 17 GP, 20 Aug 1956; I. Gawryluk, Repatriacja warsztatowa, ŻW, 24 Aug 1956.

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still unsure of how events would unfold, adopted a wait-and-see stance.18 It was only after the 8th Plenary that both sides came to believe that change was more sustainable than previously assumed. The floodgates opened for the burgeoning crafts – all the more so as the authorities seemed to be delivering on their promises. As early as the autumn of 1956, the authorities began to write off tax arrears going back to 1952; it became possible to employ as many as four workers in addition to family and apprentices, and by the end of 1956 banks had granted tens of millions of zloty in loans. On  1  January  1957, the resolution on flatrate turnover and income tax was to cover some 80% of workshops. In the big cities, the process of restoring the old guild structures was underway. For craftsmen, there now opened up the prospect of export and participation in international trade fairs – not only in Leipzig – a prestigious event but one nevertheless located in the Soviet Bloc rather than in West Germany – but also in Munich. Craftsmen were allowed to buy for foreign currency raw materials and machinery, from woodworking tools to hairdressing equipment, and from timber to polyethylene.19 After the Minister of Internal Trade on 14 November 1956 passed a bill on the authorisation of private trading companies, merchants also looked to the future with more optimism. Local government officials, in whose hands rested the decision-making, had a different angle on the situation. Whereas previously they had been paralysed by the fear of acting rashly, they were now clearly reluctant to be accused of dragging their feet. Some may have been implicated in the previously described corruption issues and the desire to secure their own future. But at the same time, many local officials, both the old-timers but also, above all, those elected on the revolutionary wave, felt themselves to a greater extent than before to be co-responsible for their district, city or county. ‘It was not until 1957, after the changes brought about by October,’ the Krakow City Council pointed out in its report, ‘that the municipal authorities were able to proceed fully with their intentions. The extension of the powers of the City Councils and the separation of the city authorities meant that it was only this year that the municipal authorities became true local representatives.’20 No wonder that in the last quarter of 1956, the offices were veritably flooded with applications for craft ID cards, concessions for shops and catering outlets, 18 APP, Presidium of the WRN in Poznań, 1017/III, Minutes of the 10th session, 27 Oct and 5 Nov 1956, pp. 298–305. 19 I. Gawryluk, Rzemieślnicze handicap’y, ŻW, 2 Jan 1957; Rzemieślnicy dokonują zakupów za obce waluty, TL, 15 Dec 1956. 20 AAN, KRP, 69/47, Report on the activity of Krakow City Council, p. 24.

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and the allocation of premises to run such businesses. In the whole of 1956 there were 19,000 workshops and some 25,000 new employees in the crafts sector in total – with the figures respectively 14,000 and 18,000 for the period of October to December alone. In Krakow, 121 craft ID cards were issued during the first three quarters of 1956, the number going up to 178 in the last quarter.21 By the time the optimism-fuelled ‘repatriation’ of private initiative ended in autumn 1957, a gradual retreat and exodus began; a push-and-pull trend had been set in motion based on the authorities’ yo-yo decision-making, and this state of affairs was to continue for the duration of the People’s Republic of Poland. The most noticeable changes were quantitative. After September  1956, within a year the number of craftsmen had increased by 40%, to around 134,300. In 1957 alone, the private craft sector expanded by 40,000 workshops and 46,000 employees, an increase over 1956 of 35% and 40% respectively. This was still not a great increase, compared to the (proportional) expansion of private industry. The number of establishments affiliated to the All-Poland Association of Private Construction and Mineral Industries soared by 273% (876–2,320) over just the first five months of 1957, and in the All-Poland Association of Chemical, Food and Miscellaneous Industries by 226% (959– 2,167). At the end of June 1957, there were a total of 5,836 slightly larger private establishments, employing 18,230 people. There was a similar growth in trade – by 220% (from 11,805 to 26,026). The number of catering outlets increased almost fivefold, to 2520.22

‘We are the Ones in the Centre of the Action – You Stay Out in the Sticks’

This growth was not even, and the differences were particularly marked between the centre, in its broadest sense, and the periphery. Of course, the largest number of workshops, shops or pubs sprang up in the big cities, with the capital at the forefront. It also proved impossible to mitigate the differences in the rate of development between the various regions of the country. Despite the considerable improvements for the crafts sector in the formerly German 21

Ibidem; AAN, KS, 154, Minutes of the meeting of the Committee on Light Industry, Crafts and Co-operatives, 18 Mar 1957, p. 54. 22 AAN, URM, 2.2/69, p. 160, MPDiR, Crafts – an analysis, early 1958; AAN, KS, 154, p. 303; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-224, Information about private trade, p.  13; SP, 275, 18  Nov 1957; Rozwój prywatnego przemysłu, ŻG, 26 Oct 1958.

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west and north, introduced in 1956 – such as preferential tax treatment, discounts for the purchase of the craftsmen’s ID card, the option of employing more workers, an increased pool of raw materials and additional facilities for the indigenous population – there were barriers that were difficult to overcome, and the enormous scale of neglect was also apparent in this area. This was felt all the more painfully, since, paradoxically, immediately after the war the situation of craftsmen in the region had appeared much more favourable than for those in central Poland. The population was smaller, but there were more premises available and more materials available for their reconstruction or renovation. In spite of the dismantling of infrastructure carried out by both the Soviet and Polish authorities’, with widespread looting of former German property to boot, large stocks of modern tools and machinery remained. Not surprisingly, whereas at the turn of 1946 and 1947, the national average had been around 5 workshops per 1,000 people, in Western Pomerania it was 9, and in Lower Silesia – 7. However, in the formerly German areas, Stalinism had depleted the private sector to the same extent as in the rest of the country. Together with a significant increase in population, this led to a reversal of the ratio; it was now easier to find a bricklayer, carpenter or hairdresser in these ‘old lands’.23 The thaw brought a not inconsiderable improvement, but mainly in dry statistical data. While on 31 December 1955, there had been some 12,800 craft workshops in the Western and Northern Territories – which before 1945 were part of Germany (with 89,627 in the entire country), at the close of 1957, there were 24,197 (with 131,117 in total throughout Poland). This was a considerable jump; nevertheless, in the ex-German territories, which accounted for a third of the country, that number was still less than one-fifth of all the workshops in Poland. The ratio between the larger cities and the provinces was also unfavourable: at the end of 1957, there were 8,729 workshops in the countryside, and 3,753 in towns with fewer than 10,000 inhabitants, whereas in towns with more than 10,000 inhabitants there were 11,715.24 Throughout the country, these new craft or service outlets typically opened in in larger cities; by the end of 1957, only 35% of crafts, employing 30% of the sector’s workers, were operating in the countryside. In the cities, there was one workshop or service outlet for every 150 inhabitants, the ratio was just half of that outside cities.25 The Western Territories were particularly disadvantaged in this respect, with relatively more towns with fewer than 10,000 inhabitants 23 AAN, URM, 2.2/69, The problem of developing craft services in the Western Territories, p. 2, 19. 24 AAN, URM, 2.2/69, pp. 4–6. 25 AAN, URM, 2.2/69, MPDiR, Crafts – an analysis, early 1958, pp. 160, 162.

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(218 out of 523 in the entire country). The inadequate provision was experienced especially acutely in the services essential for the comfort of everyday life, such as ladies’ tailoring, hairdressing, photographers or watchmakers, causing ‘perturbations in the agricultural economy’ or frustrating, since they were ‘important in the reconstruction, renovation and maintenance of buildings and dwellings’. Only the number of bricklayers, blacksmiths and men’s tailors remained at the level of the national average, itself quite low.26 However, the most glaring controversies taken up in the public discourse were not so much the differences between the new and the old lands, or even between voivodeships or counties, but between urban centres and peripheries, with the bulk of attention focused not on crafts but on private commerce. One very good reason was that there, the ideological conflict was most closely linked to the economic one. In the case of crafts, in most cases the swelling ranks of practitioners were due to a genuine “re-engagement of former practitioners; this brought an opportunity to people who were completely new to this branch of economic activity. With the sole aim of making a quick profit, they often opted for setting up in trade because they had found themselves sacked from administrative posts. Commerce was more appealing to officials and members of their families who were tempted by the ‘privatisation’ but had no skills or desire to try their hand as blacksmiths, shoemakers or braziers, but found it much more attractive to become shop owners or shareholders. Of course only as long as this was a thriving venture, preferably a haberdashery, located in the city centre. Since the vast majority of all wannabe traders had similar aspirations, this quickly led to conflicts. If, in autumn 1956, the authorities had no detailed blueprint for the development of private trade, some requirements were taken for granted: it was to be located mainly in the suburbs, which were a supply desert, it was to provide work for state employees laid off as a result of redundancies, it was to be based on cottage industry and handicrafts, and the new outlets were to be well-equipped, with their owners expected to have appropriate qualifications. In any case, the above-mentioned order of the Minister of Internal Trade of 14 November 1956, issued in specific circumstances, urged the establishment of new trading outlets without providing precise guidelines either on location or the desired goods for distribution. The regulations were therefore unclear, the officials wary and uncertain – with some hoping that the laws of the market would spring into action and show the way out of the confusion. ‘After the Eighth Plenary,’ commented the head of the capital’s Board of Trade at the end of May 1957, ‘there were many, including prominent party activists, who 26

Ibidem, The problem of developing craft services in the Western Territories, pp. 4–9, 19.

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Fig. 33

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‘Are we supposed to open a new shop in an area where there are no state trade outlets? So where are we going to get our stock from?!’ This cartoon by Karol ‘Charlie’ Ferster puts in a nutshell why aspiring shopkeepers were loath to set up business on the outskirts of town, while at the same time also capturing very well the appearance of stereotypical representatives of ‘private enterprise’. (Karol ‘Charlie’ Ferster, 1957, Museum of Caricature, Warsaw.)

cherished the wanton hope that the development of private trade would be a panacea for economic difficulties, that this form of trade would prove superior to state trade and provide healthy competition, the challenge of which would bring improvement to state commerce. Such notions clashed even within the committee and the Presidium [of the City Council] when the unprofitability of some state shops was discussed. While one does not in any way question the sound intentions of honest private merchants or deny the need for a complementary private trade network, it must be said that the warding off of the undesirable and ill-considered tendencies of the development of private trade became both time-consuming and nerve-wrecking, as well as undermining the achievements of socialist trade.’27

27 AAN, KRP, 69/3, Report from the 3rd session of the Warsaw City Council, 27–28 May 1957, p. 219.

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‘The aspiring traders who sprang up after the thaw effectively took advantage of both the vague regulations and corrupt officials, a state of affairs that persisted until around March 1957. Unlike with the crafts, they did not need to prove any qualifications; in trade all that was required was determination, a small amount of capital and a considerable ability to navigate the reefs of the system. In an atmosphere of uncertainty and impermanence, further reinforced by the allocation of concessions without specifying the expiration date for their validity, the old generation of merchants – with their strong traditions, experience and professional ethics – often refrained from taking another risk, and the majority of those interested shied away from major investments. ‘How long can we hope for?’, the journalist reported on the general feeling of merchants and craftsmen. ‘In two or three years, won’t a new battle of the trades begin, with more tax surcharges and restrictions, and attempts to shoehorn my business into a co-operative? Will they give me back my shop, my mill, my butchery, my bakery, my marmalade factory, my brickyard? These are the questions that today trouble every private entrepreneur.’28 From all over the country there came similar reports of bona fide oldschool merchants who had once owned established, respectable businesses, now reluctant to return to their previous economic activity in such a volatile climate. In the meantime, they were being replaced by a large ‘wave of postwar chancers and old hands at speculation and a siphoning off from the gross domestic product for private aims.’29 Even if the former pillars of the commercial sector were willing to have another go, these johnny-come-latelys had beaten them to it, since they were more feisty and effective in grabbing opportunities to secure a future for themselves, their families or their friends. Krakow was just one of the cities where ‘commercial concessions were issued for family members of those on the Presidium [of the City Council], and often to high-ranking officials, who took on concessions under false names, becoming sleeping partners.30 In Lublin, for example, a concession to run a patisserie was given to the vice-chairman of the Presidium of the City Council, and the premises were renovated at the expense of the city. His wife was granted permission for a haberdashery kiosk, the construction of which was also financed from the city budget. In Gdynia, a former secretary of the Presidium of the City 28 29

G. Pisarski, Nie tylko tędy droga, ŻG, 12 May 1957. ANKr, KW PZPR, 229, Meeting of the KW Executive 25 May 1957, Report from the Trade Commission of the KW PZPR on speculation and abuses in trade, p. 174. 30 AAN, KRP, 69/47, Minutes of the meeting of the XXVI Ordinary Session of the Krakow City Council, 4 Dec 1957, p. 215; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-252, Meeting in the KC Secretariat about the current situation, 10 Jul 1957; APG OG, MRN, 12, Minutes of the MRN session, 22 Aug 1957, p. 39.

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Council opened a pub.31 There were widespread complaints about nepotism and corruption, and refusal of concessions to those sacked from the administration, the disabled or those with large families, and allocation of them to others, often those with former convictions for embezzlement in trade. If the merchants wanted to follow the ideal scenario for private trade dreamt up by the authorities, they would have had to be altruistic philanthropists, unmotivated by profit – since none could be achieved setting up a vegetable stall in the suburbs, unlike in the case of trading outlets in other sectors such as haberdashery, located in the city centres. This was the location and sector targeted by future merchants, as mentioned earlier. Throughout the country, a struggle raged for premises in traditional shopping areas, sometimes involving bribes to persuade officials to close down the existing state commercial outlets.32 As a result, all over Poland, whether in Warsaw, the Tri-city (Gdańsk, Sopot, Gdynia), Krakow, Zielona Góra, Radom, Lublin or Szczecin, the majority of new outlets were located in the centre. In the capital, 83% of new shops were concentrated in 5% of the city’s area, in traditional shopping centres on both sides of the Vistula.33 The budding capitalists with more capital and hope were prepared to finance not only shopping pavilions, but entire department stores, declaring their willingness to set up co-operatives to construct buildings with the ground floor designated for use as commercial units, or to convert – at their own expense – the ground floor of now-redundant office buildings into shops. However, the majority of the hopefuls, who were realistic and lacked the required resources for a major investment while still hoping for a tangible profit, settled for more moderate ventures. ‘The most successful,’ commented a journalist, ‘are the bazaar stalls and ‘shops for the poor’. In the central shopping areas of Warsaw, entire arcades have recently been set up in the backyards of residential buildings.’34 This was to be expected. Following the Eighth Plenary to the beginning of May  1957, there were 1,052 new concessionary permits issued, 745 of them for stalls and trading kiosks. And let us not forget the unspecified, but certainly equally sizeable number of illegal vendors. All of them, in turn, naturally tried to trade in the vicinity of the bazaars or in the centrally located high streets.35 Paradoxically, although these new shops 31 AAN, KS, 110, pp. 236–237. 32 Ibidem, p. 236. 33 AAN, KS, 110, p. 234; AAN, KC PZPR, 237/V-252, Meeting in the KC Secretariat about the current situation, 10 Jul 1957, p. 38. 34 W. Teliga, Inicjatywa prywatna – owszem, ale jaka?, SP, 17 Apr 1957. 35 AAN, KRP, 69/3, Report from the session of the Warsaw City Council, 27–28 May 1957, p. 150. Among the 459 private outlets operating in Gdynia in the summer of 1957, there

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bearing charming, French-sounding names such as ‘Vogue’ or ‘Bon-ton’,36 and where one could buy French ties, Belgian jumpers and Italian shoes, nevertheless brought a peripheral feel to the centres, disappointing the aspirations of the authorities’ dreams.

‘There is Simply Nothing to Work With’, Or How to Manage Despite Everything

At the beginning of 1957, officials at the Ministry of Small Industry and Crafts were still full of optimism. ‘A fundamental quantitative growth of the crafts industry,’ they declared, ‘will take place spontaneously through the circumstances created by the new economic policy, especially in terms of supplies and allocation of premises. Our estimates […] allow us to assume that these developments will result in 300,000–330,000 employees in the craft commercial sector in 1960, thus a doubling of the number at the beginning of 1957.’37 They stressed that this would equal or exceed the level of employment achieved in 1947, the best year for the sector. However, the opposite process took place – it was the number of workshops and shops that grew rapidly – with, however, no safety net of secure premises or supplies of goods in place. Those craftsmen who managed to hang on to their workshops were in a relatively good situation; at least they had premises and had set up supplies and sales channels earlier.38 As for the newcomers, they all had to compete for premises, raw materials and machinery. Some small traders managed to reclaim their former workshop, although, for example, a baker might regain the former bakery but without the adjoining retail premises, which made it difficult for him to sell the products.39 Others had to rely on the official allocation of premises. There were fewer problems in the Western Territories, where in some localities there was no shortage of business premises but, if anything, of qualified professionals willing to take them on. But in general, especially in the ‘old’ Poland, there were more applicants than there were vacant premises. The pavilions built in Warsaw or Szczecin by craftsmen and merchants were a solution for just a handful of people; they were expensive were only 141 shops; the rest were kiosks, stalls, booths in market halls, carts etc. APG OG, MRN, 12, Minutes of the City Council session, 22 Aug 1957, pp. 34–35. 36 I. Gawryluk, Manowce prywatnego handlu czyli “do barszczu nie trzeba zębów”, ŻW, 29 Apr 1957. 37 AAN, URM, 2.2/69, MPDiR, information on crafts and private trade, 20 Feb. 1957, p. 40. 38 HIM, P-634, Item 4555/57, Portrait of an independent blacksmith. 39 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Bulletin of the Office of Letters and Inspections No. 32, 20 Jun 1957 p. 122–123.

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and their future was uncertain. There were just a few premises made available following the closing down of offices, which were supposed to be primarily allocated to redundant employees. As always, the allocation was often dependent on where the laid-off employee stood in the pecking order of the local social network and/or their ability to come up with a sufficiently high bribe. In Upper Silesia, for example, ‘the completion of these initial formalities cost – depending on the industrial sector and the location of the premises – between 10,000 and 100,000 zloty. […] The situation was similar in Warsaw, Krakow and Łódź. Thus, the reborn crafts and services entered life with a ballast of burdens which they wanted to compensate for in some way in the future.’40 Craftsmen, like merchants, were no philanthropists, nor did they trust the authorities. Many were not keen to be selling potatoes out in the sticks; others tried to avoid being involved with the provision of services and, in production, the use of local, secondary or waste materials as recommended by the authorities. Services, e.g. hairdressing, had prices set at a low level by the state. What was much more lucrative was production – especially based on scarce, rationed and partly imported materials such as metals, wood, leather or plastics. Although the press reported that ‘in the year 1957 the crafts had been allocated plentiful raw materials for the first time in post-war history,’41 in reality, only about 20% of the demand had been provided for. Even small craftsmen providing traditional services in both the big cities and the provinces commonly complained that there was ‘simply nothing to work with’.42 A wheelwright from Oława, in Lower Silesia, complained in mid-1957 that he had not been allocated any raw material since January. Similarly, a craftsman from Bydgoszcz, who had set up a battery repair workshop with his own savings and a bank loan, had spent five months trying unsuccessfully to get raw materials.43 Although much-touted by state propaganda, the disposal of redundant machinery and raw materials by state-owned factories and right of craftsmen to purchase them for foreign currency was not very successful. As a matter of principle, individual legal imports by craftsmen were not allowed, and in fact the authorities made the proviso that the planned Central Office of Foreign Trade in Crafts would be obliged to carry out all transactions through large state-owned centres. The collaboration of the craft sector with Bank PeKaO 40 HIM, P-634, Item No 3482/58, Situation of the Handicraftsmen after “October”. Licensing and supplying system, before Jul 1958. 41 E. Kwiatkowska, Rzemiosło na zakręcie, TL, 29 Dec 1956. 42 APG OG, MRN w Gdyni, 12, Minutes of the meeting of the Gdynia City Council, 22 Aug 1957, p. 16. 43 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Bulletin of the Office of Letters and Inspections No.  32, 20 Jun 1957, pp. 123–124.

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was not satisfactory either, since the bank was above all interested in foreign exchange profit, ‘rather than supplying craftsmen with raw materials and machinery’ at fair prices’. Not only were the proposed prices 50–100% higher than abroad, but in addition the bank added a hefty mark-up of 30%, also payable in hard currency.44 There were huge problems with the official purchase of machinery and equipment for Polish currency. There were few brand-new machines or pieces of equipment available, while there was great demand for second‑hand ones – and no shortage of intermediaries eager to make a profit.45 Only rarely was it possible to reclaim any of the 40,000 or so pieces of equipment taken over by the co-operatives after 1950. Those owners, who had managed to keep their workshops at the time, leased them out in order to maintain some form of control over their machines, and now, generally with little success, tried to officially recover them.46 The procedure for the return of machinery from workshops placed under compulsory state management was long, complicated and rarely successful, even if they had closed down or been destroyed.47 Of the remaining options, one was to have machinery sent by families in the West or resort to have it smuggled in – which was feasible mainly with raw materials with the right price-to-weight ratio, such as poplin or shellac. As a final resort, small businessmen could try to develop more or less illegal internal supply strategies. One was the diverse ‘privatisation’ of state property described before – that is, the theft or fictitious disposal or purchase of ‘waste’ or ‘scrap’ materials. Sometimes the suppliers of raw materials or tools were factory workers, employed after hours by craftsmen. Another method bordering on the illegal was the purchase of anything usable and reusable from the state trade, such as fabrics (silks, wools, poplin or gabardine) or finished products. For example, a men’s shirt bought in the state luxury goods chain shop Galluxfor 156 zloty, after alteration of the collar to a slightly different cut, could be resold for 230 zloty in a private shop. A saucer bought for 0.84 zloty could be processed gently with a grinding wheel and resold for 4.25 zloty; a paper lampshade bought for 8 zloty could be adorned with a floral pattern and resold for 19.50 zloty. An even more impressive mark-up could be achieved by converting 44 AAN, URM, 2.2/69, MPDiR, Information and conclusions concerning the activities of crafts and private industry, 20 Feb 1957, p. 60. 45 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Letters Bulletin No. 32, 20 Jun 1957, p. 122–123. 46 AAN, KS, 154, Minutes of the meeting of the Committee on Light Industry, Crafts and Co-operatives, 18 Mar 1957. 47 APG OG, MRN in Gdynia, 202, Prime Minister to the Presidents of the Presidiums of the Voivodship Councils, 22 Feb 1957; AAN, KS, 154, Minutes of the meeting of the Committee on Light Industry, Crafts and Co-operatives, 18 Mar 1957, p. 64–66.

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shirts imported from the GDR (purchased for 75 zloty) into ladies’ tops that retailed at 250 zloty.48 A significant proportion of the workshops located on the most important traditional shopping streets did not so much produce or repair goods as trade them. The entitlement to a craftsman’s ID card, which, as mentioned, was not particularly difficult to obtain at the turn of 1956 and 1957, offered considerable possibilities. The craftsman could sell not only his own production, but also 10% of that of other manufacturers, if it complemented his product range. He also paid much lower taxes than a merchant. While the authorities could withdraw the licence of a dishonest merchant without too much trouble, taking away a craftsman’s ID card had to be decided by a court, so this was a licence to profit. Little wonder that fictitious establishments were located all over the place, sometimes just in a corner rented out from a shop, where the ‘craftsman’ – for the sake of appearances – might put, for example, a sewing machine. ‘There is also a shoe workshop in the courtyard on Rutkowskiego Street,’ a Trybuna Ludu journalist described a curious case from the central hub of Warsaw’s private trade. ‘The workshop is advertised with two showcases. Of the 12 models of shoes on display, only four bear the company’s logo. And yet this shoemaker seems to have an amazing ability to make a dazzling range of shoes! There are beautiful women’s pumps. There are sports shoes and men’s shoes. And even slippers. All these supposedly made by the master shoemaker himself, because officially he does not employ a single worker. Where do these shoes come from? There isn’t even a single shoemaker’s stool in the workshop.’49 They came from thousands of unofficial craft and cottage industry workshops scattered across the country. In Radom, the Białystok region or the small towns in the Kielce region, illegal tanners tanned vast quantities of leather, from which unregistered shoemakers made shoes. In Radom and its surroundings alone, there were about 3,000 illegal tanners, while in the Białystok town of Krynki, out of 2,700 inhabitants, some 500 were involved in illegal tanning. In Jelenia Góra, after the shoemaking co-operative had partly closed down, approximately 200 craftsmen went into unofficial production.50 Looking at the strategies of private merchants, it is easy to understand why they avoided setting up grocery shops, preferring industrial ones – a trend that, as mentioned before, prevailed throughout the country, both in the big cities 48 AAN, KRP, 69/3, Warsaw City Council, Minutes of the session on 27–28 May 1957, p. 142– 143; AAN, MS, 558, p. 187, Information about the activity of the State Trade Inspectorate (PIH), post Sept 1957. 49 E. Kwiatkowska, Co się kryje za niektórymi szyldami, TL, 26 Apr 1957. 50 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-24, Letters Bulletin No.  73, 6  Dec 1957; Ibidem, 237/XXV-25, Letters Bulletin No. 16, 12 Mar 1958, pp. 147–148.

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and in the provinces. This was also the case, for example, in Zakopane, where within just a few months, from the beginning of November  1956 to the end of May 1957, the number of private shops more than doubled, from 21 to 44 (there were also 168 state ones). Among the new outlets only two were grocery stores. Why? Because the effort put in was not commensurate with the profit made. And, surprising as this may sound, sourcing supplies for grocery shops was an even bigger problem than for their upmarket industrial counterparts. In 1952, the last private grocery wholesaler closed down, and private merchants had only limited access to the state-owned ones. Admittedly, in 1956 the range of available food products was extended, but only with the production of foodstuffs that had little appeal to customers – such as artificial honey, some canned meats, vegetables and mushrooms, artificial honey, boiled sweets or gingerbread spices … But from time to time, wholesalers would limit their offer to the range available in the early 1950s – as happened in Tarnów in early 1957 – and the only stocks the retailers could supply were vinegar, mustard, salt and herbal pepper. Nevertheless, the revenue office turned a deaf ear to the explanations that having to fall back on such paltry stocks, the merchants would be hard-pushed even to earn enough to be able to afford the flat tax of 2–4 thousand zloty per month on their sales. The matter became the subject of a parliamentary interpellation, in response to which the Ministry of Internal Trade openly admitted at the end of March 1957 that ‘[A]t present […] the Ministry does not intend to expand the list of goods mentioned above. Private grocery shops that operate as a supplement to the state trade network should, in the first instance, procure their bulk from local sources’.51 That, however, was a tall order. The craftsmen had access to only a limited range of food products, and that often of questionable quality. Relatively quickly, the authorities embarked on scrutiny – regarding food hygiene and more – of the private butchers’ shops that had been set up en masse after October, which had increased tenfold in the course of a few months, to around 1,150, yet still no more than a quarter of their number in 1949. However, in more than a third of the districts (134) none were launched at all, while the majority were established in Warsaw, Poznań and Wrocław, where food distribution was in good shape, anyway.52 Nor was the problem solved by unregistered private wholesalers. In 1956 there were already at least 15 unofficial private wholesalers operating in Warsaw, but these were mainly oriented towards the smuggling of

51 AAN, KS, 185, p. 62, 65. 52 Ibidem, 110, p. 588, Evaluation of the performance of artisanal charcuteries.

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fruit and vegetables from the suburban markets near Warsaw to Silesia and the Baltic coast.53 All these factors were yet more reasons why those who decided to take a commercial risk sought to set up an industrial retail outlet, which, with a little creativity, backed up by the social resources and some capital, was more likely to bring in sizeable profits, with much less aggravation than running a vegetable store. And although, in theory, industrial shopkeepers were, like their grocer colleagues, obliged to draw their supplies from ‘local sources’, they did so only sporadically. The craftsmen themselves, especially the larger producers, tried – by the methods outlined earlier – to find more reliable, state-owned distribution channels. Only illicit goods were distributed through private trade, and not shops on the high street either, but rather through stallholders, peripatetic peddlers and bazaar ‘handymen’. As a rule, such sales were strictly off the books, all the more so as a large proportion of small trade was unregistered.54 In Warsaw alone, by mid-1957, the number of unlicensed traders was estimated to be at least double that of the number of legal ones. In May  1957 it was reported that, ‘we see them everywhere: in queues in front of shops, in front of the central department store, on the pavements and in the foyers of residential buildings and swarming around bazaars and marketplaces. And besides all those, there are others we never see at all.’55 As it happens, this was a social presence that was reckoned with and rarely pursued, if only because the illegal traders were easing the pressure on the official labour market. ‘There was even a demonstration organised by these peddlers from the Różycki Bazaar [in Warsaw] – nearly 400 women gathered in front of the City Council quarters and indeed a reserve regiment of militia had to rush in and intervene to calm the demonstrators. These small-time peddlers are trying to introduce discord and class stratification among the bazaar merchants, claiming that the merchants trading from kiosks are speculators with plentiful stocks of merchandise, while they, the small peddlers, on the other hand, are those who sell very little and make little money, and that they only sell secondhand items and so on.’56 And just as the manufacturers used the services of unregistered tradesmen, so too did the merchants rely on small, often illegal, craftsmen and homeworkers, whom they instructed to jazz up the plain-vanilla items sourced from state 53 A. Perkowski, Co z hurtem prywatnym?, TD, 7–13 Aug 1957. 54 HIM, P-634, Item No. 3482/58, Situation of the Handicraftsmen after “October”. 55 AAN, KRP, 69/3, Minutes of the session of the Warsaw City Council City Council  2 – 28 May 1957, p. 151. 56 Ibidem, p. 237.

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shops, warehouses and wholesalers in order to merit a mark-up. They altered collars, sewed on decorative buttons and changed cap styles. Some articles were sold at higher (sometimes sky-high) prices without any ‘improving’ intervention whatsoever. This applied equally to state-purchased goods, items sent from families abroad and scarce domestic products.57 Unlike state-owned shops – obliged not only to have prices imposed in advance, but to remain loyal to the inflexible industry staples, which rendered their commercial range, particularly in the area of fashion, dull and unable to meet the aspirations of the public and especially those of fashion-conscious females – private shops easily adapted to changing fashions and demand, seeking the most profitable stock possible.58 Informal ‘re-branding’ and the sale of goods for which the merchants had not received vending permits were therefore commonplace. In Gdańsk, for example, almost a third of the shops inspected traded in products other than those provided for in their concession.59 Checks and penalties were usually ineffective even for people new to the trade, let alone experienced, bazaar veterans. As Warsaw officials complained in May  1957, the merchants at the Różycki Bazaar showed a ‘high degree of organisation. […] They have excellent prior intelligence regarding the various actions we plan to carry out. When a raid had been planned for […] Friday […] some of the private initiative already knew about it on the Thursday. […] Suffice it to say that more than 40 stalls in the Różycki Bazaar were closed on the day. […] This mafia is so well-organised that as soon as one of our employees from KWS shows up at one end [of the bazaar], at the other end the merchants signal to each other with various sound and visual signs and the whole bazaar knows about it immediately.’60 This did not bode well either for the merchants or for the authorities.

‘Blockages in Some Sections’; Or Light Flashing Amber

Although the period 1956–1957 did not see the building of a political force based on the petty bourgeoisie prophesied by Miłosz, no small part of the 57

I. Gawryluk, Manowce prywatnego handlu czyli “do barszczu nie trzeba zębów”, ŻW, 29 Apr 1957; AAN, KS, 110, Report of the Sejm Committee on Internal Trade on the licensing of private trade, p. 231. 58 ANKr, KM PZPR in Zakopane, 29/2272/69, Minutes of the Executive of the KM PZPR in Zakopane, 17 Jun 1957, p. 134. 59 AAN, KS, 110, Report of the Sejm Committee on Internal Trade on the licensing of private trade, p. 232. 60 Ibidem, p. 233.

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Christmas shop window display in a private shop in Rutkowskiego Street (before 1950 and after 1990, Chmielna Street) in Warsaw, 1957. Photo: Tadeusz Rolke, Agencja Wyborcza.

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elite saw private initiative as a potential threat. The reason, however, was not so much ideology as economics. On the one hand, the aggressive, sometimes ruthless activity of private merchants or craftsmen and their orientation towards the acquisition of profit, reinforcing the impression of social stratification, caused ‘justifiable concern, impatience and great pressure from the workers.’61 It was easy to accuse merchants, especially those trading in accessories, not only of speculation and exploitation of the socialist economy, but also of fostering wealth polarisation and arousing unrealistic consumerist expectations. This is amply clear not only from party reports or letters sent to the Central Committee, magazines or radio, but also by the raw iconography from that era, such as documentary films from the ‘black series’, as it was known, or Tadeusz Rolke’s photographs from Warsaw in the run-up to Christmas 1957 that show avid window-shoppers, staring at shop window displays with admiration mixed with envy, irritation and rage at products that were so desirable and so inaccessible. Private commercial activity was an eloquent proof that state trade, held as a role model, was quite ineffective in comparison. Small merchants, who had been tolerated on the grounds that they would fill in the gaps in the supply side, now became a threat. ‘It must be added here,’ it was noted at a party meeting in September 1957, ‘that private trade, despite the fact that it does not have a material and technical base, is at every step a danger to socialist trade. In such a situation as this, there can be no question of competitive struggle at all; in the economic battle with private trade we are losing.’62 Merchants made effective use of tax concessions, which in 1957 applied to the vast majority of establishments (almost 19,000 out of around 26,000). In 1955 the average annual tax burden of a retail shop was 19,139 zloty; two years later it went down to 12,147 zloty. As a result, private trade paid negligible taxes (329.1 million) in relation to the (declared …) turnover of 8,600 million zloty and income of 960 million zloty.63 Under the circumstances, even the liberal economist Czesław Bobrowski opined that ‘if we do not want to create the phenomenon of interception of the centre of market gravity, we ourselves will have to erect barriers in certain sectors.’64 The question, however, was which sections. A return to the old pol61 AAN, URM, 20/18, Meeting of the Economic Council Committee on the Economic Model, 11 May 1957, p. 199. 62 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-243, Minutes of the meeting of the KC Committee on Market Supply, 28 Sep 1957, p. 35. 63 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-224, pp. 15, 188–189. 64 AAN, URM, 22/11, Transcripts of the meetings of the Economic Council Review Committee, 27 May 1957, pp. 60–61.

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icy towards the private sector was no longer feasible, especially as the current one was in many respects not only beneficial but even necessary for the state.65 Moreover, it was not only economists but also politicians such as Eugeniusz Szyr,66 who warned against being overzealous in suppressing private enterprise. Eventually, the first barriers began to be erected against private trade, which from mid-1957 became the villain of state propaganda. Instead, the crafts and private industry were clearly getting preferential treatment. Paradoxically, the authorities went as far as to consider weaponising these private sectors as the means of undermining non-state trade. As private manufacturers were more flexible than the state-owned ones, who often took years to introduce new products and novelties in demand to the market, it was suggested that, for example, department stores should commission them to make large batches of modern, attractive articles. It was envisaged that in this way it would be possible to ‘draw whole swathes of customers away from private trade, making them instead customers of socialist trade […] and in this way we [would] cut the roots of private trade.’67 The drive against private merchants was not limited to critical articles in Trybuna Ludu or cartoons in Szpilki; in the spring of 1957, concrete measures were taken. By April 1957, permits to launch industrial units were discontinued, at least in the larger cities. In the summer, the licences that had been issued since October 1956 were put under review. At the beginning of July it was reported that ‘the spontaneous, economically unjustified issuing of permits for private trade [had] been stopped.’68 The policy of additional charges on private enterprise was resumed, and socialist trade was put under more effective control, thus to a certain extent successfully hindering ‘leaks’ of products to private merchants. This cutting off of one of the most important sources of their supply brought about shop closures. The ‘reabsorption’ of private enterprise began in the autumn of 1956, but a year later it became a veritable exodus. When, at the end of September 1957, a group of Catholic activists wanted to draw up the deed of incorporation of the Libella company, they met with a telling response from the notary: ‘We came,’ noted Janusz Zabłocki on 25 September 1957, ‘to set up a commercial company 65 AAN, URM, 20/18, Meeting of the Economic Council Committee on the Economic Model, 11 May 1957, p. 199. 66 AAN, URM, 22/11, Transcripts of the meetings of the Economic Council Review Committee, 27 May 1957, p. 54. 67 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-243, Minutes of the meeting of the KC Committee on Market Supply, 28 Sep 1957, p. 19. 68 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-224, Information on the progress to date in the fight against speculation and trade abuse, 6 Jul 1957, pp. 4–5.

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at a time when everyone was closing them down, because the fiscal authorities were driving them to ruin with gigantic surcharges. Their owners were contemplating suicide. Upon hearing what we were talking about, the office secretary, an old, dried-up clerk, was puzzled. He asked me aside: “I can register the company, but my personal advice to you is: think again”.’69 Proposals for the concession of crafts too were put forward as early as 1957, abandoning them, however, ‘at the time of awakening of creative forces and initiative of vital importance for the increase of goods and services in the market.’70 But it was clear that economic voluntarism could no longer be tolerated in this field either. As early as March 1957, the parliamentary Committee on Light Industry, Crafts and Co-operative Work stressed the need to steer crafts in the desirable direction, which they indicated – namely, into the production of necessities and to supply services, provided that state production was not duplicated and that such scarce raw materials as plastics or non-ferrous metals were not used. The development of private butcheries and bakeries was not being envisaged. The emphasis was put, however, on developing crafts in the Western and Northern Territories.71 Handicrafts were dealt with much more cautiously than trade, and the measures were rather of a fiscal nature, and argued for by the welfare of the state budget. Above all, craftsmen had to pay higher rents and electricity charges – three times more than other renters.72 The Council of Ministers’ order of 29 July 1957, promulgated in mid-September 1957, radically increased the fees for all state-owned business premises.73 The increase was progressive – lower in small towns, and highest in Warsaw, Łódź, Poznań, Krakow, Katowice, Gdańsk, Gdynia, Sopot and Wrocław. The reaction of the craftsmen was easy to predict: ‘We are celebrating the anniversary of our October, which should be a joyous occasion for us craftsmen,’ Stanisław Zakrzewski from Warsaw wrote to Trybuna Ludu, ‘but it is not. […] Is it a coincidence or the act of a malicious goblin that this joyful anniversary has been poisoned for us. […] Previously, the additional surcharges could be paid in instalments, while the presently increased rent has to be paid permanently and in advance, regardless of whether the shop has been open, whether it has had any turnover, or

69 J. Zabłocki, Dzienniki 1956–1965, vol. 1, Warszawa 2008, p. 114. 70 L. Hohensee, W przededniu koncesjonowania rzemiosła, KP, 26 Mar 1958. 71 AAN, KS, 154, Minutes of the meeting of the Committee on Light Industry, Crafts and Co-operatives, 21 Mar 1957, p. 294–296. 72 AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-22, Letters Bulletin No. 32, 20 Jun 1957, pp. 128–129. 73 Rozporządzenie Rady Ministrów z dnia 29 lipca 1957 r. w sprawie czynszów za lokale użytkowe i wpłat na Fundusz Gospodarki Mieszkaniowej, Dz. U., 48, 16 Sep 1957, item 229.

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whether the owner has been ill or on holiday.’74 The increase hit larger shops and factories employing workers particularly hard, as the envisaged rent reductions applied to small outlets. The said Stanisław Zakrzewski mentions that he used to pay almost 550 zloty for the rental of business premises of 79 square metres – in any case, insufficient space for his toy factory – but following the rent increase, he found himself having to pay 3,500 zloty. To obtain a 50% discount, he would have had to lay off one of his two employees.75 Anyway, ‘the local authorities – with a zeal matching that which they had shown earlier when issuing the permits – were now refusing rent reductions’.76 To add insult to injury, soon – by early 1958, the increase was supplemented by other onerous requirements such as compensatory taxes, new higher lump sum taxes and the abandonment of the import of raw materials and equipment from abroad by Bank PeKaO. It was no longer possible to set machinery and equipment depreciation against income, and the regulations related to employment of workers in the crafts and the training of apprentices in the crafts sector were tightened. For example, an employer who had a photographic studio paid an annual tax of 7,200 zloty on the first employee but 13,200 on the second; an employer with a business engaged in installation fitting – respectively 7,200 and 11,400, a blacksmith – 11,100 and 19,200 zloty. Social security charges were also high, at 30% and, in some professions, 36% of the wages. These administrative decisions not only brought hardship for the present business but also spelt danger for the future, especially as 85% of craftsmen were between 40 and 60 years old.77 Some craftsmen suspended their activities, but often only their official ones, and continued to operate in the grey market. For example, in 1958 in the Lublin area alone, there were estimated to be at least 4,600 such underground craftsmen, with 6,500 registered.78 However, the slack was soon picked up. It turned out that the official private crafts and industry had been able to build sufficiently solid foundations in the years 1956–1957 that even the successive introduction of licensing from 1958 did not undermine them. In the first six months of 1958, the National Association of Private Industry registered 2,430 new private industrial plants. At the end of June 1957 there were 5,836 (employing 18,320 people), but a year later the number grew to 8,266, with 74 75 76 77

AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXV-24, Letters Bulletin No. 73, 6 Dec 1957. Ibidem. J. Redlich, Rzemiosło na wirażu. Od żywiołowości do koncesjonowania, ŻW, 17 Jul 1958. AAN, URM, 2.2/69, The problem of developing craft services in the Western Territories, pp. 1 –18; J. Redlich, Rzemiosło na wirażu … 78 W Lubelskiem pracuje 4600 “dzikich” rzemieślników, KP, 30 Jul 1958.

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28,628 employees.79 As many as 139,451 craft enterprises were recorded (12,000 more than the year before). They employed some 215,000 people, half of whom were contract workers.80 Private trade and catering establishments proved less resilient; their numbers began to dwindle as early as September 1957. Almost 2,300 shop and pub owners did not re-apply for renewal of their concessions for 1958, usually motivated by a lack of profitability after rent and tax increases. Paradoxically, the most severely depleted were the very industries that the authorities cared most about – food and catering.81 It was estimated that in June  1959 the number of private catering outlets was 67.8% of the December 1957 figure, industrial shops 85.2%, and grocery shops 93.2%.82 But back to 1957, which – in Warsaw at least – closed in a symbolic manner for private trade. The Presidium of the Warsaw City Council decided that 154 new private shops would be opened in Warsaw in 1958 – with most of them on the periphery. These were to be predominantly grocery outlets, but with permitted stock of manufactured goods for sale, such as soap or washing powder. The authorities pledged that in the centre (including in the pavilions between Świętokrzyska Street and Królewska Street, which were being finished at the time) no shops with ‘manufactured articles such as haberdashery, footwear, confectionery, furs, etc.’ would be built.83 The revolution was over.

79 80 81 82 83

Ile mamy prywatnych zakładów pracy?, GP, 20 Sep 1958. Rozwój prywatnego przemysłu, ŻG, 26 Dec 1958. Wycofywanie się kupców z handlu, SP, 17 Nov 1958. AAN, KC PZPR, 237/XXXI-224, pp. 13, 182. Kierunek – peryferie. 154 nowe sklepy prywatne, ŻW, 31 Dec 1957.

Instead of an Ending: What’s Left? For almost four decades there has been an ongoing discussion, usually revived by the occasion of successive anniversaries, about the role of the (post) October thaw as a turning point in post-war Polish history. Depending on the historiographical social take and political views of a given researcher, the range of evaluations falls between the conclusion that ‘the breakthrough of 1956 mitigated only the most socially painful aspects of the system, which retained its totalitarian and non-sovereign (or even occupational) character’, and the vision, according to which 1956 ‘marked the beginning of a slow but consistent democratisation of the system, leading to an agreement between the communist authorities and the opposition at the Round Table talks [in 1989].’1 It is by no means easy to decide which of these points of view is correct. Although October had shaken the edifice of the state, the foundations remained firm, and you could even say that the thaw had strengthened the system, if only thanks to more pronounced national, even nationalist, exhortations than before.2 Although the whip had been replaced with a cane, and the grip on the tight reins relaxed a little, the economy was still based on absurd foundations, the ‘nomenklatura’ – the Party-controlled patronage system was still in force, the coalition ZSL and SD had in fact little say, and the Katyń massacre – a series of mass executions in 1940 of nearly 22,000 Polish military officers and intelligentsia prisoners carried out by the NKVD, Soviet secret police – was not a topic on the school curriculum. Neither had the geopolitical conditions changed. Poland continued to be part of the Soviet bloc, albeit that it avoided the fate of, e.g. Hungary, which suffered a Soviet invasion following its uprising; this was in no small measure due to Gomułka’s pragmatic approach.3 It is not surprising that Jakub Karpiński entitled his first monograph on October 1956 ‘a ration of freedom’. ‘The process of change,’ as Zbysław Rykowski and Wiesław Władyka noted in the 1980s, ‘was comprehensive and multifactorial. The ferment and upheaval touched on all areas of life: the economy and politics, culture, social communication and social mores’.’4

1 P. Machcewicz, Zmiana czy kontynuacja? Polska przed i po Październiku ’56, in: PRL. Trwanie i zmiana, eds. D. Stola, M. Zaremba, Warszawa 2003, p. 120. 2 M.  Zaremba, Communism – legitimacy – nationalism: nationalist legitimization of the Communist regime in Poland, Berlin 2019. 3 For more, see: A. Friszke, Polski Październik 1956 z perspektywy pięćdziesięciolecia, in: idem, Przystosowanie i opór. Studia z dziejów PRL, Warszawa 2007, pp. 107–123. 4 Z. Rykowski, W. Władyka, Polska próba. Październik ’56, Kraków 1989, p. 291.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657791712_015

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Compared to Stalinism, people experienced the (post) thaw reality with an infinite sense of ‘freedom and relief – freedom of conversation and criticism, the chance of various positivist activities in favour of values outside the system, the diminished constant tension related to the grim threat of repression, the lifting, to a large extent of the Iron Curtain, an attractive and varied cultural life (both low- and high-brow), the gradual appearance of light industrial goods, freedom of entertainment and privacy, the chance for religious life to flourish, the lifting of the ideological straitjacket that had stigmatised the social landscape and individual lives, the reduction in numbers of the compulsory collectives that had obliged people to play roles imposed by the system’s diktat – and many other changes that released the fetters which we had regarded as something that would endure forever … All these factors generated enthusiasm, underpinned by the profound dynamic of emotion and of relief.’5 The writer Jerzy Zawieyski, quoted in the introduction, proved correct in his prophecy: there was no going back. Nothing would indeed be ‘returning to the old style and practices.’ Despite the fact that the authorities quite quickly withdrew from some of the October promises, neither was a retreat possible from the hopes and expectations that had been raised. Authoritarian socialism, with its fearful oppressive odium defused, became something of the new normal, tamed and – for the time being – accepted by a large part of society. A quick perusal of library catalogues suffices to see to what extent the turn of 1956 and 1957 became the borderline separating the period of terror, struggle, enslavement and resistance, which ended in 1956, from the symbolic start of the epoch of modernity, subjective empowerment and individualism, which began in 1957. In the minds of the active participants in the October events, the time represented a watershed in their lives.6 Nevertheless, often within the next decade, many would lose their political illusions. ‘By 1966 […] I no longer identified politically and ideologically with the old me from ten years before, and I was not alone in this,’ recalled Krzysztof Pomian. ‘Most of my friends from the October time had undergone a similar evolution: some – faster than I had, and

5 H.  Świda-Ziemba, Człowiek wewnętrznie zniewolony. Mechanizmy i konsekwencje minionej formacji – analiza psychosocjologiczna, Warszawa 1997, pp. 176–177. 6 ‘For me, and my friends and colleagues, I have no hesitation in saying – for my generation,’ recalled Zbigniew Sikora from Krakow, ‘October 1956 opened the door to let in the new way of living. In both psychological and political terms, the difference between life in Poland before October ‘56 and after October was much greater than that before and after August ‘80.’; Z. Sikora, O roku ów (1956), kto ciebie widział w naszym mieście, in: Polski Październik na Uniwersytecie Jagiellońskim, ed. R. Klimek, Kraków 2004, p. 135.

What’s Left?

311

others somewhat more slowly.’7 However, all have been permanently affected by the drug of modernity and individualism, from the dream of their own car through learning about Western culture, and often discovering the West for themselves, to the development of independent thinking. They can be compared to the defiant generation of those born in the late 1860s and early 1870s who had undergone practically the full gamut of left-wing socialisation and sometimes remained socialists, even as colonels or ministers of the Sanacja, right-wing interwar government, albeit their socialism applied to the social rather than the political sense of the word. Similarly, the ‘October generation remained centrist, with support for Polityka and Życie i Nowoczesność. Life and Modernity’ of the time […] They stood for technical modernity and a generational rivalry with the capitalist world.’ At the same time, ‘they did not renounce their all-purpose left-wing heritage. Nor did they, like a mantis, try to ambush, dissect their own legend. They combined consumerist ambitions with frequent trips to the West, opting in favour of parliamentary democracy’.8 Andrzej Cybulski mentioned Polityka, launched in 1957, for a good reason. This weekly had been set up as a counterbalance to another weekly, Po prostu, closed by the authorities also in 1957 on the grounds of being too critical of the socialist status quo. Nevertheless, the Polityka team was recruited from people with a similar perception of the October Revolution and similar hopes. It is difficult to say how that generation – which was after all the foundation of the opposition of the 1960s and 1970s and continued to actively participate in the process of political transformation after 1989 – would have turned out, had they not been supported by the institutions of modern society that were created or recreated on the crest of the thaw wave, such as the Society of Conscious Motherhood and the Polish Sociological Society, tourist and sports clubs (it was in 1957 that the first women’s football match took place!9), the first ecological initiatives and the protection of historical monuments, and had they not read books by Sartre and Camus,10 Polityka and Projekt. 7 8 9

10

K. Pomian, O Październiku, p. 164. A.  Cybulski, Z królestwa konieczności ku królestwu wolności. Pokolenie Października ’56, ŻW, 19/20 Dec 1996. Kobiety kopią w Gdańsku, SM, 4 Dec 1957. There was also a rapid revival of such ‘bourgeois’ disciplines as sailing (both inland and sea), ballooning (the 9 June 1957 saw the first free balloon launch after the war), tennis and bridge. HIM, P-53, Item No 4743/57, Growing popularity of yachting, Jul 1957; SP, 15 Apr 1957. I must admit that it was only when writing this book that I noticed how many items from the family library that have accompanied me since childhood, such as Astrid Lingren’s The Six Bullerby Children, had been published between 1956 and 1958, usually with the annotation ‘First Edition’.

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Instead of an Ending

Of the above factors, it was the press that had the widest and most enduring formative impact – in that pre-television and pre-internet era, the medium that was the first off the mark to respond to any and all whiffs of liberalisation. ‘People were delighted with the free word,” recalled the provincial Penza immediately after the February Revolution of 1917. This is how the writer Igor Newerly, the father of Jarosław Abramov-Newerly, also a writer, cited previously here – recalled the atmosphere in the provincial Russian town of Penza following the revolution in February 1917: ‘The freedom of expression went to people’s heads, they immersed themselves in the free press. Whoever wanted to, and could afford the paper and the printing, set about publishing a magazine – thus political, social and literary magazines sprung up, magazines for soldiers, for workers, for country folk, for youth, for the region, the elite; political magazines, mystical magazines or bawdy ones, such as Venera, started by Shukshin, because he had three stalls selling kvass and cigarettes’.11 Although this was less easy to accomplish in the post-thaw Poland, the press market experienced a boom comparable perhaps only to the era immediately after 1945 and 1989. Virtually every magazine that aspired to become an opinion-former kept a diligent eye on the competition, which they continually, and unsparingly reviewed, not shying away from sarcasm and bile. These phenomena were a healthy and natural manifestation of competition in a suddenly diverse and colourful market that required an informed guide. A journalist on one of the magazines spawned by the thaw, Kultura i Społeczeństwo [Culture and Society], analysing in mid-1957 the new – Warsaw-only! – titles, divided them into three groups. The first comprised the literary magazines which had grown out of the post-October literary discourse, from Współczesność [Contemporaneity] to Za i Przeciw [For and Against]. ‘This drive […] is relentless; every month brings new titles. For example, April [1957] saw the publication of issue No. 1 of the monthly Przegląd Polski i Obcy [Polish and Foreign Review], which announced a regular political chronicle column by Cat-Mackiewicz, and the publishing of texts by J. Burnham and A. Carrel. Just these few names show plainly that the new periodical will be concerned with the dissemination of the most modern views on international affairs and sociology, including the neo-Trotskyist trend.’12 The reviewer turned out to be too optimistic. The magazine disappeared after the second issue. Much more durable was the second group, defined as the ‘result, in the broadest terms, of redress and rehabilitation’. It included reanimated or newly created periodicals such as Wieś Współczesna [Contemporary Farming], 11 I. Newerly, Zostało z uczty bogów, Warszawa 1988, pp. 69–70. 12 Nowe periodyki w Warszawie, “Kultura i Społeczeństwo”, vol. 1 (1957), z. 2, pp. 230–233.

What’s Left?

313

Dziennik Ludowy [People’s Daily (ZSL)], Zarzewie [Spark (ZMW)], Na Przełaj [Cross-Country (ZHP)]. All of them survived until the end of the system, if not beyond. The fate of the third group of periodicals was more complicated; these were magazines that had emerged as an expression of new social needs. ‘This is not about the first line of ideological struggle, but about the simple consequences of abandoning the “schematism and dogmatism”, which had led to exposing the inadequacy of our periodicals when it comes to more specific social needs’.13 The range of new periodicals by the editorial teams in the capital alone was impressive: from those aimed at the Polish diaspora – Nasza Ojczyzna [Our Motherland], 7 dni w Polsce [Seven Days in Poland] and Magazyn Polski [The Polish Magazine] – through the controversial political magazine Polityka or the contemporary drama magazine Dialog, to the sensational Kulisy [Backstage] and the municipal issues monthly Obywatel Warszawy [Warsaw Citizen].14 The analysis carried out by Kultura i Społeczeństwo was just a modest sample of the massive outcrop in the press sector. A survey of the magazines published in 1958–1959 conducted by GUKPPiW, Chief Office of Censorship, revealed a much more colourful landscape left in the wake of the press tsunami triggered by the thaw. Even bearing in mind that Po prostu was not the only magazine closed in 1957 (the Poznań Wyboje, the Silesian Przemiany or the Szczecin Ziemia i Morze had also followed suit), the range of new titles born during the thaw was impressive. The third group defined by Kultura i Społeczeństwo, defined as showing ‘new social needs’, clearly dominated. Few readers are likely to have the stamina to bear with the comprehensive list of all of them, so let me only provide a sample of the titles that best show the extent and variety of the cultural revolution triggered by the thaw by quoting some randomly selected ones listed only under the letters L–S15 of the surveyed publications. A greater opening up to the world was evident in the unveiling of magazines helping to learn languages – and not just Russian, but also English, French and German (Mozaika and Mała Mozaika). After an eight-year hiatus, Esperantists regained their own periodical in 1957 (Pola Esperantisto), as had, a year earlier, Ukrainians and Byelorussians living in Poland (Nasze Słowo and Niwa). The periphery revived with its own regional publications, e.g. Nowiny Jeleniogórskie in Jelenia Góra, the local newspaper Nowiny in Rybnik or Panorama Północy [Northern Panorama] in Olsztyn. 13 Ibidem. 14 Ibidem. 15 APW, Central Office of Press, Publications and Public Shows Control, 1–2, Publisher surveys of magazines published in Poland, 1958–1959, vol. 1II: L–P, and vol. 1V: P–S.

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Instead of an Ending

The Polish Football Association, reborn in December 1956, rapidly began publishing the football magazine Piłka Nożna, while regional newspapers recognised the need for their own sports supplements (with Sportowiec Bałtycki on the coast and Sport Śląski in Silesia). Promoters of tourism began publishing Ruch Turystyczny [Tourist Traffic]. Women had their own fashion magazine Moda from 1956. From 1957, the youngest could read Miś [Teddy Bear], slightly older children had Przygoda [Adventure, a thrills-cum-entertainment weekly), those who preferred games, puzzles and similar brainteasers could read the magazine Rozrywka, and those interested in making model planes and ships had Mały Modelarz. Proponents of modern architecture could reach for Projekt, music lovers for Ruch Muzyczny. Like the ‘October generation’, some passed away quickly, some did not survive Martial Law (imposed on the country on 13 December 1981, which continued until 22 July 1983), and most succumbed to transformation, but many are still alive today. But they were all children of the Polish ‘October Revolution’. When browsing through both the liberal Polityka, which currently has the highest circulation of all Polish weekly opinion magazines, and its contemporary, the Catholic monthly Katecheta [Cathechist] we should bear this in mind.

List of Abbreviations AAN ADH PRL

AIL AIPN

ANKr AK APG OG APL APP APW APWr BU CDT CRZZ Dz.U. FAZ FSO GP GRN

GS GUKPPiW

– Archiwum Akt Nowych, Archive of Modern Records – Archiwum Dokumentacji Historycznej PRL (Pułtusk), Archive of Historical Documentation of the People’s Republic of Poland in Pułtusk – Archiwum Instytutu Literackiego, Archive of the Literary Institute – Archiwum Instytutu Pamięci Narodowej, Archive of the Institute of National Remembrance; AIPN BU – Archiwum Instytutu Pamięci Narodowej, Biuro Udostępniania; Archive of the Institute of National Remembrance, Access Office – Archiwum Narodowe w Krakowie, National Archive in Krakow – Armia Krajowa, Home Army – Archiwum Państwowe w Gdańsku Oddział w Gdyni, State Archive in Gdańsk, Gdynia Branch – Archiwum Państwowe w Lublinie, State Archive in Lublin – Archiwum Państwowe w Poznaniu, State Archive in Poznań – Archiwum Państwowe w Warszawie, State Archive in Warsaw – Archiwum Państwowe we Wrocławiu, State Archive in Wrocław – Biuro Udostępniania, Access Office (see above: under AIPN) – Centralny Dom Towarowy, Central Department Store – Centralna Rada Związków Zawodowych, Central Trade Union Council – Dziennik Ustaw, Journal of Laws – Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung – Fabryka Samochodów Osobowych, Passenger Car Factory (in Warsaw) – Głos Pracy, newspaper – Gromadzka Rada Narodowa, Gromada Council; ‘gromadas’ were the smallest administrative unit in Poland between 1954 and 1972 – Gminna Spółdzielnia Samopomoc Chłopska, Self-Help Communal Farmers’ Co-operative – Główny Urząd Kontroli Prasy, Publikacji i Widowisk, Central Control Office of the Press, Publications and Public Performances (Chief Censorship Office)

316 HIM KC PZPR KG MO KK KM KP KPZR KRP KSR KP KRP KS KS KUL KW KW MO LK MBP

MKP MO MP MPiOS MPDiR MRN MSW NK ODiZP TVP OSA

List of Abbreviations – Herder-Institut Marburg – Komitet Centralny Polskiej Zjednoczonej Partii Robotniczej, Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party – Komenda Główna Milicji Obywatelskiej, Citizens’ Militia Main Headquarters – kraje kapitalistyczne, capitalist countries – Komitet Miejski, City Committee – Komitet Powiatowy, County Committee – Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) – Kancelaria Rady Państwa, Chancellery of the Prime Minister of Poland – Konferencja Samorządu Robotniczego, Conference of the Workers’ Self-Government – Kurier Polski, newspaper – Kancelaria Rady Państwa, Chancellery of the Prime Minister of Poland – kraje socjalistyczne, socialist countries – Kancelaria Sejmu, Chancellery of the Sejm – Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski, Catholic University in Lublin – Komitet Wojewódzki (PZPR), Voivodeship Committee (of the Polish United Workers’ Party) – Komenda Wojewódzka MO, Voivodeship Headquarters of the Citizens’ Militia – Liga Kobiet, Women’s League – Ministerstwo Bezpieczeństwa Publicznego, MBP – Ministry of Public Security (commonly known as: Urząd Bezpieczeństwa (UB) – Security Office, later: SB – Ministerstwo Kontroli Państwowej, Ministry of State Control – Milicja Obywatelska, Citizens’ Militia – Monitor Polski, periodical – Ministerstwo Pracy i Opieki Społecznej, Ministry of Labour and Social Welfare – Ministerstwo Przemysłu, Drobnego i Rzemiosła, Ministry of Small Industries and Crafts – Miejska Rada Narodowa, City Council – Ministerstwo Spraw Wewnętrznych, Ministry of the Interior – Nowa Kultura, periodical – Oddział Dokumentacji i Zbiorów Programowych TVP, Documentation and Programme Collections Division of TVP – Open Society Archive (Budapest)

List of Abbreviations PCV (PVC, PCW) PGR PIH PeKaO PK PKO PLO PMRN

– – – – – – – –

POM POP

– –

PP pp PRL PRN PTTK

– – – – –

PU

–

PWRN

–

PZPR

–

RE

–

RFE RN RR RSFRR (RFSRR)

– – – –

RSW

–

RWE RZM SB SD SM SKR

– – – – – –

317

polichlorek winylu, polyvinyl chloride Państwowe Gospodarstwo Rolne, State Agricultural Farming Państwowa Inspekcja Handlowa, State Inspectorate of Trade Polska Kasa Opieki, Polish Provident Bank Przegląd Kulturalny, periodical Powszechna Kasa Oszczędności, General Savings Bank Polskie Linie Oceaniczne, Polish Ocean Lines Prezydium Miejskiej Rady Narodowej, Presidium of the City Council Państwowy Ośrodek Maszynowy, State Machine Centre Podstawowa Organizacja Partyjna, Primary Party Organisation Po prostu, periodical pułk piechoty, infantry regiment Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa, Polish People’s Republic Powiatowa Rada Narodowa, County Council Polskie Towarzystwo Turystyczno-Krajoznawcze, Polish Tourist and Sightseeing Society Powiatowy Urząd (Bezpieczeństwa Publicznego), District Office (of Public Security) Prezydium Wojewódzkiej Rady Narodowej, Presidium of the Voivodeship National Council Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza, Polish United Workers’ Party Rada Ekonomiczna przy Radzie Ministrów, Economic Council of the Council of Ministers Radio Free Europe Rada Narodowa, City Council Rada Robotnicza, Workers’ Council Rosyjska Federacyjna Socjalistyczna Republika radziecka, Russian Federative Soviet Socialist Republic Robotnicza Spółdzielnia Wydawnicza, Workers’ Publishing Co-operative Radio Wolna Europa, Free Europe Radio Rewolucyjny Związek Młodzieży, Revolutionary Youth Union Służba Bezpieczeństwa, Security Service (formed in 1956) Stronnictwo Demokratyczne, Democratic Party Sztandar Młodych, newspaper Spółdzielnia kółek rolniczych, Co-operative of Agricultural Societies

318 SOZ SP TD TP KUL

TŚM UB URM WFMiK WE KW

WO

WOP WRN WZGKiM

ZCWNiK ZHP ZLP ZMP ZMR ZMS ZMW ZSL ZSRR ZW ŻG ŻW

List of Abbreviations – Biuro Spraw Obronnych i Zarządzania Kryzysowego, Office of dDefence Affairs and Crisis Management – Słowo Powszechne, newspaper – Tygodnik Demokratyczny, weekly – Towarzystwo Przyjaciół Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego, Society of Friends of the Catholic University of Lublin – Towarzystwo Świadomego Macierzyństwa, Society for Conscious Motherhood – Urząd Bezpieczeństwa, Security Office (political police formed in 1945) – Urząd Rady Ministrów, Office of the Council of Ministers – Warszawska Fabryka Mydła i Kosmetyków, Warsaw Soap and Cosmetics Factory – Wydział Ekonomiczny Komitetu Wojewódzkiego (PZPR), Economic Department of the Voivodeship Committee (PZPR) – Wydział Organizacyjny (KC PZPR), Organisational Department (Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party) – Wojska Ochrony Pogranicza, Border Protection Troops – Wojewódzka Rada Narodowa, Voivodeship Council – Wojewódzki Zarząd Gospodarki Komunalnej i Mieszkaniowej, Voivodeship Administration of Municipal and Housing Management – Zespół Centralny do Walki z Nadużyciami i Korupcją, Central Team to Combat Fraud and Corruption – Związek Harcerstwa Polskiego, Polish Scouting Association – Związek Literatów Polskich, Polish Writers’ Union – Związek Młodzieży Polskiej, Union of Polish Youth – Związek Młodzieży Robotniczej, Workers’ Youth Union – Związek Młodzieży Socjalistycznej, Union of Socialist Youth – Związek Młodzieży Wiejskiej, Rural Youth Union – Zjednoczone Stronnictwo Chłopskie, United People’s Party – Związek Socjalistycznych Republik Radzieckich | USSR, United Socialist Soviet Republic – Zarząd Wojewódzki – Życie Gospodarcze, periodical – Życie Warszawy, newspaper

Bibliography

Archives

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Index Abramow-Newerly Jarosław 114, 171 Ambroziak Jacek 202 Anouilh Jean 191 Aristippus of Cyrene 129 Balzac Honoré de 143 Baraniecki Karol 164, 276 Bardot Brigitte XXI, 30, 32, 33, 35, 187, 193 Baro (Łabużek) Piotr 180 Batory Stefan (Báthory István) 144 Bądkowski Jan 245 Beaupré Jadwiga 52 Beauvoir Simone de 30, 192 Beckett Samuel 191 Bejze Bohdan 201, 202 Bernacki Lucjan 162 Beylin Karolina 194 Bierut Bolesław XI, 118, 143, 144, 161 Bluemke Fryderyk 221 Blok Aleksandr 193 Bobkowski Andrzej 199 Bobrowska Alicja 39 Bobrowski Czesław 237, 242, 86, 304 Bohdzielenko Rozalia 250 Böll Heinrich 192 Borowiecki Jan 265 Borowik Włodzimierz 13, 18 Boyer Lucienne 192 Boyer-Brun Jacques-Marie XVIII Brando Marlon 132 Bratkowski Andrzej 121 Bratkowski Stefan 120, 126 Broniarek Romuald 32, 152, 210, 219, 225 Broz Tito Josip 144 Brubeck Dave 193 Budrewicz Olgierd 193 Bunin Ivan 193 Burnham James 312 Burzyński Roman 193 Cabaja 153 Caldwell Erskine 143 Camus Albert 30, 31, 192, 312 Carrel Alexis 312 Cat-Mackiewicz Józef 312

Chou En-Lai 144 Christie Agatha 143 Churchill Winston 144 Ciampi Yves 148 Ciepieńko Danuta 201, 203 Conan Doyle Arthur 143 Curie-Skłodowska Marie 144, 147 Cybulski Andrzej 311 Cyrankiewicz Józef 8, 26, 126, 222, 230 Czapski Józef 200 Chou En-Lai 144 Dąbrowska Maria XVII, 143, 146, 190 Dean James 132 Dietrich Tadeusz 256 Dobieszak Ryszard 264 Dostoyevsky Fyodor 193 Dumas Alexandre 143 Eberhardt Konrad 200 Einstein Albert XXII, 113, 129, 136, 144, 146, 147, 149 Erenburg Ilya 48 Faulkner William 192 Ferster Karol XVIII–XXII, XXIV, 293 Ficowski Jerzy 250 Fiedler Arkady 143 Fikus Dariusz 148, 149 Flatau Kazimierz 201 Fredro Aleksander 144 Friedmann Werner XVI Garibaldi Giuseppe 144 Garlicki Andrzej 116 Gershwin George 189, 190 Giedroyc Jerzy XVII, XXIV, 173, 180, 195–205 Gluck Leopold 242 Goffman Erving 55 Gombrowicz Witold 199 Gomułka Władysław XI, XII, XVI, XXII, 33, 56, 66, 75, 84, 88, 125–128, 144, 149, 155, 163, 164, 196, 215, 222, 223, 227, 230, 249, 260, 265, 309

336 Goździk Lechosław 119, 196 Górny Wojciech 202 Grabowski Zbigniew 205 Greco Juliette 135 Greene Graham 193 Grotowski Jerzy 129 Gruenspan Paweł 72 Halperin Ernst 133 Hemingway Ernest 144, 194 Hitler Adolf 146 Hłasko Marek XVII, 31, 34, 143 Hoggart Richard XV Hołyst Brunon 17 Hryniewiecki Jerzy 207 Hugo Victor 143 Huxley Aldous 191 Hyla Józefa 88 Ibsen Henrik 191 Ivánka Aleksander 68 Iwaszkiewicz Jarosław 169, 178, 179 Jałosiński Aleksander 201 Jankowski Jerzy (Ibis) 23, 24, 35, 70, 71 Jankowski, mine director 162 Jarosińska Irena 122, 123 Jaroszewicz Piotr 97, 238 Jasińska Magdalena 17 Jezierski 269 Joyce James 192 Jürgens Curt 148 Kabaj Mieczysław 76 Kafka Franz 192 Kalecki Michał 215, 235, 247, 248 Kalkowski Jan 23 Kamiński M., confectioner 288 Karpiński Jakub (Marek Tarniewski) 309 Kasprzyk Helena 153 Kästner Erich 211 Khrushchev Nikita XI, 31, 118, 214 Kibalenko Roman 72, 85 Kielanowski Tadeusz 49 Kisielewski Stefan 200 Kiulin Zbigniew 7, 61 Klominek Andrzej 193 Kobylińska Eugenia 1

Index Kobyliński Szymon 35 Kochanowicz Tadeusz 85, 111 Konarz Marek 18, 22 Konarzewski Józef 17 Korecki Witold 229 Kosel Gerhard 227 Kosiński Krzysztof 1 Kossakowska Zofia 204 Kościuszko Tadeusz 144, 147 Kotarbiński Tadeusz 203 Kozakiewicz Mikołaj 4, 5 Koźniewska Leona 193 Koźniewski Kazimierz 191, 193 Krasicki Xawery XXIII Kraszewski Józef Ignacy 143 Krąkowski Ludwik 62, 63 Królikowski Janusz 43 Kruczkowski Leon 33 Krzyżanowski Adam 257 Kurek Jalu 6 Kuroń Jacek 119 Kurowski Stefan 263 Kwiatkowski Tadeusz 201 Kydryński Juliusz 193 Kydryński Lucjan 190 Lange Oskar 235 Lasota Eligiusz 119 Lazari-Pawłowska Ija 201, 204, 205 Leder Andrzej 248 Ledóchowski Stanisław 207 Lem Stanisław 143, 218, 224 Lenin Vladimir Ilyich 48 , 124, 144, 253 Leon Jacek 61 Lesiński Jan 52 Lewtak Stefan 269 Lipiński Eryk 192, 255 Lipski Jan Józef 245 Lollobrigida Gina 34, 144 London Jack 144 Loren Sophia 34, 130 Lorentz Stanisław 204 Łastik Salomon 18, 20, 22 Łukawski Stanisław 221 Malaparte Curzio 194 Mann Thomas 143 Manturzewski Stanisław 1

337

Index Mao Tse Tung 144 Margaret (Windsor), princess 187 Marks Karol 25, 157, 175, 197 Marshak Samuil 48 Mauriac François 192 Maurois André 192 Meissner Janusz 143 Michałowicz Mieczysław 51 Mickiewicz Adam 144 Mieroszewski Juliusz 196, 198, 205 Miller Glenn 192 Miłosz Czesław 199, 283, 302 Mirosław Zbigniew 38 Mniszkówna Helena 194 Modzelewski Karol 116, 117 Montand Yves 144, 148, 192 Morawski Jerzy 37 Moszyński Edmund 199 Motyka Lucjan 113 Mrozińska Alicja 201 Napoleon Bonaparte 144 Nawratowicz Barbara 35 Nehru Javaharlal 144 Niedziałek Wojciech 120, 122, 128 Nitecki Leon 27 Nowak, restaurants owner 269 Olczak-Ronikier Joanna 36 Orman Bolesław 10 Ormandy Eugene 192 Ortym Tymoteusz 34 Orwell George 199 Orzeszkowa Eliza 31 Ossowska Maria 114, 201, 204 Ossowski Stanisław 204 Passent Daniel 116 Philipe Gérard 187 Piasecki Bohdan 10 Pilniak Boris 193 Piłsudski Józef 144 Piotrowski Stanisław 201, 204 Pisarski Grzegorz 261 Plum Dagny 179 Podkowiński Marian 194 Pokora Mirosław 134 Pomian Krzysztof 114, 310

Porter Cole 190 Presley Elvis 187 Prus Bolesław 143 Puchalski Juliusz XIX, XX, 5 Pumpiański Rafał 46 Radliński Antoni 230 Remarque Erich 143 Rewska Hanna 201 Rogger Hans 214 Rolke Tadeusz 41, 94, 138, 251, 285, 303, 304 Rolland Romain 143 Rolleczek Natalia 204 Romańczuk E., furrier 288 Różycka Maria 203 Rubinraut-Babiniak Henryk 53 Rubinstein Artur 192 Rudnicki Adolf 143 Rutkowska Barbara 184 Sagan Françoise 30, 31, 143, 188, 194 Saint-Exupéry Antoine de 147, 192 Sandauer Artur 153, 193 Sartre Jean-Paul 30, 192, 311 Schelsky Helmut 131 Sholokhov Mikhail 143 Shostakovich Dmitry 48 Sienkiewicz Henryk 143, 147 Skórzyński Jan 65 Słowacki Juliusz 144 Sosińska Elżbieta 37 Speransky Georgi 48 Spychalski Marian 190 Stalin Joseph  XI, XVII, XXI, XXII, 13, 21, 29, 36, 55, 83, 84, 109, 116, 117, 130, 143, 144, 146, 151, 170 Stehle Hansjakob 246 Steinbeck John 189, 238 Stendhal (Henri Beyle) 143 Stola Dariusz 171, 172 Stone Shepard 196 Strzelecki Ryszard 223 Szczepański Jan  XII Szczepański Jan Józef  287 Szejnert Małgorzata XXIII Szell George 192 Szymański Zygmunt 181 Szyr Eugeniusz 222, 223, 305, 265

338 Świda-Ziemba Hanna 115, 117, 132, 135 Świerczewski Karol 144 Tarkowski Piotr 18, 25 Tolstoy Alexei 143 Townsend Peter 187 Turski Marian 135, 148 Turski Ryszard 119 Tymiński Maciej 65 Ulbricht Walter 227 Vlady Marina 134 Voynich Ethel L. 144 Washington George 144 Wasilewski Andrzej 147 Ważyk Adam 17, 118 Wilder Thornton 192 Wisłocka Michalina 46 Władyka Wiesław 309 Wojas Paweł 102

Index Wolicki Krzysztof 148, 215, 224 Woźniakiewicz Jan 281 Wójcik Helena 202 Wright Helen Rosa 52, 53 Wróblewski Andrzej 219 Wróblewski Andrzej Krzysztof 120, 126, 171, 175, 180, 218 Wyszyński Stefan XXII, 44, 151, 154 Zabłocki Janusz 170, 305 Zając Michał 217 Zakrzewski Stanisław 306, 307 Zambrowski Roman 101, 102, 106, 126, 243, 247 Zaruba Jerzy 7, 252 Zawieyski Jerzy XII, 31, 310 Zbrzezny Ryszard 178 Ziarnik Jerzy 89 Zientarowa Maria 194 Ziomkowski Henryk 27 Zola Émile 143 Żeromski Stefan 143, 144