Poland: A Novel Part 48

'Do you think, Szymon, that this map of Poland is fixed? Has our map ever been fixed? If the two Germanys are allowed to unite, can't you see that they'll march again to recover their lost lands? If the Soviet Union becomes more irritated with us, don't you see that they'll send their tanks rumbling in, and once more our lands will be ripped away from us?' The two patriots studied the fragile map that contained so many correctible errors, and they could visualize the sweep of armies across it, the sound once again of hobnailed boots. 'We must all of us be so careful of what we do ... not to alert the sleeping tanks.'

Throwing his arm about Bukowski's shoulder, he led the Communist leader to the door. 'It seems to me, Szymon, that our situation today is precisely what it was in 1791. Then some patriotic Poles conceded that the nation must have a liberal, free form of government. And they drew up the finest const.i.tution Europe had yet seen. And do you remember what happened?'

'I do. My mother taught me that along with my alphabet. Prussia and Russia were so terrified by the prospect of a free modern nation on their borders, they swept in and destroyed us.'

'Even the children know that the Forest of Szczek is filled with Russian tanks. Waiting to destroy us again.'

'They're everywhere. In carefully concealed positions. All over Poland, I mean.'

'Do you see the a.n.a.logy, Szymon? Today the patriotic men of Poland, like Janko Buk, are struggling for a better society, and once more there are nations who fear her, want to destroy her. I'm sorry to see you allied with the tanks in the forest.'

The bishop, recognizing Szymon as wise and patriotic, did not wish to end his conversation on such a somber note, so as he walked Bukowski to the door he said: 'Szymon, clear your mind of torments. Put the ghosts to sleep.'

'That is not so easy.'

'Think of it this way. The little girl from Zamosc died to save you. The little Jew from the synagogue died to save me. But Jesus Christ died to save us all.'

When Bukowski neared the village on his way back, he stopped his car so that he might look at the ruins of the old castle, and he stayed there for more than an hour, just sitting in the dark, allowing images to flash through his mind: Bishop Barski and the little rabbi; the girl in her overcoat; the grinning Otto Grundtz; the grinning n.a.z.is Under the Clock; the bowl of hot, fatty soup at Pani Tomczyk's; the big head of King Jan Sobieski torn to shreds by n.a.z.i bullets, then miraculously restored to life by women's fingers and a painter's brush; and that long row of n.o.ble men in the dark gallery whom he had brought back to existence by his patience and his love of things Polish.

Violently he started his car and whipped it with screeching wheels up to the palace, where he rushed past the guards to go down into the gallery to see once more the restored faces of his friends, especially the two who had worked so diligently and with such superior ability for the welfare of Poland, Czartoryski, who had struggled to bring the nation into modern times, and old Zamoyski, who had done so many wonderful things.

'Brothers!' he cried to the stately figures. 'All of you, we owe you so much.' He went especially to old Mniszech of the big beard and bigger belly. 'You old son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h! We could have done business together.' He stood on tiptoes but failed in his purpose, so he looked for a box, and when he found a rickety chair he brought it to the portrait of the old tiger, stood upon the seat, and kissed Mniszech on the forehead.

'Give me your blessing!' he shouted to them. 'I need your blessing this night!'

And then he ran from the palace and down the beautiful lanes to the village and crept to the cottage of Janko Buk, where he tapped softly on the window. After a moment he awakened someone inside, and cautiously the door was opened. It was Janko's wife, Kazimiera, the country girl, and she was perplexed, for it was still two hours before dawn.

'What is it?' she whispered, for the others were still sleeping.

'I came here before like this,' he said. 'Let me in.'

'I'll fetch Janko,' she said.

He grasped her arm. 'It is not Janko that I seek.'

He brushed past her and went into the house, where he awakened Janko and his mother. When they stood before him he said: 'Years ago I came into this room at this time of night to beg you with tears in my eyes, Biruta, for food to keep my men alive.'

'We gave you what we had,' she said, drawing her nightdress about her.

'And I asked your husband, Jan, to help me fight the n.a.z.is.'

'And he did. We both did,' Biruta said.

'Tonight ...' He was trembling violently and in the dim light sweat showed across his face. 'Tonight I have come on a much different mission. I have been alone ... I am still a prisoner in Majdanek ... I can no longer fight them all.'

They stood in the near-darkness, exactly as they had done on that night when Biruta had worked the stones of her quern, making the forbidden bread for which other women in this village had given their lives. And Biruta and Szymon were as frightened now at the dangers which a.s.sailed their country as they had been then, but finally he found courage to say: 'I can no longer bear the burden of these days alone. Biruta, will you marry me?'

Next day, 5 December 1981, at one in the afternoon, when the discussions ended and Szymon Bukowski stood before the television cameras to explain what had been achieved, he finished his terse announcements with generous praise for 'your neighbor and good farmer, Janko Buk.'

Buk took the microphone, and with a bow to Chalubinski, said: 'Our little village has been honored to have such a distinguished visitor. Our talks have been amiable, which was good, because they dealt with vital subjects. I am pleased with what has happened here. It bodes well for our nation.

'I close with two personal announcements. I have been asked, as you heard yesterday, to leave you and go to Warsaw to serve in the government. I shall not go.' He turned to face Chalubinski, who gasped. 'I am a farmer, fighting for farmers' rights, and here is the battlefield.

'My second announcement is one which gives my heart joy. My mother, Biruta, who fought the n.a.z.is for so many years and who bears scars to prove it, has agreed to marry Szymon Bukowski, who fought them in his own way and who bears his own scars. In these meetings I have found him to be a resolute man of honor and I am proud to have him join my family.'

On the wedding day Jan Pawel Drugi from Rome sent a telegram conveying his blessing, but Tytus Chalubinski, brooding in his Warsaw headquarters, did not. He was outraged that a member of his team should be marrying this Biruta Buk woman who had so scathingly attacked him during the palace meetings. Now, from his desk, he took out a pile of index cards, golden-yellow, on which he had for some time been listing the names of those Poles who would have to be arrested when the inescapable crackdown came. The people named on those cards that were marked with a black cross would be sent to the concentration camps which would eventually be needed-and to this growing list he now added Szymon Bukowski and his wife, Biruta.

But for the time being the Russian tanks remained well hidden, deep within the Forest of Szczek.

Acknowledgments.

In 1977 a television company invited me to go to any exotic place in the world to shoot a doc.u.mentary, and I astonished them by choosing without hesitation: 'Poland.' When they asked why, I replied: 'If you look at its geographical and ideological position, you'll see that it must become a focal point within the next decade.'

In succeeding years I visited Poland some eight times, traveling to almost every part of the nation. Private sources provided me with a helicopter for the better part of a week. I used it to fly at a very low alt.i.tude over all of Poland. I was encouraged to visit schools, universities, laboratories, art centers, historical sites, and at one point I said that what I needed most was to spend some time with a devout Roman Catholic clergyman who spoke English. By good luck I was taken to see the Bishop of Krakow, Karol Wojtyla, with whom I had a series of productive conversations. Later I spent time with Cardinal Wyszynski and Primate Glemp, and through them was allowed to see the workings of a church within a Communist country.

By accident I spent a beautiful vacation at Lancut Palace and by design an extended tour to some dozen of Poland's magical castles. I also spent an equal amount of time in the heavy industries of Katowice and in the Lenin s.h.i.+pyards at Gdansk. By car I traveled many hundreds of miles to all parts of Poland.

In such work I had the guidance of Edward J. Piszek, an American Pole who, because of his humanitarian interest, had strong ties to Polish affairs, with an entree to almost any facet of Polish life. The car in which I traveled was often driven by his a.s.sistant, Stanley Moszuk, a gifted citizen of Poland with a strong knowledge of its art and history.

When the time came in 1979 that I thought of writing a novel about the critical developments in Poland, it was obvious to me that since I did not speak Polish or read it, I would need some kind of bibliographical a.s.sistance, and Piszek and Moszuk came up with the idea of asking some dozen top intellects in Poland to draft summaries of recent scholars.h.i.+p in fifteen vital fields. They chose the scholars; I set the topics; and a happy relations.h.i.+p ensued. The scholars received payment for summarizing material they already knew well and I received an unmatched overview of Polish history as local authorities view it today.

They wrote in Polish, which was translated by experts who sometimes knew the field under discussion as well as the writer. From such sources and many others I compiled an impressive body of research data, including some excellent books written in Polish but now available in English.

After I had digested an enormous body of material and felt myself prepared to write the novel which I had had in mind for some years, I returned to Poland in the summer of 1981 and revisited every spot I proposed to write about: Tannenberg, where the great battle took place; Malbork, of the Teutonic Knights; Zamosc, which must be one of the most evocative small cities in Europe; Krzyztopor, a castle of unbelievable dimension; Dukla, of the captivating Mniszechs; Krakow, with its trumpeter; and of course, that section of the Vistula sh.o.r.eline which would house my story. I mention no Polish place in this novel which I have not visited, and that includes Kiev, which was once Polish.

I followed each mile of Jan Sobieski's military expedition to Vienna, and there traced out his brilliant defense of that city. I went to all borders, followed all the military trails my characters would follow, and lived once more in Lancut Palace, imagining myself a guest of the great Princess Lubomirska, friend of Goethe, Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, all of whom considered her one of the most brilliant women in Europe.

One of my best excursions was with a pair of notable Polish scholars, who spent two weeks with me finding specific and out-of-the-way sites I wished to write about, including remote and towering Niedzica, which used to guard the far Hungarian border.

I had the remarkable experience of being arrested twice within ninety minutes for speeding in Czechoslovakia, once at forty miles an hour, once at forty-five. 'Polish license plates will trap you every time,' my companion explained. One had to pay the fine in Czechoslovakian currency, of course. But it could be purchased only miles distant from the point of arrest. I left Czechoslovakia just ahead of the police, who wanted to make a third arrest. I left Poland one week before martial law was declared.

The point of these comments is that I was constantly befriended and advised by a sterling group of Polish men and women who discussed with me hour after hour every aspect of Polish history that I proposed touching. Normally, as I have done in my other novels, I would list their names, their impressive occupations, their achievements in research and scholars.h.i.+p, but I cannot ascertain whether in the present climate this would hurt or help them.

I know this: they were loyal Poles; they loved their land; they spoke of it with unbounded affection and never a hint of disaffection. They were patriots of a high order; two of them who had spent time in Auschwitz and Majdanek brought tears to my eyes as we retraced in brutal, infinite detail the day-by-day existence in the latter camp.

This book is dedicated to them, and I hope it conveys some of the pa.s.sion they expressed in telling me of their Poland.

The completed ma.n.u.script was read by Professor Marian Turski in Rome and by Klara Glowczewska in New York, both of whom are ent.i.tled to my warmest thanks.

BY JAMES A. MICHENER.

Tales of the South Pacific.

The Fires of Spring.

Return to Paradise.

The Voice of Asia The Bridges at Toko-Ri.

Sayonara The Floating World.

The Bridge at Andau Hawaii.

Report of the Country Chairman.

Caravans The Source.

Iberia Presidential Lottery The Quality of Life Kent State: What Happened and Why The Drifters A Michener Miscellany: 19501970 Centennial Sports in America.

Chesapeake The Covenant s.p.a.ce.

Poland Texas Legacy Alaska.

Journey Caribbean The Eagle and the Raven Pilgrimage.

The Novel James A. Michener's Writer's Handbook Mexico Creatures of the Kingdom.

Recessional Miracle in Seville This n.o.ble Land: My Vision for America.

The World Is My Home with A. Grove Day.

Rascals in Paradise with John Kings Six Days in Havana.

About the Author.

JAMES A. MICHENER, one of the world's most popular writers, was the author of the Pulitzer Prizewinning Tales of the South Pacific, the best-selling novels Hawaii, Texas, Chesapeake, The Covenant, and Alaska, and the memoir The World Is My Home. Michener served on the advisory council to NASA and the International Broadcast Board, which oversees the Voice of America. Among dozens of awards and honors, he received America's highest civilian award, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, in 1977, and an award from the President's Committee on the Arts and Humanities in 1983 for his commitment to art in America. Michener died in 1997 at the age of ninety.

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