Poland Nails for Solidarity's Coffin

By Jill Smolowe

Poles like to quip that news dispensed by the state falls into three categories: certain (obituaries), probable (the weather) and nonsensical (everything else). On May 31, however, the terse official announcement had the ring of truth: Zbigniew Bujak, a fugitive underground leader of the banned Solidarity trade-union movement, had been arrested after eluding police for more than four years. Only days later, Poles received a second jolt. The Washington Post reported that the Reagan Administration not only knew in advance about the Warsaw regime's plans to impose martial law in December 1981, but according to Polish Government Spokesman Jerzy Urban, failed to do everything in its power to prevent the imposition. Solidarity's dwindling band of sympathizers warily concluded last week that the government of General Wojciech Jaruzelski was hell-bent on a new campaign to intimidate and demoralize the opposition before the Tenth Polish Communist Party Congress opens in Warsaw at the end of the month.

According to the Post article, the Reagan Administration had been informed of Jaruzelski's plans for a military crackdown fully a month before martial law was imposed. The Administration's alleged source was Colonel Wladyslaw Kuklinski, a senior Polish staff officer who was on the payroll of the CIA. Urban told the Post that the U.S. could have prevented the subsequent arrests and internments by warning Solidarity of the imminent government action. He also charged that by remaining silent, the U.S. demonstrated that it had no interest in averting a "bloody conflict" in Poland. Urban demanded that the Post confront the Reagan Administration with his charges.

In Washington, officials dismissed the accusations as "trumped-up charges" and a "malicious disinformation campaign" and concluded that Urban's account was a "self-serving attempt to lay the blame for martial law in Poland somewhere else." They admitted that the Administration had received "conflicting reports" on the pre-martial-law climate from several sources but had not known definitely whether, or when, the crackdown would take place. Further, one intelligence source said, any action would have jeopardized Kuklinski's life, impaired future intelligence-gathering capabilities in Poland and had no effect on the Polish government's chosen course of action. The State Department did not deny that Kuklinski had been a U.S. agent. He reportedly was whisked out of Poland by the CIA just before martial law was imposed. Kuklinski is now said to be living in the U.S. with his family under an assumed identity.

If Urban hoped to undermine the credibility of the Reagan Administration, his plan backfired. Many Poles, who commonly refer to the President as "Uncle Reagan," directed their anger at the Jaruzelski regime. Solidarity Founder Lech Walesa told reporters that Urban's statements contradicted the Polish regime's previous accounts of the martial-law decision. At the time, Jaruzelski had claimed that military rule was a last-minute response to Solidarity provocation. But by admitting that plans for a crackdown were formulated as early as November, Walesa charged last week, Urban lent credence to the "Solidarity conviction that (martial law) was premeditated." Declared Janusz Onyszkiewicz, another former Solidarity leader: "This is simply a campaign to diminish the sympathy that the U.S. Administration enjoys in Poland."

While the Polish government gained little from Urban's accusations, Bujak's arrest was a clear-cut victory for Jaruzelski. The curly-haired Bujak, 31, had long been a thorn in the regime's side. After slipping past a police dragnet on Dec. 13, 1981, the day martial law began, Bujak refused to disappear quietly from sight. Instead, he openly taunted his hunters, conducting videotaped interviews with Western reporters. He walked the streets wearing clever disguises, organized underground publishing centers and even recorded antigovernment speeches for illicit broadcast in Warsaw's streets. To many Poles, Bujak was a living legend. Now the charismatic fugitive is confined to a Warsaw jail cell, facing charges of plotting to overthrow the state, which carry a maximum penalty of ten years in prison.

In order to limit public protest, the Polish media played down Bujak's unpopular capture and the arrests of two other underground leaders. But the disclosure that the police sweep had been conducted under the direct supervision of General Czeslaw Kiszczak, Poland's Minister of Internal Affairs, left no doubt as to the importance that the regime attached to the operation.

In an attempt to tarnish Bujak's reputation, the Warsaw government accused the captured unionist of having been "controlled and inspired by Western special services." Polish officials claimed that high-tech communications equipment and Western currency had been found in the apartment where Bujak was arrested. Urban also produced an invitation to a U.S. embassy party, which he said had been seized on the premises, though he later conceded that the invitation was addressed to the owner of the apartment, not to Bujak.

While underground leaders have pledged to continue the struggle, Bujak's arrest was a severe blow. Walesa admitted that the authorities had caged "one of the most outstanding and bravest fighters for the cause of Solidarity and human rights." The depleted energy of the movement was apparent last week in the size of the demonstrations staged to protest Bujak's arrest. While Solidarity rallies once drew as many as 20,000 people and union-organized work stoppages attracted the support of 500,000 at a time, a march in Wroclaw drew only 200 people, despite the extensive word-of-mouth networks that link the opposition forces. The paltry response carried the sort of message that Jaruzelski undoubtedly will deliver to the upcoming party congress, namely, that his regime has brought the turbulent nation to heel.

With reporting by Kenneth W. Banta/Warsaw