Impressions of Communist Poland 1973

Going to Poland when I was 13 sealed my destiny to become a global traveler. In 1973, plane travel was a novelty and flying coach was still a luxurious way to get somewhere. My parents, sister and I flew from Chicago to Rejkjavik to Warsaw on Pan Am. We boarded the plane with our airline issued carry-on flight bags, which had arrived with our tickets several weeks before our departure. Our trip began with a two-week Communist sanctioned bus tour, organized by Orbis (the National Travel Agency, and at the time the only travel agency in Poland). This took us to Warsaw, Gdansk, Krakow, Czestochowa, and Zakopane. Then we spent a week with my mother's family near Poznan, followed by a week with my father's family near Wroclaw. These relatives had not seen my parents, since their deportation by the Russians during World War II. Our relativesone drove long stretches of poorly paved roads to pick us up and drive us from one place to another. They wined and dined us, giving us their rooms to sleep in while they bunked on the floor. Their homes were modest, yet they set out one meal after meal. It seemed we'd just finish one meal, when the next one would begin. Their joy at seeing us, and their surprise at our ability to speak Polish fluently was overwhelming.

My Saturday Polish school and harcerstwo (girl scouts) finally made sense to me. I could speak Polish and get along with everyone I met. The foreign land I had read about during those dreaded Polish lessons was not only tangible, but familiar. I liked the feeling of being both Polish and American. I met numerous cousins, and one, Loretta, became my fast friend. I remember her admiring my jeans (which were practically impossible to get in Poland in the 70's). I left them with her. Poland seemed to have been stuck in the 50s. It was old fashioned and run down, even though many of the buildings were new. Sadly they were built in a blocky, gray communist style.

After a month of traveling, my parents returned home, and sent my 11 year-old sister and me to a camp in the Tatra mountains. We had eschewed the city camp for English speaking kids in Warsaw. Instead, we chose the camp for French girls in the mountains of southern Poland in the tiny hamlet of Bukowina Tatrzanska. No one spoke English, so we had to speak Polish for the month. Every morning we drank hot tea and ate the same breakfast of bread, butter and jam. We were there in July, so on the 4th we sang the Star Spangled Banner, and on the 14th, Bastille Day we sang the La Marseillaise. We swam and floated down the icy river, hiked, had dances with a local boys' camp, and experimented with make-up.

My sister and I flew home alone. The term "unaccompanied minors" didn’t mean extra fees for flying alone—it meant we were fawned over by the stewardesses. How could I not love traveling?

During this trip my connection to Poland solidified. I finally understood the deep-rooted affection my parents and the Polish community we belonged to in Chicago had for Poland. I felt a great sadness at Poland's communist fate and shared my parents longing for a free and independent Poland. By traveling and living abroad, I felt I was part of a bigger community, one much greater than the suburb that defined the world of my teenage friends.

Poland struggling after Martial Law 1984

During the summer of 1984 I was in Milan, and on a whim, decided to visit Poland. At that time Poland was not on the average tourist’s radar. It had been under military rule, or Martial Law since 1981 when the government tried to crush and eliminate the emerging Solidarity movement. It was an awful time for Poland. The government closed the national borders and airspace, arrested people associated with Solidarity, and monitored telephone and postal services. Goods and food were in short supply. When I applied for a visa to Poland a year after Martial Law had been lifted, rumors that the brutal ZOMO riot police were still roaming about.

I arrived in Poland without a plan. Unsmiling officials greeted me. Store shelves were still empty, train and bus tickets were unavailable, and Krakow had four cafes open on the main square. A newspaper commentary summed it up best "troszke lepiej, ale wciaz kiepsko" (a little better, but still awful). To get on a train that was overflowing with vacationing school children, I stopped pleading in Polish, and finally asked a conductor in English to “please let me on because my visa is only valid for 4 more days”. Some soldiers sitting on their duffels in a postal wagon overheard me and invited me to ride with them. They said that during the summer months it is practically impossible to buy train tickets at the last minute. They offered me cigarettes and spoke what little English they knew as we sat on bags of mail. In this way, I was able to get from Krakow to Wroclaw where my family lives.

In Wroclaw I searched through a phone book for my Ciocia Lola and Wujek Janek Zioberski’s address. Their apartment happened to be near the center of town not far from the train station. I walked over, but they weren't there. An inquisitive neighbor came to my rescue. He informed me that my relatives were away, then offered to call up my other aunt, Ciocia Renia. She picked me up and made a few phone calls to friends and shop owners, and somehow food started appearing, sausages, ham, cheeses, vegetables, and pastries. Where these came from I don’t know, because the shops at that time were empty and Poles would stand for hours in line just to get a loaf of bread. It seemed to me that the Poles had some kind of an underground market or system of looking out for each other. Since I only had two days left on my visa to spend in Wroclaw, my Ciocia took me to the police HQ to apply for two more days. The police department couldn’t believe that an America could speak Polish, and that I was able to fill out the necessary paperwork for the visa on my own.

I had a wonderful stay with my Polish Ciocias and Wujeks. We drank tea and vodka and never ran out of things to talk about. They were still incredulous that I had appeared without warning on their doorsteps and kept hugging me.

On the evening of the appointed departure date they packed enough sandwiches to feed a family, then put me on the night train to Prague. At 1:00 am the train crossed the border and stopped. Officials with German shepherds on leashes woke up the sleeping passengers to check passports and tickets. As it turns out I had been in Poland one hour past my extended visa date. I didn’t have the money to pay for an extra visa day and for the steep fine for breaking the law. So the officials escorted me off the train and sent me to Warsaw to have the embassy help me out. Thankfully the American embassy arranged the extra visa days and lent me fifty dollars that I was to pay back upon my return to the States (which I did). I left Poland extremely sad for its continued oppression by the communist government, and extremely thankful to be American.