The latest incarnation of the Republic of Poland came about in 1989. So as far as countries went, this one was relatively young. There’d been a previous version, but World War II and the Soviet occupation interrupted its existence. Since its rebirth there’d been nine heads of state. The constitution provided for a five-year term with the possibility of a single reelection, but only one of his eight predecessors had managed a second term.
Polish politics, if nothing else, stayed fluid.
Most of the everyday work was done by a prime minister, usually the head of the majority party in Parliament—but in theory it could be anyone. The national constitution provided the president with an executive veto, which could be overridden by a three-fifths majority in Parliament. The president served as the supreme commander of the armed forces, able to order a general mobilization. He nominated and recalled ambassadors, pardoned criminals, and could override certain judicial verdicts. Pertinent to the current predicament, the president was also the supreme representative of the Polish state, with the power to ratify and revoke international agreements.
Lucky him.
He climbed into the car and they motored away from the palace, leaving through a side exit.
His first term was drawing to a close.
The qualifications for president were simple. Be a Polish citizen, at least thirty-five years old on the day of the first round of the election, and collect the signatures of one hundred thousand registered voters. The winner was chosen by an absolute majority. If no candidate achieved that threshold, a runoff was held between the top two. He’d won his first term after a close runoff and another battle loomed on the horizon, as various opponents were emerging. A former prime minister. A popular lawyer. Three members of Parliament. A punk rock musician who headed one of the more vocal minor political parties. A former government minister who’d declared he would run only if Czajkowski pissed him off. Apparently that was now the case as the loudmouth was gathering his hundred thousand signatures.
The coming political season looked to be a lively one.
Thankfully, he was somewhat popular. The latest opinion polls showed a 55% approval rating. Not bad. But not overwhelming, either. Which was another reason he now found himself in a car, watching the kilometers glide by, as he was driven west toward the village of Józefa. After three weeks of searching the source of the problem had been found. A former communist-era loyalist who’d been dead for over a decade. It had been too much to hope that he took whatever he knew to the grave. Instead, some old information had surfaced. And not just random facts and figures. This was something that directly affected him. In fact, it could ruin him. Especially with a hotly contested election on the horizon.
Foolishly he’d believed the past dead and gone.
But now it seemed to be threatening everything.
Time for him to deal with it face-to-face.
* * *
The car passed through Józefa, perched on a cliff overlooking the River Wisła. It had a long history and an attractive old center, boasting a castle ruin and a cathedral, but its main claim to fame was a nearby refinery that employed hundreds. The house he sought was south of town, on a side road that led away from the river. His driver parked to one side, away from the street, among the trees, where the car would not draw attention. He stepped out into the warm evening and walked toward the front door. A man waited, dressed in a black suit and black tie, with an inscrutable expression that was proper but cold. Michał Zima. The head of the BOR.
He entered the house.
A simple place, similar to the one in which he’d been raised in southern Poland, close to Rzeszów, his parents farmers, not revolutionaries. But that all changed in the 1980s. Private landownership had never been allowed. To appease a growing unrest, everyone was promised ownership through purchase or inheritance. But it was all a lie. Eventually his parents and most of the other farmers rebelled and refused to sell food at the undercut government-set prices, instead donating their crops to strikers.
A brave act that had made a difference.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Out back.”
“And the other?”
Zima motioned. “In there.”
“Tell me how you found this place?”
“A bit of luck, actually. But sometimes that’s all you have.”
He caught the message. Don’t ask too many questions.
His gaze raked the room and he noticed an array of framed pictures on a table. One caught his eye. He walked over and studied the image of a man dressed in a uniform. A major in the Polish army, with the insignia of the SB, the Security Service, on his shirt. He recognized the nondescript face, with razor-cut hair and manicured mustache, the same man from Mokotów Prison.
Aleksy Dilecki.
He’d neither seen nor heard anything of the man in decades.
World War II destroyed Poland, everything bombed and gutted to oblivion with no resources and little manpower left to rebuild. The Soviets promised a rebirth and many believed them. But by the late 1970s, the lies were evident and the country’s patience had come to an end. By then everyone worked long hours, found little food in stores, and was constantly cold from a lack of coal and clothing, including coats. They were spied on all the time, fed propaganda, their children brainwashed. The threat of force never ended. Nor had hunger, with the government even dictating how much a person could eat through ration cards. We all have equal stomachs. That’s what many had echoed. And when people were hungry, when their children were hungry, they would do anything to calm the pain.
And they did.
He liked what Orwell wrote.
All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.
That had been Aleksy Dilecki.
Politicians and police were always favored. They received more rations. They shopped at special stores. They lived in better housing, with more privileges. They even had a name. Nomenklatura, a Soviet term for the list of government jobs always waiting to be filled. People were selected not on merit, but solely on loyalty to the regime. They became an informal ruling class unto themselves. The Red Bourgeoisie. Corruption and cruelty were constant means to their ends.
And he was staring at one of the participants.
He remembered what was said, all those years ago, in Mokotów Prison.
Who knows? One day you might be a big somebody.
He shook his head at the irony, and liked the fact that Dilecki was dead.
“Do you know him?” Zima asked.
He’d only briefed one person on the relevant history, and it wasn’t Zima. So he ignored the inquiry and said, “Show me what you found.”
And he replaced the photo on the table.
He followed Zima into a small storage room, the space cluttered with remnants of a family’s past. He saw the two rusted filing cabinets.
“They’re filled with documents,” Zima said. “Reports, correspondence, memoranda. All from the late 1970s to 1990. Scattered dates and incidents. No real pattern to anything. Dilecki worked for the Security Service a long time. He would have been privy to many secrets. Apparently, he removed some of those when the communists fell.”
So much had been lost during that chaotic period after the Soviet Union collapsed and Poland reemerged. Today few cared about the past. Everyone was just glad it was over. The future seemed to be all that mattered. But such shortsightedness was a mistake.