A Fight for Democracy All the Way to America
The family gathering began like any other at Krzysztof Duszkiewicz’s apartment in Lublin, a city in eastern Poland. Krzysztof and his cousin, Andrew, talked politics and caught up on each other’s lives while their wives bonded over his 6-week-old son.
But this time Andrew came with a request for Krzysztof’s help. He wanted to build a branch of Fighting Solidarity in eastern Poland to thwart the Soviets’ communist regime that had dominated the country since the end of World War II in 1944.
“Krzysztof, what do you think?” Krzysztof remembers Andrew asking him.
“Sounds good to me,” he replied without hesitation.
It didn’t matter that his mother was a communist. It didn’t matter that his father was a local official of the communist Polish Workers’ Party. It didn’t matter that about 60 percent of Poland’s population was communist.
It was February of 1983, and Krzysztof couldn’t stand idle any longer.
On Dec. 13, 1981, the Polish government had imposed martial law on the country. Under the communist-imposed martial law, the government enforced a strict curfew and banned public gatherings. Citizens had to seek permission to leave their cities. Tanks roamed the streets to protect government operations.
Meanwhile, the Polish citizens lived in fear.
Despite the suspension of martial law on Dec. 31, 1982, the communists’ grip on Polish citizens didn’t budge.
“That is the problem with communism,” Krzysztof thought. “People are afraid to speak up.”
Andrew, a laborer, had met someone from Fighting Solidarity — an underground anti-communist organization noted for its separation from trade unions and its quest to regain Poland’s independence. He just needed someone to act as the “brains” of the operation. Krzysztof, an assistant professor, provided the perfect fit.
Krzysztof took all the contact information from Andrew and set off for Wroclaw, a city in western Poland serving as the secret headquarters for Fighting Solidarity.
There, Krzysztof pledged an oath to make his commitment to Fighting Solidarity official.
“I swear on the Holy Bible that I will be a soldier for Fighting Solidarity,” Krzysztof recited. He vowed to keep the movement’s operations secret, even if police put his life in jeopardy.
Krzysztof worked at the university by day and for Fighting Solidarity at night. He wrote all the editorials for the literature and managed all the technical film work for the silk screen-printing method. When it came time to print, Andrew squeegeed the screen while Krzysztof lifted and controlled the paper flow.
Krzysztof’s branch of Fighting Solidarity printed its first weekly batch of literature March 31, 1983, quickly rising to become the largest anti-communist organization east of the Vistula River in Poland.
As Krzysztof edited and printed the first copies, his hands shook in fear. Those papers could expose his young family to danger and spell the end of his life. And the stakes were even greater with communist spies infiltrating communities.
That’s why Krzysztof poured much of his own money into financing the underground movement.
Channeling money from consumers could expose everyone. Typically, the literature would be passed beyond the paying customer, generating a readership net 10 times the scope of sales.
Krzysztof didn’t care. For him, the dissemination of truth trumped all the negatives. The communists had built a massive propaganda machine. The only way to fight back was to build an opposing machine.
As the main organizer of the operation, Krzysztof only slept for three or four hours each night. He rotated printing among safe havens to elude the communists. Any slip-up might cost the operation its secrecy. Even buying reams of paper aroused suspicion.
Krzysztof relied on the support of his wife and fellow Fighting Solidarity members during the stressful times. Others simply could not be told.
Instead, he went to work. He helped take care of his young son, Mike. He visited family.
One day in May of 1984, Krzysztof decided to scatter some literature in a residential area en route to visit his in-laws. He needed to reduce his stack of leaflets from 250 to fewer than 100, the maximum amount of anti-communist literature you could lawfully carry.
Suddenly, the police arrived, joined by a group of secret police agents.
“Turn around and put your hands behind you,” they ordered Krzysztof.
Without explanation, the police handcuffed Krzysztof and ducked his head as they pushed him into the police car.
“Someone must have seen me tossing the literature around the park,” Krzysztof thought.
Krzysztof only kept 99 leaflets in his bag, but the police counted 103. They whisked him to a large jail for 14- and 15-year-old criminals.
While there, Krzysztof followed dissident rule No 1: Keep your mouth shut when you are in jail.
But that didn’t mean Krzysztof couldn’t listen to his cellmates.
“Go on a hunger strike to get out of the bad underground prison,” they warned him.
Krzysztof remained in the large, open cell for 48 hours until the police presented him with the charges: attempting to forcefully overthrow the government.
The next day, police transferred him to that jail for political prisoners: a dark place five stories underground with no natural light or toilets in the double-occupancy cells and where secret police informants posed as cellmates.
Guards took away all watches and clocks, leaving prisoners more deeply depressed without any sense of time. Police routinely interrogated inmates without following procedures or providing witnesses.
Krzysztof salvaged a picture of his wife and young son from his wallet, but he kept it hidden under his pillow. He did not want to be distracted by his emotions. He needed to stay mentally strong to survive.
“What’s your name?” the police repeatedly demanded. Krzysztof remained silent as the tape recorder in the background captured the interrogation.
“Where did you get the materials on you?” the police asked next.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Krzysztof replied calmly.
The police withheld letters from his wife. Instead, they told Krzysztof that his wife, Krystyna, cheated on him and that his son would not remember him.
“Your son is 18 months old,” they told him. “You know when you get out, he’ll be in high school.”
The mind games were defeating other prisoners, but Krzysztof kept fighting against the psychological warfare. He refused to eat.
The hunger strike succeeded. After two days, they transferred him back to the better jail in an armored vehicle. In total, he spent two months in jail until an Amnesty Act in 1984 released prisoners from custody. Krzysztof had regained his freedom — for the moment.
His wife had continued the movement in his absence to minimize suspicion that Krzysztof was the leader. Krzysztof immediately jumped back into the organization, which had started to garner immense support.
For Krzysztof, the good press — albeit underground — made his work worthwhile: People appreciated what he was doing.
Even so, the police intensified their tactics to make opponents’ lives miserable. People disappeared mysteriously. Others died under unexplainable circumstances. Two or three large men took Krzysztof to the police headquarters many times for “friendly conversations.”
One ordinary Sunday in October of 1986, however, provoked a scary realization. His wife took their then 3-year-old son, Mike, to church, while Krzysztof went to a neighbor’s house to print literature.
Krystyna listened to mass outside with other parishioners who had young children as Mike played with another child near the singing adults.
A second later, Krystyna looked down and noticed Mike was missing. Panicked, she ran around the churchyard and neighborhood searching for her son. But it was unsuccessful. He was gone. No one at church could find him.
Finally, she went back home where she found Mike crying and shaking on the curb outside their apartment. Mike refused to talk about it until the next day when he told them men in a green Volkswagen Golf car had dropped him at home. The secret police had executed their first ploy to scare Krzysztof.
“Who knew what would be next?” he thought angrily.
Then the rent for his family’s apartment in Lublin suddenly quadrupled.
Now Krzysztof knew he had no choice. He must leave Poland.
“If I get out, I’m not hurting anyone or confessing anything,” he thought. “Why not?”
Within a few weeks, Polish authorities granted Krzysztof’s family one-way passports and issued an ultimatum:
“Now that you have the passports, you have three months to leave the country,” they told him. “You better do it.”
“But where should I go?” Krzysztof wondered. Poland was his homeland, the country he risked his life for in an attempt to regain its independence. Plus, his wife was expecting the couple’s second child in a few months.
Krzysztof hopped a train to visit several embassies. He first sought asylum at the Canadian embassy, but the secretary was out to lunch. Short on cash and time, he decided to stop by the embassy next door — the United States. There, the Americans welcomed him immediately and granted his family political asylum.
Within a few months, Krzysztof and his family boarded a plane in Warsaw and headed to a U.S. base in Frankfurt, Germany. They lived there for 10 days while the United States secured a sponsor overseas. Finally, they entered the United States.
Krzysztof arrived in Akron, Ohio, with his seven-months pregnant wife, young son, several suitcases and about $700 in April of 1987.
Their “sponsors” arranged for members of Akron’s Polish community to greet Krzysztof and his family at the airport. From there, they went to a Salvation Army shelter — the cheapest lodging the sponsors could find — to stay for 30 days.
“Here’s 25 bucks,” Krzysztof remembers the sponsors told him the next day. “Good luck.”
By day two, Krzysztof and his young family were on their own in a new country, except for a few helpful members of the Polish community. And, a baby was on its way very soon.
First, Krzysztof needed to buy a car. He found a used car, but the expense put him on the brink financially. He shelled out most of the money he arrived with just to pay the down payment.
“It doesn’t matter,” he thought. “I need transportation to find a job and sort through the process to receive welfare.”
A few months later, Krzysztof landed an entry-level job paying minimum wage at a printing company in Brimfield. The money enabled Krzysztof to move his family to a better apartment on Graham Road in Cuyahoga Falls.
In July, Krzysztof brought his new baby, a daughter named Anna, home from Akron General Hospital to the family’s modest apartment. The apartment was cheap and small, but it was a place to live for a family with a new baby beginning a new life in America.
What a wonderful story! Thanks for publishing this!!!!
Great article Jackie! Thanks for doing this and thanks to The Burr for running it! Some of these details were new to me and it’s great to have something to show friends and family regarding the heroic struggles of my fiance’s father!