Chapter IX

In the summer of 1980, Poland was a country on the edge of revolution. Social discontent was growing: a deepening economic crisis, shortages in the stores, and political restrictions stirred ever greater frustration. In the air hung the sense that change was coming.

Shelves stood empty, lines for basic goods had become part of daily life, and money lost value from one day to the next. Government policy could not keep pace with society's needs, and foreign debt only made matters worse.

In that climate, opposition and independence movements began to take shape. Workers, intellectuals, and students started acting together, demanding not only bread, but freedom.

The July and August strikes became the turning point. They began in Gdańsk, at the shipyard, where the protest broke out after Anna Walentynowicz was fired. They quickly spread to other workplaces, leading to the creation of the Independent Self-Governing Trade Union "Solidarity," the first independent trade union in the Eastern Bloc.

That summer changed everything.

For Piotr as well. He had finished eighth grade without the kind of certificate that would have given him a chance at a good high school. One option remained: the Vocational School Complex at the Polish Optical Works in Warsaw.

His parents did not protest. The school had only one advantage: it existed. And the commute was fairly straightforward: first on foot to the station, then by train, and finally by streetcar across Praga. Altogether, an hour and a half each way.

That fall he meant, at last, to ask Aunt Marianna about those mysterious words of hers—about the book, about twilight, about Uncle Kazik. He did not get the chance. On Wednesday, September 3, he learned that his beloved Aunt Marianna had died on August 26 in the hospital in Ciechanów.

Having no contact information for her close family, the hospital notified one of her distant relatives. That was how the news reached Jadwiga Kamińska on a street in Pomiechowo.

"So, Auntie went and died," the son of Ignacy Kiliś said flatly as he passed her.

Jadwiga, stunned, had no idea that the funeral had already been planned in an anonymous grave somewhere near Ciechanów. Thanks to her efforts, the body was brought back, and with the help of Monsignor Mazurczak the burial was arranged according to the dead woman's wishes. Marianna Chojnacka was laid to rest in Pomiechowo, beside her husband.

The Vocational School Complex at the Polish Optical Works in Warsaw was a place watched especially closely by the authorities. The plant was of strategic importance: it produced goods for export, and some of its products went to the military. That meant tighter control there than in other vocational schools.

From the beginning, a factory committee of NSZZ "Solidarity" operated at the plant. In the spring of 1981, a school circle joined it as well, initiated by a group of first- and second-year students. Piotr Korycki, Heniek Adamkiewicz, Piotr Błachnio, and several others wanted not only to talk about Poland, but to act in real ways.

Their aims were not always lofty. Alongside great matters such as freedom and independence, they fought for ordinary things, too. They dreamed, for example, of free Saturdays.

Despite their formal affiliation with union structures, their enthusiasm met with no support from the older activists. They felt ignored, passed over. Their zeal settled in the walls of the school corridors like dust—present, but untouchable. That was how the first year of school passed.

When summer came, and the oppressive wall of school receded for a moment into shadow, Sister Kamila appeared again—just as always, at the moment when Piotr most needed a guide.

"We're going to Koszalin," she said simply, and in her voice Piotr heard the echo of that mountain adventure.

They went in the same group: Sister Kamila, Artur Nowak, Beata Dębska, and Piotr. Officially, it was a vacation trip, but from the beginning it was clear that it was not only about the sea and a change of air. In an old tenement house by the market square in Koszalin, "Żeby Polska była Polską"—"Let Poland Be Poland"—rang out every day. Sister Kamila did not deliver speeches. It was enough that she was there, listening, and from time to time adding a few sentences after which an ordinary song ceased to be an ordinary song. Piotr already knew that feeling. Once, as a little boy, he had climbed onto a table to reach the radio and listen to Radio Free Europe. He had not understood everything then, but he felt that from behind the crackling and the static there came the voice of another world. Now that same voice returned to him in a song.

For Piotr, Koszalin became a continuation of the Tatra Mountains. There, for the first time, he had seen Poland as a dream. Here he began to understand that the dream might demand action.

With the beginning of the new school year, everything seemed to return to its place, but beneath the surface a change could be felt. Something had shifted—not violently, but irreversibly. The corridors were the same, the teachers the same, the faces in class familiar, and yet the atmosphere had thickened, as though the air held the promise of something larger.

The "Solidarity" circle still existed formally, but its activity had quieted. In its place, leaflets appeared. First one, then another—stuck to walls, trembling in drafts, but visible to everyone.

Signature: Independent School Organization "Biały Orzeł."

Their message was simple and firm: demands for free Saturdays, the announcement of a strike. No one admitted to authorship, but there was no doubt: this was deliberate, bold, scattered action. And effective. There were suspects, too. Not without reason. Soon similar appeals appeared in two other schools in Warsaw's Praga district.

During breaks people whispered carefully, tensely. Teachers, almost despite themselves, looked over their shoulders more often. The mysterious initiative, though faceless, gathered strength.

For Piotr, that time was like a continuation of the trip to Koszalin. The songs, the conversations, the silence after Sister Kamila's words—all of it still resonated somewhere deep inside, as if pointing the way. He already knew this was not merely adolescent excitement. It was the beginning of a road.

The perpetrators of those "brazen" acts at school were never caught, and yet Piotr's grades suddenly began to worsen even more. Knowledge and the number of correct answers on tests mattered little. In the class register, one failing mark followed another.

In 1981, at 16 Mokotowska Street, stood the headquarters of the Mazowsze Region of NSZZ "Solidarity." From the outside it was an ordinary Warsaw tenement house: a facade, windows, creaking doors. Inside there was a kind of motion Piotr knew neither from school nor from home. People came and went with briefcases under their arms, spoke in low voices, carried bundles of paper, picked up leaflets, left messages.

Most important were the duplicating machines. The rattling machines worked almost without stopping, spitting out bulletins, appeals, and sheets of paper that, before the day was over, were supposed to reach factories, apartments, streetcars, churches, and schools.

Piotr had no membership card, signed no documents, and no one entrusted him with great secrets. He was present. He carried paper, stacked printed piles, helped with ink. Among the clatter of machines and the smell of printer's ink, he felt for the first time that his own rebellion had a place, people, and tools. He quickly found his own way to take part in that work. He noticed that trucks regularly pulled up to the tenement with supplies—tons of paper, barrels of printer's ink. When the drivers were left alone with the load, he offered to help. His youthful frame and apparent innocence made him an ideal "volunteer."

After several dozen minutes of lifting and carrying, exchanging knowing glances with the drivers, he returned home with a backpack under whose canvas were hidden reams of paper or cans of ink. He felt pride, but uneasiness too. He knew that if someone ordered him to open the backpack, he would not be able to explain why a student needed so much paper.

As soon as the doors of 16 Mokotowska closed behind him, Piotr felt the chill of the September air. He shoved his hands into his pockets. He was supposed to go back, but something still drew him there. He circled the building aimlessly, as if trying to add something to himself. Or perhaps only to calm his thoughts.

"What are you hanging around here for?" an aggressive voice behind him broke into his thoughts.

He turned. The stranger might have been twenty-two, but he looked at him hard. Too confidently. Too precisely.

"Oh, just taking a walk," Piotr said lightly, though his heart began to beat faster. The man could be from the Security Service. Here, right under the nose of "Solidarity," they felt at home. Their territory.

"Taking a walk, during school hours?" the other repeated, with a predator's instinct.

Too close... he knows too much

Piotr thought. For a moment he considered running. But he stood still. He was learning that sometimes one had to stand still.

"Easy. I'm not one of the secret police," the stranger added, as if he had read his thoughts.

"Yes, I know. Santa Claus who lost his way," Piotr answered with forced irony.

"I saw Biały Orzeł," the stranger said, lowering his voice.

The truant froze. The words shot through him like a current. Saw it? What exactly had he seen?

"Would you like to do something serious?" the stranger said calmly. He spoke of an "organization" that was waiting, that worked in the shadows. The condition: secrecy. No questions. Only orders.

Piotr was silent. His thoughts raced. It was a trap. Too direct. Too staged. But he could not withdraw—not here, not now.

"Maybe," he answered cautiously. They arranged another meeting.

After the conversation, he stood motionless for a moment longer. His pulse slowed, but the tension remained. He returned to the station without looking back. In the railway car he rested his head against the window and closed his eyes. He did not sleep. He still heard the voice of that boy.

I've been marked

he thought.

It was no longer about one poster. That boy had spoken of "Biały Orzeł," of leaflets, of matters that were not discussed aloud even among friends. The adolescent game of conspiracy had just ended.

He told his mother nothing. The next day he went only to Artur. Artur Nowak—calm, balanced, with sharp eyes—was the only person he trusted without reservation. He had recruited him earlier into "Biały Orzeł," convinced that the boy not only shared their views but could also look at reality from a distance.

They met in Artur's apartment. Piotr told him about the mysterious conversation on Mokotowska, about the offer that seemed at once promising and unsettling. Artur listened in silence, frowning. When Piotr finished, as befitted a young intellectual, he did not answer right away. He only nodded.

"Not by ourselves. We have to discuss it with the rest. The decision should be shared," he pronounced, with the air of a sage.

The next day, in one of the abandoned cellars on the estate, democratic consultations were held. "Biały Orzeł" gathered in full strength, in a tight circle, with no ballots, but with a solemnity that would have done any parliament proud.

The decision was almost unanimous. Surprisingly united, the young conspirators concluded that they should accept the mysterious organization's offer. No one suspected a provocation. In their eyes, it was a step toward greater agency—a chance for their actions to have real meaning.

They set only one condition: "Biały Orzeł" would not dissolve itself and would not hand over its people one by one. They would enter together or not at all—as their own cell, with their own responsibility and their own loyalty.

At the time it seemed reasonable. Only later would it turn out that precisely this separateness would begin to arouse mistrust in "Piast."

Not long afterward, during a solitary visit to Powązki, he impulsively pressed a small leaflet, folded into quarters, against the iron fence of the Katyń Section. The sheet, on which he had written only a few sentences with a scratchy pen, seemed to him like a cry that had to reach someone. It turned out to be bait.

Less than half an hour passed before two figures in leather jackets blocked his way at the cemetery gate. They did not need to introduce themselves. "Come with us, poet," the older one snarled, gripping his arm so hard that the bone seemed to crack. They dragged him to a harsh, green car that smelled of cigarettes and fear.

At the Mostowski Palace, the world slowed and became sharp, unnatural. The face of the interrogator, lit by a lamp and reminiscent of his physics teacher, contrasted with the quiet, hissing voice that asked the same questions over and over. "Who? Where? When?" Piotr felt cold sweat running down his spine and his heart pounding like a hammer in his chest. He clenched his teeth, repeating in his mind the only safe formula: Me. No one. Nowhere. He repeated it until his voice no longer sounded like his own. When at last they pushed him out into the cold evening air, he was trembling not from the cold, but from the inner shock, from the feeling that he had touched something dangerous and unclean.

In "Piast," a storm awaited him. "Willfulness! Egoism! You could have brought everyone down!" he heard bitter words. He stood with his head lowered, absorbing them like blows. But when they fell silent, the same voice added more softly, almost to itself: "But you held out. You didn't break." And then, for the first time, Piotr felt that the shiver left in him was not only fear. It was also the bitter taste of initiation, a seal of admission. He had taken a step deeper, but he had left part of himself behind in those bare, illuminated walls.

At the beginning of December 1981, just before something larger broke open, Marzena appeared. He did not know her real name. A slender figure, a short jacket, a bag with documents. She handed him an envelope without a word, as though it were only a newspaper. The commander's decision.

No emotion could be read from the text. It was dry, concrete, almost military. "Creating structures. Recruiting new members. Preparing for a national uprising." It sounded serious, as if they really were getting ready for war. Perhaps they were. But there was another piece of information on the paper. Someone higher up had decided that they would communicate in their own language. It was not to be merely a cipher for mutual communication, but their own letter forms, their own system for writing dates and numbers, even a language. The first parts took shape quickly and were relatively easy; the making of the language, however, lasted many years, virtually until 1989, and was never fully completed. Even so—Kirge hejn, that very short sentence, though known to everyone, became unreadable when written in the newly devised font and new system of coding.

On the document delivered to Piotr, someone had added: "Whoever wants to and is able may act independently. Leaflet actions. At your own risk."

Piotr folded the document in half and tucked it deep away. He knew that from then on every choice carried a price. But he was also certain that he would go on choosing.

In the underground rooms of Block No. 20 in Legionowo, an odd calm prevailed. The cellar, officially given over for use as a youth club, resembled neither a clubroom nor a playroom. There was no music from tape recorders, no cigarette smoke, no laughter of amused teenagers. The place drew a different kind of youth—those who wanted to change something.

The work proceeded in silence, interrupted only by breath and the rustle of paper. Reams of paper vanished before one's eyes—someone carefully pulled out individual sheets, set them against the matrix, smoothed the surface with a hand. Someone else, with practiced movements, inked the letters and then moved a photographic roller over the sheet. Another took down freshly printed pages and hung them on a line to dry. There was no room for conversation; everyone knew his role. Silence was as important as ink.

When the paper dried, the second shift began. The leaflets were packed, carried, pasted up—most often in streetcars. The method was simple, but effective. The paper was smeared with glue, stuck to a friend's back, and then he, leaning against the window, left a message behind. The information rode through the city.

That day the target was the Municipal Office in Legionowo. The place was not accidental, and it demanded courage. Piotr, focused as always, slid the little jar of glue toward Heniek.

"I'm supposed to dip my fingers in this?" Heniek asked with a hint of sarcasm, though tension flashed in his eyes.

His tone was joking, but it was Heniek who was risking the most. Not only himself. He was the son of an army officer and lived with his family in service housing. In the event of a failure, the whole family could be evicted, and his father dismissed.

This time they succeeded. They filled the notice board, leaving a dozen or so leaflets under the slogan "Truth Is Not a Crime." Then they locked the case with their own padlock and disappeared before anyone had time to react.

The cellar in Block No. 20 fell silent again. But the echo of that silence carried farther—through the window of a streetcar, through municipal corridors, all the way to those who still had the courage to read.

On the night of December 12 to 13, 1981, army and Militia vehicles rolled into the streets. Frozen snow squeaked under the boots of patrols, but only a few saw it.

Most people learned in the morning, in front of their televisions, when instead of the Sunday children's program they saw General Wojciech Jaruzelski. In many homes, silence fell. The word "martial" sounded unreal, as though it did not belong with kitchens, children's slippers, unfinished tea, and morning light in the windows.

The news came to the Korycki family from church.

"We have martial law in Poland," Jadwiga announced after returning from church, when for some reason the family had not gone together to morning Mass.

"You mean a state of emergency," her son interrupted, guided by rumors that had been circulating among opposition people for several days.

"No, the priest said in his sermon that Jaruzel introduced martial law."

Piotr had no idea what had happened that night. As every evening, he was getting ready to work in the cellar. Yes, the print shop began working that evening, but first they had to meet, talk, plan something. The "Piast" contact was silent. So Piotr went to Artur. They spoke briefly. They ran out into Legionowo's deserted streets. There were few patrols, but the whole town was covered with large notices announcing the introduction of martial law. They began tearing them down. Only in the evening did several of them set to work printing new, current leaflets. "From camps to street roundups is only one step," cried the large black inscription, referring to the camps for internees organized by the military authorities. Beneath the slogan appeared the signature: "SGK Piast."

The leaflets were made by the simplest method. They used symbols cut from a "Myszka" eraser, and the text was written with rubber letters bought in a stationery store. Paper, in fairly large quantities, still remained from the supplies received in the "Solidarity" Region office, and it was supplemented by Wanda Ziubińska, Piotr's aunt, who operated a duplicating machine at Warsaw's Bielański Hospital. Printer's ink later came from the same source. The first days of martial law passed in work that intense.

It was the evening of December 27. Someone pounded on the door of the Korycki apartment. It was Zygmunt Wilemski, a Militia officer who lived in the neighboring block.

"Get dressed," he threw at Piotr, who was sixteen at the time.

When they were outside the door, he pulled open the sides of his civilian jacket, showing the pistol tucked into his belt.

"Just try running, you son of a bitch," he warned.

Downstairs, in front of the block, a Militia Nysa van was already waiting. Only after some time did the young prisoner understand why they had sat so long, doing nothing, in the motionless vehicle. Whereas his own arrest and delivery to the van had taken the militiaman only a few minutes, the others needed much more time to throw Artur Nowak into the paddy wagon. What happened during those dozens of minutes is not known. The later interrogations of both detainees lasted many hours. The Security Service must have treated the matter with exceptional seriousness. After a standard interrogation, there followed a conversation, even a discussion, lasting many hours between the sixteen-year-old prisoner and a Security Service officer. Once the functionary understood that he would learn nothing of importance, he moved on to geopolitical topics, even speculating about possible changes to Poland's borders—naturally, in Germany's favor.

While Artur was released the very next day, Piotr was not let out until January 2, with the case forwarded to the court in Nowy Dwór. The arrest had other, lasting consequences for the teenager as well. Around the time he turned five, he had begun to stammer a little. Perhaps the cause was stress, perhaps—as some said—jealousy of his new sister, or perhaps genetic factors. In his father's extended family there had been cases of speech problems, and one cousin could not speak at all. Over time, however, the defect had become less and less visible. But now, when he came out into freedom, he could not pronounce a single word correctly.

"So what did they want from you?" Artur asked during their next meeting at the beginning of the year.

"Well, unfortunately, the mother-in-law of one of the militiamen saw me putting up those last leaflets. They had a witness. But why did they grab you?"

Artur did not answer. He only insisted that he had not given anyone up, had said nothing.

"They had nothing on me," he swore.

Piotr had not been so lucky.

"Unfortunately, I had to confess, because they had two witnesses," he admitted. "But I took everything on myself. I told them I had gotten the paper and printer's ink from 'Solidarity' for some sort of help, and that I had printed the leaflets alone." The older boy was plainly skeptical.

"And what, they believed you?"

"No, but they couldn't prove anything."

With that conversation, Artur's more than year-long activity in SGK "Piast" came to an end. True, the rules binding the organization did not provide for leaving its ranks, but in this case everyone silently made it understood that they did not see the problem.

Not even a month had passed when Piotr learned that they intended to arrest him again. He decided to stay one step ahead of the plainclothes men. He had to disappear.

He had little furniture in his room, but there was a wall bed. In the evening the lower part could be folded down, creating a place to sleep. During the day, the whole thing took up far less space, leaving only a shelf for small items and two cabinets for everything that should not be visible. In one of those cabinets he always kept a collection of maps of every kind. This time he needed a road map of Poland. With a pencil he circled some random place in the Bieszczady Mountains and, in the margin, jotted calculations of the time needed to get there from the Warsaw area.

He packed and left. First he stopped by his closest friend's place, where he met with obvious disappointment. Artur, despite visible interest in the latest events, was not willing to offer any help. Piotr had not counted on much. Even so, his friend's behavior saddened him deeply. In truth, he had no plan. He knew only that he had to run. He did not know where, or with whose help. To his superior in "Piast" he passed on only that he was "disappearing," and he set out where his heart pulled him, to his native Szczypiorno.

He did not show up at the plot where the family house had once stood. He knew that would have been extremely risky. True, all the traces he had left behind led toward the Bieszczady, but he did not want to take chances.

"Good morning, Grandma," he called to the old woman who opened the door of the old one-room cottage.

Józefa Przybysz had seen much in her nearly ninety years of life. She was not surprised, then, when her adopted grandson, almost on the threshold, told her the truth and asked for shelter. Immediately after trying to feed her guest, the old woman moved some piece of furniture aside, revealing an old wooden trapdoor in the floor, barely still alive, covered with a worn piece of material, something like a rug.

"Move that," she asked.

After lifting the cover, he saw a black abyss. From below came the smell of earth, must, and rotting wood. Piotr bent over, but immediately drew his head back. He did not know how to tell the old woman that he did not want to go down.

"Let's wait a while, let it air out. I'll take a candle and we'll go down..."

"Grandma, I think I'll be the only one going down there," he said jokingly.

"Yes, you'll go down yourself," Mrs. Przybysz agreed.

They opened the window and cracked the door. Outside there was a bitter frost, so after a few minutes they had to close them. Only then did Piotr go down.

The shelter was cramped, barely enough for two people. There was something there that might once have been a bed. On the right side began a narrow tunnel, shored up with rotten beams.

"Grandma, what could that be?"

"An emergency exit. In case there was trouble in the house."

The pit remembered the times of the Home Army men. Since 1944 no one had looked inside. From the outside, the entrance was hidden by a doghouse, but everything was already rotten and threatened to collapse.

Piotr understood that Grandma was trying to show him his future hiding place. He was supposed to live there. It looks terrible, but safe enough, he thought. It'll only be for a few days. Marzena, accepting his report for the commander, had promised that she would try to get him out quickly and find him a decent place to hide.

Grandma Przybysz rarely had visitors. Yes, sometimes a cousin living on the other side of the wall dropped in, but she showed no great interest in the old woman. It was possible, then, to hope for peace and safety.

Piotr and the old woman usually spent their time sitting on the bed. He listened, and she talked. Mostly about her youth, her husband, and her children, with whom she was not especially pleased. Their lives had not gone the way she would have wanted. Well, the old woman, abandoned to the mercy of time, had no influence over that anymore. She also liked to recall the days of war—not the last one, no. The first, and then the war with the Bolsheviks. What delighted her most was the sight of Red Army soldiers fleeing from outside Warsaw.

"Their heads were lifted up, they pointed their fingers at the sky and yelled, 'Boża Mać, Boża Mać,' and ran east so fast the dust flew," she recalled pensively.

Did that happen in Szczypiorno? Probably not. Perhaps in some nearby village the Bolsheviks had reached.

Another day passed that way, and "Marzena" did not appear. Maybe the information about where to look for me never reached her..., he wondered after a week.

A knock at the door. Delicate, timid... It could not be the Militia. Despite that certainty, the boy disappeared into his underground shelter. Sitting in the darkness, he heard the door open and heard his guardian's conversation. He heard only her voice, but without difficulty he guessed that his acquaintance had entered the room. He did not wait for the agreed signal. He came out.

"Hello, Szilas!"

"Hi. What took you so long?"

"There won't be any help. Not now. I'm burned myself."

In the cottage at the edge of the village, it became even more cramped. Marzena, who was no more than sixteen, was a close relative, perhaps even the granddaughter, of the "Piast" commander himself. That, at least, was what Piotr suspected. Her decisions, often made without the consultations required of others, her certainty about future orders, and something that might be called a teenage girl's bossiness all suggested that she occupied some privileged position. When after a few days she announced that she would try to reach Legionowo, from which she had earlier fled, Piotr asked no questions.

After she left, the silence became harder to bear. She did not return. She sent no sign. There was no way to know whether she had reached Legionowo, been caught, or simply disappeared like others.

"Grandma, I have to look for some solution," he said to his guardian one morning.

"Be careful! They say people disappear without a trace."

"I will, Grandma!" he assured her, though he was setting out into the unknown.

He knew that in Kroczewo there was a parish priest, Father Antoni Gawarecki, whom one could meet in case of trouble. That was all. He had never seen the priest before, did not know him.

From Szczypiorno to Kroczewo is no more than ten kilometers. In theory, then, Piotr should have reached it in two hours. But circling, avoiding human settlements, he arrived after dusk.

He knocked once. Then again. For a long while nothing happened. Only when he was about to leave did footsteps sound behind the door. In the partly opened doorway appeared a man of mature years, though not old. Surprised at the sight of the stranger, the man asked the reason for this unusual visit.

"I'm here to see Father Gawarecki."

"About what?"

"I'll tell Father Gawarecki."

The door opened wider. With a motion of his hand, the man invited the boy inside.

"That's me. I am Father Gawarecki," he said after closing the door, not even suggesting they enter the parish office.

"The Militia is looking for me. I'm in hiding," the boy confided, although both the man's clothing and his behavior did not invite trust.

"You're in hiding... and why did you come to me? Who told you to?"

"No one told me to. I need help."

"And you're looking for it from me," the priest said doubtfully, suspecting an intrigue by the Security Service.

"No one sent me and no one told me to come here. I'm with 'Piast'..."

"Quiet!" the host interrupted, and seizing the boy by the jacket, pulled him toward some small room. "Wait here," he ordered.

When he returned, another man was with him, somewhat younger, bearded.

"This is Mr. Jerzy, our catechist," Father Antoni introduced the stranger, then vanished into the depths of the house.

"Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"

"No, I had sandwiches," he lied, so as not to trouble his hosts.

Mr. Jerzy looked at the boy and went anyway to bring some supper.

"Eat, sleep, and we'll talk in the morning," he ordered.

And so it happened. The night passed in warmth and, for the first time in a long while, in a comfortable bed. Morning was less pleasant. The priest did not appear. Instead, Mr. Jerzy came and began to ask questions. Calmly, but stubbornly. About names, about the road, about "Piast," about who had sent him. Piotr repeated his story, but saw that every sentence gave birth to another suspicion.

"Who told you to?" the catechist asked.

It hurt more than blows. For Piotr there was nothing worse than the suspicion of betrayal or deceit. When he was already ready to disappear more quietly than he had arrived, the tension suddenly fell away. Perhaps they believed him. Perhaps they had checked his words. In any case, for the first time in many days he heard a promise of help.

The priest did not show himself again, but Mr. Jerzy, certainly on his instructions, acted with remarkable efficiency.

"Piotr, you're going home."

"But..."

"Easy. Nothing will happen to you. Everything has been arranged. They won't arrest you. In some time you'll have a court case. Someone promised to help. It will be all right," he assured him, and sent the teenager away from the rectory.

The case in the court in Nowy Dwór took place on February 15, 1982. The verdict delivered that day was in keeping with the promise made by the catechist from Kroczewo. He was found guilty of printing and distributing leaflets, but the execution of the sentence was suspended for five years.

Piotr felt relief. Not yet seventeen, he already knew what arrest, interrogation, threats, and fear were. He was afraid of prison. He accepted the suspended sentence with great relief, but he had no intention of keeping the terms of that suspension.