This week, the Church was back on the front pages as its struggles with communist demons ramified. The episcopate has decided to silence Father Tadeusz Izakowicz-Zaleski, a Solidarity veteran who had previously been permitted to talk openly of his research into Cold War-era informers.
However, whilst the infiltration of the Church by communist spies is an issue that few believe will go away, Cracow has now been struck by some more unexpected revelations. This time, it is the old-school intelligentsia that has come under the spotlight.
Count Wojciech Dzieduszycki, a 94 year-old writer and musician who was considered to be the epitome of the irrepressible bon vivant, and an unbowed hero of the war-time era, has confessed to having been in the pay of the Soviet Security services for twenty years. In a letter to the Mayor of Wroclaw (a city that he had been made an honorary citizen of shortly after the fall of communism) he declared that God had allowed him to live to such an age so that he could disclose a 'shameful' aspect from his past. In 1949, he had signed an oath of loyalty to the Soviet Security forces, and hence began a double-life that has taken over half a century to come out.
The Count wrote in this month's letter to the Mayor that he had cooperated for over twenty years with the notorious 'SB': the Security Services. He added that he now struggled to recall all those that he had harmed and thus 'who I should ask for forgiveness.' It has been revealed that between 1949 and 1971 the Count filed some 400 hand-written reports. Most of these concerned intelligentsia circles within Poland. However, owing to his pact with the authorities, the Communist government gave him a passport, allowing him to meet - and inform on - key members of the government-in-exile in London.
The news has shocked the ship-wrecked few of his ilk who managed to survive the century's upheavals. However, what might appear to be a black-and-white tale of betrayal emerges as an increasingly complex story when the whole tapestry is considered. The events that led to the Count's first compromise - when he signed on the dotted line in 1949 - shed stark light on the nature of Poland's twentieth century odyssey.
Count Wojciech Dzieduszycki was born into a Polish dynasty who had contributed several figures of note to the nation's history. Groomed to take over his family's lands in south-east Poland, he emerged as an outstanding musical talent whilst studying in his native city, Lwow. As a young man in his mid-twenties, he sung as a tenor in several of Europe's Opera Houses. However, when war came in 1939, he became a target for both Nazis and Soviets.
The Count survived the conflict, although he had to endure two consecutive concentration camps, where famously he helped to raise spirits by organising a camp theatre. In 1945 he emerged to find that his home city of Lwow had been handed over to the Soviet Union, despite Poland being on the 'winning side'. His country was in ruins. The Communists then proceeded to tie up the remainder of Poland, rigging the elections of 1947. As the Stalinist repressions kicked in, the Count was arrested and called on to sign an oath of loyalty. His wife was pregnant at the time. Many of his surviving childhood peers were in prisons or exiled to the Siberian wilderness as 'class enemies'. He signed, and hence began the double life.
During the period that the Count was an informer, he led a relatively free existence by the standards of the times. He was able to perform on stage, to travel and to write, relatively unmolested. He was a legendary figure in artistic circles, and considered above suspicion. Yet he was repeatedly informing on his colleagues for twenty years.
Suffice it to say that once they had hit upon an 'enemy of socialism' , the authorities could ruin a man's life if they so desired.
The ripples of this month's revelations have been given added momentum by another unexpected development. By coincidence, a book was published a week ago which has punctured another legend - that of Cracow's Piwnica Pod Baranami Cabaret. Once again, it appears that informers swarmed around this satirical sensation, and some of those informers were at the heart of the cabaret itself.
The experience of those years remains far removed from today's generation. Historians can find endless evidence to show that the totalitarian state broke many people. However, for a vast amount of Poles that survived the Second World War, their lives were already broken. Such figures were especially vulnerable to pressure from the security services. As locals often describe, the Cold War can be likened to a fifty year occupation, as opposed to the five year occupation of 1939-1945. There were heroes, not least during the Solidarity era, but to be a hero in those times required twice the fortitude.
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