For Westerners who remember the Poland of 1989, when Solidarity triumphed and not only toppled the communist government in Warsaw but set off a chain reaction throughout the region, today's Poland is a perplexing place. Despite enormous economic gains that have transformed the country from a land of chronic shortages into a bustling consumer society, despite Poland's membership in NATO and the European Union, despite the banishment of fear and the emergence of a free society, many Poles are in a sour mood. It's a mood that accounts for the recent emergence of a wobbly coalition government composed of right-wing populists, who are constantly bickering among themselves. What once was the Solidarity camp is now split a half-dozen ways, and the air is filled with mutual recriminations about alleged collaboration under the old regime and corruption in the new era. In short, the romance of the revolution is largely forgotten.
According to the controversial new Polish novel Caly Czas (All the Time), popular accounts, both at home and abroad, vastly exaggerated how much romance there was in the first place. Janusz Anderman, who wrote for underground publishers in communist times and was rightfully regarded as part of the brave opposition to an oppressive political system, offers a relentlessly bleak vision of Polish reality, past and present. In doing so, he provides a revealing glimpse into the mind-set of those Poles who always think the worst of public figures and political developments in their country.
Anderman takes aim at his countrymen's self-image, rather than the more obvious sources of popular discontent, such as the 18 percent unemployment rate and other woes during a period of impressive economic growth. His main character, who is identified only by the initials A.Z., embodies every cynical trait possible: naked dishonesty, shameless manipulation, pettiness, and self-aggrandizement -- and that's just a short summary. In Warsaw's communist-era literary circles, A.Z. passes himself off as a bold dissident writer, but his public persona is a total fraud. In exposing layer after layer of A.Z.s deceptions, Anderman provides a mesmerizing and maddening spectacle that is clearly meant as a provocative parable of Polish society.
To that end, the author employs the classic novelistic device of a person's life flashing before his eyes as hes about to die. At the 25th anniversary commemorations of the birth of Solidarity in Gdansk, A.Z. meets an older, has-been actress who comes to recite poetry at one of the marginal events surrounding the occasion in order to collect a meager fee. Shortchanged by the organizer, shes an easy target for A.Z., who feigns sympathy, plies her with booze, and takes her to bed in the hopes that she may still have some useful connections in the film world. As they head back to Warsaw the next morning, she drives and chats, when he suddenly sees that a truck passing cars in the opposite direction is about to plow straight into them. On the narrow, two-lane highway, theres nowhere to turn -- and, for the next 300 pages or so, the reader gets periodic glimpses of the two people hurtling forward in the car, followed by A.Z.s recall of every major moment in his life, all while time seemingly stands still.
In his student days, A.Z. writes poetry and manages to get his first work published in a prestigious journal. That promising start, with the attendant envy of his classmates, gives him a taste of modest fame and its power as an aphrodisiac. Instead of working harder on his writing, he regularly beds women who can help him -- first to pass his exams, then to avoid military service. He dodges the draft when one of his lovers gets him committed to a psychiatric institution for a short stay. There, a dying patient entrusts him with his manuscript. When A.Z. discovers it's a truly good novel with piercing insights into the communist system, he submits it to an underground publication under his own name -- and he's transformed into a cult opposition literary figure. His reputation soon fades when hes unable to write anything on his own, so he resorts to stealing radio scripts left behind by a Pole who has emigrated to Australia, again passing them off as his own work.
Nothing in A.Z.'s world is quite what it seems. At his father's funeral, he learns that the man he viewed as a Communist Party careerist also became a member of Solidarity and an ardent Catholic when that was fashionable; during the war, it turns out, his father had been a member of the fiercely anticommunist resistance movement but later joined the security forces of the new, pro-Soviet government that hunted his former comrades down. At his send-off, friends from both camps lavish him with praise. The implicit message: There are few pure villains, and even fewer pure heroes.
As he absorbs these lessons, A.Z. is full of biting observations about the narrow universe he inhabits. During the 1980s, he writes anonymous letters denouncing himself to communist newspapers, as this keeps his reputation as a target of the regime's ire alive a bit longer. Through the eyes of A.Z., the underground scene is full of people who are nearly as cynically conniving as he is. And his bitterness extends into the postcommunist era, where he feels particularly slighted because no one remembers his earlier fame, even if it was built on lies.
When he tries to make a career in politics by signing up for any party that will have him, A.Z. is acting upon his conviction about the phoniness of a new generation of politicians who are allegedly defending democratic principles. He also bemoans the disappearance of serious publications and books, as the new publishers are only interested in the easy sells -- cookbooks, self-help books, anything with plenty of sex and violence. A.Z. would gladly partake of this bonanza, if he only knew how. Nothing is beneath him, although he looks contemptuously at those who have succeeded where he keeps failing.
Are Polish readers supposed to feel a trace of pity for this repulsive character? In a way, yes, since he represents all the worst traits that are, to some extent, present in so many of his fellow citizens. Anderman spares no one, making the point that in any system, people are people -- flawed, full of internal contradictions, and willing to do almost anything as they grasp for power, prestige, and money, no matter what ideals they proclaim.
As dark as its vision is, Caly Czas offers a ray of hope. By showing he can be as critical of his own milieu as those of others he clearly despises, Anderman demonstrates the cleansing virtues of self-criticism. It's a painful exercise, and it runs the risk of adding to the general climate of cynicism. But if it prompts some Poles to examine their own consciences when it comes to taking responsibility for the shortcomings of their society rather than simply pinning the blame on "them," whoever "they" may be, it could prove to be a highly useful one. And for outsiders, this novel reveals the moral state of a nation that, behind its new modern façade, is still very much at odds with itself as it grapples with the dirty secrets of its past.
