YOUTUBE

May Day 1983, Warszawa

Black screen.

They gather in the Old Town. The crowd slowly thickens with bodies as people stream through the archway like meat through a sausage machine. Zoom in on a man with glasses, batting away the red and white Solidarnoflag. He can’t see. There is nothing to see yet. The crowd is too calm.

Zoom out. The young are dressed in red and white, the colours of the revolution. The old are wearing grey or blue or beige. They want the revolution, but it will not disrupt their dressing routines. Nor should it.

Static.

All Poland is with us.

The crowd begins to chant. Out of focus, a man with a moustache echoes the words a split second before we hear them. He gets hit by a white balloon, but we don’t see who has thrown it. Perhaps a child.

Nie ma wolnoci bez Solidarnoci.

Nie ma wolnoci bez Solidarnoci.

No freedom without Solidarity.

The camera zooms out a bit too far, then readjusts. There are many balloons, only they are not balloons but white rubber batons the police are flailing. A woman falls to the ground as the police beat people back through the archway. The batons sometimes bounce back, like in a cartoon, but the officers are wearing helmets with visors to protect themselves. From themselves. The fallen woman collects the contents of her purse on the cobblestone. We see a change holder for grosze and keepsakes. One of her high heels is broken. It lays dismembered at her side.

We want the truth.

They are inchoate, but everyone knows what the other is starting to say. Words they never thought possible. Never thought Polish.

We want the truth.

The visors are smoke-coloured. The police always see smoke and never know when it’s real.

A stampede. The crowd crushes through the stone gate. Solidarity flags coil around them like taffy. Blinding and tripping them. The camera fixes on officers beating their riot shields. An old man approaches them, shaking his fist.

All Poland is with us.

All Poland is wet. Water everywhere. The police turn hoses full blast on the crowd who cannot escape fast enough. The water hammers their heads. Their hair is soaked and matted, and their faces turn purple. They look like newborn babies, but this is not yet a new country.

A stampede. The crowd crushes through the stone gate. Solidarity flags coil around them like taffy. Blinding and tripping them. The tape loops. We see the same activities. It is always the same.

All Poland is with us.

We want the truth.

Try chanting with water spraying the back of your throat. See how it feels.

Nearly all the demonstrators have left. Zoom in on an old woman who remains. The old remain the longest. It is their nature. In Poland, “old” is not a bad word.

She is the brightest of all in a crimson cardigan. She is holding her hands over her ears to block out the mayhem. She must hear far more than we do. The riot police approach. Another woman—a younger one—pleads with her, tries to pull her hands off her ears. But the old woman’s arms have locked. The younger one pulls and pulls. One gnarled hand comes loose, hesitates in the air.

The country waits.

Blood comes out of the old woman’s ear. She was trying to hold it in all this time. She just didn’t know what side was bleeding.

Nobody knows which side is bleeding more.

All Poland is with us.

We want the truth.

You fucking bastards.

Fade to black.

Cut to red and white.