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Poland | 243 Marek nowakowski (b. 1935) A Warsaw native and a graduate of the law program of Warsaw University, Nowakowski has long been admired for laconic short stories collectively representing a kind of chronicle of everyday Polish life under communism, with marginal social elements being a main focus. Before Solidarity, he had already published some eighteen volumes of such stories, among them Ten stary złodziej (This Old Thief, 1958), Benek Kwiaciarz (Benek the Flower Peddlar, 1961), Układ zamknięty (A Settled Deal, 1972), and Książę nocy (The Prince of Night, 1978). With the advent of Solidarity, he became one of its most enthusiastic supporters , and after the declaration of martial law, he wrote a compelling account in story form of that tumultuous period under the title Raport o stanie wojennym (Report on Martial Law; literally, Report on the State of War, “stan wojenny” in Polish meaning in fact “martial law”; later translated as The Canary and Other Stories of Martial Law). The nature of the book made it impossible for Nowakowski to publish it in Poland; it appeared in two volumes in 1982 and 1983 in Paris as a publication of Kultura. Simply narrated, down to earth, unadorned, and free of sentiment, the stories in Raport o stanie wojennym have been compared to snapshots and in this regard may be likened to the tough, no-holds-barred stories of Janus Anderman from the same period. After Raport o stanie wojennym, and his own brief internment, Nowakowski wrote several other works dealing with the same events. These, too, had to be published outside of Poland. The most important of these are: Notatki z codzienności (Grudzień 1982–Lipiec 1983) (Everyday Notes [December 1982–July 1983], 1983), Życiorys Tadeusza Nawalanego , czyli Solidarność ma głos (The Biography of Tadeusz Nawalany, or Solidarity Has the Floor, 1983), and Osiem dni w ojczyźnie (Eight Days in the Fatherland, 1985). Since the end of communism in Poland, Nowakowski has concentrated his writing on the changes that have taken place in Polish society since then. The following excerpts are from Raport o stanie wojennym, vols. 1 and 2 (Paris: Institut Littéraire, 1982–1983), 1: 7–8, 2: 122, and have been translated from Polish by Harold B. Segel. from Raport o stanie wojennym Stan wojny (Martial Law) Darkness had fallen. The cold was intense. The suburb had emptied out earlier. The only sound was a continuous clanking from the black fortress-like mass of the steelworks. Tanks and transporters on tracks were approaching the barricaded gates. The army was surrounding the plant. A column of sol- 244 | Poland diers marched in the same direction, their rifles fixed with bayonets. In the lights of sparse street lamps it gleamed unexpectedly, reflecting the wintry glare. Concrete blocks barred the road to the factory. Two soldiers in caps with earlaps stood guard. They stamped their feet and clapped their hands. Their automatic weapons were slung across their chests. Coke glowed in a brazier on the other side of the partitioned street. A third soldier on guard was warming himself by it. He stirred the red coals with a rod. Long icicles sharp as stilettos hung from the eaves of houses. The sentry leaned somewhat forward of the wall of the building with its dangerously bristling edge. And the few passersby passed the soldier from a distance. His vigilant gaze followed them. His hands then abandoned the zone of heat and rested on his weapon. People crossed the street at a brisk pace. They stared straight ahead. The windows of the tenements were dark, with no signs of life. It was the third day of martial law and curfew time was approaching. A taxi came out of a side road. It approached the barrier. It stopped at the concrete blocks in the roadway. The soldiers went up to it, their weapons at the ready. A document check. They opened the trunk. They rummaged in it a long time. The taxi turned around. Silence reigned. The clanking of the armored vehicles stopped completely when they drew close to the factory. For a long time no one put in an appearance . Then the sudden echo of footsteps sounded noisily. Someone was plodding along slowly and heavily. A hunchbacked, ungainly figure loomed in the gateway. It shuffled toward the brazier. It was an old woman with a sack over her shoulder. The young soldier looked her over carefully. She freed herself of her burden. Her face was thin and...

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