Wanda tried to ignore the madness that surrounded her and concentrated on her studies. She sped through the grades and chose electrical engineering as a field for further study, a subject that seemed both interesting and practical. By the age of 16 she was enrolled at Wrocław Polytechnic. When she wasn’t in class, she was racing around the countryside on her motorcycle, her dark hair flying. She continued living at home with her family and earned a little on the side by tutoring students in math and physics. Eager young men frequented the family home, but Wanda seemed more interested in her professors than her classroom peers. Then, when she was just 18, she discovered a fresh new world, untouched by war.
It was a bright Saturday morning when a school friend, Bogdan Jankowski, introduced her to the sport of rock climbing at a crag in southwestern Poland. “Wait there,” Bogdan told her, instructing her to sit on a tree stump at the base of one of the routes in order to watch some of the others climb. Her turn would come soon. But when he was halfway up his route he heard a monstrous panting coming from the chimney feature next to him. He looked down and there was Wanda, climbing without a rope, already near the top of the chimney, quite frightened and struggling to complete the route. He reached the top of the cliff, tied a knot at the end of the rope and tossed it down to her. “Wanda, catch!” he yelled. Wanda caught the knotted rope with her extended hand, threw it away in disgust, and scrambled to the top on her own.
Her body seemed custom-designed for climbing: she was light and strong and she instinctively knew how to stay in balance on the rock. A photograph of Wanda striding across the meadow in front of the crag, still in her climbing harness, reveals a confident young woman, eyes flashing, arms flexed in a mock display of muscle strength, with a confident grin on her face. She gushed in her journal that she “adored the physical movement, the fresh air, the camaraderie and the excitement.”
The next weekend she was back, throwing herself at increasingly difficult climbing routes during the day and sleeping in caves at night, warmed by a roaring campfire and like-minded friends. Wanda was possessed by climbing from the first moment. “I knew it would somehow mark the rest of my life,” she said.3 For many first-timers, climbing feels like a discovery of freedom. But in Wanda’s world of limited self-expression, that feeling must have been much more intense. She had found an environment in which her strength and ambition could flourish, and, in the middle of a country devastated by war, she had discovered a landscape that humans hadn’t yet blighted.
The Polish landscape was especially devastated in and around the city of Katowice in the southwestern part of the country. This was the area where Jurek Kukuczka had grown up, a region that changed dramatically after the war ended, because of the Six Year Economic Plan, which was announced in 1950. The undisputed darling of the plan was heavy industry—unlimited iron and steel. The centre for much of its production was Katowice. The Soviets even constructed a railway line linking Katowice directly to the Soviet frontier in order to move products from the massive Katowice Steelworks. It was here that a large community of hard-core climbers emerged, their jobs provided by the steelworks.
Despite the economic initiatives, Polish citizens were overwhelmingly disgruntled. Their wages were fixed, regardless of how much—or how little—work they did. Although they were powerless to fight the system, they practised a kind of passive resistance that ground their country almost to a halt. There was low-level cheating and slacking off, which resulted in poor productivity, shoddy standards, and terrible inefficiencies. People saved their energy for moonlighting jobs or for standing in the endless breadlines. Their resentment was further fuelled by what they had endured: war with Germany, war with Russia, providing the battlefield for the war between Germany and Russia, Soviet rule, partition. They had little respect for the unearned authority that ruled them. Instead, they concentrated on their own survival.
Yet within this stifling atmosphere, Wanda saw a new world opening up for her—a world of nature and rock and friendship, and a sense of freedom, far from the grey, grimy streets. Her climbing jaunts soon extended beyond the nearby crags as she sampled the limestone of the Jura Mountains northwest of Krakow, the sandstone cliffs near the frontier with East Germany and, finally, the High Tatras, bordering what was then Czechoslovakia. The mountains became her oases of peace. Just like her attitude in school, Wanda’s approach to climbing was systematic and persistent. Her sister later said, “Climbing worked like a drug on her. She never even gave it any consideration. It automatically entered her blood and was totally absorbed by it.” As her confidence grew, so did her beauty. Her predominantly male climbing partners were dazzled by her radiant smile.
Wanda’s first trip to the Alps coincided with her graduation from university in 1964 at the age of 21. Because of a severely infected cyst, she did very little climbing. But she found a sympathetic Innsbruck physician, Dr. Helmut Scharfetter, who not only treated her infection but assuaged her disappointment by arranging a mountain rescue course for her. He then went on to climb with her in the Zillertal Alps. His first impressions were of an intelligent young woman, incredibly attractive despite her tattered clothes. The good doctor would eventually play an important role in her life.
Shortly after she returned to Wrocław, the phone rang. It was a man from the militia, inviting her for coffee in Wrocław’s best café. Wanda agreed and appeared at the appointed time. Two men in uniform greeted her, introduced themselves rather formally, showed her their identification papers and asked her to sit down. They ordered thick, strong coffee and generous portions of apple cake.
The taller of the two offered a thin smile as he complimented Wanda: “You are a climber—a very famous climber in Poland.”
“Yes, I climb a lot. Maybe a little well known, but not so famous,” she replied, a little wary.
The short, pale one chimed in between enormous bites of cake. “Climbing is difficult and dangerous,” he gulped. “You must be very strong. And you travel a lot.”
“Yes, I travel to climb. I must, if I am to be a serious climber.”
They leaned a little closer, peering at Wanda with increased concentration. “You were in Austria recently. How was it? Did you meet some interesting people?”
She sat back in her chair, gaining a little distance. “Yes, of course, I always meet interesting people. Climbers, of course.”
“You are a very privileged woman; you travel outside of Poland and you meet foreigners. Is this an activity you would like to continue?”
Wanda finally grasped the gist of their queries: they wanted her to work with the secret service! While they continued with their propositions, she began to seethe. Finally she could no longer contain her anger. She pounded her fist on the table and yelled, “What are you asking me to do, spy for Poland? That is completely immoral and contemptible. How could you even ask me to do this?”
Very easily, as it turned out. The Soviet surveillance machine relied upon “volunteers” like Wanda and her climbing contemporaries—Polish citizens who regularly travelled outside Poland’s borders.
The neighbouring table craned their necks to see Wanda, whose eyes darkened with anger as she continued to shout and gesticulate. The men cast furtive glances at the nearby customers. They tried to calm her by assuring her that it was all just talk, nothing serious. The tall one snapped his fingers to signal the waiter, then he paid the bill, and the two men escorted Wanda outside the café, where their attitude changed. They warned her that if she ever mentioned this conversation to anyone, she could forget about further trips to the Alps—or anywhere outside Poland.
She was never approached again, but many others were. Numerous climbers revealed that not only were they expected to report in to the authorities immediately after each trip abroad, but “collaboration” was often the key to retrieving their passports for their next international expedition.
The secret service was interested in them for a number of reasons. Climbers who travelled and lived abroad for extended peri
ods of time were prime candidates for the “Western idealistic rot,” it claimed. Even worse, they could bring it back to Poland. They needed to be watched—carefully. But they could also be useful observers of the West, bringing back valuable information about politics, economies, and lifestyles. Most important, climbers were easy to bargain with because they had much to gain—freedom to travel—and even more to lose—confinement to Poland. Climbers were easy targets. Most club presidents spoke regularly with the secret service, and it was common knowledge that there were informants within the clubs. Some climbers talked about the situation openly, and others did not. Some climbers were allowed to leave the country after meetings with the secret service, and others, mysteriously, were not. It is highly unlikely that any high-profile or well-travelled Polish climber managed to escape their grasp.
It was on Wanda’s fourth trip to the Alps, in 1967, that she first managed some serious climbing. Her partner was Halina Krüger-Syrokomska, a tiny fireball of a woman who liked rough jokes, climbed well, and smoked a pipe. The Mountain Club had selected and sponsored them; it was a rare opportunity for Polish female climbers. A year later they travelled to Norway to make the first women’s ascent of the steep east buttress of Trollryggen—over 1000 metres high and one of the longest rock routes in Europe. They formed a strong team: Halina had the brains, Wanda the brawn.
As two female climbers who had achieved success abroad, they returned home from Norway as minor celebrities, more so than their male counterparts who were also chalking up impressive climbs in the Alps. Although their story was a pleasant diversion to the spar-tan lives of normal Polish citizens, their temporary fame did little to improve their own quality of life.
From 1961 to 1968, the standard of living for most was scarcely better than during the war. In contrast, high-level party bosses and senior industrialists basked in ostentatious luxury. Their fast cars, private villas, and foreign travel infuriated the people who struggled to survive on paltry earnings. The average monthly wage was 3,500 zł. per month (about USD35). Even if they had been able to travel abroad, their currency was completely useless outside the country, making them virtual slaves of the state.
Over three million housing units were constructed after the war, primarily in the urban areas. These shoddy apartment blocks were built of cement and plaster in the Soviet style seen throughout the Eastern Bloc. The workmanship was substandard and few had the luxury of indoor toilets or central heating. These structures certainly bore no resemblance to the opulent homes of the party elite.
Then, in December of 1970, the government miscalculated the reach of its power and influence when it increased food prices by 20 per cent. Just in time for Christmas. When the populace demonstrated with widespread strikes, the army retaliated. A truce was signed, but it was an uneasy one. By now, ordinary citizens were not just angry about the rise in prices. They were sick to death of the whole regime, including the mind-numbing level of censorship. The government not only controlled information, it manufactured it. The colossal party rallies, attended by thousands of cheering “supporters,” fooled no one. The ridiculous posturing was an insult to people’s intelligence. Particularly for educated Poles, the preaching of party lines was offensive.
The long queues, the polluted air, chronic food shortages, crumbling homes, bullying officials, the substandard living conditions: it all wore the people down. Many turned to alcohol. Depression was rampant. The streets became full of the walking dead.
Wanda’s family struggled. They were perpetually short of money, despite her father’s futile efforts to patent his inventions. As the disappointments accumulated, Zbigniew’s mistrust of people grew. He anticipated foul play at every turn. He withdrew into an imaginary world of lost opportunity and began studying Spanish in the hope of escaping Poland’s austerity for sunny South America. Deeply unhappy, he eventually moved out. Wanda’s sister Nina recalled that sad time: “He was so different from our mother. Mother could not recover from the problems of losing everything during the war...Suddenly she was left by her husband in a poor home without anything. Wanda accepted the role of husband, father, friend, guardian’s daughter. She was the strongest person in our family.”
The split was acrimonious and Wanda’s parents fought over the family home. Wanda stepped in and, in her new role as unofficial head of the family, bought it with borrowed money so that the remaining family members could stay together. This created additional stress, for her priorities were now torn between her financial responsibilities and climbing.
She coped with the increasing financial pressure as well as she could, but it surely influenced her decision to marry, and marry well, in the spring of 1970. Wojtek Rutkiewicz was tall, dark, and handsome, a mathematician, and the son of Poland’s Deputy Minister for Health. He was also a climber, which was how they first met. They moved into the upper flat in Wanda’s family home and then later relocated to Warsaw for Wojtek’s work.
Three months after exchanging vows, Wanda jumped at the chance to join a Polish–Soviet expedition to the Soviet Pamirs. The nationally sanctioned trip was headed by the well-known Polish expedition leader Andrzej Zawada. Their objective was 7134-metre Pik Lenin, the highest mountain Wanda had ever attempted. It was almost like a honeymoon—except that Wojtek wasn’t invited.
2
CLIMBING POLITICS
And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far into the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
—RAINER MARIA RILKE, LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET
To BE A POLISH CLIMBER has never been easy, and yet the country boasts a long and colourful mountaineering heritage. As early as 1924, Polish climbers were making plans for Everest and K2. This, so soon after the country was licking its wounds from the war with Bolshevik Russia. Patriotic feelings ran high, and by the 1930s climbers had established their own Mountaineering Club. Even after World War II, the club managed to remain active, but when the Stalinist system took over in 1949 everything changed. The Soviet authorities didn’t outlaw climbing completely; they just shifted it from an individual experience, which they categorized as a “relic of bourgeois alpinism,” to a collective endeavour that could be manipulated by the propaganda machine. The most immediate impact was the severely restricted access to the Tatras. Climbers were forced to dodge border patrols and submit to searches and interrogations. But the strategy failed. A naturally rebellious lot, they jumped at the opportunity to climb in forbidden territory.
Under Khrushchev and Gomułka, a political thaw encouraged the Mountaineering Club to reform, but there were still plenty of rules. As soon as the Iron Curtain lifted slightly in the mid-1950s, climbers headed west—to the Alps. Desperate to catch up to their European counterparts, and dreadfully underfunded, they nevertheless stormed around the Alps and managed to put up an impressive number of difficult climbs. By the early 1960s they had discovered the Hindu Kush, the most practical combination of high mountains, easy access and cheap living. With all hope of real democratization in Poland fading, climbers gave up on realizing their potential at home. They began to look beyond its borders for ways to escape from the boredom and drabness of their everyday lives.
Ironically, the system that stifled them at home provided their ticket to freedom. The centralized government was happy to grant them permits to climb abroad, for their international successes brought glory to Poland.
The style of climbing that developed during this time was built on the classic, well-rounded model that valued not just climbing but also knowledge of mountain history, literature, art, and tradition. The spiritual hub of this developing culture was not in the club office in Warsaw, but in a little mountain hut in the Morskie Oko valley in the Tatras. There, during the candlelit evenings that followed long days in the mountains, the oral tradition flourished. It was a place for storytelling, heated debates, singing, and dreaming. It was a place where Polish climbers could feel free.
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sp; For those who went abroad, the exhilaration of escape was marred only by the pressure to succeed. That, combined with the climbers’ solid training, dogged determination, and stoicism in extreme conditions, as well as a strong streak of romantic heroism, produced outstanding results.
Climbing evolved into a pastime that people from all levels of society could enjoy. Before long, climbers were identifying themselves as a subculture within Polish society. The climbing writer J.A. Szczepański, known as the cerebral leader of Polish climbers in the first half of the 20th century, wrote, “Climbing is not a symbol or poetic metaphor of life—it is life itself.”4
Word spread. The climbing life was a good life. Trips abroad, adventure, and the underground economy that developed around climbing began to attract more and more climbers to the clubs. When the clubs merged into the Polish Alpine Association in 1974, additional red tape arose. Each climber was given an official card stating where and when he was qualified to climb. It was almost like a licence. By 1979 there were 2400 active climbers in Poland. Clubs multiplied and soon the universities jumped on board, creating their own organizations that took advantage of centralized funding for their “sporting” activities.
One of the greatest breakthroughs was the creation of the Fund for the Social Action for Youth (FASM) in the 1970s. The fund made it possible for young people to earn extra money at a low tax rate in order to buy much-needed things like furniture. In order to retain some level of control, the extra earnings had to be funnelled through an officially sanctioned club. The Polish Alpine Association (as the Mountaineering Club was now named) was recognized as a legitimate club, as long as it declared itself a “Socialist” organization, which it did. Climbers directed their meagre earnings through their clubs—not for furniture but for expeditions!
Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore) Page 3
