Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore)

by Bernadette McDonald

  The clubs became micro-communities within the country. People worked in the clubs and for the clubs. They spent their free time in the company of club members who had similar interests and opinions. They kept aloof from their dysfunctional surroundings and abandoned any career aspirations. They channelled their unfulfilled hopes and suppressed energies into a passionate love of mountains and adventure. Their mountain asylums became much more than an escape from their reality; they were a way to fulfill themselves and create meaningful lives. Up in the hills, the Orwellian principles didn’t apply. There, they could rely on principles that predated the totalitarian state—values that were common to all the climbers. The more successful the climbers were, the more they turned inward, developing their own ideology and forms of literary expression.

  Within a very few years Poland was a Himalayan superpower and the government authorities loved it. The government’s propaganda machine exploited the climbers’ successes while the climbers exploited the machine. The very best were given awards and medals. Hundreds of others took advantage of the freedom to roam the world’s great mountain ranges.

  But the climbing community faced some disquieting moral dilemmas. Most climbers were opposed to the regime and by the early 1980s were active in the emerging Solidarity movement, which was trying to bring democracy to Poland. At the same time, they were tempted by centralized support and were forced to join clubs that openly declared themselves socialist. The authorities watched climbers closely, monitoring their movements and offering them opportunities to spy. Some accepted. Outspoken Wrocław climber Alek Lwow characterized this kind of behaviour as “obedience to the official propaganda, though rather with a view to milking the authorities, to sucking advantages out of the regime.”5 Andrzej Zawada knew this world better than most, but he defended the strategy, claiming it was certainly no worse than what Western climbers did—plaster their clothing with unsightly sponsor logos. Still, there seemed to be a collective feeling of guilt, for climbers referred to the situation as being “dipped in the manure” of the totalitarian state.

  Despite the moral hand-wringing, the fact remained that the choice for Polish climbers was simple: accept government support, or don’t climb at all.

  They chose to climb. The more they climbed the better they became, and the mountaineering world stood in awe.

  When Andrzej Zawada first became interested in climbing, he joined the Warsaw Mountain Club, part of the countrywide alpine association that dated back to the 1930s, when there were no restrictions for Polish climbers. Most aspiring climbers were part of the club, which played a decisive role in developing and defining climbing in Poland—almost too great a role. The club offered advancing levels of theoretical and practical instruction. But it was also extremely regulated. A novice climber was forbidden to climb unsupervised before passing a number of tests. Progress was tracked in each climber’s passbook, and at some point a qualified climber could begin going to the Tatras or the Alps to climb. But not before. Activities like soloing were strictly forbidden and a climber caught doing so could be thrown out of the club. In a bizarre display of self-censorship, the club magazine, Taternik, responded by not reporting solo climbs.

  Not surprisingly, there were occasional transgressions despite the tight controls. Although the Wrocław club was strong and active, Voytek Kurtyka wasn’t part of it, at least not immediately. Yet he climbed like a fiend, both in Poland and abroad, finagling his way across borders. The club officials were horrified when they realized that one of Poland’s leading rock climbers—someone who had already made a number of notable climbs in the Alps, as well as daring first winter ascents in the Tatras—had never taken a single course of instruction. Since Voytek had occasionally travelled under the club banner and with their support, they were now liable. They hastened to install him as a fully qualified member of the Polish Alpine Association in the hope no one would notice.

  Andrzej Zawada, on the other hand, played by the rules and quickly became the darling of the Warsaw Mountain Club. Yet even his golden-boy status was temporarily tarnished in 1959 when he violated club rules by making a complete winter traverse of the Tatras mountain range. He had sent out a memo looking for potential partners and had been soundly reprimanded by the club, which advised him that it was too dangerous. A month later he did it anyway. They traversed about 75 kilometres, and gained and lost 22,000 metres on a route that was steep, airy and difficult. Andrzej judged it a great success and an important test of his abilities in winter conditions. The club saw it as a flagrant disregard of their rules and they refused to report it, depriving him of a significant first ascent.

  Although the association allowed Andrzej a couple of climbing trips to the Alps in the years following his transgression, they withheld his passport for an expedition that he had organized to the Rakaposhi area in Pakistan’s Karakoram Range. But he persisted in his efforts to win back their support, and he finally succeeded. Despite the ever-present secret service agent tagging along, Andrzej felt he had “escaped the cage that was the Polish People’s Republic” when the club gave him permission to lead a trip to the Russian Pamirs in 1970. At the same time, Wanda’s international reputation as a talented climber was growing, and so the club invited her along too.

  Government authorities were convinced that sport could bring prestige and respect to Poland, so they supported the athletes judged most likely to succeed. This included climbers. Some funding came from the state, but institutions and businesses contributed as well. Even factories chipped in with much-needed support. The entire process was funnelled through the club’s Himalayan Fund. Poland’s best climbers were sent out of the country on partially or completely funded expeditions. They were chosen by an expedition leader from the club’s Sporting Committee, a powerful position indeed.

  But there was a fundamental difference between the state’s support for athletes and its support for alpinists. Top-level football or volleyball players had all their worldly needs taken care of: a car, an apartment, a stable income. Their time was used to train. Climbers were different. Although their successes provided fuel for the propaganda machine, they nevertheless received less money. As a result, climbers had little time to train. Even though they had world-class reputations, they were treated as hobbyists or amateurs. An alpinist had to be an organizer, an outfitter, a packer, a transporter, a communicator, a diplomat, a financier, even a beggar from time to time. Alpinists did everything except train. And at the very end, after months of preparation, and if the weather cooperated, they climbed.

  Still, financial support from the club was considered a coup for any Polish climber, so it is not surprising that Wanda’s invitation to the Pamirs ruffled a few feathers amongst her extremely talented male counterparts. Jurek and many others had been climbing hard in the Polish Tatras, and Voytek was making a name for himself with first winter ascents and new routes on increasingly difficult terrain. But exotic foreign climbs impressed the association honchos the most, and it was Wanda’s success abroad that attracted the attention of Andrzej Zawada.

  Wanda knew none of the other climbers on the team. It was also her first introduction to Andrzej, who at the age of 42 was already well known in Poland—not only as a climber but also as a leader who could inspire, a diplomat who could smooth the way and a charming and strikingly handsome man.

  With only Wrocław in common, Wanda and Andrzej came from entirely different circumstances, and their leadership styles were like night and day. Andrzej hailed from a long aristocratic tradition, starting with Count A. Malczewski. A Romantic poet who is sometimes regarded as the first Polish alpinist, Malczewski did the first ascent of the lower Aiguille du Midi and the sixth ascent of Mont Blanc, both in 1818.

  Although not a count, Andrzej was proud of his lineage: Philip, his lawyer father, had a doctorate in international law, and his mother was a linguist who translated both Russian and German. But it was his grandfather, Tomasz, who influenced Andrzej the most. Tomasz had fought in the Poli
sh Uprising of 1918–19, and his taste for risk was equal to his grandson’s. Philip’s skills were more inclined to diplomacy. When he succeeded in negotiating the terms of the amorphous German–Polish border in the 1920s, he was named the Polish consul for his efforts. The family settled into a diplomatic life in what had now become Germany. Not long after, however, he was struck down with tuberculosis and travelled to Davos, Switzerland, for treatment and the sharp, clean air. But the treatment failed; he died in 1931, when Andrzej was only three years old. His wife, Eleonora, was so terrified her children would succumb to the disease that she moved her two young boys back to Poland and as high as she could, near the Tatras. By 1939 they were living in an alpine-style chalet in which Eleonora rented out rooms to supplement her translation income.

  They would occasionally visit their aunt’s estate back on the German side of the border, but these trips were always fraught with angst. First, they needed visas to cross the border, and when they arrived, they were obliged to witness their helpless relatives’ terror—harassment and bullying, incidents where the Gestapo would storm into the home, destroying furniture and ordering them about. Eventually, the family that remained was forced into work camps.

  Andrzej was relatively sheltered from the horror, growing up in the protective shadow of the Tatras. He wandered amongst them as often as he could, picking berries and mushrooms and breathing the alpine air. During the war, Eleonora’s translating skills brought her work in the local hospital, where hundreds of soldiers whose lungs were damaged by poisonous gas arrived for treatment. Some nights, the brave resistance fighters held secret meetings in their cozy chalet. Other evenings, she hosted intimate chamber recitals with travelling musicians playing Chopin—a forbidden composer in this German-controlled area, since he was Polish.

  As bad as the German occupation was, the Russian “liberation” turned out to be much worse. Russian soldiers—wounded, dirty, and often drunk—would storm through the town, forcing civilians to feed them. It was then that Andrzej began colluding with some of the partisans. Still just a schoolboy, he kept a machine gun under his desk at school and grenades by his bed at night.

  Andrzej, predictably, landed in prison at the age of 17. He could hear the cries in the neighbouring cells, where most of his friends were executed. Of those who survived, many were tortured. All Andrzej could do was change the dressings on their wounds. He too was interrogated by the Russian secret service, but perhaps because of his youth, they released him after a month. His mother, frantic for his safety, whisked him away to a secret location, where he finished his high school studies. Going on to study geophysics in university at Wrocław and Warsaw, he soon joined the local mountain club, taking their courses and climbing on weekends. He went on to lead foreign geophysical scientific expeditions, for which he organized the logistics, permits, and equipment, and learned about teamwork and diplomatic wrangling.

  By the time he and Wanda met, he was perfectly prepared for life as an expedition leader. He had travelled widely, knew how to function within a wide range of institutional and governmental structures, and had led groups of men in situations of significant risk. In contrast, Wanda had been the CEO of her family, supervising her siblings and buying the family groceries.

  But they both knew how to climb.

  Andrzej was intrigued by the dark-haired young beauty as she navigated the land mines of the mostly male, multicultural Pamirs team. The men flirted with Wanda and teased her, vying for her attention. At first it was fun being the princess. But when they were reluctant to treat her as an equal member of the team, she pushed back. She tried to establish her credibility by beating them at arm wrestling and carrying heavier loads. This only alienated her more. They were used to “girl climbers”: women who climbed well but who were never first on the rope, and who usually climbed with their boyfriends or husbands. But this Wanda creature—she wanted to lead and get to the summit on her own!

  Disgusted at their attitude, she pronounced the entire expedition dysfunctional. Although she did get up her 7000-metre peak, she vowed to never again join an expedition of this kind. Still, it had occupied more than a month of her newly married life, so as soon as she returned home she set about getting to know her new husband and landing a job at the Institute of Mathematical Computing in Warsaw.

  But by 1972 she was planning to hit the road again, this time to the Hindu Kush Mountains of Afghanistan. The team’s objective was Noshaq, the second-highest peak in the range and the highest in Afghanistan, at almost 7500 metres. Situated in the Wakhan Corridor separating Russia and China from India and Pakistan, Noshaq’s second ascent had been made by the Poles 12 years earlier. Thanks to the war and the Soviet grip on their country, Polish climbers were at this point lagging behind their international counterparts in the high mountains. Now they were returning for some badly needed postwar high-altitude know-how.

  Wanda’s experience in the Pamirs convinced her that she had to run her own show. The loss of independence implicit in accepting full financial support from the club was too much for her. So she directed some of her private earnings into the club’s expedition fund and then tapped into that fund for her expedition expenses.

  Another source of funding was Julian Godlewski, a wealthy Pole living in Switzerland. A great patron of Polish culture, Godlewski sponsored the Chopin competition prize as well as Olympic athletes. His other area of interest was mountaineering, a passion that funded a number of Polish expeditions to the great ranges. His endorsement was a gold stamp, for expedition leaders could then approach the official agencies. “Julian has already given us 20,000; how much will you give?”

  The most difficult challenge for Polish climbers was finding foreign currency, a requirement for a portion of the expedition expenses. This was solved by inviting foreign climbers along, for they could bring hard currency to the table. In order to use Polish złotys as much as possible, the teams travelled overland to their destinations whenever they could, bringing all their own equipment and as much Polish food and gas as was practical. This strategy made Afghanistan, reachable by road, one of the most popular destinations, at least until the Soviet invasion in 1979, when the country collapsed into complete chaos.

  Organizing an expedition was an overwhelmingly complex affair. It was impossible to go to a shop in Poland and buy supplies; camping equipment, tents, sleeping bags, down pants, anoraks, clothes, and boots were simply not available. Everything had to be assembled from scratch. At one place climbers would buy the fabric. At another, the zippers. A mother or aunt would sew the items together. There was a shoemaker in Zakopane who handmade their boots, and the ice axes were forged in a local blacksmith shop. “We almost had to pluck the ducks and geese to get the down for the jackets,” Wanda said. To add to the hassle, they needed permits for absolutely everything: a permit to buy canned food, another to buy chocolate, and yet one more to take anything out of the country. Organizing any mountain expedition is onerous, but in Poland it took twice the effort.

  After months of preparation, the team of 11 climbers was finally ready to depart for Noshaq. They travelled overland through the Soviet Union in a Star A-29 truck barely big enough to hold them and all their equipment. Among them was an English woman, Alison Chadwick, who had married Polish climber Janusz Onyszkiewicz. Wanda was intrigued by Alison. An obviously cultured woman, she seemed measured—almost slow—in her actions, but quick in her thoughts. Wanda watched as Alison coped with the Polish team. She was from a country that respected the rights of individuals, but she now found herself in a group of people with a different culture and mentality, one that oscillated between a desire for democracy and a need for an iron fist—people who wanted individual rights but who found it hard to accept other people’s ideas. “She respected our right to be different and was merely curious,” Wanda remarked.6

  As the expedition progressed, Wanda and Alison began to talk about the possibility of climbing even higher mountains. There were very few female climbers active on
the Himalayan giants at this time, so they needed to gain some self-confidence. The women huddled together, drinking tea, sharing a rope and their dreams. Were they strong enough? Did they have the right skills? Perhaps the most important factor was leadership. They would need to overcome their fears and weaknesses, take advantage of their strengths, and learn to make their own decisions, because indecision in the mountains could be fatal. Wanda became convinced that she and Alison could do great things together.

  The Poles were not alone on Noshaq. Among the others was an American chemist, Arlene Blum, who would go on to lead the first all-female ascent on Annapurna. The Polish team succeeded on their peak, and four women—Ewa Czarniecka, Alison and Wanda, plus Margaret Young from Arlene’s team—stunned the climbing community by summiting in good style. Now that they had climbed to almost 7500 metres, what would stop them from climbing an 8000-metre peak?

  The remoteness, the exciting mountain, the group of friends: it all came together for Wanda on this trip. “The perils of climbing fascinated me because they released so much joy and delight in simple things, like the feel of the wind, the scent of rock warmed by the sun, the sudden relaxation of tension, or the hot tea in the cup.”7

  While Wanda gained personal confidence and experience in the high mountains, Andrzej had even more ambitious plans; he wanted to carve a secure place in climbing history for all Polish climbers. The year before, in 1971, he had led a groundbreaking climb of the 7852metre Kunyang Chhish, in the Western Karakoram. Now, just months after his return from Afghanistan, he was leading another Polish team to Noshaq—in the dead of winter. The government of Afghanistan expressed concern about this audacious undertaking, so, before giving permission, they made an unusual demand: they wanted a letter from the Mountaineering Club stating that the club was aware of the Polish expedition plans and that it would take full responsibility for the climbers’ actions. With some difficulty, Andrzej convinced the club to provide the letter.