Back in Poland, people had been monitoring the climb on their nightly evening news for weeks. Krzysztof and Leszek were instant national heroes. But there were tinges of jealousy in certain sectors of the international climbing community. The bad feelings can be partially attributed to some confusion with the initial radio transmission, which mistakenly reported that they had made the ascent without a permit. For the next two years, Reinhold Messner insisted they hadn’t climbed it in winter. This was because in Nepal at that time, the winter season officially ended on February 15, two days before their summit day. But Himalayan historian Elizabeth Hawley supported the team’s claim, saying, “I am not amongst these quibblers.” When Hawley and climbers from other countries endorsed the climb, Messner accepted the fact that they had climbed it, but illegally. Then the Nepal Ministry of Tourism produced a certificate stating that they had climbed it within the “official” winter window. Finally, Messner said, “Okay, I give up. They did climb it in winter.”
Even the Pope weighed in, with a letter dated February 17, 1980:
I express my happiness and congratulate my compatriots on their success in achieving the first winter ascent of the Earth’s highest summit in the history of winter Himalaya climbing.
I wish Mr. Andrzej Zawada and all the participants of the expedition further successes in this excellent sport which so brilliantly demonstrates the “royal” nature of the human being, its cognitive skill and will to rule God’s creation.
Let this sport, which demands such a great strength of the spirit, become a great lesson of life, developing in all of you all the human virtues and opening new horizons of human vocation.
For all the climbs, including the daily ones, I bless you all.
Vatican, 17th February 1980
Pope John Paul II16
The Pope’s letter congratulating the Everest in Winter team on their success
Poland was not yet finished with Everest. Andrzej had a second permit for the mountain and he intended to use it. But what could they possibly do that would match Wanda’s accomplishment, or the more recent first winter ascent? There was only one solution: a new route. And for this effort Andrzej needed Jurek on his team.
Jurek had missed out on the winter climb because of the birth of his son, but he was ready to go in the spring of 1980 and travelled to Kathmandu with his teammates, impatient to begin. There were problems, however: they had no money, their leader was still in Poland, and their permit was mysteriously missing. They weren’t sure how long it would take to sort out the confusion over the permit, so rather than wait around for Andrzej to arrive, the team headed off for Everest base camp, calling themselves a “trekking” group.
Over the years, Andrzej had earned a reputation for being a bit untidy—even disorganized—at times, at least when it came to paperwork. In the middle of his impressive mountain library sat a huge desk, covered in paper. Stacks of it, piles of it, file folders full of it. He would eventually find the documents he needed, but it didn’t surprise Jurek that there might be a delay with the permit. It was probably on Andrzej’s desk, back in Warsaw.
Once at Everest, the team began climbing, still without a permit. By the time Andrzej arrived in mid-April, with a permit and a liaison officer, they were already at Camp III. Now they were legitimate. They were attempting a new line on the South Face between the South Pillar and the Southeast Ridge. Above Camp IV, at around 8000 metres, they faced a vertical rock barrier. This would be the crux. Jurek estimated it to be Grade V in difficulty—extremely technical and steep. “To climb this at that altitude took so much out of me that at one stage the effort made me simply wet my pants,” he said later. “At times my vision blurred.”17
He and Rysiek Gajewski pushed through the difficulties and fixed ropes so that the next pair of climbers could establish the last camp at 8300 metres. Since the team was fixing ropes the entire way up the mountain, their progress was painfully slow. It eventually became clear that they didn’t have enough time to fix ropes all the way to 8600 metres, which is where they would reach the relative safety of the ridge. Jurek suggested going for the summit from Camp V, without any fixed ropes. Andrzej Czok added one more element—they should do it without oxygen. This would be risky.
Next came a long discussion about who would be the first to try for the summit. There were nine Polish climbing stars on the team, all of whom were capable—and motivated. But this was a large expedition organized in the traditional style; it was up to the leader to decide. Andrzej had an innate ability to sense the mood in a camp, and to alter the mood if necessary—to lead without appearing to lead. He could convince climbers that his plan was their idea, even if it wasn’t. Climbers who didn’t agree with him initially would often see the wisdom of his decisions later. They respected his judgement. Those who climbed most frequently with Andrzej were affectionately called “The Zawada Boys,” a nickname they didn’t mind.
After suggestions were presented from each climber about who should go up first, there was a long, pregnant silence. Finally, Andrzej spoke. It would be Jurek and Andrzej Czok who would go first because they were in the best physical shape.
Excited, the two headed back to their tents to prepare for their summit attempt. The next morning Jurek felt strong as he powered up the fixed lines all the way to Camp V. There, they had to decide what to do about oxygen: should they use it or not? While they made tea and rested, base camp radioed them frequently, urging them to use bottled oxygen to make the climb safer and increase their chances of success. Reluctantly, the two turned on their oxygen and slept.
They left the last camp at 5 a.m. Jurek set his oxygen flow at one to two litres per minute. They moved slowly because of the deep snow and steep rock steps and reached the South Summit at 2 p.m. Jurek’s lungs began to tighten and he struggled to breathe. When he tried to turn up the oxygen flow he realized that the cylinder was empty. So was Andrzej’s. They looked at each other. Up or down? They indicated up, even without oxygen. They radioed base camp to inform them of their decision, no longer interested in advice from below. “They were our lungs, our patches of blackness whirling in front of the eyes, ours to be or not to be,” Jurek reasoned.18
They reached the summit at 4 p.m. They had hoped to find the maximum-minimum thermometer and papal rosary left by Leszek and Krzysztof on their winter ascent just a few months before, but a Basque team had taken them. Jurek and Andrzej planted a Polish flag and started down an hour later with only the Basque flag as their souvenir. In his oxygen-depleted state, Jurek moved as if in a mist, as if he were beside his own body. It was 9 p.m.—16 hours after starting out—when they collapsed into their tent.
When they stumbled into base camp the following day, they were inundated with congratulations and good wishes. But there was an underlying tension that permeated the camp. Despite Andrzej’s strong leadership, there had been some bad behaviour. It turned out that two of the climbers, Genek Chrobak and Wojciech Wróż, had tried to make a rogue ascent of the peak without informing the others what they were up to. The era of Himalayan climbing in which everyone on the team automatically felt like a winner, regardless of who got to the top, had come to a resounding end. Now the individual’s accomplishments mattered more than the team’s. It was the leader’s job to hold the team together and manage everyone’s expectations, by whichever method worked. Sometimes the leader succeeded, but not this time.
When Andrzej discovered what had happened, he called everyone but the summit climbers off the mountain. The expedition was over. Seven Polish climbing stars had just been denied their chance at the summit of Everest by a new route. The mood at base camp was a far cry from the jubilation earlier that winter. The climbers were stoic, but their disappointment was bitter and Jurek could feel it deep inside, like a splinter.
Their return to Poland was victorious. There were reporters at the airport and gold medals for outstanding achievement in sport. Even though this ascent didn’t receive as much public support as the winter cl
imb or Wanda’s ascent, their new route garnered great respect within the climbing community. Jurek arrived back at his factory to be welcomed with a placard greeting the “conqueror of Everest.”
Poland had redeemed itself on Everest. Wanda had established a record as the first European woman on the summit. The Poles had climbed it first in winter. And now they had established a new route. The Polish Alpine Association was satisfied.
But not everyone was pleased. Some highly placed government officials were tiring of Everest victories, and the propaganda specialists began watching the climbing community closely. They were suspicious. Even though Poland was basking in the reflected glory of the Pope, and of Wanda and the other Everest climbers, the fact remained that these were individuals. And individuals receiving this much attention was surely a dangerous trend. The authorities were in a testy mood—for good reason, as it turned out.
6
SOLIDARITY TO MARTIAL LAW
The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU, WALDEN
POLAND TEETERED ON THE BRINK of chaos in the summer of 1980. When the party imposed an increase in food prices, a rash of strikes broke out in factories across the country. Of course, strikes were illegal and the party tried to subdue them with the usual combination of bribes and threats, a strategy that had worked in the past. Not this time. Nobody had counted on one particularly persistent individual, Lech Wałęsa.
Born the same year as Wanda, the electrician from the Gdańsk shipyards had already been jailed dozens of times for his underground activities. When the latest strike began at the Lenin Shipyard, Wałęsa jumped over the back wall and assumed leadership of the strike committee. Twenty thousand workers were barricaded inside the walls, and thousands more were outside the gates, cheering them on. Not just Poland’s but the entire world’s eyes turned to the Lenin Shipyard.
Over the next few days Wałęsa’s team negotiated an agreement that applied to strikes occurring across the country. Nothing on this scale had ever been attempted before, and from it came the Solidarity name and the slogan that electrified the country: “Workers of all enterprises—Unite.” The birth of the free trade union was Poland’s first big step in the long road to democracy.
Despite all the excitement, daily life continued its austere rhythm. Women stood in line for hours to buy their frustratingly small rations. Men faced similar queues at the gas stations. The only positive thing about all this standing around was the time it provided ordinary citizens to talk. And talk they did: about the war, their families, the ruling party, Solidarity and, of course, their hopes and dreams. As their emotional bonds to one another strengthened, so did their determination to create change. Over time, the Communist-style Socialist regime began to fathom just how difficult it was to destroy the traditions and dreams of the tenacious Polish people.
Wanda Rutkiewicz riding on a bicycle with her father and older brother
Wanda Rutkiewicz tries out the sport of climbing.
Portrait of the young Wanda Rutkiewicz, showing signs of strength and perseverance
The young Wanda Rutkiewicz, having just discovered the joy of climbing
Children playing in the ruins of Warsaw during the uprising
With streets under fire, an extensive network of passages that avoided open spaces was created during the Warsaw Uprising.
Polish climbers heading for Alaska
Andrzej Zawada
Andrzej Zawada and Anna Milewska
Polish team on their way to the Karakoram
Climbers on summit of Kunyang Chhish, August 26, 1971 (From the left: Andrzej Heinrich, Jan Stryczynski, Ryszard Szafirski)
Alison Chadwick and Wanda Rutkiewicz in the Tatras upon their return from the Hindu Kush in 1972
Gasherbrums II and III
Alison Chadwick-Onyskiewicz, Wanda Rutkiewicz, and K. Zdzitowiecki on the summit of Gasherbrum III
Voytek Kurtyka (1974)
The Lhotse 1974 team gathers in Warsaw. Andrzej Zawada, expedition leader, is on the left. Voytek Kurtyka, looking seriously concerned, second from right.
Tadek Piotrowski and Voytek Kurtyka in Camp III (7300 metres) on the Lhotse Wall, waiting for the weather to improve; Polish fall/winter expedition 1974
Andrzej Zawada, leader of the Lhotse fall/winter expedition in 1974
Wanda Rutkiewicz finds her real home in the mountains.
The young Jerzy Kukuczka discovers rock climbing.
Jerzy Kukuczka negotiating with Straż Graniczna (border patrol) at the Polish–Slovakian frontier in the Tatras Mountains
Voytek Kurtyka, Krzysztof Żurek, John Porter, and Alex MacIntyre at the Warsaw airport on their return from Changabang
Ryszard Koziol (exp leader), Alicja Bednarz, and Voytek Kurtyka arrive at Koh-e-Tez base camp after a horrific descent. They had just completed a new route, an alpine-style ascent of this 7015-metre peak in the Afghan Hindu Kush, their second of the expedition.
British climber Alex MacIntyre
The young Krzysztof Wielicki in his Boy Scout uniform
Meanwhile, Polish optimism soared when another of their countrymen, writer Czesław Miłosz, received the Nobel Prize for literature in 1980. Once again the world’s eyes turned to Poland. First the Pope, now the Prize.
While the country enjoyed a renewed feeling of confidence, the recent Everest heroes basked in the glory of their success. But amidst the euphoria and Wanda’s shiny new, post-Everest profile, her personal life was a shambles. Fame is not an attribute that grows from within; it comes from outside, from a particular public perspective. As Wanda’s fame burgeoned, she became increasingly isolated from other Polish climbers. Wanda attributed the cold reception to jealousy. Others blamed it on her strident feminist stance.
At the same time, some of the women climbers she had nurtured and encouraged were becoming well known and more accepted by the climbing community. Anna Czerwińska and Krystyna Palmowska had developed into a powerful climbing partnership, with a number of Himalayan giants on their horizon. It seemed that Wanda’s vision of a strong Polish women’s Himalayan climbing team was coming to fruition, but not with her.
Although she was now famous, Wanda’s personal finances were a mess and she moved frequently from one bland apartment to another. Living alone, she seemed unable to maintain any kind of serious emotional commitment, despite her many casual friends. Like a nomad, she dragged her clothing, her important photographs, and her climbing equipment around, everything in a perpetual state of disarray. She lost her ability to think clearly in this chaotic atmosphere, and gradually she drifted into a panic-stricken state. At night she slept fitfully, consumed with worry and doubt. Her days were unproductive as she strained to remember what promises she had made, and to whom. She was a tired, worn-out, thin, and unhappy young woman. But still, journalists wanted to speak with her. What was it like on the top of Everest? What were her plans? What was next for the famous Wanda? “The more I had to tell the same stories again and again, the more alien they sounded,” she said, “as though they had nothing to do with me at all.”19
Because of her fame, a publisher approached her later in 1978, suggesting she write her autobiography. She agreed, not realizing what was involved. Deadlines came and went. To the publisher it appeared that she didn’t care, but the simple explanation was that Wanda wasn’t a writer. She had no idea what hard work it would be and how much time it would take to write her story. Finally, in frustration, the publisher enlisted an established journalist, Ewa Matuszewska, to help her. Ewa was fascinated with the world of climbing and was flattered to work with such a famous woman. “She was a flash lady,” she recalled. “She enjoyed luxury, like perfume and nice clothes.”
They began to meet daily: lunch, tea, long walks, interviews and recordings. They became friends in the process, but the work progressed so slowly that the publisher lost patience and threatened to cancel the deal. Ewa suggested a two-week intensive period of work in an i
solated location, far from any distractions. Wanda agreed, so she used her high-level connections to gain access to a government military resort on the Baltic Sea. Arrangements still had to be “fixed,” despite the progress of the Solidarity movement, and coupons were required for everything: gas, hotels, food. The resort was perched on the edge of the moody, slate-coloured Baltic, and the two women spent their days striding along the stark and deserted beaches. They talked about the mountains, climbing, writing, relationships. Ewa recorded every phrase.
While the two of them struggled to save the book deal, Wanda realized that her love affair with climbing had faded. She concluded that the only solution for her was to stop climbing completely. Everest seemed a logical conclusion to her career, short as it had been. But she had no road map for a new life; climbing had defined her up to this point. Not only had it defined her, it had filled her life. Now there was a void. Wanda was used to excitement and danger. She relied on regular surges of adrenaline to keep herself motivated. She decided that she needed to find a replacement for climbing.
Freedom Climbers (Legends and Lore) Page 10
