ESBEK

In these days of self-isolation, queues and scarcity of toilet rolls in the shops, I am reminded of my time during martial law in Poland in the late Eighties.  At that time you could live like God on 50 bucks, if you weren’t actually Polish and if there was anything to buy.  A popular pastime was to find a queue and join it, the only difference from today being that you didn’t have to keep your distance from others, in fact it was de rigueur to shake the hand of anyone you knew and their companions and the companions of the companions and so on, very Kevin Bacon.  The only thing you were likely to pick up was the buzz that there was a delivery of mustard due, or vinegar or even vodka.  Those were the best queues, albeit made up of mostly middle-aged men: grey suits, grey hair, grey eyes, ashen in pallor.  

Some of the items delivered were actually quite incongruous, not what you might expect to find in your local branch of Primark.  On one occasion, I recall only two items were delivered - sugar and trousers.  The sugar came in large crates but there were no bags, you had to bring your own.  An inventive person would buy a couple of pairs of trousers and put the sugar in the pockets. Well, necessity is the mother of invention.

One of the drawbacks of living in a communist state was the apparatus of security, especially secret policemen, who were known as ‘Esbeks’, from S.B. (Służba Bezpieczeństwa- Security Service), the equivalent to the Stasi in the DDR.  I was extremely proud to have my own personal esbek who would always turn up whenever I ventured out into town.  He became known as ‘Lurch’, most often because he would lurch into sight whenever I went into town, a camera at the ready, and a big smile on his face.  Surprisingly, he was actually quite a lugubrious fellow, albeit blandly malignant. Cześć (hi) he would yell from across the street taking my photograph as I trudged  back to my digs from the shops, sugar spilling onto the pavement.  He would hurtle across the wide avenue, narrowly avoiding the one Fiat 125 Polski that made up the bulk of rush hour traffic,  in spite of the fact that jaywalking was a punishable offence, he would join me, lurching along in my direction home with a smattering of broken English: ‘beauty woman’  he would bellow, pointing at a gathering of young women outside Moda Polska, window shopping for shoes and potatoes.

During martial law there were no cafes or bars to visit in town, except the Police club or the Artists’ club, which both closed at 9pm.  The ironic thing was that all the artists would go to the Police club (also known as Casino number 2), because it was cheaper and they had beer, whilst the esbeks would be at the Artists’ club, ostensibly to watch over the artists, who weren’t there .  On the occasions we did meet, a popular bar-room game was to see who could stare down the other from across the room.

The Artists’ club (Biura Wystawa Artystyczna – BWA, pronounced Bevoir) was a fascinating place, especially the WC, guarded by fierce old ladies who would demand payment in advance of your usage of the toilet which stank to high heaven and looked as if the last occupant had used it from a great height.  There was no toilet paper to be found in the cabinets.  Toilet rolls were preciously guarded out front by the toilet lady.  The paper was grey, suitably non-absorbent and with the added ‘frisson’ of splinters thrown in for good measure.  She would dourly count off a limited number of sheets that she deemed necessary for your visit.  Extra sheets cost more and, given the fact that inflation was running at a rate of about 500% per annum, it was actually cheaper to use 50 zloty banknotes, a treasonable offence, especially if one of the esbeks discovered you using the face of General Karol Świerczewski for such a dastardly deed.  I could just imagine the charge sheet in the local esbek headquarters.  I always looked over my shoulder for signs of Lurch and his ubiquitous camera, I didn’t want to go from being God on 50 bucks to prison for 50 złoty.