With the retrospect of two decades, the denouement of the Solidarity saga and the revolutionary tide that swept across the face of Central Europe now seem dusted by a deceptive sheen of inevitability. But for those plunged in the hurtling cascade of events that made up 1989, the memory is rather different. The participants, the witnesses and the manipulators behind the scenes did not know where history was going, or how the river flow of events would spill across the terrain of social life, until the landscape reached, at last, a new conformation of stability. How hard it is, in the early years of the twenty-first century, with our present knowledge of the vast consequences born of the slight shifts in the political balance at the outset of 1989, to recall the specific tone and quality of those days. They were uncertain, they were drenched in uncertainty; in the cities of the Warsaw Pact, mantled by their constant coat of brown coal fumes and industrial smog, slender hopes and fine ideals were all that kept the heart alive. What did we who were visitors from outside the system see? Can we recapture our feelings and convictions then? We did not know what was going to happen, or how, or how far things would go; but there was a sense in the air, at the outset of the year of transformations, that history, after a long slumber, was starting up again. This resumption had been prepared by the preceding decade: the Solidarity years in Poland, above all, which was a period of moral rebirth. My own experience of Poland in the late 1980s left me greatly changed; I had a sense, for the first time in my life, of the power of ideas and the reality of national convictions. I also had a new sense of the way different factors, even conflicting factors, fit together in the march of history, and produce, by their clash and by the negotiation of their various intertwining influences, outcomes quite distinct from those intended by the principals in the drama. If we glance back now at a thematic x-ray of 1989, it is plain that four central figures helped shape the climate. First was Ronald Reagan, a president with very clear-cut ideas about communism; his actions while in office brought the Soviet Union to the negotiating table; his military build-up precipitated the Moscow regime's financial crisis. Reagan's Vice-President and successor, the cautious, quietist George Bush, then through masterful inaction allowed the cavalcade of change in Europe's heart to rush ahead in its natural rhythm. The second key actor onstage was the Polish Pope, John Paul II, whose insistent message to his people, and to the people of all the shadowed half of Europe, led them to lift up their eyes and to preserve a small flame of hope in their hearts. Lech Walcsa, who by this stage had come to incarnate Poland's demands for profound reform, was the natural counter to the Warsaw government. But by sublime paradox, the worst enemy of the European status quo was the leader of the Eastern Bloc, Mikhail Gorbachev, who, at every key turn in the course of 1989, was on hand, insisting that the time for force and constraint to hold the Soviet satellite empire intact was gone. All of these actors were necessary figures in the transformation. None of them expected the year of revolutions to end as it did; all of them, in their respective ways, exerted their will to break the system. Each one of the four was a man on a grander scale than the times; their mutual interaction in the course of the whole decade leading up to 1989 did much to ensure that confrontation found release, and that a dark interval of stagnation in European history came to a startling end. It is this quality of surprise that seems most worth dwelling on today. Not one correspondent predicted in serious fashion the outcome of the chain of events we all witnessed. Not one politician knew the script. Not one commentator or pundit, with the exception, oddly, of Polish emigre Zbigniew Brzezinski, dared envision the collapse in that year of the Berlin Wall. …
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