[Reprinted from the latest 'Voice of Solidarnos' bulletin…]

Scan page 8

Reprinted from the latest 'Voice of Solidarnos' bulletin, from Solidarity Trade Union Working Group, c/o Acorn Housa, 314 Grays Inn Road, London WC1. this is my cellar. I go past an old man and skip lightly up the stairs, feeling that in a second either the handles on the bags will give way or my hands. Out of the door and into the car. Nonchalantly I toss the What now? I can't drive around town with this paper until Piotrowski teaches the password to his mother-in-law.

Printer I decide to take it straight to the printer's. One of them did in fact ask me not to come there, because 1 would give myself away, but my only choice is taking. the paper back to the cellar or risking it and going to the printer's to get rid of. this awkward load.

I drive to Lwowska Street. I ring the bell, and the door is opened by a man I don't think I know. I ask for Adam, since there is no password here. The man at the door pretends he is tich, and says I must have made a mistake. 'Perhaps Adam left something for me,". I try once more. A familiar, tousled head appears from one of the rooms. 'Hello, Jurek," I greet him over the confused doorman's shoulder. 'Get in here and shut the door" says he in reply. You can already smell ink in the corridor. Jurek, in a stained white overall, introduces co-printer: Lofty, Adam's brother. He got the blocks three days later than usual, because the "postbox" had to leave for a funeral, and on top of that, Adam's rich relatives came to stay - they are so scared you can't even show them independent publications.

Postboxes

This means the printing is four days behind. The "postboxes" who distribute the bulletin are hopping mad, because the collectors have come a few times for nothing and say they are risking their lives.

I run to get the bags from the car. "Thank goodSolidarnose. Our gloves got torn, so were we supposed to stop production?" answers Lofty, irritated by my remark. ''The distributors don't get us gloves, but if we don't get an issue to the "postbox" on time, it's all our fault.

I don't bother to argue with him, because I know he's right. I grab their notes and run to the car. I was supposed to collect the blocks at 9.30 and it's 10.00 now. I'll have to arrange to pick them up later. Now to the man who offered his home as "postbox"'. At 10.20 I'm knocking on a door in a block of flats - the bell doesn't work. After a good few minutes knocking, the door is finally opened by an elderly gent in glasses. "Good morning, I've come about the automatic washing machine in the ad." The old gent looks at me keenly. "Yes of course, but it's not under guarantee, you know" After this exchange of pleasantries, I come inside.

Kettle My host puts the kettle on for tea, and I can see that I'm stuck there for at least half an hour. I begin in a businesslike manner: "You agreed to act as a distribution point, and this would mean Tuesdays or Thursdays from 5pm. The delivery person could use the old password. All we have to agree is a password for the collectors, and a warning sign would be useful, and of course the doorbell needs to be mended." "Just a moment" , says the old man, would they be ubhat sals I need - a "postbox" playing at censorship! 'Independent publications" ; I tell him, "The