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If official concern for the Pope's safety seemed exaggerated, the Polish police had good reason to fear an outbreak of antigovernment demonstrations. After the Pope left St. John's Cathedral, Solidarity supporters rallied in front of the Royal Palace and began to march through downtown Warsaw to the headquarters of the Communist Party Central Committee. Soon the crowd had swelled to 30,000. Gray-haired grandmothers walked resolutely alongside teenagers. Little girls riding on the shoulders of their fathers flashed the victory sign. If the procession, at times, had the air of a carnival, there were also moments of solemnity as the marchers joined in a chorus of O God, Who Has Protected Poland, a nationalist hymn sung by the shipyard workers who went on strike in Gdansk in August 1980.
People watching from apartments overlooking the mile-long route applauded from open windows. Encouraged by the support, the demonstrators shouted their slogans even louder: "No freedom without Solidarity," "Freedom of speech," "We want truth." When a group of priests waved from a church balcony, the crowd picked up the chant, "The priests are with us. The Pope is with us." Crucifixes bobbed alongside Solidarity banners and Polish flags. Said a Warsaw University student: "The Pope's presence gives the people courage to say what they think. What you see here is the real Poland."
When the marchers arrived at Central Committee headquarters, they found their route blocked by several hundred riot policemen. For a few tense moments they waited in front of the phalanx armed with shields and clubs. But security officials had apparently been told to avoid a confrontation at all cost; with uncharacteristic courtesy, they used their bullhorns to announce: "We are kindly asking you to please disperse." The spontaneous protest ended peacefully, but not before Solidarity supporters had taunted the riot squad with the cry: "See you tomorrow."
On the eve of the Pope's arrival, underground union activists had pulled off a daring propaganda ploy. At about 7:30 p.m., Radio Solidarity suddenly broke into officially controlled air waves to broadcast an old recording of John Paul praising the ideals of the banned union. Before the clandestine program could be drowned out, Polish listeners heard a message for the Pope from Zbigniew Bujak, who, as the fugitive former leader of Warsaw's Solidarity branch, is high on the government's "most wanted" list. Said Bujak: "We welcome you amid the continuing struggle for our union's rights, for freedom for those in jail, for restoration of man's dignity and human rights."
In an interview last month with the underground weekly Tygodnik Mazowsze, Bujak had promised to come out of hiding and be "somewhere along the route to greet the Pope." Despite the bravado, the estimated 50 members of the underground are in a quandary about what to do next. As the spontaneous display of support in Warsaw last week illustrated, Solidarity still commands the allegiance of a substantial part of the Polish population. But none of that translates into real political