A Voice from Poland: Missed Opportunities for the Millennium of the First Coronation (1025-2025)
Piotr Toczyski, Maria Grzegorzewska University in Warsaw, Poland
ptoczyski@aps.edu.pl
The Piast dynasty (966-1370) ruled Poland from approximately 960, though they gained recognition on the international stage only after Mieszko I’s baptism in 966, and remained in power until 1370, with a brief five-year interruption. The millennium of Mieszko’s son’s coronation hits at a time of enduring fascination in the Western world with the Middle Ages, especially the quasi-Middle Ages. The proof is provided by cinema, including series such as Game of Thrones, Lord of the Rings, The Witcher - and their numerous prologues and epilogues. These are business decisions of American corporations (HBO, Amazon, Netflix), as are the lightsaber duels of Disney’s recent neo-medieval Star Wars series. Of course, there is also a steady 120 years of cinematic Arthurianism in new variants (not so long ago, King Arthur’s ecocritical and self-critical nephew in his encounter with the Green Knight).
It would be difficult to compete with all this for attention without a clear business decision, a political decision - or a sensible combination of both. And it is especially difficult in the semi-periphery, in which we still find ourselves here in Poland. The center’s offerings meet local needs well enough. However, the millennium of Bolesław the Brave’s (Polish: Bolesław Chrobry) coronation presents a significant opportunity for Poland to re-examine its medieval heritage and engage in a broader public discussion about its historical symbols and national identity. Nevertheless, the current socio-political climate and the controversies surrounding national symbols hinder such a unifying conversation, especially in the presidential election year.
Why 966, 1025 and their millennia matter in Poland
In Poland, two of the first historical dates children learn at school are 966 and 1025. Why? Because they mark two key moments in the story of how Poland became a country. In 966, Duke Mieszko I was baptized - this is seen as the symbolic beginning of the Polish state and its entry into Christian Europe. Then in 1025, his son, Bolesław the Brave, became the first king of Poland. These dates are easy to remember and packed with meaning: One stands for the birth of the nation, the other for the crowning of its independence. However, despite this important beginning, Poland remained a semi-peripheral player in the medieval world. It was neither part of the dominant core powers, like the Holy Roman Empire or France, nor completely isolated on the periphery, but occupied a middle ground, gradually building its influence.
In between those two key dates - 966 and 1025 - there is another important event that often comes up: the Gniezno Congress (Polish: Zjazd gnieźnieński, German: Akt von Gnesen) in 1000. It was a meeting between Bolesław the Brave and Emperor Otto III of the Holy Roman Empire. The event symbolized recognition of Poland’s growing importance in Europe. Otto acknowledged Bolesław as a powerful ruler and ally. So, between baptism in 966 and coronation in 1025, the year 1000 marks Poland’s official welcome into the European ‘club’. It was more than a diplomatic gesture, but a clear indication that Otto regarded the Polish ruler as a partner in shaping the spiritual and political landscape of Europe. Two years later, Otto died, and the situation became more complicated.
It was only in 1025 that Bolesław the Brave crowned himself the first king of Poland - just a few months before his death. It was a big moment: Poland had been a Christian state for only about 60 years. The coronation meant more than just a title. It was about international recognition, political independence, and showing that Poland could stand on its own next to the other kingdoms of Europe. Bolesław had been pushing for this recognition for years, using diplomacy, alliances, and war to put Poland on the map. The crown was both a reward for those efforts and a powerful symbol of Poland’s rising status. Although Bolesław did not live long enough to consolidate his royal authority, the act of coronation established a precedent that would shape the Polish monarchy for generations.
Back in 1966, the thousand-year anniversary of Mieszko I’s baptism - the symbolic start of Polish statehood - sparked massive nationwide celebrations. But it was more than just a historical moment. The communist government and the Catholic Church each wanted to own the narrative. On the one hand, the post-war communist state framed the 966 baptism as a step toward Polish independence and unity under secular leadership. On the other hand, the Church emphasized its spiritual meaning and continuity through the ages. These two competing anniversaries turned into a symbolic debate over who gets to define Poland’s roots. Despite the political tension, the millennium left a lasting mark. It showed that history isn’t just about what happened, but about how we choose to remember and use historical events. One of the biggest and most visible parts of the 966 anniversary in communist Poland was the "1000 Schools for the Millennium" campaign. Instead of building churches, which the state obviously was not keen on, the authorities launched a massive school-building project. The idea was to mark the thousand-year anniversary of the Polish state not with religious monuments, but with education and progress. And it worked - by the mid-1960s, hundreds of modern schools had popped up all over the country, and many are still standing today. For the ruling party, it was a way to offer a secular, forward-looking counter-narrative to the Church’s religious celebrations. For everyday people, it often meant something much simpler: a new local school, closer to home, and a sign that the state was investing in their children’s future.
Simultaneously, Aleksander Ford’s Knights of the Teutonic Order (1960) became one of Poland’s most-watched films, attracting 32 million viewers by 1987. Produced to commemorate the 550th anniversary of the Battle of Grunwald and aligned with the communist state’s nationalist agenda, the film adapted Henryk Sienkiewicz’s novel as both patriotic spectacle and propaganda. It portrays a stark moral divide: noble Poles versus villainous Teutonic Knights, using visual contrasts and simplified characters to reinforce political messages. Though criticized for its ideological bias and lack of depth, the film’s grand scale, emotional moments, and technical innovations secured its popularity both in Poland and abroad (e.g. Soviet Union, Czechoslovakia, France). Knights of the Teutonic Order was the first Polish blockbuster, produced with the involvement of the highest state authorities of the time, including the leader of the Polish communist party, Władysław Gomułka.
The film’s production coincided with escalating tensions between Poland and the Federal Republic of Germany. Polish state media widely reported that West German Chancellor Konrad Adenauer had appeared at a state anniversary ceremony wearing a cloak resembling that of the Teutonic Order. As a result, the black cross on the knights’ robes in the film was intended as an allegory for the swastika, and the Polish-Teutonic conflict served as a metaphor for the contemporary diplomatic dispute between the two nations in the post-war period.
How millennia and medievalisms are troubling for Poland
Since the screen adaptation of the Battle of Grunwald (1410) - somehow remaining related to the visuals of the German chancellor in a Teutonic cloak - a convincing film epic about the Jagiellonians dynasty (1386-1572) has not been produced. Serious Piast dynasty’s film story was not attempted. The propaganda of People’s Poland reached out to Piastism and Piast Concept, creating the groundwork for the idea of the so-called Recovered Territories of Poland’s post-1945 Western borderland.
Before (since 1920s) and afterwards, the sword of the Brave, famously (but untruly) chipped at Kyiv’s gate, both independently and interdependently found its way into magazine titles and onto specific jacket lapels. Sword of the Brave (Polish: Mieczyk Chrobrego) is a nationalist symbol in Poland. It depicts the royal coronation sword, Szczerbiec, wrapped in a ribbon in Poland’s national colors. First used in the interwar period by the nationalist parties, it became so politically charged that wearing it was penalized and legally debated already in the 1930s, but still used by nationalist groups and even in the 21st century banned from UEFA Euro (2008) events due to its association with extremist ideologies. Its return was noticed by the press in unusual circumstances, when one of the police officers checking the IDs of participants in the so-called anti-fascist picnic had a nationalist emblem pinned to his uniform vest. At that time (2019), a nationalist march was passing through Warsaw.
And that was it. Although resurrections of Antoni Golubiew’s serious and intellectual novels (written mainly between 1947-1956) about the Brave exist (discussions about them and films don't). There has also been no solid adaptation to the legendarium of Lech, Siemowit, Popiel or the Wawel Dragon outside the world of award-winning Allegro ads. Thus, the cultural background to discuss Poland’s origins and mythmaking would be there. One could, for example, turn to a very interesting work by a Lublin-based medievalist Czesław Deptuła on the Cracow conflict between the Skalka and Wawel as a mythical metaphor for the two centers of power - symbolized by Krak, Krakus, dragons. For the time being, we are left with a global spectacle in this role - the Targaryen fratricidal battles from Game of Thrones.
From elsewhere in Poland, the role of knights - including the misguided ones, the ronins - is held (yes, yes) mainly by twentieth-century soldiers, policemen and even former secret police officers (after the trilogy about “Pigs”) - soon the premiere of “Assassination of the Pope”, from which I expect to remain on the same sheet of mytho-landscape. And as the quintessential honorary hero - Hans Kloss (once a captain, once a Hauptmann) and several of his doubles. These are also references to the ethos of chivalry, emblematic of the Middle Ages.
Therefore, let’s not be surprised that Boleslaw the Brave as a symbol does not have it easy at all in such a global and local environment. One would have to do the necessary homework on mythologization and demythologization. For it to make sense for the millennium of the coronation (and it could have), a major public discussion should have started a good five years ago. It could, for example, have come out of the world of museums, a cultural congress. However, this would have been a very labor-intensive undertaking. Let me illustrate it with an example of the Brave’s royal sword.
I remember well how, in the second half of the nineties, on the corner of Ujazdowskie Avenue and Wilcza Street in central Warsaw, a sad gentleman vendor traded books from unfolded polka dots. A large sign in paint in the background of his workplace proclaimed “Either Szczerbiec - or stand.” Above referred as Brave’s Sword, Szczerbiec is a ceremonial sword used to crown most Polish kings between 1320 and 1764. Today, it is the only surviving piece of Poland’s medieval crown jewels and is kept at Wawel Castle in Kraków. Its hilt is decorated with Christian symbols, floral designs, and magical inscriptions, and the blade contains a slit with a small Polish coat of arms. Though often called “the Notched Sword,” the blade is smooth - the name refers to a sword meant to notch others. A legend claims King Bolesław I the Brave chipped it against Kyiv’s Golden Gate in 1018, but the gate was built later, and the sword itself comes from the 12th or 13th century. Still, the story lives on - illustrating how legends shape cultural memory even when the timeline doesn’t quite align. National symbols like Szczerbiec blend myth with documented fact.
‘Szczerbiec’ refers to the magazine named after the sword. Either the vendor agrees to sell the nationalist magazine Szczerbiec (founded in 1991), or their bookstand will be damaged or removed. The magazine in question was on the stand. This kind of pressure reflects the tactics sometimes used by fringe nationalist groups in post-communist Poland to assert dominance in public spaces and intimidate those not aligned with their ideology. The presence of the sign behind the vendor’s stand suggests that he may have been forced to comply, highlighting an atmosphere of fear and ideological bullying. And that’s probably how the conversation about the Middle Ages in the measure of twenty-first-century Poland would have ended.
It is a pity that today the atmosphere for the Brave and his sword as unifying symbols is not yet there. And it is a potentially capacious symbol - both of pride, and shame, and history, and myth, and an honest conversation about ambivalence. And also about reception and non-reception - what we want more of and what we want less of. For now, we are taking away the opportunity for such conversations. Maybe next time.
