Niedenthal would need to wait a little longer for his big break, and specifically, for the visit of Pope John Paul II in 1979.

By this stage, already living in Poland (“I wanted to see what the country was really like, rather than just holidaying there,” he says), Niedenthal’s speculative pitch to Newsweek to cover the papal visit paid off.

“They told me they were sending some famous French photographer, but said if I could get accredited, then I could trail the French guy and they’d take a look at whatever I might send,” he said.

“The Frenchman treated me like a dogsbody; he just thought I was some useless local guy, but as it transpired, I landed the cover of Newsweek and most of the pictures inside,” says Niedenthal. “I never heard from the Frenchman again.”

Niedenthal hadn’t just scored a personal victory but a professional one: “I got called by Newsweek’s picture editor in New York, who kind of shouted down the phone at me: ‘Who the hell are you!’ Nobody could believe there was a Western photographer living behind the Iron Curtain.”

For Niedenthal, there would be no looking back, and the following years would see him shoot a series of images of, among others, Solidarity leader Lech Wałęsa and his nemesis, the Communist leader of the Polish People’s Republic, General Wojciech Jaruzelski.

This was an era of dissent and a time when Poles—emboldened by the words of Pope John Paul II and Lech Wałęsa—began daring to openly challenge the Communist system. Poland had become world news, and on hand to document this volatile period was Niedenthal.

His most iconic photo of all would come to encapsulate the tensions, fears and absurdities of the times—on December 13, 1981, General Jaruzelski announced the imposition of martial law in response to growing public unrest. For Niedenthal, it was a call to spring into action and he spent the next few hours dashing around Warsaw “shooting everything” from pre-scouted vantage points around the city.

One of these included an apartment block across from the now-demolished Moscow Cinema in south Warsaw where ‘Apocalypse Now’ was advertised as playing.

At the time, though, instead of cinemagoers, an armored vehicle stood in front of the entrance—no other photograph would better capture the paranoia of the time.

But having managed to take this shot, for Niedenthal an even bigger problem would be smuggling the film out of Poland. “I thought about trying to drive to Berlin myself, but there was no guarantee I’d have enough petrol to make it,” he says. “Or if I would meet hostile border guards that would confiscate my film.”

Instead, he headed to Warszawa-Gdańska train station for the 9.50 p.m. train to Berlin. “There was a 10 p.m. curfew in place,” he recalls, “so I ran down the corridors seeing if I could hand the film over to a passenger—of course, I explained what was on it, so the few Polish people on the train were understandably too frightened to accept it.”

With the clock ticking down, he found a willing West German student on his way home for the Christmas holidays.

“I explained that these were pictures for Newsweek,” says Niedenthal, “and gave him instructions to call their office when he got back to Germany. Everything was in the lap of the gods, and I only learned a few weeks later that the pictures had made it into print—unfortunately, I’ve never been able to find out who the student was to thank him for what he did.”

However, others from the past have reconnected. “Someone contacted me about the Apocalypse Now picture, asking for a larger scan of it,” he says. “It turned out he had spotted his mother in the frame!”

On another occasion, Niedenthal found himself reunited with a small girl whom he had first photographed wailing after she had been picked up by Pope John Paul II. “I photographed her again about 18 years later when she was a veterinary student. She still had the headscarf she had worn when I had originally shot her, and it was quite moving to see her now as a fully grown adult.”

As entwined as Niedenthal’s career was with the fates and fortunes of Pope John Paul II, Wałęsa and Jaruzelski, his depictions of everyday life behind the Iron Curtain are every bit as striking as those portraying the power brokers and kingmakers that would ultimately shape the nation’s fate.

Pictures of empty stores, queues and of traders vending their wares from battered car boots do much to reveal the privations of the times, but amid the gloom there is also no shortage of hope, humor, warmth and fun: a zany 1970s fashion parade; a farmer riding a horse-drawn cart in a manner reminiscent of Ben Hur; and a pair of children rearing a tub full of chicks in their kitchen.

Arguably, it is Niedenthal’s uncanny ability to capture the unexpected that makes his pictures so memorable.

“I can’t really say what makes a good picture, but it’s basically about catching whatever is happening at exactly the right time—providing the composition isn’t a complete mess, then you’ve got a decent picture,” he says.

“But then, a picture also has to mean something,” he adds. “If someone is looking at the photo in a magazine or a gallery, they have to realize what’s happening in it, so there must be a depth of meaning; there must be emotion. Of course, there’s also a lot of luck involved, but the trick for a photographer is knowing how to use that luck.”

As effortless as Niedenthal makes it sound, his track record as Poland’s premier photojournalist is undisputed, as is the sheer volume of his output.

With around half a million slides in his archive, just putting the ‘Właściwy Moment’ book together posed significant challenges. Crediting his assistant for sorting through “boxes and boxes that had been left in the basement,” Niedenthal says he began working on the book during the height of the pandemic.

“I was looking for photos that could tell a story,” he says, “and while many of my best-known photos are presented, I also wanted to publish some that had never been seen before.”

The selection goes extensively beyond the Cold War. For example, we see recent politically motivated protests outside the Warsaw headquarters of public broadcaster TVP, post-Communist era wrecking yards filled with discarded Trabants and pro-EU gatherings in front of the Royal Castle.

Nonetheless, by Niedenthal’s own admission, his peak period came during the times of struggle. “The 1990s didn’t really interest me,” he says. “The story had moved on; it was about people making money and people losing it. That didn’t interest me so much.”

Viewing his book, it is impossible not to get a sense of the photographer’s own nostalgia. “I hated Communism, and it was a scary time,” he says. “But I was young, and in hindsight it was exciting. They were interesting years.”

This latest book is a testament to that. Moreover, it is a stunning tribute to not just one of the great photojournalists of the modern era, but one of the greatest.