Part III

Do You Have Papers?

by Father A. Krupa, O.F.M.
(Translated by A. Igriczi Nagy)

The four bicycles belonging to our rectory were taken away by the first Russian scout troops and so we were compelled to go ahead on foot, and it was no joke to make weekly trips to outlying ranchers as far away as 150 km (88-89 miles)—a trip not always easy even on a bicycle if it was snowing or raining, on muddy roads, in freezing weather, or at the height of a heat wave. Still, I'd put one together from parts borrowed from several different sources. I went on a trial run with eager anticipation. Soon, the passers-by were asking:

"Father Kolumban, do you have a cycle permit? The Russian sentry stationed at the city limits will take the bicycle, carts, horses, everything from those without the right papers."

How could I keep my documents in my possession when the Russians had a perpetual hunt on for documents? They were always asking for documents and if they laid their hands on one, they were never known to part with it. On one occasion, I equipped myself with three ID papers, keeping one under my cap, one under my socks and one in my pocket—none of them were on my person by the time of my return.

After this morning though, I thought it best to return to the rectory and prepare a document. I collected all the stamps of the rectory and typed on two sheets of paper, with the rectory's heading on top: "Documentum." I typed the text in Hungarian but put the registration number of the bicycle in red, thinking that even though the sentry can't read the Hungarian text, at least they will be able to compare the numbers.

I was still quite far away from them when they started waving the red flag.

"Stoj!" (Stop)

"Iest document?" (Have your papers?)

I reached for them and gave it to them. Naturally, they were wondering a bit but since it looked brand new they thought that this is some new issue and must have got it only recently. They compared the numbers and since they matched, they let me go. As expected they kept the document. I did not bother myself about this; I was glad that they did not realize the deceit.

Several bystanders have asked me where did I get my permit, but I did not explain, jumped on to my "horse on wheels" and let's go! I was delighted but somewhat amazed later, when the authorities talked about "pilferage and misleading the Soviet Army."

I thought then, that only the Russian soldiers are so gullible. I was assigned to go Pocspetri to help out. Father Janos Asztalos, who later was accused of murdering policemen and sentenced to death, was still there at the rectory at that time. The place was about 70 km (45 miles) from us. I set out on my bicycle, wearing my Franciscan habit with a light cloak on top. At the center of Nagykallo the road forked into several directions, and I was not sure which way to go. I saw many war damaged buildings near by, and also ached for a bit of rest; so I stopped to ask the passers-by for the directions and about the damaged buildings. A bulldog faced individual pushed himself into our group as we were talking. "I represent the law. Identify yourself and show me your travel permit!"

I was not surprised on the request for identification, this was quite in keeping with the customs of the time, but what travel permit? I handed over my ID card which had several other documents in the same folder—let him scrutinize it, let him have fun with it! I remarked though:

"I, regretfully, have no travel permit. I did not know that this was required. Although I travel about 1501 km (1000 miles) each week on the highways, nobody asked me yet for a travel documents." During my recitation, he was turning my papers over. In the meantime, the curious bystanders gathered around us looking at the scene with interest. They were certain that they were witnessing the arrest of a Papist spy in the middle of their Protestant village.

Suddenly "authority" exclaimed—"But here is your travel permit! Why did you deny that you had one?"

It was my turn to wonder. How can it be there if I never had one? Which Saint came to my aid with a miracle, to keep me out of trouble? One never knows. Sometimes God acts with the only purpose to delight us and Himself.

"Why would I deny it if I would have it? I don't have it because I was never given one." But you say it's there? And stretched forward, and the curious bystanders too, in order to see a real miracle. For many Protestants, a miracle does not happen every day. However, one glance at the paper told me that this is only a "Communist" miracle, not of great worth, but still something good! I laughed, remembering the bicycle hunting Russians, and the people laughed too. Why? They did not know the secret of the miracle. They laughed because, at that time, laughter was rare in our country. They laughed because somebody was laughing, for the principal rule then was do as other are doing; and perhaps they also laughed because the bulldog-faced man might not have been their favorite official. The latter though, was not laughing, he yelled at us angrily.

"Do not laugh! I'm a duly authorized official!"

How could we not laugh, I mumbled, when a duly authorized official takes a bicycle permit for a travel permit. Turn it over, the Hungarian translation is on the other side. (By this time, bicycle permits were issued). While the people were laughing and the official was scrutinizing the permit, I went on with my monologue.

"What kind of debasement of the democracy! Harassing the population with ignorant officials, as if life in general would not torture us enough!"

Red as a lobster, he handed my papers back to me.

"Go, wherever you want to! You'll be arrested sooner or later, anyhow!"

"Oh, no! Why should I cycle for 30 more km (20 miles) only to be brought back? Let's settle it once and for all; I want to see it clearly! Let's go to the Police Station!"

I was led in front of a smart-looking officer. My escort related how he stopped me for identification and asked for a travel permit which I did not have. After they recorded my personal detail, it was my turn to speak.

"No such regulations have been published in Debrecen, either in the newspapers nor by billboards. Nobody has ever asked me for such a permit, although I have been on the road all week long." To my great amazement, the chief replied that he is not aware of a regulation requiring a travel permit either. I wanted to cast a triumphant glance at my bulldog, but he was pulling some kind of paper out of his pocket and handing it to the police chief, who—after reading it several times—proclaimed:

"This says that a permit from the Soviet military authorities is needed for the purpose of travel to restricted areas or during the hours of curfew.

However, Nagykallo is not a restricted territory and nowhere does noon fall under curfew. Comrade, you may go."

However, I tarried. I got onto my high horse, even without the bicycle under me, and started:

"It's a disgrace to bother people unnecessarily as if we would not have enough to cope with otherwise. Why do you employ such ignoramuses? I'll report this to the authorities in Debrecen!"

In the end, I made no report of any kind; but they did, calling this a "public defamation of democracy."

Stalin is a War Criminal

There was active Party life in the part of the town where our parish was. From the Party meeting house as a center, they were recruiting, training and shaping their members. The group was led by an apostate priest of a teaching order, and a young factory worker was the Party secretary. One day he asked Father Ottmar: "Why don't you frequent our meeting? If you would understand the Communist ideal better, you would come to stand beside us; we could work together." (Interestingly enough, the new police captain also spoke in a similar vein). "We've not gone" replied Father Ottmar, "because up to now nobody has invited us. However, if you want us to, we'll be glad to come along."

We went for a visit, and took some of our young parishioners too—quite a sizeable group. We were the first to arrive, no other Party members, except their chairman—who was blinking with surprise—what's up, what does the Church want now? We told him of the invitation and he permitted us to stay for the scheduled meeting. He sent messengers, asking the Party members to come, because the Church marched in, presumably they are up to no good. Even so, we outnumbered the Communists at the beginning of the meeting. The Party cadre did not consist of wild-eyed youth, rather, of elderly people with benign, trustworthy faces. The walls were decorated with pictures of Lenin, Stalin and Rakosi garlanded with the Hungarian colors of red, white and green. Were these people nationalistic Communists? What then about the Communists International? Stranger even than this was the absence of the Party secretary.

They talked about many things: materialist philosophy, elements, atoms. Then, seemingly by accident, the discussion, starting with the physics of atom, veered into talk about the atomic bomb, then bombing in general. Naturally, they condemned the recent war, and in their eyes, everybody, except the Russians, were war criminals. They regarded both the British and Americans as such since they devastated Hungary by their bombing raids. The chairman underlined the fact that they were not focusing their attention on military targets or armed adversaries, they were scourging the people. They acted as if to help to beat the enemy, but their aim was simply destruction.

I lost my temper, not so much because of these views, but because of their silent reception. Nobody, not even Father Ottmar, spoke from our group. The Church was silent, although we knew from first-hand experience the falsehoods said. So I rose to speak:

"If Hitler is a war criminal, because he planned bombing raids at random with the primary aim to beat on the people and to strike terror into their hearts, then so are Stalin and the Russians—even more so! Here, in Debrecen, we have not seen raids by the USA and England which had residential areas as their target; the hits on those areas were accidental when the coverage of the carpet bombing slipped. For instance, instead of the bombs falling over the whole of the wagon factory, half of the latter and the houses adjacent to the fence were hit. As for the Russians, they began dropping the bombs above 6 km (3 3/4 miles) out of town and were scattering them like poppy seeds sight unseen—on the roads, streets, everywhere. This is the truth. So how is it that the Russians, especially Stalin are innocent?"

The chairman jumped as if he was kicked from beneath. To make such a statement in the hallowed chambers of the Party where Stalin's fresco occupies the center? Sacrilege! The Party members were looking at each other with gaping mouths—and then at the ceiling—will it come crashing down on them for this debasement of Stalin? What slander of the Soviet Army! Oh, God, what next? Will anybody survive?

The chairman spoke decisively, with as much conviction and strength as his heart, mind, and Party loyalty dictated; but even so, it did not look as if he was able to convince his comrades of the rightness of his stance. The atmosphere was heated, the situation confusing, and the more he explained, the worse it grew, At the end, an elderly, white-haired, respectable—looking Hungarian worker stood up:

"Comrades, let's not quarrel! The past is past—whatever it was and however it happened. Those, who were guilty, were guilty. Who knows the real truth, at any rate? We'll be better off by fixing our gaze on the future! Let's unfurl the banner of Hungarian tricolor beside the red flag so that the country which we build should be happier, truly Hungarian and thoroughly Christian, even more so than before!"

On this, Father Ottmar sprung on his feet. He grabbed the hand of the old Hungarian…

"Look, we are with you on this—all the way—with our whole Hungarian hearts. May God bless you for your beautiful words and for your patriotic Hungarian heart! When is your next meeting?"

Of course, they did not tell us. We were never invited again. They moved their premises, elected a new chairman, and fired the Party secretary. As for me, they labeled me among themselves as the one who slandered Stalin, publicly vilified the glorious Red Army of the Soviet Union; a tool of the Germans, an outspoken enemy of the Party and democracy.

Even to this day, I'm somewhat amazed as to why they didn't hang me straight away? How come the Russians did not cart me off to Siberia?

With Mary—for Democracy!

The atmosphere in which I continued my weekly Sunday trips to Vamospercs to say Mass, hear confessions, perform baptisms, arrange for weddings and funerals became gradually heated by the political, economical and international events.

The Party was considerably annoyed by its defeat at the polls. Democratisation was not progressing at the predicted rate, production was nose-diving in all areas, there was insufficient food, clothing—insufficient anything. They encountered resistance on all fronts. Trials against priests, such as Father F. Kiss Szalez, and against Catholic schools did not go as planned.

To cap it all, there was Mindszenty, with his towering personality, to contend with! It gradually became more and more evident, that he is the one, not Rakosi (Secretary of Communist Party of Hungary) whom the people follow, to whom they listen. He was the founthead of resisting them. He mobilized the whole country with proclaiming the holy year of the Blessed Mother, Patrona Hungariae. On some of his pilgrimages, sometimes as many as 1.5 million people—in a country with a total population of ten million—were storming Heaven with their prayers. At the same time, these pilgrimages were also impressive demonstrations, silent yet clearly audible without words, for our Christian faith, our national sovereignty, and against the foreign import Marxist philosophy being rammed down our throats. Non-Catholics were also caught up in this, for them too, Mindszenty was the guiding star of hope. If their religious leaders would have bestirred themselves, even their return to the Catholic faith would not have been impossible.

(This is really unbelievable. For example, at the beginning of Hitler's regime, 300 Protestant ministers, with their flocks, would have been ready to become Catholic, if the Church would have openly opposed Marxism!)

The morale of the resisting population was sustained by the pastoral letters of the bishops, especially those of Cardinal Mindszenty. These encyclicals appeared with increasing frequency. They were taken around by secret messengers; to read these aloud or to listen to these could possibly mean the arrest of priests and faithful alike—or at least harassment by the authorities. All were aware of this. Our churches were filled with restless unease and tension, and after the events of Pocspetri, where a police officer was killed at a meeting on the forced nationalization of parochial schools, the whole atmosphere became white hot. The Party started to tremble, too—at least that is, in outward appearance. What happens if the people rise up en masse? If they murderously reach for weapons? The area surrounding Pocspetri was inundated with soldiers, policemen, police dogs, and detectives in plain clothes. They were alertly watching every move, listening to every word—especially in the churches! They were afraid, very much afraid, as it often happens with those who are guilty, who are in the wrong. If a twig crackled, they thought they heard gunfire, the high whine of the eagles seemed like the yells of a revolutionary mob. Since Vamospercs was not that far from Pocspetri, the village had its share of the curious, of watchers, of detectives…

Bloodhounds in the Church

I think it was possibly the last Sunday in May when I had to read aloud two pastoral letters of our Primate, Mindszenty. We had First Communions this Sunday and so a large number of confessions, of both adults and children, beforehand. There wasn't time for me to preach a sermon as well—instead, I interjected explanatory comments whilst reading aloud the encyclicals. Because of the First Communion, the church was unusually full. The two policeman of the village—including the Precinct Chief—were also there; for reasons of piety or for other motives? I didn't know. They usually attended Mass at other times, too. I never had close contacts with them. Naturally, there were a lot of unknown faces, too, as always, because, especially, Protestants also frequented the church. Since I did not know everybody, even detectives could have been present, conceivably! It is likely, that my future investigator was also there, although he never came out with this during our subsequent encounters. However, only by being there could he formulate the indictment and chew the details into the mouths of the witnesses.

One of the encyclicals dealt with the fate of various Hungarian Primates—how many were killed, how many arrested and how many forced into exile! Even the blind could see what was Cardinal Mindszenty's message. He wanted to signal to the whole world that they were preparing to finish him off and he could expect only the worst at their hands, and soon he'd join the ranks of his martyred predecessors. We trembled, for we saw a warning signal of the fate of many of us in this prophecy.

The second encyclical dealt with the nationalization of the Catholic schools. It had emphasized the legal right of the Church to its schools, demanded a national plebiscite on this matter and asked the faithful not to support the nationalization of schools and stand fast in the faith in all circumstances. "The acquisition of all religious schools by the state, is of such major import," stated the encyclical, "that the decision should not be made without popular support. Let them bring this matter to the voters! However, the powers that be don't dare to do so for they're aware that the proposition would not get more than a negligible number of votes." To which I added, "not more than you could carry in your hat, this is why they don't want to do so."

The events of Pocspetri were discussed, too. I had reiterated to the congregation.

"Killing can't be our method. Let us win by our principles rather than by arms! Our mightiest weapon is our prayers, our strong fort is God!"

I warned them not to pay heed to radio broadcasts, newspaper articles, public conferences, since these abounded with falsehoods, slanting of the truth, omission of salient and relevant facts. I exhorted them to pray for our Primate, Cardinal Mindszenty, a staunch defender and unflinching champion of not only our Catholic faith but of our national ideal. May God grant him enough strength to withstand his foes without breaking, but let's also pray for ourselves that we should not waver in the difficult hours ahead of us!

Within the passage of the next few days, it was whispered into my ears that an inquiry about my sermon was going on in the village—an inquiry by the "hard methods." During the week, I went as usual to hold my catechism classes. It seemed to me that the village was enveloped in a strange silence, pregnant with fear. Nobody dared to speak to me—if they saw me coming they crossed the street. Yes, the hungry wolf sprung into their midst. The flock was afraid—whom would it devour? I knew that they had reason to be afraid. I did not question anybody, I acted as if I hadn't noticed a thing and had no idea that something was afoot. They had families—the calamity had better descend upon my head. Of course, the detectives kept me unobtrusively under surveillance. They watched my every step, where I was going, with whom I was speaking, was I trying to influence anybody or put pressure on somebody? They were certain that I went to Vamospercs to scout the territory, to counterbalance their evil work, to influence and scare the people and prepare them for the witness stand at my trial. They were hoping for some indiscretion from me, enabling them to spring the trap—so they were watching…

I made no remarks at all on this whole thing in my next Sunday's sermon. I behaved as if I had no interest as to what the authorities were cooking up against me or as if I thought that the whole thing would blow over. In truth, I was concerned. I felt the approaching storm in my very bones. As if the devil himself would whisper it into my ear, the words of a well known popular song kept repeating themselves in my head:

"It's useless to seek refuge, to run away. From your own fate, you can't run away!"

Who wants to run away? Is not running towards it, running away? If I would have been afraid of this kind of future, I could have sidestepped as many did . . . Wasn't persecution the lot of all the apostles, sooner or later? Quo vadis? With Peter, to take up my cross! But the dark one kept humming into my ear—"It's useless to seek refuge, to run away…"

The Scales are Ready to Tilt

Since the takeover of our school by the state could be upon us any day and our playground was on the same lot as the school, we began to dismantle the playground, trying to salvage the equipment. The memory of the next few Sundays is etched in my mind forever—sad-faced children standing by the fence asking us the hundredth time, "Won't we have a playground any more? No movies, no plays, no excursions? Why not? Why?" What could I say? Nothing more than: "Children we'll try it some other place, such as the public sports grounds. Here is the little cart, here is a football, go and play. Be patient, and then, and then…" With this hope in their hearts, they helped to cart off everything which could be moved. By now we had a policeman permanently stationed in front of the rectory—why? We had only suspicions but officially we were never told the reason. We moved the equipment into the rectory under his nose. These things were ours, we did not steal them and we will need them one day—for we wanted to have a playground again, here on Earth or in heaven. In general, the government wanted to take the schools over with unexpected suddenness—so there was no appointed day or time. Rather, they just appeared without warning—in our district, too. They came to us at a time when the rector, Father Ottmar was not at home. The committee called upon me. I excused myself. I'm not the parish priest, I'm without authority. I'm not the proper person.

"That does not matter," replied they, "let at least one priest from the rectory be present. Hand over the school in a fitting manner and sign the minutes of the proceedings!"

"I'm not going! I'm not going to hand over the school or anything else! Rather, I want to enter my protest on the record. I object! This nationalization is illegal, it's done against the wishes of the people of the Church."

It was done—the school passed into the hands of the state without me, in spite of me.

However, not those pieces of playground equipment which could be moved, for as I related, those were not on the school ground by the time the Committee arrived to pass the school into the hands of the state. When they raised this, I informed them that the equipment in question did not belong to the school, not even to the diocese—but was mine. We obtained these things ourselves and organized our activities without financial aid from the diocese; rather, we paid them rent for the use of the hall for our production; so, I was not planning to part with those things. I'd explained, I foresaw a need for it in the future since the children remained; they were not nationalized, neither was the whole world—so doubtlessly we'd find a new site somewhere where the playground activities could continue. The railway-wagon factory had already given us a bit of land, for a new playground quite a long time ago—so now, we'll start to do work to turn it into one. We'd gladly spend the effort for the children of Hungary—they're worth it! Maybe even the Party will care to help since they also like children.

They kept after me even when I was already in prison. The investigator waved a new indictment, for theft of the movie projector of the school, into my face. He suggested that it may be wise—unless I want to add to the list of my crimes—that I turn it over and all else belonging to the school to the authorities, so that they could be used for the children.

"I protested again, suggesting that they check the facts again, verifying them with the school principal if need be. The latter will be able to tell them that neither the projector nor the other equipment had ever belonged to the school. I wanted to use them for the children.

The investigator only laughed. "Wake up, you imbecile! How do you imagine that even if you leave the prison you, a criminal condemned as the enemy of the people for inciting to rebellion and murder, would ever be allowed near children? If you don't know it, let me tell you now. Youth belongs to the Party, to the Communist Party exclusively, and it is not the property of the Church. Hands off then from the children!"

The day after the nationalization of the schools, the papers had prominently displayed:

"All schools belonging to the Churches have been taken over by state. Proceedings were smooth except in the case of the Catholic school of Nyilastelep.

There, the priest of the parish, a Franciscan priest, Fr. Krupa, refused to hand the school over. His behavior appeared to be anti-democratic."

And soon, the papers printed the following:

"The police asked Father Saudor Krupa for a statement. An indictment for inciting rebellion and public disorder is being prepared against him. It is expected that a trial date will be set within the near future."

And so the scales in the balance have tilted. The hunting dogs had rounded up more than enough of the material necessary for the perdition of one man.

Let's get the victim on the dissecting table then! Let's carve him up! Prosecutors, judges—grate your knives and forward march! The hour for your work has come!