In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle

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In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle Jan 23, 2019 12:49:34 GMT

Post by Admin on Jan 23, 2019 12:49:34 GMT

A two-part series from The Angelus 1987:

October 1987

In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle
A Hungarian Priest's Personal Account

by Father A. Krupa, O.F.M.

(Translated by A. Igriczi Nagy)

Why am I describing my prison experiences? First, I'm keeping a promise to my mother—and also carrying out her wishes expressed in her last will and testament. Also, I'm responding to the 25 year-long urging of many others, especially Father Kiraly Kelemen. He has repeated numerous times that it's a sin against God and history not to write something like this down.

Why so late?

I wanted to avoid unwittingly harming others through these recollections. Also, the memories were deeply etched in my soul. I was frightened of their rebirth. Even after 25 years, they upset me so deeply during the preparation of this book that often the mornings still found me awake.

Are my prison experiences extraordinary?

I don't believe so. They are of the common or garden variety. However, I'm convinced that it spreads over various facets of prison life rather comprehensively; so that through its perusal, it is possible to know and comprehend the life of most political prisoners of that particular era and part of the world. It differs from similar accounts and gets its own unique shading that these events were lived through by a Hungarian Franciscan priest. There are not many detailed accounts of life in the Hungarian Communist prisons and so far, I've not found one written by a Hungarian priest. I want to fill this gap.

My book is a restrained warning trumpet in the night of the red menace.

This book was ready for the bookstalls for the Christmas of 1974—200 pages or so. My readers begged me to make it more detailed, not to omit anything significant. Although its present expanded form is a response to these pleas, I still would be loath to state that I've included everything in it.

In the meantime Cardinal Mindszenty's wonderful Memoirs and the shockingly frank Gulag Archipelago of Solzhenitsyn, which is like an encyclopedia of prison life, were also published.

Is it worthwhile to write about prison after two such books?

I think so. Besides considering prison life as a sea which can't be emptied by thimbles, the Primate's account is that of a solitary confinement, and doesn't deal with the prison community's life; and Solzhenitsyn is not talking about the prisons of Hungary—which albeit, are built on the Russian model but still are not in the Soviet Union. Cardinal Mindszenty's and Solzhenitsyn's books do validate the story of my experiences and make this story come more alive.

Fr. Krupa, as he is to today.

It is hard to convey the exact feelings of these written experiences with those who never had to face the detectives, the softening-up process, the tribunal of judgment—that is, to those who have not lived in prison, were never "jailbirds". Naturally, I'm mainly thinking of the Communist prisons, especially in Hungary. It's not so much the big events which make prison life so horrible—it's the daily drabness, weakening body and soul.

How can we show a true picture to the reader?

It is assumed that the reader is somewhat familiar with the recent history of Hungary—but this assumption is loosely applied so that the absence of this background knowledge will not make the book incomprehensible.

Regimes behind the Iron Curtain, and any other barriers between the free world and a tyrannical system, try to prevent information about their penal systems seeping out—or even try to convince others that—in comparison with political systems derided by these regimes—the system of justice, detection, investigation, trial and prison organization are very humane, almost idealistic. And since information has seeped out and is still trickling to the outside, there is a strong propaganda effort to convince the world—even though there could have been mistakes earlier on—not unexpected since the system was born of a violent revolution these kinds of things are unheard of today. Even the very face of Communism has changed, becoming more humane in the process.

However, the truth is that nothing has changed. The Communist legal system and prison structure is built on the tenets of Communism and continues to grow from it. If Communism would change its essence and its power, its prison would fall apart within a short time. In order to survive, Communism has to follow its own basic tenets.

I've tried to recount this story from memory; however, 25 years is a long enough interval to blur the sharp edges of the contours. Still, I don't think I'm inaccurate in the essentials. If now and then you find these events hard to believe, don't be disturbed. I, myself, would be doubtful of the veracity of the story if I would come across it in a book. Our concepts of humanity rebel. But, believe it, this is the reality. This is why we must do our utmost to inform, to prevent the spread of Communism, and work towards the disappearance of Communism and similar systems from the face of the earth.

"And they consulted together that by subtlety they might apprehend Jesus and put Him to death" (Mt. 26:4).

We're all members of the mystical body of Christ. If we suffer, if something hurts, if others abuse us, then in truth it's Jesus who suffers, who bears the pain, the abuse.

Therefore, when they were scheming for our trial and they were discussing how to annihilate us, they were again—since we are the members of the body of Christ—really taking Jesus to the courts again, to destroy Jesus again.

Bloodhounds on the Trail

"Even if God, Himself, were sitting in this chair, we could even compel Him to say what we wanted Him to say." (Hungarian Communist Investigator)

"It is better for one man to die than…"

Lightning doesn't strike unexpectedly from a clear blue sky. Storm comes with a warning. It takes time for it to brew. The Communist Party is aware of this. This is why it is prepared to wait watchfully whilst its flunkies collect the incriminating material with the tirelessness of ants and waits, but with unsatiable passion, whilst the hounds are let loose on the trails of the appointed victim. The Party relaxes only if the victim is in front of it and the dismemberment can begin. It is tragic that the victim learns of the protracted chase after him only when his body is being mangled by the bloodhounds' teeth.

My case is no exception either. I've been followed for a long time—but I've learnt this only later, from the remarks and questions of the prosecutor, the investigators, detectives, and judges.

From the assembled material, I'm bringing forth only the most important and most characteristic—material which makes my "crime" clear, unshrouds the Communists' detestable views and makes it comprehensible why I wrote this book.

One of my investigators drew a triangle for me.

"What religious symbol is this?" he asked.

"The Holy Trinity," I replied.

"No," he answered. "This is the symbol of the Party, of the Communist Party. The Party sees all, hears all and knows everything!"

They really liked to boast of their omniscience. They were fishing with anxious care for intimate little events of little significance, and any characteristics, insignificant deeds, words dropped without thinking, paltry and sundry episodes. And they nibbed the victim's nose in these finds—and were happy to note the surprise of the selected victim. They regard their methods as a weapon possessing magical strength. Indeed, they do sway their unfortunate victim, like a skunk does the hens sitting on the tree. He, the victim, does not dare to hide from them anything, because he is sure that they know everything. Even his secret thoughts. Even things, which he didn't even think of in his dreams. Therefore, he confesses, confesses, confesses unstoppably.

Indeed, the party would know everything. Thousands of people stand at its disposal. Its spies and informants are present in the holiest places and communities. Besides this, there are thousands and thousands of tools at its disposal in its investigative work.

Rakosi and his Communist Party came into Hungary with the Red Army and with precise plans. The plan included the annihilation of priests, especially the monks, then trussing up of the Church and disappearance of the Christian faith. At the beginning, they stepped circumspectly, so "that there should not be disturbances among the people" (Matthew 26: 5). The people had to be dazzled with words and deeds! Communism is not an enemy of religion, they said; on the contrary, it's a friend! That's why in the beginning, they've reconstructed the ruined churches by the workers, renovated the Catholic schools at State expense—and asked boastingly—which Catholic State (or State with deep respect for religion) would have done this much? Thus, at the beginning the people did believe that Communism is no enemy of religion, and accepted what the Communists kept proclaiming—that one's religious faith is one's private business. But this was only a magician's trick—optical illusion, nothing more.

From the first moment, the Party kept all priests and monks under its eyes and, in secret, let its bloodhounds loose on their trail. Diligently, the Party collected compromising material against the religious, sniffed out their weaknesses, wishes, ambitions, listed the names of their friends and enemies. The material was assembled, without the designated victims being aware of it. And then, the hunt was on. They did not restrict themselves—they snared elephants, shot lions, fished for the big fish and the little ones. They even slapped the mosquitoes if these were buzzing near their ears. They held all in holy orders as mortal enemies; there were no exceptions. Let them all perish sooner or later—the sooner, the better! With unheard of cunning, cheating and viciousness, the indictments were pieced together, putting mortal fear into the credible and naive, who thought they could work together with the Communist Party.

I'd fallen into their claws quite soon, before Cardinal Mindszenty. Not as if I were such a desirable big game, but I was a known figure in my own small milieu, in the city of Debrecen. The Communists knew that I was not on their side, rather against them, since foremost and first of all, I was occupying myself with the youth; city-born children and children of the ranchers. And these were regarded as sensitive areas since the Party aimed to build its atheistic, Red future through and with the youth of the country. The Communists regarded as a question of life or death their ability to gain the peasants and farmers to their side, on ideological lines. This could not be done if the priests were there to lead the faithful children of believers. So for this, too, the priests had to perish.

The balance was further weighted against me in that I gave no sign of intending to abandon my work, rather they could see that I was continuing with increased momentum. So the Party pronounced the judgment of Caiphas over me—"It is better for one man to die for the people than for the whole nation to perish" (John 11:50).

This was the only reason for clapping me in chains. The rest was just to throw sand into the eyes of the people, the false games of Annas and Caiphas. They did not dare to write my true crime on my cross; they forged others more acceptable to the people. They had collected scattered banana peels to turn them into reasons, so they could engineer my slip visibly and publicly, put me in chains and make me step down from the arena as undesirable. The five-pronged red star was successful, too!

See-Saw Politics

The data against me were gathered, all reports about me and unfavorable to me were gladly accepted and were rewritten in the language of Communist legal thinking and in slang. Thus the good friend became enemy, love was changed to hate, small things grew into big issues, and truth became falsehood. The spear, the bitter bile, the sponge, nails—and the crown of thorns, too, were ready for use, it only remained to prepare the cross. The road to Calvary is covered with small and large stones alike.

My involvement with young people was the cardinal sin. In one word—the playground.

Our playground was on the grounds of our Catholic school. Since the Debrecen papers wrote about it on several occasions, its existence was widely known. But even without this, the old Hungarian saying applies—"Good wine doesn't need to be proclaimed from billboards." Thousands came to the playground, with or without newspaper advertisements. It was open to all, for little ones and teenagers, without any prerequisites for entry. Before and during the war it was open all days so that the workers from the railway-wagon factory could leave their children under safe supervision during the day; at other times it was used only on Sundays. The equipment was first class. Loud-speakers, audible for miles, entertained the public with radio shows: 150 different records, music, stories and sporting events. We had sporting equipment, sports teams, play groups, organizations for the more mature, in which—as in everything going on on the "playground"—Catholics and Calvinists could participate alike. The playground was overseen and directed by Catholic priests but we also had numerous helpers: parents, older teenagers. We had a beautiful lending library and, also, a dog, the universally beloved Macko.

Therefore, it was not really a miracle that not only the children and young people of our district came en masse; but even from the other end of the city and the distant outlying ranches, the youngsters and their parents came. The parents, whilst enjoying the play of their children, joined in the amusements, clapping for the actors on the stage, because we had a players' guild, too. And everything was free of charge. The playground served as an amusement park for all.

During summers we made trips to Nagyerdo, of Debrecen—the woods laying at the edge of the town, surrounded by the university's hospital buildings. This group of impressive number of children marched in pairs through the winding streets of Debrecen, singing merrily, humming noisily, laughing, bringing flags, and small carts. They were accompanied by the bigger youths and parents, with the horse cart at the end, which brought the big cooking pots and food supply since everybody received free lunch and afternoon snacks. Out in the woods the children played all day long, under the watchful eyes of the grown-ups.

Our program included trips to the nearest farming settlements. There, in the woods, we've raised up an altar and a stage, because we had Mass in the morning and gala theatrical productions or a May-Day type of entertainment in the afternoon. The guests came in droves from the nearby ranches or farming communities, gladdening their city folks with their gifts. Later, we'd organized theatrical productions within the farming communities, too! and city and village alternated in providing the entertainment.

Our playground had only one blemish—it was too small for that many children. The railway car factory already gave us a very nice and spacious area for a new playground and promised that they would fence it around, install running water and electricity and build a swimming pool, soccer field, theatre and toilets. The rest was left for us to do. We had the money but the war had made it difficult to proceed. We did not dare to start, but planned to get going with it as soon as the war was over. Who would have thought that the red domination on our necks would trample all dreams, those of children included?

Debrecen was "liberated" in early October—with gale-like destruction, robbery, pillage. Our city became like Jerusalem destroyed, about which Jesus prophesied, that no stone will remain intact in it. And in this city, before others would not even repair the windows, at Christmas we put on, on a stage illuminated with oil lamps, the well-known Christmas play, "The Watchman of Bethlehem." Since up to recently Russian soldiers were living in the auditorium, all our theatrical equipment was gone. In spite of this, the play was very beautiful because the parents, with unheard of efforts and sacrifices, were able to create the most beautiful sets and costumes from paper. Many grown-ups and children alike watched the play through their tears and were thinking that now, for the glory of liberation, we are all, also, living in a stable as the little Baby Jesus did. Besides admiring the play, they wondered at our courage, that already we dared to put on a production and that we believed life has not ended and there would be Spring yet on this Earth.

However, as soon as the holiday season was over, the new lords and masters from the tax bureau appeared. The man who came was stern looking, grumpy, uncombed and unshaved.

Do you have a permit to produce plays? Do you pay taxes after each play? No? What do you think you are doing? This could give rise to trouble, big trouble!

We have long-term permit for plays. Tax? Nobody asked us for taxes under the "bad" Horthy regime. No, Comrade, not once. After all, the play is put on free of charge for the audience and we are also entertaining the children of poor rail way-wagon factory workers.

Those who want cabarets should pay for it!

Just now should the proletariat start to pay when we have achieved "dictatorship of the proletariat?" Look, here is the triumphal arch through which our "liberators" came and the inscription is still legible.

"These are not working class children but children of the bourgeois. The children of workers go to the Communist Youth Organization or to the Communist Party functions. The money is needed to rebuild the factories, for agricultural implements for the peasants. Look, let's make a deal! Do not pay after each play but pay a yearly levy. But pay you must. The days when people could be exploited are over."

We've accepted the arrangement and paid the levy. What else could we have done? But the tax official did something else, he spread around at the party offices that I've lauded the "cursed" Horthy regime.

Even the schools have not reopened at other localities when our playground was already functional. Even the Russians came because they have not seen something like this elsewhere. One of their teenage soldiers, regardless of his concentrated efforts, could not soar high on the swing. At the same time an eight-year-old little girl beside him swung to the level of the roof of the school. The children came to stand around him and laughed. At the end, the young soldier had enough, jumped down from the swing, pulled out his revolver shot at the swing amid much swearing and left.

We went on with our excursions to the wooded area called "Nagyerdo" ("Big Woods") and to the ranches even after the "liberation." The long sinuous line of children sang favourite songs just as before; but whereas before nobody was surprised by the songs, now there was much amazement and some, who were uplifted before, were now strongly scandalized. The song called "From Young Hearts" was our most popular marching song. Zeltan Marosszeki, a young Franciscan brother marching with us, wrote the lyrics; the music was composed by a young member of the famous Forrai family. The song not only quickened our steps but also gave wings to our hearts. The grown-ups learnt it from the children and sung it together with them, since this song was for everyone with a young heart and strong faith. Below is a rough translation:

From our young hearts,
a new song bursts forth.
Hundreds of birds sing on the green tree branches.
We're at one with mountains, vales, planes.
Wherever we go, the land becomes more beautiful.
We aim for peace and to do everything right.
How it is good to live in the palm of God!

Blind hatred destroys and makes all desolate.
We don't want that—we want only love.
The spirit of Saint Francis urges to work.
We'll build a better, more beautiful world.
We aim for peace and to do everything right.
How it is good to live in the palm of God!

Later brother Alajes Aloysius, a well-known orchestra leader, composed music for it. He wrote many compositions including the Oratio Nandorfehervar.

This song became popular with the two high schools. Young people sang it as enthusiastically as it was sung on the playground before.

The police helped to make way for the line of singers; the singing attracted people out of their houses. They could not stop wondering at what they saw:

"Interesting, isn't it, that they don't have a red flag!" "The children have no red scarves (as the young pioneers did)." "Oh, dear Lord, I can't believe what I hear! When did we change back politically? I have not even noticed." "What are they singing?" "We'll build a better, more beautiful world."—not Communism." "Oh God! They want to live in God's hands"

Those who spoke like this, were also moaning with sparkling eyes and trying to sing along. However, there were other opinions as well:

"What are they saying? "Blind hatred destroys and makes all desolate." So what do they want? Syrupy love? Who pays then for our dead?"

"Does the Party know it? Why does it tolerate these fascist saplings?" "Look, barefooted religious are leading them! This is unheard of!"

A nearby baker does not hear any of this, but runs out from the bakery and piles freshly baked bread on the children's cart. The children sing their thanks. "It's good to live in the hands of God."

They're not interested in the Party, nor in the baker. Not yet.

Out in Nagyerdo spirits continue to be high, the food is cooking noisily in the pots and the children are playing, forgetting everything else. Only our dog, Macko, is barking and whining. A man is approaching—he wears a cloth cap and a long leather coat, in spite of the summer weather, since the leather coat signified the importance of his role in the present regime. He slides near us as if he just happened to come this way accidentally.

I ask him, "Is anything wrong?"

"Not with me, but maybe somebody else had better watch out," he answers.

"Why?"

"For making a fire in the forest and collecting so many children."

"We have permit for the fire—had it for a long time. As for gathering the children together, the Party is bound to be happy about it since their leaders teach us to get involved with young people. This is what we're doing."

"Yes, but you're not doing it in cooperation with the Party or with KISZ (Communist Youth League) but in opposition to them. Educating the young should not be left to priests. Your place is by the altar!"

"We're concerning ourselves with the children because the Party and KISZ are not doing anything with them."

"How many children are here?"

"About 300."

In the meantime, the children surrounded the interrogator, and started to beat their tin cans with their spoons on the big pot.

"We are hungry."

"Lunch please!"

"Are they giving the food out yet?"

And they created such a din that the voice of our "guest" could not be heard. It sounded as if he was mentioning the Party again, but then he just left. Macko, the dog, barked at him once more and tried to grab his trousers.

And so we had a bloodhound sniffing on our trail, a bloodhound gathering materials and taking it to his masters. Probably at this point, the Party advised him to hold his peace. Hold it yet! The time for all this will come. As yet the people are not mature enough for it.

"The Silenced Bells are Rung Again"
—Next month's installment—

"So let us be confident, let us not be unprepared, let us not be outflanked, let us be wise, vigilant, fighting against those who are trying to tear the faith out of our souls and morality out of our hearts, so that we may remain Catholics, remain united to the Blessed Virgin Mary, remain united to the Roman Catholic Church, remain faithful children of the Church."- Archbp. Lefebvre 1980

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In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle Jan 23, 2019 14:05:55 GMT

Post by Admin on Jan 23, 2019 14:05:55 GMT

The Angelus - November 1987

The Silenced Bells Are Rung Again
The Second Installment of "In the Chains of the Hammer and Sickle"

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

Debrecen had a "brown star" in the person of the Franciscan Father Ottmar Faddy, before it acquired a "red star" in Matyas Rakosi. The population liked the brown star better than the red one. This is understandable, especially since Father Faddy—accompanied by me—stayed in the town whilst the majority of the inhabitants, together with their priests, sought refuge elsewhere. We did not even hide but awaited the "glorious liberating Russian army." We had expected death rather than a chance to live at their hands—however, we wanted to meet our death within the walls of the church.

The brigands have flooded the town. Father Ottmar was the only one who was not terrified. He was the first one who dared to set foot on the street when the bullets were still whistling and the bombs, dropped from the planes, still exploding. It was he who opened the doors of the shelters with the customary greeting of "Laudetur Jesus Christus!" With the Franciscan greeting of "Peace and blessing to you," with his sweeping gestures, and broad smile he gave them the ray of hope for life. Many people said later that in Father Ottmar they saw an angel proclaiming the resurrection—"Fear not! We are alive, and we are full of hope."

Father Ottmar was the first one to ring the bells—on the order of the authorities. In the whole city, only the bell of our church rang for the evening Angelus, "Ave Maria." For the Soviet military command gave the order to have the bells ringing in all the churches, let everything go on, as before; because there is no persecution of religion. Let the bells, silenced by the Godless fascists, resound again! However, few dared to do it because to do so, one would have to walk the streets in the evenings where the pedestrians were greeted by bullets and cries for help from desperate women. On going from the rectory to the church, we had to traverse a distance of 150 feet. In the meantime, the Soviet Army was streaming into town without pause. Everybody who dared to move came under suspicion—they could be spies or snipers. However, Father Ottmar did not become concerned. He went to ring the bells, silenced for quite a while, and to proclaim by their sound— "By the grace of God, we are still alive!" He grabbed the rope with both hands and our big bell BOOMed and sang out with a magic force as never before.

The soldiers marching in front of our church froze in their tracks. What is it? The bells are ringing just when they are passing in front of the church? Is it to honour them or to betray them? Oh, this can only be treachery, a sign to the enemy that they are arriving now. They started a violent barrage of shooting and surrounded the church. Father Ottmar stepped out into a forest of gun barrels, aimed at him. He was smiling, he was happy. The ruffians were surprised by the religious habit. This would be the spy who is signaling to the Germans? And he is even smiling? Nevertheless, they went on yelling, "Spion! Spion!" Their officer stood him next to the wall, to be shot immediately. Father Ottmar eyed the line of guns calmly and went on smiling. He did not quite know what this was all about, but accepted it as par for the course. If they don't kill him on the steps of the church, at least they would kill him by its wall. But suddenly an interpreter materialized and Father Ottmar told him that the Soviet commander was the one who ordered the bell ringing and that there should be business as usual in the church. So what did Father do wrong?

It isn't so! yelled the Soviet officer. This is a war zone, a military route. You are a fascist spy! We'll shoot you!

But they did not shoot him. Perhaps, because he awaited death too calmly—or perhaps their orders were to handle the church and clergy gently. The German propaganda about Russia had to be counterbalanced—and it had to be shown that the occupying power is not a sworn enemy of the Churches, religions, priests and ministers. The officer thought that similar regulations had also been issued for this city. Swearing loudly, he marched away with his unit.

However, a high ranking Hungarian officer got word of the scenario of Father Ottmar by the wall. He did not stop to verify the facts but could imagine the consequences of Father Ottmar's conduct. He was so firmly convinced that Father Ottmar was shot, that he reported it as a personally witnessed fact to the Superior General of the Franciscans in Budapest. Father was mourned, they said prayers and Masses for him and entered his name in the book of martyrs.

No, Father Ottmar did not die—rather, he was in his element. There was a crying need for busy hands. The bells were silent again, but he took over for them, proclaiming God morning, noon and evenings, exhorting the people to pray, work, persevere and hope. Before the arrival of Russians, we were placing people into shelters from the bombs; after their arrival, we were placing the women from the bestially wild "liberators"—in the church, in the church tower, behind the altar, in the loft of the rectory, under the beds. We took food to them—even out to the ranches. We brought the Sacraments to them. Not only were we the first to reopen our school and playground, but we also were the first to supply the robbed people of the outlying farms with shoes, clothing and food; and we obtained carts and horses for the ranchers. For a long time, we were repairing our house and also the houses of the parishioners—especially the damaged roofs. For weeks we lived in the forest and cut wood so that both we and our parishioners would have wood for our stoves. Our playground was functioning excellently, and we made more excursions than ever before; even the daughter of the Red deputy mayor came with us. They (the inhabitants of Debrecen) liked us; we were popular. It was not possible to organize demonstrations against us, urging the hangman's rope for people like ourselves. Not yet! We were at one not only with our faithful, not only with the factory workers, but even with the Protestants.

Naturally, the Party did not rejoice about this. It watched the events with clenched teeth but could not do much for the time being. It had to put up with it. Eventually, the plan to utilize our popularity for Communist aims was born. They wanted to use Father Ottmar as bait in the hope that all young people would follow wherever he led. Putting their devious plan into action did not seem impossible because Father Ottmar judged people from the standards of his own benevolent heart and believed in the goodwill of others. He also believed that it is not possible to have Russian style Communism in our country, although we may end up with a democracy of pinkish hue. Thus, he was pleased when the Party invited him to become co-chairman of its youth organization, the MADISZ, since his personality attracted the young people. Of course, Father Ottmar thought that he would be able to wash the Reds white; the Party on the other hand thought that Father would make some "faux pas"—and then they would be able to silence him forever. However, it did not take long for Father Ottmar to see through them during this cooperative venture and he was, therefore, planning to resign. In order to forestall this, the Party had dismissed him swiftly so that they could try and sentence him and could bandy his name about. The thunder was rumbling, the storm gathering and the deluge started sooner than anybody would have thought.

Father Ottmar was an excellent orator, and able speaker. Because he was well known and popular, the Party of Smallholders asked him to deliver a lecture during their political conference. He, as an outspoken individual, said the following:

"When during the peace treaty negotiations, they were chopping off our borderlands, the Party offered more territory to our adversaries than they asked…" Naturally, he meant the Communists. The Communists' stance on this question was well known. Premier F. Nagy had also stated that the Communists called the Hungarian efforts directed to preserve our borders as revanchist and schauvinist demands. Since the Soviets wanted the Carpathian region from the Czechs, Bessarabia and Bukovina from the Romanians, these countries would be only compensated if Hungarian territories were given to them. Thus, Hungary was proclaimed to be a principal War Criminal. It had to be proven to the world that our country, as a principal criminal, deserved its dismemberment.

Naturally, Father Ottmar's statement struck like lightning at the meeting's dignitaries. "He is reviling the government!" yelled the secretary and he, himself, ran to the Communist party to report this scandalous event, meriting the District Attorney's attention. The Communists were pleased that without them having to start the accusations, the opportunity arose to sweep the sky of Debrecen clear off its "brown star." The indictment was ready—vilification of the party and the government.

On the day scheduled for the trial, the whole town gathered near the court with the faithful of the parish and the railway-car factory workers in front. The Party wanted to hold a spectacular trial, as it was customarily done in Moscow. Let the people see how antidemocratic and treacherous their priest is, how ungrateful is the Catholic Church even though it is fed by the Party's bread! The biggest courtroom was assigned for this case and whole pages of their newspaper were devoted to listing the exaggerated accusations.

Debrecen had a prolonged, arid heat wave that summer. In spite of the enervating heat, the courtroom was full and the neighbouring streets—where a large contingent of policemen was assigned—(because of the lack of space in the courtroom)—were filled with people. Father Ottmar's Defence Counsel was a well-known, reputable Jewish lawyer from Budapest, who was chosen by Father Ottmar's supporters. During the trial, the men and women were kneeling on the ground and prayed the Rosary aloud. This, of course, displeased the Party but not as much as the group of workers ordered by them to demonstrate and to chant "The hangman's rope for the priest, the hangman's rope for the traitor"—did not utter one word.

Next, they tried to use mounted policemen to chase the people out of the district with the excuse that their loudness interfered with the orderly conduct of the trial. However, the people left through one street and returned by another. What could they, the authorities, do? They did not quite dare to order the policemen to use their swords to distribute random blows from their secure position from the horses. This was a crowd-dispersal method used during the regime of Horthy, and often used by Communists in the past as a tool for their anti-Horthy propaganda. But something had to be done. So they called out the fire brigade. But the water hoses did not function. The people laughed—they saw the finger of God in this—and the sympathies of the fire brigade. Suddenly, the enraged mayor pushed through the crowd. Conceivably, he must have been a volunteer fireman in the past since he started the machinery easily—himself handling the biggest hose to spray water on the bystanders. Nobody took this as a tragedy, rather, in the scorching heat a little cooling did not come amiss. When the "spraymaster" left, the people pulled back but continued to sing and pray.

When the morning shift ended at the wagon factory and the workers heard that the water hoses were turned on their wives, they also joined the crowd. This was even more alarming for the Party. What will happen if the workers not only protect their wives but also stand up for the accused? The authorities, therefore, limited themselves to the arrest of a few strident young women but they did not want to put more oil on troubled waters.

It was in this heated atmosphere that the verdict was announced in the afternoon.

"The Court finds the defendant innocent because in his criticism of the government, he did not do so in excess of what is permitted to him in his position and priestly authority and dignity."

So they did not dare to condemn him! They were not strong enough to put a priest, as popular as Father Ottmar, behind bars. He was found not guilty on and for the records—but not in the minds of the Party—ever.

The people exalted. "God has wrought a victory" resounded first in the courtroom, then continued to reverberate like thunder on the streets. Men and women were crying and hugging each other and the wales of the houses echoed the song, born of the moment:

"God has won! The prayers brought a victory! Long live, long live Father Ottmar!"

"Long live Father Ottmar" was sung with an especially notable vigor on the lips of a middle-aged man. The policemen and detectives told him to quiet down but he went on singing regardless. It was rumoured that his pocket held a hand grenade, which in case of a conviction for Father Ottmar, he was planning to throw at the court officials in the courtroom.

The Court was at the other end of the town from the priory, quite far away. Still, the people planned to carry Father Ottmar to his home on their shoulders. The Party did not care to see this happen so they offered to transport him in a squad car. However, the people did not permit anybody to steal their hero from them. They surrounded the automobile and accompanied its slow passage, shouting all the while without pause:

"God has won! The prayers brought a victory! Long live, long live Father Ottmar!"

I ran ahead to bring the good news and to prepare the church. When I caught sight of the approaching crowd, the bells were rung again. I rung the bells for a Te Deum the like of which had never been seen in this little church. People came in large numbers from all directions as if to witness a miracle, and this was a miracle!

The losers never forgot, neither did they every forgive Father Ottmar; and as for me, subsequently, they tried me for the crime of "organizing a demonstration and inciting the people to rebellion by bellringing."

THE POLICE CAPTAIN'S MARX

After we were "liberated", I was working a lot on our playground. There seemed to be no end to the number of physically taxing, messy chores. Suddenly a policeman materialized in front of me. The new police captain asked me to call on him for he would like to get to know us. I did not really like this, besides I was not the Superior. So I replied somewhat sharply:

"If he has any problems concerning us, let him subpoena us. Otherwise, the distance is the same from him to us and vice versa. We have quite enough to do here as it is."

Next day, shortly after a hurried lunch, the new police captain appeared, smartly in uniform, full of the glory of his new position. I, on the other hand, was in my work habit, and it wore the signs of a day's hard labour—torn, patched, with traces of paint on it.

"I'm looking for Reverend Krupa."

"I'm he. Greetings, Mr. Police Captain!" He looked at me, with doubting eyes. This then, work worn, work soiled person would be the one who sent him such a snappy reply? He could not believe it.

"I'm looking for the Krupa who sent the message to me from the playground yesterday."

"Yes, it's me, but I'm not the rector. He went into town."

"I'm new in town. I've heard many good things about the Franciscan Fathers. I would have liked for you to pay your respects to me with a visit so that we could get to know each other."

"In the old days, the custom was for new officials arriving into town to pay their respect at their rectory. We would have liked to keep to these rules. This is why we did not go—not even when called."

"I apologize," his face clouded over and it was evident that he took offence "that I did not go about it that way, but I'm very busy."

He mentioned a number of current topics. Then, he came up with this:

"I see that you all are working a lot for the people. If you would read Marx, you would collaborate with the Party and would work together for the benefit of the people."

"I've read Marx and even studied it as part of my official duties in my youth. Of course, this was a long time ago. However, I would gladly read it again, even at my advanced age, if it would be available; especially since I've heard that they trimmed his writings quite a bit. I wonder what was left out? Some say, of course the reactionaries, that his writings are always trimmed to fit the times. Could you be so kind and loan me your volume?"

His face reddened. He was visibly ready to burst out, and struggling to control himself.

"Unfortunately, I don't have one; but I'll try to get it and will send it."

Naturally, he never sent it. We heard he related our meeting and conversation at one of the Party meetings. He repeated with conviction that if all Communists were labouring so diligently and would be as courageous and self-assured as the Franciscan Fathers, our Communist state would soon be a reality.

Nevertheless, this praise did not prevent the powers that be from entering beside my name: "He was contemptuously insolent with the police captain."

TO SOME, SLAPS ON THE FACE; TO SOME, STRIKES WITH A SWORD

At the time of the Russian avalanche, a tank unit was quartered near us. They kept the people in a state of eternal terror and us, too, even though we knew they had their orders—"Do not touch the churches, don't harm the priests!"—as a propaganda maneuver, naturally. On the big feast day of their October revolution's anniversary, they were drunk the whole day. Nevertheless, one of them came across to us and started to pillage our already pillaged rectory. Straightaway, I said to him faultlessly in the new, recently learnt Asiatic tongue—"Russki soldat nie zabranic" that is—"A Russian soldier does not steal." He became terribly angry. He yelled that he did not steal; and, this and that, he'll show that the fascists can't order him about. He left but returned soon with three others, all armed with swords. It was amazing, how intrepid they were against the unarmed Franciscan brothers. They were waving their weapons about, as the conductors wave their batons. They herded all of us into one room. Then they went from room to room, slashing the furniture, carpets, pictures, whatever they could find—a destruction of revenge. Before they left the apartments, as a form of goodbye, they boxed my ears, beat Father Ottmar with the sword, another Brother with a builder's spade and they hit our elderly cooking woman on the chest.

We just laughed at such an accurate assessment of everybody's importance, almost like receiving Saint Emericus's kisses. (Translator's note, Saint Emericus, the son of King Saint Stephen of Hungary, during a visit to a monastery kissed all the monks, varying the number of kisses. On being asked why not the same number for all, he replied that the holier ones got more). However, Father Ottmar was angry, especially since it was only yesterday that the priests assembled at the Russian-commanding post were told that they would not come to any harm from the military personnel—and today they're boxing our ears? He put his "mercifully unstolen" cap on his head and headed towards the commanding post. This was around noon.

Towards the evening, a truck suddenly came to stop in front of our rectory. I was in front of the gate, "talking" (both of us using gestures and words from each other's language) with an elderly, quiet—mannered Russian. From the truck, soldiers, armed to the teeth, sprang forth—the Russian military police. Their officer held a whip with which he was beating on his boots. They were yelling like wild boar and at once fell upon my elderly Russian. They grabbed him from all sides and threw him, like a sack of grain, into the truck. I'm defending him, "He is a good Russki," but to no avail. How dare he set foot on the street? They brought an interpreter with them. We are to show them, ordered their officer, who were the ones who manhandled us. In the dark of the night? To us they all looked the same with their Mongolian features, difficult to tell apart. Who on earth could identify them out of a 100 or so men? And who would dare? We knew from experience that they were bloodcurdlingly vindictive. They've butchered whole families for a slight.

The MP's roused the soldiers of the tank unit from their nocturnal rest. They drove them all out onto the street as they were, in their underwear. They treated them like cattle, kicking them, nudging them with whips. We were firmly convinced that a massacre was imminent, that we'd be knee-deep in Russian blood tonight—and we minded the whole thing by now. They lined up these drunken, stuporous men and we had to walk by the lineup in order to find the culprits. I recognized only one of our noontime visitors—with characteristic facial scars. However, I said nothing because he was making threatening eye signals—"Do not denounce me." Father Ottmar, however, pointed at him with dead certainty because this one was the most insolent. Up in the truck, beside the other! He was already flying through the air.

The officers of the unit were protesting. They were defending their men. They regarded it as sheer lunacy that their men should be humiliated for the sake of the enemy, but the protests were of no avail. The MP officer with the whip ruled over all as a Tzar or as a Stalin. It seemed that he was ready to open fire on them. At the last minute before their departure, Father Ottmar said to the MP Chief, you're leaving but we remain. What will happen to us? "Do not fear, batjushka" and he patted Father reassuringly on the shoulder "even the hairs on your heads are safe!" Naturally, we did not quite believe him. Every night before retiring we affixed the cords of our habits onto the window casement, so that we could lower ourselves on them, as Saint Paul did, if we had to escape. We did not have to. One night the tank unit had left so suddenly that we did not even notice their departure.

The day after the removal of our tormentor, at a time when Father Ottmar was already in town, and myself again in front of the gate, a hearse stopped suddenly in front of me. A Russian officer alighted from it. He opened the door of the hearse at the back and motioned for me to get in. Hm. Not very reassuring. To get in a hearse whilst I'm still alive? Why? What do they want? To shoot me or hang me because of yesterday's events? This is how we will come to no harm? I mimicked hanging and shooting to the officer. He did not comprehend the sign language. For a while, he looked at me with awarement that I didn't want to occupy this exalted spot and then he laughed. He slammed the door shut, seated me beside him and took me to the town hall. He was asking me through an interpreter—Where is the soldier, (the quiet, old Russian) whom they took yesterday because he is one of his men. Naturally, regardless how insistent their demands were for information, I could not tell them a thing. (Later, we learnt that the two soldiers were taken to a hospital). At the end they let me go, much to my delight, and allowed me to walk home.

It was a long time afterwards, by the time when I already forgot this episode that the Police indicted me for two counts of "vilifying the Russian army…"

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In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle Jan 23, 2019 15:01:39 GMT

Post by Admin on Jan 23, 2019 15:01:39 GMT

The Angelus - December 1987

Do You Have Papers?

The Third Installment of "In the Chains of the Hammer and Sickle"

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!

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In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle Jan 23, 2019 15:05:13 GMT

Post by Admin on Jan 23, 2019 15:05:13 GMT

The Angelus - January 1988

Confessions by the Blooded Press
The Fourth Installment of "In the Chains of the Hammer and Sickle"

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

"It is not necessary to search for facts or proof during the investigation. The first question should be: To what social class does he belong?…These should be the decisive factors in determining the fate of the accused…" —MJ. Lacisz, Checka Chief

I. The First Judas

Before the last newspaper article—quoted in the previous chapter—appeared in the paper, my first interrogation had taken place. This was about the middle of July.

The morning sun shone encouragingly when I set out for the police station.

"Failure to appear will result in being brought in under escort!"

The birds were chirping merrily, the bees hummed cheerfully as they were gathering the gold-coloured dust off the flowers, only my beloved dog, Macko, was whining sorrowfully after my departing figure. Was it because he could not come with me or did he know that my kind of journey is towards death more often than to life? And the first stop on this lethal journey is confession with the aid of the vine-press of the flesh?

The long lapse of time, between the takeover of the school and the date fixed for the interrogation, and no arrest up until now, made me hopeful that I may get off with some threats, admonitions and a warning. However, the more sober part of my mind forced me to prepare as if I did not expect to return. I even asked the boy, guarding the bicycles in front of the police station, to get the bicycle back to our rectory if nobody claimed it by late evening. He promised this without asking for any explanations; for he understood what this was about. I paid him triple his usual fee as the condemned paid their executioners in the olden time. His reluctance to accept it was genuine.

A teenager, one of our school's ex-pupils, was roaming near the bicycles. He gave such oblique looks to the bypassers, he was listening so intently, with practically outstretched ears! "Police informer" was written all over him. His father at one time was a builder at our rectory, this had apparently qualified him as a detective, and apparently his son was an apprentice informer, who wanted to hear my last utterance in freedom. He was the first Judas among ourselves. Oh, what a long line will form after him in the coming years! Is it a law, the law of wicked life, that a Judas is needed for each crucifixion?

In going up to the floor, the walls on each side of the staircase were lined by sculpted memorials of policemen killed in the line of duty, on the post, "The guardians of the law, killed by those, trampling on the law." And today? Could it be true that nowadays the guardians of the law kill those who abide by the law? This is what was whispered about, naturally, only whispered. My face became red with shame at the thought that I, a Catholic priest, gave credence to these persistent whispers, if even only for a minute.

They led me into a rather large room neatly wallpapered. They were not too friendly, but none expects friendliness at a police station, at any rate—but with no overt hostility either. A few typists, a few men simply passing the time. (I learnt only later, that these apparently aimless bystanders were the ones who would quickly become the flesh press operators should the need arise). The interrogator, probably an assistant district attorney, was tall and thin. My first impression was that he is not exactly overjoyed to be saddled with my case. His name was Nagy (as an exception, I'm giving his true name—for later, not many people could believe that in our so-called democratic society interrogations were conducted as mine was). Of course, from their looks, their failure to introduce themselves, made it rather obvious that for them I was not so much a suspect or even accused, but somebody who had already been convicted a long time ago. The Party had decided my case already, quite a while back. This approach to jurisprudence was also being talked about in whispers, awareness of this was in the air.

Well, I thought, act one begins; the circus performance, also known as my interrogation, is ready to start. It was only later that I understood that interrogations for many people meant the call of death, a torture chamber. However, on the day of my first session, I was only a greenhorn to such extent that I did not even grasp the meaning of this sentence, "We have our tools for the discovery of the truth…"

My interrogator started with a warning, "Be sure to confess only the truth because…" He particularly emphasized that "We have tools…." In the meantime, he added, that if I feel or think that any of the accusations were false, I should feel free to say so.

Undeniably, the second sentence of the overture sounded encouraging, even if in the first sentence, the accent was on a hidden menace. I intended to stick to the truth even when the facts could damage my case, for this way they would not be able to mix me up in lies during cross-examinations. I had the example of Jesus in front of me. "I came to bear witness to the truth." The faithful would be justly scandalized if I would falsify or deny their statements and confessions.

My interrogation stretched to about three hours; from this I inferred that they took statements from a large number of witnesses for the preparation of the indictment. The atmosphere was rather decent. Now and then, it became heated and somewhat uncomfortable for them, for at one point my interrogator exclaimed bitterly and with sarcasm, "You are talking as if we were the ones under interrogation, rather than the interrogators, as if we were the accused and not the accusers." To tell the truth, these were my feelings, too, because they came up with so many stupidities that it was hard to lecture them. In the meantime, I readily acknowledged having said things which I'd really said, but not a word of utterances falsely attributed to me or statements twisted around to give them a different meaning which they wrapped up in Communist legal interpretations.

I replied to many of their questions with "I don't remember, but I could have said this because it reflects my way of thinking". (I should not have done this, for this way they learnt about many of my "undesirable" thoughts). To other questions, my reply was "I don't remember, but would not have said this because these views are alien to my way of thinking". The typist always read back what she had put down of my confession. I was allowed to add comments and to make corrections.

It goes without saying that we argued about religion, Communism, the wealth of priests, the power of priests, serving the exploiters, the various political parties, but chiefly about Cardinal Mindszenty. Now and then, a glimpse of the material brought in by the bloodhounds was seen. Right at the beginning, my interrogator kept asserting that the Party toils for the poor people. According to him, the Franciscans were the friends of the simple people throughout, even their name attests to this. So why are the two known friends of the simple folk not working together now? (This was the third time that they came up with this!). Why did the Franciscans become rebel-rousers, instigators of public unrest, murderers of policemen, and detractors of democracy? Don't they see how the Party raised the standard of living of the people? It practically takes care of all their needs, it carries them in the palm of its hand.

It's good to hear you saying these things, I replied, for it reminds me of a visit by a poor mother, wife of a wagon factory worker. She told me that the Party was planning to take her son on a holiday. At this, my interrogator interrupted, "So, you see how much the Party if doing? It's taking the little colts on vacation, free of charge! Whoever did anything like this under the old regime? And if so, when?"

To this, I can reply acerbly. For, ten years ago, when I was working in Pecs, the Lakeview Church, the churches of other denominations and the city council took hundreds of children to the lake Balaton for vacation, or to larger excursions. This was the custom in Hatvan, Fulek, Eger just to name but a few. Besides that, they built large playgrounds, as in our community, too. But let me pick up the threads of my story again. So, the poor mother tells me that they will take her son for a vacation, but there are requirements—clothing requirements—"I would have to get a certain number of each piece of clothing, of such and such a quality, and also quite a few pieces of underwear, but my son does not have these things. I have no money to buy them. It would be sad if my son would miss out on this vacation for want of clothes!" Of course I help her. It could be that that was the last time that I would give anything to the poor, for from that day onward, I was treated as an enemy of the people.

But, I ask you most respectfully, if what you say is true, then why did this working-woman come to me, to the enemy of the people and not to the Party headquarters? And if they have the means to take the children for vacation, why couldn't they give them a few pieces of clothing, too? Perhaps this poor woman of the working class came to me because she had more trust in her Church than in her Party? And in this case, aren't we working together with the Party? So what is objectionable then to our way of life?

There was no answer from the interrogator. He bent his head down and quickly started on another topic.

When the minutes were ready, they gave the report to me for review. What picayune things! At least to me, they sounded picayune. What stupidities, one segment contradicting the other! In the end, I thought that the indictment consisted of three main parts:

1) Agitation against the authority of the state. 2) Incitement to the murder of policemen. 3) Spreading false news.

However, as I mentally summarized them, the accusations did not look innocuous. I saw how serious they appeared—heralding what horrible consequences! As if each point of the indictment was a nail with a sizeable blow of the hammer falling on it! Three blows and not just any kind. The three-sentence-long indictment was ready; it can be nailed to my cross. Three accusations in one language. There was only one accusation over the head of our Lord, in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek (John 19:20). Which sounds more innocent? One accusation in three languages or three accusations in one? If the accusation against Jesus led to His death, where will my indictment lead to?

It seemed as if I heard a mob yelling far away. Crucify him! Crucify him! Rope for Krupa!

In the meantime, I signed, almost without conscious awareness, the paper for the rope; and with this, the pressing hallucinations disappeared.

Inwardly, I shrugged it off. This will come to nought. I will burst their bubble at the trial. Puh, and the whole thing is gone. Is there even anything to stage a trial for? By reading the encyclical of Primate Mindszenty from the pulpit, I agitated against the authority of the state? Bagatelle! I only said what he said, did not add anything new. They did not question him about his encyclicals: Why me?

Incitement for murder of policemen? This is a barefaced lie. They won't find a witness, living or dead, for this. Spreading false news? I'll bring them a basketful of their own newspapers. I did not make up one letter, never stated any untruths. So what do they want with me. What can they do to me?

Still, when my interrogator said, "You can go now!" I could not believe my ears. "You're under arrest!" would have sounded more natural. Horrifying news of the likelihood of this were circulating. But no. He did not try to keep me; he repeated, "You can go!"

I stumbled through the door from among the watchful muscle men. Going down the staircase, the building of the police precinct was not so dark. It did not smell of sweat and blood as it did when I entered it. The policemen, depicted dying on the memorials lining the walls, seemed simply to be frolicking in the grass, in their own blood. The guardian of my bicycle appeared to be merrier, too. He would not consent to me paying him again. I said to him with quiet laugh, "This money is my ransom, you know, like the 30 pieces of silver! For I did not think that I'd see you again". His eyes glistened with tears. He cast an uneasy glance at the windows of the precinct above. Were they, perhaps, watching him from there as a rule. My other teenage acquaintance was watching everything with an even greater air of secrecy; however, he did not have to strain his ears much for I shouted loudly to him: "Don't mind it, Johnny! You may get lucky and catch a really big fish!" He appeared to meet my eyes with angry defiance. However, paid no attention to him. Nothing matters, nothing; only that, as yet, I'm still free! The sky is still mine and so is the Earth with all the birds of the air, with all its trees and its people. Forward march!

My bicycle was propelled homewards almost as speedily as a motor bike. I was flying on the road and, almost without awareness, was still mulling over my interrogation. Why did it go so smoothly? Why was it done so gently? They haven't even slapped my face! Did I go overboard by admitting everything? What else could I have done? The truth is truth. Did they refrain from the use of force because there wasn't anything else which they needed to squeeze out of me? My confession will be enough to get me condemned? Yet, how do they beat others to death and squelch them on occasions such as my interrogation! They didn't even tap me on the head. Have I become lucky because so many people were praying for me? Who could give me the answer?

My dog, Macko, was waiting for me in the doorway. He jumped on me, he yelped. He was bouncing about as if he would not have seen me for 100 years. Even he did not think that he'd ever see me again? Come, my faithful dog, Macko, and let's frolic together for the rest of the day in our great joy!

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In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle Jan 23, 2019 15:12:07 GMT

Post by Admin on Jan 23, 2019 15:12:07 GMT

The Angelus - February 1988

The Handcuffs Are Ready

The Fifth Installment of "In the Chains of the Hammer and Sickle"

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

The Truth and Nothing But the Truth

Finally, the subpoena for the trial had arrived one day. They emphasized that failure to appear will result in being brought in by police escort. Also, should I fail to select a defense attorney within the prescribed time limit, the court will appoint one for me.

I did not nominate anybody as my defense attorney. What for? To play that farce? We knew the procedures of the "People's" court well enough to regard the effort required to select one as superfluous. Everybody knew how things were done: The Party makes a decision, the people's court implements it. The courts of democracy are nothing more than the executive power of the Party. So what good would obtaining a defense counsel do? The only achievement would be wasting money and to assist at a circus-like performance. We were aware of the existence of attorneys with "0" and "00" prefixes, these were the trust worthiest communists, members of the AVO. It is ridiculous, nay mind boggling, to have the innocent lambs cared for by wolves. By this time, the authorities were cleaning up the Bar, sweeping through it. Only those could remain members and, therefore, could practice law, who were regarded as trustworthy by the Party. Those who remained, feared for their very lives. How would they then defend anybody whole-heartedly who is accused of criminal deeds by the democracy? Which attorney wishes to end up, together with his client, in prison? Thus, the typical lawyer of these times doesn't protect the one whom he defends; in the majority of cases abandons him, throws wool over his eyes, and becomes the ally of the judges and the AVO, even their informer. Together with them he sits in judgment of the accused rather than defend him. The best that can be expected from him, even though he does not defend his client, is to at least stop short of accusing him. Most of the time he opts for pleading guilty to the indictment and perhaps, if he has the courage, asks for a more lenient sentence. Mercy is absent where justice is nonexistent, so why bother to have a defense counsel?

(In the book titled The City of the Shadows M. Andras Pogany, a young lawyer from Budapest, says that he attempted to help where, with his meager resources, it was in his power to do so, and he asserts that other lawyers also did the same. If there were such cases, and in matters more weighty than "insignificant chicken feed" situations, they deserve our respect and heartfelt appreciation, for such lawyers in these times were truly Hungarians and heroes).

Within a short time, I received notification that the court appointed a lawyer for me. Since I did not go to see him, he visited our rectory one evening. I told him openly, I did not expect any support from him and I had no need for his services for he is just as impotent as I, the accused. Zero plus zero will never add up to one! He did not protest either. He left silently with sagging shoulders.

As my last words to my flock, I'd reiterated to the faithful during my sermon on the last Sunday before the trial, (I was not certain if plain-clothes policemen were present), that I do not ask that they should deny things or lie, for my sake. I take responsibility for what I said. In difficult times it would be easier to proclaim the word of God, to serve the Church if we could dispense with the obligation to stick by what we've said, to accept responsibility for our actions, but this would be only a counterfeit of our priestly mission. So I asked them to tell only the truth even if sticking to the truth would be difficult; but what's even more important, not to accept what is untrue as part of their beliefs. I asked them to pray for me so that I would bear my trial in a manner pleasing to God. I exhorted the flock not to disperse even if the shepherd disappears, to remain faithful to God, to their religion, to their small church and to their native country—even at the price of sacrifices! I asked them to remember that God and Our Lady, "Donna Magna ac Patrona Hungariae" are closest to us during difficult times. I saw that the approaching years will be hard, so hard that Hungarians never saw anything like it beforehand. I promised never to forget them as long as I lived and hoped that one day we will all meet in front of God's heavenly throne . . .

The last time when I saw them, their eyes were full of tears. They, too, saw the tears in mine, for the truth is that it isn't easy for the faithful to be separated from their priest, or for the priest from his flock, especially forever.

At home, I settled all my affairs as a person would who is never coming back. This turned out to be the reality, for after my release, we had neither a rectory nor a house for the religious and the police did not encourage meetings with the parishioners, most of whom I never saw again.

I spent my last days, or rather most of the nights, gathering material to disprove the accusations and which also would justify my statements. I collected many proofs, primarily the Communist newspapers. In the end, I would not go to sleep although recent events took their toll, leaving me exhausted. It is strange what goes on in body and soul in such times. This was not the fear of death of the Gethsemane, for back then to suffer and die for God and the Church were thought of as desirable aims. I was aware of a dark, oppressive feeling as if one has been detached from life and falling and falling down into an abyss. Falling into what? To where? Only if one could know where. At that point we are more conscious of our weaknesses than of our strengths, and one is enveloped in loneliness as if we would have to fight the battles of life and death all by ourselves. Nobody is around to strengthen, encourage or to help us. One lives through the hours of loneliness of the abandonment of Gethsemane. It is difficult to describe this state to those who have not lived through it. Perhaps, it isn't even possible, for the evangelist does not describe the sufferings of Jesus with words either, but with drops of blood falling from His face onto the ground.

Seventh December, 1948

As if even the sun would not deign to rise on this day, the sky was radiating waves of ice, greyly and unclearly—and that on the vigil of the feast of the Immaculate Conception—the feast day of the Lady stepping on the serpent, on the serpent which readied its sting to stick it, hissing, into my heel. Maybe, since it was only the vigil, the coming hour for the Woman clothed in the sun was not upon us yet . . . And strangely, this was the eve of the end of the Marian year or rather, the morning of the eve.

The road was frozen, covered with dull, lead-like ice. In front of our house, a cow pulling a cart had slipped. Regardless how hard she struggled, she could not rise. They were putting burning sheets of papers underneath her belly — horrible! They want to infuse strength into her through torture? The paper crackled as it burned beneath and she was struggling on, and my soul with her. Is this a portent, a symbol of my life in the days ahead? In not too many minutes, they will start to light a fire beneath me, too. Who will they be? People from my parish? Enemies?

The witnesses were already standing in front of the courtroom designated for the trial. I was not aware, even then, which of them were really the witnesses selected by the prosecutor. All became silent as I appeared. They were looking at me from the right, from the left, across a suitably big distance. Interestingly enough, most of them did not even dare to offer a greeting. They looked at me as if they felt themselves to be criminals, not I, they themselves. The two policemen, present in the church when the Mindszenty encyclical was read, were leaning against the balustrade. I stepped nearer to them to ask:

"Are you also going to help to put the rope around my neck?"

"Oh, no," and both of them blushed. Perhaps it was the Sargeant who said—"Oh, not at all! We won't turn into hangmen!"

Soon after this, they called me into the courtroom and seated me on the bench for the accused.

Bench of this accused! How is it that nobody wrote tales of horror about you yet? Why, when on you were seated some of the greatest of the world. You gave them a place to sit, a hard, rough support so that they should not fall to the ground during the most horrible hours of their lives? How many innocents were sitting on you? Tell us, who were greater men, the innocents or the guilty? How are you able to serve both kinds with the same unconcern, coolness, even hardness? What kind of wood are you made of? Who were your mother, father, teachers that you became the world's most feared creation? Or for you, it does not matter any more—becoming devoid of feelings over thousands of years—who is guilty, who is not? Would it be true that the greatest criminals of the world have never sat on you whilst the most blameless were marching towards death after sitting on you? How can you be so unfeeling as if you would not know that men have not abused any of their God given tasks as much as rendering justice? Oh, bench of the accused, you're seasoned weathery by crime and innocence; you are heartless, devoid of feelings, same as the due process of the law. And yet—and yet—hail, bench of the accused, because for a short while your hands are the ones which keep me high above the ground. Morituri te Salutant!

Hangmen and Mercenaries

At the time of the trial there were still numerous political parties in Hungary. They were abolished a few years later. The Small Holder Party retained the majority of the votes at the last election.

In front of me rose darkly the Court of the People which the wagging tongues called the stupidity of the people. (In Hungarian, the two words birosag and butasag, rhyme—translator's note).

Dr. Gyula Deak sat in the middle, the only proper judge, doctor juris, president of the Court. Divided into factions, to his right and to his left, sat the "people's judges" ("judex populi" is the most approximate derivalent of this term—translator's note)—Gozsef Krausz, Laszlo Riszman, Gozsef Szima and Mihaly Mikkai. They disport themselves as prongs of a five-pointed star, as the uncontested lords and usurpers of the peace of heaven and Earth. The "people's judges" were selected on the basis of political party membership, one from each political party. Most of them are uneducated, very simple people, probably most of them can read and write. Their greatest value is of being great members of their respective political parties, of being reliable! They're only playing at being judges, they're simply rubberstamping decisions made elsewhere; but they're here, because being here means glory; they can puff themselves up and, for a hefty attendance fee, can sit about all day long! The most self-assured among them is the Communist Party delegate. He is committed to represent the interests of the Party and would be willing to do so, even without remuneration. His presence is understandable, but how can the representative of the Small Holders' Party keep up his head without shame? Perhaps it's him, in the farmer's attire, in boots. Wouldn't he know that the people of the country did not put his party in power in order for the Communists to rule the roost, liquidating those who are not Communists? Why are you here, you most unfortunate of traitors? Don't you feel it in your bones, very soon you and the Small Holders' Party members will be sitting on this bench, the bench for the accused? Members of the People's Court, one day you'll be the most despised when you stand in front of the judgment seat of history!

One of the accused—who said, "This is not a People's Court; this is a gathering of mercenaries, horse traders, hangmen!"—was gentler in his characterization of you than you deserved.

The president of the Court seemed like a hungry wolf, gnashing his teeth, which raids the sheep herds daily, piling victim upon victim, ground to death with the lethal wolf teeth. It looked as if the contempt, the hatred, shone most fiercely from his eyes.

The assurance of the prosecutor rendered him almost taut. He and his colleagues were hated and feared within the breath and width of the Hungarian People's Democracy. They enjoyed their status—"I the prosecutor"—this Tertullus of modern times, this advocate of Satan was arranging his files with wide gestures, showing how well prepared he was.

My defense counsel? He was already in his seat, looking as if he wore a label on his flattened chest, "Please excuse me dear People's Court, but I'm not the accused!"

And the people? Scared, uncertain of themselves—like sheep who see their shepherd writhing between the teeth of a wolf. They're breathing with effort, afraid even to whisper to each other, even more in awe when the indictment was read:

Incitement to murder policemen. Dissemination of false news. Agitation against the government.

Next, the judge asked me, Do I plead guilty? Am I presenting arguments for the defense? Do I feel remorse?

I stood up and began: "Why would I have incited anybody to murder? This is so palpably untrue that nobody can prove it. This accusation should collapse by itself; therefore, I will not even spend time refuting it.

"As regards to spreading false information, I would like to prove with documents, and through other means, that I never said anything which was not published in the papers or broadcast on the radio; and if these were lies, then I said so."

At this point, I picked up a sheaf of articles cut out from local newspapers and magazines. "Here is the first case. An old lady related in our local paper how cruelly was she treated by our rector, Pater Kis Szalez, when she turned to him for aid during the time of poverty after the 'liberation'. The truth is that Father Kis Szalez left Debrecen for Gyongyos long before this was supposed to take place. So how could he be cruel to an old woman living here? So who lied then, the paper or I?

"Here is another instance . . ." But at that point presiding Judge Deak interrupted, exclaiming—"Please, go no further! We're not concerned with veracity. We're not interested whether you said the truth or you were lying. So it is not necessary to offer proof on this point. The Court is interested only whether what you said caused agitation among the people, and the investigation proved that it did!"

So there we had it! How soon did the devil merge from its unsavoury hole. In the indictment it was emphasized that I'd spread false news, designed to incite public disturbance to such an extent that some were ready to start killing off members of the police. And now? By now they're not interested whether I said the truth or lies. This was a shocking proof of our suspicions, any defense or rebuttal is meaningless! They are not searching here for the truth, only for grounds for condemnation—or rather they simply want to announce the verdict, not ready to read out loud, yet, but already decided upon. Why waste any more time? One is powerless against the decision of the Party. Why should I perform in their circus any longer? I sat down.

In that case, I've nothing to say!

They Were Seeking False Witnesses Against Him. (Matt. 26, Verse 59)

Next came the witnesses. Needless to say, the witnesses for the prosecution; for none of those whom our side wanted to call were approved to testify. The police sergeant of the village, Andras Juhasz, was the first witness by virtue of his position. Someone in charge of the village police in his capacity as sergeant would not have been insignificant in the eyes of the Court. I have to confess, his appearance was not suggestive of any perfidity or wickedness or even that of a faithful servant of the Party. His demeanor was reassuring. Still, I almost stopped breathing from the shock of surprise when the minutes of the investigation were read aloud. My throat constricted from the horror of his confession. And this was the man who said on the outside that he will not become the hangman? I would not have believed that he was such a consummate actor. I began to have second thoughts about his fairly regular attendance at Sunday Mass. He could have come to church in the capacity of an informer, an overseer. They can easily send me to the gallows for the contents of this investigative record! The buzzing of the flies seemed to swell to the volume of a bomber plane's motor and the voice of the presiding judge thundered into the stillness:

Comrade Sargeant, was this as it is stated in the minutes?

And now came the shock, for the sargeant in a voice audible to all, replied with determination:

"No, it was not so!"

Some jumped up in their excitement. Others glanced at each other knowingly. What now? The presiding judge sprung from his seat.

"But then how is it that you signed it? Why did you sign it?"

And whilst I felt the urge to laugh out loud, the eyes of the prosecutor were glistening, his face darkened, like clouds do before a storm.

The counsel for the defense was restlessly shifting as if he were sitting on a pile of needles. The honourable members of the People's Court of Justice were gazing around stupefied and were shouting, "Why did you sign it? Why?"

Our sergeant was supporting his head in his hands. He seemed to be reflecting profoundly and did not seem to hear the ocean of questions directed at him.

"No! I can't remember hearing remarks such as these," said he putting an end to the suspense of waiting. "In some cases, I definitely remember statements to the contrary."

"For example," asked the Presiding Judge somewhat sarcastically.

"Let's not plot murder against the police, but direct our hearts and minds to prayer!"

"But in that case, tell us, our good man," babbled the mercenaries, the vendors of people's life, the little stocky dark vendors, "why did you sign it at that time, and proclaim the statements attributed to you, untrue now?"

"It was like this," began the witness belabouring each word, "that when I returned from church, I found a detective on the precinct premises. He asked me where have I been? And what was said in church? I told him briefly. At this he sat down and began to write. I only realized that he was writing my words down when he put the paper in front of me, asking me to sign my statement made in the course of his investigations. I believed that he wrote down what I said. He was a colleague. I did not want to humiliate him by my distrust, by supposing that he wrote something else than what I said, that he altered the facts. And so, I signed the statement without reading it. But, may it please the Court, I did not say those things. I could not have done for it was not so!"

As if they were hit across the windpipe, the honourable members of the People's Court of Justice sunk into silence. Every judge was looking at the prosecutor's counsel, who sprung up as a black leopard after its prey.

"You're a policeman? The sergeant in charge? And you would not know that the statutory sentence for signing a false statement is five years in prison, at least five years, and instant dismissal beside other measures! Thousands of other measures!" He was running his words together fast, running on, leafing through the pages of his Criminal Code with the speed of the wind, as if he wanted to fish out the "1000 other things" from it. The handsome, tall policeman seemed to shrink. He sank into himself, his face clouded over. His struggle to weigh up the situation was visible to all. "Five years prison? Loss of job? And a thousand other things?" That's too much for one man to bear. And for what? He, and possibly his family as well, should perish for the just cause of another person? That's not possible. Nobody can demand this from him. He stated the truth once, can't do it again . . .

"All this was a long time ago," he groaned in the end. "Half a year ago? Perhaps, my recollections are not clear. My memory could have been more accurate then. Possibly it happened as the record states."

He not only signed his statement but even swore under oath of its accuracy!

This is how his testimony became the foundation stone on which the whole indictment and the proofs rested. The testimony about which, shortly before, the witness stated that it was not true. The most serious part was the incitement for murder of the police.

Our police corporal was more clever about it. He, too, owned up signing his statement without reading it, acknowledged its contents except the incitement for the murder of the police. The court had its fill from the previous circus-like scene. They did not press him why did he sign something which he now denies? They let him run, and he ran!

Afterwards came more witnesses, one after the other. I don't remember in which order, even how many of them. Although it seemed that there were more than the number listed in the court records. However, I had no reason to be ashamed of them. If their testimony contained any distortions, lies or factual untruths, all of them had the courage not only to correct the record but even to confess that they were coerced into signing it! One signed because he was threatened with being fired from his job, the other because they made him stand in the sun for a whole day, the third because they did not let him go home to his family, and after them it was the turn of old Gabor Gsuta.

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In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle Jan 23, 2019 15:17:00 GMT

Post by Admin on Jan 23, 2019 15:17:00 GMT

The Angelus - March 1988

The Trial: Old Gabor's Testimony

The Sixth Installment of "In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle"

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

But They've Found None!

He was a rather characteristic type: life and work-worn, elderly Hungarian farmer. He looked like a true, stiff-necked Calvinist. Where could he have stood in the church that I never saw him before? His feet were shod in boots, his hands were busily squeezing his fur hat. His face was as if it was made of flint. His back was straight, not accustomed to bowing and scraping. His eyes, his moustache were those of the "I fear no one" type of Hungarian male whose ancestors saw Tatarians and Turks and he himself gazed on the faces of "liberating mongols." He sat as if these ancient foes stood or sat in front of him, with his profile towards them, his body in a battle stance as he listened to his testimony being read aloud. Oh, for heaven's sake! Would he have really stated that I said, "We should deal with the policemen as they were handled in Pocspetri!" And this fired him up so much that on leaving the church, he would have encouraged the pious parishioners, "Yes, this is how the police should be dealt with!" Mr. Csuta listened, without even seeming to be really together with the rest of us.

"Was this what happened?" asked the Judge.

"With all respect to you, no!" —old Csuta threw the words our sharply, as if he was pulling the Ace from his hand at a New Year's Eve card party. "Most respectfully not!" and he thrust his chest out as if to await being hit by a club. We breathed again. Is he going to be our new Botond, a replica of the tenth century warrior who dented the gate at Byzantium; perhaps he is going to make a dent on the steel door of the Party's power with his words of truth. There were times when in order to preserve appearances, the Party had to retreat.

"But then what happened?" yelled the Presiding Judge at him.

"Begging your pardon, but I don't know!"

"You don't know?" All gazed at him, comprehending less and less. Prosecuting Council is ready to spring on him. He'll deal with this witness, too! This so and so . . .

"You don't know? But isn't this your statement? Isn't this your handwriting, Gabor Csuta? Come and step near, have a look!" prompted him the judge with forced self-control but visibly near to exploding.

The old man stepped forward to the bench. He had a thorough look at the document in question as if he could not recognize his own handwriting, or didn't see too well?

"With respect to your Honour, it's my handwriting! But I still don't know what happened that day!"

"But how can you say you don't know if you signed your statement which relates this event?"

"With deepest respect to the People's Court, I still can't possibly know because I don't go to that church. I'm a Calvanist, I go to ours. I only passed in front of the Catholic Church on my way there and just happened to be there at the time when the Mass ended and the people were leaving the church. Somebody could have seen me there and submitted my name to the authorities as a witness."

"All right, but then how and why did you sign this testimony of such grave significance?" said the presiding judge, persevering in his line of questioning whilst his face became red and suffused.

"Please, your honour, because I was beaten!"

"Who beat you?"

"The detective!"

"How? With what?"

"With his hand! My own father has never beaten me and I don't really see why a detective should beat me. At any rate, this is why I signed!"

The hawks of the honorable People's Court did not collapse, rather, they sharpened their beaks. They knew very well that heroic displays such as these do not matter. The verdict will stand without his testimony or even in spite of it. Does it matter that "the chief priests and the whole council" sought false witnesses against Jesus so that they would have a palpable reason to get him condemned to death but could not find one?" (Matt. 26: 59-60)

The deed will be accomplished now even without witnesses to testify as it was done 2000 years ago, too! Naturally, it would have been preferable, especially because of the presence of the public, if blemishes of these kinds were not evident. But who would have thought that such ordinary, simple people would be carved from flint stone or granite? A good Communist goes on learning until the day of his death.

In the meantime, I remained hopeful. Chin up, I said to myself, you'll leave this hall with a decoration, not with a sentence! For didn't the witnesses withdraw their testimony or change its essentials? Their own witnesses! It wasn't me who subpoenaed or selected them. Wasn't it significant that when the judge called you an enemy of the people and you said, "The people are right here, behind me, ask them." They didn't dare to ask them? And the people did not say one word, only the judge declared. "I call you to order for your statement!" At that time, I didn't know yet that these words constituted a legal judgment and meant that since the individual in question did not behave with due decorum, he'd get an extra punishment for this once he was behind bars. No, at this point, I was still hoping that in my case too, the Party and the People's Court would announce: The accused did not step outside the limits of his area of authority, defined by his position in word or deed, he is exonerated. He may leave!

I Move for His Immediate Detention!

Dr. Deak rose to announce that he was concluding the trial. He would schedule separate hearings for which the detective would be called to testify, because it had to be ascertained whether or not coercion of the witnesses took place. No verdict is possible until after this hearing.

At this, the prosecutor rose:

"May it please the court that since the sentence of the accused is likely to be severe, I move that he be taken into custody immediately!"

After withdrawing to confer with the other judges for a few minutes, Dr. Deak announced:

"The People's Court has accepted the motion of the prosecution. I hereby order the arrest of the accused and request that the Court is emptied and that the accused is taken to prison."

In the time of democracy, how easy it is to sink a person!

A prison guard seated himself next to me. He was nearby, on hand. In a well produced play, the actor can't be missing when it's time for his entrance. I hardly noticed him. My thoughts began to swirl around. The sky above me clouded over. Darkness descended. So, the handcuffs are ready? Even without seeing them, it felt as if they were already on my wrists. Satan has won, on the day of the Vigil of the Immaculate Conception. Did my arrest surprise me? I had no particular feelings, neither good nor bad premonitions, neither hatred nor love, neither calm acceptance nor anxiety. My arrest was fore-ordained in heaven and on this earth. Let God's will be done. The only thing is, I'm a little tired . . .

Who would have thought that it took six months to procure the testimony of one witness? However, the person in question is a detective, a man bringing home the bacon to the hangmen and body merchants and so it took six months to clarify this. I'll relate the events in their proper sequence.

Mr. Zoltan Konc, investigator, must have been an eminent person. For me, one subpoena was enough. With him, four subpoenas were barely adequate to get him to the Court. Because of his numerous duties, his failures to appear were excused—or was this because there was no urgency about this case any more with the accused under lock and key? To my first hearing, they conducted me in my religious habit and without handcuffs. That is, in a different manner than other prisoners. Is it a shame if one is followed by an armed guard? Should one cast his glance down and act ashamed? For the second hearing, with or without reason, they put the handcuffs on me. Did they want to get me slowly accustomed to them? It is a completely strange sensation to feel and see handcuffs on our wrists, especially for those who think themselves innocent. My fellow prisoners commented that this was the first time when they felt more like animals than human beings. With the handcuffs, they had a millstone tied around their necks and they were pushed into the mud, into the dirt. Interestingly enough for me it was different, I felt as if I were given wings—and was rising upwards, up to Jesus, to the uncountable multitude of apostles, martyrs, saints. Through and with the handcuffs, will I become truly their brother. At the time of the Romans, there were those who after gaining liberty, exchanged their chains of slavery—and something like this will happen to us in Heaven where our handcuffs will be ornaments, decorations for valor!

However, these golden wings would not be an encouraging sight to others. One time, a woman knelt down at the edge of the pavement as I was passing by with the handcuffs on my wrists rattling. She knelt and stretched out her arms:

"O, Father, if this is what is happening to the green bough, what will be the fate of the dry one?" (St. Luke 23:31). She extended her hand in readiness to cross herself upon my blessing, I tried to bless her but somehow was not able to lift my hands with the handcuffs in place.

"Go on, beat it, if you know what's good for you!" growled my guard at her, shoving me in the meantime so that we would pass out of sight fast. After this, they did not bring me in chains, and preferred to sneak me into the Court through narrow side streets. They did not like these souls on the street, showing the sympathy of the people with the clergy. This was a judgment against them! Nevertheless, even on this new route, I managed to catch sight of a few parishioners and this always filled me with joy. Some were waving. Tears glistened in the eyes of others. There were some who were holding bouquets of flowers. Were they perhaps hoping for my acquittal and wanted to be ready to greet me with flowers? After they caught sight of me they ran ahead, hiding in doorways that they could see me again and again.

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In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle Jan 23, 2019 15:41:47 GMT

Post by Admin on Jan 23, 2019 15:41:47 GMT

The Angelus - April 1988

He Deserves (To Be Put In) Prison!

The Seventh Installment of "In the Chains of the Hammer and Sickle"

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

I do not remember how I learnt that the next session in the courtroom was going to be my last one, the final rendezvous, when the verdict would be given, however, I knew. I, therefore, asked the prosecutor to allow me to write down what I wanted to say in my final statement. He, not without difficulties, permitted me to do so. They put me into a cell, stationing a guard in front of it. This statement wasn't so much a defence as the reiteration of my innocence, stressing the fact that I acted in the capacity of a conscientious priest, serving God, justice and our people. I was surprised when the guard took the papers from me. I protested. However, he laid the responsibility of the orders on the prosecutor and promised that I would have my papers back for the trial.

The night before the verdict is more or less a reply of Gethsemane for the accused in prison. This may be the first or the last night of his days of suffering. Is there any of us who would not like to be free, to go on living? Who would not exclaim, "If it be possible, let this chalice pass from me!" especially if he had six months to learn about the thousand burdens of life in prison. Who would not want to go on with his life in God's service? However, the priestly soul bows as his Master's did. If henceforth thou wants me to serve in handcuffs, let thy will be done!

Fortunately, however, I had the chance to strengthen myself. I was allowed to say Mass. I could have said the Mass of Saint Veronica who became laudable through the marks of suffering of Our Lord or the Mass of Saint Pius I who defended his Church with his lifeblood; but I still chose the Votive Mass of the Holy Cross, because I could not possibly begin my last Mass with any other Introit but:

"Nos autem gloriari oportet in Cruce Domini Nostri Jesus Christi in quo est solus vita et resurrectio nostra. "

In the Epistle of this Mass, Saint Paul sounds his horn: Brethren, Christ was obedient, even unto His death by crucifixion. (Factus obedient usque ad mortem mortem autem crucis) (Gal. 6:14)

After such a Mass, it becomes easier not only to read but to recite, as part of saying "Goodbye" the inscription on the picture above the altar:

Pater si vis transfer calicem istum a me: verumtamen non mea voluntas sed tua fiat. (Luke 22:42) (Father if Thou wilt, remove this chalice from me: but yet not my will but Thine be done).

And in the end, to rise in readiness to learn, saying it in the words of Our Lord:

Surgite, eamus ecce qui me tradet prope est. (Mark 14:42) (Rise up, let us go. Behold, he that will betray me is at hand).

My companions in the cell were saying their goodbyes with emotion, and they wished for me, with all their hearts, that they should not meet me again with myself as a prisoner.

Again, the courtroom was crowded. They gave me back my previously confiscated draft of my final comments; the prosecutor knowing in advance what I was planning to say. The judges were in their places. I sat down on the hard bench of the accused for the last time, because the repeatedly subpoenaed investigator was really and truly there, standing in front of the judicial bench accompanied by the contemptuous glances of the spectators, and began to speak:

"On my word of honour, I would like to state that I have not acted unlawfully towards anybody!" for a good Communist does not swear by God since he does not believe in Him. Instead, he replaces God's name with his personal honour, and what that is worth it is not necessary to analyse, but for the judges, it's worth its weight in gold. In comparison, the statements, nay even the oath, taken on the Bible by others is only fluff, bits of rags or weightless aluminium, not even heavy metal such as iron, copper or lead; but his, the interrogator's, are accepted as gold. With such dissimilar weights, it's not even possible to weigh these statements on the same scale! The scales of justice were irrevocably tilted. Every letter of the indictment is proven and the immobile rock on which it stands is the word of honour of their very own bloodhound. What kind of laws are in force in our land that slap on the face, threaten, constrain witnesses being interrogated from going home, but are not unlawful acts if committed by the investigator? Will the judges now punish those who swore to lies? If the investigator told the truth, then these others must have been lying and false and misleading testimonies incur severe punishment in the democratic legal system. Something did not quite fit. I waited to cry out in protest, but the Presiding Judge was already speaking.

"Since it became certain that there were no coercive measures used during the investigation, the Court considers the points of the indictment justified. Incitement to rebellion, rebel rousing, disseminating false information, agitation against the democracy. Comrade Prosecutor, if you please!"

Whilst Prosecuting Counsel was frothing against me, the words of the 72nd psalm were resounding in my ears:

So pride adorns them as a necklace, as a robe violence enwraps them.

Out of their crossness comes iniquity, their fancies overflow their hearts.

They scoff and speak evil; outrage from on high they threaten.

They attack heaven with their mouths and their pronouncements roam the Earth.

As if the crowd would shout through his mouth in front of Pilate's judicial seat:

"He deserves prison!"

The judge permitted me to comment on the closing speech of the prosecutor. This is what I said:

"How many times have I heard during this trial that I am an enemy of the people and how many times have I asked — The people are here, in this courtroom, ask them, let them reveal their feelings in front of the judges!— But nobody asked the people. At any rate, I also agree that there is no need to do so now, for right there, in the rows reserved for the officials, sits a person who can testify what kind of public enemies we were. Through several years, including those when times were the hardest, we took hundreds of children for excursions into the great woods near the city, providing them with lunch and snacks free of charge. As the time for lunch was approaching, the children, who were getting hungry, were beating a tattoo on their plates and tins with their spoons:

"Give out the lunch, start lunch" — and among them, beating her plate with the spoon, was the selfsame lady, who now sits among you in her capacity as a newspaper reporter!" and I pointed to a somewhat plump young lady. She was the daughter of the mayor who had turned the hoses on the people praying on the streets during the trial of Father Ottmar.

The young woman mentioned was sitting beside Prosecuting Counsel. In earlier years, she was also a frequent visitor on our playground. Perhaps she came to the trial in an attempt to erase the previous blots on her conduct through a condemnatory report. On hearing my speech, she had almost turned her chair over. She was screaming hysterically, This is not true! It's a lie!

The people were amused, enjoying the scene.

They shouted back "But yes, it's true! It really happened that way. We know her. She was there!" The judges did not know whom to calm first, the people or the young woman. Prosecutor and judges gathered around the hysterically crying girl. "Jucika, please don't cry! Take no notice! We don't believe those things! What insolent talk!" It was not easy to calm the girl. She still was snivelling when the Presiding Judge, Dr. Deak, nodded to my court-appointed defending counsel to begin. The latter stood up, looking exceedingly humble and deferential, as if to say— may it please the Court, I'm sorry for daring to exist — mumbled something such as — "I ask for a more lenient sentence."

The prosecutors now called for my appearance by the right of the last word of the accused.

I stood up and started to read off my speech from the paper. However, the chief tormentor began shouting at me, almost straight-away:

"Put that paper down! It is forbidden to read your speech! Recite it by heart!"

Anger flooded me at this manifestation of human depravity. Don't they even bother to preserve appearances? What would be the meaning of any words here? I restricted my statement to the following:

"I do not feel myself guilty! I have carried out my priestly obligations! I ask for the dismissal of this case!"

I sat down. The judiciary was departed to deliberate — to render judgement — or to be more accurate, for writing up the verdict. A farce, for the verdict had been decided a long time ago. The judges smoked a few cigarettes, drank some coffee and were back soon. We had to rise for the announcement of the verdict. Here it is, word by word. I'm only leaving out the paragraph numbers:

In the name of the Hungarian People's Republic! The Extraordinary Council of the People's Court finds Sandor Krupa guilty. Hereby he is sentenced to four years in prison, ten years of suspension from his job and from the exercise of his citizenship right, confiscation of one-fifth of his assets and a fine of 505 Fts and costs. Justification:

The accused denies saying the statements attributed to him, which were pan of the indictment, or that he used expressions in the manner in which the prosecution said he did.

Besides the denial by the accused, the testimonies of witnesses at the trial, namely Mrs. Istvan Erdely, Mr. Ferenc Krejcsi, Mr. Andras Kecseti, Mr. Gabor Csuta, Mr. Andras Juhasz, Mr. Ignac Kreiter, Mrs. Zoltan Farkas, Mr. Zoltan Koncz (and so Mr. Koncz was not only the investigator but a witness as well? So he was there in church during the incriminating sermon), the testimony of the accused and other evidence were also taken into account and the Court's findings are as follows:

On the Sixth of June, 1948, the accused was conducting a religious service in the Catholic Church at Vamospercs. During the course of this, he had read aloud the encyclical of the Primate of the Church after which he said the following:

"If we look around a bit now, or listen to the radio or read the newspapers, what we see and experience is that they want to deprive us, the Catholic faithful, from our spiritual freedom. They want to take our schools from us so as to prevent us from educating our greatest treasures, our cherished children, in the true faith and have them raised as pagans, turning them against God and ourselves. If they nationalize the schools, the same thing will happen as in France where the schools were also nationalized. As the result of this, children were raised as pagans which led to situations such as a man having two wives or a woman two husbands. They live together, there are no children and they would not even be wanted." (You can read this in the Catholic weekly "Uj Ember" I recommend that all read this paper.)

He then discussed the story of Pocspetri in his sermon. Afterwards he added the following comments to the encyclical:

It is said that we have a democracy. Very well, let it be a democracy and the authorities should turn the question of nationalization of the schools over to the people. Let's have a plebistice on this! But they won't allow this because they know that in the case of plebistice on this issue, the votes for the nationalization of school would not even fill a hat! Do not support the nationalization of the schools because the Catholic Church will not permit it, regardless of what kind of violent coercion or legal statutes are forced upon Her. "

In weighing the evidence the Court wishes to emphasize that during the process of investigation, the witnesses testified to these facts. During the trial, however, Mrs. Istvan Erdely, Mr. Ferenc Krejcsi, Mr. Andras Kecseti, Mr. Gabor Csuta and Mr. Ignac Kreiter withdrew their confessions made in the course of the investigation in pan or, rather in some cases, totally; but none of the witnesses could give a reasonable explanation as to why they modified their original testimony in Court, for their statements that they made their original confessions under duress and after being beaten, were definitely contradicted by the investigator, Mr. Zoltan Koncz.

For this reason and also taking into account the clearcut testimony of Mr. Andras Juhasz (the police sergeant), the testimonies of other witnesses during the investigative process and weighing the significance of testimonies heard during the trial, the Extraordinary Council of the People's Court accepted the facts stated above as true and proven.

In examining the degree of culpability and possible harm to the common good, the Extraordinary Council considers that the statements made by the accused, bearing in mind their content, their force of attack and the circumstances in which they were said, possess the power to cause a disturbance. Not only do these utterances have the potential to arouse feelings of aversion and hatred against the democratic state machinery, but also by making these statements to the congregation, the accused was publicly spreading false rumours, designated to disturb public order and peace.

In the absence of any reason precluding penalties and with no evidence to indicate that the accused was not fully aware of his actions, the Extraordinary Council finds the accused guilty and sentence has been passed. In deciding on the penalty, the Court considered in mitigation the previous absence of any criminal activity and the clean record of the accused, whereas, the accused's higher educational level made the magnitude of his offence greater.

With full consideration of the circumstances of the crime and in proportion to the culpability of the subject and gravity of his deeds, the accused is condemned to four years in prison and statutory penalties.

In spite of the protestations of the defence, the Extraordinary Council of the Court asked the witnesses Andras Kecseti, Andras Juhaszui and Zoltan Koncz to swear to the truthfulness of their testimony because there were no legal obstacles to this.

The Extraordinary Council of the Court rejected the defence's plea for introduction of additonal evidence because it considered the facts of indictment proven and could see no benefit from hearing further evidence.

Dated in Debrecen — 11 July, 1949.

Reading this over carefully, it becomes evident what despicable games are the Communist Courts playing worldwide. What was the reason for the four years? They knew the baseness of their action, and this is why they dressed it up as attractively as possible; but even so, they tried to hide these things from the rest of the world. I, myself, did not read this document until prison transport took us to Vac and I had the chance to open my bag unobtrusively. One was not allowed to keep documents of this kind on one's person, they had to be desposited with the prison authorities.

During the process of obtaining my Immigrant Visa to the USA, the American embassy had asked me for the copy of the verdict — the authoritieis were not willing to provide me with one. They were giving me various excuses for weeks on end — that I should come now, then, a few days later, yet again some other time when the appropriate AVO personnel would be in the office. Finally, when I came face to face with the right persons, they asked me in a rather annoyed manner:

"What do you want with it?"

"I? Nothing! But the US Embassy wants it because I'm emigrating."

"Oh, we know what they want with it!"

They thought the document was wanted mainly for the purpose of making propaganda, to show the world how the People's Court were running and for what reasons they put people behind bars.

"Let me tell you, you never will be given it" and true to their word, I never got it. I smuggled out the original, hiding it in my shoe, below the sole of my foot. As long as I live, I'll never forget how I worried until the train reached the other side of the Iron Curtain.

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In the Chains of the Hammer & Sickle Jan 23, 2019 15:46:42 GMT

Post by Admin on Jan 23, 2019 15:46:42 GMT

The Angelus - May 1988

Concluding Chapter - "In the Chains of the Hammer and Sickle"

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

I Won't Strike a Bargain for My Skin!

I had been an inmate at the Budapest Central Prison when I received a proposition from the highest appellate forum, the National Council of the People's Court, or rather from the attorney general of this body: If I withdraw my appeal, he won't appeal to have my sentence increased—it will be left as decided by the People's Court in Debrecen, four years. I did not even reply. Either I deserved four years in prison or did not deserve anything. What a despicable business is this kind of thing which is meted out as justice within the democracy—buying, selling sentence length!

No, I will not bargain over my skin!

Two Altars, Two Calvaries

I had forgotten the details of the play-acting of my trial and was knee-deep in the life of prison when the final verdict of the appellate forum reached me. In essence, the National Court of Appeal finds the accusation of incitement to murder not proven and, therefore, the sentence is reduced to three years.

And so, from the date of the verdict onwards, I'm really a convict, bearing visible and invisible handcuffs, and not merely a person in custody! The convict garb is my rightful due. The handcuffs are rightfully mine, the sea of suffering is my rightful due, too! By rights, I'll be set free after three years if... if I live to see that day, if... They took off one year of my sentence; but the fact remains, this is a murderous kind of life in prison.

Is this why they're satisfied with three years? Are three years long enough to irretrievably detach the young from my sight? And, if I regain my freedom in three years' time, will the faithful and the young be there?

Included in the final verdict was the determination that the time spent in prison would count towards the completion of my sentence which, therefore, in effect I began serving on the Seventh of December.

So, when did it begin? On the Vigil of the Immaculate Conception. Feast of the Immaculate Conception... Mentally the magnificent altar fresco of the Franciscan Church in Eger appeared in front of my eyes. It stretched from the level of the altar almost to the ceiling, depicting Our Lady of Joy, clothed in the sun, with her feet crushing the dragon of evil. I spent a good part of my childhood and years of adolescence in front, at the foot of this fresco and I said my first Mass in front of it. I think back, remembering that day...

The church is packed. The bells, which I've so often helped to sound in my childhood, pealing forth joyfully. Vested in gold and silver, I make my way through the main portal of the church to the main altar, shining blindingly strong light, to the Golgotha of all times, to enact the bloodless sacrifice. I'm surrounded by cherubims in dalmatics, by those, who love me, whom I love, my mother, my brothers and sisters... What were the prayers bursting forth from the recesses of my heart? Oh dear God, how long has it been since I last thought about this? "My Lord, grant that I may suffer for my people—for the poor, the sinful, the suffering..."

Oh, you youthful priestly heart! You didn't know then, did you, that God will often respond to prayers which later we did not really wish Him to hear? Oh, you youthful priestly heart, aflame with love, you didn't have the wisdom to know that to ask to suffer is boldness, an over-estimation of our strength? My Lord, if you give us crosses, please also give us the strength to bear them! Perhaps God responded to those prayers of long ago, now, and here is your new altar for that first Mass, the second calvary—the prison which can become blood-stained from blood shed by you!

For, in His mercy, God gave you two altars, two Golgothas. So step up to your new altar, too, with Kyrie eleison!

And, offer up your convict's sacrifice, bloodless or bloodstained, daily, for the living and the dead...

My beloved readers, you know from these pages how I reached the second altar, but not how I made my way to the first... and yet the two paths intertwine. The second altar could not have been reached without the first, on which it was built, from which it rose to its height, from the soil of which its flowers grew...

(Translator's note: The first altar—that's another story, told beautifully by Father Krupa. If God so wishes, that, too, may be shared with you one day).

Author's Postscript

Satanic Comedy

For those who doubt that verdicts and sentences as these could really happen, let me refer you to the writings of Cardinal Mindszenty in which he refers to his trial and verdict as a "Satanic Comedy". In a similar vein, Solzhenitzyn also describes horrifying examples. These stories have been told by Cardinal Mindszenty and Solzhenitzyn, and I will tell you two others.

The first story is of interest because it concerns a Franciscan Father, Pater Kis Szalez, and also helps us to understand the customary Communist scenarios better.

The second one is about one of the most cruel, and at one time, mightiest Hungarian Communist, Laszelo Rajk. Concerning his fate, subsequently, the government publicly stated that his trial was mere play-acting, the verdict unjust and he was posthumously rehabilitated.

At the time when the case of P. Kis Szalez took place, the Communist Party resolved to disband all non-Communist youth groups and in order to facilitate this process, the process of manufacturing false evidence against them had begun. The case of P. Kis Szalez from Gyongyos was the most notorious. Pater Kis Szalez was a professor of Theology, the Master of Seminarians and the leader of the local branch of KALOT, the Hungarian Catholic Youth Organization. Pater Szalez was a magnificient orator, an excellent organizer, and inspiring writer, and apostle of youth, burning with zeal. Under his leadership at Gyongyos and elsewhere, inspired by his example, Christian youth associations functioned so well that the local Party youth group did not have a chance to get off the ground. This fact had sealed Pater Szalez's doom. For to involve oneself in youth work outside the framework of Party structures was viewed as a sin against Communism, and so to extinction must go many young Hungarians and their priests! An attempt was also made to get the name of Primate Mindszenty involved in the Gyongyos case, in order to strike a sizeable blow at the whole Church. It was a big case, with the Party and press spending considerable effort on publicizing it far and wide.

According to the authorities, in 1946, two Russian soldiers were killed at Gyongyos and their bodies thrown into a disused well—and the murderers? Members of KALOT. Pater Szalez was preordained the instigator of the crime and it was loudly and publicly stated that he even used the confessional to urge people to violence. The news, radio broadcasts, cartoons, fliers and protest meetings called him a second Pater Kun (a priest of ill repute because of his political activities) and at mass meetings, demands were made for his death sentence. Although this drama was played in the full glow of the collectors of publicity, Pater Szalez was never tried. Only the accusations were discussed for a long time. No news of a trial or verdict was ever published. Father was simply carted off and then transferred from prison to prison endlessly.

According to those who were in the same prison, he was tortured terribly, cruelly, but bore all his sufferings heroically, with admirable strength. From the hands of the Hungarian Communists, he was slid over to the Soviet Military Court. Is it possible that even they could not break him? Perhaps; for suddenly, there was silence. Nobody wrote or said anything about the case. He disappeared without a trace and to these days, his fate is unknown. Perhaps, the most likely thing is that he was shipped to a Russian concentration camp, finishing his martyred life there. His biography was written by P. K. Kelemen, and Cardinal Mindszenty said of him: "Pater Szalez is the opening figure in the line of martyred Hungarian priests."

The other case is the trial of Laszlo Rajk, one of the most famous among the shop-window trials of those times. He was a dedicated Communist, whose heart, aflame for the cause, even took him into Spain to fight against Franco. At home, he was regarded as one of the most trustworthy, and he was given a post of major importance (translator's note—Minister of the Interior, responsible for the establishment of the AVO). And yet, he still ended up in the hands of the interrogators who did not exactly handle him with velvet gloves. And, hence, in front of the Court, with his fellow communists as judges; in front of the whole country, nay the world, they proved without any shadow of doubt that he was an agent of Imperialism, and he was buried in disgrace in an unknown grave. This is what the public was told. The true story is somewhat different; for, in 1956, they exhumed him, rehabilitated his wife, who was still alive, as the Communist government of the day had announced to the amazement of the world.

He was sentenced unjustly and died at the gallows innocently! I would have loved to know if the judges passing the sentence had anything to say in front of the fresh mound of the new grave. Probably nothing for they knew that this, too, was part of the satanic drama, the script for this closing scene had been written a long time ago.

The full story did not surface until 1956 when the freedom fighters discovered a tape in the villa of Matyas Rakosi from which the chain of events could be constructed.

Janos Kadar paid a visit to Laszlo Rajk in prison, before the trial. He told his comrade that in the interest of the Communist cause, and especially because of the needs of their Russian comrades, he will have to be convicted. However, this will be for the sake of appearances only! Afterwards, or so did Rakosi promise, Rajk would be smuggled into Russia in secret. So, if he does not want to die, then let him so conduct himself during the trial that this plan could be carried out. So Rajk, the dedicated Communist, a seasoned Party functionary, who knew all the satanic byways and alleys of their methods, believed them whilst in the grip of imminent death. He did not defend himself during the trial, rather he aided his accusers with confessions and self-incriminations. He was sentenced to death, as per agreement and executed in defiance of it. Standing in the front of the gallows, he knew that he—as many others—had been hoodwinked, but by that time, it was too late. With the rope around his neck, his last cry "I die innocent" was of no avail.

After his exhumation, he was buried with full honours—military and Party—and his body was placed into an ornate tomb. The traitor turned into a hero! The stooge of the Imperialists into an immaculate Communist, the most faithful of all the servants of the Party, again, by a judicial decree, permitting no further appeal.

It should be noted that approximately 3000 others were sentenced and executed in connection with Rajk's trial and executed, presumably first as wrongfully as Rajk was; but their bodies were not dug up again and there were no new graves for them at which the government of the Reds would announce: They were innocent! It is horrifying to contemplate that throughout all the history of tyrannical systems, no dictator ruled without being able to find judges to willingly condemn the most innocent, if the system so desired.

Is it possible to doubt after this that trials in Communist lands are nothing but carefully scripted theatrical productions; let the genre be a horror story or comedy.