God and mammon

Krakow

The greatest churchman of modern times is dead; and the most Catholic nation in Europe is bereft. John Paul II, ‘Papa Wojtyla’ has passed on to a better life. His faithful compatriots must fend for themselves. Men and women weep without shame. Requiem services are celebrated every hour from dawn till midnight. Congregations spill out on to the street, kneeling on the paving stones. Thousands of candles flicker in their coloured-glass holders before makeshift shrines. Radio stations play sombre symphonies or take calls from distressed listeners. The TV channels which aren’t closed down flip endlessly between ‘St Peter’s Square — Live’ and long prepared films about the late Pope’s life. The presenters wear black. Supermarkets pipe the Mass over their address systems. Rival football supporters welcome each other to their stadiums for ceremonies of remembrance. This death was fully expected. But no one was ready. The British, wishing to understand such an outpouring of grief, could only recall the fully unexpected death of Diana.

Twenty-six years ago Poland was in chains. The political murders, mass deportations and repressive terror of the Stalinist decades had given way to a less brutal but no less absolute form of communist dictatorship. Public dissent was minimal. Poland’s best friend, Hungary, had paid in 1956 with perhaps 100,000 lives for raising the standard of revolt. Poland’s neighbour, Czechoslovakia, had been ‘normalised’, and turned into a miserable dungeon, for daring to talk of ‘socialism with a human face’.

Then out of the blue, like manna from Heaven, dropped the world’s first Slavonic pope. He did not waste words condemning the communist system or the iniquities of Soviet domination. He spoke of Truth, Mercy, Justice, Compassion and, above all, Love. During his first visit to Poland in June 1979 John Paul II attracted millions who heard him say innocent things such as, ‘Fear not, the Lord is with you!’ or ‘Come down, Holy Spirit, and change the face of this land.’