Pilgrimage to Prague and
Cracow – 2000.
Written by Geoff Carlin.
Contents: Introduction.
Day One, 27th July 2000 – Glasgow, Heathrow, Prague.
Day Two, 28th July, problems in Prague.
Day Three, 29th July, encountering the Infant.
Day Four, 30th July, last day in Prague, instructions re Auschwitz.
Day Five, 31st July, Cracow and Sister Faustina.
Day Six, 1st August, visit to the Wewel, the Heart of Poland.
Day Seven, 2nd August, Auschwitz, “My Lord, My God, My All.”
Introduction.
This is an account of the pilgrimage undertaken by Geoff and Margaret Carlin to Prague and Cracow during the period 27th July to 3rd August 2000. Our Lady had requested this journey in 1993. On separate occasions She had asked Margaret that we visit the Infant of Prague and Auschwitz (in other words, though we visited both during this trip, there was no request from Heaven on any one occasion to visit them in a linked way). We had managed a day trip, through the generosity of a well wisher, to Prague in December 1996 and Margaret received a message from the Infant Jesus. At that time the logistics and costs of a prolonged visit to Prague, and then, Cracow seemed, to us, to be the equivalent of a manned expedition to the stars, but then everything is relative and in due time God provided us with the means to visit these places and do what He had asked us to. We were formally instructed by Christ in what He wished us to do at Auschwitz, in May 2000, while on a short family break in the Oban area of Scotland. This request was the catalyst to planning the trip, and, as always with God, the necessary finance appeared at the necessary time.
This account also enables you to plan a similar trip, if you are so minded, to some magnificent Christian churches and Jewish synagogues, and to shrines which are for all Humanity to visit and remember, regardless of creed, religion or nationality, Sister Faustina’s tomb and Auschwitz. We could suggest that you use the Prague component of the trip to pray that Materialism does not feature as the reason for your existence (though it is impossible for the majority of people to survive in this world without material or fiscal means, let us put such into perspective and use such as God wills), and to pray that you can learn to appreciate God as a child on this earth during His early life with His Blessed Mother. Cracow can be viewed as a chance to visit the shrine where the great mystery of God’s Divine Mercy is celebrated, while the visit to Auschwitz affords opportunity to remember and commemorate souls, and, affirm before God, Never Again!
While the import of what is written here is of a serious nature, the article has been partly written with humour, I am sure you will soon see why!
Planning the Pilgrimage.
We used Mastertours, a British company to book the trip. They specialise in visits to Eastern Europe and will use their expertise to arrange the essential transfers your trip will involve. They will be delighted to assist you in planning excursions of interest to you, particularly if you are on a tight schedule and have to be assured of things running smoothly. If you quote lovesembrace.com you alert them to the spiritual aspect of your journey. They will send you a brochure, which will enable you to plan what you wish to do - what actually happens is, of course, another matter!
Our Pilgrimage.
Glasgow to Heathrow - Day One, Thursday 27th
July 2000.
We departed from Glasgow airport on a British Airways flight bound for Heathrow. The flight was pleasant and the staff courteous and efficient. We were especially thankful that Jane (name changed) was leading the cabin crew. The intercom informed us that we were safe because she was there and that she was doing everything except fly the jet. (We knew, however, that she would be keeping an eye on the pilot!) We had a clear view of the Houses of Parliament as we circled over London and a good peek at that thing which kept stuttering to a stop at that time – not the British Government and Establishment – the Millennial Wheel.
Before landing the cabin crew, ably led by Jane (funny how we never saw her), distributed envelopes for donations to the orphanage they support in India. Give them some small change; you have no idea how far it can go in helping these children. God watched the meanies in Business Class.
We traipsed through corridors and halls to International Departures; lucky we had our walking shoes on.
At the check in for Czech Airlines we witnessed a small demonstration of the power of God. The receptionist was dealing with some Tunisian gentlemen and briefly asked us if we were Libyan. When told that we were not she then ignored us for a goodly time, while doing things to a computer screen, making big eyes at a chap in airline officer’s uniform who kept passing her post and dealing politely but distantly with an elderly Italian couple who were obviously very frustrated at what was happening them. They had no English. We stood and waited. The Italian couple were directed to another desk; more big eyes were made at the peripatetic airline officer. More things were done in silence to the computer about the Tunisians. I did wonder, if we had claimed to be Libyans, would we have been processed quicker, or been arrested, or whatever? The Italian couple appeared back at our desk. The old gentleman was visibly harassed and complaining loudly in Italian, I picked up the sense to be a complaint that this was the fifth time he had been sent to this particular desk. Time for some encouragement, I thought.
“Pray to Padre Pio!” I declared to them.
A welter of events happened in quick succession.
“Ah, Padre Pio!” exclaimed the Italian lady, bowing her head and repeatedly blessing herself. A receptionist from Aer Lingus arrived and saying, “You should be at my desk!” and then took them away, (they had only been at that desk three times, Aer Lingus is the Irish National Airline). “Padre Pio, Padre Pio!” the Italian lady repeatedly gesticulated to me as she left. I joined my hands in prayer and bowed to her, respectfully. Two odd looking women who were standing behind us in the queue picked up their bags and took off, smartly, as did the uniformed chap. The Tunisians departed and we were processed in double quick time with no big eyes for anyone and polite efficiency.
“Behave yourself”, my wife said to me as we headed for our flight gate.
The flight to Prague was pleasant and without incident. I was deeply amused when curtains were drawn to separate the business class section from the rest of us at the rear, what on earth was happening there that we were not allowed to see? Perhaps they got jam with their bread.
Prague - Day One, Thursday 27th July 2000.
We arrived in Prague and cleared Customs and Immigration.
Mastertours had arranged for a guide to meet us and take us to the hotel. He was
easy to spot, he was holding up a big sign marked “CARRLIN”. This man, Dana
of Daido Travel Service, was
extremely helpful and informative. He warned us of the common dangers that any
big city holds for visitors and gave me a very useful street map. He was a model
of welcome and helpfulness. O, that the Novomestsky Hotel staff would take some
lessons from him! This hotel is best avoided; if you pass it, hiss at its
plagues! The manager, whom I will not name, was the Czech version of an
obnoxious Basil Fawlty; indeed the staff appeared to be people who yearned for
the return of Communism and its ways of control, the hotel being run like a
glorified youth hostel. More on this as this account progresses. We were
innocent at this stage regarding what we had booked into and were glad to get
into our room, unpack and shower. We ventured out and had a pleasant meal in a
restaurant about 100 meters from the hotel. The Pilsner lager tasted every bit
as good as I remembered it and the food was wholesome and inexpensive, though
the menu took some deciphering as this was an Irish, Italian, Norwegian, Mexican
and French restaurant. We had never been in such an establishment before. We
returned to the soon to be dreaded Novomestsky Hotel and planned Friday’s
agenda, then evening prayers and sleep. Return
to Introduction.
Prague – Day Two, Friday
28th July 2000.
I went down for breakfast at 09.50hrs. This caused a bit of a stir with the woman who was supervising the self-service set up. “Breakfast finish at ten”, she barked at me. I pointedly looked at my watch, it was now 09.51hrs and I had adjusted my timepiece on arrival to local time, I then looked at her and went to help myself to some coffee, croissants and cold meat. She glowered at me and busied herself cleaning the tables. At 10.00hrs precisely she went over to the breakfast room door and locked it from the inside while triumphantly looking over in my direction. “Ze door ist locked. No more breakfast. Be on time tomorrow!” she declared to me as she strode into the kitchen. I decided to drink a further quart of coffee in silent protest and leave in my own good time. No one tried the door, which is just as well as I would have been assuredly in breach of Novomestsky Hotel regulations by letting them in. In a thoughtful post breakfast study I returned to our room.
We set off down the Jungmannova and had a coffee in a very poor self-service café, on the left hand side, looking north. The staff seemed to have other things on their minds other than their customers and the coffee served was the worst of its kind I have ever tasted. Was it really meant to percolate in the cup? We left, half the first morning was gone and already Prague was becoming a drag. We found a restaurant further down the Jungmnnova on the right hand side, which looked OK, and we decided to return there for lunch. We then located a Tesco in the Charvatova and we went in to buy some gifts for family and friends, and some necessities, bottled water, tissues, soap, coffee, milk and bread. I bought a bottle of the local Czech spirit, Becherovka, which should probably be renamed “tasty concentrated rocket fuel brain damage”, and was dismissed with scorn when I proffered my Tesco reward card. We were rapidly learning that not many people smiled in Prague, not even when they were taking our money. We returned to the Jungmannova and found the restaurant noted earlier and had an excellent meal. We noted a bar that had a jazz club in the evening. Margaret was still very tired so we returned to the ominous Novomestsky Hotel, buying a travellers electric kettle on the way. Even this simple purchase was complicated by a shop assistant who went out of her way to be unhelpful, suddenly running off to the other end of the counter and standing there looking at us, then disappearing into the back of the shop without warning, picking her nose there when she thought no one was looking (Ha, I saw you!) and then coming out to finally give us the kettle we had picked some three minutes before. You will gather, gentle reader, that the hotel whose name must not be mentioned had no en suite kettles with coffee, and seemed to be casting a baleful influence over those in its immediate vicinity.
I went out myself as Margaret rested and went to the Charvatova. I had noticed an establishment that looked like a pub on the left side of the street. To my considerable surprise and amazement it was a pub, with the owner, who was pulling the pints, sporting an impressive double-handlebar moustache. I went in, for research purposes, and ordered a pint, well a half litre, for the princely sum of 30 pence (fifty cents US) and found my confidence in Czech human nature restored. They were a fine group of men, about six of them, with one who had been in Canada for thirty years. His English was of the North American variety and we communicated fairly effectively. When they found out I was from Scotland a selection of fixed odds coupons appeared (after a chorus of ‘Loch Ness monster!’) and I had to tell them which football team was going to beat which in the Scottish section. We got on like a house on fire after that and reluctantly I had to leave, saying I would return the next day. They laughed and told me this was not possible as the pub was closed every Saturday and Sunday. “What an odd set up” I thought “Most licensed establishments in Britain are at their busiest at the weekends.”
Anyway I extricated myself and promised to look them up if I ever returned to Prague. [If anyone knows the name of this place please e-mail me, I had photographed it but the camera was lost in Poland.]
I woke Margaret and we went to reception. I booked two places on a river cruiser, which had a jazz band on board, through the hotel and paid a deposit. The manager phoned up and made the arrangements, telling us to be at the Chechuv Bridge for 20.30hrs. We ordered a taxi and were taken to the Our Lady of Victory Church where the statue of the Infant of Prague is kept. I did not tip the driver as he had overcharged us markedly, and I simply could not be bothered with the hassle of a dispute just before mass. We were in time for mass and afterwards Margaret received a short message (Message, Infant of Prague, 28th July 2000). I was intensely interested in the layout of the six side altars, as on our previous visit they had mirrored our spirituality at that time with their themes. This time one altar was under construction with ladders and scaffolding, and St Therese had been moved to the left of the altar holding the Infant (lucky doll with magic powers according to a local guide book!) and the picture of Sister Faustina and the Divine Mercy was on the opposite side of the church on the right. We prayed for the intentions of all our friends and family and all those who had contacted us by e-mail for prayer over the last three years. We prayed for strength in the coming visit to Auschwitz. We sat in the Lord’s Peace for an hour or so. We should have stayed there for the duration!
We walked back to the centre going via the Karluv most (Charles bridge) which is noted for religious statues, portrait artists, young people deeply in love (having eyes only for the other, they are very liable to walk straight into you), pickpockets and three outrageously over armed riot policemen who are desperate to catch you leaning on a statue. Ha, they never caught me, but I caught them on film behaving in an outrageously bullying manner to a Scandinavian man who had the temerity to lean against the base of a statue that was obviously ready to topple into the river. It’s a real pity I lost that film and camera in Poland, I could have submitted the Nordic mug shot to ‘most wanted’. I bet he never returns to Prague, in fact he might have gone mad with the strain of it all if he was booked into the Novomestsky Hotel. We walked up towards the Chechuv Bridge passing the area where all the synagogues were, and went for a meal in a rather nice restaurant, called Rjstaurante Caffeé, which is in the Brehova. We left at 20.15hrs and arrived at the quayside, beside the Chechuv Bridge, a few minutes later to find that the jazz boat had departed.
“To find that the jazz boat had departed,” sounds so simple and uncomplicated but the reality was frustrating and annoying. There were about a dozen boats at that part of the river, some berthed, some setting out, some coming in. A sailor told us the name of the boat we were looking for but said it had probably sailed. We studied the name of every boat we passed. A woman at a small quayside booking office told us that it sailed from pier 5 and then suddenly ‘lost’ her English, obviously she knew it was away. We wandered the quayside like hopeful emigrants looking for our boat. I eventually said to Margaret that it was obviously away up river, jiving over the waters, driven by cool sounds, while we had to contemplate ‘silent sorrow in empty boats’, she did not get that joke, nor will most of you readers. We walked back through the city towards the den where we were lodged. Half way up the Jungmannova, with Margaret complaining about the distance we had walked, (only ten minutes I had lied to her, wary of exorbitant taxi charges) I remembered the jazz club we had seen advertised earlier. We went into this club and spent an hour or so entertained by a band called the Senior Swingers. They were good, they loved the music and their interpretations were seamless and ‘deep in the groove’. Relaxed and refreshed we returned to the hotel where I had an intense conversation about the absence of a certain boat at an appointed time with the manager.
“O you should have been there before 20.30hrs” he started.
“We were, and you should have told us it was pier 5.” This went on for a bit.
When he saw that there was no way he was going to mollycoddle
us he backed down and arranged for a substitute jazz boat trip on the Saturday
evening. We retired to our room. We had noted the presence of several
prostitutes soliciting on the main street beside the hotel. We prayed for women
driven to such extremes and the men who used them in such a way. There is a
visible vice situation in Prague. Return
to Introduction.
Prague – Day Three, Saturday 29th July 2000.
We both went down to breakfast. The time was 09.00hrs. The room was crowded with mainly young tourists of different nationalities and an English football team who caused some considerable consternation as they had combined appetites equivalent to around 1000 gannets (conservative estimate). The woman who ran the breakfast room could not keep pace with the plates, which emptied before her eyes. You had to be fast to get a mouthful. We did not have a knife at our table and I went to ask her for one. To my speechless astonishment she took one off the place setting of a diner who sat eating behind her and handed it to me. I will never forget the look of surprise on that man’s face. I returned to Margaret and told her what had happened. We decided this place really was the pits and left.
We made our way through the town looking at the shops and ending up in Wenceslas Square, sitting in the café on the main square drinking coffee, watching the world go by. We were basically killing time until the evening mass started in Our Lady of Victory. Mind you, you will see from the photographs, we did have a look round the square.
Evening mass was said in French so we could follow it without too much difficulty. We had decided to offer the mass up for all we hoped to accomplish at Auschwitz as we were going ahead only in faith, and though we both have large measures of faith in God, certain things were starting to plague my mind. What effect would Auschwitz have on my dear wife who sees and hears so much? What effect would it have on me? Had Father Richard received my letter? I had no idea that Father Richard, the priest we had written to in Poland regarding our plans, and what had been asked of us, had only received my letter requesting assistance that morning. He himself, a contact from 10 years ago, had only returned recently from Warsaw to Cracow. I write very seriously for a moment - (the humour I use, I believe, is the only way to show up the ignorant and rude behaviour, which we had met in abundance so far, for what it is; however, this obnoxious behaviour may possibly have been generated demonically because of the nature of the mission we were on, the deliverance of certain souls earthbound in Auschwitz.) - to reassure readers that if you are on mission for God you will be stringently limited in what you are equipped with, but that you will be given everything needed for the accomplishment of the same mission, propelled through all by faith, and hope and trust in the Mercy of God.
I had pondered on several occasions on our trip whether formal organised pilgrimages to Prague, honouring God as the Infant King, would be a good and useful thing. What happened next demonstrated the idiocy of some who are Catholic and the need possibly for crowd control stewards and security at the Church rather than organised pilgrimage. Just before the consecration a busload of people burst into the church and made straight for the doll in a noisy, determined fashion. Doll, I call the statue, as doll in this case it was, the real presence of God was on the altar, and these people were oblivious to His Reality in their desire to prostrate themselves before an effigy. I could see why some Protestants accuse Catholics of idolatry as I witnessed this irreverent behaviour. Margaret was extremely upset at this affront to our Saviour on the altar and was tempted to berate these fools. Wisely she contained her outrage and moved up to the front of the church. In witnessing this riot and confusion of ‘pilgrims’ I saw both the selfishness of the individual intent on ‘getting to Heaven’ at all costs with no regard for others, and the problems this particular parish faced because of the unique object of veneration contained within its church.
If any of you reading this
do go to Prague and visit the Infant, please, please, conduct yourself in a way
fitting to what you are seeking, hopefully, to experience, a meeting with
God.
If there is a mass in progress, please join in and wait until the service is over before approaching the altar holding the Infant. It is simply a doll which is used as an object of veneration as we commemorate the childhood of Our Saviour on the Earth, and, hopefully attain a trusting, child like hope in our God while remaining alert and aware of the many pitfalls and disturbed people which are present on this Earth. The statue of the Infant of Prague is a means for people to empathise, and communicate through prayer, with Christ, as God, as a child on this Earth, part of the great mystery of God commemorated by the Joyous Mysteries of the Rosary. It is the most obvious trap in the world to start worshipping a statue, but then so many do not see the obvious and practise what could be construed as superstition. Mind you ‘crowd control’ Prague style might mean the presence of horrors like those riot police on the Charles Bridge.
We left sometime after the tumult had gone, with their photos and videos and non-appreciation of what was actually happening in that church, to wherever their next sensation lay. We walked leisurely towards the pier where the jazz boat was. The best crack I heard was an American berating his wife as they approached the Charles Bridge, “I suppose you want to buy the bridge as well.” I could have told him about the Irishman, who being informed by his wife that her credit card had been stolen, did nothing about it as the thief was spending less than her – but I didn’t.
The jazz boat
was light relief and entertaining with a basic nutritious meal being served. We
took a taxi back to the Hotel, driven by an honest man. Return
to Introduction.
Last day in Prague - Sunday, Day
Four 30th July 2000.
Battle royal at the Novomestsky Hotel commenced at around 09.00hrs. I went down to breakfast and gathered some scraps, the football team being early risers. At reception I noticed a sign saying all rooms must be vacated by 10.00hrs. Trouble, I thought to myself. We had purchased a package, which included accommodation and transfers, transfer being from the hotel to the railway station at 20.15hrs. To my mind that meant you were resident at the hotel until transferred, it was a contract spelled out in Standard English with no other interpretation - basically we had the room until 20.15hrs. I went to reception. The young lady there said we would have to be out by 10.00hrs as we were not booked into the room after that and that the hotel would lose money unless I paid extra. “Bollocks” I said, “Where are the queues of tourists waiting for the room?” and, producing the itinery and transfer times given by Mastertours, “This proves I have the right to the room until the stated time.” She suddenly lost her English and went on the telephone.
The telephone call, no doubt to the rapscallion manager who had messed up the jazz boat arrangements, (incidentally I had found out that if you went to the boat earlier in the day and booked direct you saved yourself about 25% of the cost – but this was Prague where everybody was looking for a cut.) produced a total stonewall. No room unless further money was paid. I went upstairs to inform Margaret. We finished packing and went downstairs. Where were we to leave our cases we inquired? Madame said just leave them at reception, they will be safe. But there are valuable items in these cases and anyway we will need a porter to bring them down! Madame said she was on her own, had to answer the phone, and did we expect her to carry the cases? I wondered what an infirm elderly person would have done in the same circumstance, I said yes, but where is the secure place to keep the cases. She suddenly lost her English again. Margaret confronted her and looked her in the eye, “You speak excellent English and understand every word we are saying, where is a secure place to put the cases or will we sit on them in the street outside the hotel. You are the most cheeky, impudent hussy I have met in a long time.” This galvanised the young woman into showing us the luggage room, unlocked and insecure. With no other choice I went to get the cases and stowed them in the room, which was insecure and filled with other guests’ belongings. I told the young woman that I wished to see the manager in the evening when we returned. We went out and wandered the city.
Everything has a purpose and if you follow the ways of God then assuredly you will see why certain things happen, like being in Prague at that time, and finding out His Intention. I must stress that being humble (or trying to be) and following Christ does not mean being a fool for people. Turning the other cheek and not responding in kind to the evil man has much deeper meaning than most people realise and is not an appropriate way to respond to the blatant cheek and mercenary disinterest that pervaded the Novomestsky hotel; these people were in business providing a slipshod service in an establishment that should have been classified as a tourist dormitory/hostel rather than a 3 star hotel. I tried to phone the local tourist office to complain but could only get a chap who was on call. His function was to arrange alternative accommodation at short notice in the event of problems with a hotel, but I explained that this was not necessary as we were leaving that night. I thanked him for his concern at how we had been treated.
Anyway, I now will discuss the requests made of us by Our Lord regarding the visit to Auschwitz.
“Light a candle at the entrance to the camp. Ask the priest accompanying you to bless the candle. As you proceed through the camp the priest is to pray “My God, My Lord, My All.” This is to be the procedure through the camp, particularly at the railway track into the camp. Light a candle, let the priest bless it, let him pray “My God, My Lord, My All.” There were two barracks of children, they died, they drew butterflies on the walls. Leave a butterfly for the children, they are reborn in Me. They are the hope of Spring. They are beautiful. They have come straight home, ah, but the older children. I am the Way, the Truth and the Light, if they cannot see Me, let them see me in My Father. Let the priest say mass at the furthest part, the furthest crematorium. You will know the place...” Return to Introduction.
We had been given the name of a priest whom we think is a descendant of survivors of the camp but had been unable to locate him. What mystified us was the butterfly, what on earth was meant? We found the answer as we wandered Prague. A sudden rainstorm pelted us and we took refuge in a pottery and souvenir shop. It was very expensive by Prague standards. We separated and wandered round. A security man followed me, all round the shop; it must be the way I look. Nothing of interest, all our presents and small souvenirs had been already purchased and were sitting in our cases in an unlocked hotel store; we met up again at the cash desk. I noticed a tray filled with pottery butterflies, partially glazed. I picked one up. “Could I purchase this?” I inquired, “It is a most beautiful treasure.” The trinket was priced about £1.00. The young girl at the till raised her eyes and took the money, disinterest and boredom oozed from her. “Thank you” I said, showing the treasure to Margaret. It was only later when we stopped for a coffee and examined the object that we realised the glaze on the upper half of the pottery butterfly was striped in colours just like the Auschwitz uniform for prisoners. At that moment what we were embarking on became very real and very, very serious.
We returned to the Church of Our Lady of Victory and prayed. After some time we returned to that most deficient hotel at around 8.00pm where I told the manager in forthright but polite terms how dissatisfied I was with him, his staff and his hotel. I warned him I would be publishing an account on the Internet, he laughed. I told him that his hotel would assume a notoriety that would give him nightmares. He lost his English. I bet he can read this. I informed him that he had a right to reply and that I would publish his reply in full on my site. He looked a bit gob smacked at that one, perhaps the Czechs have not moved on from the communist era in their outlook and the right to reply seems novel and indeed dangerous, particularly as it implies the right to be oneself. We shook the dust from our feet and left with the guide when he arrived to collect us.
At Hlavni station on platform 2 (it had a big sign with 11 on it which threw me for a while until I remembered the Romans) I watched rats run about the opposite empty platform, to the disgust or interest of the people waiting for the Warsaw train.
“Brother and sister rats,” I spoke to them “Please feel free to go and live in the Novomestsky Hotel, you will find it to your liking.”
The train arrived and we boarded. Return
to Introduction.
Aboard the Warsaw Express – overnight, 30th to
31st July 2000.
We found our sleeping berth and despite my generous offer to give up the top bunk my wife insisted on sleeping in the lower bunk. It was funny to remember the battles fought in childhood over who slept up top. A young American man named Paul, as we found out later, had helped us on the train with our luggage and he was our next-door ‘neighbour’. The train did not have a buffet or restaurant car but the attendant, a pleasant Czech man sold bread and beer at a reasonable price. We had brought some sausage and bread and bottled water, so I purchased a few bottles of beer and gave him what was left of my Czech currency as a good tip. Paul dropped by to have a chat. It turned out he was an American Evangelical over on a mission to the peoples of Eastern Europe, training the young, teenagers, in English, and also, if they were interested, the Christian Faith. He was in the company of three middle aged female church workers whom he jokingly referred to as his three mothers. Minders, I corrected him, I’d seen them, and I knew what they were capable of. He didn’t flinch when I told him we were Catholic, and it turned out he had been brought up Catholic. We then had a very open and honest discussion about what was attractive and repellent to the other about our different religions, though both Christian. Margaret grew very fond of him, telling him he was a lovely person, working for God and not to have any anxieties or hang-ups. Margaret really is a liability when she gets like this, discerning the person and being told all sorts of things by Heaven that she should not know. Luckily the beer arrived, four bottles, and Paul’s risk of acquiring four mothers, other than his natural one, lessened. I asked Paul if he wished a beer and after a slight hesitation he accepted. I surmised the situation in an instant.
“The Mothers?” I inquired.
“Yes” he replied, “They do not approve.”
I adjusted a curtain, which divided the berth, to hide his bottle from prying eyes. We then went on to discuss Auschwitz, as Paul had asked if we were planning to visit the former concentration camp. I said we were, adding that we felt such to be our duty. I did not mention the spiritual aspects of our journey, praying for souls, as we had already discussed the Protestant belief of ‘justification by faith alone’ and salvation being assured by accepting Christ; we saw things differently from Paul with there being a huge grey area called Purgatory, running towards the blackness of Hell, with prayers being essential for the needs of poor souls in these situations. Anyway we entered on a lighter discussion and told each other some rather funny jokes. Eventually one of the Mothers appeared in the doorway and we got the distinct impression that it was time to retire. Paul retired. The train roared through the night and I quickly fell asleep.
At around 01.00 hrs there was the most strident shouting and banging on the door, with a total disregard for the integrity of railroad property given the blows from boot and fist that were raining on the door. Sleepily I opened to door to be confronted by a tall young armed Polish border guard.
“Hello” I said, “What do you want, our passports?”
This was met with a snarl, “Vait vor Kontrol!”
He disappeared further up the train, the atmosphere which he left in his wake being like something out of a Hitchcock film, passengers in their nightclothes in the corridor, bewildered, frightened and complaining, the train was stopped in an inky pool of blackness. The Americans thought the guard’s conduct was unbelievable and after a short chat with them, “What is Kontrol?” was the question on every lip, I went back to sleep. Poor Margaret was so unsettled she could not sleep. At around 02.30hrs there was a further battering on the door. I woke up to face Kontrol.
He was a dapper small man with a machine pistol, a list and a passport stamp in his right hand. His fur hut looked three sizes too big for him; I could not stop looking at it and the Polish eagle insignia on it.
“Are you Kontrol?” I asked, “I was told to wait for you.”
He gesticulated with his left hand and I gave him our passports.
“This is no way to treat persons simply wanting to have a rest and a sleep”
He looked at the passports, at us, and then his list. He stamped the documents and returned them without a word.
“Go put sugar on your chips!” I declared as he moved to the next compartment. I went back to sleep.
I woke up about an hour before we reached Cracow and watched the countryside we were passing through. It was green and pleasant and rolling, with houses and small farms dotted all over. There were collections of rusting steam trains in various sidings, heaven for a railways enthusiast with an interest in restoration. I was surprised at the numbers of persons going about their early morning business, walking along the trackside. I was filled with an outrage at the evil and audacity of the Nazis in invading another people’s territory. We reached Cracow at around 06.00 hrs. We said goodbye to Paul and his mothers and met our guide, a pleasant young woman holding up a sign with “Karzzlin” on it. We were taken to the Hotel Logos in Cracow, were made welcome and booked in. We had breakfast and then went for a much-needed snooze. Margaret had hardly slept at all and had spent most of the journey praying. Return to Introduction.
Cracow – Day Five, 31st July 2000.
We went out for a recce at midday. The Hotel Logos is centrally placed with the centre of Cracow being five minutes walk away. We went to the main square and absorbed the atmosphere. A city of splendid old buildings and churches packed with the faithful. Street performers and jazz bands were in evidence round the square, which bustled with tourists and citizens. We had lunch in a small restaurant and debated our next move. We had to visit Auschwitz but the advertised tourist tours did not appeal to us. We wanted to visit Sr Faustina’s convent but did not have a clue about how to proceed. We went to St Mary’s Basilica in the main square, noted for the magnificent Veit Stoss altar constructed 1477 to 1489, and found to our delight that there was perpetual adoration of the Real Presence. After a while we went out and decided the best way forward was to try and contact Fr Richard. We found a taxi driver, a really pleasant middle-aged man, who examined the written address we gave him and promptly took us there. We did not know it was a seminary. He brought us to the building, which nestled behind a large apartment block, and went up to the door to check it was the right place. We met Fr Richard a few minutes later.
We had a little chat, exchanging pleasantries about the trip and Cracow before eventually going on to the concerns that had brought us to Poland. Fr Richard listened to what we had to say and said he would do what he could to help us. He arranged for a nun of Sr Faustina’s order, Sr Salvatrizcha, to meet us at the convent later that day and said he would contact us regarding Auschwitz. He took us into the seminary chapel where we prayed for a time. He then took us down to the nearest tram stop and gave us the necessary tickets to take us across the city to the convent.
If you can figure out the tram system, then you can travel anywhere in Cracow with ease! After all, except for one tram which you must avoid at all costs, if you get lost you simply wait till the tram reaches the end of the line, turns round, then takes you back to whence you came – impossible to get lost! The tram to avoid is the one that takes you on a five-hour trip to an outlying steel town. We took the number 8 to the terminus as directed. On the tram you feed a ticket into a timestamp device, which stamps your ticket, which you retain. Books of tickets are inexpensive and can be bought at many outlets, newsagents, shops etc. Do not be tempted to travel for free, like most of the locals, as you do not know what the plain clothes inspectors look like, and, if they catch you, they will confiscate your passport until you are tried.
We then had instructions to board a bus, go several stops and get off and ask for directions. This of course was a recipe for mix up. Firstly no-one had a clue who we were talking about when we mentioned ‘Faustina’, we later found out the Polish pronunciation is Festinyee or similar. We did get on the right bus but went right past the correct stop because of diversions for road works. We walked about 2 miles from the bus terminus to a distant church. On arrival there it was obvious that this was not the correct church. There was a poster in the church porch advertising the Divine Mercy with a picture of Sr Faustina. We went into the church and said some prayers, reluctant to simply walk away from God, who for whatever reason, had brought us there, but determined to reach our planned destination. We went outside. I spotted a toilet and went for a pee; it was of the hole in the ground bedecked with empty vodka bottles variety. When I came out a man was standing beside Margaret. I realised this was the parish priest, and I reckoned he would have good English. Indeed he told us where to go to find the convent, some 5 miles or so down the road. We thanked him and set off, we felt an element of poignancy that we were leaving his church to visit what was being developed into a global shrine. Margaret mentioned that Faustina had walked all round Warsaw trying to enter various convents. I reckoned we were getting a small taste of Faustina’s tribulations. It was a long walk. The road up to the convent lies beside a BP petrol station. You cross a railway line on the walk up. Details of how to get there are on the accompanying map.
We found the convent and Margaret asked for Sr Salvatrizcha, she came out and inquired whom we were. Mentioning Fr Richard sorted things out, and she took us on a guided tour of the areas open to the public. Sr Salvatrizcha is a pleasant and personable wee nun who made sure we were at ease and she gave us an informative talk on Sr Faustina’s life and works. Margaret will discuss the deep and astonishing significances of what Sr Salvatrizcha said to us in her reflections of the pilgrimage. Our tour ended in the little chapel where a relic of Sr Faustina is on display at the side altar. We spent some time in an atmosphere of deep prayer. There were many postulants in the chapel, obviously there being no shortage of applicants into what is now a popular order. The original Divine Mercy painting is above the side altar. We wondered later why the order had decided to stay with the traditional habit – it looked like dozens of Sr Faustina’s were in the location!
We came out the chapel and made our way to the original grave of Sr Faustina. From what I can work out there have been three graves with a fourth pending in the vast basilica that is being constructed. There is the original in the little cemetery for the nuns, there is the tomb in Warsaw, there is the casket of remains presently situated in the order’s little chapel and there is the future site in the new basilica. No rest for saints! A surprising number of exhumations and “house moves”! Sr Salvatrizcha had given us directions to go to the cemetery, (after we had made some small purchases from their little shop which Sr had specially opened up for us), and we strolled down a gentle hill towards it. The shingle Margaret was walking on suddenly slid and she went down with a clatter before I could move to try and save her. Margaret’s left ankle and leg bent under her in an alarming deformation. I rushed to help her, convinced her leg was broken - that’s the Auschwitz trip finished I thought. She was badly shaken and crying with the pain in her foot. I examined her leg, fearful of what I might find, asking God to heal her leg. I was pleased and astonished to find nothing more than a nasty bruise and minor abrasions. After a few minutes she had recovered her composure and we carried on. There was a shifty looking young man standing behind a tree, about 10 or so meters away. He simply ignored us and made no effort to help or assist. Odd character I thought. We went down to the cemetery and I decided to take a few photos – no camera! I reckoned it must have came out of my pocket when I rushed to try and save Margaret – no worry, I would look for it when we went back up the hill. We said some prayers and went back up to the convent. The camera could not be found so Margaret went up to the convent to ask if it had been handed in. I kept out of the pantomime that developed where the old, deaf, cantankerous nun who had answered the door insisted that there was no way Margaret was going to photograph her! Eventually Sr Salvatrizcha was brought to the door and we explained what had happened, leaving details of our hotel if the camera was handed in. Looking back on it all, the loss of the camera was a minor nuisance; we were blessed in that Margaret was spared serious injury.
We took the tram back to the city centre. On the way back to the Hotel Logos I spotted what looked like a pub. I told Margaret we should go in, for research purposes. I ordered a half litre of lager, cost approximately 90p or $1.50, three times the cost in Prague but still half the British price. I sussed out the place, some local Poles were there and they had watched us with mild curiosity. A tall lean fair-haired man was at the bar, examining a sheaf of papers. He looked Anglo-Saxon, and hailed me in English when I returned to the bar to purchase some matches.
“I think I hear a Scottish accent!” he declared.
“Loch Ness Monster!” I affirmed.
His name was Charlie and we got on famously, immediately. It
will come as no surprise to those of you, who know how Our God puts his children
together, that Charlie is a professional translator of English and Polish,
specialising in engineering and scientific paper translation, and is a
Franciscan Tertiary with an in depth knowledge of Auschwitz, that place where
God is allegedly dead. He was the man we needed to meet that night, as in the
deep conversation that followed and in the sharing of experience in God, we
began to build a picture of what Auschwitz was, and learned some local Cracow
savvy, the “score” as Scots would say. We agreed to meet the following night. We
headed back to the hotel to rest after a hectic day. Margaret went to sleep
while I checked the inventory of the mini bar – I know what you are thinking but
I had to clear space for milk, bread, butter and some rather superb sausage that
we had purchased. Return
to Introduction.
Cracow-Day Six, 1st August 2000.
We had risen mid morning and went out for a walk. Fr Richard had left a message that he would send a seminarian over in the afternoon to take us on a tour of the city’s sights. Cracow is a pleasant city to stroll round, similar to Prague in that much of the centre is car free. The bright sunny weather brought smiles to the people we encountered. Going into a shop and trying to purchase something was a pleasant occasion of mime with the staff and other customers laughing at my attempts to communicate what I wanted to purchase, while going out of their way to help. Looking back from my viewpoint now, writing some 4 months after this pilgrimage, I can confidently state that while Cracow has “Soul”, Prague seems to have an enfeebled or very malnourished one. The most marked difference between two great cities was the behaviour and affect of their inhabitants, Cracow welcomed and rushed to assist, Prague, well Prague initially promised but left you stranded on a quayside…remember the people of both cities in your prayers.
Three seminarians came to collect us that afternoon, Gregory, a tall Pole who looked like he could pass muster for officer commanding a cavalry regiment, and two lads from the UK who were over on holiday, Luke and David. My, goodness me, I felt old when I witnessed the vigour and energy of their youth, they crossed the main square like Michael Owen running through a defence. Gregory took us to St Mary’s Basilica and from thence round the various other churches in the locality, only entering if there was no service on. Two churches had masses in progress, which were well attended. This impressed me. We stopped to pray at the other churches. Gregory gave a details of the morn’s itinery, pick up at 10.00hrs at the hotel then to Auschwitz, we entered another church.
“Fr Richard’s a
fly old fox.” I said to Margaret, “He is obviously determined to prepare us
spiritually for tomorrow.” Margaret nodded in agreement. Gregory ended the
guided tour with a trip round the Wewel, the castle where the Polish Kings and
National Heroes are buried. We prayed for a while at the tomb of St Stanislaus.
The general tour through catacombs was interesting and Sikorski’s tomb was of
note. We parted company as the boys had to get back for their dinner. I should
have noted that. Margaret and I enjoyed a cool lager in the café in the grounds.
It was very pleasant to sit in the sunshine after being through a labyrinth
filled with the dead. We rendezvoused with Charlie later on and visited the
local writer’s club and then a
church with miraculous foot impressions on the exterior wall, I cannot
remember the full story, and Charlie himself was a bit vague on what the legend
was. We ended up looking at some masonry with odd
dents in it, protected by iron bars, obscure in the evening half-light. The
Irish and Italians would make a multi million-dollar occasion out of something
like this, I told Charlie. We arranged to meet up after the morrow’s trip;
Charlie said he had a surprise for us in the evening. Return
to Introduction.
Cracow- Day Seven, 2nd August 2000. Auschwitz and Birkenau.
We left the hotel in a minibus arranged by Fr Richard at 10.00hrs. Fr Richard was unable to attend but Gregory and five other seminarians (including Luke and David) were accompanying us. It took about an hour to reach Auschwitz, which is about 50 kilometres away from Cracow, going by back roads.
We went into the visitor centre and paid the nominal entry fee, one zloty for grounds maintenance. We were then directed to a cinema to view an introductory film. There is a deep significance in this that only some realise, I did, and Margaret did not. It is to do with how trusting a person you are – I am not going to reveal what this is, find out for yourself when you visit. The film finishes, the lights come on, and side doors open to Auschwitz 1.
I went and purchased some guidebooks for the party at a bookshop, which is housed in former SS offices. (Seminarians are permanently broke, though they will not ask for anything and protest vigorously when you buy them something; ignore this, just buy them what they claim they do not need.) There were many books in many languages and I bought a copy of the three English titles available plus guides. We then went to the infamous arched gates with the sneering demonic jibe over the entrance – “Arbeit mach frei”- work sets you free. As per previous instructions we lit a candle beside the gate, praying “My Lord, My God, My All” after a psalm had been read. We went into the camp, which, I learned from the guidebook, had housed mostly Polish political prisoners. The stone buildings were filled with exhibits but we declined to view these after touring one building, insisting to Gregory that we had other work to do in the prayer sense. I sensed Gregory was torn between going round in the company of his fellow youthful seminarians and following Fr Richard’s presumed orders not to lose us or let anything befall us. I directly told Gregory “We have to go to Auschwitz 2, we have prayers to say there. We will meet you back here at 1300hrs.” Gregory agreed and went off to join his fellows.
Margaret and I then went to the rail where prisoners were executed by hanging, again lighting a candle and saying a psalm. “My Lord, My God, My All” we prayed on behalf of all the poor souls who had suffered and died, or suffered into survival, in that terrible place. We then went to the crematorium, number 1 on the map. This place had a terrible effect on Margaret, who was overcome with sadness as I read a psalm. We placed a candle in the body tray, joining other votive candles, which had been placed there for the dead. “Be strong!” I said to her with vehemence, even though I was feeling decidedly ropey. “My Lord, My God, My All!”
This was not where the main massacres took place, however, this place had been used as a mortuary/crematorium for those who perished or were murdered in Auschwitz 1. We went out into the sunlight and had a quick discussion.
We agreed we had to go to Auschwitz 2 but had no idea where it was. My notion that it was tagged on to Auschwitz 1 was erroneous. We were surprised at the way some people were conducting themselves, wearing short revealing “beach type” outfits, and treating the visit as an excursion to a place of historical interest rather than an approach to a well of human suffering and catastrophe. Would you pose for a photograph in front of an oven, which was used to dispose of thousands of dead prisoners, who had suffered in ways beyond your knowledge or experience of such things, wearing shorts, a T-shirt and a smile? We saw several people who did and wondered about their sanity. Beneath the gallows where Hoss, the Commandant, had met his end, we decided to leave Auschwitz 1 and head for Auschwitz 2, Birkenau. We went out into the car park and bought a plain croissant, for later use, and enquired about where to go. A lady told us it was 10 minutes up the road and turn left. In the growing heat we set off, walking along the rail track, which had carried so many Jews to their extermination all those years ago. The actual distance was about 5 kilometres and I was glad I had brought a large bottle of water. I was mindful of the souls in the cattle trucks who had no such luxury. We prayed the rosary as we walked.
We entered Birkenau, following the railway. We were now in the former marshalling area where the Jews were forced to leave the trains for selection. I was astonished at the size of the camp, I had not appreciated the large area it covered, but then the likely dimensions of concentration camps were not a topic I had ever considered before. We stopped at a point in the middle of this section and lit another candle and prayed another psalm.
We then went up to the gas chambers and main crematoria, sitting down beside the ruins of Crematorium 2. We were aware we were sitting in an area containing the cremated remains of some five million people. We said further prayers for souls, read further psalms and conducted a Eucharistic style prayer service (there was no real presence in the sense of mass as neither of us are priests) using the materials we judged would be available to prisoners, bread and water. Here an unsettling event happened, as I broke the croissant chocolate sauce oozed out; I had unwittingly purchased a chocolate filled croissant. I looked at that in astonishment and then carried on with our prayers and invocations to God on behalf of souls. I found out later, on reading the books we had purchased, that this odd occurrence had a terrible and distraught significance. We finished our little service and relaxed for a few minutes. We were running out of time in the tight schedule we had to adhere to, indeed we were supposed to be meeting Gregory back at Auschwitz 1 in 15 minutes! We still had to locate the part of the camp where children were housed in order to try and fulfil as much as we could of what had been asked of us. I left Margaret sitting beside the ruined Crematorium and set off for the camp gate. She spent the time reading aloud poems written by former prisoners (this was one of the books we had purchased) and she told me later that she felt a deep sense of peace and calm doing this, even though some of the poems denied the existence of God. These poems are like the psalms, deep pools of human emotion, connected by a running stream of human suffering and experience, and even in their denial of a God, I declare, they beseech and implore Him! Perhaps by the reading aloud of these poems in the place where God was dead to the authors, God himself is manifest, by means of the unique link the Suffering Christ has with every soul who has suffered – He is with them in their suffering even if they do not know him, and through this mystery they will meet Christ as an old friend, not a stranger, after their purgatorial journey, in reunion rather than new acquaintance.
Meantime I was walking briskly to the gate, the problem of souls who would not move on to God was on my mind as I prayed (if you visit Auschwitz try and use every moment to pray, as you have never done before in your life, every word, every thought, every gesture, every movement – if only because you have the freedom to do such, the prisoners had to rigidly conform or die, or die). It came to me that various family groups that we had been shown in the years before were not moving on to God because of the children. I began to discern the Lord’s purpose with the butterfly. At the gate I realised I would never make it back to Auschwitz 1 in time. A taxi drew up and an Oriental family got out. The father, speaking English, asked the driver to come and collect him in one hour. With some temerity I approached the driver. My wallet was sitting in Margaret’s handbag, as she read aloud poems denying or accusing God, I had about 7 zloty in loose change in my pocket.
I took off my cap and extended my right hand containing the cash to the taxi driver.
“Excuse me, sir, could you take me back to Auschwitz 1. This is all I have. I am supposed to meet friends back there”
I had my head down and would barely look him in the eye. This whole pose I had automatically adopted was like a subservient prisoner. On reflection at a much later date I realised I was empathising with them in prayer, hence this very un-Geoff like behaviour. The man asked me what I wanted. I repeated my request. He smiled, and said “Jump in, I am going back there anyway.”
Five minutes later I was in the cafeteria at Auschwitz 1 meeting up with Gregory and the bold boys.
“Where is Margaret?” Gregory inquired.
“She is up at Birkenau.” I replied. “Are you planning to visit that camp?”
“No,” Gregory replied “we have to be back at the seminary for lunch at 16.00hrs”
It was now about 0130hrs. This gave me a problem. Margaret was expectant of spending at least another two or three hours at Birkenau and indeed thought the rest of the party would join her for prayers there. I know now of the regimented discipline imposed on seminarians regarding timetabled activities such as eating, but at the time it seemed a bit silly to be getting rushed away from such an important place to us, after all it had taken us some seven years to get there, for the sake of an organised meal. Food was the last thing on our minds, being in ‘prayer mode’ we were fasted and had broken our fast only with half a croissant (chocolate filled) each, as part of our response to what God asked of us in Auschwitz. We tumbled into the minibus and drove up to the gates at Birkenau.
“Where is Margaret?” Gregory asked.
“She is over there.” I said, gesturing vaguely to the distant Crematoria. “Do any of you wish to come and join us in some prayers?” Nobody wished to do that. “Gregory,” I said, “Margaret and I have some prayers to say. We will be back shortly. Do not worry you will get back in time for your dinner.”
Gregory had no choice but to agree to this and I set off to look for Margaret, hoping she had not gone on a spiritual walkabout, as she is prone to do at times. To be fair to Gregory and his friends, they had been told that we were visiting the camp to pray in general terms; we had not told them of all specific prayer requests/activities asked for by God.
I located Margaret where I had left her and had a large draught of water from the bottle we had brought with us. It was very hot but not unpleasant, and birds were singing, though in a subdued fashion. I told her of the hitch in that we had to move fast, as we had been doing since we had arrived in Auschwitz, as the boys wanted back for their dinner. This disappointed Margaret somewhat as she had hoped to stay until sunset if possible, praying and meditating. I examined the guidebook. I could find nothing mentioning two barracks holding children, but wondered if this was something to do with Mengele’s infamous experiments. The only place I could definitely say there were children for any length of time was the family camp where some Czech Jews, the Theresienstadt transport, were held. (I later found out some Romany children were held in the area set aside for Gypsies, but did not know this at the time.) Margaret and I discussed this and agreed to go to the area, which I knew had definitely held children for prolonged periods of time.
Here we prayed and took a couple of photographs for the record. The little pottery butterfly was left for the children as a symbol of God’s Love for them. Hope and Mercy, Hope and Mercy fluttering on the wings of the angels coming to reach those children. The prayer I said was very sad, and poignant and encouraging - and simple, as it was addressed to children of between the presumes aged of seven to fifteen. The process for the deliverance of many souls to God was started, by enabling the release of those little ones, who had been treated so cruelly and inhumanly, totally beyond their comprehension. An adult may learn to hate a torturer or oppressor; a child thinks the treatment is being meted out because of bad behaviour, unworthiness etcetera. Continue to pray for the safe homecoming of such family groups of souls, as you will see in the associated messages accompanying this article, such souls can find it difficult to journey to God as they will not abandon an earthbound child, and also they can yet be in a state of outrage and horror that the God that they worshipped allowed such a fate to happen them. Pray for them, “My Lord, My God, My All!”
We then joined the others on the minibus, reluctant to leave but knowing, within our human limitations, we had accomplished as much as was possible of what was requested of us. We both think we will be back at some time in the future; indeed we think everybody should visit Auschwitz or another concentration camp at some time in his or her lives if possible. We did realise that not everybody is capable of visiting both Birkenau and Auschwitz 1; the first camp is itself too overwhelming for some people, without the horror of what happened at Birkenau. The immediacy of what happened all those years ago is still present; it is the scale of the horror that one cannot take in. Indeed one takes this home with you as your subconscious mind tries to come to terms with it in the coming months. I could understand people intuitively knowing that they could not handle such horror, and thus simply avoid the situation.
I was a bit miffed to find out that the boys could get back to Cracow and the Seminary in double quick time by travelling on a toll motorway. I would have paid the tolls in both directions if they had just asked me! It would have given us more precious time. Anyway, they dropped us off at our hotel and we made our good-byes. They were a pleasant bunch of lads and we wish them well in the priesthood, praying that Jesus sustains them. Margaret was aware of the deep love Christ had for each one of them, and had been given a message for them on the day we walked round Cracow, to the effect they were to take things slowly, slowly. They smiled, accepted the message and then proceeded as before to rush about everywhere, as before!
We met with Charlie later on. He invited us round to his home for a meal. He had reasoned that we would need some family centred normality after our day – he was of course totally right. His wife Marta had prepared a traditional delicious Polish meal, three full courses. We passed a pleasant evening, enjoying the food and company, fussing over Charlie’s toddler son. Charlie felt we should write an account of what happened us, hence this article.
The return journey home to the UK, the following morning, was fairly uneventful except that I was taken aside by three tall Polish soldiers at Cracow airport and searched – moral do not carry a pipe cleaning tool in your breast pocket! – And was again taken aside and searched at Gatwick, finally learning that the 2 boxes of AA batteries I was carrying in my hand luggage looked like magazines of bullets to the X-ray machine operatives! Ha, I thought, the only weapons that I carry are my rosary beads and Bible. Little did I know that there would now a series of encounters with souls over the coming months. We had, in a spiritual sense, brought Auschwitz home with us.
Laus Deo Semper.
Geoff Carlin.
© Geoff Carlin 2000 – this document may be copied for personal use.
Please note this is a dynamic electronic document with internal and external hyperlinks, which do not work if transcribed to papyrus J U.
Addenda:
Source, “Absolute Truth” by Edward Stourton, Viking, ISBN 0-607-87967-3,
Page 74, “ In the wall of the Carmelite church in the city’s old town a stone panel is embedded carrying the imprint of a tiny foot. It is said to have been left there by the fourteenth-century Queen Jadwiga. It seems that the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting liked to stop here on their way back from riding in the country while the church was being built ….. During one visit she (the Queen) was distressed to find one of the labourers weeping because his wife had fallen ill; he could no longer afford the doctor’s bills and his children were going uncared for. The gracious Queen places her foot on the block of stone he was working, removed the gold buckle (from her shoe) and gave it to him. The act of kindness was recorded in a miraculous imprint. In the city where John Paul spent so much of the life that prepared him for the papacy, there is a ready acceptance of the presence of the supernatural in history, and also of the idea that history leaves an imprint – on the minds of men as well as on the stones of the city.”
This book is worth a read just to learn how the conservative forces in the Church altered and amended the reforms brought in by the Second Vatican Council.
English Titles available at Auschwitz bookshop:
“London Has Been Informed…” – reports of Auschwitz Escapees. Edited by Henryk Swiebocki. ISBN 83-85047-60-3. The allied governments were informed of the mass exterminations but were impotent to stop the slaughter. This is an extraordinary account of three successful escape attempts from Auschwitz and the subsequent reports given to the Allies and others. There is a wealth of photographs and documents from the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum, the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. and the Polish Underground Movement Study Trust in London. Read this and weep.
“The Auschwitz Poems” – edited by Adam A. Zych. ISBN 83-85047-77-8. I dip into this treasure warily, finding the stark, solemn poems almost unbearable in their terrible import.
“But I Survived” by Tadeusz Sobolewicz. ISBN 83-85047-63-8. This man tells of his experiences of prisoner life in Auschwitz and five other concentration camps, a remarkable survival.