"We Believe in Each Other"

At dusk on the eve of the Feast of Corpus Christi, Archbishop Josef Beran walked past Tommy gun-toting plainclothesmen, passed through the gates of his magnificent baroque palace on Prague's Hradcany Square, and stepped into his black, eight-cylindered Tatra. While Communist police continued their four-day search of the archbishop's palace, he sped off to the ancient monastery of Strahov, where about 3,000 of the faithful awaited him.

The prelate was met by the welcoming sounds of the Strahov church organ. Women strewed white peonies in his path. A little girl pressed into his hands a bouquet of white carnations. He took the bouquet and blessed her.

With a tall, gold and scarlet jeweled mitre on his head, a white and gold stole over his shoulders and a silver and gold crozier in his hand, the stocky little 60-year-old prelate, survivor of the Nazis' Dachau concentration camp, mounted the pulpit and turned to face his congregation.

The spirit of Hungary's Cardinal Mindszenty seemed to haunt his words.

"I Will Never Sign." "I don't know how often I will be able to speak to you in the future," Beran said. "Perhaps very soon you will hear all sorts of things about me from the radio. You may hear that I have made a confession or other things ... Whatever happens, don't believe that I have surrendered . . ." He spoke in a clear, loud voice, tense with emotion. "I come to you and swear to you that I will never sign an agreement that violates the laws of the church . . .

"I know what you expect of me," he went on softly. "You can imagine what I would say and how I would say it. But I won't say it because I don't want this fine old monastery to be persecuted."

The words he chose to leave unsaid at the monastery, the archbishop had put into a pastoral letter, to be read from Catholic pulpits throughout the country. In it, he summarized the successive steps the Czech Communist government has taken to gain control of the church and its schools, rejected the charges leveled at the church hierarchy, pointed out that "the issue does not concern a settlement between church and state ... It is an issue of ... replacing Christianity by Marxism, which assumes for the state the rights in matters of conscience, faith and morals --something no Christian can accept."

"Better Go Home." When the archbishop finished his sermon, he moved to the altar for prayers. He leaned heavily on his staff, tapping it audibly on the flagstones while two acolytes helped to support him. First he prayed for the youth of Czechoslovakia, that they should not be misled. He prayed for those Catholics who are wavering in faith, that they might be strengthened and not "turned aside by lies and distorted reports." Last he prayed for the "Judases who are betraying their priestly calling, who are allowing themselves to be tempted by short-term successes and material benefits."

At prayer's end, he turned and walked slowly down the aisle. He raised his arm to the people, who reached out to kiss his hands and touch his robes. Some in the crowd cried "We will never let them take you." Outside, the Tatra was barely able to crawl along as crying women and shouting men clung to its sides. Once the driver had to shift into reverse because a woman had slipped under the car's wheels.

A chill wind had risen and rain began to fall, but the crowd pushed on down the hill to the square where the archbishop's palace stands, just across from Hradcany Castle, home of Czechoslovakia's Communist President Klement Gottwald. There they sang hymns, chanted "We believe in you." The prelate appeared on his balcony, smiled and said, "I believe in you. We believe in each other. But you had better go home. Do not let them try to represent this as a provocation." Reluctantly, they began to drift homewards.

Catcalls & Tears. Next morning, Archbishop Beran ascended the throne of Prague's St. Vitus Cathedral to deliver a new defense against the attacks of the enemies of the church. He had scarcely begun to speak when Communist hecklers, stationed in the front pews, joined in a screaming chorus of whistles and catcalls. To answer the catcalls, the congregation burst into an impassioned hymn. Seeing that it was hopeless to go on, the archbishop walked past the tear-wet faces of his flock, out into the square.

Outside, thousands of Catholics surged around his car wildly cheering, singing and throwing flowers. As they shouted "Long live the archbishop," groups of young Communists took up a rival chant, "Long live President Gottwald." The police were everywhere. They began to make arrests right & left.

Slowly, the black Tatra moved off through the confused, milling throng. It carried the archbishop back to his palace. The Communist guards let him in and continued their guard over the symbol of Czech resistance to Communist tyranny.

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