APRIL 16, 2022 – (Cont.) The procession led to a dark red brick, two-story abbey. I followed the leaders right to the front stoop and watched them disappear into the building. And there on the concrete steps I stood, an improbable observer—a 26-year-old, Protestant “amerikánsky”—in the company of three Polish Catholic nuns. I turned my back to the entryway and surveyed the crowd that had migrated from the cathedral and now formed the scene around me.
From my vantage point, three details made an indelible impression.
First was silence. Despite the number of people gathered, they stood without a word or murmur. Where else, I wondered, would so many people assemble so quietly and patiently simply for a glimpse of famous personages?
Second was the apparent sacrosanctity of the inner part of the circular drive in front of the abbey. This ground was covered with thick, green, manicured grass—in refreshing contrast to the seediness of so many public spaces in Poland. Moreover, no barrier prevented people from invading it. Most remarkable, then, was the fact that not a single soul in the crowd set foot on that grass to gain a visual advantage or to find a better toehold. Where else, I wondered, would such a crowd observe so strictly, unspoken rules of decorum?
The third impression was the most notable: kneeling or standing on all three sides of the stoop were foreign photo-journalists, their fancy cameras and industrial-gauge videotape recorders trained on the abbey entrance—ready to capture shots of Glemp and Wałesa when they exited the abbey. In jockeying for position, however, these photo-journalists were missing the story of the day. That story wasn’t famous faces gracing the doorway of an abbey. It was the sea of reverent solidarity standing behind the cameras and video recorders; a society irrepressibly faithful and unified in a wave of resistance cresting over a regime of oppression.
As I pondered the narrative missed by the journalists, the nuns burst forth in hymn. In the moment I realized that half by chance and half by curiosity I’d wound up on that abbey stoop at a critical juncture in history. Within a couple of musical bars, the crowd joined in, and soon the sea of calm was a sea of song. I watched as people wept, and I wept too. For all its cruelty, avarice, myopia, and misanthropy, humankind has redemptive heart and hope beyond common measure.
One hymn followed another, and in time, the meeting inside the abbey concluded. More nuns stepped out from the doorway, and to make room for them, I stepped down from the stoop and blended into . . . the story of the day: that sea of big-hearted, hope-filled humanity. The photo-journalists seized their photo-op, and I, the impression that the Russians had better think twice before sending in their tanks.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
