God's Smuggler

by Brother Andrew

  Together we went to his apartment. It was only later that I learned how dangerous a thing for him this was in the Czechoslovakia of 1955. He told me that the Government was trying to get a total grip on the Church. It was the Government that selected theological students—choosing only candidates who favored the regime. In addition, every two months a minister had to renew his license. A friend had recently had his renewal application denied—no explanation. Each sermon had to be written out ahead of time and approved by the authorities. Each church had to list its leaders with the State. That same week in Brno five brethren were on trial because their church did not permit the naming of leaders.

  It was time for the second service at the church.

  “Would you come and speak to us?” he asked suddenly.

  “Is that possible? Can I really preach here?”

  “No. I did not say ‘preach.’ One must be careful with words. As a foreigner you can’t preach, but you can bring us ‘greetings’ from Holland. And—” my friend smiled—“if you wanted to, you could bring us ‘greetings’ from the Lord.”

  My interpreter was a young medical student named Antonin. First I brought greetings from Holland and the West. That took a couple of minutes. And then for half an hour I brought greetings to the congregation “from Jesus Christ.” It worked so well that Antonin suggested we try the device again in another church. All in all, that day I preached four times and visited five different churches. Each was memorable in its own way, but the last one most of all. For it was there that I received the Cup of Suffering.

  It was seven o’clock in the evening, already dark on that November day. I knew that by now the tour group would be really anxious about me. It was time I tried to find them.

  But even as I was thinking this, Antonin asked me if I would visit just one more church, “where I think they especially need to meet someone from Outside.”

  So once more we traveled across Prague until we came to a small out-of-the-way Moravian church. I was astonished at the number of people there, especially young people. There must have been forty people between the ages of 18 and 25. I spoke my greetings and then answered questions. Could Christians in Holland get good jobs? Did anyone report you to the Government when you went to church? Could you attend church and still get into a good university?

  “You see,” Antonin told me, “it’s unpatriotic to be a Christian in Czechoslovakia these days. Some of these people have been blackballed at work. Many have missed out on education. And that”—he took a small box from the hands of a young man who stood beside him—“is why they want you to have this.”

  The young man was speaking to me very earnestly in Czech.

  “Take this to Holland with you,” Antonin translated, “and when people ask you about it, tell them about us and remind them that we are part of the Body, too, and that we are in pain.”

  I took the box and opened it. Inside was a silver lapel ornament in the shape of a tiny cup. I had seen several of the young people wearing them and had wondered what they were.

  Antonin was pinning it to my jacket. “This is the symbol of the Church in Czechoslovakia. We call it the Cup of Suffering.”

  ———

  When Antonin had left me at the hotel, I thought again about those words. I realized that we in Holland were as insulated from the real facts of modern Church history as were the Christians in Czechoslovakia. The Cup of Suffering was the symbol of a reality that we had to share.

  Right now, however, I had another reality to face. Where would I rendezvous with my group? They were not at the hotel—nor did anyone there know where the farewell dinner was to have been held. I went to a restaurant where we had eaten several times. “No, monsieur, the group from Holland did not eat here tonight.”

  “Well, is it too late for me to have a sandwich?”

  “Of course not, monsieur.”

  I had taken one bite of the sandwich when the door of the restaurant flew open and the tour director walked in. She glanced swiftly around the room, then sighted me. Her shoulders collapsed in an involuntary sigh of relief. But the next instant her face flushed with anger. She fairly ran to my table, flung a bill at the waiter, and indicated the door with a jerk of her head. It was obvious that she did not trust herself to speak.

  Outside waiting for us at the curb was a government car—a long black limousine with its engine running, driven by a most unpleasant looking man. He got out as we approached, opened the door, and then locked it behind us. Where were they taking me? Remembering the Hollywood version of such scenes, I tried to keep track of where we were going.

  And as I did, the humor of the situation came to me. Because we were going to the hotel.

  Just before the car stopped, the tour director spoke her first words. “You have held the group up half a day. We have called every hospital, every police station. We finally called the morgue. Unfortunately, you were not there! Where have you been?”

  “Oh,” I said, “I got separated. And so I walked around. I really am sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.”

  “Well, I want to tell you officially, sir, that you are no longer welcome here. Should you attempt to enter this country again, you will discover as much for yourself.”

  And so I did. A year later I applied again for a visa to Czechoslovakia and was turned down. I tried once more two years after that and again was refused. It was five years before I was allowed back inside that beautiful land. And meanwhile I had seen such persecution of Christians that Czechoslovakia by contrast seemed a place of freedom and liberty.

  9

  The Foundations Are Laid

  The next few months seemed to be pure frustration. The trips to Poland and Czechoslovakia had come about almost without my thinking about them. But now when I began to make inquiries about return visits to these places and trips to other Iron Curtain countries, I encountered month after month of officialdom: questionnaires, delays, forms in triplicate—but never a visa.

  Even my own little room posed problems. In Czechoslovakia I had thought so often about that room waiting for me at home and longed to be back in it. Now I discovered a drawback I could never have anticipated. Perhaps it was the very fact that it was so snug and comfortable; at any rate the room itself came to symbolize for me the fact that I was very much alone.

  Day after day as I sat in that room drafting letters to consulates, I would dream of a wife who would share both the room and the vision of work behind the Curtain. On more lucid days I would laugh at myself: If missionary work was a poor life to offer a beautiful girl—the girl in my dreams was gorgeous—what would she say to this new mission field I had glimpsed, where separation and secrecy and uncertainty would be the best I could offer? These, as I say, were objections that reason raised; the girl herself, being a dream girl, never mentioned them.

  Money was another problem. Although neither Geltje nor Arie ever mentioned the subject, I knew that I should be participating in the expenses of the household. Shortly after I had come back from my trip to Poland, the Dutch magazine Kracht Van Omhoog had asked me to write a series of articles for them about my experiences behind the Iron Curtain. I was no writer, and I did nothing about the invitation. But now as I sat in my little room with my empty wallet on the homemade desk in front of me, I seemed to hear God say, “Write those articles for Kracht Van Omhoog.”

  I was mystified by the command. Surely it could have nothing to do with the need for money about which I had just then been praying: The magazine offered no payment.

  But that sense of insistence was there, and in sheer obedience I sat down and wrote about what I had observed not only in Poland but also in Czechoslovakia. I mailed the articles the next day, along with some photographs. The editor acknowledged them with his thanks—but without money as I expected—and I dismissed the whole matter from my mind.

  And then one morning there was another letter from Kracht Van Omhoog. A strange thing was happening: Although nowhere in the article had I mentioned mo
ney or indicated that I was even considering another trip to these places, from all over Holland readers were sending in money. It was never very much, just a few guilders at a time. But the editor wanted to know where he should send them.

  And thus began the most amazing story of supply. The first gifts from my unknown friends were small because my needs were small. I wanted to help Geltje with the household expenses; my old jacket was worn out; I had promised Antonin that I would try to mail him a copy of the Czech Bible. And to meet these small needs there was a small income from readers of Kracht Van Omhoog. Later as my work expanded and there was greater need, so too did contributions from readers increase. It was only when there was need for really large sums, years later, that God turned elsewhere for our funds.

  But something far more important than money came out of the first contact with Kracht Van Omhoog. In the mail one morning came a letter from the leader of a prayer group in the village of Amersfoort. The Holy Spirit, the letter said, had instructed them to get in touch with me; they didn’t know why—but could I pay a visit to Amersfoort?

  I was immediately intrigued. If the Holy Spirit was directing people’s actions so minutely today, this was the very thing I needed to know more about. I went to Amersfoort. The group of about a dozen men and women met in the home of a man named Karl de Graaf, a builder of dikes.

  I had never met a group like this. Instead of a planned program for the evening, with a leader and a study topic as with the other prayer groups I had attended, these people seemed to spend most of their time listening. There was an occasional prayer said aloud—in no particular order around the room—but these prayers were more like outbursts of love and praise for God than thought-out petitions. It was as though every individual in that room sensed that God was very close, and in the delight of His company wanted nothing, needed nothing, except occasionally to express the joy bubbling up inside.

  Occasionally, in the listening, expectant stillness, one of the group would apparently hear something else: some instruction, some piece of information, that came from outside his own knowledge. This too would be spoken aloud. “Joost’s mother, in America, needs our prayers tonight.” “We thank You, Lord, that our prayer for Stephje has just now been answered.” I was so caught up in this new kind of prayer experience that when the others got up to go and Mrs. de Graaf led me to my room, I could scarcely believe the clock on the dresser: It was four-thirty in the morning.

  Several days later I was working in my room on a new article for Kracht Van Omhoog when Geltje knocked on the door.

  “There’s someone to see you, Andrew. I don’t know him.”

  I went out to the front stoop, and there was Karl de Graaf. “Hello!” I said, surprised.

  “Hello, Andy. Do you know how to drive?”

  “Drive?”

  “An automobile.”

  “No,” I said, bewildered. “No, I don’t.”

  “Because last night in our prayers we had a word from the Lord about you. It’s important for you to be able to drive.”

  “Whatever on earth for?” I said. “I’ll never own a car, that’s for sure.”

  “Andrew,” Mr. de Graaf spoke patiently, as to a slow-witted student, “I’m not arguing the logic of the case. I’m just passing on the message.” And with that, he was striding across the bridge to his waiting car.

  The idea of learning to drive seemed so farfetched that I did nothing about it. But a week later the dike builder drove up to the door again.

  “Have you been taking your driving lessons?”

  “Well—not exactly. . . .”

  “Haven’t you learned yet how important obedience is? I suppose I’m going to have to teach you myself. Hop in.”

  That afternoon I sat behind the wheel of a motor vehicle for the first time since that disastrous morning eleven years earlier when I had driven the Bren carrier full speed down the company street. Mr. de Graaf returned again and again, and so skilled a teacher was he that a few weeks later I took my driving test and passed it the first time around—a rare thing in Holland. I still could see no reason why I—who didn’t even own a bicycle anymore—should be carrying an automobile driver’s license around in my pocket. But Mr. de Graaf refused to speculate. “That’s the excitement in obedience,” he said. “Finding out later what God had in mind.”

  ———

  And then occurred the event that for a while drove everything else from our minds. In the fall of 1956 came the Hungarian Revolt and with it the flight to the West of hundreds of thousands of terrified and disillusioned people, not only from Hungary but from Yugoslavia and East Germany and every other Communist country. These refugees were herded into vast camps near the borders where conditions were said to be unthinkable. A man spoke in front of the burgomaster’s house in Witte, asking for volunteers to help in the camps. I went in the first bus to leave Holland.

  The volunteers occupied only the front of the bus; the rest of the bus was filled with food, clothing, and medicine to be divided equally among the largest refugee camps, located in West Germany and Austria.

  Nothing I had heard prepared me for what we found. Ten families in a room was commonplace, some of them trying to preserve a vanished way of privacy by hanging up their blankets for walls during the daytime.

  We plunged into this sea of need like swimmers on the edge of the ocean, passing out clothing and medicine, writing letters, trying to locate separated families, making visa applications. And of course, whenever I could, I held prayer services. And it was here that I made an astonishing discovery. Most of these people knew literally nothing about the Bible. Those who had grown up under the old regimes were largely illiterate. The younger ones, who had been raised under Communism, were better educated but of course not in the Bible.

  And so I began, working mostly through interpreters, holding a few small classes in the most basic kind of Bible education. I knew from experience how powerful this knowledge can be, but I was scarcely prepared for its effect on lives in which it was totally new. People who had been sunk in despair became pillars of strength for a whole barracks. I saw bitterness change to hope, shame to pride.

  I remember one old couple, escapees from Yugoslavia. The wife was smelly and fat and had chin hairs an inch long. She at least tried to keep the area around their beds picked up and tidy, but her husband, unsettled by the move from his ancestral farm, just sat on the edge of his cot, rocking endlessly back and forth day after day.

  They began attending the Bible class I taught in their barracks. At first they appeared thunderstruck at what they heard. The old man wept as he listened, letting tears fall unchecked into his lap. By about the fourth class I noticed that the woman’s chin hairs were gone, and the husband had begun to shave.

  Tiny details, of course, except for what they said about two people awakening to a sense of themselves as beloved children of God.

  “If only,” said the old man after the class one day, and then he stopped.

  “If only what?” the interpreter prodded.

  “If only I had known all of this years ago, back home, back in Yugoslavia.”

  That too was becoming my dream.

  ———

  The clothing and other supplies we had brought to the camps had long since run out, and we returned to Holland to try to collect more. While I was home I went once more to the Yugoslavian consulate to apply, as I had before, for a visa.

  Once again there were forms in triplicate to fill out, photographs (which I now ordered by the score) to affix, the unpromising “This will take some time to process.” Only once in filling out the application blank did I hesitate. There it was, halfway down the page, the familiar space for “occupation.” I had the feeling that mine had weighed against me before in these applications. But what was the phrase we had been taught in Glasgow? Walk in the Light, nothing hidden, nothing concealed, everything open and transparent for all to see. And so, as I had before, I wrote MISSIONARY in block letters, and left the comp
leted forms on the desk.

  ———

  When our bus was filled again with blankets and clothing, powdered milk and coffee and chocolate, we set out again for the refugee camps. I was working in West Berlin when the telegram came about Papa. He had died in his garden.

  I caught the next train home. The simple little funeral was held at the graveside. As is the custom in land-hungry Holland, Mama’s grave was reopened and Papa’s casket lowered to rest on top of hers.

  Now the old house was empty indeed. How I missed the booming voice that had filled it from floor to rafters. How I missed the round-shouldered form bent so patiently over the rows of lettuce and cabbages, missed his love for growing things.

  I went back to Germany and threw myself harder than ever into the work with the refugees. The Hungarian Revolt had brought the newest wave of escapees, but actually the camps in West Berlin were old ones, forgotten by the world until this latest event made headlines. In these camps had lived for years the leftovers of the second world war, the homeless, the displaced, the stateless thousands created by the Nazi madness. To me, these people were the saddest of all, especially the children. I met eleven- and twelve-year-olds who had never seen the inside of a real house. Two single persons received greater allotments of space and clothing than a married couple, so marriage was rare, and most of the children were illegitimate. For months I worked to get a group of these youngsters into Holland. I knew plenty of families ready to take them—Geltje and Maartje would have taken some—but again and again the children failed to pass the health requirements. In those cold, damp barracks TB was endemic. The posters on the walls offering entry into Sweden or the United States for young adults free of disease were a mockery to the sick who made up 90 percent of every camp.

  It was while I was in the midst of this hopeless and heartbreaking work that one morning during the Quiet Time that was now an integral part of every day wherever I was, I had the most remarkable impression. It was just as though I heard a voice tell me: “Today you are going to get the visa for Yugoslavia.”