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Published by: Institute of History, Research Centre for the Humanities, Hungarian Academy of Sciences

2023_4_Šmidrkalová–Michela

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Czech Anesthesiologists on Their Way to the Netherlands: Motives, Expectations, and (Dis)Engagement (1968–1970)

Michaela Šmidrkalová
Charles University, Prague
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Miroslav Michela
Charles University, Prague
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 4  (2023): 599-625 DOI 10.38145/2023.4.599

In 1970, the Third European Congress of Anaesthesiology was held in Prague. Paradoxically, many leading Czech and Slovak representatives of the field were absent, having emigrated to the West, predominantly to the Netherlands, following the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968. This emigration, however, did not result in Czechoslovak anaesthesiologists being entirely disconnected from their former colleagues or losing touch with the domestic development of medicine. Despite the Cold War and the Iron Curtain, medical knowledge continued to be exchanged between the West and the East. The congress exemplified how Western anaesthesiologists could meet their Soviet bloc counterparts. Informal contacts, crucial for Czechoslovak (future) migrants, facilitated knowledge dissemination. These contacts with Dutch anaesthesiologists, who became a ‘window to the world,’ enabled them to join European or global medical-scientific networks. The study probes why a significant number of anaesthesiologists emigrated from Czechoslovakia to the Netherlands post-1968, their integration into Dutch society, and their recognition. It questions whether they engaged with the Czechoslovak expatriate community or primarily focused on their profession and relationships with Dutch colleagues. Using anaesthesiology as a lens, the study illustrates how these doctors, having emigrated during 1968–1970, established themselves professionally in Dutch society. They shared a strong professional identity, which assumed a transnational and partly denationalized form. Their medical vocation, along with the experience of living in socialist Czechoslovakia for twenty years, led to a reluctance to partake in exile activities for the ‘homeland cause,’ a sentiment not fully understood by some of the 1948 migrants.

Keywords: Czechoslovakia, Netherlands, migration, exile, anaesthesiology

Introduction

At the turn of August and September, 1970, leading European experts in the field of anesthesiology met in Prague for the Third European Congress of Anaesthesiology. Paradoxically, many important Czech and Slovak representatives of the field were absent. After the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968, they emigrated to the West, specifically to the Netherlands, thus committing the crime of fleeing the republic from the point of view of the Czechoslovak state. This did not mean, however, that these anesthesiologists from Czechoslovakia were completely cut off from their former colleagues and lost contact with developments in medicine back home. Despite the Cold War and the Iron Curtain, there was transfer of medical knowledge between the West and the East, and this congress was one example of an occasion when anesthesiologists from the West could meet colleagues from the Soviet bloc. In addition to these official events, knowledge was also spread through informal contacts, which were crucial for Czechoslovak citizens who would later leave the country. Through their contacts with the Dutch anesthesiologists, who became a “window to the world” for them, they were able to connect to European and global medical scientific networks.1 However, being part of a global community of doctors with a particular specialization also influenced the behavior of these migrants within the Czechoslovak exile community.

Why did so many anesthesiologists from Czechoslovakia emigrate to the Netherlands after 1968? How did these doctors assimilate into Dutch society and gain recognition? Did they become involved in Czechoslovak emigrant society life, or did they concentrate rather on their profession and relations with Dutch colleagues? For this category of migrants (doctors who continued their professional work in the Netherlands), the phenomenon of “double engagement” played an important role. This term refers to the lifestyles of migrants who on the one hand were involved in activities among the community that were related to the status of this group as national exiles but who on the other hand remained active members of their professions. Thus, social and political life in the host country created a kind of “double engagement” in a national environment and a transnational one.2 How can we characterize the “double engagement” among anesthesiologists from Czechoslovakia? These are the questions that we examine in this study.

Using anesthesiology as an example, the study shows the trajectories by which doctors who left Czechoslovakia in 1968–1970 arrived in the Netherlands and how they managed to establish themselves professionally in Dutch society. First, we offer a brief overview of the general context of Czechoslovak migration to the Netherlands after 1968. The study then focuses on the migration of students and doctors to the Netherlands, with emphasis on the period after the Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia in August 1968. Finally, the third part centers on a specific group of Czech physicians (anesthesiologists) in the Netherlands and their life stories from the perspective of their experiences as emigrants and exiles. The study argues that anesthesiologists shared a strong professional engagement and identity which took a transnational and partly de-nationalized, form. Their medical vocation and the experience of living in socialist Czechoslovakia made them reluctant to engage in activities in the exile community that were motivated by or centered around some attachment to the beleaguered “homeland,” and some of the migrants who had fled the country in 1948 found this difficult to understand.

Little research has been done on the Czechoslovak exiles in the Netherlands after 1948, with the exception of several publications by Sylva Sklenářová.3 However, Sklenářová’s works focus primarily on the interwar period and the diplomatic and political context of Czechoslovak-Dutch relations,4 as well as relations with the other countries of today’s Benelux (Belgium and Luxembourg).5 Émigré psychiatrist Miroslav (Mirek) Kabela (1938–2011) has offered important insights into the Czech émigré community in the Netherlands.6 The emigration of physicians is closely intertwined and has many parallels with the emigration of scientists (and in the case of medical scientists, the two topics overlap considerably).7 The materials on Czechoslovak migrants in the Netherlands, collected by Miroslav Kabela and currently held in the Libri Prohibiti Library in Prague, are also valuable. The written testimonies of the Czechoslovak migrants interviewed by Kabela are particularly useful,8 for instance, as are his experiences in psychiatric practice, during which he also helped migrants from Czechoslovakia (and which he mentions in some of his publications).9 Finally, archival sources stored in the Security Services Archives (SSA) in Prague and the Archives of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Czech Republic (AMFA) are also relevant to the topic. The files originating from the activities of the communist security services stored at SSA in many cases contain information on the careers, family backgrounds, and (alleged) motivations of the emigrants. It is of course necessary, however, to remain aware of the context in which these materials were created the purposes which they served (for example, strategies in witness statements made by relatives during interrogations).

Czechoslovak Migration to the Netherlands after 1968

The composition of the Czechoslovak community in the Netherlands changed after World War II and especially after 1948, when the communists seized power in Czechoslovakia and established an authoritarian regime that persecuted its opponents. The communist coup in February 1948 was condemned by the majority of the Dutch, and soon the first Czech and Slovak refugees began to arrive. One of the first refugee groups consisted of about twenty Czech and Slovak students.10 In November 1949, the estimated number of Czechs and Slovaks in the Netherlands was about 200.11

The new migrants of the late 1960s and 1970s completely changed the composition and structure of the Czechoslovak community in the Netherlands. Moreover, the new wave of migrants from Czechoslovakia had a different experience of emigration and assimilation in their new homeland. The situation in the Netherlands in 1968 and afterwards was quite different from that just after the war. The Netherlands was no longer a country recovering from war. It was, rather, a country participating in and benefiting from the economic growth of Western Europe as well as a country in need of a workforce. Thus, the composition of the general migrant community in the Netherlands changed significantly. In addition to migrants from the former Dutch East Indies (today’s Indonesia), the number of economic migrants (guest workers) from the Mediterranean, especially Turkey and Morocco, began to increase from the early 1960s. However, in the attitude of the Dutch towards the Czechoslovaks, some features were common. As had been the case in 1948 after the communists seized power in Czechoslovakia, there was outrage in the Netherlands over the brutal intervention by Warsaw Pact troops in Czechoslovakia twenty years later.

The influx of Czechoslovak migrants from the post-1968 wave was reflected in the numerical increase of the Czech and Slovak diaspora in the Netherlands. From June 1968 to June 1970, a total of 1,203 asylum seekers applied for asylum in the Netherlands, the majority of whom (938) came from Czechoslovakia. The second most numerous group was consisted of people from Portugal, but this group was almost ten times smaller (97 people). In comparison, 49 Poles and 32 Hungarians applied for asylum during this period.12 In 1973, the estimated number of Czechs and Slovaks in the Netherlands, according to the data of the Czechoslovak embassy in the Netherlands, was about 900 persons.13 Seven years later, this number reached 1,000.14 This was a very small number compared to, for example, the 200,000 migrants from Suriname who emigrated to the Netherlands during the migration wave related to Suriname’s declaration of independence in 1975.15 Thus, although Czechoslovakia was significant in terms of asylum requests in 1968–1970, from a numerical point of view, the Czechoslovak migrant community was not a very significant minority in the Netherlands. In the 1970s, almost half of the immigrants to the Netherlands came from either Turkey, Morocco, Suriname, the Netherlands Antilles, or Indonesia.16

The new wave of migrants, however, created rifts within the Czechoslovak exile community. The post-1968 emigrants did not have much confidence in the Czech and Slovak migrants who had come to the Netherlands after 1948. The differences were not only “generational,” but also political. While most of the migrants from the post-February wave were anti-communist, in the case of those who emigrated from Czechoslovakia in 1968–1970, anti-communism did not play such a fundamental role. Some of these migrants were even former members of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia.17 Many of the older émigrés criticized the new ones, complaining that the new wave of Czechoslovak immigrants did not have to grapple with the same material and financial challenges that they had faced in the immediate postwar years. The post-1948 emigrants had arrived in the Netherlands at a time when the country was still struggling with reconstruction after the war, whereas the “post-1968” arrivals were coming to a prosperous country with a high standard of living. The post-1968 migrants envied the “older” generation of émigrés, however, particularly their good professional positions and material standards. Some from the “new” migrant community also hoped that they would soon return home, to Czechoslovakia, and were therefore reluctant to become politically involved in exile. Many had suffered disillusionment and felt a sense of resignation after they experienced the suppression of the liberalization process in Czechoslovakia, and they therefore did not want to take an active part in social or political life abroad. They were looking for a peaceful life in a new environment.18

Kabela, for example, later recalled meeting a married couple who had emigrated to the Netherlands after 1968:

The couple (the man was a psychologist) talked only about what they had already bought and acquired, they focused only on economic matters and prosperity. I even remember that this compatriot told me that in those chaotic days right after the Soviet invasion, he still quickly returned to the Czechoslovakia to get his books or other things. Understandably, the “post-February” [post-1948] refugees did not have much confidence in these new “refugees.”19

Ivan Gaďourek, a Dutch sociologist of Czech origin who emigrated in 1948, also noted the differences between the two Czechoslovak waves of migration and saw the new generation of migrants as “motivated more by economics than by ideas.”20 According to Gaďourek, the more recent arrivals did not assimilate as much, which was why some of them, anti-communists, maintained more contact with dissent groups back home than with similarly oriented exile circles.21

Miroslav Kabela, however, also noted the view from the other side, i.e. that of an emigrant who came to the Netherlands after August 1968. The more recent emigrants complained that the older emigrants resented the newcomers because the “post-August” arrivals enjoyed more favorable material conditions. The more recent emigrant explained the differences and tensions between the generations by the changed economic situation of the Netherlands. He described the Netherlands in the 1960s as a “prosperous system during the conjuncture, where poverty no longer existed.” He also dealt with the question of unfulfilled expectations concerning the involvement of new migrants in the fight against the communist regime in Czechoslovakia. He explained that it wasn’t just that the new arrivals were afraid of being compromised were they to return to Czechoslovakia. According to him, the prevailing feelings were disappointment with life and a sense of resignation. The issue of consumerism and financial matters also played a significant role, because, as he said, “most people have always limited themselves to consuming what is presented to them and don’t do much activity in that which doesn’t fill the wallet.”22 A similar explanation for the disengagement of the 1968–1970 migrants was given to Kabela by another member of this “generation,” who claimed that people in communist Czechoslovakia were tired of all kinds of organizing and engagement.23

Finally, when monitoring the situation among the Czechoslovak emigrants, the Czechoslovak embassy in The Hague also registered the discord between the two waves and stated that “only a small part of the post-August emigrants passively participates in emigration actions.” And here again we find an economic explanation, because according to the aforementioned report, “the desire to save money for a new car, home furnishings and other household necessities” was particularly strong among the new migrants.24 In justifying the non-engagement of migrants, the embassy materials also include references to concerns over “side doors,” i.e. the anxiety over speaking out too vociferously against the ruling communist regime in Czechoslovakia, which could then make it impossible for them to legalize their residency abroad and thus also impossible for them to return to Czechoslovakia to visit family and friends (emigrants were prosecuted in Czechoslovakia for illegally leaving the Republic and given prison sentences by the courts in absentia). The embassy, however, interpreted the efforts to legalize their stays, which occurred in many cases, as evidence of the will of the emigrants to “return” to Czechoslovakia.25 During interrogations by the State Security Service, relatives often made similar statements, expressing their belief that their emigrant family members wanted to return. On the other hand, however, the argument that someone emigrated for professional reasons and was considering returning was more acceptable to the Czechoslovak authorities than any mention of political motives for emigration. Moreover, non-political or non-ideological explanations could prompt the courts to give more lenient sentences. The question is thus whether any of the statements made in the course of such an interrogation can be considered reliable or revealing.26

Although the testimonies of contemporaries and archival materials clearly point to the division of the Czechoslovak exile community in the Netherlands, it is also necessary to mention the efforts made to unite the community. An attempt to unite the Czechoslovak exile community in the Netherlands was made through the launch of the periodical Okno dokořán (Window Wide Open), which was intended as an open democratic platform that would appeal to the whole community. This magazine was founded in February 1969, and members of both generations of migrants contributed to it (both as authors and editors), including Miroslav Kabela, who initially headed the editorial staff.27 Another example of joint activities of both generations of Czechoslovak migrants was the establishment of the association Nederlandse Stichting Comenius in April 1969. This association was recognized by the Federation of Refugee Organizations (Federatie van Organisaties van Vluchtelingen, FOVIN) as the central organization for Czechoslovak refugees in the Netherlands.28 There were also efforts to cooperate with other emigrants from Central Europe. For example, Czechoslovak embassy staff noted the cooperation of Czechoslovak exiles with Polish and Hungarian emigrants. The latter, for example, offered the premises of the Hungarian Cultural House in Amsterdam to other exiled national groups.29

One of the ways of meeting members of the Czechoslovak exile community was through activities and events associated with the exile branch of the Sokol organization.30 The exile branch of Sokol in the Netherlands was short-lived, however. Several Czechoslovak emigrants who settled in the Netherlands after August 1968 founded the first Sokol unit in Delft in October 1973.31 But by 1982, the Sokol Delft no longer existed due to loss of members and little activity.32 Even earlier, at the beginning of 1980s, the smaller section of Sokol Utrecht, which had been established five years earlier, was also dissolved.33

Other associations played important roles in connecting Czechoslovak migrants, such as the scouts. In 1975, the “Czechoslovak Exile Scouts Holland District” was established, which was divided into three smaller sections (North, Center, and South).34 However, in 1987, this branch of exiled scouts was forced to suspend its activities due to the lack of active members.35 The main reason was the fact that the children of emigrants, mostly of those from the second wave of migration after 1968, had “grown up.” But even before that, it was already apparent that the Czechoslovak exile scouts in the Netherlands, which were nationality-oriented, were no longer appealing to the children, who had already assimilated into Dutch society. This is confirmed by the words of one daughter of post-1968 Czechoslovak emigrants, who as a child went to exile scout camps and later, as an adult, shared her feelings with Kabela:

I did not like their overly Czech feelings and often unkind attitude towards everything Dutch. These scout leaders lived perhaps mostly in a closed Czech environment and did not realize that we were already mostly Dutch children, accustomed to the Dutch way of way of life.36

The Netherlands as a Center of Czechoslovak Students and Doctors

In the first years after World War II, Dutch migration policy was characterized by a rather conservative approach and a reluctance on the part of the government and authorities to accept large numbers of refugees. The postwar economic recovery of the Netherlands was still underway, and the country was faced with an influx of migrants from former Dutch colonies.37

The exception to this approach and a key moment for future Dutch students (and future doctors) from Czechoslovakia was the founding of the University Asylum Fund (Universitair Asiel Fonds, UAF) in the Netherlands in the spring of 1948.38 The creation of the UAF was a reaction to the events of February 1948 in Czechoslovakia and the takeover of power by the communists. However, the path to establishing this fund was not easy. Although representatives of the Dutch government expressed their outrage about the developments in Czechoslovakia, they nevertheless refused to accept Czechoslovak refugees and returned illegal immigrants to West Germany. Eventually, the Dutch administration agreed to accept 100 students from Czechoslovakia at most on the condition that an organization be set up to guarantee that “undesirable persons shall be obliged to leave and to arrange for sufficient funds for the asylum seekers to actualize their stay.” Therefore, on April 9, 1948, the Dutch universities founded the UAF, the first refugee organization in the Netherlands dedicated to supporting émigré students at universities.39 In May of the same year, a committee consisting of representatives of the Dutch Student Council and the Dutch Refugee Aid Federation visited refugee camps in West Germany and selected Czechoslovak students to receive scholarships.40

Thanks to UAF scholarships, the Netherlands became one of the centers of Czechoslovak émigré students. UAF statistics show the predominance of students from Czechoslovakia in the first year of the fund’s existence. In November 1948, 56 scholarship recipient were registered, 43 of whom came from Czechoslovakia. The second largest group (Hungarians) were represented by “only” ten scholarship holders. The other students came from Poland (three), Latvia (three), and Bulgaria (two). In the early years after the UAF was founded, around 400 students applied for the few available scholarships each year. By the mid-1950s, however, the fund’s budget (which consisted mainly of donations from the Dutch) had declined significantly, as had the number of scholarships awarded. For example, in 1953, only 26 people were still studying on UAF scholarships. This trend changed after the Hungarian Revolution in 1956. Thanks to the UAF, more than 100 Hungarian students were given the opportunity to study at Dutch universities. This was made possible by an extra budget from the Dutch government, which was responding to the support that Hungarian refugees enjoyed in Dutch society. This was also reflected in the fact that the Netherlands accepted a total of more than 3,000 Hungarian refugees at the time.41

After the invasion of Czechoslovakia by the Warsaw Pact troops in August 1968, like after the coup of February 1948, the Netherlands again offered Czechoslovak students the opportunity to attend Dutch universities on UAF scholarships.42 According to Miroslav Kabela, in the 1970/1971 academic year, there were 97 Czechoslovak students (58 male and 39 female) enrolled at Dutch universities. Most of them studied in Amsterdam (22), followed by Nijmegen (19), Utrecht (16), Delft (eight), Eindhoven (eight), and in smaller numbers in other university towns as well.43 In the aftermath of 1968, however, students did not make up as high a proportion of Czechoslovak émigrés as they had in the post-February emigration wave. The language barrier, especially in the case of students, seems to have played a more significant role for this generation of migrants. According to Kabela, many students choose Slavic languages as their field of study precisely because they did not know Dutch. He even recorded the story of a student who initially decided to study medicine in the Netherlands but ended up switching to Slavic languages because of the language barrier.44

In some cases, the offers of scholarships and university educational opportunities for migrants brought students to the Netherlands who otherwise would not have chosen the country as their place of exile. This was the case for one young university student from Czechoslovakia who shared his feelings with Kabela:

I’m miserable here, but as I have a scholarship here, I am condemned to live in the Netherlands for three more years. To me, this country is unfamiliar, I feel somehow distant from everything, even objectively nice things don’t appeal to me, and nothing touches me emotionally. (...) I know that I will not find what I have lost here and that I cannot live here. Once I graduate, I will go to France or Germany. I am convinced that a Czech feels better there.45

One of the reasons the student gave for his dissatisfaction with the Netherlands was the local landscape. According to him, it was a “flat, empty, hollow country, cut into geometric rectangles by straight canals.”46

Other migrants from Czechoslovakia also found it difficult to get used to Dutch culture and habits. For example, for one young woman, Czechoslovakia remained her home and country because it was “a picturesque landscape, hills and forests, meadows and little fields where potatoes, onions, and all sorts of things grew; roads lined with fruit trees with juicy apples, plums and pears—just pick them, little villages, old houses, churches, people mowing the grass.” In the Netherlands, on the other hand, nature was understood as “a cow in a meadow,” and the last remains of “real nature” became “reserves surrounded by fences with ʻno entryʼ signs.”47 This was probably a more general trend, or at least this was suggested by the results of a survey of 105 Czech and Slovak migrants conducted by Kabela in March 1970. According to the results, 69 percent of the respondents missed the landscapes of Czechoslovakia. In this context, it is noteworthy that “only” 32 percent of the respondents mentioned a problem with the Dutch language.48

In addition to students emigrating to the Netherlands, the 1968 migration wave was also characterized by many qualified middle-aged emigrants, including doctors. As of 1977, for example, there were 108 physicians of Czechoslovak origin (or physicians who had studied medicine in Czechoslovakia) working in the Netherlands. This was the third largest number of physicians of foreign origin, after Belgians (183 physicians) and Indonesians (142).49 The proportion of doctors and particularly anesthesiologists Czechoslovak origin becomes even more remarkable given the relatively small size of the Czechoslovak exile community in the Netherlands. If we look at specializations, we find that, in addition to anesthesiologists, many psychiatrists of Czech and Slovak origin worked in the Netherlands after 1968.50 The doctors from Czechoslovakia working in the Netherlands also included surgeons, gynecologists, and other specialists.51

In the 1960s, at the time of the partial liberalization process in Czechoslovakia, many of these people in the medical profession traveled to Western countries, including the Netherlands, for internships or at least conferences. They thus became involved in international networks of their medical specialization.52 For some doctors, the foreign internship or congress, for which they left Czechoslovakia legally, then became the beginning of life as an émigré (and they were abroad illegally the moment when their permitted period of stay expired).53 This involved not only Western countries, but also Third World countries, especially Africa.54 However, some doctors also emigrated in a more common way, i.e. by not returning from permitted vacations abroad.55

Doctors usually had no problem finding employment in the Netherlands. Indeed, they often emigrated at the invitation of Dutch colleagues, having already been promised a job. As doctors, they also enjoyed social prestige, as reflected by the many Dutch newspaper articles about their fate and work in Dutch hospitals. Miroslav Kabela collected many of these articles and published some of them in the book Zdravotnictví v Holandsku (Medical Care in Netherlands).56 Not knowing Dutch was probably not a major problem for the doctors who had graduated in Czechoslovakia and were already experienced practitioners. Most of them spoke English, and knowledge of German was also widespread among them. Language skills were naturally also related to foreign experiences and stays.

Czech Anesthesiologists in the Netherlands after 1968

The Third European Congress of Anaesthesiology, mentioned in the introduction to this article, took place in Prague from August 31 to September 4, 1970 and was attended by more than 1,500 people. The decision to hold the congress in Prague was taken by the World Federation of Societies of Anesthesiologists (WFSA), which was established in the Netherlands in 1955.57 The Czechoslovak press of the time described this decision as “a great recognition of the work of Czechoslovak anesthesiologists.”58 The importance of the Congress was also underlined by the fact that its representatives were received by the then Czechoslovak President Ludvík Svoboda at Prague Castle.59 One of the anesthesiologists who contributed to the organization of the congress was prominent anaesthesiologist Bořivoj Dvořáček (1920–2014). However, at the time of the congress, Dvořáček was already living in Rotterdam.

After the suppression of the Prague Spring, when many doctors emigrated from Czechoslovakia, the Netherlands was struggling with a shortage of anesthesiologists.60 Thus, many Czechoslovak anesthesiologists emigrated to the country, knowing that they would be able to work in their field there. In several cases, these émigrés already had contacts in the Netherlands, i.e. they knew local doctors who had arranged jobs for them. The aforementioned Bořivoj Dvořáček,61 for example, who emigrated simply by not returning from his internship in a Rotterdam hospital,62 maintained contacts with Dutch anesthesiologists, including D. H. G. Keuskamp (1915–1992), who not only made Dvořáček’s internship in Rotterdam possible, but also arranged internships for other anesthesiologists from Czechoslovakia in Nijmegen and Amsterdam. This was happening before August 1968, when travel from Czechoslovakia was still relatively free.63

Zdeněk Kalenda (1927–2010), another prominent Czech anesthesiologist, was also connected to international medical networks before 1968. He maintained contact with Bob Smalhout (1927–2015), a Dutch anesthesiologist from Utrecht. After 1968, Kalenda and Smalhout continued their collaboration in Utrecht, focusing mainly on research on capnometry, and together they became “recognized worldwide as the founders of the use of capnometry in a variety of clinical settings.”64 In the field of capnography Smalhout also collaborated with other Czechoslovak experts who, unlike Kalenda, did not emigrate after 1968. One example was anesthesiologist Václav Trávníček (1924–2010), who worked at the Military University Hospital in Prague.65 Smalhout also traveled to Czechoslovakia on various occasions after 1968, and in some cases, he served as a messenger, carrying the suitcases and letters of Czechoslovak emigrants across the Iron Curtain from the Netherlands to Prague. However, he seems not to have been happy about playing this role. As Václav Trávníček reportedly said in 1970, “Professor Smalhout would very much like to visit Czechoslovakia next year, and he certainly does not want to do anything that might endanger this visit.”66 Smalhout’s involvement in the Czechoslovak exile networks thus probably had its limits, which were largely due to the connection of the Czechoslovak environment to the security services.

Something the anesthesiologists shared, as was true of doctors in general, was their experiences as recipients of foreign internships. Zdeněk Kalenda had lived in Guinea in the early 1960s, and he also traveled to France, Belgium, Austria, and Switzerland. He had numerous professional contacts in an array of countries. He was in contact with the leaders of clinics in Vienna, Munich, Paris, Brussels, Montreal, and New York.67 Foreign internships were also important for the career of Bořivoj Dvořáček. He spent a year in Copenhagen at the WHO training center in the late 1950s. In Prague, he then tried to apply the Danish experience in creating the concept of anesthesiology-resuscitation departments.68 Two others Czech anesthesiologists emigrating to the Netherlands after 1968, Květoslava Malínská (1923–?) and Karel Otruba (1918–1997), had worked in Africa for some time through programs run by the Czechoslovak government.69 Květoslava Malínská, who emigrated to the Netherlands with her husband, surgeon Ladislav Malínský (1918–2005), worked in Kenya in the mid-1960s. Their friend Karel Otruba, a pediatrician and later an anesthesiologist, worked in Morocco before emigrating to the Netherlands.70

However, some anesthesiologists from Czechoslovakia came to the Netherlands without prior acquaintanceship with Dutch anesthesiologists and also without the experience of stays abroad. Miroslav Květ (1934–), for instance, reached the Netherlands by being approached by Dutch officials in an Austrian refugee camp with the offer of a job in the Netherlands. In fact, Dutch officials were deliberately looking for qualified people in the West German and Austrian camps, and anesthesiologists were in great demand at the time. As in the case of some Czechoslovak students in 1948, an offer received during a stay in a refugee camp led the emigrant to choose the Netherlands as his or her new home. The aforementioned Bob Smalhout was allegedly behind the efforts to recruit Czechoslovak anesthesiologists. Smalhout asked the Dutch embassies to conduct a survey in West Germany and Austria to find out whether there were any emigrant anesthesiologists in those countries. At least one of them (Miroslav Květ) ended up coming to the Utrecht hospital this way.71 Květ later worked in Delft, and at the end of the 1980s, he married a Polish student who was in the Netherlands on a study stay.72

The fact that anesthesiologists were in high demand in the Netherlands is evidenced by the case of Karel Otruba. He was originally a pediatrician who, before emigrating, had worked in Prague as a trainer in infectious diseases at the Institute for the Further Training of Physicians. As already mentioned, he emigrated to the Netherlands from Morocco, where he had been sent by the Czechoslovak Ministry of Health at the beginning of 1968 on condition that he return to Czechoslovakia in mid-January 1971, which he did not do.73 As Otruba’s colleague from Utrecht, the surgeon Ladislav Malínský later recalled, Otruba, as a specialist in pediatric medicine, was at first unable to find employment in Utrecht. Zdeněk Kalenda, who was already working in the anesthesiology center of the Utrecht hospital, came with an offer to Otruba to specialize in anesthesiology, with which he helped him. Thus, Karel Otruba became an anesthesiologist and continued to practice this specialty until his retirement in 1983.74 Otruba’s story is thus a case of mutual aid between Czechoslovak migrants and doctors, both of whom emigrated after 1968. However, there was also cooperation across migration waves in the Czechoslovak exile community (i.e., the earlier migrants helped the new migrants after 1968).75

Ladislav Malínský later recalled that as a surgeon it took him longer to find employment in Utrecht. His wife, anesthesiologist Květoslava Malínská, with whom he had also emigrated to the Netherlands from Africa (Kenya), got a job in Utrecht immediately.76 Thus, a large Czechoslovak anesthesiology group was formed in Utrecht.77 Malínský later recalled his colleagues and their visits: “Our flat was occupied by a group of complementary anesthesiologists, and I was condemned to the role of a non-participating listener. My attempt to return the conversation to a more general level was not even helped by a signboard that said, ʻtalking about anesthesiology is forbidden in this apartment and punishable during meals.ʼ”78 However, it should be remembered that the large group of Czechoslovak anesthesiologists worked in Utrecht only for a limited time, and the doctors gradually moved to other Dutch cities. For example, Malínský and his wife moved to Achtenhoek after about two years.79 Miroslav Květ, as mentioned above, eventually moved and worked in Delft.80

The fate of Miloš Zvonař (1937–) offers a somewhat distinctive case. Although Zvonař was younger than the anesthesiologists mentioned above, he managed to complete a foreign internship before his emigration, or rather he emigrated from this internship to the Netherlands. He first traveled to the Austrian Institute of Anesthesiology in Innsbruck in 1967 for a fellowship and then received an invitation from the University of Leiden. He thus worked there after his arrival in the Netherlands and completed his postgraduate education, which he had begun in Prague. After some time, he settled with his wife, also an anesthesiologist whom he had met during his studies in Prague, in Raamsdonksveer. For Miroslav Kabela, Miloš Zvonař was an example of a doctor who did not want to get used to the Dutch way of working. According to Kabela, some doctors exaggerated their social status as doctors and did not respect the rules at their workplaces. This was allegedly true Zvonař, who wanted to continue working according to the habits he had acquired in Czechoslovakia. This concerned, for instance, working hours. In Czechoslovakia he went skiing or shopping at three o’clock in the afternoon in the winter, but in the Netherlands, he was expected to work until six o’clock in the evening. He didn’t want to join the coffee and tea breaks with his colleagues and other employees; he preferred to go home earlier.81

Miloš Zvonař eventually made a career also in another field, however. He became a Dutch politician. He was elected to the Dutch House of Representatives in 2002 as a member of the Pim Fortuyn List.82 Zvonař retired from Dutch politics in 2003 and moved back to the Czech Republic. When he was a member of the Dutch Parliament, his past caught the interest of the Dutch media. As Kabela stated later, the media comments were not “favorable” to Zvonař in this regard. Dutch journalists, for example, described Zvonař as “a man of conflict who did not stop arguing even at the operating table.”83 The media also recalled Zvonař’s conflicts with coworkers, which had led to his firing. In December 1974, for example, thirteen of his colleagues asked the director of the hospital where Zvonař was working to dismiss him, and he was asked to leave the following June. The media also quoted the hospital’s lawyer (Zvonař unsuccessfully sued the hospital after his dismissal). According to the attorney,

he treated his colleagues in a very unpleasant manner, did not attend weekly medical conferences, not even when it came to important analyses of deceased patients, did not take enough interest in the pre-operative examination, did not know where the medical records were, did not actively participate in the post-operative treatment, did not maintain sufficient contact and cooperation with other specialists, etc.84

It seems that Zvonař had problems with other coworkers even before his emigration from Czechoslovakia, and this was not merely a problem of “adaptation” to work habits in a foreign country. In fact, his mother stated during an interrogation by the Czechoslovak State Security in 1977 that her son emigrated not only because of his desire to complete his medical education abroad and the opportunity to work in research in the field of anesthesiology and heart transplantation, but also because of “the poor working conditions at his last workplace, where he had many enemies among his co-workers—doctors—because of his political views and open behavior.”85

According to Zvonař’s mother, neither he nor his wife maintained contact with Czechoslovak emigrants in the Netherlands, and he was not active in any compatriot association. He continued to express “progressive views” abroad and did not change his beliefs as a “communist-functionary.” Zvonař and his wife expressed themselves in similar language in their application to the Czechoslovak authorities to have their residence legalized, which they eventually achieved in 1980. Thus, their prosecution for the crime of leaving the Republic was postponed.86

However, it was not true that Miloš Zvonař was not involved in emigrant associations. As Kabela later recalled, it was Zvonař who came up with the initiative to establish an association through which Czechoslovak emigrants in the Netherlands could meet regularly. Thus, he was at the foundation of the Comenius association in 1969 and even became its first chairman, if only for a short time. Zvonař was allegedly afraid of “empty politicking” and thus of creating contradictions among his compatriots. Therefore, he wanted “to keep the management of the association firmly in his own hands and only use the help of others when organizing a compatriot meeting.” That is why many people did not like his “undemocratic attitude” and therefore soon, on February 27, 1970, a new leadership of the association was formed which did not include Zvonař.87 His relatively short involvement in this association was probably also based on the fact that he was trying to legalize his stay in the Netherlands. It should also be noted that Zvonař did not see the association as politically oriented. To him, it was merely a means of socializing. In any case, Zvonař’s file from the Security Services Archives did not mention this involvement, although contemporary documents from the Czechoslovak embassy in The Hague mentioned Zvonař as the chairman of the Comenius association (or rather mentioned his replacement by Theodor Vondráček in 1970).88

In the case of anesthesiologists from Czechoslovakia, the sources reveal little about their involvement in “association life” or the Czechoslovak exile movement. It cannot be said that they were not engaged at all, however, but professional motives again seem to have prevailed. For example, Bořivoj Dvořáček maintained contacts with his colleagues in Czechoslovakia even after his emigration. He helped organize a fundraising campaign which made it possible to bring professional publications to Czechoslovakia and thus keep Czechoslovak anesthesiology at a high professional level. Moreover, thanks to his support, the Third European Congress of Anaesthesiology was held in Prague in 1970.89 Doctors also socialized and met informally, especially among themselves. However, the sources indicate no significant involvement in exile activities among members of this community. Ladislav Malínský, for example, contributed literary articles to Okno dokořán (and his texts were reportedly popular among readers),90 but this was a matter of literary activity rather than political engagement. What one can say about the post-1968 wave in general was true of doctors and anesthesiologists in particular: its involvement in the fight against the communist regime in Czechoslovakia was very small, especially compared to the generation which had emigrated after 1948. Zvonař’s involvement in the aforementioned exile association could not have been very significant, given that this involvement was not noted by the State Security and thus apparently not perceived as a threat to the communist regime in Czechoslovakia. And it probably wasn’t really a threat, since it was more a meeting of compatriots than “politicking.” In other words, it was something that was commonly and informally happening among emigrant doctors.

Conclusion

The story of the Czechoslovak anesthesiologists who emigrated to the Netherlands in 1968–1970 was the story of the intersection of the histories of two countries divided by the Iron Curtain. On the one hand, there was a significant milestone in Czechoslovak history, namely 1968 and the suppression of the Prague Spring by the invasion of Warsaw Pact troops and the resulting migration wave, which included a large number of experts, scientists, and doctors. On the other hand, there was the situation in the Dutch health sector, which suffered from a shortage of doctors in certain fields in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Anesthesiologists were members of a sought-after profession in the Netherlands, and this probably explains in no small part why migrants from Czechoslovakia, who probably would have ended up in another country, eventually settled in the Netherlands. The decisive moment for them was the offer of employment in their field of specialization. Many of these migrants had already had experiences with foreign internships or had established contacts with Dutch doctors. It was certainly no coincidence that many Czechoslovak anesthesiologists emigrated to the Netherlands from Africa, where they had been on missions for several years.

However, history is influenced by people, and in the case of the path of Czech anesthesiologists to the Netherlands, anesthesiologist Bob Smalhout was an important figure. He maintained contacts and helped not only Czechoslovak emigrants (doctors and specifically anesthesiologists) in the Netherlands, and he also maintained contacts with doctors in Czechoslovakia. This position between Czechoslovak experts in exile and those who did not emigrate placed him (probably unintentionally) in the role of an intermediary between Czechoslovak exiles in the Netherlands and their families and acquaintances back home.

The stories and experiences of the anesthesiologists showed that in the case of doctors, we can talk about a certain professional identity, not only in relation to other doctors in the Netherlands, but also within the expatriate community. Czech and Slovak doctors in the Netherlands formed informal networks, especially if they shared the same workplace. Thus, in terms of the concept of “double engagement” mentioned in the introduction, there was a considerable overlap of professional and national identities in this case.

The existence of a certain professional identity (shared with their Dutch colleagues) was a prerequisite for Czechoslovak doctors to integrate more easily into society in the Netherlands. In this case, however, although this may not have been the rule, political engagement as members of the exile community was usually more marginalized. If we add to this the efforts of some emigrants to avoid definitively “closing the door” to returning to or at least visiting Czechoslovakia, we can see why the migrants of 1968–1970 could not meet the expectations of those who had emigrated from Czechoslovakia 20 years earlier and who expected the new migrants to be more politically involved (more anti-communist) in the migrant community. Each generation of migrants was specific in this respect, although in some cases it was impossible to speak of two different generations in terms of age (while the time of emigration separated the two “generations” by more than 20 years, the age difference between the migrants was generally much smaller). However, belonging to the post-1968 migrant community was also a certain status that was attached to doctors from this migration wave, whether they wanted it or not.

Anesthesiologists who emigrated to the Netherlands after 1968 continued to work there. Thus, as was true for doctors from Czechoslovakia in general, the Netherlands was not a “transfer station” for them to other countries, and they did not return to Czechoslovakia (before 1989). From this point of view, we can assume that their lives in the Netherlands met their expectations or at least were such that they had no need to return or travel elsewhere. The unfulfilled vision of life in the Netherlands after 1968 concerned younger people and students more. For Czechoslovak doctors who had employment and a certain economic level in the Netherlands, further migration abroad was not on the agenda. However, as the example of anesthesiologists shows, internal migration within the Netherlands was not rare. Their professions, jobs, specializations, and work contacts all seemed to act as a kind of safety net on which they could rely to overcome the widespread mood of post-1968 migrants from Czechoslovakia, which one of them, whom we have already quoted above, defined as “life’s disappointment and resignation.”

Archival Sources

Archiv Ministerstva zahraničních věcí [Archives of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Czech Republic], Prague, (AMFA)

Nizozemsko [Netherlands] TO-O

Libri Prohibiti Library, Prague.

Archiv bezpečnostních složek [Security Services Archives], Prague (SSA)

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1 On the history of medical science transfers during the Cold War see, for example, Vargha, Polio Across the Iron Curtain; Loeckx, Cold War Triangle; on the phenomenon of migration of doctors see, for example, Connell, Migration and the Globalisation of Health Care.

2 See, for example, Mazzucato, “The Double Engagement.”

3 See, for example, Sklenářová, “Osudy exilu z roku 1948 v Nizozemí”; Sklenářová, “Nizozemská špionážní aféra.”

4 See, for example, Sklenářová, “Čechoslováci v Nizozemsku v první polovině 20. století”; Sklenářová, Diplomatické vztahy Československa a Nizozemska; Sklenářová, “Kulturní vztahy mezi Československem a Nizozemskem.”

5 See, for example, Sklenářová. Čechoslováci v zemích dnešního Beneluxu; Sklenářová. “Krajané v belgické hornické obci Winterslag.”

6 Kabela et al., Holandsko a my; Kabela, “Český exil 1948 a 1968 v Nizozemsku”; Miroslav Kabela, “Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů a vztahů a historie českých emigrantů v Nizozemí.” Unpublished manuscript. Libri Prohibiti Library, Prague.

7 See, for example Kostlán and Velková, Wissenschaft im Exil; Štrbáňová and Kostlán, Sto českých vědců v exilu; Hálek, Ve znamení “bdělosti a ostražitosti.”

8 These interviews are part of an extensive manuscript titled “Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů a vztahů a historie českých emigrantů v Nizozemí.” Libri Prohibiti Library, Prague.

9 See, for example, Kabela, “Vliv emigrace na psychické problémy.”

10 Kabela, “Český exil 1948 a 1968 v Nizozemsku,” 2.

11 AMFA, Nizozemsko [Netherlands] TO-O, 1945–1959, Letter from the Ambassador of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic in Haag, November 18, 1949.

12 Walaardt, “New Refugees?,” 80.

13 AMFA, Nizozemsko TO-T, 1970–74, Czechoslovak emigration in the Netherlands and its activities in 1973. Political Report No. 13, September 11, 1973, 1.

14 AMFA, Nizozemsko TO-T, 1980–89, Political Report No. 53 – Operation of anti-communist centers and propaganda against the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic and evaluation of the activities of the Czechoslovak emigration in the Netherlands, November 27, 1980, 3.

15 Müggem, Beyond Dutch Borders, 42.

16 Engbersen, “Migration transitions,” 93.

17 On the broader context of the two Czechoslovak migration waves from 1948 and 1968 in general see Brouček, “Emigrace 1948 a 1968 ze svědectví účastníků.”

18 Kabela, “Český exil 1948 a 1968 v Nizozemsku,” 6–7.

19 Kabela, Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů, 259.

20 Gaďourek, Cestou Komenského, 174.

21 Ibid.

22 Kabela, “Češi a Slováci uvízlí,” 183.

23 Kabela, Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů, 443.

24 AMFA, Nizozemsko TO-T, 1970–74, Czechoslovak emigration in the Netherlands and its activities in 1973. Political Report No. 13, September 11, 1973, 1.

25 AMFA, Nizozemsko TO-T, 1970–74, Czechoslovak emigration in the Netherlands and its activities in 1973. Political Report No. 13, September 11, 1973, 1–2.

26 See the testimonies of relatives of emigrating anesthesiologists quoted below.

27 Formanová, Gruntorád and Přibáň, Exilová periodika, 194–95.

28 Kabela, “Češi a Slováci uvízlí,” 184.

29 AMFA, Nizozemsko TO-T, 1970–74, Czechoslovak emigration in the Netherlands and its influence on the labor and communist movement, November 2, 1970, 1.

30 Sokol was a physical education organization founded in Prague in 1862. Sokol events were associated with Czech nationalism and patriotism. After the communists took power in Czechoslovakia in 1948, Sokol was suppressed, some of its members were imprisoned, and some emigrated from Czechoslovakia. Exile Sokol units were then founded all over the world, especially in countries with a large Czechoslovak community.

31 Waldauf, Sokol, vol. 2, 578.

32 Waldauf, Sokol, vol. 3, 187.

33 Ibid., 133.

34 Břečka, Kronika čs. skautského hnutí, 266.

35 Ibid., 274.

36 Kabela, “Češi a Slováci uvízlí,” 186.

37 On Dutsch asylum policy in this period, see, for example: Berghuis, Geheel ontdaan van onbaatzuchtigheid. On refugees in the Netherlands in general, see Bronkhorst, Een tijd van komen.

38 On the history of the UAF see Van Esterik, Het zout der aarde.

39 Goedhart, Spolu “alejí Evropy,” 49.

40 Van Esterik, Het zout der aarde, 30. Quoted by Van Rooi, De opvang van vluchteling-studenten, 15.

41 UAF. Oprichtingsverhaal. Accessible online at: https://www.uaf.nl/over-ons/oprichtingsverhaal/ (Accessed May 1, 2023)

42 On the asylum policy of the Netherlands after 1968 see, for example, Doesschate. Asielbeleid en belangen.

43 Kabela, Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů, 289.

44 Ibid., 363.

45 Kabela, “Vliv emigrace na psychické problémy,” 33–35.

46 Ibid., 34.

47 Mulder, “Jak jsem se skoro stal vlastizrádcem,” 132–33.

48 Kabela, Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů, 281. After arriving in the Netherlands, the Czechs and Slovaks had the opportunity to attend an intensive language course at the Language Centre for Foreigners in Berkenhoven. Not all of them took advantage of it.

49 The fourth largest group (West Germans) was almost half the number of Czechs and Slovaks, with 61 working in the Netherlands. In comparison, the statistics reported 50 Polish doctors (corresponding to fifth place) and 19 Hungarian doctors (eleventh place). Kabela, Zdravotnictví v Holandsku, 51.

50 Among them was psychiatrist Jiří Diamant (b. 1930), a Holocaust survivor and author of a book on the psychological problems of emigration. See Diamant, Psychologické problémy emigrace.

51 Kabela, Zdravotnictví v Holandsku.

52 In Utrecht, for example, surgeon Arnošt Axler (1931–?) worked as a trainee in 1967. At the end of August 1968, he emigrated to the Netherlands (he didn’t return to Czechoslovakia from vacation).

53 For example, Jiří Diamant did not return from the psychological congress in Amsterdam in 1968. František Křivka (1925–?), who had worked in the radiology department of the Utrecht hospital since October 1968, also decided not to return to Czechoslovakia. Similarly, Jiří Rádl (1930–?) did not return from his internship at the Institute for Rheumatism Research University Hospital in Leiden, where he had also been (first legally) since October 1968.

54 As shown below, this was particularly true in the case of anesthesiologists. However, this was also the case for other doctors, for example the general practitioner Ctirad Kučera (1931–?), who emigrated to the Netherlands at the beginning of the 1970s from Algeria. Kučera was then engaged in the Czechoslovak exiled Scout movement and also contributed to the emigrant magazine Okno dokořán.

55 This is how, for example, gynecologist Jaromír Špinka (1923–2016) emigrated to the Netherlands: he visited friends in Amsterdam during his vacations. Špinka used to visit the Netherlands frequently in the 1960s (every year). The aforementioned Arnošt Axler also emigrated in this way, i.e. by not returning from vacation.

56 Kabela, Zdravotnictví v Holandsku, 90–95.

57 Czechoslovakia was from the beginning an “observing country.”

58 “III. evropský anesteziologický kongres,” 2.

59 Šmíd, “Mimořádný úspěch,” 2.

60 However, this was no longer the case 15–20 years later, as noted in the early 1990s by B. Dvořáček: “University hospitals did not have any vacant (unfilled) places at that time. The domestic supply of graduated doctors is more than redundant.” Dworacek, “Anesteziologie,” 36.

61 He changed his name to Dworacek in the Netherlands.

62 Málek, “Doc. MUDr. Bořivoj Dvořáček, CSc.,” 46.

63 Dvořáček, “Postavení a rozvoj anesteziologie.”

64 Málek, “Kdo byl prof. Zdeněk Kalenda,” 300.

65 Trávníček, Kapnografie, 15.

66 Sbírka svazky kontrarozvědného rozpracování. SSA file KR-742297MV.

67 Sbírka Svazky tajných spolupracovníků [Informer Files Group]. SSA TS-838065MV.

68 Málek, “Doc. MUDr. Bořivoj Dvořáček, CSc.,” 46.

69 Health service was one of the areas in which Czechoslovakia was significantly involved as part of its aid to developing countries. The aid was mainly focused on “primary health problems in the developing countries concerned, particularly medical science and research, the improvement of curative and preventive treatment, health service organization and management, additional training of medical personnel, all-round exchange of information and exchange on experts.” Párová and Vašíček, The Medicine of Friendship, 16. As far as Czechoslovak assistance to developing countries in general is concerned, by 1982 there were 7,000 Czechoslovak experts working in developing countries. Ibid., 77. See also: Iacob, “Paradoxes of Socialist Solidarity;” Iacob, “Health;” Vargha, “Technical Assistance.”

70 More Czechoslovak experts (not exclusively doctors) emigrated from Morocco in 1968–1970. Sbírka Správa vyšetřování StB – vyšetřovací spisy [Investigation Directorate of the StB – Investigation Files]. SSA V-27901MV.

71 Sbírka svazky kontrarozvědného rozpracování [Counterintelligence Files Group]. SSA KR-742297MV.

72 Sbírka Objektové svazky [Subject Files Group]. SSA OB-370ČB.

73 Sbírka Správa vyšetřování StB – vyšetřovací spisy. SSA V-27901MV.

74 Malínský, “Vzpomínka na Karla Otrubu,” 13.

75 Michela, Scheibner and Šmidrkalová, “Projekt “Émigré Europe,” 39.

76 Malínský, “Vzpomínka na Karla Otrubu,” 13.

77 In addition to Květoslava Malínská, the aforementioned Zdeněk Kalenda, Karel Otruba, and Miroslav Květ. Other Czech doctors also worked at the Utrecht hospital after 1968, for example gynecologist Jaromír Špinka. He later settled in Delft. Together with his wife Marie, they were active in the Czechoslovak exile Sokol organization.

78 Ibid.

79 Ibid.

80 Sbírka svazky kontrarozvědného rozpracování. SSA KR-742297MV.

81 Kabela, Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů, 342.

82 Bob Smalhout also ran for this party for the Dutch Senate elections in 2003.

83 Kabela, Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů, 342.

84 Ibid.

85 Sbírka Správa vyšetřování StB – vyšetřovací spisy. SSA V-30941MV.

86 Ibid.

87 Kabela, Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů, 257; Kabela, “Češi a Slováci uvízlí,” 184.

88 AMFA, Nizozemsko TO-T, 1970–74, Post-August emigration in the Netherlands from January 1 to July 31, 1970, 2.

89 Málek, “Doc. MUDr. Bořivoj Dvořáček, CSc.,” 46.

90 Kabela, Přehled historických česko-nizozemských kontaktů, 449.

* This study was conducted under the auspices of the research project “Émigré Europe: Civil Engagement Transfers between Eastern Europe and the Low Countries 1933–1989,” which received financial support from the CELSA fund (Central Europe Leuven Strategic Alliance).

 

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The Question of God in Émigré Ghent: Religious Heritage, Émigré Politics, and Dialogical Negotiation among Migrants and Hosts during the Cold War

Luke Dodds
KADOC Documentation and Research Centre on Religion, Culture and Society, KU Leuven
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 4  (2023): 626-649 DOI 10.38145/2023.4.626

This article explores the influence of various factors on the formation of identity among the community of World War II Polish veterans which formed in the Flemish city of Ghent after the rise of a socialist regime in their home country. Challenging popular perceptions of the term “émigré,” the article highlights the diverse ways in which the members of this community promoted their heritage within their host society. Particular attention is given to the role of religious and cultural heritage, the émigré community’s engagement with anti-communist politics, and the evolution of this political engagement over time. Interactions with the local Catholic Diocese of Ghent are examined through a framework of Polish Catholicism as a “lived religion” which facilitated the formation of a hybrid identity. In particular, the role of Carlos Bressers, a Belgian priest and chaplain on whose personal archive the research is based, is analyzed. Through his position and contacts, Bressers served as a mediating figure in the negotiation of hybrid identity and helped the community of Polish veterans carve out a place for itself in the city of Ghent.

Keywords: Polish migration, émigrés, lived religion, dialogical identity, anti-communism

The presence of a Polish exile community in Belgium dates back as far as the country’s independence in 1830. Polish refugees arrived after having fled the failed November Uprising of the same year and settled in areas across Western Europe throughout the rest of the century in the Wielka Emigracja (Great Emigration).1 Students, Polish Jews, and eventually economic migrants would continue to migrate westward in the interwar period,2 but World War II led to a significant and distinct swell in the Central and Eastern European migrant populations of Belgium. Some 20,000 Displaced Persons (DPs) arrived in the country either as a result of military activities or as forced laborers who had been dragged across Europe by the German occupation. Though the DPs had originally come from several of the countries that now found themselves on the far side of the Iron Curtain, among them were around 350 Polish soldiers who had fought for General Stanisław Maczek’s 1st Armored Division, which engaged in the liberation of northern France, Belgium, and the Netherlands under Allied command. The soldiers who remained in Belgium at war’s end were unwilling to return home with the rise of a socialist regime in Poland, and most settled down and married local women.3

The history and heritage of these Polish veterans in the Low Countries has recently been commemorated in Johannes Van de Voorde and Dirk Verbeke’s 2020 popular history book Vergeten Helden (Forgotten Heroes), which features interviews regaling their brave testimonies of combat and their attachments to both their homeland and their adopted nations.4 Machteld Venken, a Belgian scholar of immigration who has conducted extensive research on these veterans in the context of their activities in Flanders, remains somewhat skeptical of this triumphant narrative, describing the veterans’ popular valorization as a “successful cult … which combined heroism and political victimisation.”5 Of particular interest is the veterans’ use of military ceremonies and symbolism to “construct their own vision of the past,” which “equated Catholicism with anti-communism.”6 This combined their imagined conception of inextricably Catholic Polishness with their military experience and the political atmosphere of the Cold War, standing firmly at odds with the narrative pushed by the Polish People’s Republic Consulate in Brussels, which argued that the communist government was the final result of a “centuries-long struggle for the Polish motherland.”7

Émigrés: What’s in a Name?

Whether heroes, victims, or both, the Polish veterans who settled in postwar Belgium were just one group of “émigrés” among many who either refused to return to or escaped the “captive nations” of Central and Eastern Europe and sought refuge in the “Free World” of the West. At least, that is how the narrative of East–West migration during the Cold War has popularly been recounted in the Western world, often with a few carefully selected examples of émigrés who seem to have had a significant degree of agency in shaping their own fates.8 The research on Polish and broader Eastern Bloc emigration during the Cold War in particular is extensive, with Polish authors such as Dariusz Stola exploring the means of exit and the politics of mobility or Sławomir Łukasiewicz and Anna Mazurkiewicz chronicling the spread of politically-minded émigrés across Western Europe and the US.9 Among these destinations, Belgium became a base for prominent refugees, dissidents, and émigrés of various political persuasions, with many among them Polish in origin, whose histories have been covered by Belgian historians such as Idesbald Goddeeris and the aforementioned Venken.10 Among the most well-known is perhaps Jan Kułakowski, the lauded trade unionist and secretary-general of the Christian Democratic World Confederation of Labor in the latter half of the Cold War.11

A figure like Kułakowski arguably represents the popular understanding of the term “émigré,” a politically oriented actor calling for overarching change in the Eastern Bloc while safely stationed on the Western side of the Iron Curtain. Yet Kułakowski and his politicized peers made up only a small number of the Poles living in Belgium, and they were by far the most politically engaged. In his study of Solidarność-era migration, Patryk Pleskot remarks that a “critical attitude toward the communist regime […] is not sufficient to define someone as a political emigrant.”12 Indeed, many who may fall under the “émigré” label had varying and fluctuating relationships with political engagement, which suggests the limitations of the term. Less understood are the everyday ways in which the wider Polish community, displaced by the communist project, behaved as “émigrés” or otherwise as they sought to recapture, safeguard, and even reshape the national cultural identities that had been repurposed or distorted in their homeland, and also the importance (or lack thereof) of their political outlook.

This article seeks to complement existing research on migration and heritage by subjectifying the lives of Polish veterans, taking their community in the Flemish city of Ghent as its subject of analysis, particularly with reference to the significance of the Catholic and anti-communist vision alluded to in Venken’s quote above. However, it will also investigate the diversity of their civic engagement and challenge assumptions that their sole motivation for mobilization was political. Inspired by Robert Anthony Orsi’s landmark text The Madonna of 115th Street, the first section of this article will analyze how a “lived religion” could anchor the collective identity, civic engagement, and cultural heritage of migrant communities. 13 The second section explores how members of the Polish community of Ghent engaged or did not engage with ideas of anti-communism related to their country of origin. The article will also track how these developments were shaped and formed over time. Inspired by the concept of “dialogical” identity formation (developed through negotiation between in- and out-groups), the final section of the article investigates how a religiously oriented host society actor (the Belgian priest Carlos Bressers) served as a broker and mediator of Polish-Belgian hybrid identity and heritage.14 This incorporation of Belgian agency avoids the pitfall of treating host society agency as an abstract and static monolith by looking instead at a dynamic social actor who engaged actively with the migrant community in the identity negotiation process.15 By offering an analysis of Bressers’ personal archives, this article aims to consider the agency of the migrants themselves in identity formation processes, while also giving attention to the role of representatives of the host society in influencing the “lived religion” and construction of imagined identities through shared heritage among members of the migrant community.

The Poles and Chaplain Bressers

The case study of the Polish community of Ghent presents interesting particularities. As one of the Flemish cities liberated by the Polish 1st Armored Division, Ghent became home to a community of veterans after the war. Ghent’s distinctiveness lies in the presence of the Belgian priest Carlos Bressers, a dedicated Polish community chaplain appointed within the Catholic city diocese.

Carlos Bressers was born in Ghent on September 6, 1912 into a prominent family of religious mural painters and church architects who had established an atelier in the city in 1860.16 Bressers’ brothers Jozef and Leopold served as pastors and religious teachers at the seminary of Sint-Niklaas, a small city roughly 40 kilometers away.17 In 1926, the Bressers family hosted a young Hungarian girl, Sára (or “Sari”) Gáspárdy at their home, whom Bressers would refer to in later life as his “sister.” Sari arrived during the “Hungarian child relief” effort of the mid-1920s, one of thousands of Hungarian children hosted by Belgian families with Church support in the wake of the tumultuous breakup of Austria-Hungary.18 This encounter likely sparked Bressers’ lifelong interest in Central and Eastern Europe, and he remained in contact with his “sister” years after her return to Hungary.19

Bressers was ordained as a priest at St. Bavo’s, the towering Gothic cathedral and seat of the Diocese of Ghent, in 1942.20 The arrival of the Polish soldiers during the liberation warranted attention from the Catholic Church as they began to settle down, and the Diocese of Ghent was significant for these migrants as a receiving structure or familiar point of localization in their new country. The city’s chapels became a spatial and social hub for the devoutly religious members of the community. The Church sought to serve as a constituent part of these colonies, and Ghent’s Bishop Mgr. Karel Justinus Calewaert, observing the growing Central European presence among church congregations, appointed Bressers to serve as chaplain of the Polish and Hungarian communities of Ghent in 1944.21 Though also recognized by the church, the Hungarian community was much smaller and did not explicitly engage in the civic sphere to the same extent as the Poles. For this reason, the focus here is solely on the latter group.

Catholicism as a Lived Religion in Polish Ghent

Nira Yuval-Davis’ analysis of religion and identity politics notes how migrant communities use socially accepted discourses which draw on historical and cultural contexts in their formation of identity, and religion serves in this process as a means for individuals and collective groups to “perform” identity by acting with reference to their own experiences and interactions with the wider world. Religious practices (the endorsement of a faith, church attendance, acknowledgement of symbols, and demonstrable piety) therefore can be used to draw boundaries between what an individual or a community is or is not.22 This section of the article will demonstrate how Catholicism served among the Polish community of Ghent as a lived religion which was integrated into their wider sense of national heritage and civic engagement, alongside their tangible means and practices of reshaping their collective identity into a hybrid of Belgian and Polish culture grounded through their experience of faith. It will highlight Bressers’ role as a key contact and dialogue point for the organization and performance of events championing the religious heritage of the Polish community, which is further discussed in the final section.

At the core of almost all the activities coordinated by Ghent’s Polish community were two small and distinct but often overlapping organizations: the “Belgian-Polish Committee” and the “Polish Catholic Colony and Polish Veterans,” the latter of which was later divided into the “Polish Catholic Union of Ghent” and the “Polish Veterans’ Association.” Despite the multitude of monikers, these groups often had no more than a few hundred members (some of whom were members of more than one of the groups). The first group was honorarily chaired by local aristocrat Count Henri de Hemptinne and initially led by Colonel Joseph Casimir Oborski, a Belgian veteran of both World Wars born in Aalst to Polish parents, as the functional chairman. The Union was formed with the aim of integrating the new Polish arrivals into Ghent’s wider society, while the “Polish Catholic Colony and Polish Veterans” organized the “activities properly Polish.”23 Catholicism would be a central theme to many of the events overseen by these groups, and crucially, Bressers served in key organizational positions, such as treasurer, in the Polish community organizations. He worked closely with the president of the latter group, veteran Ryszard Łuczak. Bressers warmly referred to Łuczak as “our diligent and exemplary President” in 1981 in a letter recommending him for Belgian citizenship.24 The two organizations worked closely to host Christmas and Easter parties along with other religious celebrations in the city’s churches, drawing on Polish traditions such as eggpainting.25 Through Bressers, they also made contact with and invited members of Brussels’ Polish Catholic Mission and the Belgian Episcopate, alongside Polish priests from across Europe, to their various masses and celebrations. One Polish missionary attending the ceremony came to visit from as far away as Rwanda.26

As early as 1951, Bressers and the Polish community arranged for the bishop of Ghent, Mgr. Calewaert, to consecrate the banner of Ghent’s Polish Catholic Union, led by Łuczak. Oborski, de Hemptinne, and the Polish Catholic Mission rector were all present for the ceremony, which drew 300 Polish attendees and featured art, music, and gifts for the bishop.27 The banner itself, designed by the members of Łuczak’s Catholic Union and warmly received by Ghent’s newspapers as a “fine work of art,”28 symbolized the negotiation of a shared identity between Belgians and Poles. On one side, the Black Madonna of Częstochowa, a symbol of Polish Catholicism’s resilience against foreign threats, was flanked by both the Polish eagle and the Lion of the City of Ghent. The reverse side had the eagle surrounded by symbols representing the Polish airmen.29 The decision to include both their homeland and host city’s coat of arms in the banner emphasized the emergence of a dual affinity to both Poland and Belgium, with a clear dedication to their religious heritage placed at the very center of their identity. After all, Catholicism was a natural bridge across boundaries for the migrants and Belgians alike, a shared faith that was a prominent element of Belgian (particularly Flemish) identity.30

The 1960s were incredibly significant years for Polish Catholics worldwide, as they marked the millennial anniversary of the Christianization of Poland under Duke Mieszko I. The event, known as the “Polish millennium,” was celebrated throughout the diaspora, including in Belgium.31 In 1966, the Archbishop of Warsaw and Gniezno (the most prominent clergy position in Poland) was Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński, who had been imprisoned by the state socialist government over ten years earlier.32 According to the Belgian press, Wyszyński partly attributed his release during the reforms of the 1956 Polish October to “more than a million Polish pilgrims” across the diaspora, and he sought to thank them by sending replicas of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa, an icon of Polish Catholic art, to their host countries.33 The copy that arrived in Belgium in late January was exhibited in Brussels, Liège, Hainaut, and Antwerp before being brought to Ghent. Upon arrival in the city, it was not taken immediately to the central St. Bavo’s Cathedral but instead was placed in the tiny Schreiboom Chapel, the church in which Bressers conducted his biweekly Polish mass. This recognition may have been facilitated by the personal relationship between Bressers and the Cardinal. They had exchanged letters in the 1950s, and Wyszyński had sent his personal condolences to Bressers and his brothers when a member of their family had died in 1959.34 The arrival of the Madonna was greeted by the congregation with flowers and local women in traditional Polish dress.35 Three days later, when it was moved to the Cathedral, the Bishop of Ghent and Bressers’ superior, Mgr. Léonce-Albert van Peteghem, sought to emphasize the importance of Ghent’s Polish Catholics to the wider city’s religious body through a large mass with song.36 The bishop followed up by presiding over an academic discussion on Polish history and religion and then opened a weeklong exhibition called “Poland through the centuries.” Surrounded by prominent members of the Polish community, van Peteghem thanked the Polish nation for its contributions to the history of the Catholic Church, and he spoke of the “the spiritual bond between our two lands.”37 For the few hundred Polish Catholics who attended the small masses held in Bressers’ chapel, the public acknowledgement of Poland’s “spiritual bond” with Belgium on such a significant occasion would no doubt have been welcome. Indeed, van Peteghem’s reception indicates that the devotion of the Polish community was recognized by the host society’s religious authorities, which clearly shows the potential of Catholicism to facilitate the integration of the members of this community into this society.

In sum, Catholicism exemplified the concept of a lived religion in the identity construction of Ghent’s Polish community. Catholicism’s centrality to Polish civic engagement is highlighted by its incorporation into rhetoric, symbols, and celebrations and the discursive precedence it eventually gained over the community’s interactions with the Diocese of Ghent.

Anti-Communism in Polish Ghent

As Venken has shown, the Polish veterans living in Belgium also sought to equate their Catholic faith with an explicitly anti-communist political stance in defiance of the socialist Polish Consulate in Brussels.38 This was particularly apparent in the early years of Ghent’s community. In these early activities, Bressers seems not to have been a prominent figure. He is mentioned as an attendee to the events covered in this section, but there is no further allusion to his involvement in their planning or programs. Up until the 1960s, there were evident anti-communist sentiments at Polish cultural events. In 1966, the Belgian-Polish Committee’s effective chairman Colonel Joseph Casimir Oborski emphasized commitment to “faith, fatherland, Polish traditions and freedom” during a speech celebrating the Committee’s fifteenth anniversary.39 Present at the event was Józef Rzemieniewski, who served as a leader of the Belgian wing of the agrarian Polish People’s Party (PSL). Members of the PSL who returned from exile or remained in Poland during the communist era after 1945 felt that they had been deceived by outcomes of the Yalta Conference and were subject to intimidation by the communist government. As Sławomir Łukasiewicz has explained, the PSL and other “exile parties” enjoyed modest support from the Polish émigré community in the West, and therefore their presence at the celebration could serve to further their legitimization in the eyes of the diaspora, as well as associating the Belgian-Polish Committee with support for dissidents who experienced the abuses of communism firsthand.40

Oborski’s invocation of faith and freedom and Rzemieniewski’s presence suggest a posturing by the community as standard-bearers for the historical Polish nation and its values in opposition to the socialist government, solidifying the significance of their heritage as a means of expressing their collective political identity. Additionally, the banner of the Polish Union also constituted a performative example of anti-communism by the community. The banner’s central Madonna icon was flanked by the following prayer: “Heavenly Queen of the Crown of Poland, return us to our free land.”41 The selected words stressed an imagined link between the Virgin Mary and the “Crown of Poland,” an allusion to the country’s pre-partition history and an assertion of the notion that their nation and community could only “return” to freedom with the reinstatement of traditional religious devotion. Here, as Venken argues, the veterans’ vision of the past, which fused religious heritage with a romanticized historical perception of Poland and a tacit acknowledgement that under communism the country was not free, reflects the creative ways in which these migrants constructed new and imagined interpretations of their heritage and equated faith with freedom in defiance of the state atheism of the Polish People’s Republic.42

Over time, the expectations these Poles had of themselves to protect a romanticized conception of a traditional, Catholic Poland began to take precedence over active anti-communist mobilization and rhetoric. The shift was visible beyond Ghent, and it impacted Polish communities across Belgium, as Goddeeris’ research into the intellectual Brussels-based émigré organization, the Union of Free Poles in Belgium, has shown. Goddeeris concludes that this group grew to prioritize the preservation of an imagined Polish identity in their new country over anti-communist “exile politics,” and their mission in Belgium gradually evolved into a quest to bring their cultural heritage “to the attention of their Belgian hosts.”43 In Bressers’ archive, an invitation to the celebrations of May 3 as Constitution Day by the Polish Catholic Mission in Brussels supports the idea that such changes were taking place. As a commemoration of the signing of the 1791 constitution, a symbol of “enlightened patriotism,” independence, and modernity in Poland, the holiday was banned by the state socialist government in the late 1940s and became a symbol of opposition to communism.44 In the 1970s and early 1980s, the Polish Catholic Mission, which organized educational, cultural, and religious initiatives across the country, sent invitations to the Polish community of Ghent for their May 3 celebrations. Bressers apparently enjoyed a close relationship with Henryk Repka, the Rector of the Mission, as he was present at many of the community’s events in Ghent. In the 1975 invitation that was sent to Bressers, Repka called Constitution Day a remembrance of “one of the most important days of our history.”45 Furthermore, in their brochure from the 1980 celebration, the Mission used the event to connect the Belgian Revolution of 1830 to Poland’s November Uprising of the same year and to promote the countries’ bilateral friendship.46 The day thus served as an occasion to negotiate commonalities between the host and migrant communities, with the 1830 revolutions serving as historical evidence of the two states’ resistance to foreign tyranny. For the Polish communities in Belgium, the day had clear symbolic value. It was a ceremonial means of emphasizing their continuity with pre-communist Poland, and Repka’s centrality to the celebration emphasized the religious aspects, which centered around a holy mass. However, the Catholic Mission makes no mention of the anti-communist significance of the holiday in their brochures, suggesting a reluctance to engage in exile politics. Instead, the event offered an occasion to celebrate Polish history, heritage, culture, and religion and explicitly to highlight the common historical struggle faced by both countries, thus drawing Polish and Belgian identities together.

While Colonel Oborski declared Catholicism and anti-communist freedom to be inextricably interlinked in the early years of Ghent’s Polish community, as was true in the case of other groups of émigrés in Belgium, the commitment of the members of the Polish community in Ghent to solidarity with their homeland appeared increasingly ambivalent as time passed. By the 1980s, the declaration of martial law in Poland sparked renewed Western interest in Central and Eastern European dissidents, with the Polish trade union NSZZ Solidarność serving as the posterchild for the wider protest movements. Solidarność was popular among both Catholic and secular activist movements in Belgium. The earliest solidarity initiatives formed before December 1981 “all had a Christian profile,” but as the crisis grew, Solidarność received aid from a wide range of solidarity committees and both of Belgium’s main trade unions, albeit to varying extents.47 The Solidarność Co-ordinating Office Abroad was even provided an office space in Brussels by the Christian Democratic World Confederation of Labour, led by the Polish trade unionist and émigré one-time refugee Jan Kułakowski.48 The Solidarność cause had a marked resonance among Catholics both in Poland and abroad. As historian Magdalena Waligórska has noted, in Poland, “hanging crucifixes in public schools and factories became a way of voicing support for the burgeoning opposition movement.”49 Internationally, one of the movement’s most prominent champions was Pope John Paul II, himself a Pole. According to historian Michael Sporzer, Poland, “the oppressed land [w]as the ‘Christ of Nations’ resisting ‘atheistic Communism.’”50

Bressers was among those who felt the impact of the movement. His interest in the Polish crisis was clear. He had gathered a selection of material on Solidarność, including issues of Brussels-based émigré magazines and various pamphlets that mentioned them, and he rallied the different Polish organizations in Ghent to raise money for aid through a postcard appeal, “Oost-Vlaanderen helpt Oost-Polen” (East Flanders helps East Poland).51 However, this seems to have been a largely humanitarian initiative, and Bressers’ work with Central Europe typically blended humanitarian intent with an implicitly political slant. This can be seen in his diverse activity, serving as a board member of the obscure “Inter-committee for Assistance to the Refugees of Central Europe” in the late 1970s and 1980s, alongside his support for the anti-communist Catholic Oostpriesterhulp organization in its Polish activities, suggesting he had a longstanding interest in developments in the Eastern Bloc.52 He also maintained contact throughout the Cold War with high-profile members of the Polish clergy, such as Bishop of Poznań Antoni Baraniak, who was imprisoned and tortured by the communist authorities in the 1950s.53 Baraniak sent Bressers a portrait of himself in 1960 and expressed his “profound gratitude,” and he also signed a letter of condolence after the death of a relative in 1962. He also exchanged religious and holiday greetings with Bishop Karol Józef Wojtyła, the future Pope John Paul II.54

Bressers’ focus on the upheavals in the Eastern Bloc could arguably be seen as a means of engaging his congregation in the wider political context and opening them to Belgian initiatives surrounding Solidarność. His interest is comparable to the endeavors of other Belgian priests active in Polish political engagements at the time, such as the Catholic University of Leuven’s Canon Jozef de Smet, the university’s resident “advocate of Poland.” De Smet, in his position as professor, hosted numerous Polish figures (including future Polish prime minister Tadeusz Mazowiecki) for lectures and study at his constituent college in order to foster dialogue and understanding between Belgians and Poles.55 However, while it cannot be said that the Polish community in Ghent did not support the Solidarność cause, his archives contain no persuasive indications that interest in Solidarność went beyond Bressers. This would corroborate Goddeeris’ contention that many longer-term Polish migrants in Belgium “paid strikingly little attention to events in Poland,” and it suggests that the hybrid identity that had developed in this émigré community left little space for contemporary Polish politics.56 As late as 1988, when the winds of change were blowing in Poland, Bronislaw Recki, the veteran who led the “Friends of the Polish Air Force” charity and was considered the “leader of Ghent’s Poles,” professed in a newspaper interview that the “Free Polish […] have sworn allegiance to the Polish government-in-exile” in London, which had long since ceased to be the main representative of anti-communist Poland and had itself thrown its weight behind Solidarność. Recki went on to criticize the Polish Consulate for appearing at veterans’ commemorations, but not attending Bressers’ biweekly Polish mass. “I have stayed in Ghent,” he said, “precisely because I can continue to protest against […] the deal Churchill and Roosevelt made with Stalin on Poland [in Yalta].”57 Though Bressers personally kept his finger on the pulse with regards to the Solidarność movement, his congregation remained attached to the immediate postwar political milieu, having apparently undergone a stasis of political attitudes, firmly grounded in the veterans’ combined military and Catholic heritage, and Recki remained silent on the changes that were underway in Poland, which enjoyed the support of more recently exiled dissidents.

Religion as Dialogue: Carlos Bressers and Negotiating Identity

A dialogically constructed identity does not draw on predetermined narratives or historical context. It represents, rather, a “perpetual state of becoming” through which one group (migrants) identifies and interacts with other groups around it (the host society).58 Representatives of both in-groups and out-groups are active agents in the process of negotiating a dialogically constructed identity. The figure of Carlos Bressers as chaplain of the Polish community in Ghent provided this community with privileged access to a host society actor who was positioned to serve as a mediator between migrants and hosts. Through his role as a priest and connections to wider Catholic society in Belgium and beyond, he provided essential opportunities for dialogical encounters between the two groups, and he centered their religious and military heritage in his efforts.

Throughout his chaplaincy, Bressers worked to foster encounters between his migrant congregations and wider Belgian society. In his involvement with the Polish community of Ghent, he explicitly fused the importance of Catholicism with their military heritage through an annual solemn mass held to commemorate five Polish airmen who perished during the battle of Ghent (and for the losses of Polish soldiers in both World Wars more generally), a service he led well into the post-Cold War period. Bressers’ memorial services emphasized the Polish veterans’ religious devotion, which was repeatedly brought to the attention of the city’s public and covered by the Belgian media.59 Bressers would typically lead a church service in the city and then lead a procession to the King Albert Memorial in one of Ghent’s city parks for a wreath-laying ceremony. The masses were organized in collaboration with the “Belgian-Polish Committee” of Count Henri de Hemptinne, the “Polish Veterans’ Association,” and the “Friends of the Polish Air Force” charity, which was led by the aforementioned veteran Bronislaw Recki. The guests of honor at these masses furthered an understanding of the Polish community among prominent Belgian actors, and Polish priests and missionaries living in the West were also often invited.60 Among the invitees to the solemn mass over the years were Count de Hemptinne (replaced by his son François after 1978), Mgr. Emile Dujardin, representative of the Belgian Episcopate for émigrés and refugees, members of the Brussels-based Polish Catholic Mission, and both Polish army-in-exile and Belgian military representatives.61 A similar service at Villers-la-Ville, a village in Belgium’s French-speaking Wallonia region and home to the historic ruins of a Cistercian abbey, was organized in 1994 “to consecrate a great day of Polish-Belgian brotherhood.” The service, led by guest chaplains from Poland and with Bressers in attendance, saw the mingling of Polish, Belgian, and wider European veterans’ associations.62 Through his role in participating in, organizing and often leading these ceremonies, Bressers connected the religious and military identities of the Polish community to the wider Belgian Catholic landscape.

Sint-Denijs-Westrem, the barracks and former airfield where the Polish veterans living in Ghent had been stationed during the war, was of key symbolic significance to the community and replaced the King Albert Memorial as the destination of the procession in the 1970s. However, the site saw considerable redevelopment from the 1950s up to the 1980s, when the airfield was finally paved over. With the tangible heritage of the Polish veterans’ legacy under threat, Bressers sought permanently to codify their contributions to Belgium with a public monument. He worked with Recki, who was also the sculptor who led “Friends of the Polish Air Force” and who was described as the “leader” of Ghent’s Poles.63 Recki designed and installed a sculpture, complete with a World War II-era propeller replica, on the small Poolse Winglaan (Polish Wing Lane) street near the airfield site.64 Its unveiling on September 21, 1974 was sponsored by the city of Ghent and steeped in Catholic ceremony. The preceding mass that year had been overseen by Bressers’ superior, Mgr. van Peteghem, and the event attracted a number of prominent delegates, including a representative of the Belgian monarchy.65

1976, two years after the dedication of the monument and a decade before the pope’s visit, marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Polish Catholic Union of Ghent, and Bressers worked to involve the Polish clergy in the celebrations. Specifically, he wrote letters to the Diocese of Kraków in an attempt to invite Archbishop Karol Wojtyła (later Pope John Paul II) to Belgium. The invitation outlined an “academic session,” followed by gifts of flowers for the attendees by Polish children and a classical music concert. Bressers hoped that the archbishop would be able to conduct a Catholic mass attended by representatives of the Polish community and concluding with a “democratic banquet of Poles and guests.” Notably, here Bressers brought the Poles into contact with prominent members of Belgian society. He invited important figures, such as the former Minister of State August De Schryver and the Mayor of Ghent. Bressers also expected the aforementioned Henryk Repka (the rector of the Polish Catholic Mission in Brussels) to attend, which would bring together his congregation and the nationwide Belgo-Polish Catholic community.66 Despite the effort, in a follow-up letter, Bressers noted that he had waited “in vain” for a response and lightheartedly expressed his disappointment that Mgr. Wojtyła could not attend with the Polish word szkoda (pity), expressing his hopes for a future visit.67 Despite the unfortunate no-show, Bressers’ intentions showed a desire to use Catholicism as a bridge between his congregation, the upper echelons of Belgian society, and the native Polish clergy. The request, however, would eventually meet with a positive response, as Recki’s sculpture further underpinned the commemorative significance of the Polish community heritage. Indeed, the site took on a new religious meaning in 1985, when Bressers, Łuczak, Recki, and François de Hemptinne wrote a letter petitioning Pope John Paul II to make a brief stop at the site on the occasion of his official visit to Belgium that year. Their request was honored with an open-air mass which was “preceded by a grand spectacle” and attended by 150,000 people.68

Conclusion

As the Cold War gradually wound to a close, Bressers received commendation from Poland’s most prominent clergy for his work as a valuable bridge for dialogue between the migrants and their Belgian neighbors. For his work with the Polish veterans, he was commended with the title of honorary canon of the Archdiocese of Gniezno by Cardinal Józef Glemp in 1987 (he also received a similar honor from the clergy of Hungary).69 In his speech thanking Glemp and the Archdiocese, he closed with a simple message describing his decades of chaplaincy: “this spiritual debt of gratitude for the good received I try to pay by prayer and by a dedicated ministry, so that the Poles who live in Belgium transmit the heritage of their faith to future generations.”70 Notwithstanding the specific limitations he may have faced surrounding Solidarność in the 1980s, overall Bressers’ dialogical mediation between migrants and hosts was essential in the identity formation processes which preserved and shaped the religious and secular heritage of the communities, with the Church acting as a bilateral partner, situating itself and revolving around church settings, practices, and networks. Perhaps the highest endorsement of Bressers’ efforts came on the occasion of his fiftieth year of priesthood in 1992, when he received the Order of Merit of the Republic of Poland from the country’s first non-communist leader since the Second World War, President Lech Wałęsa.71

The different methods and practices with which the members of the Polish community of Ghent expressed their identity were heavily influenced by their cultural and historical heritage and connections to their home country, but also by the time they spent in the host society, which shaped the evolution of their political attitudes and their relationship with Carlos Bressers, the Catholic Church, and the Diocese of Ghent. The formation and evolution of this identity and the interaction between members of this community and wider Belgian society suggest a number of conclusions and areas for further speculation.

The Poles of Ghent perhaps fit the popular definitions of “émigré” in the very broadest sense due to their early engagements with anti-communism. They were loyal to the anti-communist Polish government-in-exile, and as Allied military veterans, they took an anti-communist stance. However, this was limited by prolonged exposure to the host society or other factors unseen in the archives of Bressers (a perception of the futility of any efforts to further change, perhaps, but more likely the erosion of personal connections to Poland and increased assimilation.) The members of this community also differed significantly from the prominent “exiles” of the 1970s and 1980s. They behaved more as cultural custodians, safeguarding a Polish identity and heritage heavily influenced by their Catholic lived religion. Though, they remained nominally anti-communist, with the passage of time, their identities shifted from “Poles in Belgium” to “Belgian Poles.” This was not the case everywhere. For example, in Goddeeris’ studies of the Polish trade unionists active within the Belgian syndicalist arena, Solidarność served to reignite solidarity, albeit short-lived, with the home country after long periods of dormancy, though the actions of these groups were not always necessarily politically motivated and often took humanitarian forms.72

The role of Bressers as a mediator between home and host resonates with Yuval-Davis’ emphasis on dialogical identity formation, particularly the “importance of the communal context” and the conversations, contestations, and authorizations that take place between two groups between which there are inherent imbalances in power.73 In the case of migrants, this imbalance is the result of many considerations, from language to cultural difference and social norms. For the members of the Polish community in Ghent, their negotiation of collective identity was greatly facilitated by contact with a dynamic host society actor, the in-between figure of Bressers, and the religion and wartime heritage they shared with their hosts. Ghent’s Catholic Church was willing to act as a receiving structure to increase the visibility of Polish Catholicism among the people of the city, and it granted the Poles access to high rungs on the ladder of the Belgian societal hierarchy, perhaps best embodied by their successful petition to have Pope John Paul II, an icon among Catholics worldwide, visit their humble monument in Sint-Denijs-Westrem.

The experiences of these communities support the argument that the tireless exiles well remembered in popular conceptions of the Cold War were a significant but small population, and that Central and Eastern European migrant communities were equally likely instead to remain attached to pre-socialist visions and culture of their homelands. Far from being an abstract or passive host society influence, the work of Carlos Bressers outlines the flexible exchange in which local actors can engage in shaping the collective identity and notions of belonging among migrant communities. The processes in which both the migrants and the host society engaged with each other at their own initiatives and in the common interests of each were dynamic, bilateral, and subject to both internal and external influences.

Archival Sources

Archief Familie Bressers, KADOC Documentatie- en Onderzoekscentrum voor Religie, Cultuur en Samenleving [KADOC Documentation and Research Centre on Religion Culture and Society], Leuven.

BE/942855/1925/129: Pieces concerning priesthood (Holy Orders, first Mass, jubilee, cuttings), 1927–1984.

BE/942855/1925/187/1: Invitations to “Solemn Mass” commemorating Polish war dead, December 1973–2001.

BE/942855/1925/187/1: letter to the Lord Substitute, April 24, 1981.

BE/942855/1925/187/1: newspaper clipping “Villers-La-Ville: La Pologne se souvient” May 6, 1994.

BE/942855/1925/187/3: Annotated schematic “Monument voor de Poolse Piloten gesneuveld te St. Denijs-Westrem – 1945,” S.D.

BE/942855/1925/187/3: Letter from “Friends of the Polish Air Force” to “Honorary Registrar Paul” and “Juffrouw van Kemseke,” November 9, 1984.

BE/942855/1925/187/3: Newspaper clipping “1 januari 1945: luchtslag boven Sint-Denijs-Westrem en Gent,” September 26, 1974.

BE/942855/1925/187/3: Newspaper clipping “2 Regio Gent: Bevrijders van Gent afwezig op 1 november?,” November 1, 1988.

BE/942855/1925/187/3: Newspaper clipping “Gent-LW: Poolse monument onthuld te Sint-Denijs-Westrem; Aandenken aan gevallen Poolse vliegeniers,” September 23, 1974.

BE/942855/1925/187/3: Newspaper clipping “Inhuldiging Pools monument te St-Denijs-Westrem,” De Gentenaar, September 25, 1974.

BE/942855/1925/188/1: Newspaper clipping “Fête de Paques chez les Polonais,” La Metropole, April 5, 1972.

BE/942855/1925/188/1: Letter from Bressers to Kraków Diocese, September 11, 1976.

BE/942855/1925/188/1: Letter from Bressers to Kraków Diocese, October 21, 1976.

BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Arrivée à Anvers de l’icône de N.D. de Czestochowa,” January 18, 1966.

BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Kerstfeest bij de Polen,” 1959.

BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Poolse dag te Gent: 15-jarig bestaan van de kolonie,” September 26, 1966.

BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Poolse missie huldigt Z.H. Exc. Mgr Calewaert,” Het Volk, November 22, 1951.

BE/942855/1925/188/2: Program of “Academic Festive Season” event, Ghent, May 29, 1977.

BE/942855/1925/188/3: Newspaper clipping “Kopie van Zwarte Madonna van Częstochowa te Gent aangekomen,” January 26, 1966.

BE/942855/1925/188/3: Newspaper clipping “La colonie polonaise à Gand,” January 28, 1966.

BE/942855/1925/188/3: Newspaper clipping “Monseigneur Van Peteghem opent tentoonstelling – Polen door de eeuwen heen,” January 1966.

BE/942855/1925/190/1: Brochure for 3 May Constitution Day, 1980.

BE/942855/1925/190/1: Invitation to Constitution Day from Henryk Repka, May 4, 1975.

BE/942855/1925/190/1: Newspaper clipping “Polen vierden pasen,” S.D.

BE/942855/1925/190/2: Copy of Wolne Słowo, May 1988.

BE/942855/1925/191: Support card “Mensen helpen Mensen: Oost-Vlaanderen helpt Oost-Polen,” 1980s.

BE/942855/1925/193/1: Documents concerning Cardinal Wyszynski and the Eastern European church, Kerk in Nood – Oostpriesterhulp, 1974.

BE/942855/1925/193/1: Letter from Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński to the Bressers family, December 12, 1959.

BE/942855/1925/193/3: letters from Bishop Antoni Baraniak, 1960–1962.

BE/942855/1925/193/3: letters from Bishop Karol Wojtyła, 1973–1978.

BE/942855/1925/193/3: letters from Cardinal Jozef Glemp, 1981–1991HHR_4_Dodds

BE/942855/1925/194: Certificate of honorary canonship of the Diocese of Gniezno, February 18, 1987.

BE/942855/1925/197: Letter to Jacek, Beata, and Peter Barfuss, December 11, 1992.

BE/942855/1925/199: Correspondence between Carlos Bressers and “Inter-committee for Assistance to the Refugees of Central Europe,” 1975–1985.

BE/942855/1925/202: Postcard from Sára Gáspárdy, Budapest, August 30, 1977.

BE/942855/1925/204: Certificate of honorary canonship of the Diocese of Esztergom, February 18, 1987.

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1* This study was conducted under the auspices of the research project “Émigré Europe: Civil Engagement Transfers between Eastern Europe and the Low Countries 1933–1989,” which received financial support from the CELSA fund (Central Europe Leuven Strategic Alliance).
Goddeeris, La Grande Emigration, 13–23.

2 Goddeeris, De Poolse Migratie, 13–50.

3 Venken, “Migration and War Memory,” 17.

4 Van de Voorde and Verbeke, Vergeten Helden.

5 Venken, Straddling the Iron Curtain?, 166.

6 Ibid.

7 Venken, Straddling the Iron Curtain, 130.

8 Mazurkiewicz, “Political Emigration from East Central Europe during the Cold War,” 68.

9 See for example Stola, “Patterns of the Evolution of the Communist Regime”; Łukasiewicz, “The Polish Political System in Exile”; Mazurkiewicz, East Central European Migrations During the Cold War.

10 For studies of Polish political activities in Belgium, see Dumoulin and Goddeeris, Intégration ou représentation?; Venken, “The Communist ‘Polonia’ Society.”

11 On Kułakowski, see Jesień, “The Social Virtues of Christian Democracy.”

12 Pleskot, “Polish Political Emigration in the 1980s,” 61.

13 Robert Anthony Orsi, The Madonna of 115th Street: Faith and Community in Italian Harlem, 1880–1950 3rd Edition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), p. xxxix.

14 Yuval-Davis, “Theorizing identity: beyond the ‘us’ and ‘them’ dichotomy.”

15 On dialogical identity formation, see for example the study of Yugoslav Muslim migrants in Luxembourg by Lucie Waltzer, “Negotiating Identity.”

16 Adriaan Bressers. Online Database for Intermediary Structures (ODIS), last modified July 8, 2022. [http://www.odis.be/lnk/PS_60440]. Accessed April 18, 2023; Atelier Bressers-Blanchaert. ODIS, last modified October 29, 2021. [http://www.odis.be/lnk/OR_13739]. Accessed April 20, 2023.

17 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/129: Pieces concerning priesthood (Holy Orders, first Mass, jubilee, cuttings), 1927–1984. KADOC, Leuven.

18 For further reading on the Hungarian child relief programs that were organised in Belgium, see Hajtó, Milk Sauce and Paprika.

19 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/202: Postcard from Sára Gáspárdy, Budapest, August 30, 1977. KADOC, Leuven.

20 Carlos Bressers. ODIS, last modified August 22, 2022. [http://www.odis.be/lnk/PS_54968]. Accessed April 21, 2023.

21 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/1: letter to the Lord Substitute, April 24, 1981. KADOC, Leuven.

22 Yuval-Davis, The Politics of Belonging, 114–15.

23 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/3: Newspaper clipping “La colonie polonaise à Gand,” January 28, 1966. KADOC, Leuven.

24 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/1: letter to the Lord Substitute, April 24, 1981. KADOC, Leuven.

25 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Kerstfeest bij de Polen,” 1959; Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/190/1: Newspaper clipping “Polen vierden pasen,” S.D.; Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/1: Newspaper clipping “Fête de Paques chez les Polonais,” La Metropole, April 5, 1972. KADOC, Leuven.

26 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/2: Program of “Academic Festive Season” event, Ghent, May 29, 1977; Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/1: Invitations to “Solemn Mass” commemorating Polish war dead, December 1985. KADOC, Leuven.

27 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Poolse missie huldigt Z.H. Exc. Mgr Calewaert,” Het Volk, November 22, 1951. KADOC, Leuven.

28 Ibid.

29 The banner can be viewed here [https://kadocheritage.be/exhibits/show/emigreeurope/bressers/madonna] Accessed May 2, 2023.

30 Cook, Belgium: A History, 83.

31 Goddeeris, “Exilpolitik of Identiteitsvorming?, 290.

32 Kosicki, “Vatican II and Poland,” 137.

33 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Arrivée à Anvers de l’icône de N.D. de Czestochowa,” January 18, 1966. KADOC, Leuven.

34 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/193/1: Letter from Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński to the Bressers family, December 12, 1959. KADOC, Leuven.

35 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/3: Newspaper clipping “Kopie van Zwarte Madonna van Częstochowa te Gent aangekomen,” January 26, 1966. KADOC, Leuven.

36 Ibid.

37 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/3: Newspaper clipping “Monseigneur Van Peteghem opent tentoonstelling – Polen door de eeuwen heen,” January 1966. KADOC, Leuven.

38 Machteld Venken, Straddling the Iron Curtain?, pp. 165–66.

39 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Poolse dag te Gent: 15-jarig bestaan van de kolonie,” September 26, 1966. KADOC, Leuven.

40 Łukasiewicz, “A Shadow Party System,” 51–53. For further reading on the PSL, see Goddeeris and Pleskot, “Polska migracja w Belgii,” 230–33; Wasilewski, “Pospolici zbrodniarze,” Tygodnik Przegląd, August 17, 2015. [https://www.tygodnikprzeglad.pl/pospolici-zbrodniarze/] Accessed May 2, 2023.

41 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/2: Newspaper clipping “Poolse missie huldigt Z.H. Exc. Mgr Calewaert,” Het Volk, November 22, 1951. KADOC, Leuven.

42 Venken, Straddling the Iron Curtain?, pp. 165–66.

43 Goddeeris, “Exilpolitik of Identiteitsvorming?, 292.

44 Kożuchowski, “Jak to było z Konstytucją 3 Maja,” Polityka, May 3, 2017. [https://www.polityka.pl/tygodnikpolityka/historia/1515182,2,jak-to-bylo-z-konstytucja-3-maja.read#ixzz1LGlZ7s4Q] Accessed April 28, 2023.

45 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/190/1: Invitation to Constitution Day from Henryk Repka, May 4, 1975. KADOC, Leuven.

46 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/190/1: Brochure for May 3, Constitution Day, 1980. KADOC, Leuven.

47 Christiaens and Goddeeris, “Beyond Western European Idealism,” 644.

48 Goddeeris, “Solidarity or Indifference?,” 378.

49 Waligórska, Cross Purposes, 148.

50 Szporer, “Managing Religion in Communist-Era Poland,” 115.

51 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/190/2: Copy of Wolne Słowo, May 1988; Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/191: Support card “Mensen helpen Mensen: Oost-Vlaanderen helpt Oost-Polen,” 1980s. KADOC, Leuven.

52 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/199: Correspondence between Carlos Bressers and “Inter-committee for Assistance to the Refugees of Central Europe,” 1975–1985; BE/942855/1925/193/1: Documents concerning Cardinal Wyszynski and the Eastern European church, Kerk in Nood – Oostpriesterhulp, 1974. KADOC, Leuven.

53 Wąsowicz, “Troska salezjanów o abpa Antoniego Baraniaka SDB,” 159.

54 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/193/3: letters from Bishop Antoni Baraniak, 1960–1962; BE/942855/1925/193/3: letters from Bishop Karol Wojtyła, 1973–1978. KADOC, Leuven.

55 Vos, “Leuven, Louvain and Poland,” 25.

56 Goddeeris, “Solidarity or Indifference?,” 384.

57 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/3: Newspaper clipping “2 Regio Gent: Bevrijders van Gent afwezig op 1 november?,” November 1, 1988. KADOC, Leuven.

58 Yuval-Davis, “Theorizing identity: beyond the ‘us’ and ‘them’ dichotomy,” 271.

59 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/3: Newspaper clipping “2 Regio Gent: Bevrijders van Gent afwezig op 1 november?,” November 1, 1988; Newspaper clipping “Inhuldiging Pools monument te St-Denijs-Westrem,” De Gentenaar, September 25, 1974; Newspaper clipping “1 januari 1945: luchtslag boven Sint-Denijs-Westrem en Gent,” September 26, 1974. KADOC, Leuven.

60 Ibid.

61 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/1: Invitations to “Solemn Mass” commemorating Polish war dead, December 1973–2001. KADOC, Leuven.

62 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/1: Newspaper clipping “Villers-La-Ville: La Pologne se souvient”, May 6, 1994. KADOC, Leuven.

63 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/3: Newspaper clipping “2 Regio Gent: Bevrijders van Gent afwezig op 1 november?,” November 1, 1988. KADOC, Leuven.

64 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/3: Annotated schematic “Monument voor de Poolse Piloten gesneuveld te St. Denijs-Westrem – 1945,” S.D. KADOC, Leuven.

65 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/3: Newspaper clipping “Gent-LW: Poolse monument onthuld te Sint-Denijs-Westrem; Aandenken aan gevallen Poolse vliegeniers,” September 23, 1974. KADOC, Leuven.

66 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/1: Letter from Bressers to Kraków Diocese, September 11, 1976. KADOC, Leuven.

67 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/188/1: Letter from Bressers to Kraków Diocese, October 21, 1976. KADOC, Leuven.

68 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/187/3: Letter from “Friends of the Polish Air Force” to “Honorary Registrar Paul” and “Juffrouw van Kemseke,” November 9, 1984. KADOC, Leuven; the pope’s visit to Sint-Denijs-Westrem is recorded here [https://www.tijdvoor80.be/de-paus-in-belgie/] Accessed November 15, 2022.

69 In 1984, the Archbishop of Esztergom, Cardinal László Lékai, made Bressers an honorary canon of that diocese in recognition of his services to the Hungarian community in Ghent. See Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/204: Certificate of honorary canonship of the Diocese of Esztergom, February 18, 1987. KADOC, Leuven.

70 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/194: Certificate of honorary canonship of the Diocese of Gniezno, February 18, 1987. KADOC, Leuven.

71 Archief Familie Bressers, BE/942855/1925/197: Letter to Jacek, Beata, and Peter Barfuss, December 11, 1992. KADOC, Leuven.

72 Goddeeris, “The Polish Section of the Belgian Christian Trade Union ACV/CSC,” 265; Goddeeris, “Solidarity or Indifference? Polish Migrants in Belgium and Solidarność,” 80.

73 Yuval-Davis, “Theorizing identity: beyond the ‘us’ and ‘them’ dichotomy,” 271.

2023_4_Coudenys

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Migration as Mission: Alojz-Alexis Strýček SJ in Belgium (1938–1945)

Wim Coudenys
KU Leuven
This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 4  (2023): 650-675 DOI 10.38145/2023.4.650

This article presents a case study of Alojz-Alexis Strýček SJ, a Slovak Jesuit in Belgium during World War II, to examine the complexities of migration, identity, and religious mission within turbulent historical contexts. Strýček’s experiences challenge conventional categorizations in migration studies, demonstrating how individual narratives can intersect with and transcend national and religious boundaries. The study employs social network analysis and philological-historical methods, offering insights into the dynamic roles migrants play in the circulation of knowledge and in shaping transnational connections. Strýček’s case highlights the importance of considering non-national factors, such as religious affiliations, in understanding migration patterns and migrant identities. This research contributes to the emerging field of “migrant knowledge,” which focuses on the role of migrants in global knowledge exchange and the redefinition of identities in times of crisis, thereby enriching our understanding of the multifaceted nature of migration.

Keywords: Jesuit mission, World War II, Belgium, migration, identity, transnationalism, religious mission, Russian emigration, Soviet Union

Introduction

The emergence of new independent nation states in Central and Eastern Europe after World War I challenged the categorization of the inhabitants of the region. People who were born in Warsaw or Prague before 1918 and had been registered as Russian or Austrian citizens all of a sudden became Poles or Czechoslovaks. This was not only reflected in the paperwork documenting individual identities1 but also in official statistics. Whether a person identified with his or her new categorization was of little or no concern to the administration managing the documents or to the statisticians who processed data on behalf of governments.2 This has serious consequences for migration studies, which usually build on these individual and collective data to define their object of study. These categories often fail to capture identifying features or circumstances that drive individuals to migrate, and individuals do not necessary identify with the migrant community to which they are documentarily and statistically assigned.3 Nor does this paperwork take into account non-national, e.g. religious or transnational migrant communities, the non-binary character of individuals who play different roles in different (migrant) settings, or the possibility that an individual, through his or her actions, may change the outlook of a migrant community (e.g. among nationals without a fatherland) or serve as a catalyst for the emergence of hitherto unknown (migrant) constellations.

This contribution focuses on an individual who at the time of his arrival in Belgium in 1938 was registered as a Czechoslovak citizen but who himself did not identify with that country’s migrant community (if one existed at all). Moreover, his time spent as a migrant in Belgium was guided by a religious mission that barely acknowledged national identities.4 However, the fact that this individual did not fit the existing (formal) categories does not mean that he was not a migrant. He effectively built his own network, which constantly shifted and grew and which was religious and transnational by definition, and he ignored the (politically) imposed barriers between local and foreign. Not only do the circumstances of this individual’s life challenge the usual categories of migration history, but the shift of focus to an individual is also unlikely to provide direct insights into the concerns or cultural identity of the migrant community as a whole. On the contrary, this case risks being downplayed as a case study, biography, microhistory, or, even worse, hagiography or petite histoire. Last but not least, there is the additional peril of blind spots, as the absence or elusiveness of sources cannot be papered over by massive data and general tendencies.

To tackle these challenges, I use a methodology that has proven effective in my previous biographical and prosopographical research.5 It essentially combines social network analysis with the philological-historical method, with texts (sources) themselves as evidence and products of networks of authors, readers (addressees), themes and topics (hi-stories), references, and forms of intertextuality. Texts can always be read as 1) products and tools of the social networks from which they emerge and 2) references to other texts. The lack of sources imposes limits on what can be known, but insights into textual interconnections may yield additional information concerning social interconnections. This approach is particularly appropriate within the field of Migrant knowledge, a new paradigm on the crossroads of migrant studies and the history of knowledge that focuses on the roles of migrants in the circulation of knowledge.6 This is exemplified by the present case of Alojz or Alexis (Aleksei) Strýček in Belgium.

Alojz Strýček

In 2009, Alexis (Alozj) Strýček (1916–2013), a French Jesuit of Slovak origin, committed his memories to paper. For ages, he had been entertaining friends, colleagues, and visitors with numerous stories about his adventurous life, and he finally gave in to their urgings to put the story of his life in writing. His autobiography in Russian (his Russian was allegedly better than his native Slovak, even if it was not his first language)7 opens with a passage in which he identifies himself: he was born to a Slovak-speaking family in the Austrian-Hungarian village of Cserne (now Čierne, on the Slovak-Polish border), but only after the creation of Czechoslovakia in 1918 and the ousting of the Hungarian administration did the Strýčeks acknowledge their Slavic, i.e. Slovak identity. First and foremost, the Strýčeks were Roman Catholics. Alojz was named after the saint of his birthday (Aloysius Gonzaga, June 21), and he regularly attended mass, served as an altar boy, said his bedtime prayers, read religious literature, and saw how his (well-to-do) parents engaged in charity.8 In the French (adapted) edition of his memoirs (2013), however, the stress is on Strýček being multilingual (Slovak, Czech, German, Latin, French) and well-travelled from a very young age.9 The differences between the two editions can be explained by the difference in the target readership: the Russian version addressed the tiny community of Catholics in Novosibirsk, where Strýček was living at the time of publication, whereas the French version, edited by Strýček’s former language teaching assistant after his death, was meant for a larger, non-religious French readership. Both editions agree that languages, mobility, and Catholicism indeed defined Strýček’s life.

In 1926, at the age of ten, Alojz was sent to the gymnasium in Trnava and later to the schools in Nitra and Trenčin, where he graduated in 1934. As he noted in his autobiography,

During his last class, the priest read us a letter from the Pope. It said that the Soviets were destroying the Catholic clergy, and that we had to prepare for the moment “when Russia would open up,” and that in Rome a seminary had been founded, the “Russicum,” to train future priests. In Slovakia, we were “panslavists” and saw in Russia the future of the Slavs.

During the graduation party, I declared that I would go to Rome. To give it a try. If I didn’t like it, I’d come back. To non-Catholics, you have to explain that priesthood is considered the ideal in the life of a Catholic. In Sunday homilies there was always talk about “vocation,” i.e. the call to follow Jesus Christ. Celibacy, the unmarried status, is obligatory if you want to take up the priestly status, but at the same time it also gives it its aura. Five of my classmates ended up becoming priests.10

The Russicum, a preparatory college for Catholic priests destined for missionary work in Russia and among Russians abroad, had been established in 1929 by the papal encyclical Quam curam, the very “letter” the priest had read to his pupils in the gymnasium in Trenčin.11 It was the latest instalment in the “Russia policy” of the Holy See.12 This policy was part of the Church’s battle against modernism, which found form, for instance, in the secular nation state as the nucleus of international relations. To counter the demise of religion in public life as of the end of the nineteenth century the Catholic Church increasingly stressed its divine and universal character, which was epitomized by a steep increase in missionary work and the idea that Christians should unite against secularism.13 From the Roman Catholic point of view, the latter implied the “reunion” of the Christian Churches, notably the Oriental ones, with Catholicism, i.e. their conversion and submission to the Church of Rome.14 The first step in this process had been Leo XIII’s papal encyclical Orientalium Dignitas (1893), which proclaimed that the Oriental rites of the Eastern Catholic Churches and the Latin rite were equally valid and should be maintained. The latter implied the prohibition of Latinization, the creation of Eastern rite seminaries, and the study of Eastern theology.15 To further this eastern policy, on May 1, 1917, Benedict XV created the Congregation for the Eastern Church and on October 15, 1917 the Pontifical Oriental Institute. With regards to Russia, the Vatican seized the opportunity offered by the freedom of religion in the Russian Empire (1905–1906, reconfirmed after the February revolution of 1917)16 to (re-)establish Catholic dioceses in Russia, both of the Latin and Eastern rite (Greek Catholics, i.e. Uniates). Even after the Bolshevik takeover, the Holy See attempted to secure Catholic interests in Soviet Russia. Its efforts were in vain, however. As an alternative, the Catholic Church heavily invested in charity to gain sympathy among the (traditionally hostile) Russian Orthodox, either in Russia itself through food relief during the famine of 1921–22 or among Russian refugees (émigrés) by providing material, educational, and spiritual support. Especially during the pontificate of Pius XI (1922–1939), Russia and the relationship with Russian Orthodoxy became a hot topic, with the creation of the Pontifical Commission Pro Russia (1925) within the Congregation for the Eastern Church and further encyclicals stressing the importance of unity among the Christian Churches and the primacy of the Catholic Church therein (Mortalium Animos, 1928), as well as the importance of the teaching of Oriental liturgy and culture in Catholic universities and seminars (Rerum Orientalium, 1928). The latter led to the creation of the Collegium Russicum, the management of which was entrusted to the Jesuit Order.17

The 18-year old Alojz Strýček arrived in Rome on October 17, 1934. By that time, the Russicum had more or less established itself. It provided lodging for some 30 students and trained them in Russian culture and the Eastern rite, as these were considered the shortest way to the hearts of the Russians. Moreover, the Russicum’s first rector, the Slovak Vendelín Javorka (1882–1966), who probably had been responsible for the promotion of the Russicum in Slovakia, had been succeeded by the Frenchman Philippe de Régis (1897–1954). Notwithstanding his good relationship with the Slovak Jesuit Province (Provincial Rudolf Mikuš, 1884–1972) and the Slovak dioceses (Bishop Karel Kmetko of Nitra, 1875–1948), de Régis was not keen on “too large a group of Slovaks (or for that matter any group of non-Russian foreigners gaining a majority).”18 Strýček became one of the twelve Slovaks who studied at the Russicum in the interwar period,19 and he liked it there: “I never returned home. However much I loved my father, mother, and sister and however much I was loved by them, I followed the often repeated words of Christ that I now heard inside me: ‘follow thou me’ (Matthew 8:22).”20 On September 8, 1936, after two years in the Russicum (and two years of philosophy at the Gregorian University), Strýček entered the Jesuit Order.21 De Régis was delighted:

Regarding the religious spirit [in the college], we thank God that everything seems to be going well. On the occasion of F. Wetter [Gustav Wetter, 1911–1991] and F. Strýček entering the novitiate, we could note how well and sympathetically the students were disposed towards the Society. Certainly nothing remained of the former distrust which could be observed in the first students. The silent student A. Strýček will enter the Society. Two others, however, leave the college this year; one, a Frenchman, is destined for the Capuchin novitiate for missionary work among the negroes, while the other, a German, having experienced difficulties in the Eastern rite, wanted to join a seminary in his own country.22

Strýček was sent to the Eastern rite novitiate of Zagreb, but a year later the Yugoslav government stopped granting visas to Catholic seminarists of the Eastern rite. Strýček returned to Italy, to the novitiate of Ariccia, where on September 8, 1938 he took his first vows.23

For the next phase of his training period (the so-called Regency, which was an internship which lasted two to three years), the young Jesuit was sent to the Russian Collège Saint-Georges in Namur to serve as a praefectus disciplinae (discipline master) and “to study Russian.”24 According to his personal file, his performance as a praefectus was “cum mediocri satisfactione.” As a language teacher, however, he qualified “cum optima satisfactione.”25 The Collège Saint-Georges had been founded in 1921 in Constantinople by French Jesuits to provide schooling for the sons of the thousands of Russian families that had fled Russia after the defeat of the White Armies at the end of 1920. In March 1923, the institute, its staff, and 38 pupils were transferred to Namur, where it was attached to the Jesuit Collège Notre-Dame de la Paix. During the day, the children went to school at the Jesuit Collège or other Catholic institutions in the neighborhood. Saint-Georges itself provided boarding, effectively creating an entirely Russian environment with Russian as the language of communication, Russian language classes, and Russian culture and religious instruction (Catholicism of the Eastern rite). It thus served as a model for the future Russicum. Saint-Georges was also directly funded by the Vatican and run by the Jesuits. Although some of its graduates would later enter the Russicum, the conversion of Russians was not the primary goal of the Jesuits. Gaining sympathy among Russia’s future elites (or the people who, it was believed at the time, would later emerge as the elites) was much higher on their agenda. And many Russians who were also Orthodox were happy to send their children to Namur. Unlike in other Catholic countries, the Catholic Church in Belgium and especially its primate, Cardinal Mercier (1851–1926), were reputed to refrain from proselytism.26 In reality, however, conversion was part of the deal. In exchange for a good education at a moderate cost, many parents turned a blind eye to Catholic pressure as long as it did not affect the family’s standing in the Russian émigré community. The children themselves wanted to fit in with their Catholic environment (and please their teachers), and as many of them even spent their holidays at the college at the behest of the Jesuits, few parents were in a position to counter Catholic pressure.27 Meanwhile, the sponsors of the collège measured their return on investment on the basis of the number of conversions. In his report to Rome of April 20, 1939, Paul Mailleux (1905–1983), the director of Saint-Georges, stressed that he himself refrained from converting pupils under his care to avoid direct conflicts with the Orthodox community, but he was adamant that his little Russians were so well-embedded in their Belgian Catholic environment that as many as half of them eventually converted.28 This met with the approval of Włodzimierz Ledóchowski (1868–1942), the superior general of the Society of Jesus in Rome.29 In his memoirs, Strýček describes Saint-Georges as an experiment on the fringes of what was achievable within the Catholic Church at that time:

For the pupils of the college [Notre-Dame de la Paix] attending mass was obligatory. There could be no exception for the boarders at Saint-Georges! Let them pray according to their own rite! It goes without saying that at that time inviting an Orthodox priest for that purpose was out of the question. Some of the boys were Russian Catholics, and in the collège there were Catholic priests of the Eastern rite.30

Every day, Father Victor [Richter, 1899–1976] and Father Dimitri [Kuz’min-Karavaev, 1886–1959] celebrated liturgy for the pupils of Saint-Georges. Usually, a [Eastern rite] liturgy is sung and lasts longer than a Latin mass. To gain time before the beginning of the classes at the college, the pupils attended a spoken liturgy, which is completely unacceptable for Russians. Like it or not, the Orthodox children had to accept the order of things.31

In April 1939, Strýček took his protégés to the Easter service in the Russian Orthodox Church in Charleroi,32 where he encouraged them to participate in the liturgy and sing along with the choir: “I had neglected the ban on communicatio in sacris [participation in a non-Catholic service]. Back in Namur, I got an earful.”33 This, perhaps, gained him the qualification of being a mediocre praefectus, but there is no concrete reference to this incident either in the archives of Saint-Georges, or in Strýček’s personal file in the Jesuit archives. As a matter of fact, apart from some administrative notes, there are no references at all to Strýček during that period, let alone sources that corroborate his memoirs. This is probably due to Strýček’s extremely young age. He was only 22 when he arrived in Namur in late September 1938, and he was still in the early stages of his probatio. Moreover, one can wonder about the accuracy of Strýček’s memoirs. They largely coincide with and sometimes almost seem to be based on the official history of Saint-Georges, published in 1993. Did Strýček use this account as a source, or did the authors of this history build on his stories? And last but not least, Strýček’s memories were probably colored by the more ecumenical attitudes that Saint-Georges and, for that matter, the whole of the Catholic Church would adopt in later years and of which Strýček himself was an adept.34

When Strýček arrived in Namur in September 1938, Saint-Georges was more or less regaining momentum after years of financial and organizational turmoil.35 It was now led by a dynamic, Russian-speaking director (Paul Mailleux) and was part of a broader Jesuit structure, which also included the Foyer Universitaire Slave, the Russian student home at the University of Louvain (Leuven).36 Moreover, thanks to the new influx of financial means and personnel from Rome (“I wish all my colleges were as well provided for by Rome as yours is,” the Provincial wrote to Mailleux37), there were even plans to diversify the trajectories offered to Saint-Georges’ boarders. As the materially and psychologically deprived Russian émigrés were not always up to the high academic standards of Notre-Dame de la Paix, it was considered potentially worthwhile to send them to technical or vocational schools as well.38 And thanks to the arrival of the English Jesuit Paul Dickinson (1914–2002) and a flaw in the Belgian legislation, the (obligatory) Flemish classes at Notre-Dame de la Paix (“many parents feel (correctly) that too much emphasis is put on the study of a language of primarily local interest”), were replaced by English classes in Saint-Georges itself.39 A year later, however, things were changing dramatically as events on the international political stage were becoming increasingly ominous. In August 1939, part of the collège’s premises at Namur were requisitioned by the Belgian army in view of the threat of war.40 In September, F. Mailleux was mobilized. On October 31, the Sœurs de la Charité de Namur announced that they would not be able to provide bread for free anymore.41 Meanwhile, developments in the East, notably the Soviet-Finnish war, put the Russian apostolate in a new, complicated perspective. Who would sympathize with the Russians now that the Soviets had attacked a neighboring country?42 When war broke out in Belgium on May 10, 1940, 45 of the 60 pupils returned to their parents in Brussels and Paris. The other 15 fled to France under the guidance of Victor Richter. Alojz Strýček, Dmitrii Kuzmin-Karavaev, and Frantiszek Przewlekły (1884–1957) stayed behind in Namur. Unlike the rest of the (garrison) town, Saint-Georges remained relatively unscathed by the bombardments of May 1940. Within days, the refugees returned to Namur.43 Soon afterwards, however, it was decided to move the college to Paris, as most of the pupils were living in the French capital.44 In 1941, Mailleux, Kuzmin-Karavaev, and Przewlekły were permitted to leave Belgium, and Richter was allowed to leave in 1942. Strýček remained in Belgium to pursue his Jesuit training.45

In 1940, Strýček had resumed his philosophy studies (he was in his third year) at the Jesuit Robert Bellarmine Novitiate of Wépion, just outside of Namur, but he failed his exams. In his memoirs, he acknowledged that his Roman training had not prepared him for the exacting standards of Belgian higher education, but he also blamed his professors for being too rigid and blind to the social concerns of the younger generation.46 The following year, he enrolled in the “minor” theology program at the Jesuit Collegium Maximum in Louvain, destined for future missionaries and priests without degrees in philosophy. This Jesuit institution in the rue des Récollets (Minderbroederstraat), which should not be confounded with the Faculty of Theology at the University of Louvain, was renowned for its internationalism and modern spirit (“the spirit of Louvain”, as one author put it).47

In his memoirs, Strýček claims that in Louvain, he took his Russian interests to a new level. The Louvain library provided plenty of reading materials, and there was ample opportunity to connect with Russian émigrés, either students at the Foyer Universitaire Slave in de rue de Malines (Mechelsestraat) or Russians living in Louvain.48 Many of them had become Catholics. Irina Posnova (1914–1997), a Louvain graduate and future founder of the Russian Catholic publishing house Zhizn’ s Bogom (La Vie avec Dieu);49 Ilia Denisov (1893–1971), who in 1943 defended a groundbreaking dissertation on Maximus the Greek (Maksim Grek, 1470–1556);50 Vera Naryshkina-Witte (1883–1963), the adopted daughter of the former Russian Prime Minister Sergei Witte (1849–1915) and a sponsor of schooling programs for Russian émigré children.51 But he allegedly was also in touch with Orthodox émigrés, such as F. Georgii Tarasov (1893–1963), the priest of the Russian Orthodox churches in Brussels, Louvain, and Ghent and the future archbishop of the Patriarchal Exarchate for Orthodox Parishes in Western Europe (Paris).52 However, as the Nazis only recognized the authority of the competing (and collaborating) Russian Orthodox Church Abroad, Tarasov (and many émigrés) was rather restricted in his movements.53 This was the context (described vaguely and misleadingly in Strýček’s memoirs)54 in which a new (and adventurous) phase began in the life of the young Jesuit.

Alexis Strýček

In 1942, the Germans started to transfer labor force from the Eastern Front to the coal mines in Belgium. Initially, these forced laborers were (Ukrainian) civilians (Ostarbeiter), but as of the summer of 1942, the supply consisted mainly of Soviet prisoners of war. This was particularly the case in the province of Limburg, where the first POWs arrived in September 1942.55 Many of these POWs fled when they got a chance. By the spring of 1943, the number of Soviet POWs had risen to some 250, about 5 percent of the total.56 According to Strýček, in late 1942, he was approached by Limburg youngsters on behalf of the Resistance. A Russian refugee was hiding in their barn, and they needed an interpreter. They did not trust the Russian translators in the coal mines, as they had been recruited from among (collaborating) Russian émigrés.57 Whatever the case, in November 1942 the Louvain seminarian established contacts at the camp hospital of Waterschei. His first “protégé” was the Ukrainian Ostarbeiter Arsen’ Feshchenko, who was a regular patient of the camp hospital. Together with his comrades Adam and Nikola, Feshchenko complained about the working conditions (they had not been miners back home), the lack of food, and the cold. And they were happy to receive cigarettes, bread, fruit, clothing, and books (including a Bible) from the future priest.58 By the end of December, Strýček had made arrangements to visit the Waterschei patients,59 and he had even found others who delivered parcels on his behalf.60 Strýček’s superiors gave their blessing to this “fruitful work among the prisoners,” and they reckoned that through Strýček, “the Lord will increasingly show mercy for these poor people.”61 The visits and the parcel service served as an ideal cover to rove the area between Louvain and the Limburg coal basin and even further afield, in the Ardennes.62 By the summer of 1943, Strýček’s services extended to the escaped prisoners who had gone into hiding in the woods of East-Brabant and Limburg.63 One of the escapees was Anton Osip, a medical student at the University of Kiev who in July 1943 had been put in charge of the Waterschei camp hospital, two months before he himself had fled.64 Osip’s fate was often the subject of letters by Maria Indestege (1912–1975), a nurse at the hospital who was at the heart of the escape network. More than once, she had to urge Strýček to keep a low profile so as not to give away the network.65 A similar warning was issued by Anatolii Khrustalov, a friend of Osip’s, who worried that too many of the prisoners knew Strýček: “It would be better if you stopped coming, because we are suspicious of the émigrés [the interpreters].”66 Strýček’s reputation eventually reached a group of Russian émigrés who themselves were organizing a Russian resistance group, “Partisans Russes en Belgique,” with strong links to the Limburg coal mines.67 Although these émigrés would later claim that the Limburg escape route was an integral part of their network,68 there are strong indications that this was not exactly the case.69 The escaped Soviet POWs created their own ring “For the Motherland” (Za rodinu), which was organized as a Soviet partisan division and consisted by the end of the war of some 400 fighters. There was not much love lost between these two movements, and Strýček himself did not really warm to the émigrés. He preferred the company of the Soviets.70

His contacts with Soviet citizens and POWs also offered the aspiring missionary an opportunity to gain second-hand information about Soviet Russia. Some inmates seem to have been happy to oblige Father Aleksei (Alexis), the name they used for him, as it was far easier to pronounce and remember than Alojz. Ostarbeiter Andrei Netripailo, for instance, eagerly received parcels and visits by Alojz, and in exchange, he tried to convince his benefactor of his religious zeal. He made inquiries about Orthodox émigrés who might help and wrote about a visit of an Orthodox priest to the camp, icons, Easter, the danger of atheist co-prisoners, and Jews (allegedly Feshchenko was one). “Thank you for your concern,” he wrote in a letter to Alojz, “you are a well-loved man and a good soul who does not forget us Orthodox; for these good deeds, the merciful Lord will remember you.”71 The religious theme would surface in many a letter, and this was clearly the kind of information Strýček was seeking. Some three weeks after their first meeting, presumably in late 1943, another refugee, the 20-year old chemistry student and second lieutenant Pavel, wrote the following in a letter to Strýček:

I thought that after our first meeting, you must have thought that this is a man with Soviet schooling and is therefore no comrade (tovarishch) of mine, but you are mistaken, I have always prayed and gone to church with my grandmother, admittedly not often, and when I finished school and went for my lieutenant’s training, the last words of my grandmother were: “Pray, and god [sic] will always assist.” And I always prayed and honored her will.72

In other letters, Pavel gave in to Strýček’s probing and further expanded on his religious upbringing. He stressed that, the anti-religious propaganda in the Soviet Union notwithstanding, many people had kept their faith, wore crosses, had their children baptized, and many young people still knew the Lord’s Prayer and dodged anti-religious courses. “Foreigners, as well as Russians,” he claimed, “exaggerate the importance of atheism among Russians.”73 Pavel increasingly saw Strýček as a “friend to whom I can write everything and [from whom] I receive true instruction and good advice.” And he continued:

I would like to know your opinion about Russia, how such a deeply religious people has a government that rejects god [sic]; I think that this cannot continue for much longer. Because only the biggest idiot can say that he was born without a father. For that reason, my grandfather called Stalin a “wise donkey,” but please don’t tell this to anyone.74

Pavel asked Strýček not to share his contentions with other Soviets and even to burn his letters. As his letters reveal, not all his comrades shared his religious interests. Many of them radiated the skepticism of their Soviet upbringing and commented on the apparent contradictions in the Bible. One anonymous letter writer claimed that, “There is no truth there, deceit upon deception, everywhere slaughtering of children and adults, all done with the blessing of God,” and the author agreed with Marx that religion is “the opium of the people.”75 On March 21, 1944, one of them openly countered Strýček, who three months previously had been (secretly) ordained as a deacon in Paris:76

I will be frank. In my previous letter, I consciously did not congratulate you on your ecclesiastical promotion. There is no need to pretend in front of you, share niceties, when it is not sincere, or as they say, “from the heart.” You have sown confusion in my head. Until now, I have rejected God’s existence on the basis of the evidence I had, but since I met you, it proved insufficient; the question of whether God exists, is far deeper than I imagined. I had to reconsider everything and ponder again. […] And meanwhile I remain an atheist.77

The author of the letter repeated traditional arguments: the contradictions in the Holy Scripture (how could an educated man like Strýček put his faith in texts riddled with contradictions?), Strýček’s alleged disrespect for Russia (how dare he call the Russian people “poor”?), the notion of papal infallibility (why was the head of the Catholic Church infallible and not the head of the Orthodox Church?), the (Catholic) allegorical interpretation of the Bible versus the literal interpretation widespread among Orthodox émigrés, the claims of both Catholics and Orthodox to primacy among the Churches, and the notion of a perfect God as creator of an imperfect world. The letter left its mark, as Strýček copied it several times.

Strýček’s religious zeal and growing expertise on Russia also affected his Belgian surroundings. In the summer of 1943, F. Etienne (Stefaan) Gervais (1912–1982) of the Franciscans in Rekem (Limburg) made inquiries about a Russian language course.78 Were the Rekem Fransciscans also dealing with Russian escapees? In February 1944, Henri De Visscher (1913–1994), a former student at the Pontifical Oriental Institute in Rome who had been forced to return to Belgium at the outbreak of war and was now biding his time in Châtelineau (Hainaut), had heard from a Limburg seminarian about Strýček’s Russian interests and confessed that he also wanted to dedicate his life to the Russian cause.79 As of late spring or early summer 1944, Soeur Cecilia (Evgeniia Morozova, 1912–2011), a Russian Catholic nun of the Eastern rite who was working as a nurse in the civilian hospital in Nivelles, started to brief him about the fate of Russian prisoners in her region (first POWs and, as of September 1944, Russian collaborators) and her strained relationship with the Russian Orthodox community. She also asked for advice on the publication of Catholic literature in Russian (the life of St. Vincent de Paul).80 In early 1945, by which time the Belgian territory had been completely liberated, Strýček advised a Russian friend of his (a woman) about the publication of a modest Russian-language catechism, as all the available religious literature had been seized by the Russian collaborators. Strýček advised her to contact Irina Posnova.81 Around the same time, Maria Indestege, the resistant and nurse with whom he had closely collaborated in Waterschei, complained about the quiet. “Strange,” she wrote, “after all the time we lived in danger.” She also complained about the boredom of the newly regained freedom: “Can I not be of any help in one of your undertakings? I’d do it with all my heart, even if it means going to Russia.”82

The latter was precisely what Strýček had in mind in the spring of 1945. Since the liberation of the larger part of the Belgian territory in September 1944, his “Russian career” had taken a sharp turn. The Soviet partisans of For the Motherland had assisted the Allies in cleansing Limburg of German stay-behinds and collaborators and in return had received some sort of (informal) recognition.83 By mid-September, the Belgian authorities had started to take control of the situation, which also implied that (uncontrolled) resistance groups were to be disarmed and disbanded. The Soviet partisans were instructed to assemble in Hasselt, but for political reasons (Belgium did not want to offend the Soviet ally) did not have to surrender their arms.84 All of a sudden, Father Strýček became the official liaison between For the Motherland and the Belgian and Allied authorities. He translated documents into Russian on behalf of the local authorities and also informed them on who had been assisting the Russian partisans and thus merited recognition as a Belgian patriot.85 And although the partisans had come to consider Strýček one of their own, the fact that he was a priest (he had been ordained in Louvain on June 27, 1944) complicated things. When he had been an intermediary between individuals and underground groups during the war, Strýček’s position as a member of the clergy had been of little importance (and an excellent cover). However, after the liberation, For the Motherland was organized and perceived as a military brigade, and a Catholic priest among Soviet soldiers was inconceivable, especially for Moscow. In late September, a Soviet military delegation had landed in Brussels to keep an eye on Soviet citizens in Belgium and organize their repatriation, if necessary with force.86 For the time being, however, Strýček was needed as an interpreter and a fixer, and it was agreed that he would accompany the brigade to Marseilles via Saint-Amand-les-Bains (in the French Department of Nord) and Mailly-le-Camp (in the Department of Aube). Strýček was walking a thin line. As a Catholic priest, he was supposed to keep away from military and political affairs, but his Russian friends expected him to join them in the euphoria of victory, which of course was presented in Soviet propaganda as a triumph of the new world power and its ideology.87 This ranged from a welcome to the US troops (“we are very happy to see our Allies in our home”) in early September 194488 to the organization of a Soviet dance and sing-along spectacle in Valenciennes in late 1944:

You have come here tonight to hear our songs and watch our dances; you have come to show your sympathy for that great people that has contributed so much to the liberation of Europe. You also have to come tonight to see the Red soldiers, to get to know the citizens of the new Russia. Watch and listen to our soldiers; the Soviet man is the spitting image of the land of the Soviets.89

The brigade was to embark from Marseille for Odessa on April 29, 1945, and apparently Strýček had planned to accompany them home. His hope to continue his mission in Soviet Russia, however, was thwarted by Cardinal Eugène Tisserant (1884–1972), head of the Congregation for the Eastern Church in Rome. In his memoirs, Strýček ascribed the interdiction to go to Soviet Russia to the emerging Cold War (a rather antedated concept) and the growing hostility between Moscow and Rome. And he admitted that it probably had saved him from being persecuted (and executed) as a “spy from the Vatican.”90 A short assessment in his Roman file, dating from 1950, characterized him as “religiously in unity with God, burning with the zeal of souls, energetic, sociable, and pleasant but nervous and therefore amiable and at times rough and implacable. Sometimes even a little vulgar in his manner of dealing with the ruder.”91 Was this the same Strýček whom de Régis had called “a silent student”?

In an (anonymous) report on wartime events in Limburg, it was stressed that the inhabitants of the region were “good Catholics” who

were happy to be of service to the unfortunates fleeing the Gestapo. To make themselves understood, they found help in the person of Jesuit Father A.S., who with the approval of his superiors abandoned his studies and followed his dear friends into the woods of Limburg. […] Some months later, the Brigade embarked with its wartime trophies to return to their fatherland. The heart of the Father was with his men on the boat, but Providence did not want him to accompany his friends to Russia. “Lord, thy will be done.”92

Antonina (Tonia) Ivanova, a female member of the Brigade and a fierce communist, wrote a farewell letter to Strýček:

Dear Father Aleksei, before I have to return to the Motherland, I have to say a few words to you. What’s done is done and won’t come back. But what has been, will never be forgotten. Personally, I’ll never forget the man with the little beard and moustache who so often helped me and who during all the time we’ve known each other was exclusively well-disposed towards me and tried to help me in every way he could. […] You probably won’t believe what I want to say, but I’ll tell you the truth: I’m saying farewell to you, dear Father Aleksei, with pain in my heart and tears in my eyes.93

Ivanova’s description of Strýček, it seems, was picked up in the 1960 Soviet documentary novel In a Foreign Country (V chuzhoi strane) about the Russian partisans in Limburg, in which Father Aleksei was presented as a Czech priest who “with his ginger goatee and pince-nez on a black cord very much resembled Chekhov.”94 The author of this novel, the military journalist Abram Vol’f (1916–1989), consciously downplayed the role Strýček had played, reducing him to an accomplice of white Russian émigrés.

Strýček remained in France, where he rejoined the Collège Saint-Georges, now established in Paris. He resumed his teaching and supervising position and continued to deepen his knowledge of Russia, “attaining a rare proficiency in the language, which he spoke and wrote like a native.”95 He wrote a manual on the nightmare of every student of Russian, the Russian accentuation (1966), a dissertation on the eighteenth-century Russian author Denis Fonvizin (1976), and a Russian textbook (1992).96 In 1993, at the advanced age of 78, he finally got the opportunity to accomplish his Russian mission. He traveled to the city of Novosobirsk. It was during this period that his wartime feats were recognized, first by the Russian authorities and then by the Belgian government, which in 2010 gave him the Order of Leopold.97 In 2011, Stýček returned to France, where shortly before his death in 2013, immobilized and losing his linguistic capacities, he dictated his Souvenirs (in French).98

Conclusion

In March 1993, Arthur Wollants and Jos Bouveroux interviewed Strýček, or Father Alexis, as he was known in France, for their book on the Russian partisans in Limburg. Having been misled by their main source, Vol’f’s aforementioned novel In a Foreign Country, they addressed Strýček as a Czech. An offended Strýček immediately put them right: “I’m Slovak, not Czech!”99 Undoubtedly, his insistence on his identity as a Slovak was influenced at least in part by the split, three months earlier, of Czechoslovakia into two independent nation states (or least better approximations of nation states). There are no indications, however, that during his stay in Belgium Strýček or his Belgian contacts ever identified him(self) as Slovak. He was a Jesuit novice with a vocation in the Russian apostolate who had come to Belgium to fulfill his “regency” (at Saint-Georges) and who, forced by the circumstances of war, continued his theological training in Louvain, where he eventually also received his ordination in June 1944. It was thanks to this religious identity that he was able to pursue activities as part of the resistance in Limburg, remain under the radar of the Gestapo, and effectively become part of the Catholic community. In Strýček’s case, this amounted to “blending in.” Everyone knew him, but they knew hardly anything about him, except, perhaps, that he had knowledge of Russian language and culture. He was hardly the only person to possess such knowledge. On the eve of World War II, some 10,000 Russian émigrés were living in Belgium, but they had remained foreign, not only as a (national) migrant community, but also as belonging to a different religion, i.e. (Russian) Orthodoxy. During his period at Saint-Georges in Namur, Strýček had come to know this Russian émigré community rather well, but as a Catholic, he had always remained on its fringes. And while some of these émigrés collaborated with the Germans (notably as interpreters in the POW-camps), Strýček remained unaffected by the collaborationist stain of being a Russian émigré or, for that matter, a Slovak national (the Germans had created a client Slovak State in 1939, led by clerical fascist and priest Jozef Tiso).100

Because of these unique qualities (his lack of any close connection with the Russian émigré community , his proficiency in Russian, and his knowledge of local languages, including French, German, and some Flemish), Strýček became the interlocutor for the Ostarbeiter, Soviet POWs, escapees, and partisans in the area between Louvain and the Limburg coal basin. His Catholic identity was taken for granted, for there was (probably) no alternative. And by the time of the liberation, which implied the return of Soviet discipline among the partisans, only trust (the trust of the partisans, the Belgians, and the Allies) and Strýček’s deep empathy with his Soviet protegees made it possible for him to accompany the Soviet brigade to Marseilles. It took a Roman interdiction to stop Strýček from departing for the Soviet Union and ultimately to save him from a fateful end as a “spy from the Vatican.”

Key to Strýček’s position, however, is his being an individual who occupied different positions or played different roles in different communities: as a Catholic cleric in his Belgian environment, as a Russianist among the Soviet partisans, all the while driven by his mission for the Russian apostolate. As such, the case of Alojz-Aleksei-Alexis Strýček challenges (traditional) migrant history, which builds on the category of nationality to map migration and describe the migrant communities that result from it. His example suggests that religion as an identity marker can be at least as powerful as nationality, thereby imposing borders between “them” and “us” that do not coincide with those implied by national or nation state identities. Strýček’s case therefore better fits in with the paradigm of “migrant knowledge,” which focuses on the circulation of knowledge in and through migration and on the intermediaries in this process. Strýček possessed a unique knowledge of Russia and Russian, first received at home (e.g. his claim that, “In Slovakia, we were ‘panslavists’ and saw in Russia the future of the Slavs”), as a Catholic of the Eastern rite (at the Russicum), a praefectus and teacher of Russian émigré children (in Saint-Georges), during the war (as a translator and fixer for the Russian partisans), and after the war in France (in Saint-Georges as an academic) and in Russia (as a missionary). Strýček’s case is also distinctive because his knowledge of Russian was not born of necessity but of chance. After all, as a Catholic novice and priest, he had direct access to Italy, Belgium, and France. The 1929 papal encyclical Quam curam, allegedly, had given him a Russian mission, and with that, a thirst for knowledge of Russian culture and the Russian language, in which he would excel.

From this point of view, Strýček can be seen as a catalyst figure whose specific competencies set a process in motion but who was not consumed by that process himself. Conversely, the same applies to his Slovak identity. Strýček was first and foremost a missionary of the Russian apostolate. That he was of Slovak (or Austro-Hungarian or Czechoslovak) origin was merely a coincidence.

Archival Sources

Archivum Romanorum Societatis Iesu (Rome), (ARSI)

VIII: Collegium Russicum

A. Epistolae 1001 (1928–1947)

De Régis to Anton Prešeren SJ (assistant to the Jesuit General for the Slavic

Provinces)

Archivio Storico Provincia Euro-Mediterranea della Compagnia di Gesù, Rome (ASPEMCG)

Fondi della Provincia Romana

Archives Françaises de la Compagnie de Jésus, Vanves (AFSI)

Rijksarchief in België [State Archives of Belgium] (BSA)

F 1650 (Police des Etrangérs), Personal File A313533 Strycek L.

F 1650, Personal File 1171591 Naryschkine C.

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Denissoff, Elie, and Graecus Maximus. Maxime le Grec et l’Occident: contribution à l’histoire de la pensée religieuse et philosophique de Michel Trivolis. Université du Louvain. Recueil de travaux d’histoire et de philologie. 3e série 14. Louvain: Bibliothèque de l’Université, 1943.

Dumont, Camille. “Vie et destinée d’un Collège Jésuite: Louvain 1838–Bruxelles 1988.” In Un Collège Théologique de la Compagnie de Jésus: 150e anniversaire Louvain 1838–Bruxelles 1988, 7–46. Brussels: Institut d’Etudes Théologiques, 1989.

Elena Maria (Sr). “In ricordo di Madre Ekaterina.” Lettera dal monastero della Dormizione di Maria, no. 45 (2010). http://www.dormizione.it/?p=1

Elens, Antoine, and Rouleau, François. “L’histoire de Saint-Georges. De Constantinople à Meudon.” In Un collège jésuite pour les Russes : Saint-Georges. De Constantinople à Meudon, 1921–1992, 7–60. Paris: Bibliothèque slave de Paris, 1993.

Emond, Elisabeth. “Le problème religieux chez les émigrés russes: le cas de l’internat Saint-Georges à Namur.” In Foi, gestes et institutions religieuses aux XIXe et XXe siècles, edited by Luc Courtois, and Jacques Pirotte, 147–57. Louvain-la-Neuve: Centre d’Histoire des Religions, 1991.

Fouilloux, Etienne. Les catholiques et l’unité chrétienne du XIXe au XXe siècle: Itinéraires européens d’expression française. Paris: Le Centurion, 1982.

Green, Abigail, and Vincent Viaene, eds. Religious Internationals in the Modern World: Globalization and Faith Communities since 1750. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.

Kamenec, Ivan. “The Slovak state, 1939–1945.” In Slovakia in History, edited by Dušan Kováč, Martin D. Brown, and Mikuláš Teich, 175–92. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011.

Kennedy, James C. “Religion, Nation, and European Representations of the Past.” In The Contested Nation: Ethnicity, Class, Religion and Gender in National Histories, edited by Stefan Berger, and Chris Lorenz, 104–34. London: Palgrave-Macmillan, 2008.

[Koch-Lubouchine, Marina]. “Avant-propos.” In Strycek, Alexis, Souvenirs, 5–8. Norderstedt: Books on Demand, 2022.

Kohlbacher, Jan, Ludo Loos, Johan Kusters, Pollie Gregoor, and Flor Vanloffeld. Het Russisch kamp: de kampen bij de Limburgse mijnen 1942–1965 [The Russian camp: The camps at the Limburg mines 1942–1965]. Eisden: Stichting erfgoed, 1998.

Lamberts, Emiel. The struggle with Leviathan: Social responses to the Omnipotence of the State, 1815–1965. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2016.

Lease, Gary. “Vatican foreign policy and the origins of Modernism.” In Catholicism Contending with Modernity: Roman Catholic Modernism and Anti-Modernism in Historical Context, edited by Darrell Jodock, 31–55. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Luyckx, Lieselotte. “Russische krijgsgevangenen van de nazi’s: van Displaced Persons tot vluchtelingen (voor het Sovjetcommunisme)” [Russian prisoners of war: From displaced persons to refugees (from Soviet Communism)]. Belgisch tijdschrift voor nieuwste geschiedenis / Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 40, no. 3 (2010): 489–511.

[Maréchal, René]. “In memoriam: le Père Alexis Strycek.” Paroise catholique de rite byzantin Saint-Irénée de Lyon. Bulletin paroissial 31–32 (2013): 52–54.

Model, Serge. “L’église orthodoxe russe face à la Deuxième Guerre mondiale.” Guerres Mondiales et Conflicts Contemporains 289, no. 1 (2023): 115–32. doi : 10.3917/gmcc.289.0115

“Nagrada nashla geroia” [The award has found its hero]. Sibirskaia katolicheskaia gazeta, June 1, 2010. https://sib-catholic.ru/nagrada-nashla-geroya-2/

Nedosekin, Pavel. “Istoriia Sviato-Troitskogo prikhoda Russkoi Pravoslavnoi Tserkvi v Sharlerua” [The history of the Holy Trinity Parish of the Russian Orthodox Church in Charleroi]. In Russkoe Pravoslavie v Belgii, edited by E. N. Egorova, vol. 1, 151–74. Moskva–Brussel: Conférence Sainte Trinité du Patriarcat de Moscou–Ekaterinskii muzhskoi monastyr, 2013.

Niv’er, Antuan. Pravoslavnye sviashchenosluzhiteli, bogoslovy i tserkovnye deiateli russkoi emigratsii v Zapadnoi i Tsentral’noi Evrope 1920–1995 [Orthodox clergy, theologians, and church figures of the Russian emigration in Western and Central Europe 1920–1995]. Moscow–Paris: Russkii Put’–YMCA-Press, 2007.

Olmsted, Hugh. “Two Exiles: the Roots and Fortunes of Elie Denissoff, Rediscoverer of Mikhail Trivolis.” In The new Muscovite cultural history: A collection in honor of Daniel B. Rowland, edited by Valerie Kivelson, Karen Petrone, Nancy S. Kollmann, and Michael S. Flyer, 223–37. Bloomington: Slavica Publishers, 2009.

Pauwels, W. “Sovjetkampen in België. Een ongekend verhaal?” [Soviet camps in Belgium: An unknown story?]. Biekorf, no. 1 (2006): 68–75.

Pettinaroli, Laura. La politique russe du Saint-Siège (1905–1939). Rome: Publications de l’École française de Rome, 2015.

Put, Jean. Russische krijgsgevangenen in Limburg 1942–1945: Leven en werken in oorlogstijd [Russian prisoners of war in Limburg 1942–1945: Life and work during wartime]. Beringen: Heemkundige Kring van Beringen en Beverlo, 2002.

Rigaux, François. “De Visscher, Charles.” In Nouvelle Biographie Nationale, vol. 5, 130. Brussels: Académie Royale des sciences, des lettres et des beaux-arts de Belgique, 1999.

Salas Fernández, Manuel F. “Alberto Hurtado: a biographical study of his Jesuit training, 1923–1936.” PhD diss., University of Texas at Austin, 2016.

Simon, Constantin. Pro Russia: the Russicum and Catholic work for Russia. Rome: Pontificio Istituto Orientale, 2009.

Simon, Constantin. “Slováci v Russicu: 1929–1940” [Slovaks in the Russicum: 1929–1940]. Unpublished manuscript.

Strichek, Aleksei. Avtobiografiia riadovogo iezuita ottsa Alekseia Stricheka: Avtobiografiia napisana po zhelaniiu nastoiatelei [Autobiography of Jesuit Father Aleksei Strichek: Autobiograpy written at the request of his superiors]. Novosibirsk: s.n., 2009.

Strichek, Aleksei. Rukovodstvo po russkomu udareniiu: sklonenie i spriazhenie [Handbook of Russian emphasis: declension and conjugation]. Paris: Piat’ Kontinentov, 1966.

Strycek, Alexis. “La révolution de 1905 et les libertés religieuses.” In 1905: La première révolution russe, edited by François-Xavier Coquin, and Céline Gervais-Francelle, 45–51. Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne, 1986.

Strycek, Alexis. La Russie des Lumières: Denis Fonvizine. Paris: Librairie des cinq continents, 1976.

Strycek, Alexis. Souvenirs. Norderstedt: Books on Demand, 2022.

Strycek, Alexis, and Marina Lubouchkine. Pratique du russe parlé. Paris: Hachette Education, 1992.

Tamigneaux, Nathalie. “Le Cardinal Mercier et l’ Aide belge aux Russes’.” MA thesis, Louvain-la-Neuve, 1987.

“Umer otets Aleksei Strichek” [Father Aleksei Strichek has died]. Sibirskaia katolicheskaia gazeta, August 11, 2013. https://sib-catholic.ru/umer-otec-aleksej-strichek-2/

Venken, Machteld, and Idesbald Goddeeris. “The Nationalization of Identities: Ukrainians in Belgium, 1920–1950.” Journal of Ukrainian Studies 31 (2006): 89–115.

Warditz, Vladislava Maria, and Wim Coudenys. “Slavic Studies as Migrant Knowledge: The Case of Max Vasmer.” Migrant Knowledge, July 22, 2021. https://migrantknowledge.org/2021/07/22/slavic-studies-as-migrant-knowledge/

Westermann, Andrea, and Onur Erdur. “Migrant Knowledge: Studying the Epistemic Dynamics That Govern the Thinking in and around Migration, Exile, and Displacement.” In Histories of Migrant Knowledge: Transatlantic and Global Perspectives, edited by Andrea Westermann, and Onur Erdur, 5–18. Bulletin of the German Historical Institute. Supplement 15. Washington: German Historical Institute, 2020.

Wollants, Arthur, and Jos Bouveroux. Russische partizanen WO II-Limburg. Leuven: Davidsfonds, 1994.


1 See Caplan and Torpey, Documenting Individual Identity.

2 See, for example, Annuaire statistique de la Belgique et du Congo Belge, 66. Cf also Coudenys and Rappoye, Fallen far from the Fatherland, 8.

3 See Beyers et al., “Families, foreignness, migration.” For a problematization on the basis of the Ukrainian community in Belgium, see Venken and Goddeeris, “The Nationalization of Identities.”

4 Kennedy, “Religion, Nation, and European Representations of the Past.”

5 E.g. Coudenys, “A life between fact and fiction”; Coudenys, “A. V. Amfiteatrov’s Stena plača i stena nerušimaja”; Coudenys, “Fictional, but Truthful”; Coudenys, “A Failed Apostolat de Press.”

6 Westermann and Erdur, “Migrant Knowledge.” Cf. also Warditz and Coudenys, “Slavic Studies as Migrant Knowledge.”

7 Simon, Pro Russia, 469; Simon, “Slováci v Russicu: 1929–1940” (unpublished article, with thanks to Dr. D. Černý, Director of the Slovak Institute in Rome).

8 Strichek, Avtobiografiia riadovogo iezuita ottsa Alekseia Stricheka, 4.

9 Strycek, Souvenirs, 20–22.

10 Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 7; Cf. Strycek, Souvenirs, 24.

11 Acta Apostolicae Sedis 21, no. 13 (1929): 577–81. [d.d. 15/8/1929]

12 Pettinaroli, La politique russe.

13 Green and Viaene, Religious Internationals; Lamberts, The struggle with Leviathan; De Maeyer and Viaene, World Views and Worldly Wisdom.

14 Cf. Lease, “Vatican foreign policy and the origins of Modernism.”

15 https://www.vatican.va/content/leo-xiii/la/apost_letters/documents/hf_l-xiii_apl_18941130_orientalium-dignitas.html. On the history of Unionism, see Aubert, Le Saint-Siège et l’union des Églises; Fouilloux, Les catholiques et l’unité chrétienne; Baumer, Von der Unio zur Communio.

16 Pettinaroli, La politique russe, 52–55, 257. Cf. Strycek, “La révolution de 1905 et les libertés religieuses.”

17 Simon, Pro Russia; Pettinaroli, La politique russe du Saint-Siège.

18 ARSI Russicum.

19 Simon, “Slováci v Russicu: 1929–1940.”

20 Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 8.

21 Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 11–13; Personal file Aloisius Stryček, ASPEMCG.

22 De Régis to Anton Prešeren, 1/8/1936, ARSI Russicum, Folder “Pont. Inst. Orient. 1935–36 Ex Officio Corr. Particulare.”

23 Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 13–14; Personal file Aloisius Stryček, ASPEMCG.

24 Le Cocq (Provincial) to Mailleux (St. Georges), 28/7/1938. AFSI, Institut Saint-Georges Meudon (E-Me), Box 3; Le Cocq to Nilis (Sûreté publique), 12/9/1938. BSA F 1650 (Police des Etrangérs), Personal File A313533 Strycek L.

25 Personal file Aloisius Stryček, ASPEMCG.

26 Coudenys, Leven voor de tsaar, 52–59; Coudenys, Wim. “Cardinal Mercier and the Russian Emigration” (forthcoming); Elens and Rouleau, “L’histoire de Saint-Georges. De Constantinople à Meudon”; Emond, “Le problème religieux chez les émigrés russes”; Tamigneaux, “Le Cardinal Mercier et l’ ‘Aide belge aux Russes’”; Bieliavsky, “Le cardinal Mercier et l’émigration russe en Belgique.”

27 Coudenys, “Between Them and Us”; Coudenys, “Proselytism, charity, imperialism.”

28 Mailleux to Card. Tisserant, 20/4/1939. AFSI, E-Me, Box 7.

29 Ledóchowski to Le Cocq, 31/5/1939. AFSI, E-Me, Box 3.

30 Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 16.

31 Strycek, Souvenirs, 48.

32 Nedosekin, “Istoriia Sviato-Troitskogo prikhoda.”

33 Strycek, Souvenirs, 49; cf. Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 16.

34 Elens and Rouleau, “L’histoire de Saint-Georges. De Constantinople à Meudon.”

35 Cf. the annual reports of Saint-Georges in AFSI, E-Me, Box 7.

36 Coudenys, Leven voor de tsaar, 70–80; Coudenys, “A Good Cause?”

37 Le Cocq to Mailleux, 28/7/1938. AFSI, E-Me, Box 3.

38 Mailleux to Le Cocq, 8/9/1938. AFSI, E-Me, Box 3.

39 Mailleux to Tisserant, 20/4/1939. AFSI, E-Me, Box 7.

40 Mailleux to Le Cocq, 27/8/1939. AFSI, E-Me, Box 3.

41 Mère Saint François de Sales Michaux to Mailleux, 31/10/1939. AFSI, E-Me, Box 4.

42 Mailleu to Jourdain, 28/1/1940. AFSI, E-Me, Box 4; P. Pavani (DeIegazione Apostolica nell’Iran) to Mailleux, 7/2/1940. AFSI, E-Me, Box 4.

43 Mailleux to Richter, 13/5/1940. AFSI, EMe 4, foto 4875; Mailleux to Tisserant, 23/6. AFSI, E-Me, Box 3; Strycek, Souvenirs, 51–53; Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 17–18; Elens and Rouleau, “L’histoire de Saint-Georges. De Constantinople à Meudon,” 22–23.

44 Cf. Mailleux to A. Kulik (Paris), 20/7/1940. AFSI, E-Me, Box 4.

45 Javorka to Strýček, 19/6/1941. AFSI, Personal File A. Strycek (DP), Folder 2; Elens nd Rouleau, “L’histoire de Saint-Georges. De Constantinople à Meudon,” 25–26; Strycek, Souvenirs, 56; Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 19.

46 Strycek, Souvenirs, 56–57.

47 Salas Fernández, “Alberto Hurtado: a biographical study,” 3, 199–239. Cf. also Dumont, “Vie et destinée d’un Collège Jésuite”; De Maeyer et al., “Louvain. IV. Couvents. XIXe–XXe siècle.”

48 Strycek, Souvenirs, 59–60.

49 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irina_Posnova.

50 Denissoff, Maxime le Grec et l’Occident; cf. Olmsted, “Two Exiles: the Roots and Fortunes of Elie Denissoff.”

51 Coudenys, Leven voor de tsaar, passim. There is no proof, however, that Naryshkina-Witte ever lived in Louvain (BSA, F 1650, Personal File 1171591 Naryschkine C.), and neither that she had become a Catholic. This also suggests that Strýček’s memoirs may not be totally reliable.

52 Niv’er, Pravoslavnye sviashchenosluzhiteli, 148–49.

53 Coudenys, Leven voor de tsaar, 254–56. On the history of the Russian Orthodox Church during World War II, see Model, “L’église orthodoxe russe.” 

54 Strycek, Souvenirs, 59–61; Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 20.

55 Put, Russische krijgsgevangenen 31–78; cf. also Wollants and Bouveroux, Russische partizanen; Kohlbacher et al., Het Russisch kamp.

56 Put, Russische krijgsgevangenen, 225; Wollants and Bouveroux, Russische partizanen, 19.

57 Strycek, Souvenirs, 61; Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 20; Wollants and Bouveroux, Russische partizanen, 138. Cf. also Put, Russische krijgsgevangenen, 79–80.

58 Feshchenko to Strýček, 20/10/1942, 25/11/1942, 2/12/1942, 6/12/1942, 15/12/1942, 21/12/1942, 27/12/1942; 5/1/1943, 9/1/1943, 23/1/1943, 6/2/1943, 7/3/1943; Nikola Sobol to Strýček, 14/4/1943. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

59 J. Thoelen (parish priest of Waterschei) to Strýček, 23/12/1942. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

60 A. Godin SJ (Liège) to Strýček, 31/12/1942 & 23/2/1943. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

61 E. Gessler SJ to Strýček, 13/4/1943 & 26/6/1943. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

62 Cf. Edm. Pol [illegible] (Boussoit) to Strýček, 18/3/1943 and H. De Visscher (Châtelineau) to Strýček, 22/2/1944. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

63 M. Semënov and G. Leont’ev (Waanrode) to Strýček, 15/7/1943, 25/9/1943 and s.d.; Soviet POW to Strýček, 22/8/1943. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

64 A. Osip to Strýček, 20/7/1943, 29/7/1943, 28/8/1943, 8/9/1943. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.Cf. Put, Russische krijgsgevangenen, 300–1.

65 M. Indestege to Strýček, 4/10/1943, 22/10/1943, 26/11/1943, 6/12/1943, 31/12/1943, 27/3/1944, 3/6/1944, 24/7/1944; cf. also T. (Smeets?)(Peer) to Strýček, 11/10/1943. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

66 A. Khrustalev to Strýček, 3/1/1944. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

67 M. De Roover to Strýček, 13/1/1944; Feshchenko to Strýček15/2/1944. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

68 E. P. Wittouck (Shcherbatova) to Strýček, 29/4/1947 & 25/5/1947. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.Cf. Partisans russes en Belgique, BSA / CegeSoma (Brussels), Fonds Leo Lejeune, Folder 126; Put, Russische krijgsgevangenen, 288–302; Bieliavsky, Nicolas. “La résistance anti-allemande.”

69 Wollants and Bouveroux, Russische partizanen, 134–43; Coudenys, Leven voor de tsaar, 270–273.

70 Strycek, Souvenirs, 67–69; Strichek, Avtobiografiia, 21–22; Wollants and Bouveroux, Russische partizanen, 138–39.

71 Netripailo to Strýček, 10/2/1943, 21/2/1943, 23/2/1943, 1/3/1943, 18/4/1943, 15/2/1944, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

72 Pavel to Štrýček, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

73 Pavel to Štrýček, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

74 Pavel to Štrýček, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

75 Anonymous to Strýček, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

76 Strycek, Souvenirs, 63–64.

77 A. to Strýček, 21/3/1944. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

78 E. Gervais to Strýček, 19/8/1943 & 29/8/1943. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

79 De Visscher (Châtelineau) to Strýček, 22/2/1944. AFSI, DP, Folder 2. Cf. Rigaux, “De Visscher, Charles.” With thanks to Prof. F. Ost, De Visscher’s nephew.

80 E. Morozova to Strýček, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2. On E. Morozova, see Elena Maria (Sr). “In ricordo di Madre Ekaterina.” Lettera dal monastero della Dormizione di Maria, no. 45 (2010). http://www.dormizione.it/?p=1.

81 A. Tugarinovа to Strýček, 3/2/1945, 25/2/1945, 5/3/1945, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2. Turganinova was a zealous convert who in 1939 had encouraged the Jesuits to create a boarding school for girls, using Saint-Georges as a model. C. Micara (Nuncio to Belgium) to D. Tardini (Congregazione per gli affari ecclesiastici straordinari, Rome), 15/6/1934 (Dicasterio per le Chiese Orientale, Pontificia Commissione pro Russia, 205/28 fasc. 2: Comité Robyn de Sécours aux enfants russes 1930–1935); Projet d’un Internat pour filles en 1939. AFSI, E-Me, Box 4.

82 M. Indestege to Strýček, 31/3/1945. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

83 Strycek, Souvenirs, 66–70.

84 Commander of the “Secret Army Limburg” to the “Russian commander” (I. Diadkin), 16/9/1944 (Russian translation by Strýček); cf. also B. Ghyselinck (commander of the communist resistance organization Onafhankelijkheidsfront) to “Chères Kamerades” [sic] about his return to civil life,11/10/1944. AFSI, DP, Folder 2; Strycek, Souvenirs, 70–73.

85 Models of Russian documents for the communalities of Meldert (17/9/1944), Neeroeteren (23/10/1944), Ophoven (25/10/1944), Grote Brogel (s.d.); G. Couplet to Strýček, 24/3/1945 and testimony Strýček on behalf of Couplet, 6/4/1945. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

86 Cf. Pauwels, “Sovjetkampen in België. Een ongekend verhaal?”; Luyckx, “Russische krijgsgevangenen van de nazi’s.”

87 Strycek, Souvenirs, 74–93.

88 Address to the US military, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

89 Address Valenciennes, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

90 Strycek, Souvenirs, 89–90.

91 Personal file Aloisius Stryček, 1950. ASPEMCG.

92 Report, s.d. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

93 T. Ivanova to Strýček, [29/4/1944]. AFSI, DP, Folder 2.

94 Vol’f, Abram. V chuzhoi strane. Saratov: Privolzh’e, 1960; cf. Wollants and Bouveroux, Russische partizanen, 134.

95 Simon, Pro Russia, 469.

96 Strichek, Rukovodstvo po russkomu udareniiu; Strycek, La Russie des Lumières; Strycek and Lubouchkine, Pratique du russe parlé.

97 “Nagrada Nashla geroia.” Sibirskaia katolicheskaia gazeta, June 1, 2010. https://sib-catholic.ru/nagrada-nashla-geroya-2/

98 [Koch-Lubouchine, Marina]. “Avant-propos”; [Maréchal], “In memoriam: le Père Alexis Strycek”; “Umer otets Aleksei Strichek.”

99 Wollants and Bouveroux, Russische partizanen, 138.

100 Kamenec, “The Slovak state, 1939–1945.”

2023_4_Żaliński

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The Evolution of Migrant Mobilization in One Polish Diaspora Community: A Case Study of the Polish Catholic Society Eindhoven

Adam Żaliński
Institute of Intercultural Studies, Jagiellonian University Kraków
This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 4  (2023): 676-699 DOI 10.38145/2023.4.676

This research concerns the transformation of one migrant community. It is based on an analysis of selected documents presenting Polish migrant associations in the Netherlands from the beginning of 1950s until the 1990s. The study offers an analysis of the minority mobilization process, with a focus on migrant organizational agency. It is a case study devoted to the Polish community in Eindhoven and its association, which was a local branch of migrant organization operating at a national level. The main sources used in the study are archival records, including organizational statute, circulars, information leaflets, press releases, official and private correspondence, bulletins, protocols, organizational reports, official declarations, and minutes from meetings. In addition, interviews and biographical data are taken into account. Most of the written sources were obtained from the archive of Franciszek Łyskawa, a Polish migrant soldier who settled in Eindhoven shortly after World War II. Over the course of the following decades, he remained an active member of the diaspora while also integrating into the host society, and he became a Dutch citizen. The study shows the evolution of this Polish migrant community from the precarious situation of the early postwar years through the development of immigrants’ associations and institutions which emerged in parallel to efforts to integrate into the multicultural society in the 1960s and 1970s and eventually the gradual decline of activity among the members of this community as immigrants.

Keywords: migrants, refugees, Polish Catholic Society, Franciszek Łyskawa, the Netherlands, mobilization, immigrant community

Introduction

Historically, Belgium was the primary destination country for Polish migrants heading to the Benelux region. This topic has been addressed in the secondary literature.1 Therefore, in this study, the aim is to shift the focus to a case from the history of the Polish immigration center in the Netherlands. This paper highlights selected aspects of the organizational experiences of Polish migrants in the latter half of the twentieth century, a period marked by their settlement in the Low Countries which commenced in the late 1940s. According to the studies on the Polish diaspora in Belgium and Netherlands,2 this wave was triggered by wartime migration, including soldiers and displaced persons (DPs). Many Poles who belonged to this cohort ventured to distant shores, predominantly seeking opportunities overseas, particularly in the United States, Canada, Australia, and Brazil. In the history of Polish immigration, they formed an important wave of migration to the region.3 Earlier, from 1908 to 1939, a significant number of Polish migrants arrived seeking employment opportunities, including indirect or intermediate Polish migration movements via Germany and France and a group of irregular immigrants. At the time, immigrants were mainly employed in the coal mines of Limburg province, and they remained focused on daily issues and were not politically active.4 Still, even with this movement into some areas of the Netherlands, Belgium was the main destination for Poles who were heading to this part of Europe. In the 1980s, yet another wave of Polish refugees emerged, again primarily seeking refuge in Belgium. This wave was inextricably linked with the “Solidarity” social movement and consisted of individuals who often sought only temporary sanctuary in the country against the backdrop of the tumultuous events unfolding in their homeland.5 Taking into consideration the migration movements described above, it should be highlighted that in the second half of the 1940s (the initial point when considering the case study), the Polish diaspora in the Netherlands was not a big one, consisting of some 5,000 to 6,000 people.6

Excluding the post-accession migration of the 2000s, the Polish diaspora residing in Belgium and the Netherlands until the 1990s can be described as relatively diverse in terms of its socioeconomic profile.7 In addition to the wartime migrants, the diaspora also included pensioners who had previously worked in coal mining and industry. As a result of this heterogeneity, there was a notable absence of firm organizational structures.8 Since the 1960s, the Polish diaspora had become more and more geographically dispersed, with some of its members successfully climbing the social ladder.9 It is worth noting that some wartime immigrants, mainly soldiers and their children, were active members of various religious and veterans’ organizations.10

The history of Polish immigration to the Netherlands has not been studied extensively, resulting in limited attention to the development of Polish migrant organizations in the latter half of the twentieth century. While there have been a few exceptions, such as a brief overview by Willems and Verbeek (originally in Dutch and later translated into Polish),11 there are no truly comprehensive studies on this subject.12 Moreover, relations between Polish and Dutch miners in the interwar period were ambivalent at best, as was the situation of former Polish soldiers who migrated to the Netherlands in the immediate aftermath of the war and the postwar period. It would be fruitful to begin by analyzing a case of organized community life in this setting. In particular, it is important to consider experiences of agency in the organized community life of these immigrants,13 especially “the everyday ways in which their fellow countrymen and women sought to recapture, safeguard, and even reshape the national cultural identities.”14 The role of religion in these efforts also merits particular attention,15 as religion was often an integral element of Polish cultural identity in the diaspora community.

Migrants’ Community Organizations, Mobilization Processes and Civic Engagement

The phenomenon of organized community life among migrants is universal, meaning that various migrant communities around the world have consistently tended to establish the necessary institutional infrastructures to ensure organized community life in the past and today.16 Several cases indicate that migrant community organizations are especially active among the first generation of immigrants. The diversity and sheer number of migrant organizations make it difficult to venture generalizations about their universal characteristics and changing patterns of functioning. Numerous studies17 have shed light on intriguing patterns observed in the evolution of migrant community organizations. One notable change is the process of institutionalization and continuing specialization. Initially, these organizations primarily served affiliative functions, helping to establish social bonds among their members (for instance, the notion of bonding social capital introduced by Putnam18). However, as time progresses, these institutions grow into more structured entities, catering to the diverse needs of their communities by offering a myriad of services. Another compelling aspect is the emergence of power struggles and succession issues within these organizations. As the organizations mature, internal dynamics come into play, resulting in the pursuit of leadership positions and potential challenges in ensuring smooth transitions of authority. Moreover, reorientation in terms of areas and methods of operation becomes apparent as these organizations broaden their scope of engagement. Beyond exclusively serving their own community, they can increasingly establish connections with members of other minority groups and seek meaningful interactions with the host society (as reflected in the conception of bridging social capital).19 Cultural issues emerge as a prominent focus for migrant community organizations. Understanding the significance of cultural identity for their group members, they actively invest in preserving and promoting their rich cultural heritage, recognizing it as a vital bond that empowers their community. Moreover, some organizations may experience marginalization, witnessing a decline in active participation among their members. Additionally, subsequent generations assimilate into the host society over time, thus shaping the composition and dynamics of these organizations. A comprehensive exploration of the abovementioned processes illuminates the dynamic nature of migrant community organizations and their integral role in the lives of immigrants as the immigrants navigate the complexities of adaptation and transformation in their adopted homelands. Finally, in many contexts, the issues evolving around competition and conflict between organizations representing various waves of migrants as well as political and social stances can be observed. Survival and prosperity are dependent in part on the availability of funding for organizational activities, but they also depend on the skills and persistence of organizational leaders and other engaged members of the community.

The establishment of migrant associations is one of the first activities in the process of immigrant community building, and often the first institutions launched by immigrants are places of religious worship, such as churches and other religious organizations.20 This can range from attempts to replicate practices familiar in the homeland to efforts to adapt to the patterns popular in the new place of residence, though of course in most cases, the organizational initiatives launched by migrant communities fall somewhere between these two extremes. The presence of other religious denominations and ethnic groups may introduce a heightened sense of self-awareness among immigrants based on the feeling of being minority “others.”21 Moreover, exposure to a predominantly irreligious society can prompt immigrants to become more aware of their religion. This could deepen attachment (and thus commitment) to some aspects of religious practice and beliefs held in the immigrant community. Still, changes in a migrant community can be observed in the shifting priorities of its members, from putting an emphasis on maintaining its ethnic and religious identity to an openness to the mainstream in the host society. Acknowledging the need to be open to other ethnic and religious groups does not mean losing or weakening an existing identity. Rather, it reflects the need to engage with people who represent diverse ethnic and religious identities. On the other hand, it can be a phase in the process of assimilation.

Concern for a notion of ethnic cultural continuity (no matter how chimerical) becomes apparent in ethnic mobilization processes, including mobilization among diaspora communities.22 Ethnic mobilization, as an example of social movement, can be understood as a collective action driven by interests shared by at least part of an ethnic or migrant group and organized around some features of ethnic identity, or broadly speaking, their distinctive cultural characteristics, and aimed at achieving an important group goal. Ethnic mobilization has been an increasingly salient part of cultural and political processes in the modern world, especially since the 1980s,23 which has much to do with the development of parallel processes: globalization (including increasing international migration) and regionalization/ethnicization. Within this context, the evolution of complex relationships in civil society is crucial.24 Migrant mobilization contributes significantly to these changes. It must be noted that self-help organizations play an important role in this process. In describing these processes, Però and Solomos use the term “ethnicity era,”25 which followed the former “era of collective action” and marked two important developments of the organizing of social groups and immigrants in Europe in the previous century. These activities could originally be of a material justice character. Furthermore, they included securing legal status, tackling discrimination issues, and enhancing migrant participation in structures of representation, especially political ones. The cultural distinctiveness of the ethnic collective, separatist tendencies, organizational cohesion, and a sense of economic and political injustice are also significant for ethnic mobilization.26 Nevertheless, mobilization processes at the level of immigrant organizations27 boil down to two objectives: preserving identity and nurturing the political representation of migrant communities, thus increasing the chances of survival for these communities as distinctive groups. Migrant organizations can thus be seen as fulfilling an identity function for their members, as they create spaces for socialization as part of a small group as well as in wider society, including both the majority society and among fellow minorities.28 Cohen29 points to religion as a major mobilization factor in a diaspora. The Polish community discussed in this article investigates offers a clear example of a case in which there is a strong intersection of faith and ethnicity. As Cohen notes, “Such an overlap between faith and ethnicity is likely to enhance overlapping forms of social cohesion and to create situations where it is difficult to decide whether one is describing a faith or an ethnicity.”30 The case under study supports Cohen’s contention. Religion and the protection of ethnic identity might be so intricately interlined that it would be difficult or impossible to separate them.

Migrant mobilization activities were usually understood as determined either by working class situation (violation of labor law) or the reflection of their ethnicity that is “specific cultural traits of a given ethnic group.”31 More recently, this understanding has been supplemented with the political opportunity structure (POS) approach,32 “the opportunities for mobilizing provided to migrants by the institutional setup of the receiving context.”33 Però and Solomos34 contend that one must also take migrants’ feelings and emotions into account “to balance the rational choice approach that underpins prevalent theories on migrant mobilizations.”35 The rationale for this is sound:

In fact, migrants, like the rest of the population, may at times mobilize in partial or total disregard of the chances of success and the achievement of concrete goals and material rewards, and they can be substantially driven by their values, affection, sense of self and of group membership, need to feel well and realize themselves, and so forth, all significant elements that are overlooked in the ‘rational actor’ decision-making model.36

These processes can be identified as emotional and “hot” in nature, and in many cases not instrumental but rather based on what is understood as part of ethnic identity and flowing from what could be axiological motives. Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of social capital may also help further a more subtle understanding of the state of a migrant community.37 In particular, when considering two forms of social capital—bonding and bridging—an interplay of internal and external group processes can become clear. Bonding social capital is a form of social capital that gives the members of the community a sense of security flowing from the intensity of these relations. The concept of a bridging form of social capital could be helpful to understand the importance of migrant community actions directed outside of the group. Engagement among migrants in relations with social actors representing the wider society as well as other migrant communities helps them interact in a wider social sphere. It should be noted that in the case of ethnic and migrant communities, social capital is sometimes considered a cornerstone of political engagement among the members of the given community, as social capital is essential to the creation of social and political trust.38 Some research suggests that there is a positive relation between both forms of social capital in migrant settings, which would mean that building ties within a minority group does not hinder the establishment of fruitful relations with the wider society.39

From a broad perspective, civil activities can be understood as the promotion of civil rights, participation in civil society, defense of equal opportunity, and combating discrimination. However, it is worth remembering that the very involvement of migrants in the activities of organizations is indicative of grassroots activity among them and is a manifestation of the exercise of civil liberties, but also a manifestation of agency among organization members where their reach their full potential. Minority political activism can take the form of lobbying aimed primarily at initiating counter-marginalization.40 The quality of these activities can influenced by the availability of various resources, such as financial support and social capital.41 Mobilization and social capital could thus be used to understand civil engagement transfers, which are exchanges of practices of self-organization and engagement between migrant and host communities. Ethnic and migration studies can adopt a bottom-up approach and in this way highlight the roles of individuals and organizations and their agency in the mobilization activities of the immigrant community and participation in the construction and maintenance of a modern democratic society.

The Aim and Scope of the Current Study

The study focuses on a migrant community formed around a local branch of a national level organization which was thriving in the second part of the twentieth century in and around the Dutch city of Eindhoven. It offers insights into some of the wider processes taking place at the time in the Polish diaspora in the Netherlands and across Benelux. The main research question is explanatory in nature and points to one of the main characteristics of mobilization processes: What are the directions of actions (e.g., internal vs. external) undertaken by the migrant community to maintain its identity? An additional question concerning the research project is: Are civic engagement actions identifiable among the mobilization processes? As the source material spans approximately four decades, it makes it possible to track change occurring over time.

The sources examined in this research are drawn from the Franciszek Łyskawa archive and are publicly available at the International Institute of Social History (IISH) in Amsterdam. The source material, which consists of digitalized versions of 98 loose pages forming seven packages, was obtained from Łyskawa’s daughter, Ludka. The materials were preselected by the donor from the sources deposited by her at the IISH. They include circulars, information leaflets, organizational statutes, press releases, official and private correspondence, accounting reports, and other documents (overall 109 pages). The folders were not ordered formally. In addition, the statute of the Polish Catholic Society (Polskie Towarzystwo Katolickie or PTK) is used to provide basic information about this migrant organization (10 pages; also provided by the main donor). An outline of Franciszek Łyskawa’s life42 and some of the existing secondary literature are also used to present the story of Polish war migrants who settled in the Netherlands after postwar demobilization. Alongside the sources described above, face-to-face interviews and email communication with Ludka Łyskawa were used to clarify some of the details concerning the materials she provided.

Franciszek Łyskawa – A Migrant’s Life Story43

For decades, numerous Polish veterans in the Low Countries were living in the villages and towns that had been freed by them during World War II. After the war, the establishment of a Soviet satellite communist state in Poland created a new reality, one that many Polish soldiers fighting in the West were not willing to accept. Often, it was not tempting or even possible for them to return home, because they fundamentally rejected the new sociopolitical reality in postwar Poland. In some cases, the demobilization of Polish soldiers, which left them stranded in Western Europe, put them in the most difficult circumstances of their lives.44 In addition, in the case of Franciszek Łyskawa, the decision not to return home after the war was also based on family reasons. The rationale to reintroduce his case to the wider public is based on his rich experiences as a soldier who was forced to roam around Europe and North Africa from the outset of the war and who had a chance to be an active member of his immigrant community after he settled in the Netherlands.

Franciszek Łyskawa was born on November 27, 1912 in Gorzykowo, which at the time was part of the German Empire.45 He attended grade school in his hometown and later studied at the grammar school in Gniezno. He joined the Polish military in 1933 in Lviv (then Lwów) to become a non-commissioned officer. The army allowed him to acquire new skills and get promoted. As a result of the September 1939 campaign, Łyskawa and numerous other members of the defeated Polish armed forces pushed through to Bucharest. The invasion of Poland by Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union ended in a German-Soviet victory. The evacuation to Romania was one of the endpoints of 1939 defensive war, and for Łyskawa, it marked the beginning of a life of a soldier migrant who entered the Polish Armed Forces in the West. In January 1940, Łyskawa embarked on a trip to Paris, where he joined the formation of Polish forces. Stanisław Maczek was another Polish soldier who managed to break free to one of the Allied or neutral countries. He escaped the Soviets and found safe haven in Hungary, later moving to France, where his troops took part in the defense of the country.46 In early 1940, Franciszek Łyskawa was training Polish emigrants who had joined the nascent Polish forces being assembled in France. In June 1940, around Paris near the Marne River, Łyskawa was injured while fighting against the German forces. In the aftermath of the French defeat, the only way for Łyskawa and his accompanying party of soldiers to escape was to push south to the port of Marseille and then go by sea to Oran, Algeria and further by train to Casablanca and by boat to Rabat, Morocco. From there, he traveled to Gibraltar and finally to England. Two years later, during Operation Overlord, Łyskawa landed in continental Europe and took part in the liberation of France, Belgium, and the Netherlands.47 With the end of the war, Łyskawa became one of the Polish soldiers who decided to start a new life in one of the freed countries of Western Europe. On September 18, 1946, he married Maria Heijligers, a Breda citizen, with whom he had three daughters: Marysia, Ludka, and Lieke. Łyskawa was demobilized on March 12, 1948 in Bury St Edmunds. Shortly thereafter, he and his family moved to Eindhoven, where Łyskawa worked as a radio technician in the Philips factory.

War trauma, grim perspectives in the home country, and the challenges of living in an unfamiliar social and geographical environment created a challenging life situation, especially considering the sense of rejection felt by war veterans of Eastern European origin who found themselves in Western Europe after World War II.48 These circumstances led to various existential conditions, including psychological crises, as well as sometimes situations in which veterans developed transnational ties and conflicting loyalties and, as migrants, felt that they had to take stands concerning the sociopolitical circumstances of the time.

One of the ways to face the challenges of cultural shock and war trauma was to take an active role in the immigrant community. This is exactly what Franciszek Łyskawa did. He acted as both initiator and leader in various postwar Polish diaspora associations in the Netherlands. Many of these organizations were Catholic in nature, a characteristic that was, and in many cases still is, a defining feature of Polish diaspora life the world over. For decades, the Łyskawa family was actively engaged in the Polish community and its organizations in the Netherlands, simultaneously trying to maintain ties with Poland on the institutional and personal level. Łyskawa was the treasurer of the PTK in the Netherlands and secretary of the branch in Eindhoven. Łyskawa also belonged to the song and dance group “Cracovia” in Eindhoven (initially affiliated with the PTK Eindhoven, later an independent organization, currently known as Zespół “Cracovia”) and supported charitable organizations, for example the Catholic Akcja Miłosierdzia (Action of Mercy). He also organized holiday camps for Polish diaspora children in the Netherlands and participated in patriotic and religious events, for example the celebration of Constitution Day, which honored the declaration of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth’s constitution on May 3, 1791. This particular event was an occasion for anti-government and anti-communist protests in the Polish diaspora, as the constitution is considered a national symbol of the Polish struggle to reform the country, as well as one of the political and social traditions disdained by the communists.

Łyskawa took part in other activities, such as annual meetings to commemorate the liberation of Breda and veteran events in Normandy, Scotland, and Poland. These efforts were noteworthy contributions to the construction of social bridges between the Polish diaspora and the wider society, as the war effort of Polish soldiers was not well known in the Netherlands, with the city of Breda being an exception. In addition to this kind of institutional activity, Łyskawa built strong personal ties with numerous migrants and was involved in various forms of charity actions. He also offered his services as a sort of consultant. He thus managed to build substantial (bonding) social capital that strengthened the immigrant community as an ethnically homogenous group of people, especially in challenging times for the diaspora. While working in the Eindhoven Philips factory, Łyskawa became fully integrated into the working team and benefited from various social programs introduced by the company. In other words, he exhibited remarkable proficiency in acclimating to an unfamiliar social environment. His marriage to a woman who was not Polish and his notable accomplishments on the local labor market exemplify the process of acquiring social capital, and he effectively forged connections between the immigrant community and the host society.

In the summer of 1961, Franciszek Łyskawa embarked on a journey to Poland accompanied by his family, his first since having fled the country during the war. The primary intent of this expedition was to visit their Polish relatives. Grappling with the status of statelessness, Łyskawa relied on a passport specifically designated for stateless individuals. One year later, he gained Dutch citizenship, which allowed him more easily to solve the formalities associated with travelling to Poland. The abovementioned journey was described by his relatives as a stimulus for change in Łyskawa’s behavior, as if he were taking on a role as an older brother of sorts among the members of the Polish family who had remained in Poland and an interpreter of the Polish language and Polish culture for his Dutch family. Over the course of the following decades, Łyskawa led a rich and ceaselessly active life as a Polish migrant and Dutch citizen. He adeptly cultivated and sustained transnational connections with his relatives and colleagues across various countries, including Poland, Belgium, Great Britain, France, Canada, and beyond.

Franciszek Łyskawa passed away on February 5, 1997 and was buried in the cemetery of Saint Theresia in Eindhoven. His death was noted in the newspapers, and a commemorative exhibition was opened in Witkowo, near his hometown of Gorzykowo in Poland. The exhibition was titled “Franciszek Łyskawa – pancernym szlakiem z Gorzykowa do Holandii” (Franciszek Łyskawa: On the armored route from Gorzykowo to the Netherlands). In the exhibition, emphasis was put on his war achievements. Łyskawa’s legacy lives on thanks to his daughters and grandchildren. Archival material related to him was donated by the family and is publicly available at the International Institute of Social History in Amsterdam. In the discussion below, I present the case of the Polish Catholic Society in Eindhoven, which was one of the organizations in the Polish diaspora in which Łyskawa was particularly active. I present the Polish Catholic Society against the backdrop of the activity of the Polish Catholic Mission (Polska Misja Katolicka or PMK).49

The Polish Catholic Society and Its Statute

The intersection of religious50 and ethnic activity can be traced in many Polish organizations operating in the Netherlands. As Leska-Ślęzak observes, “[n]ewly arrived emigrants from Poland began their Polish lives with a visit to the Polish church in the Netherlands.”51 The profound Catholic dimension of their national identity fostered the belief among Poles that a loss of faith meant a loss of identity. Consequently, priests responsible for immigrants took on the duty of nurturing a sense of belonging to the Polish nation. The Polish pastoral ministry in the Netherlands was founded in 1910 in Rotterdam and was initially part of the Polish Catholic Mission in Belgium from 1928 to 1946. Subsequently, in 1947, a distinct rectorate was established in Breda, sealing its importance as a point on the map of the Polish diaspora. In 1973, a Polish Catholic Mission was founded for the Benelux region, encompassing the Netherlands among its areas of focus. Around 2009, the ministry in the Netherlands was organized into three districts: Limburg and Brabant, the northeastern areas, and the western areas. In addition to their pastoral duties, the priests actively engaged in social, educational, and journalistic endeavors, as well as commemorations of significant Polish national events.

One of the main organizations associated with the Polish migrant community in general and with the life of Franciszek Łyskawa in particular was the aforementioned PTK, especially its branch in Eindhoven. The PTK was established on December 28, 1946, originally for a period of 29 years (until December 27, 1975), and on September 17, 1975, it was extended for another 29 years. The main goal of the PTK was defined as “supporting the religious-spiritual, cultural, social and financial needs of the members of the Society” (article 3, point 1; PTK statute 1). The organization was non-political in nature (article 3, point 2; PTK statute 1). In article 3, point 3, a handwritten amendment by Franciszek Łyskawa was made that erased the statement, “[i]n its actions, the Society will be guided by Catholic principles” and changed it to, “[i]n addition, the Society commits itself as far as possible [to] the cooperation with the Polish pastoral workers of the Polish Catholic Mission in the Netherlands” (article 3, point 3; PTK statute 1). The reason for this change is unclear, but it may simply reflect changes in the community outlook. It could be considered an attempt to initiate or confirm changes occurring in the migrant community, such as growing inclusiveness, while still safeguarding the community’s relations with the Church. On the other hand, the status and authority of priests among the diaspora also changed over time, as further sources will reveal.

Changing Organizational Structures and Changing Community: Main Sources Analysis

Below, I present migrant community activities and their evolution in the light of the archival records. One of the oldest sources in the collection dates from 1954.52 It can be classified as a general annual report of the PTK Eindhoven issued by the leadership and addressed to the members. The source reveals changes in attitudes within the migrant community. According to it, repeated celebrations of national and religious holidays for about a decade caused a sense of increased reluctance to organize the community around these occasions and reduced enthusiasm for them. Moreover, the author of the report contends that some members of the Polish community were less able to take active part in the life of the migrant organizations because they were living as members of mixed marriages. Some statements concerning this issue are presented in a rather harsh manner, for instance, “[t]here are some among us who have a wife, a fiancée, or a Dutch husband and who shamefully neglect their moral duties in relation to compatriots.”53 The author claims that the remedy for the revival of the immigrant community and its organizational life was a balance between private involvement (life as a member of a binational family or plans to establish one54) and public involvement (sociopolitical actions). These comments about visible changes in the private lives of migrants coincide with the crisis faced by various organizations across the country, which manifested itself in reduced organizational activity. Acknowledgment of these difficulties was a stimulus for change in organizational activity and an occasion to modify methods of operation. This can be viewed as an important reflection from the perspective of social change and the adaptation to more settled and integrative circumstances after nearly a decade of migrant life in the Netherlands. The PTK board was fully aware of everyday dynamics in the migrant community and tried to adjust to the new situation.

Adaptation to the new reality unfolded gradually, and with the passage of time, the community members began to have a grim view of the prevailing circumstances: “Probably no one saw this coming, and yet we are still here, with no sign of any change that this state of affairs will end any time soon.”55 The document cited,56 which was signed by the head of the PTK (K. W. Szczubiałko), provides an interesting comment on organizational and community affairs. The author stated that there was a need to give up unrealistic hopes among the Polish migrant community. This meant that the priorities of the community were shifting from the needs of the first generation of migrants to the needs of the second. This is understood as a need to make efforts to introduce the younger generation to the culture of their parents by organizing and supporting the celebration of Polish national holidays and various cultural activities. The document pointed to the main problems of the organization’s functioning, namely a lack of sufficient financial resources and a small group of members. In terms of membership, there had been a slight increase, and a firm statement had been made that the acquisition of Dutch citizenship did not preclude PTK membership. In other words, all were welcome as members of the organization.

In general, cooperation among Polish organizations in the Benelux countries was common, albeit in some cases turbulent. In preparation for the Polish Millennium commemoration in 1966, the main Polish organizations in the Netherlands were able to find common ground, and they established the Council of the United Polish Diaspora in the Netherlands.57 The Council was formed by the chairmen of the PTK, the Union of Catholic-Polish Societies (Zjednoczenie Katolicko-Polskich Towarzystw or ZKPT), the (noncommunist) Polish People’s Party (Polskie Stronnictwo Ludowe or PSL), the Polish Veterans’ Association (Stowarzyszenie Polskich Kombatantów or SPK), and a delegate from the Polish Catholic Mission. It was declared that the Council and its activities should be democratic, respecting the independence of each association and the apolitical nature of the union. This can be seen as an example of unity finding expression in the preparations for a symbolic occasion for the Polish migrant community.

However, fruitful and long-term cooperation was often difficult to achieve. A circular issued probably around 1972 and authored by Franciszek Łyskawa dealt with the question of the younger generation of migrants.58 The head of the PTK Eindhoven presented the issue of a proposed meeting organized for the migrants’ children in Jeugdherberg, Ockenburg te ‘s-Gravenhage (The Hague) in the middle of October 1972. The goals of this event were as follows: “a) establishing contact between Polish youths and youths of other nationalities; b) exchange of views and discussions; c) learning about the cultures of other nationalities.” While not erasing the previous goals of maintaining attachment to and continuity with Polish cultural identity, this constituted a visible change of attitudes in relation to the aforementioned document of 1958, in which the goal of cultural unity was clearly outlined. More than two decades after the war, the orientation had shifted, and the mobilization process took another (external) goal: to represent the community outside in a multicultural environment.

The next document under scrutiny is the PTK Eindhoven Christmas circular issued in December 1979.59 In the initial part, the author expresses the community’s concern about the decreasing number of Poles in Eindhoven. This was part of the demographic process caused by the deaths of older members of the migrant community, both from the prewar migration wave and war refugees. A typical circular of the time reported the death of one or more members of the local migrant community. Other records show that the PTK meetings took place just once or twice a year in the middle of the 1980s.60 Nevertheless, the “Cracovia” song and dance ensemble, formally part of the PTK, remained more active in that period, and it had both senior and junior performers. The pessimistic conclusions were counterbalanced by the election of the Polish citizen Karol Wojtyła to the Papal throne in the Vatican in 1978. When the circular was issued (December 1979), the election still resonated in the community and inspired pride among Polish migrants, whom the PTK encouraged to call attention to the fact that a fellow citizen had become the new pope. The author used this fact to strengthen the call on fellow migrants to participate in religious events as an opportunity to preserve and maybe even revive strong ethnonational ties and identity. It should be noted that this was the only document regarding the PTK Eindhoven, apart from occasional Christmas or Easter addresses, in which religious piety was strongly and straightforwardly encouraged. It also marked a change of orientation, as it placed emphasis on issues related to factors external to the community in the home country.

Some actions undertaken by the PTK clearly correspond to the challenges and economic and sociopolitical hardships of the situation back in Poland, especially in the 1970s and 1980s. A noteworthy form of activity among the Polish migrant community in the Netherlands was the establishment of the aforementioned Action of Mercy. This was a charity organization which addressed needs and concerns in the old country. The charity work involved collecting donations, and these efforts were coordinated by the PTK. The main aim of the Action of Mercy was to provide medications to the people of Poland at a time when many medicines were not widely available in the country. The activity required mobilization in the immigrant community, as the numbers of requests for medication were significant. The extent of this need became particularly clear in times of economic collapse in Poland, when shortages in medical and other supplies soared. It is an example of a group mobilizing for two different purposes, for purposes related to the immigrant community itself and the host country, but also to the country of origin. In the Netherlands, the action helped strengthen the local immigrant community, which meant contributing to the creation of bonding social capital. Activities focused on Poland helped create a lasting transnational space where particular goods were transferred as well as personal ties involving particular people were established. One of the documents related to the mission is the official thanks from Archbishop Stefan Wyszyński, a cardinal and primate of Poland at the time (the thanks was issued on December 17, 1973).61 This expression of gratitude was addressed to Dr. Narcyz W. Komar, vice-chair of the PTK and an active member of the Polish community. The letter noted the charity’s fifteenth anniversary. This means that charity work was a long-term and successful venture and met with great interest in Poland. After the death of Dr. Komar, Franciszek Łyskawa coordinated the charity. The funds to buy medications were provided by the PTK.62 Around 1983, the charity suffered from a lack of financial resources, which was particularly acute in the time of crisis in the early 1980s in Poland.63 The very same document offers information about internal conflicts in the wider Polish immigrant community in the Netherlands. We learn from it that the Dutch Polish Council (Rada Polonii Holenderskiej)64 was dissolved, which meant the disintegration of national organizational structures among Polish migrants in the Netherlands. The immediate cause has not been revealed, with the only direct indication being the contention that “we do not yet share a common language.”65 One may speculate that the turbulent political situation in the home country had spread to the diaspora. It was a difficult time (the Solidarity movement, the introduction of martial law) of conflicting loyalties and competing aid programs for the anticommunist opposition in Poland. This also shows that attempts to build bonding social capital were not always successful.

Another crisis related to the relationships and activities of some Polish priests working within the Polish diaspora in the Netherlands was added to the general, rather gloomy picture reflected in the files.66 This is probably the same crisis that is described in the official correspondence from the Church authorities in Rome sent by Bishop Szczepan Wesoły (dated June 27, 1982).67 Bishop Wesoły, “the chaplain of Polish emigres,” stated that the problems mentioned by the Polish community members were of a minor character. He also stated that personal problems related to the priestly ministry reported to him by the Polish migrants were exaggerated. In response, he contended that the activities of the PTK differed in quality from the activities of similar organizations in Belgium, France, and England, and, in general, are not sufficient.

It is worth mentioning that a Dutch priest, Rijk, who held an official position related to the pastoral care68 of Catholic minorities, was asked to mediate in this matter.69 This situation demonstrates how the functioning within the broader structures of the host society proceeded (the local structures of the Roman Catholic Church). In cases of internal misunderstanding or dissatisfaction, there was an instance offering a positive solution. In addition, acceptance of an outsider as a mediator was a sign of good relations with Dutch society and reflected the general trust placed in the Dutch Catholic Church. It was also an example of a civic engagement procedure aimed at relieving tensions and alleviating problems inside the migrant community, especially when internal conflicts could have been detrimental to it. Unfortunately, the available documents do not provide information on the course and outcome of this mediation or on the exact formal or informal status of this attempt. It should be added that in many cases, immigrants used the local religious infrastructure of the host society, such as a church or a gathering room.

Sources from the 1980s also focus on the economic situation in Poland and the need to help fellow citizens in the home country (the PTK Eindhoven Easter circular dated April 12, 1981).70 This attitude persisted into the early 1990s (PTK Eindhoven Easter circular dated April 8, 1990),71 when the newly elected first non-communist government of Tadeusz Mazowiecki was named as the beneficiary of the donations (Mazowiecki Fonds). Moreover, notable initiatives, such as the launch of the Polish Shipping House (Polski Dom Wysyłkowy), which specialized in the sale of a wide range of Polish books, aimed to draw attention to Polish issues at home by increasing the number of readers abroad (PTK Eindhoven Easter circular dated April 8, 1990).72

Conclusions

The case presented above shows the evolution of a migrant organization in the postwar decades. The main issues raised in the documents are dilemmas surrounding integration, the issue of the cultural identity of the younger generation, cooperation among organizations, manners of dealing with crises, actions aimed at Poland, the decreasing number of members of the migrant community, and accounts of religious life. The case also offers a clear example of the importance of the contributions made by a committed member of the migrant community to the community itself, who was both a witness to and active part of the organizational changes which took place in the postwar era. Mobilization efforts among the local Polish migrant community in Eindhoven manifested itself in various forms. First, they included activities directed towards the sense of belonging among members of the community itself (i.e. the function of the mobilization process as an internal affair). Second, they placed emphasis on the importance of creating an image of the immigrant community and presenting this image to the host society (mainly indirect evidence; actions directed to the external environment). Last, but not least, they consider the situation in the country of origin and changes taking place in it (i.e. actions targeted at the home country and fellow citizens there). Thus, the social network links were internal and uni-cultural on the one hand and external and cross-cultural on the other. They embodied two forms of social capital: bonding and bridging. The general transformation of the immigrant community led from the initial state of provisional existence in the host country to being a part of a multicultural society and gradually withdrawing from organized diaspora life, which eventually meant the cessation of community activities. Taking into consideration the importance of religion as a mobilization factor, the case of the PTK offers clear support for the notion of the vital role of religion in safeguarding ethnic identity. Many of the efforts described in the sources explicitly use religious devotion as a cornerstone for the activities of the members of the community, alongside the celebration of Polish national symbols, holidays, etc. Descriptions of internal and external affairs (e.g. the situation back in Poland) are at times expressed in terms which suggest concern about the future. Moreover, there are instances where the diaspora engages in both bottom-up and “hot” models of decision-making. These approaches, however, did not always lead to successful outcomes.

The example of the PTK demonstrates that the formation of cross-cultural bonds can prevent the tendency towards one-sided, intra-group exclusivity among immigrants. This refers to situations where members of the migrant community engage solely within their distinct, isolated diaspora group. From the perspective of mobilization and civil engagement transfers, it is useful to point out that there are circumstances in which the community was more ready to engage in this form of activity. Cooperation with a Dutch Catholic priest was only possible when the outlook of the community formed around the PTK became more cross-cultural. His role was to mediate and mitigate an internal crisis within the migrant community. Based on the case study presented here, one can formulate a working hypothesis which would require additional evidence for validation. According to this hypothesis, the migrant community would benefit from an external orientation if it sought to facilitate successful transfers. Within the organizational sources examined here, discernible indications of civic engagement activities can be observed. This particular case serves as an illustrative example of cooperation within the immigrant community. However, an overarching perspective that emerges from these sources emphasizes the significance of engagement and agency among proactive members as the fundamental bedrock of organizational life within the immigrant community.

Archival Sources

Główny Urząnd Statystyczny [Statistics Poland] (GUS)

Baza organizacji i instytucji polskich i polonijnych za granicą [The Polish Organizations and Institutions Abroad and Polish Diaspora Organizations and Institutions Database]

https://stat.gov.pl/obszary-tematyczne/ludnosc/polonia-i-polacy-w-swiecie/

Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis [International Institute of Social History], Amsterdam (IISG archief)

Franciszek Łyskawa archive

Interviews with Ludka Łyskawa

PTK statuten [Polish Catholic Society statute] (provided by Ludka Łyskawa)

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Venken, Machteld, and Krzysztof M. Zalewski. “Powojenne losy żołnierzy 1. Dywizji Pancernej dowodzonej przez Generała Stanisława Maczka w Polsce: Wstępna analiza porównawcza” [Post-war fates of soldiers of the 1st Armored Division commanded by General Stanisław Maczek in Poland: A preliminary comparative analysis]. Acta Universitatis Lodziensis. Folia Sociologica 41 (2012): 161–75.

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Żaliński, Adam. Organizacje polskiej diaspory: Stan i perspektywy rozwoju [Organizations of the Polish diaspora: State and development prospects]. Cracow: Wydawnictwo Księgarnia Akademicka, 2023. doi: 10.12797/9788381387613

Żaliński, Adam. “Franciszek Łyskawa: A Life of a Veteran Migrant in the Netherlands.” In Émigré Europe Central and Eastern European Émigrés in the Low Countries, 1933–1989. Katholieke Universiteit Leuven KADOC OMEKA online exhibition, 2023 https://kadocerfgoed.be/exhibits/show/emigreeurope/lyskawa.


1 Eder, Dzieje Polonii belgijskiej (w zarysie); Eder, “Polska diaspora w Belgii i Holandii”; Goddeeris, Polonia belgijska w pierwszych latach po II wojnie światowej.

2 Eder, “Polska diaspora w Belgii i Holandii.”

3 Ibid.

4 Kołodziejak, “Polacy w Królestwie Niderlandów – przeszłość i teraźniejszość,” 48–49.

5 Eder, “Polska diaspora w Belgii i Holandii.”

6 Gul-Rechlewicz, “Immigrants in the Netherlands: Second-class Citizens? The Polish Case,” 110.

7 Kaczmarczyk et al., Polacy przebywający czasowo w Królestwie Niderlandów – stan wiedzy, wyzwania i możliwe działania publiczne, 21.

8 Eder, “Polska diaspora w Belgii i Holandii”; Goddeeris, Polonia belgijska w pierwszych latach po II wojnie światowej.

9 Eder, “Polska diaspora w Belgii i Holandii,” 203.

10 Kołodziejak, “Polacy w Królestwie Niderlandów – przeszłość i teraźniejszość,” 51.

11 Willems and Verbeek, Sto lat tęsknoty: Historia Polaków w Holandii.

12 Gul-Rechlewicz, “Immigrants in the Netherlands: Second-class Citizens? The Polish Case,” 110.

13 Dodds, “The Question of God in Émigré Ghent: Religious Identity as Performance and Dialogue Among Migrants and Hosts During the Cold War.”

14 Ibid, 1.

15 Ibid, 4.

16 Moya, “Immigrants and Associations: A Global and Historical Perspective.”

17 Żaliński, Organizacje polskiej diaspory: Stan i perspektywy rozwoju, 39–43.

18 Putnam, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community.

19 Ibid.

20 Vertovec, Transnationalism, 137–38.

21 Ibid., 140.

22 Cohen, Global Diasporas. An Introduction, 141–55; Nagel, “Constructing Ethnicity: Creating and Recreating Ethnic Identity and Culture,” 165–67; Olzak, “Contemporary Ethnic Mobilization”; Tsutsui, “Global Civil Society and Ethnic Social Movements in the Contemporary World.”

23 Tsutsui, “Global Civil Society and Ethnic Social Movements in the Contemporary World,” 63–64.

24 Van Hear, “Theories of Migration and Social Change.”

25 Però and Solomos, “Introduction: Migrant Politics and Mobilization: Exclusion, Engagements, Incorporation.”

26 Tsutsui, “Global Civil Society and Ethnic Social Movements in the Contemporary World,” 72–74.

27 Sardinha, Immigrant Associations, Integration and Identity, 84.

28 Ibid., 68–69.

29 Cohen, Global Diasporas. An Introduction, 150–54.

30 Ibid., 153.

31 Però and Solomos, “Introduction: Migrant Politics and Mobilization: Exclusion, Engagements, Incorporation,” 8.

32 Meyer and Staggenborg, “Movements, Countermovements, and the Structure of Political Opportunity”; Meyer, “Protest and Political Opportunities”; Meyer and Minkoff, “Conceptualizing Political Opportunity.”

33 Però and Solomos, “Introduction: Migrant Politics and Mobilization: Exclusion, Engagements, Incorporation,” 9.

34 Ibid., 8.

35 Ibid., 10.

36 Ibid.

37 Putnam, “Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community”; Nannestad et al., “Bridge Over Troubled Water? Migration and Social Capital.”

38 Jacobs and Tillie, “Introduction: Social Capital and Political Integration of Migrants.”

39 Nannestad et al., “Bridge Over Troubled Water? Migration and Social Capital.”

40 Sardinha, Immigrant Associations, Integration and Identity, 83.

41 Van Hear and Cohen, “Diasporas and Conflict: Distance, Contiguity and Spheres of Engagement.”

42 “Franciszek Łyskawa – pancernym szlakiem z Gorzykowa do Holandii.” Biography outline authorized by Ludka Lyskawa and written down by Mariusz Zborowski. Manuscript, in possession of the author.

43 This section includes parts published before in Żaliński, “Franciszek Łyskawa: A Life of a Veteran Migrant in the Netherlands” as well, as it is based on “Franciszek Łyskawa – pancernym szlakiem z Gorzykowa do Holandii.”

44 Venken and Zalewski, “Powojenne losy żołnierzy 1. Dywizji Pancernej dowodzonej przez Generała Stanisława Maczka w Polsce. Wstępna analiza porównawcza,” 168.

45 Willems and Verbeek, Sto lat tęsknoty. Historia Polaków w Holandii, 108–9.

46 Ibid., 110–15.

47 The Polish war effort could be channelled in United Kingdom, where the Polish forces were formed. In 1942, Franciszek Łyskawa joined the 1st Polish Armoured Division, which was under the command of Lieutenant General Stanisław Maczek. He took part in the fight for Caen, Falaise, Ypres, Baarle-Nassau, the Kusten Canal, and, in late October 1944, Breda. In early 1945, he and his military unit moved towards Germany and reached Wilhelmshaven and Löningen, where he stayed as member of the occupying forces (ibid., 119). Later, Łyskawa was awarded numerous medals for his services in the war.

48 Pałka et al., Żołnierze generała Maczka. Doświadczenie i pamięć wojny. For examples of ghettoization and the effects of harmful legal regulations concerning migrants see also the interviews with Zbigniew Mieczkowski (ibid., 312–13), and Stefan Jezierski (ibid., 317–21).

49 Leska-Ślęzak, “Działalność i funkcjonowanie Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Holandii.”

50 Religious organisations were very popular among various Polish migrant communities around the world, and religious devotion was in many cases a cornerstone of Polish diaspora life. These organisations are still influential today, forming a significant share among the overall number of entities available in an official register (GUS, Baza organizacji i instytucji polskich i polonijnych za granicą). In this register, numerous religious organisations and institutions are listed. 1,286 of the 8,872 entities (around 14.5 percent) can be considered religious organisations, and if various organisations and institutions traditionally not considered migrant organisations in the secondary literature are excluded from the list, the overall share of denominational organisations and institutions is larger.

51 Leska-Ślęzak, “Działalność i funkcjonowanie Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Holandii,” 113.

52 IISG archief 5, p. 1, 2. The source is a typescript with no title and no author. If offers insights into the mood of the community gathered around the PTK Eindhoven at the end of the first post-war decade. The date is handwritten in green on the upper right side of the first of two pages; another dating possibility is that the document was issued in 1953 due to the claim in the source that preparations were underway to celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of Poland’s independence in 1928. IISG archief 5, p. 2.

53 IISG archief, 5, p. 2.

54 Assuming that many Polish soldier migrants were single, it is perhaps hardly surprising that many new binational families were formed when these men married women from the local communities. This may have led to some loosening of ties with the larger Polish community.

55 IISG archief 4, p. 5, 6.

56 PTK Eindhoven document titled “Basic remarks about the work of the Board of the PTK in Eindhoven from reporting year 1957/58,” dated October 4, 1958.

57 Rada Zjednoczonej Polonii Holenderskiej was formed in Eindhoven. IISG archief 2, p. 23.

58 IISG archief, 4, p. 7, 8.

59 IISG archief, 6, p. 2.

60 E.g. the circular of December 1986, IISG archief, 6, p. 4.

61 IISG archief 7, p. 1.

62 More details about this initiative are found in the letter dated June 1, 1982. IISG archief 7, p. 10.

63 IISG archief, 7, p. 20, 21. See “Skrócone sprawozdanie Protokołu Zebrania Zarządu Gł. PTK w Holandii z dnia 29 stycznia br. w miejscowości Utrecht” (Summary report of the minutes of the PTK General Board Meeting in the Netherlands on January 29 of the current year in Utrecht), dated February 2, 1983.

64 It is not clear whether this was the same entity as the one mentioned before, the Council of the United Polish Diaspora in the Netherlands. IISG archief 2, p. 23.

65 IISG archief 7, p. 20.

66 IISG archief 7, p. 14, 20. See “Protokół Zebrania Zarządu Głównego PTK w Holandii w dniu 7 lutego 1981 roku w miejscowości Utrecht” (Minutes of the Meeting of the General Board of the PTK in the Netherlands on February 7, 1981 in Utrecht; IISG archief 7, p. 14), and “Skrócone sprawozdanie Protokołu Zebrania Zarządu Gł. PTK…” (Summary report of the minutes of the PTK General Board Meeting…; IISG archief 7, p. 20). The crisis concerned the actions of young priests in particular, who allegedly were disregarding the opinions and needs of the older members of the diaspora. The sources also point to the absence of priests during important organizational meetings.

67 IISG archief 7, p. 28.

68 Broadly understood, pastoral care in this case could include leading a church service, taking part in an important commemoration among the immigrant community, sharing informing about the religious devotion of the group with the wider society, and involving local officials in various relations with the minority community (Dodds, “The Question of God in Émigré Ghent: Religious Identity as Performance and Dialogue Among Migrants and Hosts During the Cold War”). In general, it was supposed to “[connect] the religious and military identities of the Polish community to the wider […] Catholic milieu.”

69 IISG archief 7, p. 20.

70 IISG archief 6, p. 6.

71 IISG archief 6, p. 5.

72 IISG archief 6, p. 5.

* I would like to extend my gratitude to Ludka Łyskawa from Utrecht. Her willingness to share information about her father, Franciszek Łyskawa, and provide archival materials documenting the history of the Polish diaspora in the Netherlands has been invaluable. I am also thankful to Mariusz Zborowski from Witków. His assistance in establishing contact with Ludka Łyskawa and sharing an outline of Franciszek Łyskawa’s life, which was approved by Łyskawa himself, has been greatly appreciated. I would also like to thank Professor Dorota Praszałowicz for her comments on an earlier version of the draft of this essay. This study was conducted under the auspices of the research project “Émigré Europe: Civil Engagement Transfers between Eastern Europe and the Low Countries 1933–1989,” which received financial support from the CELSA fund (Central Europe Leuven Strategic Alliance).

Hungarian Historical Review 12, no. 4 (2023): –699

2023_4_Kuźma–Praszałowicz

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Polish Immigrant Community Building in Brussels: The Role of the Polish Catholic Mission

Elżbieta Kuźma
Université Libre de Bruxelles
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Dorota Praszałowicz
Jagiellonian University in Kraków
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 4  (2023): 700-734 DOI 10.38145/2023.4.700

This paper provides the first outline of the history of the Polish Catholic Mission (PCM) in Belgium, focusing on its role in the Polish immigrant community from 1926 to 2023. It examines the transformation of the PCM and its impact on the Polish diaspora, considering the broader context of secularization and social changes. The study utilizes primary sources, interviews, and participant observations to explore the PCM’s influence on community building, cultural preservation, and social capital formation within the Polish immigrant population in Belgium.

Keywords: Polish diaspora, immigration, Catholic Mission, pastoral care, catholic community, history.

The text offers a sketch of the Polish Catholic Mission (hereinafter PCM) in Belgium and its transformation over the course of a century (more precisely, between 1926 and 2023).1 Although a great deal of research has been done on the Polish diaspora in Belgium,2 no systematic history has been written about this institution, which became a center of leadership for both the Polish-speaking pastoral ministry and the Polish immigrant community in Belgium.3 We show that, while it was a conservative institution, the Polish Catholic Mission maintained its role as one of the key places of Polish activity in Belgium, despite an ongoing process of secularization.   

The study is based on a critical analysis of the literature, including primary sources (newsletters, memoirs, immigrant press, webpages), and participant observation and interviews. The primary sources which were examined are stored at the KADOC center at the Catholic University in Leuven and at the archive of the Polish Catholic Mission. The interviews were conducted in a recent study with Polish immigrants and Polish priests, but citations from interviews conducted in previous studies are also used here.4

The process of organizing and changing the Mission is shown in the context of the local Polish immigrant community and in the broader context of the receiving society. Launched in Brussels in 1926, the Polish Catholic Mission initially addressed the needs of Polish Catholics in Belgium, and in 1927, it extended its activities to the Netherlands, Luxemburg, and Denmark.5 The text focuses on the Belgian part of the story. It provides a brief information of the Polish group in Belgium (part one), a basic chronology and data on the Polish Catholic Mission (part two), and an analysis of the changing functions of the PCM within the context of the Polish group in Belgium (part three).

Due to limited space, the text is devoted to the history of ethnic Poles, but it is worth keeping in mind that the influx from Polish lands also brought Polish Jews in the early twentieth century and the interwar period, as well as members of the Belarusian minority from the region of Podlasie since the late 1980s. 

Polish immigrants in Belgium managed to build their own world in the new milieu. In migration studies, this process is theorized as immigrant community building.6 In the case of this community, this process began in the nineteenth century, with each stream of Polish immigrants both contributing to and benefiting from the community. A network of institutions and relationships that comprised an immigrant community/immigrant communities embraced many newcomers.7 An ethnic institutional completeness8 has never been achieved, but the communities made it possible for newcomers to find their anchor in a new surroundings.9 In general, Poles oriented themselves towards their home country, their host society, and their immigrant community, which bridged the two. Today, researchers refer to this ability to create a new space in which migrants function on a daily basis across ethnic and state borders as transnationalism.10 Another concept that is useful in interpreting the findings of our study is social capital,11 which is produced in immigrant communities in a dense net of daily interactions. Bonding social capital is inward-oriented and contributes to internal social cohesion, while bridging social capital is produced in interactions with the new environment and with other immigrant groups.12

The Polish community in Belgium was made and remade, invented and reinvented by the successive streams of immigrants.13 The process of immigrants’ integration and their participation in cultural life of the host society was eased by the fact that the ethnic community helped them overcome the cultural shock that they experienced upon arrival.14 The community structures initiated by the first generation of each wave of immigrants often served the immigrants who arrived later.

The study challenges the traditional paradigms of the ethnic studies developed in the 1960s and 1970s, which portrayed ethnicity as “an insider identity generated in largely closed minority communities whose members struggle in the interaction with society at large.”15 The case of Poles in Belgium makes such an understanding of ethnicity inadequate, which is why one of the concepts underlying the study presented here is the New Architecture of Ethnic Studies (NAES). This new approach shows that ethnicity, as practiced or experienced by recent immigrants, allows and even facilitates the crossing of ethnic boundaries.16

There are many studies on the role of religion in the lives of immigrants.17 As Yang and Ebaugh observe, “Historically, religious institutions were among the most important resources that immigrant groups used to reproduce their ethno-religious identity in a new surrounding and to help them adjust to the challenges of surviving in a demanding and often threating environment.”18 This is certainly the case with the Polish Catholic Mission, which underwent significant evolution, changing its name to the Polish Catholic Community in 2018 and retaining its role as one of the key places of Polish activity in Belgium.

Polish Immigration to Belgium

Poland, a country with a population of about thirty-eight million (2022), has been left by at least seven million inhabitants over the course of the last two centuries.19 Massive outflow began in the mid-nineteenth century, reached its peak in the early twentieth century, and continues to this day with a few interruptions. Emigration produced several centers of Polish diaspora, the largest in the United States but also in Germany, France, and Great Britain. Other popular destinations include Brazil, Canada, Argentina, Australia, and Sweden.20 Belgium and the Netherlands received only a small portion of the Polish outflow, yet Poles built visible immigrant communities there.21 In the 1830s these communities, began to be formed by successive streams of newcomers from the Polish lands. The influx included both political refugees and migrants who came in search of work. 

The Polish diaspora communities in Belgium consisted of various groups of immigrants and their descendants: political refugees of the failed uprisings (who arrived in the 1830s and 1860s), Polish students at the postsecondary schools (Antwerpen, Liege, Glon near Liege, Leuven), migrants who came in search of work in the early twentieth century and the interwar period, World War II refugees, political and economic immigrants from communist Poland, including Solidarity refugees, migrants in search of work in the period of political transition (since 1989), and migrants who were and are taking advantage of greater mobility following Poland’s accession to the EU. Each wave of immigration stream had its particular social profile and contributed to the internal diversity of the immigrant group. While discussing its past and present, historians often tend to oversimplify the situation, usually focusing on working class communities because immigrants who come in search of work were and are the most numerous. As migration research shows, economic migration prevails in international flows, and this has been true in the case of waves of Polish migration. However, political motivations to migrate were usually intertwined with economic considerations. As Norman Davies has noted, in the nineteenth century, when Poland was partitioned, “The émigrés who stayed abroad because their lands and property had been sequestrated, or because they lost their source of livelihood in a home district annexed by a foreign power, were reacting as much to economic as to political factors.”22 The same interplay between political and economic factors in the decision to migrate can be found in the case of the outflow from communist Poland as well.23

It should be noted that this outflow did not stop with the fall of communism (1989), when Poland embarked down the path towards political transition and the free market. In fact, economic reforms of the 1990s (which initially resulted in high unemployment rates) and Polish accession to the EU in 2004 brought new streams of migration to the West, and Belgium became a popular destination for Poles. In 1991, Polish citizens were given an exemption from visa requirements in Belgium, and in 2009, Belgium opened its labor market to Poles. The influx that started in 1990s initially resulted in the undocumented employment of many Poles. At the time, circular migration became common, especially with Polish women working in Belgium for a few months, returning to Poland for a few months, and then coming to Belgium again.24 After 2009, most immigrants were able to legalize their status.

It is very difficult to determine precisely the actual size of migration flows, so we quote various estimates here. Currently, the estimated size of the Polish group in Belgium fluctuates around 60,000, including more than 43,000 Polish citizens.25 This number includes not only members of the first generation of Polish immigrants, but also members of the second and third generations. According to the population census conducted in Belgium in 1930, 48,840 Polish citizens resided in the country, including around 23,000 Polish Jews.26 In 1935, PCM rector Fr. Ryszard Moskwa estimated the group of Polish Catholics in Belgium at 24,000.27 In 1939, it was estimated that there were around 60,000 immigrants from Poland in Belgium, half of whom were Polish Catholics and half of whom were Polish Jews.28

The main Polish communities were found in the industrial regions of Liege, Limburg, and Hainaut (Charleroi, Mons, and the central area between them).29 During World War II, many Polish men who fought alongside the Western Allies ended up in the Benelux countries and took part in the fighting against the Nazi forces.30 After the war, there was a chaotic migration reshuffle. Poles who did not want to return to the communist country stayed in Belgium. This group included earlier immigrants and Polish Displaced Persons, many Polish soldiers among them.31 On the other hand, several thousand Poles left, deciding simply to return home.32

In the Polish collective memory,33 it is believed that the outflow of people from the country was the result of political oppression. In other words, the political dimension of the outflow is overestimated and the economic dimension is underestimated. In a sense, the heroic narrative of Polish émigré streams dominates Polish historiography.34 As nineteenth-century Polish publicist and independence agitator Maurycy Mochnacki famously contended, Polish emigration “has its own separate, historical character, not similar to the emigration of any other contemporary people […]. We are soldiers of the independence of our country, citizens of the future Poland.”35

This perception was shaped by the nineteenth-century Polish refugees who became diaspora leaders and understood their situation in exile as a continuation of the fight for the Polish cause. According to their speeches, memoirs, personal letters, and publications, the refugees believed that, while living abroad, they had a national mission to fulfill, i.e., they felt responsible for Polish cultural continuity, including Polish Catholicism. Indeed, many exiles in the nineteenth century were well-known figures who became symbols of Polish patriotism. Among the refugees from the uprisings there were several dozen officers and representatives of culture and science, among them Joachim Lelewel, an outstanding Polish historian and spiritual guide in a diaspora democratic camp who spent almost three decades in Belgium (1833–1861), and Stanisław Worcell, thinker and social activist of the Great Emigration.36 Another important element of the heroic history is related to Polish involvement in the Allied Forces and the anti-Nazi underground movement during World War II.37 The focus on heroism and martyrdom in Polish history, both on Polish soil and in the diaspora, is evident in the profile of patriotic activities organized by the Polish Catholic Mission in Belgium. Examples are given later in this discussion.

The Polish group in Belgium was often compared to the Polish diaspora center in France.38 This comparison is important because in the nineteenth century, Paris became the main center of Polish (unsuccessful) patriotic mobilization for the reestablishment of an independent Polish state. However, life in the diaspora could not focus solely on the old country. Everyday challenges prompted and compelled members of the émigré community to orient themselves towards the host society. Therefore, on the one hand side, there was a narrative about Polish refugees and their patriotic mission, while on the other, there was a more complex reality. The reality of the diaspora included both the integration process and ethnic community building. Subsequent generations of Polish immigrants integrated and dispersed in the host society, especially in the case of those born into binational families.39 Moreover, hope for social advancement was usually an incentive for immigrants to go beyond the (symbolic) boundaries of their ethnic group.40 

The migration path that led Poles to Belgium in the twentieth century is an interesting and little researched topic. Many Polish migrants who traveled to Belgium in search of work came directly from Polish lands before and after World War I, but a significant group came from Germany and France during this period. A priest who ministered to Poles in the interwar period estimated that only one third of the Poles in Belgium came from Poland, while one third came from Germany and another third from France.41 We are dealing here with multiple migrations that involved living and working in the diaspora prior to arrival in Belgium. These migrants moved to Belgium in search of better opportunities from industrial regions in Germany (Westphalia) and France (Pas de Calais and Nord), where Polish men were employed in coal mines. In the case of Westphalian Poles, another major push factor was the requirement to take the German citizenship if the migrant wanted to remain in the country after World War I.42 This push factor, rooted in the migrants’ attachment to their identity as Poles (the decision not to accept German citizenship), can be seen as cultural and political rather than economic. However, the labor market in Belgium (coal mines and work that Polish men were used to) proved a strong pulling force. This shows the interplay of various incentives in the decision to migrate.

Polish families brought with them from Germany and France a tradition of establishing ethnic institutions and associations, which during their stay in Belgium proved helpful in the process of building new immigrant communities.43 The experiences of working-class immigrant communities were thus added to the nineteenth-century traditions of refugee activities. The spiritual connection between waves of immigration, old and new, working-class and intellectual, is exemplified in the name of the (Polish student) Lelewel Society in Brussels.44   

From the perspective of gender, in the refugee streams in the nineteenth century, men predominated. In turn, the Polish economic migrations involved primarily single men and families.45 World War II brought soldiers to Belgium, meaning men, but the group of people referred to as Displaced Persons consisted of both men and women. Emigration from communist Poland involved both sexes, including the Solidarity refugees: families, single men, and single women. Polish immigration to Belgium in recent decades, however, has been dominated by women.46 Many of these Polish women have decided to stay, however, and they brought their nuclear families to Belgium, while earlier they had perceived migration as a short term solution or circular move.47

Today, the migration process has slowed or halted shifts in gender roles on the labor market. Most men are employed in traditionally male occupations, for instance the construction and renovation of buildings and as truck drivers, and most women are employed in typically female jobs, for instance as caretakers, nannies and babysitters, and cleaning staff.48 However, “in a recent study on female migration in Belgium […] it was found that women often perceived migration as an empowering experience: it not only strengthened their economic situations but also changed their intra-familial and gender positions for the better.”49 The most recent study which analyzes changes in the PCM focuses entirely on gender roles within this group.50 Its authors closely examine the intersection of class, gender, and ethnicity (minority status), and they demonstrate that Polish women must fight if they want to exercise agency. In this context, it should be noted that Polish migrants often have been working below their skill level. This situation is gradually changing, with more and more Polish men and women finding jobs in Belgium that are compatible with their education and/or getting education in Belgium to improve their position on the labor market.51

Polish Catholic Mission – Basic Information

In the case of waves of Polish migration, the religious dimension of the diaspora experience is clear. In most diaspora centers, Poles established their churches and developed an immigrant community around them.52 The initiative usually came from the bottom up, with immigrants raising funds to start their own churches and cover maintenance costs. They sent petitions to the Church hierarchy to get Polish clergy. It was a grass-roots activity, but a Polish priest often became the leader of a local group. However, the Polish group in Belgium differed significantly from that in countries with the largest Polish diasporas. Unlike in the religiously pluralistic United States, where Catholics were in minority, or France, where the process of secularization was already well underway, in Belgium, Polish immigrants joined the religious majority. Nevertheless, their religiosity, strongly associated with Polish national and folk culture, differed from the religious patterns they encountered in Belgium. They tried to exert some control over the situation by setting up their own structures. In Belgium, the initiative came from above.

Another important aspect was the existence of several pillars on which the social engagement of the Catholic Church in Belgium rested. From its foundation in 1830 in the wake of the Belgian Revolution, Belgium was a Catholic state, and the Catholic Church controlled education, culture, and charity. Thus, the endeavors of immigrants in these fields necessarily took place within the existing Church structures. Cooperatives, sick funds, trade unions, volunteer associations, the school system, and a Catholic party (from 1921) were the pillars of the institutionalized Catholic system.53 Ironically, however, it was more difficult for Poles in Belgium to become part of this established system than it was for Poles in the religiously diverse but nonetheless predominantly Protestant United States to establish ethnic parishes and schools.

On January 1, 1926, through the efforts of August Hlond, primate of the Roman Catholic Church in Poland, and with the approval of Cardinal Désiré Joseph Mercier, the Polish Catholic Mission in Belgium was established.54 Its purpose was to provide pastoral care for Polish immigrants. A year later, the scope of activity was expanded to the Netherlands, Luxemburg, and Denmark. The Mission, which is a church organizational unit, was responsible for the organization and development of the religious life of the Polish immigrants. The pastoral activities of the Mission were the same as those of any parish in Poland and included celebrating services, administering the sacraments, receiving confessions, granting absolution, and providing religious instruction. The main task of the PCM rector was to organize pastoral care so that every Polish local community would have access to a Polish priest. This was difficult since the communities were numerous and dispersed. Another crucial challenge was to organize religious instruction in Polish. Due to the lack of priests, the first PCM rector, Fr. Kotowski, trained a group of parishioners representing scattered communities and supplied them with catechisms and songbooks.55

Pastoral care by Polish clergy was and still is essential, as many Polish workers in Belgium either spoke neither French nor Flemish or had difficulty with the languages. Until the Second Vatican Council (1962–65), Catholic masses were celebrated in Latin, to which Poles were accustomed, but listening to sermons, singing hymns, and giving confession in French or Flemish seemed alien to immigrants. As diaspora studies indicate, it was often difficult for immigrants to give confession in a foreign language, so they avoided doing do, even though the Roman Catholic Church requires one to give confession at least once a year.56 The Polish Episcopate was aware of this, and in 1921, it issued a decree recognizing pastoral care for Poles living abroad as necessary. In 1969, the legal situation of churches in the diaspora was regulated by the papal decree Pastorialis Migratorum Cura.57

The first PCM rector Fr. Tadeusz Kotowski (1926–28) established eight places of Polish pastoral care in Belgium and one in the Netherlands.58 Before coming to Belgium, he studied in France (Lyon, Nancy) and worked in Polish communities in the industrial regions of France, so he was accustomed to ministering among working-class immigrants.59 The second rector, Fr. Ludwik Kudłacik (1928–1935), also spent several years in France before being assigned to the PCM in Belgium. Both had official contacts with the Belgian Church hierarchy, as well as with the Polish bishops of their home dioceses, where they had worked before their departure. Both left rich correspondence with their Polish bishops, through which we gain some insight into the challenges they faced in their daily activities.60 Their actions were financially supported by Polish Roman Catholic Church and by the Polish Consulates (Brussels, Antwerpen). Thus, in addition to being subjects of the Belgian and Polish bishops, PCM rectors had to know how to navigate the world of diplomats and politicians. There was one more influential actor in the puzzle: the workplace. The owners of the coal mines where the immigrants were employed supported the Polish pastoral ministry. They offered places of worship and education and funded libraries, and in return, they expected the Mission to provide priests.61 This, however, was extremely difficult and caused frustration, and the PCM rectors expressed their dissatisfaction with the situation. In addition, the material support from all sides proved insufficient. The Mission rectors struggled financially, especially during the Great Depression.

In 1939, the Polish Catholic Mission was entrusted to the (Polish) Society of Christ Fathers, a community established in 1932 that has directed its service to Poles in the diaspora. In 1948, the Christ Fathers were succeeded by the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate, a community originally established in 1816 in Aix en Provence. This French community decided in 1921 to establish a Polish Province, which consisted of Polish priests dedicated to caring for Polish immigrants. Both Polish communities had been trained to serve migrants and help them keep their faith. The first Oblate in Brussels was Fr. Karol Kubsz, who, like the first rectors, had experience ministering in Polish communities in France (during WWII).62 He became the PCM rector in 1948 and remained in that position until 1961. The Oblates continue to look after the Mission today.

In 2018 the Mission changed its name to the Polish Catholic Community, and its leader, Fr. Damian Kopytto OMI, became (instead of rector) a coordinator of Polish Pastoral Care in Belgium.63

Until 1925, there was no Polish Catholic parish, mission, or any other type of religious center in Belgium. Several Polish communities were served occasionally by Polish priests who studied in Leuven. In the 1930s, the situation improved a little. There were four Polish priests and two Belgian Capuchin Fathers who had learned Polish, and Polish priests who studied in Leuven still helped on occasion. In 1974, there were 14 priests taking full care of the Poles and three more assisting them. There were also roughly 15 students from the Catholic University of Leuven available.64 In 2023, two Polish priests (Oblates) resided in the Mission house at the Rue Jourdan, one at the St. Elisabeth in Schaerbeek and four Missionary Sisters of Christ the King for Polish Emigrants who helped them.

In Belgian society, where overall religiosity was and is diminishing65 and the Roman Catholic Church has been struggling with declining membership,66 the Polish Catholic Mission appears to have been a unique case of success. It has played and plays a crucial role in the local Polish group. There are currently four places in Brussels metropolis where services are held in Polish: Chapel of the Polish Catholic Community, St. Gilles; Sainte-Elisabeth, Schaerbeek; Notre Dame de la Chapelle, downtown; Saint-Joseph, Anderlecht. To this day, there is no Polish parish in Belgium, though Belgian parishes with large or significant numbers of Polish members try to provide Polish language services. The Polish Catholic Mission coordinates the pastoral care and orchestrates activities that are going on around churches. As already mentioned, Polish churches have always been centers of immigrant community life in the diaspora. Ethnic parishes were entwined with a network of associations. In Belgium, the institutionalization of the pillar system of Church life has made it more than natural for the local Catholic Church to go far beyond pastoral care. In these two contexts, the PCM developed its agenda. From the very beginning in the 1920s, the role of Polish priests was never limited to pastoral ministry. Fr. Kotowski, the first PCM rector, initiated social meetings at the Mission which took place once a month.67 He initiated the establishment of Polish Academic Youth Circles (Koła Polskiej Młodzieży Akademickiej) in localities where Polish students lived. In 1927, he opened at the PCM a kind of tourist branch to facilitate Polish student travel and enable Polish students to visit neighboring countries.68

While many decades have passed in the meantime, the situation has remained very similar. In the 1970s, the Rector of the Polish Catholic Mission stated that Polish priests devoted only 25 percent of their time to religious services, while 75 percent was devoted to counseling, teaching, and organizing social life.69 The same was said by a Polish priest in an interview that he gave in 1990s,70 and a similar claim was made in the recent study conducted in 2021–23.

Polish priests became not only spiritual guides for their compatriots but also teachers, translators, and social workers. Indeed, the religious life of immigrants was woven into a network of ethnic associations and institutions: schools, choirs, societies, clubs, and media organs. Catholic societies included women’s, men’s, and youth units, and many of them published newsletters, calendars, and/or regular magazines.71 Together with the PMC, the role of coordinating Polish activities was initially played by the Committee of Cultural and Social Welfare for Polish Emigration in Belgium (Komitet Opieki Kulturalno-Społecznej dla Wychodźstwa Polskiego w Belgii). The Committee published a bulletin, which is now a valuable source of detailed information on activities held in local communities. It should be noted that the editor of the Bulletin was the rector of the PCM.72

In 1923, the Catholic Men’s Association was established (Stowarzyszenie Mężów Katolickich).73 Another example of men’s societies was the (Polish) Association of St. Barbara, launched in coalmining towns. In several places, the local units gathered all Polish coalminers. They worked with mutual aid funds to help families cover the costs of accidents, health crises, and funerals.74 Polish women’s societies had a different range of interests. The Community of Living Rosary (Bractwo Żywego Różańca 1933), which brought together Polish women, was a prayer association, but its purpose was also to remind women of their patriotic mission in raising children. It emphasized the traditional role of the “Mother-Pole” and reinforced the gendered patterns of the family, in which men were breadwinners and women were bread-bakers. Baking bread is used here in its metaphoric sense, including the tasks of managing the daily life of a family, but also caring for the spiritual needs of the young generation.

In 1948, the Oblates founded a (Polish) Catholic Action in Belgium, a religious association modeled on the Catholic Action operating in Poland in the interwar period and banned during the communist period. At the same time, the (aforementioned) Catholic Men’s Association was active, and the local units of the Living Rosary of Ladies fell under the control of an umbrella organization, the Association of Confraternities of the Living Rosary of Ladies. This consolidation was necessary because the number of local Rosary groups had gradually increased.75 In addition, there was a Polish Catholic youth organization that dated back to 1947 (Workers Catholic Youth, Robotnicza Młodzież Katolicka) and later operated under the name Polish Catholic Youth Association (Katolickie Stowarzyszenie Młodzieży Polskiej). Polish (Girls’ and Boys’) Scout Teams, another type of immigrant youth association, were not directly affiliated with the Catholic Church, but scouts in their uniforms participated in Polish religious ceremonies.76  

Educational activities focused on religious instruction and Polish courses, language, history, geography, and literature. In 1952, the Polish Educational Society (Macierz Szkolna Wolnych Polaków) was established. This Society worked closely with the Polish Catholic Mission.77 Currently, Polish language, history and geography lessons are held on Saturdays in buildings owned by the Polish Catholic Community. An important part of the program is the teaching of Catholic religion, now conducted by Polish nuns. After the political changes in 1989, Polish classes are supported by the Polish state. In a 2012–13 survey of Polish women in Antwerp, half of the respondents reported that their children attended both Belgian schools and Polish supplementary schools.78

In the 1980s, the PCM actively supported Solidarity, a trade union in Poland, independent of the communist state. In December 1981, when martial law was declared in Poland, Solidarity was suspended and later outlawed. At the time, Fr. Bolesław Kurzawa, rector of the PCM (1981–1984), collected funds for the families of imprisoned (in Poland) Solidarity activists, and he cooperated with the head of the Solidarity office in Brussels, Jan Kułakowski, and sent secret literature to Poland and provided care for Solidarity refugees who had managed to leave Poland. Thanks to this initiative, a few days after Martial Law was declared, Cardinal Goodfried Danneels celebrated a solemn mass for Poland in the Brussels Cathedral.79 This part of the PCM’s achievements has contributed to the emergence, in Poland and in the diaspora, of a legend of heroic national history and has become an important part of the collective memory of the Belgian Polish community.

Before and after the Solidarity period, the PCM organized Polish cultural events that focused on Polish heroic history. These events aimed to reinforce Polish national feelings by commemorating the Polish uprisings (1794, 1830–31, 1863–64, and the Warsaw Uprising in 1944) and the legacy of Solidarity (1980–81). Another reason for celebration was the anniversary of the May 3 Constitution of 1791, a failed attempt to reform the Polish monarchy. Polish priests were also involved in the ceremonies that were held annually at the Polish war cemetery in Lommel. An interesting detail relates to Fr. Bolesław Kurzawa, who studied philosophy in Leuven between 1951 and 1954 and served during this time as chaplain to Polish war veterans in Ghent. Fr. Kurzawa purchased a plot in Ressaix and initiated the establishment of the St. Maximilian Kolbe Church, named to commemorate a Polish priest who had saved the life of his fellow Auschwitz prisoner by offering himself for execution.80 According to the records, Fr. Kurzawa managed to build a rectory, but there is no trace of the church today.

Polish pilgrimages to the Banneux shrine in Belgium and the shrine of Lourdes in France are an important element of Polish religious life which helps increase bonding social capital in the immigrant group. These events bring together Poles representing various local groups. Moreover, Poles meet occasionally in the Millennium Center opened in 1961 in Comblain-la-Tour in Ardennes, a province of Liege, Wallonia. This holiday center for Polish youth still operates today, and it hosts summer camps for Polish youths from Belgium, the Netherlands, France, Germany, and the United Kingdom. The Millennium Center thus has served as a bridge among Polish Catholic communities scattered around these countries. In the 1970s, some 400 Polish children spent part of their holidays there every year.81 Another place for trips and youth camps was Stella Maris, located in Pas de Calais, France, on the coast. Like the Millennium Center, Stella Maris brought together Polish migrants from several countries and served as a bridge among members of the Polish diaspora from France, Britain, and Benelux. In both cases, the centers were launched by the Polish Catholic Mission (in the case of Stella Maris, it was the Polish Catholic Mission in France), and over time, they opened to serve a wider range of guests. The Millennium Center is now managed by the Polish Educational Society, and it cooperates with the PCM.

 Most records indicate that Polish migrants gathered around the church. In fact, the Polish Catholic Mission became a “miniature Poland” and a kind of “small homeland” where people sought assistance and guidance in difficult moments of life. As the sources suggest, a parallel was even drawn between the experiences of the Polish refugees and the plight of Christ: “it is not unusual for migrants to hear during Mass that they are the same refugees that Christ once was, that they are refugees from communism, the consequences of which they still have to deal with”.82 This message reinforces the narrative of the heroism, although the sermon was mainly aimed at labor immigrants. To those who felt humiliated or exploited, however, it may well have given some consolation.

At the moment, Poles in Brussels celebrate anniversaries of the reestablishment of the Polish state (November 11, 1918), with the central ceremony being a holy mass in Notre Damme de La Chappelle. During the Mass in 2019, the dedication of the banner of the 24th regiment of lancers of the Reconstruction Group of the First Armored Division “Antwerp” was held.83 The event proves that reconstructions of heroic events have become an important part of Polish patriotic celebrations, and the PCM plays an important role in this.

The Polish Catholic Mission continues to serve as something of a substitute for the homeland for Polish emigrants, despite their integration into the host society. In addition, thanks to the size of the Polish émigré community and their attachment to religion and the significant participation in Sunday and holiday services, which is incomparably greater than that of the local community, arguably, the PCM activities have revitalized Brussels’ deserted churches. With more and more services in Polish attended by hundreds of worshippers, the church of Notre-Dame de la Chapelle in the center of Brussels, the church of Sainte-Elisabeth in the Schaerbeek district, and, more recently, the church of Saint-Joseph in Anderlecht have regained their former character, are more readily visited, and parishioners help cover the costs of utilities and building maintenance through contributions and donations. Thanks to the Polish émigré community, some churches in Brussels have been saved from total neglect or even closure. 

 Polish migrants involved in religious activities confirm that the Polish Catholic Mission is important to them:84 “The Mission is our home” (“Misja to nasz dom”); “I feel at home in the Mission” (“Na Misji czuję się jak w domu”); “The church is a substitute for the motherland (“Kościół to namiastka Ojczyzny”); “The church is Poland in miniature” (“Kościół to Polska w miniaturze”); “The Polish church is important to me for religious reasons; without it, life would be more difficult. Besides, it has a tradition here. It is a place to meet other Poles, although sometimes it turns into a big gossip forum.” (“Polski kościół jest dla mnie ważny ze względów religijnych, bez niego byłoby trudniej. Poza tym ma tu swoją tradycję. Jest miejscem do spotkania z innymi Polakami, chociaż czasami zamienia się w wielkie obgadywanie, jeden drugiego.”)85 

The Polish Catholic Mission did not shield immigrants from the host society, however. On the contrary, it helped create bridging social capital between them and the local population. It was anchored in the Belgian structures of the Roman Catholic Church, and despite some tensions in the first decades, it was fully endorsed by the local Church hierarchy.86 Polish priests have cooperated with Belgian clergy in the local parishes, and Polish societies and choirs functioned alongside the parochial Belgian societies. Polish cultural events are attended, moreover, by members of the non-Polish community. Belgian bishops celebrated masses on Polish holidays, especially on the occasions of visits by Polish bishops. As mentioned earlier, they also celebrate Polish patriotic masses in cooperation with the PCM. Polish students at the Catholic University in Leuven have belonged to the Belgian academic world and have been ready to help in the Polish Catholic Mission. Moreover, the Mission supported the (Polish) Workers Catholic Youth (1947), which was born out of inspiration coming from two sides: the French movement (Économie et Humanisme) and the Belgian JOC, or Jeunesse Ouvriere Catholique. This is another example of the creation of bridging social capital, in this case in the transnational Catholic space.

Polish involvement in the Polish Catholic Mission has not diminished, despite the ongoing process of secularization, with Poland following trends initiated in the West. Today, the PCM is present in eleven places: Antwerp, Brussels, Charleroi, Ghent, Genk, Leopoldsburg, Liege, Maasmechelen, Mons (Tetre), Namur, and Ressaix.87 Many migrants declare that they did not go to church in Poland, but as members of the diaspora, they remain in regular contact with the PCM. The community gives them a sense of belonging and security. This is especially the case of Polish Catholic women from Podlasie, who appreciate the social ties that function within the immigrant community. They do not question gender roles in the immigrant church, where women are denied both leadership positions and the right to assist in services. The relatively new rule allowing women in the Catholic Church to give Holy Communion and serve at the altar (“altar servers”) is not recognized in Poland, so Polish immigrants are not pursuing it.88 It seems that labor migrants are more involved in the PCM than Poles who managed to integrate into the Belgian social structure and who found jobs appropriate to their skills. Indeed, many educated and accomplished women declare that they do not participate in the PCM activities.89 On the other hand, church involvement depends on the migrants’ stage of life. Young couples want to have church weddings, baptize their children, and send them to Polish schools, at least until their first Holy Communion.90 Most of them hold their weddings in their hometowns in Poland, but pre-marriage courses are organized by the PCM.

The religious life of Polish immigrants is becoming diverse, however. In 2000, the Polish Section of the European Catholic Center in Brussels was established, offering services at the Dominican Church (Avenue de la Renaissance). The Polish Catholic Community Coordinator admits that the Section has little in common with the PCM/PCC (2023). As the group of Poles involved in EU structures increases (members of the European Parliament, employees in EU offices and their families), it seems that its role will grow. In addition, a Polish Orthodox Parish has been operating in Brussels since 2015. It was founded by immigrants from Podlasie who belonged to the Belarusian minority. Previously, all immigrants from Podlasie were seen as ethnic Poles, which is a typically ethnocentric/polonocentric approach. Research on the Belarusian minority in Belgium, its relations with other immigrants from Podlasie, and with immigrants/refugees from Belarus would be welcome.

The activities of the Polish Section of the European Catholic Center and the Polish Orthodox Parish contribute to the internal diversification of the Polish community in Belgium and may one day challenge the dominance of the PCM/PCC. On the other hand, their emergence demonstrates the importance of church attendance for many migrants: Catholic and Orthodox, PCM/PCC participants, and outsiders.

The PCM is conservative in every possible way. It preserves a heroic version of Polish history and conducts patriotic missions. It reinforces traditional Catholicism with its folk culture (for example the Corpus Christi processions). It provides religious instruction (led by Polish nuns) which is based on the teachings of Pope John Paul II. It reinforces traditional gender roles, with Polish women seen primarily as mothers. However, to this day, the PCM/PCC is an extremely thriving center of religious, cultural, educational, and social life which unites Poles living in the Kingdom of Belgium.  

To sum up this brief overview of the Polish Catholic Mission/Community in Belgium, the initiative to establish the Polish Catholic Mission sprang from the conviction that faith and national identity are strongly connected. At the time, the Polish diaspora leaders tried to prevent the dispersal of immigrants in the host societies, and their countermeasure was to promote Polish cultural continuity and preserve their understanding of “Polishness.” In this case, cultural continuity meant preserving the Catholic tradition and the heroic narrative of the Polish past and present. The Church hierarchy, in turn, feared losing members or loosening ties with the Catholic Church.91 Both sides wanted the immigrants to stay within the immigrant community, which was to be organized around the religious institution.  The migrant communities have proven an enduring entity and continue to function today.

To put the achievements of the PCMs in a broader perspective, it is worth returning to research on religion in the lives of immigrants. Most of this research has been conducted in the United States, and it has tended to highlight the positive role of religion in easing and facilitating the adaptation process. As Nancy Foner and Richard Alba have suggested, however, this is an oversimplification at best. In some instances, “[i]n contrast (…), religion is seen in Europe as the marker of a fundamental social divide. (…) The focus of scholarly commentaries on immigrant religion [in Europe] is almost exclusively on Islam.” Muslims in Europe, it has been noted, struggle to practice their religion and build up their institutions, and this has triggered conflicts (or been used as a pretext for conflicts) with long-established residents and institutions. Moreover, the incorporation of Muslims into European societies is viewed by some as very problematic.92 Looking from this perspective, the welcome enjoyed by Poles (who are EU citizens) in Belgium should be understood as something of a privilege in comparison with the response shown to Muslim immigrants. In other words, racism and Islamophobia create additional fault lines, alongside the fault lines of class, gender, and ethnicity. However, in the first half of the twentieth century, Poles were seen as mere a labor force and were not expected to integrate. Their Catholicism was perceived as an element that helped the host community exert a degree of control over them but did not bring them closer to the mainstream.

The Polish Catholic Mission at the Center of a Network of Migrant Associations and Institutions

Within the process of immigrant community building, Poles in Belgium supported Polish language ministry, raised funds to secure some form of Polish education, established and maintained publishing houses and libraries, published press materials, newsletters, and books, founded several societies,93 and in the course of time managed to have their own ethnic services: shops, workshops, counseling, medical services, gastronomy, etc.94 The list that gives names and data of many Polish immigrant institutions and societies in Belgium was compiled two decades ago and needs to be updated.95 Here, we provide the most illustrious examples of Polish structures in Belgium. The process of their establishment can be conceptualized as an attempt to achieve ethnic institutional completeness.96 However, nowhere was full “completeness” ever reached. In Belgium, there were no Polish parishes, and at the beginning, church services in Polish were irregular.

Still, in the network of Polish societies on a local level, the Church was very visible. According to detailed data provided by the rector of the PCM in 1936, after the rector’s visitation to the Polish community in Winterslag in Limburg, most of the local societies were connected to the church or directly supported by it (see the table below).97 Among the network of societies were men’s, women’s, and youth organizations, a cultural unit (church choir), and a parents’ association. All were directly controlled by the PCM. The sport units (the Falcons, the Riffle Association, the scouts) and the women’s association seemed to be independent. But the scout teams, established by Polish consulates and formally not under the control of the PCM, were actively involved in Polish church celebrations animated by the PCM.98 And the veteran society had a chaplain who cooperated with the PCM on a daily basis. In the case of the Eucharistic Crusade, it was initiated in the Polish local community by the Belgian Catholic Church and operated outside the influence of the PCM. However, it belonged to the network of Polish immigrant structures and contributed to its dynamic. Moreover, this case shows that the process of immigrant integration was advanced, and bridging social capital between the immigrant and the Belgian Church was generated.99

Table 1. Polish associations in Winterslag, (Belgian) Limburg, 1936.

Organization

Polish name

Supported by

Number of participants

Committee of Local Societies

Komitet Miejscowych Towarzystw

   

St. Adalbert Mining Society

Towarzystwo Górnicze

Św. Wojciecha

Church*

50

Polish Union

Związek Polaków

Neutral (no church affiliation)

70

Sport Society FALCONS

Towarzystwo Gimnastyczne “Sokół”

Indirect Westphalen pattern

40

Rifle Association

Związek Strzelecki

the Polish government

20–30

Church choir

Chór kościelny

Church

30

Confraternity of the Living Rosary (women’s organization)

Bractwo Żywego Różańca

Church

115

Polish Women’s Society

Towarzystwo Polek

Independent

120

Polish Parental Care

Polska Opieka Rodzicielska

Church

30

Union of Former Military

Związek Byłych Wojskowych

 

25

Scouting

Harcerstwo

the Polish government

50 + 50**

Eucharistic Crusade

Krucjata Eucharystyczna

Belgian Church organization***

20 + 20**

* Polish Catholic Mission, Roman Catholic Church

**Boys and girls

***La Croisade Eucharistique: https://fsspx.org/en/the-eucharistic-crusade

Source: Szymański, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego,” 64.

Data similar to that for Winterslag was provided following visits by the PCM rector to Polish communities in Limburg’s industrial cities: Waterschei, Zwartberg, Eysden, and Hensen.100 Moreover, Polish newspapers were received regularly from France, and one should note the impressive Polish editorial and publishing achievements in Belgium.101

Another factor particular to the Polish diaspora in Belgium relates to the working-class movement, which (both Christian oriented and secular/anticlerical) proved to be quite strong among Polish immigrants and led them to cross the ethnic boundary in their activity.102 On the other hand, it must be noted that there were Polish sections of the local trade unions, and the Polish Socialist Party (Polska Partia Socjalistyczna – PPS) was quite visible both before and after World War II.103 This means that the Poles’ participation in working-class activity was accepted in Belgium. Immigrants were welcome to launch their ethnic organizations within the broader structures, and they knew how to take advantage of these opportunities. Being active, whether in the structures of the Catholic Church or in the labor movement, Poles gradually integrated into the host society. Immigrants who joined the Belgian labor movement were simple workers, but there were some well-known figures among them. Edward Gierek worked as a teenager in the Arenberg coal mine in France, and around 1930, he joined the Polish Section of the French Communist Party, which caused him to be deported to Poland. In 1936, he arrived in Belgium, where he was employed as a coal miner in Limburg. He joined the local (Belgian) and Polish units of the labor movement. In this case, we again see a direct link between the Polish immigrant experience in France and Belgium and the advantages that knowledge of the language provided in the French-speaking regions of Belgium. After World War II, Gierek returned to Poland, and he eventually became a leading figure in the Polish United Workers Party, which gave him the highest position in the communist state (1970–1980).104 His participation in the left-wing parts of the anti-Nazi movement during World War II was probably exaggerated, since the research was done under the communist regime.105 Another key figure was Jan Kułakowski (1930–2011), a World War II refugee and graduate of the Catholic University of Leuven, who became a high-ranking official in international Christian trade unions and the International Labor Organization. Kułakowski is also an example of return migration. He settled in Poland after the fall of communism, reclaimed Polish citizenship, successfully led the process of Poland’s accession to the EU, and was elected to serve as a member of the European Parliament in 2005.106 As already noted, alongside these well-known figures were hundreds of anonymous Polish members of the labor movement who contributed significantly to the dynamics of the host society.

As shown above, Poles established a wide variety of associations and institutions in Belgium. In the late 1920s the leaders of the Polish group presented a typology of these structures: church societies, educational societies, mutual aid societies, and sports societies. At the same time, Polish consuls distinguished three types of associations: social, cultural, and sport.107 As for the labor movement, Polish leaders distinguished three branches: communist groups that were hostile to the Polish state at the time (Seraing near Liege); a radical group which questioned the role of the Church; and a Christian group which included Polish immigrants from Westphalia and the province of Poznan/Poznan. All typologies show that ethnic associations and institutions formed a very dense fabric within the immigrant communities.

After eight decades, a 2001 research report revealed information about Little Poland in Brussels. The list of the entities and activities in this community included Polish-language church services at two locations in the city, several associations, Polish language schools, choirs, small business (hairdressing, car repair shops, medical and legal services) and markets (South Market, Butchers’ Market), discos, and gastronomy.108 The religious activities (in Polish) were listed first in the report, which indicated the key role played by the Polish Catholic Mission.  

However, it should be noted that formal membership in Polish societies in Belgium is rather low. This situation is similar to the situations in other centers of the Polish diaspora, and generally it indicates a decreasing level of social capital in the modern/postmodern world.109 It is estimated that about 20 percent of immigrants are somehow involved in community life. This is probably an overestimate, since the typical level of Polish immigrants’ involvement does not exceed 10 percent.110 It is estimated that in Antwerp 14 percent of Poles belong to an immigrant organization.111 Still, migrants feel that they belong to an ethnic community. Many young Polish couples send their children to Polish schools, and they attend the events organized by the school communities. Many Polish children in Belgium attend Polish religious instruction, at least until the First Holy Communion. Whole families are eager to participate in the most important Polish holidays, such as Christmas Service and Easter ceremonies (blessing food on Good Saturday), but they avoid involvement in other activities. Moreover, ethnicity that is practiced or felt by the recent immigrants is often observed among those who do not engage much in ethnic institutions.112 Indeed, while Poles in Belgium have managed to produce high levels of bonding social capital,113 many still construct their identities outside the traditional structures of the diaspora.

Despite a certain level of social anomie, subsequent streams of Polish immigrants and geographical dispersion produced not just one but many local communities.114 These communities are comprised in part of people who belonged to various immigration streams, and they are diverse in terms of class and region of origin. Because the Polish Catholic Community operates in very traditional ways, which include reinforcing conservative gender roles,115 competing forces are gaining members, such as the Polish Section at the European Catholic Center and the Polish Orthodox Parish. However, these are religious institutions, and there is no secular body strong enough to take over the leadership of the Polish Catholic Community.

Living together and apart, over the course of the last half century, Poles in Belgium met for patriotic holidays and /or in the Millenium Center, and quite often they competed with one another. The main dividing line both before and after World War II was politics. Before the War, there was a division between groups that identified with the Roman Catholic Church on the one hand and groups that were involved in the working-class movement on the other. However, the strong position of Christian trade unions in Belgium has kept many labor activists in the Catholic Church. There was also a division between the groups that supported the Polish government after 1926 and groups that decided to remain neutral. After World War II, the division between pro-communist and anti-communist Poles was the most visible and rigid fault line. This division led to two separate celebrations in Lommel at the cemetery where Polish soldiers who died in World War II are buried.116 Admittedly, conflicts always attract attention and make headlines in the media. In other words, conflicts produce many records, which is why many researchers who examine organs of the Polish media emphasize disagreements within the Polish diaspora, both in Belgium and elsewhere.117 Daily cooperation and harmony are undervalued because they take place quietly and leave little trace.  

There is another interesting and disturbing aspect of diaspora studies. In traditional Polish historiography, the diaspora is characterized as a group that is an immanent part of the nation.118 From this perspective, researchers have focused on documenting the process of immigrant community building, highlighting the community’s successes in promoting Polish culture, and they have paid a lot of attention to outstanding individuals (Polish immigrants) with whom average immigrants wanted to identify. This is true in part simply because these outstanding individuals produced a lot of records, such as memoirs, letters, interviews, and other publications. The main sources for Polish studies on the diaspora were the files of Polish institutions and associations abroad and personal records. These files highlighted all Polish patriotic efforts in Belgium and usually contained little or no information about how Poles had integrated into the host society and culture. Therefore, the researchers’ perception of the diaspora reality was biased. Subtle indications of the integration process are often implicit, except for lamentations about members of the younger generation, which (according to these lamentations) preferred not to speak their native language (especially in public, but also with their siblings) and tried to avoid ethnic events.

The other side of the coin (the integration process) is usually overlooked by Polish researchers. However, studies on the integration of immigrants are being conducted by Belgian scholars and have yielded interesting findings. A new perspective was introduced by Idesbald Goddeeris, who noticed the interconnectedness of the political and economic causes of migration and has pushed for the de-heroization of the Polish experience in Belgium. Goddeeris later joined a group of researchers from Antwerp, and the whole group skillfully showed that Poles gradually integrated into their host society.119 Immigrants’ integration was a slow and quiet process that has been going on in daily life, e.g. children at school, adults at work, and in regular contacts with neighbors representing the host society. Such a process is usually not documented, except on rare occasions, for example celebrations of Polish religious holidays in Belgian churches (as reported sometimes by local media). However, one can examine the process by taking into consideration several key indicators of integration. These key indicators are markers and means (employment, housing, education), social connections (within an immigrant group, with the host society), factors that facilitate integration (language and cultural knowledge, safety and stability), and rights and citizenship.120

On the Polish side, we have studies on immigrant integration by Aleksandra Grzymała-Kazłowska and Kamil Bałuk. Their works are unique in the sense that both authors understand the significance of the integration process and use some indicators of integration. Grzymała-Kazłowska has analyzed Polish women’s migration experiences in liminal time of their lives, and she has found connections between “doing family” and the integration process.121 Bałuk also noted a connection between migrant family life and the integration process, and he demonstrated that members of the second generation of recent immigrants feel at home in Antwerp (where the study was conducted) and motivate their parents to stay in Belgium. The decision to stay (instead of to live as circular or short-term migrants), in turn, results in participation in language and vocational courses in Belgium, which leads immigrants to integrate into the host society.122

Conclusion 

The history of the Polish diaspora in Belgium began in the 1830s and continues to the present day. It included various migration streams and counter-streams: emigration from Poland to Belgium; return migrations from Belgium to Poland (especially after World War I and World War II); multiple migrations, such as the arrival of Poles from Germany and France to Belgium, and the emigration of Poles (mostly DPs) from Belgium to the USA, Canada, and Australia (1950–55);123 and circular migrations in recent decades. At the moment, we witness each of these phenomena at the same time. Many Poles arrive in Belgium and settle there, while others move between Poland and Belgium on a regular basis. Migrants who seemed to be well established in Belgium decide to return to Poland, while seasonal migrants prolong their stay and change their status (in documented or undocumented ways) from temporary to permanent residents. After having spent several years in Belgium, many Poles decide to move on and they go to France or Quebec. Moreover, young people born in Polish families (or mixed families) in Belgium often decide to spend a longer time in Poland, and sometimes, they stay. At the same time, Polish students at the Belgian universities often marry Belgian classmates, and the couples move between Belgium and Poland. On the top of that, the number of Poles employed in EU institutions is increasing, and many of them live their everyday lives in Brussels. Almost all Poles representing these groups are or have been in touch with the Polish Catholic Mission/Community. There is a group of people who are connected with the PCM on a regular basis, but they are a minority among the local Polish diaspora. A larger group appears typically on Polish holidays and celebrates Polish traditions of Christmas carols and Christmas meetings (sharing wafers or opłatek), Easter traditions (pisanki), Corpus Christi processions, etc.  Many Poles show up in the community when they engage in ceremonies involving rites de passage, which they want to celebrate in accordance with Polish traditions. These rites of passage include First Holy Communion, confirmation, weddings, and sometimes funerals. An even larger group has contacts with the PCM that have little to do with religious life but are related, rather, to teaching children the language or getting a job.   

Nevertheless, studying the evolution of the PCM/PCC over the century, we found evidence that this institution, which had to struggle since its early years, managed to overcome the various difficulties it encountered. It has played a leadership role in the Polish community in Belgium and has contributed to the survival of this community to the present day.

In the age of online communication, it seemed that the traditional community was obsolete and would be replaced by online groups. The experience of the Polish immigrant group in Belgium shows that these expectations were premature. The diversity of Polish groups and the central role played by the Polish Catholic Community are indisputable. The immigrant church and school in their traditional form, with buildings, meetings, and celebrations in person, are still central in the lives of many immigrants. 

The question that researchers have not asked so far is whether Poles moved within Belgium and/or the Benelux countries. It would be important to know whether Poles, if they changed their region of residence, moved between Polish communities or (what seems much more likely) whether they left their communities and settled in places where there was no ethnic infrastructure. One must consider that today it is possible to participate in many forms of ethnic activity without residing in an ethnic neighborhood. However, as shown above, traditional forms of immigrant activity, with in-person meetings and a degree of religious decorum, have proven attractive.

The history of Poles in Belgium resembles the history of Poles in other destination countries and generally resembles the history of any diaspora center. In examining this history, we have focused on general trends that are common to all large diaspora centers (founded by immigrants from different countries), as well as on the characteristics of Polish immigration to Belgium. Each migration stream and each local immigrant community has its own unique set of experiences, but common patterns can always be identified.  

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Sardinha, Joao. Immigrant associations, integration and identity: Angolan, Brazilian and Eastern European communities in Portugal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2009. doi: 10.5117/9789089640369

Stola, Dariusz. Kraj bez wyjścia? Migracje z Polski 1949–1989 [A Country with No Exit? Migrations from Poland 1949–1989]. Warsaw: IPN, ISP PAN, 2010.

Szymański, Józef. Duszpasterze Polonii i Polaków za granicą [Pastors of Polonia and Poles Abroad]. Vol. 1. Lublin: KUL, 2010.

Szymański, Józef. “Obraz duszpasterstwa polskojęzycznego w Europie na podstawie wizytacji Rektora Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Belgii” [Image of the Polish-Language Pastoral Care in Europe Based on the Visitation of the Rector of the Polish Catholic Mission in Belgium]. Archiwa, Biblioteki i Muzea Kościelne 97 (2012): 361–76.

Szymański, Józef. “Początki Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Belgii,” Roczniki Teologiczne 52, no. 4 (2005): 85–105.

Szymański, Józef. “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego w Belgii w okresie międzywojennym” [Organisational life of Polish exile in Belgium between the two world wars]. Studia Polonijne 26 (2005): 29–75.

Vancluysen, Kris, Sofie Hennau, and Johan Ackaert. Vanuit Pools perspectief—een bevraging van de Poolse gemeenschap in Antwerpen [From a Polish perspective – a survey of the Polish community in Antwerp]. Antwerpen: Steunpunt gelijkekansenbeleid, 2011.

Venken, Machteld. “Konstrukcja i recepcja pamięci zbiorowej wśród byłych żołnierzy Pierwszej Dywizji Pancernej w Belgii: Zimna wojna w praktyce” [Construction and reception of  collective memory of First Polish Division’s Ex-Combatans in Belgium: The Cold War in practices]. Przegląd Polonijny 36, no. 1 (2007): 41–62.  

Venken, Machteld. “The Communist ‘Polonia’ Society and Polish Immigrants in Belgium, 1956–90.” Inter-cultural Studies. A Forum on Social Change & Cultural Diversity 7 (2007): 25–37.

Venken, Machteld. Straddling the Iron Curtain? Immigrants, Immigrant Organisations, War Memories. Frankfurt/Main: Peter Lang, 2011.

Venken, Machteld. “Międzynarodowe i lokalne próby aktywizacji byłych żołnierzy Pierwszej Polskiej Dywizji Pancernej w Belgii w latach 1947–1970” [International and local attempts to activate former soldiers of the First Polish Armored Division in Belgium between 1947 and 1970]. Pamięć i Sprawiedliwość, no. 1 (2011): 333–51.

Walaszek, Adam, ed. Polska diaspora [Polish diaspora]. Cracow: Wydawnictwo Literackie 2001.

Yang, Fenggang, and Helen Rose Ebaugh. “Transformations in New Immigrant Religions and Their Global Implications.” American Sociological Review 66 (2001): 269–88.

Żurawski vel Grajewski, Radosław. “Wielka emigracja w Belgii (1831–1870) – wizerunek bez heroizmu” [The great emigration in Belgium, 1831–1870 – an image without heroism]. Kwartalnik Historyczny 123, no. 1 (2006): 103–24.

Websites

https://stat.gov.pl/en/topics/population/

https://bib.kuleuven.be/ebib/project-belgische-historische-tellingen/centrale-dienst-voor-de-statistiek-bevolking-algemeene-telling-op-31-december-1930-office-central-de-statistique-population-recensement-general-au-31-decembre-1930

https://bruksela.oblaci.pl/historia/ 

https://mchr.pl/index.php/missionary-sisters 

https://www.pmsz.be 

https://zhp-shpbelgia.org 

http://orthpol.be/pl/kontakt/ 

https://www.foyersekcjapolska.eu/o-nas/


1* This study was conducted under the auspices of the research project “Émigré Europe: Civil Engagement Transfers between Eastern Europe and the Low Countries 1933–1989,” which received financial support from the CELSA fund (Central Europe Leuven Strategic Alliance).
The Polish Catholic Mission changed its name in 2018 to the Polish Catholic Community.

2 Eder, Dzieje Polonii belgijskiej; Goddeeris, De Poolse migratie in België; Goddeeris, Polonia belgijska; Goddeeris, La Grande emigration polonaise; Caestecker, “Polish Migrants’ Children.”

3 Szymański, “Obraz duszpasterstwa polskojęzycznego,” 361.

4 Kuźma, “Życie codzienne imigrantów polskich”; Grzymała-Kazlowska, “Sieci społeczne i kapitał migrancki”; Leszczyńska et al., Poza granicami.

5 Szymański, “Początki Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Belgii.”

6 Sanders and Morawska, Polish-American Community Life; Bruneau, “Diasporas, transnational spaces and communities”; Boyd, “How ‘Ethnic’ Were White Ethnic Neighborhoods?”

7 Sardinha, Immigrant associations, integration and identity.

8 Breton, “Institutional Completeness of Ethnic Communities.”

9 Grzymała-Kazłowska, Rethinking settlement and integration.

10 Faist, “Diaspora and transnationalism.”

11 Putnam, Bowling Alone.

12 Ibid.

13 Halbwachs, On Collective Memory; Neils et al., “The Invention of Ethnicity.”

14 Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004,” 316.

15 Lesser, “Remaking Ethnic Studies,” 7.

16 Barth, “Introduction.”

17 Foley and Hoge, Religion and the New Immigrants; Foner and Alba, “Immigrant Religion”; Beckford, “Religions and migrations – old and new.”

18 Yang and Ebaugh, “Transformations in New Immigrant Religions,” 269.

19 Walaszek, Polska diaspora, 9.

20 Praszałowicz, “Poland.”

21 Eder, Dzieje Polonii belgijskiej; Eder, “Diaspora polska w Belgii i Holandii”; Goddeeris, De Poolse migratie in België.

22 Davies, Heart of Europe, 223.

23 Stola, Kraj bez wyjścia?

24 Grzymała-Kazłowska, “Polscy nielegalni pracownicy”; Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004.”

25 Goddeeris, Fabryka plotek; Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004,” 310.

26 Szymański, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego,” 30.

27 Szymański, “Obraz duszpasterstwa polskojęzycznego,” 372.

28 Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii.”

29 Goddeeris, Polonia belgijska w pierwszych latach, 15–26; Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii,” 12.

30 Goddeeris, Polonia belgijska w pierwszych latach; Venken, Straddling the Iron Curtain?

31 Caestecker, “Polish Migrants’ Children”; Venken, “Międzynarodowe i lokalne próby.”

32 Kulesa and Nisiobęcka, “The Migration of Poles to Belgium.”

33 Halbwachs, On Collective Memory.

34 Goddeeris, Polonia belgijska w pierwszych latach.

35 Maurycy Mochnacki cited in Gul-Rechlewicz, “Poles in Belgium,” 648.

36 Ibid., 639.

37 Panecki, Polonia w belgijskim ruchu oporu; Venken, “The Communist ‘Polonia’ Society”; Venken, Straddling the Iron Curtain?

38 Gul-Rechlewicz, “Poles in Belgium,” 639; Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii,” 7.

39 Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004,” 313; Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii,” 10–11, 15.

40 Barth, “Introduction”; Grzymała-Kazłowska, “Introduction: Rethinking integration.”

41 Szymański, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego,” 32.

42 Praszałowicz, “Polish Berlin.”

43 Szymański, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego,” 34; Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii,” 16.

44 Szymański, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego,” 32.

45 Goddeeris, Polonia belgijska w pierwszych latach, 15–26.

46 Grzymała-Kazłowska, “Polscy nielegalni pracownicy”; Bałuk, “Integracja polskich rodzin w Belgii.”

47 Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004,” 311.

48 Grzymała-Kazłowska, “Polscy nielegalni pracownicy”; Bałuk, “Integracja polskich rodzin w Belgii.”

49 Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004,” 305.

50 Leszczyńska et al., Poza granicami.

51 Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004”; Bałuk, “Integracja polskich rodzin w Belgii,” 87.

52 Walaszek, Polska diaspora.

53 Dobbelaere and Voye, “From Pillar to Postmodernity,” 2.

54 Szymański, “Początki Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Belgii.”

55 Rosowski, “Ksiądz Dr Tadeusz Kotowski,” 158.

56 Dziedzic, “Zjawisko migracji Polaków.”

57 Mraczek, “Troska o migrantów.”

58 Szymański, Duszpasterze Polonii, 72–73; Rosowski, “Ksiądz Dr Tadeusz Kotowski.”

59 Rosowski, “Ksiądz Dr Tadeusz Kotowski,” 151–53.

60 Rosowski, “Ksiądz Dr Tadeusz Kotowski”; Rosowski, “Polska Misja Katolicka”; Szymański, “Początki Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Belgii.”

61 Rosowski, “Polska Misja Katolicka,” 184.

62 Szymański, Duszpasterze Polonii, 80–81.

63 In order to avoid confusion, we use the earlier name, Polish Catholic Mission, in most of the text, especially since migrants also use it at the moment.

64 Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii,” 20–21.

65 Dobbelaere and Voye, “From Pillar to Postmodernity.”

66 2019 Report on International Religious Freedom: Belgium. https://www.state.gov/reports/2019-report-on-international-religious-freedom/ Accessed May 3, 2023.

67 Rosowski, “Ksiądz Dr Tadeusz Kotowski,” 159.

68 Ibid.

69 Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii,” 21.

70 Kuźma and Brandeleer, “The Polish Community in Belgium.”

71 Brakowiecki, “Czasopiśmiennictwo polonijne.”

72 Rosowski, “Ksiądz Dr Tadeusz Kotowski,” 160.

73 Kępa, Ocalić od zapomnienia, 384.

74 Szymański, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego,” 35.

75 Kępa, Ocalić od zapomnienia, 45.

76 Kitowska 1992, Kołodziej 1999, Kukla and Miszczuk, Harcerska działalność.

77 Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii.”

78 Bałuk, “Integracja polskich rodzin w Belgii,” 99.

79 Szymański, Duszpasterze Polonii, 86.

80 Ibid., 85–87.

81 Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii,” 20.

82 Leman, “Religions, Modulators in Pluri-Ethnic Cities”; Grzymała-Kazłowska, “Polscy nielegalni pracownicy,” 31.

83 “Obchody w Brukseli 101. rocznicy odzyskania przez Polskę niepodległości.ˮ

84 Kuźma, “Emergence d’une communaute transnationale.”

85 Bałuk, “Integracja polskich rodzin w Belgii,” 91.

86 Szymański, “Początki Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Belgii.”

87 Leszczyńska et al., Poza granicami, 78.

88 Ibid.

89 Ibid.

90 Grzymała-Kazłowska, “The Challenge of Transition.”

91 Szymański, “Początki Polskiej Misji Katolickiej w Belgii.”

92 Foner and Alba, “Immigrant Religion,” 360–61, 368–75.

93 Kępa, Ocalić od zapomnienia; Brakowiecki, “Czasopiśmiennictwo polonijne.”

94 Grzymała Kazłowska, “Polscy nielegalni pracownicy w Belgii.”

95 Kępa, Ocalić od zapomnienia.

96 Breton, “Institutional Completeness of Ethnic Communities.”

97 Szymański, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego,” 64.

98 Kitowska, “Z działalności harcerstwa”; Kołodziej, “Harcerstwo polskie”; Kukla and Miszczuk, Harcerska działalność.

99 Putnam, Bowling Alone.

100 Szymański, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego,” 65–68.

101 Kłossowski, “Polskie firmy wydawnicze i księgarskie w Belgii”; Kępa, Ocalić od zapomnienia; Brakowiecki, “Czasopiśmiennictwo polonijne.”

102 Goddeeris, De Poolse migratie in België.

103 Błażejczyk, Ludwik. Recorded interview, 2005. Archiwum Historii Mówionej. https://www.1944.pl/archiwum-historii-mowionej/ludwik-blazejczyk,412.html

104 Leszkowicz, “Edward Gierek: aparatczyk czy reformator?ˮ

105 Panecki, Polonia w belgijskim ruchu oporu.

106 Niedźwiedzki, “The contribution of former exiles to the Polish integration in Europe.”

107 Szymanski, “Życie organizacyjne wychodźstwa polskiego w Belgii,” 42-43.

108 Grzymała-Kazłowska, “Polscy nielegalni pracownicy,” 29.

109 Putnam, Bowling Alone.

110 Praszałowicz, Polacy w Berlinie.

111 Vancluysen et al., Vanuit Pools perspectief; Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004,” 316.

112 Lesser, “Remaking Ethnic Studies,” 7.

113 Putnam, Bowling Alone.

114 Goddeeris, De Poolse migratie in België, 10, 63, 68–69.

115 Leszczyńska et al., Poza granicami.

116 Venken, “The Communist ‘Polonia’ Society.”

117 Praszałowicz, “Old Neighbors in the New World”; Kula, Historia w teraźniejszości, teraźniejszość w historii.

118 Kula, Historia w teraźniejszości, teraźniejszość w historii, 124–26.

119 Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004.”

120 Ager and Strang, “Understanding Integration,” 170.

121 Grzymała-Kazłowska, “The Challenge of Transition”; Grzymała-Kazłowska, “Introduction: Rethinking integration.”

122 Levrau et al., “Polish Immigration in Belgium since 2004”; Bałuk, “Integracja polskich rodzin w Belgii.”

123 Dzwonkowski, “Polacy w Belgii,” 10.

2024_1_Maléth

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“Pro arduis negociis destinandum” – Papal Delegates and the Neapolitan Succession (1328–1352)

Ágnes Maléth
University of Szeged
This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Hungarian Historical Review Volume 13 Issue 1  (2024): 18–38 DOI DOI 10.38145/2024.1.18

The Neapolitan succession was one of the most problematic issues of Hungarian foreign policy in the Angevin period. As has been emphasized in the secondary literature, the Holy See, especially Pope John XXII (1316–1334) and Clement VI (1342–1352), played an active role in the negotiations between the Hungarian and the Neapolitan crowns. The diplomatic mediation of the papal court was carried out mainly by papal delegates with different types of authorizations. The primary aim of the present paper is to examine the details of these commissions and reveal who the clerics appointed by the Holy See to handle this delicate diplomatic matter were, what title they were given for the time of their delegations, and most importantly, what the outcomes of their commissions were. The paper focuses on the time when the papacy was most actively involved in the diplomatic events concerning the Neapolitan succession, namely from the death of Charles, duke of Calabria, the sole heir of Robert, king of Naples (1328), until the agreement of Joanna I and Louis I in 1352.

Keywords: Avignon papacy, Kingdom of Naples, Kingdom of Hungary, succession, papal delegates, papal diplomacy

The Neapolitan succession has often been considered as the leitmotif of the foreign policy of Charles I of Hungary (1301–1342).2 As the firstborn son of Charles Martell, eldest son of Charles II (1285–1309), he had the strongest claim for the Neapolitan throne, yet his family seemed determined to exclude him from the lineage after the sudden death of his father in 1295. Following the renunciation of Louis, bishop of Toulouse, the rights of the firstborn son were assumed by Charles II’s third son, Robert. Moreover, the king’s will in 1309 named Philip of Taranto and his descendants as heirs in the event of Robert’s decease without issue. However upsetting these measures were for the Hungarian king, no diplomatic effort could alter the situation,3 and the question seemed settled until the death of Robert’s son, Charles, the duke of Calabria, in 1328. This unexpected event, nevertheless, opened a new chapter in the negotiations between the Neapolitan and the Hungarian Angevins, which culminated in the double marriage treaty of 1333, then began to fray with the assassination of Prince Andrew in 1345 and eventually ended with Louis I’s and Joan I’s agreement in 1352.4

However, not only the different branches of the Angevin dynasty (of Hungary, Taranto, Durazzo) were keenly interested in the fate of the Neapolitan crown. The issue bore similar importance for another European political power, namely the Holy See, for several different reasons. First of all, the Kingdom of Naples had been a papal fief since the accession of Charles I in 1266. The Neapolitan rulers were approved by the popes and swore an oath of allegiance to the Holy See. Consequently, the Kingdom of Naples became the strongest natural ally of the pontiffs on the Peninsula and played a strategic role in the Italian policy of the papacy as leader of the Guelf factions.5 The weakening of the royal power in Naples could seriously affect the Holy See’s position and its military activity for the stabilization of the Papal States, thus, Charles II’s decision on the new order of succession in 1296 did not meet any objection from Pope Boniface VIII, quite the contrary, the pope confirmed it swiftly in a papal bull in the beginning of the next year.6

It is not surprising therefore that the Papal Curia closely followed the negotiations on the Neapolitan succession and sought to be represented whenever the different branches of the Angevin dynasty met. Although such diplomatic events have always attracted the attention of historians, it is still largely unknown how the relations were formed and maintained, especially in the fourteenth century, an era that preceded the professionalization of diplomatic practices and in which occasional and time-limited commissions prevailed. For two decades, historians have recognized how important part the subjective factors (individual skills, interpersonal networks etc.) played in the negotiations and have emphasized the need to pay more attention in the study of diplomacy to the actors themselves and the processes started from “below” (new diplomatic history). To achieve such a change of perspective, the lives and careers of the people charged with diplomatic tasks have to be put in the focus of examination. Biographies, prosopographical case studies, and the history of institutions are the historiographical genres best suited to reveal such data.7

If we adopt the approach of new diplomatic history and consider the importance of the Neapolitan issue, we might well expect to discover that the Holy See paid particular attention to the selection of its envoys. However, the process of the selection is still largely unknown. Were there any consistently applied criteria or at least some common features in the careers of these papal representatives that could predict their future roles in papal diplomacy? Studies on medieval royal diplomacy showed that one institution of the royal court played a pivotal role in the formation of diplomatic personnel: the chancellery.8 Is it possible to identify such an institution leading the diplomacy in the papal court? As the Roman Curia influenced secular institutions in many ways (e.g., administration, the chancellery, legal practices, representation, and rituals), an analysis of papal diplomacy can contribute to the understanding of the development of diplomatic practices.

The primary aim of the present paper, therefore, is to examine who the Holy See appointed to handle the Neapolitan succession and how these clerics were chosen for the diplomatic commissions through an analysis of their backgrounds and career.9

General Remarks on the Commissions

As the forms of papal representation had become highly diversified by the fourteenth century, and the different titles gave the representatives different extent of authority, a brief review of the forms of delegation seems necessary. In the examined source material, two types of delegation are dominant: legatus and Apostolice Sedis nuntius. The former, legatus, and especially its “a/de latere” version can be considered the most comprehensive way of papal delegation. These papal representatives were given full authority inside the territory of their mandate, acting as the alter ego or substitute of the pope generally in all kinds of issues, even in the ones normally reserved for the pontiff.10 The nuntius, on the other hand, had more restricted powers concentrated mostly on one specific task, while the geographical dimensions of the delegation were barely defined.11 The nature of the nuncio’s commission, which had never been completely established by canon law, enabled the popes to modify the original mandate posteriorly, extending the jurisdiction as necessity dictated in specifically issued papal letters.12

The fact that most of the delegates were commissioned in the last seven of the twenty-four years under discussion (i.e., between 1345 and 1352)13 shows how drastically the assassination of Prince Andrew upset the political relations of the parties concerned. Of the fourteen papal delegates commissioned to handle the Neapolitan succession between 1328 and 1352, four were entitled legates.14 Three of them were sent to the Neapolitan Kingdom or, more generally, to Italy (Aymery de Châtelus,15 Bertrand de Déaulx,16 Annibaldo Caetani di Ceccano17), while only one legate (Gui de Boulogne18) had authorization in the Kingdom of Hungary (and other territories) as well.19 The most complex title was given to Aymery (Aymeric) de Châtelus, cardinal-priest of Ss. Silvester et Martinus,20 as he was not only a legate but also “vicarius, baiulus21 et administrator et gubernator generalis regni Siciliae.”22 This designation was meant to emphasize what already had been declared by a papal bull in November 1343: King Robert did not have the right to appoint governors or administrators until Joan I reached the age of majority because the pope, as overlord, was to decide on the administration of the kingdom. The papal representative, therefore, had complete authority not only in spiritual but also in temporal (secular) government.23

Two of the papal delegates were not given any specific titles. The first was Bertrand de Saint-Geniès, who was sent to Naples in 1333 to participate in the meeting of Charles I of Hungary and King Robert of Naples (among other tasks). The papal letters referred to him with his ecclesiastical offices: dean of Angoulême, papal chaplain, and auditor of the papal palace.24 The second was Bertrand (III) de Baux, the only lay person among the delegates, addressed by the Apostolic Chancellery by his secular titles (namely count of Andria and Montescaglioso).25 Otherwise, the rest of the delegates (including Bertrand de Saint-Geniès in 134626) were entitled nuntius sedis Apostolice. It must be underlined that the title “legate” was conferred in the examined source material in all cases to cardinals, and no cardinals were sent as nuncios.27 Nuncios handling the Neapolitan issue were patriarchs, bishops, or clerics of lower ecclesiastical offices.28

However, the complexity of the circumstances thwarted some delegations. Gui de Boulogne, for example, was supposed to replace Cardinal Pierre Bertrand at the end of 1345 and join Bertrand de Déaulx on his legation to Naples. We do not know why this never actually happened, but it is suspected that Gui de Boulogne refused to go to Naples due to the political intrigues at the papal court.29 It is also likely that, despite being officially commissioned, Peter, bishop of Verona,30 and John of Pistoia (Johannes de Pistoria)31 did not set off for their missions in 1348 due to the plague. Bertrand de Déaulx’s journey also started difficult, as his departure was delayed until August 1346, probably because of the cardinal’s weak health.32

As mentioned already, most of the delegates were commissioned to the Kingdom of Naples or, more generally, to Italy. There were presumably several reasons for this, including the vassal-liege relation of the popes and the Neapolitan kings, the Holy See’s Italian policy and its political spheres of influence, and the need for direct intervention, but the nearly two-year period that King Louis I spent in Italy during his military campaigns (spring 1347–spring 1348 and spring–winter 1350) was almost certainly also a factor, as it led to some of the papal delegates being instructed to meet the Hungarian king in Italy. The sources contain data on only four delegates who visited the Hungarian Kingdom: Francis of Amelia, bishop of Trieste (April–May 1346),33 Ildebrandino Conti, bishop of Padua with Cardinal Gui de Boulogne (spring 1349), and Petrus Begonis (summer 1351).34 The charters claiming the payments for the delegates’ procuration enable us to estimate how long time they spent in the Hungarian Kingdom: Francis of Amelia 27 days,35 Gui de Boulogne approximately one and a half to two weeks, predominantly in Pozsony/Pressburg/Bratislava36 which is supported by the fact that Ildebrandino Conti demanded from the Hungarian prelates the payment of procuration for twelve days.37 In Petrus Begonis’ case, the dates are vaguer, as he was commissioned at the beginning of August and had returned to Avignon by December.38 These delegations to the territory of the kingdom also show how important the role played by Elisabeth, the dowager queen,39 in the diplomatic relations with the Holy See was, as some of the delegates were commissioned to negotiate directly with her.40

Prosopographic Analysis of the Delegates

The findings of the comparative analysis of the delegates’ lifepaths and careers are consistent with Bernard Guillemain’s conclusions established in connection with the Avignon Curia.41 If the composition of the papal court is considered from the perspective of the origins of the curialists, the high percentage of clerics of Italian or French42 descent is apparent. These results are perfectly reflected by the papal representatives examined in this paper, as most of the delegates (eight) came originally from the territory of present-day France: Bertrand de Saint-Geniès from Quercy,43 Aymery de Châtelus and Guillaume Lamy from Limousin,44 Bertrand de Déaulx from Gard,45 Gui de Boulogne from Auvergne,46 Petrus Begonis from Languedoc,47 and Raymond Saquet from Foix.48 Guillaume de Rosières, bishop of Monte Cassino, is also believed to have come from the south of France.49 Five of the papal representatives were of Italian origin: Annibaldo Ceccano, Francis of Amelia, Ildebrandino Conti (Segni), John of Pistoia, and Peter Pin.50 Bertrand de Baux came from an Italianized French family. His ancestors participated in the conquest of Naples with Charles I, and since then, members of the family had been holding offices in the royal court.51 Furthermore, as noted above, Bertrand de Baux was the only lay person who was officially commissioned by the pope in connection with the Neapolitan succession.

Considering the careers of the delegates, the strong correlation of two factors becomes obvious, namely education52 and function at the Curia. Most of the delegates (eight) were qualified in law.53 Legal knowledge opened the path to several opportunities at the papal court, including to the office which required the highest level of juristic expertise: auditor of the papal palace.54 The college of the auditors, which consisted of ten–thirteen clerics in the fourteenth century with a relatively short office time (at most five years in general),55 worked in the closest proximity to the popes and were often charged with diplomatic tasks in Western Europe and Italy,56 presumably because of their knowledge of and experience with managing conflicts. Although auditors always bore the title of papal chaplain, being an auditor was not a precondition for becoming a member of the papal chapel. In fact, three of the papal chaplains in the research sample never worked as auditors: Gui de Boulogne, John of Pistoia,57 and Petrus Begonis. Like the auditors, papal chaplains had an important role in the diplomacy of the Holy See, which could also be explained with their position inside the papal court.58

As far as the education of other delegates is concerned, cardinal Annibaldo Caetani di Ceccano was a professor of theology,59 and Gui de Boulogne is believed to have attended the studium generale.60 We know little about the educational backgrounds of the other four delegates. The sample on which this discussion is based suggests that even in the case of the cardinals, education was an important factor in being selected for diplomatic service, at least surely in a delicate political matter such as the Neapolitan succession.

As the examples above show, many of the delegates started their careers by playing functions at the papal court (auditor, papal chaplain, or both). The rest held various ecclesiastical benefices before their commissions. However, by the time they were charged with diplomatic tasks connected to the Neapolitan succession, with the exception of Bertrand de Saint-Geniès in 1333, Petrus Begonis, John of Pistoia, and obviously Bertrand de Baux, all of them belonged to the high clergy. Among the fourteen delegates (and fifteen delegations, counting Bertrand de Saint-Geniès twice), six were bishops, four were cardinals, and one was a patriarch.61

The careers of the delegates continued to progress after their commissions, but it would be difficult to assess how strongly their diplomatic activity influenced their advancement. Some of them were promoted almost immediately after having fulfilled their diplomatic engagements. Guillaume Lamy became patriarch of Jerusalem and administrator of Fréjus in 1349,62 Bertrand de Déaulx cardinal-bishop of S. Sabina in 1348,63 and Gui de Boulogne cardinal-bishop of Porto (1350–1373).64 Others reached the peak of their careers a couple of years later. Guillaume de Rosières was appointed bishop of Tarbes (1353–1361),65 Raymond Saquet archbishop of Lyon (1356–1358),66 and Petrus Begonis archdeacon of Condroz (1370–1385).67 However, six of the delegates died during or not long after their commissions, before the agreement was concluded between Louis I and Joan I: Francis of Amelia in 1346,68 Bertrand de Baux in 1347,69 Aymery of Châtelus in 1349,70 Bertrand de Saint-Geniès in 1350,71 Annibaldo di Ceccano in 1350,72 and Ildebrandino Conti in 1352.73

Nevertheless, an important aim of the analysis is to unravel the less obvious connections among the delegates (inside the papal court and among one another),74 as these connections offer insights into the process of selecting delegates for specific tasks. The secondary literature has emphasized the importance of personal networks and the nepotistic character of the Avignon Curia.75 Indeed, two of the cardinals, Gui de Boulogne and Annibaldo di Ceccano, had extensive family connections that ensured them influential positions under the reign of any pope, while the bright careers of Aymery de Châtelus and Bertrand de Déaulx were mostly attributed to their knowledge, skills, and experience in ecclesiastical government.76 The data confirms, furthermore, the clerics’ high degree of mobility inside the Curia. Not only did the curialists spend a relatively short time in one function, as already mentioned above in connection with auditors, before being promoted to other offices, they also frequently moved from familia to familia, from a cardinal’s to the pope’s.77 Bertrand de Saint-Geniès, for example, was related to one of the confidants of John XXII, Cardinal Bertrand de Montfavès, and this helped him obtain the offices of papal chaplain (1318) and auditor of the papal palace (1321) approximately at the same time when Aymery de Châtelus and Bertrand de Déaulx were members of the same colleges.78 Francis of Amelia had been a familiar of Annibaldo di Ceccano,79 and Petrus Begonis was a chaplain and commensalis familiaris of Guillaume de la Jugie before committing himself fully to papal service.80 Raymond Saquet, on the other hand, was a respected jurist who had worked for Philipp VI of France.81 In the case of the delegates, the rotation of the same people in certain offices can be also observed: the best example would be Guillaume Lamy, who followed Aymery de Châtelus in the bishopric of Chartres in 1342,82 and Peter Pin in the administration of Fréjus in 1349.83

Another important factor was local knowledge, meaning how familiar the delegates were with the territory of their commission and its ecclesiastical, political, social, and cultural characteristics. Some of these connections are obvious. Bertrand de Baux was a member of the royal court in Naples when the pope entrusted him with the investigation of Prince Andrew’s murder. Annibaldo di Ceccano had served as archbishop of Naples, although only for a short time (1326–1327), and Guillaume de Rosières as archbishop of Trani (1343), then as archbishop of Brindisi (1344)84 worked as a papal tax collector in the Kingdom of Naples from 1343.85 Petrus Begonis had been in the Hungarian Kingdom several times as procurator of Guillaume de la Jugie’s ecclesiastical benefices before his delegation as a papal nuncio in 1351.86 Bertrand de Saint-Geniès was considered an advocate of Louis I, as his political interests as patriarch of Aquileia put him on the side of the Hungarian king in his conflict with Venice.87 Even Bertrand de Déaulx must have had some indirect knowledge about Hungary before he was to meet Louis I in Italy, as he had held the provostry of Várad/Oradea and was appointed cardinal promotor of the bishopric in 1346.88

The last aspect of the analysis is to examine how experience in diplomatic matters influenced the selection of the delegates. Based on the present research sample, it can be stated that previous participation in diplomatic negotiations assuredly increased the probability of future commissions. Bertrand de Déaulx, Aymery de Châtelus, Annibaldo di Ceccano, and Bertrand de Saint-Geniès had all been delegated to handle some of the most pressing political issues of the period even before they became involved in the Neapolitan succession: the Anglo-French conflict, the Papal States, or both.89 Furthermore, some of the nuncios had already been entrusted with important diplomatic tasks. Raymond Saquet had replaced Henry of Asti, patriarch of Constantinople, in the crusade plans in 1345,90 and Guillaume Lamy (then bishop of Apt) had mediated as a papal nuncio between the French and the English before the truce of Malestroit.91 Nevertheless, for some of the delegates on the list, the commission connected to the Kingdom of Naples was their first significant diplomatic assignment. Gui de Boulogne participated mainly in judicial cases and issues of ecclesiastical government (resignations and appointments of prelates, etc.) in the papal Curia during the first six years of his cardinalate.92 Ildebrandino Conti was mentioned mainly as executor of beneficial cases93 before his complex authorization to mediate between Queen Joan I and Genova to settle the issue of Ventimiglia and organize the custody of Charles Martel, the infant son of Joan I and Andrew.94 Similarly, Francis of Amelia was entrusted with beneficial cases and the execution of some sentences passed in the papal court,95 while Petrus Begonis’ missions on behalf of Cardinal de la Jugie have been mentioned above.96

Conclusions

The prosopographic data on the papal representatives who were commissioned to handle diplomatic tasks connected to the Neapolitan succession between 1328 and 1352 support the findings of some earlier research. For the most part, the delegates were clerics of southern French or Italian origin with an education in law. Legal qualifications opened the path to the Curia, and by holding functions at the papal court (auditor) and in the familia of the pope or of a cardinal (chaplain), the clerics obtained the opportunity to prove their skills and expertise. The high number of papal chaplains in the sample underlines the importance of the papal chapel in the formation of diplomatic personnel of the Holy See. This suggests that the papal chapel can be considered an equivalent of the royal chancellery in the case of diplomatic practices. Personal networks facilitated advancement and created mobility inside the Curia. Experience in diplomacy and/or generally participation in administration or ecclesiastical government at the papal court could be considered as preliminaries to diplomatic assignments. The last factor which must have created advantages for certain clerics was their knowledge of the local political and ecclesiastical environment of the territory of the commission. Some of the delegates were highly influential members of the papal court (Aymery de Châtelus, Bertrand de Déaulx, Gui de Boulogne, and Annibaldo Caetani di Ceccano) who were commissioned with the title legate and were entrusted with various diplomatic tasks, while the others (the majority) were sent as nuncios with less complex responsibilities.

Archival Sources

Archivio Apostolico Vaticano, Vatican City

Registra Vaticana (AAV Reg. Vat.)

Camera Apostolica, Introitus et Exitus (AAV Cam. Ap., Intr. et Ex.)

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára [Hungarian National Archives], Budapest

Collection of Photographic Reproduction of the Medieval Charters (MNL OL DF)

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1* The present paper is based on research supported by the János Bolyai Research Scholarship
of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences.
Salvus conductus of Francis of Amelia, bishop of Trieste. (December 4, 1345) AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 139, fol. 305v, ep. 1342.

2 Bertényi, Magyarország az Anjouk korában, 88.

3 Before the agreement on the double marriage was concluded in 1333, Charles I of Hungary tried to claim at least some part of his inheritance. In 1317, he asked his brother-in-law, John II, dauphin of Vienne, to represent his interests in this question. February 22, 1317: Fejér, Codex diplomaticus, vol. 8/2, 41–42; Fraknói, Magyarország egyházi és politikai összeköttetései a római Szent-székkel, 151–52. In 1331, Charles I appealed to the pope to convince King Robert to renounce the titles of the principality of Salerno and the lordship of Monte Sant’Angelo. January 26, 1331: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 116, fol. 120v, ep. 441, Fejér, Codex diplomaticus, vol. 8/3, 538–39; Lucherini, “The Journey of Charles I, King of Hungary, from Visegrád to Naples (1333), 343. Éva Teiszler points out that Charles I consistently used the title of prince of Salerno in the intitulatio of his charters since 1323. Teiszler, “I. Lajos nápolyi trónigénye a diplomácia tükrében,” 63.

4 The Neapolitan-Hungarian relationship in the fourteenth century has been in the focus of the attention of historical research since the early twentieth century. See Miskolczy, “András herceg tragédiája és a nápolyi udvar,” 766–800, 869–87; Léonard, Les Angevins de Naples, 196–99, 204–7; Kiesewetter, “Giovanna I d’Angiò, regina di Sicilia”; Csukovits, Az Anjouk Magyarországon: I. Károly és uralkodása, 131–33; Csukovits, Az Anjouk Magyarországon: I. (Nagy) Lajos és Mária uralma, 48; Szende, “Le rôle d’Elisabeth Piast dans la diplomatie de Hongrie,” 225–34; Lucherini, “The Journey of Charles I, King of Hungary, from Visegrád to Naples (1333)”; Teiszler, I. Lajos nápolyi trónigénye, 63–69; Lucherini, “La rinuncia di Ludovico d’Angiò al trono e il problema della successione nei regni di Napoli e d’Ungheria.”

5 Housley, The Italian Crusades; Abulafia, “The Italian South.”

6 February 24, 1297: Fejér, Codex diplomaticus, vol. 6/2, 59

7 Watkins, “Toward a New Diplomatic History of Medieval and Early Modern Europe”; Fletcher, Diplomacy in Renaissance Rome, 6.

8 Pichiorri “Les relations de l’empereur Charles IV avec la papauté et l’Italie: le recrutement du personnel diplomatique et son évolution (1346–1378),” 168–69.

9 The present paper focuses on the delegates for whom papal letters of delegation were issued, whether their missions were fulfilled or not. However, I did not include in the research clerics (or laymen) that the pope planned to commission but for whom no official letters of commission were issued, much as I also did not include the cardinals who handled the Neapolitan succession at the papal court. It also has to be clarified that the present paper uses the term papal “delegate”—similarly to the prosopographical project DelegatOnline—as a synonym for a papal representative to whom a certain degree of authority was delegated; as an umbrella term for all types of commissions (more or less) defined by canon law and/or mentioned by contemporary sources (legate, nuncio, judge-delegate, conservator, administrator, executor, etc.).

10 Kyer, “The Papal Legate,” 37–66; Kalous, Late medieval papal legation, 19–38.

11 As Kyer puts it, “The key difference between legates and nuncios was in the nature of their commission: the legate was given a general mandate in a specific area; the nuncio was given a specific mandate which might take him to many areas.” Kyer, “The Papal Legate,” 44.

12 These special, ad hoc conferred powers described in papal letters are called facultas. Kalous, Late medieval papal legation, 69; Maléth, A Magyar Királyság és a Szentszék kapcsolata, 58.

13 Only three papal representatives were commissioned in the period between 1328 and the assassination of Prince Andrew. See Table 1, no. 1–3.

14 Table 1, no. 2, 7, 11, 12.

15 January 23, 1344: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 161, fol. 3r, ep. 16, AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 215, fol. 4v.

16 March 15, 1346: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 169, fol. 17, ep. 1, AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 217, fol. 30.

17 May 24, 1350: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 144, fol. 4v, Vetera monumenta, no. 1194.

18 The letter of delegation and the facultates for Gui de Boulogne were issued on November 30, 1348. AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 187, fol. 19, ep. 93. For the more than 70 documents specifying his authority, see Maléth, “Gui de Boulogne magyarországi legációja,” Table 1.

19 Kyer’s list shows that Clement VI delegated nine papal legates during his pontificate. Kyer, “The Papal Legate,” 231–32. Four out of nine had authorization to handle some aspect of the Neapolitan succession as well.

20 The basilica is also known as S. Martinus in montibus. Aymery de Châlus was its cardinal-priest from 1342 until his death in October 1349. Eubel, Hierarchia catholica medii aevi, 47.

21 This title was translated by Vilmos Fraknói as “gyám” (guardian). Fraknói, Magyarország egyházi és politikai összeköttetései, 178.

22 January 23, 1344: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 161, fol. 3r, ep. 16, AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 215, fol. 4v.

23 28 November 1343: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 157, fol. 11–12, ep. 43–44 ; Clément VI (1342–1352). Lettres closes, patentes et curiales intéressantes les pays autres que la France, vol. 1, no. 330–331.

24 Although the letters of delegation of Bertrand de Déaulx in 1333 were not preserved, the receipt of the sums paid to him by the Apostolic Chamber clearly specify that he had to negotiate with the Hungarian and Neapolitan kings. AAV Instr. Misc. 1262. The pope informed Charles I about Déaulx’s commission on August 25, 1333: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 117, fol. 5r (MNL OL DF 291675). Déaulx also obtained some graces which can be interpreted as preparation for a difficult journey: choosing his confessor freely and making a will. AAV Reg. Aven. vol. 337, fol. 580, AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 105, ep. 904; AAV Reg. Aven. vol. 44, fol. 642, AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 105, ep. 1280.

25 Bertrand de Baux was commissioned to lead the investigation into the assassination of Prince Andrew. For the papal letter of the delegation dated to June 3, 1346, see: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 140, fol. 20v, ep. 48, Wenzel, Magyar diplomácziai emlékek az Anjou-korból, 164–66 (no. 162).

26 January 9, 1346: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 139, fol. 183v, ep. 782 (MNL OL DF 291833).

27 Antonín Kalous emphasizes that, with the growing number of the commissions of nuncios, it became more and more common for cardinals to be dispatched as nuncios as well. The reasons for this trend were primarily financial: the cardinals commissioned as legates had to relinquish their share of the different incomes in the Curia for the time of their legation. Kalous, Late medieval papal legation, 25.

28 The example of Bertrand de Saint-Geniès, dean of Angoulême, was already mentioned above. John of Pistoia (Johannes de Pistoria) was dean of St. Salvator in Utrecht at the time of his commission, while Petrus Begonis was sent to the Hungarian Kingdom as papal nuncio in 1351, and his highest office was chancellor of the church of Wrocław.

29 Also in 1349, when Gui de Boulogne was delegated to the Kingdom of Hungary as papal legate, he spent only two weeks in the country and probably only a couple of days negotiating with Louis I. However, his name is recurringly mentioned in the sources as one of the counselors of Clement VI in connection with Naples. Jugie, “Le cardinal Gui de Boulogne (1316–1373),” 124–31; Maléth, “Gui de Boulogne magyarországi legációja,” 175–99.

30 His securus conductus was issued with the date May 13, 1348: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 141, fol. 279, ep. 1416, AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 244k, fol. 90, ep. 179. Clement VI announced Peter’s delegation to Louis I in July when Peter had already been transferred from the bishopric of Viterbo to Verona. AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 142, fol. 26, ep. 97. The same papal letter contains the information that the original candidate for this commission was Peter’s predecessor in the bishopric of Verona, Matteo Ribaldi, but Ribaldi died of the plague while preparing for the journey.

31 March 14, 1348: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 141, fol. 221r-v, ep. 1181; Vetera monumenta, no. 1137; Clément VI (1342–1352): Lettres closes, patentes et curiales se rapportant à la France, vol. 2, no. 3773; March 19, 1348: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 141, fol. 224v–225v, ep. 1199–1209, Clément VI (1342–1352). Lettres intéressantes les pays autres que la France, vol. 1, 1606–1607.

32 Partner, “Bertrando di Deux.”

33 For his securus conductus and daily allowance see (December 4, 1345) AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 139, fol. 305v, ep. 1342.

34 For the letter of delegation dated August 5, 1351, see AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 145, fol. 35, 36, 44v, 49r−v, 95r, ep. 288b, AAV Instr. Misc. 1914.

35 MNL OL DF 248985, 236354, 237246; Monumenta ecclesiae Strigoniensis, vol. 3, no. 797, 798.

36 Maléth, “Gui de Boulogne magyarországi itineráriuma.”

37 MNL OL DF 248986, Monumenta ecclesiae Strigoniensis, vol. 3, no. 938. Historians have assumed previously that Ildebrandino Conti stayed in the Hungarian Kingdom longer than Cardinal Gui de Boulogne, mainly based on the documents issued by the bishop in September 1349 (among them the one cited above). However, there is no proof of Conti’s activity in Hungary between the end of June and September 1349. Gui de Boulogne traveled from his meeting with Louis I in Pozsony to Vienna, spent some time in Klosterneuburg and Znojmo, and finally left for Rome through Freisach in October 1349. It is possible that Conti accompanied the cardinal and later returned to Hungary to collect the procurations. For the detailed itinerary of the cardinal-legate, see Maléth, “Gui de Boulogne magyarországi legációja,” 194–99.

38 Maléth, “Curialists and Hungarian Church Benefices in the 14th Century: The Example of Petrus Begonis.”

39 Elizabeth Łokietek, daughter of the Polish ruler Władisław the Elbow-High married Charles I of Hungary in 1320. In addition to her pious activity and influence on the church (ecclesiastical donations, foundations etc.), she played an active part in diplomatic relations during the reigns of Charles I and Louis I. Szende, “Le rôle d’Elisabeth Piast,” 225–34.

40 For instance, see the letters of delegation issued with the date March 14, 1348 for John of Pistoia, cited in note 32.

41 Guillemain, La cour pontificale.

42 Guillemain highlighted the high percentage of the curialists who came originally from southern France (le Midi). Guillemain, La cour pontificale, appendix, maps 7–8. For the nationalities represented in the papal Avignon, see Hayez, “Nations et nationalités dans l’Avignon pontifical.”

43 Mollat, “Saint-Geniès, Bertrand de”; Tilatti, “Saint-Geniès, Bertrand de”; Tournier, Le bienheureux Bertrand de Saint-Geniès, 213–27.

44 Uzureau, “Aimeric de Chalus”; Leclerc, Généalogie de la famille Lamy de La Chapelle, 1–10.

45 Partner, “Bertrando di Deux”; Mollat, “Bertrand de Déaulx.”

46 Jugie, “Le cardinal Gui de Boulogne,”50–75.

47 AAV Reg. Suppl. vol. 17, fol. 216r.

48 Caillet, La papauté d’Avignon et l’Église de France, 310, no. 81, 312.

49 Laurent, “Guillaume des Rosières et la Bibliothèque pontificale”; Laurent-Bonne, “Notes sur deux canonistes méridionaux du XIVe siècle.”

50 The identification of the latter, Peter Pin is somewhat difficult. The short office time of prelates with similar names and the inconsistencies in the documentation during the plague caused confusion which led historians to believe that Peter Pin was Peter (Dupin), bishop of Viterbo (Dec. 1348–Nov. 1350) who later became archbishop of Benevento (1350–1360). However, the records of the Camera Apostolica on the payments of servitium make it clear that Peter Pin ended his career as bishop of Périgeux. Mohler, Die Einnahmen der Apostolischen Kammer, 207, 259, 268, 271, 283, 323, 634, 636. Based on the cameral data, it seems that Eubel determined the correct succession of the bishops of Viterbo. Eubel, Hierarchia catholica, 133, 252, 533. For a description of Peter Pin’s career (with incorrect data), see Gallia christiana novissima, 367–68; Ughelli, Italia sacra, 149–50.

51 Göbbels, “Del Balzo, Bertrando.”

52 The importance of education in the Avignon period can be illustrated by the fact that many of the cardinals finished university studies and had the title of licentiate or doctorship (66 out of 134 cardinals). Guillemain, La cour pontificale, 217–18.

53 Table 1, no. 1–4, 6, 7, 13, 14, and the biographical works cited above. Jacques Verger pointed out how frequent legal qualification became by the time of the Avignon period. He estimated that 70 percent of the cardinals in the Avignonese Curia were jurists. What is more, 85 percent of those curialists who had studied at universities and belonged to the familia of the Limousin cardinals had also legal qualifications. For obvious reasons, education in canon law was the most common, but civil law and both laws were quite popular as well. Verger, “Études et culture universitaire du personnel de la curie avignonnaise,” 70–72.

54 Table 1, no. 1–4, 7.

55 Verger, “Études et culture universitaire,” 70.

56 Guillemain, La cour pontifical, 347–54. Herde, Audientia litterarum contradictarum.

57 There is a Johannes de Pistorio mentioned as registrator petitionum between 1342 and 1346 in the Introitus et Exitus books of the Apostolic Chamber, however, as the name was quite common, we cannot identify the registrator with the future nuncio with absolute certainty. Schäfer, Die Ausgaben der apostolischen Kammer, 202, 234, 289.

58 Barabás, “Clerics of the Papal Curia and the Realm of Saint Stephen in the Fourteenth Century.”

59 Guillemain, “Caetani, Annibaldo.”

60 Jugie, “Le cardinal Gui de Boulogne,” vol. 1, 77−78, 79−80.

61 See the bishops in Table 1, no. 3–6, 10, 13, for cardinals no. 2, 7, 11, 12, and for the patriarch no. 1.

62 Eubel, Hierarchia catholica, vol. 1, 252, 276.

63 Mollat, “Bertrand de Déaulx,” 396.

64 Jugie,“Le cardinal Gui de Boulogne,” 1, 173–75.

65 Laurent-Bonne, “Notes sur deux canonistes,” 368.

66 Beyssac, “Raymond Saquet, archevêque de Lyon (1356–1358).” There was another delegate who held the archbishopric of Lyon for some time as well: Gui de Boulogne between 1340 and 1342. Eubel, Hierarchia catholica, vol. 1, 316.

67 AAV Reg. Aven. vol. 172, fol. 229.

68 The exact date of the death of Francis of Amelia is unknown, but it is estimated to September 1346, as his successor in the bishopric of Gubbio was appointed at the beginning of October. Eubel, Hierarchia catholica, vol. 1, 242.

69 Göbbels, “Del Balzo, Bertrando.”

70 Uzureau, “Aimeric de Chalus,” 1174−76.

71 Tilatti, “Saint-Geniès, Bertrand de” ; Tournier, Le bienheureux Bertrand de Saint-Geniès, 213–27.

72 Guillemain, “Caetani, Annibaldo.” On the suspicious circumstances of the cardinal’s death, see Beattie, Angelus pacis, 193–94.

73 Eubel, Hierarchia catholica, vol. 1, 386.

74 Although historians rarely use network analysis in medieval studies, the Avignon Curia could be an interesting case study.

75 As shown by Jacques Bernard, “Le népotisme de Clément V et ses complaisances pour la Gascogne.” However, it has been already emphasized that nepotism was already a common practice of the Roman popes before the Avignon period. Theis, “Les progrès de la centralisation romaine au siècle de la papauté avignonnaise (1305–1378),” 33–43.

76 A papal letter from 1316 mentions Bertrand de Déaulx as a nepos of Guillaume (de Mandagout), cardinal-bishop of Palestrina, previous archbishop of Embrun, the diocese where Déaulx obtained his first benefices. Déaulx was also a compatriot (and probably a relative of) Clement VI. AAV Reg. Aven. vol. 3, fol. 439r, AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 63, ep. 815, Guillemain, La cour pontificale, 210, 214; Capasso, “Châtelus, Aimeric de.”

77 Jacques Verger’s examination of the education of the Curia’s personnel also confirmed that this kind of mobility was very common in the Avignon period. Verger added that most of the curialists started their careers after some years of university studies in a cardinal’s familia, and while they moved upward in the hierarchy, they had the possibility to continue (and finish) their educations. Verger, Études et culture universitaire, 69.

78 Mollat, “Saint-Geniès, Bertrand de.” Tilatti, “Saint-Geniès, Bertrand de.”

79 This information comes from a papal letter dated to January 1335. AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 120, ep. 222, AAV Reg. Aven. vol. 220, fol. 401, Benoît XII (1334–1342), no. 468.

80 Maléth, “Curialists and Hungarian Church Benefices,” 61–62.

81 Caillet, La papauté d’Avignon, 294. Saquet is mentioned as legum doctor: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 108, ep. 4, AAV Reg. Aven. 388, fol. 139v.

82 It was also the Diocese of Chartres where Gui de Boulogne obtained his first ecclesiastical benefices, namely a canonry in the cathedral of Chartres in 1328. The future cardinal also held an archdeaconate in Flandres and a canonry in the diocese of Thérouanne in the time of Raymond Saquet’s office time as bishop. Moreover, Gui de Boulogne was assigned to settle the conflict between Bishop Raymond Saquet and the deans of the chapter in 1343. AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 128, ep. 363, Jugie, “Le cardinal Gui de Boulogne,” vol. 1, 87–90, 117–18.

83 Eubel, Hierarchia catholica, vol. 1, 252.

84 In this prelature he was succeeded by Galhard de Carcès (Galhardus de Carceribus), former tax collector in Hungary and appointed Bishop of Veszprém. Maléth, “Papal Government and the Hungarian High Clergy.”

85 Laurent-Bonne, “Notes sur deux canonistes,” 368. He was instructed by the pope on June 15, 1346, to assist and join Ildebrandino Conti, bishop of Padua in his mission to Naples. AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 140, fol. 33, ep. 121.

86 Maléth, “Curialists and Hungarian Church Benefices,” 62–66.

87 Pór, Nagy Lajos király viszonya az aquiléjai pátriárkához.

88 Bossányi, Regesta supplicationum, no. 176, 275. In his monograph on the history of the bishopric of Várad, Vince Bunyitay supposed that Cardinal Bertrand, who held the Provostry of Várad might have been in the Hungarian Kingdom since the beginning of the 1330s. He based his assumption on an expectative grace for a benefice which was granted by John XXII to the son of the ban of Slavonia at the request of Cardinal Bertrand [January 10, 1331: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 98, ep 444, AAV Reg. Aven. vol. 37, fol. 209v, MNL OL DF 291540, Vetera monumenta, 531]. However, Bunyitay merged two cardinals, both named Bertrand: Bertrand du Pouget and Bertrand de Déaulx. The former one, cardinal-bishop of Ostia and Velletri, was sent as a legate to Italy (the Papal States, patriarchates of Aquileia and Grado, dioceses of Milano, Ravenna, Genova, Pisa, Pavia, Piacenza, Ferrara, Orvieto, Todi, Rieti, Terni, Narni, Castello, Spoleto and Tivoli), to the dioceses of Venice, Ragusa, and Bar, to the archdioceses of Crete and Zadar, and those part of Slavonia which were governed by the Venetians (for the letter of delegation see, AAV Reg. Vat., vol. 70, ep. 145, issued between September 5, 1318 and September 4, 1319). Nevertheless, it was the second Bertrand, cardinal-priest of S. Marcus who obtained the provostry in Oradea. Bunyitay, A váradi püspökség története, 42.

89 For the details of these commissions, see Mollat, “Bertrand de Déaulx,” 393–397; Partner, “Bertrando di Deaux,”; Uzureau, “Aimeric de Chalus,” 1174–1176; Guillemain, “Caetani, Annibaldo”; Tilatti, “Principe vescovo”; Lützelschwab, Flectat cardinales ad velle suum?, 131–320.

90 Kyer, “The papal legate,” 231; Setton, The papacy and the Levant, 193, 221–22, 236, 455. For the papal letters that commissioned him to mediate between Joan I and Louis dated to May 24, 1350: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 144, fol. 2v–4r; Vetera monumenta, no. 1192–1193.

91 For the payment received from the Apostolic Chamber to cover the costs of his delegation see (May 12, 1342) AAV Cam. Ap., Intr. et Ex. vol. 195, fol. 18, K. H. Schäfer, Die Ausgaben, 196. In January 1345, he was sent to crown prince Andrew as king of Naples. January 30, 1345: AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 138, fol. 201, ep. 751. When Andrew was murdered, he was to give first-hand account of the situation in Naples to the pope. October 7, 1345: AAV Reg. Vat. vol 139, fol. 109. ep. 431–433.

92 Jugie, “Le cardinal Gui de Boulogne,” 113–120.

93 These were collected by the “Papal delegates in Hungary in the 14th century – online database” project. https://delegatonline.pte.hu/search/persondatasheet/id/293. Accessed January 30, 2023.

94 For the papal letters of delegation starting with the date June 12, 1346, see AAV Reg. Vat. vol. 140, fol. 22, ep. 58; fol. 31–33, ep. 101–122; fol. 42, ep. 163; fol. 61r-v, ep. 256–257; fol. 272, ep. 1223; fol. 305v, ep. 1356; fol. 308r-v, ep. 1369–1370.

95 Also included in the database of the DLO project: https://delegatonline.pte.hu/search/persondatasheet/id/335. Accessed January 30, 2023.

96 For his future assignments in papal service, see Maléth, “Curialistis and Hungarian Church Benefices,” 66–71.

Table 1. Papal delegates authorised to proceed in connection with the Neapolitan succession

 

Name

Origin

Qualification

Functions, curial offices

Date of commission

Type of delegation

Eccl. title at the time of the commission

Highest eccl. title

1.

Bertrand de Saint-Geniès

Quercy

doctor of both laws

papal chaplain, auditor

August 1333

–

dean of Angoulême

patriarch of Aquileia

January 9, 1346

nuncio

patriarch of Aquileia

2.

Aymery de Châtelus

Limousin

doctor of both laws

papal chaplain, auditor of the papal palace

January 23, 1344

legate, vicar, “baiulus, administrator et gubernator generalis regni Siciliae”

cardinal-priest of S. Silvester et Martinus

cardinal-priest of Ss. Silvester et Martinus

3.

Guillaume Lamy

Limousin

doctor of civil law

auditor

January 30, 1345

nuncio

bishop of Chartres

patriarch of Jerusalem

4.

Francis of Amelia

Italy

doctor of both laws

papal chaplain, auditor

December 4, 1345

nuncio

bishop of Trieste

bishop of Gubbio

5.

Ildebrandino Conti

Italy

–

–

June 12, 1346

nuncio

bishop of Padova

bishop of Padova

6.

Guillaume de Rosières

France

doctor of canon law

tax collector

15 June, 1346

nuncio

bishop of Monte Cassino

bishop of Tarbes

7.

Bertrand de Déaulx

Gard

professor of law

papal chaplain, auditor

March 15, 1346

legate, apostolic vicar, general reformer of the papal states

cardinal-priest of S. Marcus

cardinal-bishop of S. Sabina

8.

Bertrand de Baux

Naples

–

–

May 5, 1346

–

count of Montescaglioso

–

9.

John of Pistoia

Italy

–

papal chaplain

March 14, 1348

nuncio

dean of S. Salvator of Utrecht

?

10.

Peter Pin

Italy

–

–

July 15, 1348

nuncio

bishop of Verona

bishop of Périgeux

11.

Gui de Boulogne

Auvergne and Boulogne

studium generale

papal chaplain

(1345) November 30, 1348

legate

cardinal-priest of S. Caecilia

cardinal-bishop of Porto

12.

Annibaldo (Caetani) di Ceccano

Italy

professor of theology

–

May 24, 1350

legate

cardinal-bishop of Tusculum

cardinal-bishop of Tusculum

13.

Raymond Saquet

France

doctor of both laws

–

May 24, 1350

nuncio

bishop of Thérouanne

archbishop of Lyon

14.

Petrus Begonis

Languedoc

bacalarius of canon law

papal chaplain

August 5, 1351

nuncio

chancellor of the church of Wroław

archdeacon of Condroz

2023_2_Szabados

pdf

“Secret Correspondence” in Habsburg–Ottoman Communication in the First Half of the Seventeenth Century

 

János Szabados
University of Szeged
This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Hungarian Historical Review Volume 12 Issue 2  (2023):3–36 DOI 10.38145/2023.2.194

For the Habsburg Monarchy in the seventeenth century, it was very important to collect, send to Vienna, and evaluate up-to-date information on the Ottoman Empire. Following the Long Turkish War (1591/1593–1606), it was necessary in the 1620s to organize, alongside couriers and other channels of correspondence (e. g. the Venetian post), a cost-effective and sustainable system with which to transmit news and, in part, intelligence. In this essay, I present the historiography of the “institution” known as the “Secret Correspondence” and the history of the organization and reorganizations of the system. I also establish a typology of the people involved in the correspondence, namely 1) letter forwarders, 2) letter forwarders who also wrote secret reports, and

3) spies who wrote secret reports regardless of their location (in this case, the person was more important than the information). In the first half of the seventeenth century (1624 to 1658), the system of “Secret Correspondence” had to be reorganized several times (mostly due to lack of funds). In each case, the main challenge was to find and continuously employ the right people, so the role of the recruiter was also important. The political situation in the abovementioned period had an obvious impact on the functioning of the system, too. My research is based on documents from the Viennese archives (Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Haus-, Hof-, und Staatsarchiv; Kriegsarchiv, Finanz- und Hofkammerarchiv), which have helped me to offer a more detailed and nuanced understanding of the “Secret Correspondence” than found in the existing secondary literature.

Keywords: Habsburg-Ottoman diplomacy, intelligence, flow of information, information channels, typology of the informants

Introduction

Interest among scholars in Habsburg–Ottoman diplomacy has increased in recent decades. The peaceful period of the first half of the seventeenth century (1606–1663) is of particularly strong interest.1 In this essay, I investigate a vital channel of communication between the Habsburg Monarchy and the Ottoman Empire, namely the institution known as the “Secret Correspondence” (Geheime Korrespondenz). The continuity of the correspondence between Vienna and Constantinople had a great impact on relations between the two empires. It was of primary importance for the Habsburgs mostly, as it helped them closely monitor the policies of the Ottoman Empire and have direct and prompt access to the relevant pieces of news and information with which to shape their European policy, especially during and after the Thirty Years’ War. In the discussion below, I look at the secondary literature on this “Secret Correspondence,” outline the history of its establishment in the first half of the seventeenth century (1623–1658), look at the historical and political context, and introduce the diplomats involved in its organization. Moreover, I examine the parallel information channels and establish a typology of those involved in the transmission of letters and intelligence. I also describe the roles of these actors in the network’s operation and offer some examples of how their activity as letter forwarders or spies impacted their careers. My intention is to offer a more nuanced understanding of how the Habsburg communications and intelligence system functioned in the Ottoman Empire and to demonstrate that the “Secret Correspondence” was primarily used as a form of infrastructure, which, of course, also made espionage more effective.

Historical and Political Context

The Battle of Mohács in 1526 determined the politics of the following decades, as the Habsburg Monarchy became a direct neighbor of the Ottoman Empire, which was expanding through the Kingdom of Hungary. The longer period of peace after 1568 provided an opportunity for secret diplomacy to develop,2 but the Long Turkish War at the end of the century (1591–1606) interrupted this process. The Peace of Zsitvatorok in 1606 provided a new possibility to resume peaceful diplomatic relations, especially during the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648).3 Both empires were already entangled in conflicts in various theaters of war and were forced to maintain peace with each other, though this peace was fragile and had to be affirmed on several occasions (1615/1616, 1618, 1625, 1627, and 1642). After the Thirty Years’ War, the two empires did not start a new war with each other but rather extended the peace again in 1649.4 Each peace treaty was accompanied by a solemn grand embassy, but these embassies were not necessarily sent only on the occasion of a new affirmation of peace.5 The envoys (with the rank of ambassador or internuncius) also played a role in the organization and operation of the “Secret Correspondence,” but the actual operation was the responsibility of the “experts” in charge of the Aulic War Council (Hofkriegsrat) and the resident ambassadors in Constantinople. Nevertheless, for various reasons (for instance, the death of a member or changes in the underlying political situation), it became necessary to reorganize the system several times by the mid-seventeenth century (until 1658).

The Revolution of Communication in the Early Modern Period

The early modern period saw a revolution in communication that had less to do with the invention of printing and more with changes in infrastructure.6 The postal system developed rapidly, and this contributed to better and faster correspondence. In the Holy Roman Empire, the Thurn und Taxis family owned the post office as a fief. In the Hereditary Lands of the Habsburgs, the postal service belonged to the Paar family, although the institution of postmaster existed for a time in the Kingdom of Hungary as well.7 This system, with its very well-functioning infrastructure, enabled faster and easier communication, which also had a positive effect on European societies and cultures.8 Parallel to the official correspondence, there existed an unofficial form of communication, mostly conducted in ciphers (i.e., secret writings of various kinds) which was used to transmit important and non-public information.9 There is a very substantial literature on early modern intelligence.10 With regard to the Ottoman Empire, two works are worth highlighting. John-Paul Ghobrial has examined the complex flow of information in Constantinople, London, and Paris in the late seventeenth century,11 and Ioanna Iordanou has offered a thorough analysis of the extensive European and non-European (i.e. Ottoman Empire) intelligence network of Venice.12

In the discussion below, I examine another form of communication that was specifically established between Vienna, Constantinople, and most of the European areas of the Ottoman Empire, namely the so-called “Secret Correspondence.” Since a comprehensive reform of the postal system took place in the 1620s, it is reasonable to assume that the founding of the “Secret Correspondence” was also connected with this reform, though no sources have yet been found providing clear confirmation of this. One document makes clear the relevance of communication during the legation of envoy (internuncius) Johann Jakob Kurz von Senftenau (1623–1624), as Ferdinand II ordered the restoration of the post office in Altenburg/Mosonmagyaróvár, Raab/Győr, and Komorn/Komárom and Révkomárom/Komárno in the autumn of 1623.13 It must be added, however, that in the case of the Imperial Post and the Post of the Hereditary Lands of the Habsburgs, they were official and public structures. In contrast, the “Secret Correspondence” was in principle an unofficial channel of communication.

The Secondary Literature on and Terminology Concerning the “Secret Correspondence”

In contrast to what has been stated in the secondary literature, in my view, the network of “Secret Correspondence” primarily provided an infrastructure for more fluid communication between Vienna and Constantinople, and this infrastructure was always dynamically adapted to the circumstances. Some elements of the system have been addressed in the scholarship, but the mechanisms of its operation in the first half of the seventeenth century have not yet been explored in detail, and this has led to misunderstandings in the interpretation of certain sources. The system of “Secret Correspondence” was already known to scholars in the early twentieth century. Numismatist Carl von Peez drew attention to the work of correspondents in Buda, Belgrade, and Sofia who were active after 1665, but he did not systematically explore the function of the system in the second half of the seventeenth century.14 This applies to the earliest Hungarian scholars on the subject. Sándor Takáts and Gyula Erdélyi mentioned the actors in the system by name in their essays, and they emphasized that the appearance of foreign (i.e., non-Hungarian) participants crowded Hungarians out of the intelligence system.15 Peter Meienberger also devoted a few pages in his book to the “Secret Correspondence,” and he made important observations about the operation of the system and treated it separately from the intelligence service.16 The establishment of the system was first outlined by István Hiller, who based his conclusions on the mission of the aforementioned Johann Jakob Kurz von Senftenau. Hiller interpreted the “Secret Correspondence” as an intelligence system, but his findings prompted certain points that need further clarification, including, for instance, the function(s) of this system.17 Dóra Kerekes examined in more detail the correspondents of the second half of the seventeenth century, focusing on the role of the Orientalische Handelskompanie (Oriental Trade Company) in the “Secret Correspondence.”18 She also explored the activities of the interpreters (in her terminology, the “Secret Correspondents”) who resided in Constantinople during the Great Turkish War (1683–1699), from where they wrote and sent secret reports.19 On the basis of her research on the abovementioned period, Kerekes concluded that the “Secret Correspondence” could be regarded as an intelligence system in the modern sense.20 However, the system of “Secret Correspondence” seems to have been more complex than mere espionage and can be seen rather as an intelligence and messaging system. I will explore this in more detail below.

The Reasons for Organizing the System and the Manner in which it was Implemented

During the second campaign (1623–1624) of Transylvanian prince Gábor Bethlen (1613–1629), which he launched against the Habsburgs in the Kingdom of Hungary five years after the outbreak of the Thirty Years’ War,21 Johan Jakob Kurz von Senftenau, Habsburg envoy to the Ottoman Porte, was commissioned with the establishment of a new system of communication. The aim was pragmatic: to replace the flow of information, which had been weakened by Bethlen’s attacks, with a financially more optimal system of mail transmission (which could be maintained between Belgrade and Constantinople for less than 500 talers a year) that would be less dependent on Venice.22 In accordance with his instructions, the diplomat recruited suitable people, primarily merchants in Buda, Belgrade, and Sofia. They were contracted to forward letters between Vienna and Constantinople twelve times a year for a certain sum. This solution was indeed more affordable since it cost 240 talers per occasion to send couriers.23 On his return journey from Constantinople, Kurz recruited people whom he thought qualified for the task and who were willing to undertake it. Thus, Hironimo/Girolammeo Grassi (240 talers)24 in Sofia, Matteo Sturani25 (240 thalers) in Belgrade, and Giovanni Pellegrini (160 talers) in Buda took on the task of forwarding the letters, and thus the costs in Belgrade and Sofia were kept below the prescribed 500 thalers.26 They were merchants from Ragusa (see table), and Grassi and Sturani had provided their services to the Habsburgs before.27 The operation of that newly established correspondence was presumably the responsibility of war councilor Count Michael Adolf Althan,28 secretary of the Aulic War Council and later also a war councilor Gerhard von Questenberg,29 and resident ambassador of Constantinople Sebastian Lustrier (1623–1629).30

Typology of Members of the “Secret Correspondence”

Before presenting the functioning of the system, I offer first an outline of the terms used to refer to participants in the system. My intention is to clarify the roles these actors played, at least to the extent possible on the basis of the sources. The meaning of the term “correspondent” as used in the sources seems problematic. It may have referred to someone who was both a “correspondent” or “spy” and a “letter forwarder.”31 Indeed, within the system, several functions can be clearly distinguished, even if some of terms sometimes seem ambiguous. Accordingly, for those who merely forwarded letters, I suggest the term letter forwarder. Those who primarily reported on important events should be called spies. The last category, and the most difficult to define, is those who forwarded letters and wrote spy reports. In their case, two subcategories can be distinguished, namely people who primarily spied and sometimes also forwarded letters and people who were contracted primarily to forward letters, but in some cases wrote secret reports as well. These people also received a salary from the Court Chamber, unlike, for example, Marino Tudisi, who was recruited as a private servant of Count Althan.32

Attempts at Reorganization between 1628 and 1658

The “Secret Correspondence” needed to be reorganized several times in the first half of the seventeenth century. Lustrier, the Habsburg resident ambassador at the Porte who was most interested in uninterrupted communication between the two powers, frequently used the new channel, but he also warned the court of the shortage of funds due to the war.33 By the end of the 1620s, after the negotiators of the two empires had successfully agreed to extend the peace in 1627 in Szőny, the system was in dire need of reorganization.34 The task of dispatching the ratification to Constantinople was entrusted to Baron Johann Ludwig von Kuefstein, a recent convert to Catholicism, who entered the Habsburg–Ottoman diplomacy as a homo novus.35 He was also instructed, however, to reorganize the “Secret Correspondence.”36 He was prepared for his journey by Michael Starzer (1610–1622), the former agent at the Porte, and Johann Rudolf Schmid (1629–1643), a former Ottoman captive and the next resident ambassador.37 However, due to the lack of a suitable “specialist,” only the aforementioned Marino Tudisi accompanied him as an expert.38 Presumably because of his earlier studies in Italy, Kuefstein preferred the Ragusan citizens as future letter forwarders, too. He enlisted the help of Tudisi on his way to the Sublime Porte. In Belgrade, he recruited Tomaso Orsini for Buda, Francesco Vlatchy/Vlatky for Belgrade, and Marco Cavalcanti for Sofia.39 During his stay in Constantinople, however, Kuefstein preferred sending letters through his courier, Wolf Leuthkauff, which obviously had an impact on the frequency of the correspondence.40 Orsini, for example, proved unreliable,41 thus Kuefstein had to use other channels and modify previous arrangements on the return journey. As a result, he first made an agreement in Sofia with a person called Stefano Vukovicz (Vuković).42 Nevertheless, in Belgrade the aforementioned Vlatchy/Vlatky then undertook to organize the entire correspondence between Constantinople and Komárom, and he himself proved ready to write secret reports. This is probably why he received the rather high sum of 700 thalers.43 In Komárom, Kuefstein entered into a contract with János Papp to transmit letters for 100 thalers a year.44 Thus, Kuefstein succeeded in his mission to reorganize the “Secret Correspondence.”

In the years that followed, the new resident ambassador Schmid was responsible for controlling the system, which he did together with the imperial interpreter in Vienna, Michel d’Asquier (1625–1664).45 Schmid also made use of the “Secret Correspondence,” but he sometimes bribed couriers en route to Buda and used the Transylvanian and Venetian postal services as well.46 Little is known about the identity of the letter forwarders from this period (see table). Since pieces of news from the Middle East were very important for the court because of the Thirty Years’ War, Schmid also recruited Francesco Crasso/Grassi, a doctor who had previously worked in Buda and was also of Ragusan origin.
Dr. Grassi was primarily an intelligence agent (spy), and not only for the Habsburgs, of course.47 Schmid also relied on the services of Andrea Scogardi (originally Johann Andersen Skovgaard), also a doctor, who, after his resettlement, kept the resident ambassador regularly informed about Moldavian and Transylvanian affairs.48 Johann Rudolf Puchheim, the grand ambassador assigned to the Porte in 1634, also tried to recruit new people, but there are no relevant data on the long-term impact of this.49 Because of financial problems, when they submitted a report to the emperor, Schmid and d’Asquier tried to get the impression that running the network was of primary importance.50 However, by the 1640s, the system was on the verge of collapse, since there were not enough resources to run it because of the costs of the Thirty Years’ War.

After Schmid’s return from Constantinople in 1643, the task of rebuilding was inherited by his successor, Alexander Greiffenklau (1643–1648). The court was preoccupied at the time with a series of attacks (1644, 1645)51 by the Prince of Transylvania, György Rákóczi I (1630–1648), against the Kingdom of Hungary. These attacks also impeded communication between Vienna and Constantinople. Moreover, the Ottoman war against Venice for the possession of Crete (1645–1669)52 virtually eliminated the possibility of using the Venetian post service, though that passage had been favored by Greiffenklau. Since the resident ambassador was unable to relaunch the “Secret Correspondence,” Hermann Czernin von Chudenitz, the grand ambassador assigned to the Porte in 1644, was charged with the task. However, it seems that this effort was not successful either. Both Czernin and Greiffenklau endeavored to get their letters to Vienna by all possible means, mainly through couriers, embassy secretaries, the Ottoman postal service, and sometimes even through Poland. The temporary disappearance of the “Secret Correspondence” was not necessarily their fault. Indeed, the political situation at the time had a strong impact on communication and determined the options available, namely that diplomats were forced to rely on trusted confidants.53

After the campaigns, the system was revived once again. Greiffenklau was commissioned with the reorganization for the second time. However, despite the efforts of imperial courier Johann Dietz, the reorganization did not succeed because of the war against the Venetians.54 After the resident’s involvement in a political assassination, the situation was further complicated, because it had some diplomatic consequences.55 As for the intelligence, Greiffenklau primarily relied on the Hungarian-born renegade, the grand dragoman of the Sublime Porte (1629–1657), Zülfikâr Ağa.56 The unexpected death of Greiffenklau in 1648 again offered Schmid new opportunities. In 1647, he had already suggested using the services of the German-born renegade interpreter, Hüseyin Çavuş, who went by the pseudonym Hans Caspar and who subsequently became an important spy in the intelligence network of the Habsburg–Ottoman frontier.57

In 1649, Schmid was sent to the Porte as a member of the Aulic War Council to negotiate to extend the peace.58 He introduced there the new resident ambassador, Simon Reniger,59 and he reorganized the “Secret Correspondence.” During Schmid’s diplomatic mission, he recruited competent agents in Buda, Belgrade, and Sofia who were suitable as actors who would forward letters (cf. table), and after some bargaining, he was able to agree on their remuneration.60 In his secret report, he emphasized the importance of regular payments in the future to keep the system running.61 At the same time, he tried to set up the forwarding of letters via Transylvania, which seemed to be the shortest route.62 Communication channels were thus re-established for a while.

In 1650, Johann Rudolf Schmid again (as a baron and grand ambassador) took the ratified document of the peace treaty to Constantinople.63 According to the references, during his embassy, he regularly used the “Secret Correspondence” network, and he tried to replace the lost links (e.g. in Sofia) and provide the actors in the system with adequate payment for the future, thus making Reniger’s work easier.64 In his secret report, he emphasized again that salaries were to be paid regularly to facilitate the rapid flow of information. His suggestions were no doubt inspired by his previous bad experiences.65

From that point on, communication between Vienna and Constantinople seemed relatively stable. The main channels were couriers, correspondence via Transylvania, Ottoman chiauses (çavuş), and the “Secret Correspondence.” Obviously, extraordinary events could cause disruptions. The death of imperial courier Johann Dietz during his mission in the autumn of 1651 led to a serious delay of several months, as all channels were simultaneously interrupted for various reasons.66 However, the increasing number of excursions on the frontier made it essential to get the letters to their destinations as quickly as possible, and usually at least one channel was used to get the information to the right destination. In the autumn of 1652, the death of the letter forwarder of Belgrade (Baggio, recruited by Schmid) caused a further slowdown, and the position in Belgrade remained precarious for the rest of the year.67 According to one of Reniger’s reports to Schmid, between December 1653 and 1654, he sent only one letter out of nine through the “Secret Correspondence” network. This mere fact offers an indication of the seriousness of the problems outlined.68 In 1653, the death of Hungarian palatine Pál Pálffy (1649–1653) caused a disruption on the Transylvanian route, but this was soon resolved diplomatically, although the election of Ferenc Wesselényi as palatine in 1655 caused further interference.69

The main source of information in Constantinople in the early 1650s was Dr. Scogardi, who regularly reported to Schmid,70 and in Buda, mainly during the time of Kara Murad Pasha (1650–1653),71 the German renegade Hans Caspar.72

In the mid-1650s, the “Secret Correspondence” and the whole communi­cation and intelligence network entered a difficult phase. The new pasha of Buda, Sari Kenan (1653–1655),73 took a dim view of the secret transmission of information and assaulted the judge of Óbuda, who was then acting as a letter forwarder. Even the other letter forwarder in Buda, Vuichich/Vuičić (see table), did not dare carry out his duties, and consequently a general atmosphere of fear prevailed in that period.74 Since the sending of letters via Transylvania also seemed uncertain at the time, communication between Reniger and the Viennese court took place via Poland for a few months.75 Finally, the imperial courier Natal de Paulo, also of Ragusan origin, managed to restore the system by filling in the missing links. Furthermore, Hans Caspar found himself in a difficult situation during the time of Sari Kenan, and this was reflected in the low number of reports written by him.76

A completely new situation was brought about by the campaign of Prince of Transylvania György Rákóczi II (1648–1660) against Poland in 1657.77 The channels of communication were entirely changed by the absence of Leopold I (who traveled to Prague and then to Frankfurt), the campaigns, and the move of the Sultan’s court to Adrianople.78 From the available correspondence it seems that the difficulties of “Secret Correspondence” were not fully overcome in 1656, as no suitable persons could be found in Buda or Belgrade. Only the mission of the courier Natal and secretary of the Aulic War Council Peter Franz Hoffmann was crowned with success, and after that, the secret channel of communication was again in operation in 1657.79 Reniger had to follow the Sultan’s court to Adrianople at the end of 1657, and this brought about a dramatic change in the conditions of the channels of communication, because someone else had to be left in Constantinople. However, this topic is beyond the scope of this paper.80 In terms of gathering or passing on intelligence, Hans Caspar was less active than he had been in the early 1650s, and the war had a strong impact on his circumstances and his work as a spy.81

Thus, although the operation of the “Secret Correspondence” was impeded by numerous financial and personal obstacles between 1624 and 1657, efforts were made to restore this important channel of information for Vienna as soon as logistical, financial, and infrastructural circumstances allowed.

Motivation(s), Opportunities, and Risks

If one looks at the members of the system based on the typology outlined above (see table), some conclusions can be drawn about the motivations and risks of being part of the “Secret Correspondence.” As early as the 1630s, the letter forwarders were aware of the importance of their activities and tried to take advantage of them, and they sometimes blackmailed the diplomats.82 Schmid seems initially to have been rather distrustful of the Ragusans, who at that time enjoyed the support of Count Althan, as the case of the so-called “interpreter trial” shows.83 Later, Schmid changed his mind on that matter.

As the letter forwarders were mainly merchants, their main task was to forward letters from both directions (i.e., between Vienna and Constantinople). In their case, therefore, the emphasis was on the task itself rather than the person who executed it. Therefore, letter-forwarding can be regarded as a more easily replaceable function than spying. Their activities were not without risk, however. The sources reveal that in some cases they put their lives at risk. This is also indicated by the fact that Johann Rudolf Puchheim wrote the name of one of the letter forwarders in cipher in his report.84 Greiffenklau in 164585 and, later, Schmid in his 1649 mission pointed out that, due to the Ottoman war against Venice, it seemed difficult to find people among the Ragusans for the task. They were generally on good terms with Venice but were Ottoman vassals as well.86 It was thus necessary to agree on the abovementioned punctual and regular payment.87 A similar example can be found during Schmid’s mission as ambassador when he authorized Baggio, the letter forwarder in Belgrade, to trade in Moravia on behalf of the emperor to ensure the smooth flow of correspondence.88 This means, therefore, that certain letter forwarders had enough bargaining power in matters affecting their own livelihoods, although Baggio could not benefit for long from the opportunity he had won. Nevertheless, even before his death, the Belgrade transporter complained about the lack of payment and obstructed the forwarding of letters.89 The death of the aforementioned courier Dietz illustrates how the loss of a single key person could paralyze the communication system since he was also the one who would have delivered the payment to the letter forwarders. In the mid-1650s, because of the risks, the Ragusan merchant colony in Belgrade forbade their members to participate in the “Secret Correspondence.” This offered Baggio’s successor (Giorgio Cortey) the possibility of bargaining again. In the end, they solved the problem by depositing the letters from Constantinople in a certain house, where Cortey could later pick them up.90 In 1655, the magistrate of Óbuda, who had also been involved in the forwarding of letters, was badly beaten and imprisoned. This was presumably done as a warning to the Ragusans in Buda. That is why the letter forwarder in Buda (Peter Vuichich/Vuičić) decided to move to Belgrade.91 Lazaro, the letter forwarder in Belgrade, was also arrested in 1656, for which he was later compensated by the Habsburg court, as was the magistrate of Óbuda.92

According to the available data (see table), almost all the Balkan letter forwarders were Ragusans, so in their case, there was no ethnic or religious diversity. It was certainly no coincidence that the imperial couriers who recruited Balkan letter forwarders in the 1650s (Natal and Michel de Paulo) were most probably also of Ragusan origin. They were presumably more able to contact the merchants. This also confirms that the Viennese court was aware of the importance of the “Secret Correspondence.”

However, the circumstances of the spies differed from those of the letter forwarders. In their case, not only was the function they played important. The identity of the person himself and his position (e.g., physician) also mattered. Dr. Grassi seemed to be useful for intelligence purposes in Buda (in the 1630s), Constantinople (in the late 1630s), and later the Middle East during the campaign of Murad IV against the Safavids.93 The other doctor, Andrea Scogardi, also reported from both Constantinople and Iaşi.94 In both cases, there is evidence that they provided intelligence not only for the Habsburgs but Ragusa and/or Venice also enlisted their services (Scogardi was also involved in political assassinations), which offers a clear indication of their significance.95 They were also primarily engaged in their profession, so as spies, they were news sources and were not involved in the forwarding of letters. They obviously put themselves at considerable risk by engaging in espionage activities, but as they were doctors, it was quite difficult to replace them, so they did not have to fear strong reprisals. As a group, the spies were more ethnically diverse. Grassi was Ragusan, while Scogardi had been born in Denmark. As for religion, the latter had protestant (Lutheran) roots, but he converted to Catholicism during his studies in Italy.96

The situation of people belonging to the third category was also different from that of ordinary letter forwarders. In their case, the identity of the person in question and his position again played a key role. Matteo Sturani, also of Ragusan origin, was recruited as a letter forwarder in Belgrade in 1624, and he wrote secret reports from Poland in the 1630s.97 After the death of Alexander Greiffenklau, he seemed a potential candidate for the post of resident ambassador, but because of his Ragusan origins and his age, he was eventually dismissed, and Simon Reniger was chosen instead.98 One of the reasons why Simon Reniger was considered more suitable for the post was that, unlike his predecessor, he had followed Schmid’s advice.99 Francesco Vlatchy/Vlatky also reported regularly, but later he proved more unreliable, since he did not receive his regular salary.100 Thus, despite his claims to the contrary, he does not seem to have taken on the risky task out of conviction, but rather for money.

Hans Caspar in Buda was not only useful for espionage, but he also forwarded letters on several occasions. For example, he sometimes copied and forwarded letters to Vienna sent by Reniger, which had been unsealed by the Pasha of Buda. Moreover, he regularly forwarded letters sent by Ottoman chiauses.101 Later, because of the events in Transylvania, Hans Caspar had to leave Buda and those lost access to the infrastructure that had previously enabled him to transmit the information he had acquired. This event proved to be a decisive factor in his later life.102 Nevertheless, Caspar was still seen as a potential spy, as evidenced by diplomatic reports, for example, when he tried to blackmail
Dr. Johann Friedrich Metzger, who had been sent to the camp of the Pasha of Buda (Gürcü Kenan), because the Pasha was ordered to move against György Rákóczi II.103 In this third and last group of the “Secret Correspondence,” therefore, both the functions of the individuals involved and the ethnic composition of the group seem to be mixed, but at the same time, the careers of these people can be traced.

Conclusions

Several important conclusions can be drawn from the present study. First, the Christian vassals facilitated the flow of information between the Habsburg Monarchy and the Ottoman Empire. Ragusa, through its merchants, played an important role in the communication and intelligence system built up by the Habsburgs in the first half of the seventeenth century, known as the “Secret Correspondence.” However, when they had the opportunity, the Habsburgs also used Transylvanian couriers to transmit letters. Second, the functions of acquisition and transmission of information are clearly distinct, so the term “Secret Correspondence” should be understood as referring to the infrastructure itself. Within this system, reports written by spies were also transmitted. Third, it follows that the role of the letter forwarders was merely to transmit information (hence the function itself), and the actual identity of the person who did this was almost immaterial, whereas in the case of the spies, the identity of the individuals in question was a key factor. Fourth, it is also clear from the cases presented that, although the intelligence officers were sometimes able to bargain, the spies and letter forwarder spies were better embedded in the system because of their position and therefore were less likely to rotate. Fifth, the organization of the system shows that the experience gained over the decades was accumulated and put to good use. This is illustrated by the fact that Johann Rudolf Schmid tried to offer Simon Reniger, his successor, the best conditions for the transmission of letters. Thus, Reniger, unlike his predecessor Greiffenklau, regarded Schmid as his master, who introduced him to the mysteries of Habsburg–Ottoman diplomacy. Sixth, personal skills were essential to the organization and operation of the system, as diplomats could use their Italian language skills to liaise with transporters and spies. Likewise, couriers responsible for recruiting new transporters had to rely on their personal talents and language skills to a great extent, too. In sum, talent, professionalism, and a personal network of contacts were key factors in facilitating Habsburg–Ottoman diplomacy in the first half of the seventeenth century.

Table 1. Letter forwarders and Spies in the Service of the Habsburgs between 1624 and 1658

Resident ambassadors in Constantinople

Letter forwarders, their citizenship, and religion)

Letter forwarder spies, the ircitizenship and religion

Spies, the ircitizenship and religion

Citizenship (total)

Religion (total)

Sebastian Lustrier (1623–1629)

Buda

Giovanni Pellegrini (1624–1627?), Ragusan, Catholic

Tomaso Orosini (Oct 1628–Jan 1629), Ragusan, Catholic

Buda

–

Buda

Hans Caspar(?), Ottoman Empire, Islam (orig. Catholic)

Ragusa: 2

Ottoman Empire: 1

Catholic: 2(3)

Islam: 1

Belgrade

–

Belgrade

Matteo Sturani (1624–1626?), Ragusan, Catholic

Belgrade

–

Ragusa: 1

Catholic: 1

Sofia

–

Sofia

Girolammeo Grassi (1624–?)

Mario Cavalcanti (17. Oktober 1628–10. September 1629?), both Ragusan and Catholic

Sofia

–

Ragusa: 2

Catholic: 2

Johann Rudolf Schmid (1629–1643)

Buda

(from 1634), Ragusan, Catholic

Buda

Lupo Lupino (appr. pseudonym), Ragusan, Catholic

A noble Turk (appr. Hans Caspar), Ottoman Empire, Islam

Buda

–

Ragusa: 2

Ottoman Empire: 1

Catholic: 1

Islam: 1

 

Belgrade

–

Belgrade

Francesco Vlatchy/Vlatky (1628–1632?),

Michael Medani (1633?) Both Ragusan and Catholic

Belgrade

–

Ragusa: 2

Catholic: 2

 

Sofia

Stefano Vukovich (Vuković), Ragusan and Catholic

Sofia

–

Sofia

–

Ragusa: 1

Catholic: 1

 

Iaşi

–

Iaşi

–

Iaşi

Dr. Hans Andersen Skovgaard/Andrea Scogardi (1641–1643?), orig. Denmark and Lutheran, later Catholic

Denmark: 1

orig. Lutheran, converted to Catholic faith: 1

 

Persia

–

Persia

–

Persia

Dr. Francesco Crasso/Grassi (1637–1638), Ragusan, Catholic

Ragusa: 1

Catholic: 1

 

Constantinople

–

Constantinople

–

Constantinople

Dr. Francesco Crasso/Grassi (1640–1642), Ragusan, Catholic

Zülfikâr Ağa (1629–1643), Ottoman Empire, Islam

Ragusa: 1

Ottoman Empire: 1

Catholic: 1

unknown

Alexander Greiffenklau (1643–1648)

Buda

Peter Vuichich (Vuičić) (ab 1646?), Ragusan, Catholic

Buda

–

Buda

Hans Caspar, Ottoman Empire, Islam

Ragusa: 1

Ottoman Empire:1

Catholic: 1

Islam: 1

Belgrade

A person who sent some letters back for fear in 1645

Belgrade

–

Belgrade

–

Ragusa: 1

Catholic(?): 1

Sofia

–

Sofia

–

Sofia

–

–

–

Constantinople

Constantinople

Constantinople

Dr. Johann Hans Andersen Skovgaard/Giovanni Andrea Scogardi (1644–1645), orig. Denmark and Lutheran, later Catholic

Zülfikâr Ağa (1643–1647), Ottoman Empire, Islam

Denmark: 1

Ottoman Empire: 1

orig. Lutheran, converted to Catholic faith: 1

Islam: 1

Simon Reniger (1649–1665) between 1649 and 1658

Buda

Peter Vuichich (Vuičić) (1649–1655)

Marco Vuichich (Vuičić) appr. brother of Peter (1655)

Elias Luschick (Lušič) (1656?), all of them Ragusan and Catholic

Buda

Hans Caspar, Judge of Óbuda (János Baán?), Ottoman Empire, unknown

Buda

–

Ragusa: 3

Ottoman Empire: 1

Catholic(?): 3

–

 

Belgrade

Bagio di Simme/Drasili(?) (1649–1653)

Giorgio Lamberto di Corti/Cortey/Cortrai (1653–1655)

Lazaro Ginreta (1655–1657?), all of them Ragusan and Catholic

Belgrade

–

Belgrade

–

Ragusa: 3

Catholic: 3

 

Sofia

unknown

Sofia

Sofia

Ragusa(?): 1

Catholic(?): 1

 

Constantinople

Constantinople

Constantinople

Dr. Johann Andersen Skovgaard / Giovanni Andrea Scogardi (1653–1656), orig. Denmark and Lutheran, later Catholic

Nikusios Panaiotes (Panajoti) (1649–1665), Ottoman Empire, Orthodox

Zülfikâr Ağa (1649–1657), Ottoman Empire, Islam

Denmark: 1

Ottoman Empire: 2

orig. Lutheran, converted to Catholic faith: 1

Orthodox: 1

Islam: 1

Archival Sources

ELTE Egyetemi Könyvtár és Levéltár [ELTE University Library and Archives] (ELTE EKL)

G4 (Kuefstain, Acta et epistolae)

Tomus (Tom.) IV, V.

Österreichisches Staatsarchiv (ÖStA)

Haus-, Hof-, und Staatsarchiv (HHStA)

Staatenabteilungen

Türkei I. Kt. 109, 110, 112, 113, 124, 126

Polen I. Kt. 57.

Kriegsarchiv (KA)

Protokolle des Wiener Hofkriegsrates (HKR Prot.) Bd. 304, 313.

Alte Feldakten (AFA) Kt.

Finanz- und Hofkammerarchiv (FHKA)

Hoffinanz Ungarn (HFU) Kt. 339.

Sammlungen und Selekte (SUS)

Alte Postakten (APA) Kt. 6.

Reichsakten (RA) Kt. 302 (Fasz. 185A)

Bibliography

Printed sources

Brunner, Lisa, Christoph Würflinger. “Die Internuntiatur des Johann Rudolf Schmid zum Schwarzenhorn und ihre Akten (1649).” In Die Internuntiatur des Johann Rudolf Schmid zum Schwarzenhorn (1649), edited by Arno Strohmeyer, and Georg Vogeler. Salzburg–Graz: Digitale Edition von Quellen zur habsburgisch-osmanischen Diplomatie 1500–1918, edited by Arno Strohmeyer, Projekt 2, 2019. http://gams.uni-graz.at/o:dipko.bbe.

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Secondary literature

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1 For a select list of recent publications, see: Ágoston, “Information,” 84–92, 100–2; Ágoston, The Last Muslim Conquest, 188–228, 265–333, 365–51, passim; Brandl et al., “Kommunikation und Nachtichtenaustausch,” 113–140; Brandl and Szabados, “A Janus-arcú diplomata,” 85–102; Brandl and Szabados, “The Burden of Authority,” 63–85; Brunner, Habsburgisch-osmanisches Konfliktmanagement; Cevrioğlu, “The Peace Treaties,” 67–86; Cziráki, “Zur Person,” 157–64; Cziráki, “’Mein gueter…’,” 42–83; Cziráki, “Ambassador or Rogue?,” 125–50; Huemer, “‘Copy & Paste’,” 84–112; Juhász, “On the Margins,” 87–106; Kármán, “Grand Dragoman,” 5–29; Kerekes, Diplomaták, 81–234; Papp, “Osmanische Funktionäre,” 24–41; Strohmeyer, “Die habsburgisch-osmanische Freundschaft,” 223–38; Strohmeyer, Trendek és perspektívák,” 177–98; Szabados, “Habsburg–Ottoman Communication,” 119–40; Würflinger, “Der Balkan,” 63–74.

2 See: Pálffy, “Hírszerzés és hírközlés,” 40–47.

3 On the backdrop during the Thirty Years’ War, see: Hiller, Palatin Nikolaus Esterházy, 22–93.

4 For a database of seventeenth-century peace treaties, see: Papp, “Az Oszmán Birodalom,” 95–99.

5 An example is the embassy of Johann Rudolf Puchheim. Cf. Cevrioğlu, “Sultan Murad,” passim; Szabados, “The Habsburg,” 736–37.

6 On the importance and changes in early modern communication, see: Behringer, Im Zeichen, 9–25; Bethencourt and Egmond, Cultural Exchange, vol. 3.

7 On the history of the Thurn und Taxis family and the development of the postal system of the Holy Roman Empire, see: Behringer, Thurn und Taxis; On the history of the postal system in the Habsburg Monarchy, see Winkelbauer, “Postwesen,” 69–80.

8 Behringer, Im Zeichen, 51–688.

9 For the secret scripts of early modern Europe, see the following volume: Rous and Mulsow, Geheime Post.

10 For other relevant works, see: Szabados, Die Karriere, 23–29.

11 Ghobrial, The Whispers, passim.

12 Iordanou, Venice’s Secret Service, 28–227.

13 “Quam necessarium sit, ut postae ordinariae maxime hoc tempore bellico et oratore nostro regio Constantinopoli existente ad varia incommoda avertenda, Ouarimo versus Jaurium et Comorrham restaurentur et redintegrentur, hoc nos ipsi facili coniectura assequi potestis.” Ferdinand II to the Hungarian Chamber. Vienna, October 17, 1623. ÖStA FHKA SUS APA Kt. 6. fol. 156.

14 Peez, “Die kleineren Angestellten,” 5–11, 16.

15 Takáts, “Kalauzok és kémek,” 167–68; Erdélyi, “A magyar hírszerző-szolgálat,” 51.

16 Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid, 83–86.

17 Hiller, “A ’Titkos Levelezők’,” 208–15; Hiller, “A Habsburg informátorhálózat,” 157–69.

18 Kerekes, “A Keleti,” 295–97.

19 Kerekes, “A császári tolmácsok,” 1202–18; Kerekes, “Kémek Konstantinápolyban,” 1227–57.

20 Kerekes, “Titkosszolgálat,” 105–28.

21 B. Szabó, “Gábor Bethlen’s,” 72–76.

22 His instructions included the following: “Doch aber daß die besoldung auf bayden örthern [viz. Belgrade and Sofia] sich nit höcher in allem, dan zumaist auff 500 Rtl. erströckhe.” ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 109. Konv. 1. fol. 58. Ferdinand II to Kurz. s. l. (Vienna?), s. d. (1624?).

23 Hiller, “A ’Titkos Levelezők’,” 211.

24 Girolammeo Grassi should not be confused with Francesco Crasso/Crassi/Grassi, who later became a spy as a doctor. On Dr. Grassi cf. footnote 48.

25 On Sturani cf. footnotes 90 and 91.

26 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 109. Konv. 3. fol. 41–43. Kurz’ Final Report to Ferdinand II. s. l. (Vienna?), s. d. (1624?).

27 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 109. Konv. 3. fol. 41–42. Kurz’ Final Report to Ferdinand II. s. l. (Vienna?), s. d. (1624?).

28 After the outbreak of the Long Turkish War, Althan became an active participant in Habsburg–Ottoman diplomatic relations. Hiller, Palatin Nikolaus Esterházy, 23, 26, 36; Molnár, “Végvár és rekatolizáció,” 142–46.

29 Brandl et al., “Kommunikation,” 126–27

30 Ibid., 129–30.

31 Tamás Kruppa also drew my attention to the problem. Cf. Kruppa, “Velence információs csatornái,” 97.

32 Brandl and Szabados, “A Janus-arcú diplomata,” 85–92, 94–102.

33 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 110. Konv. 3. fol. 15. Lustrier to Ferdinand II, Constantinople, January 10, 1626.

34 Brandl et al., “Kommunikation,” 119–21.

35 For Kuefstein, see: Brandl and Szabados, “The Burden of Authority,” 63–80.

36 Kuefstein was authorized to reorganize the system by the president of the Aulic War Council, Rambaldo Collalto (1624–1630). Cf. ELTE EKL G4 Tom. IV. fol. 188. Schmid to Kuefstein, Prague, March 11, 1628.

37 Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid, 101–13; Cziráki, “’Mein gueter, väterlicher Maister’,” passim.; Starzer only had the title of an agent. Cf. Szabados, Die Karriere, 42.

38 Brandl and Szabados, “The Burden of Authority,” 77.

39 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 112. Konv. Varia 1629–1630. fol. 30, 31, 32. Contracts with Vlatchy/Vlatky, Cavalcanti and Orsini. Belgrade, October 17, 1628.

40 Some letters came into Kuefstein’s possession months after they were written. This reveals how slow the process of delivering the letters had become. ELTE EKL G4 Tom. V. pag. 975–78, 981–86, 987–1001. Miklós Esterházy to Kuefstein. Kismarton (Eisenstadt, Austria), January 31, 1629, Ferdinand II to Kuefstein. Vienna, April 20, 1629, Péter Koháry to Ferdinand II, s. l. s. d. (1629). According to Kuefsteins’s notes, these letters came into his possession at the end of May.

41 For Orsini, see Brandl and Szabados, “A Janus-arcú diplomata,” 91.

42 ELTE EKL G4 Tom V. pag. 1343, 1345. Contract with Vukovicz (Vuković). s. l. (Sofia), September 10, 1629, Kuefstein to Schmid, Sofia, September 10, 1629.

43 “das dieser Mann [d. h. Vlatchi] nicht allein zu fortbringung der brieff tauglich, sondern viel mehr wegen großer devotion gegen Eure Kaiserliche Majestät unnd dero Höchlöblichen Hause guete vernunfft wissenschafft des Türckischen Reichs unndt ansehen bey der Ragußischen Nation gehaimbe avisi zu geben, unndt khünfftig Eure Kaiserliche Majestät zu einem türggen krieg sich resolviren sollten, mit haimblichen machinationibus, unnd dergleichen nuzbahre servitiae laisten, auch viel andere darzue bewegen khönte unnd würde.” ÖStA FHKA SUS RA Kt. 302 (Fasc. 185A) fol. 305. Kuefstein to Ferdinand II, s. l. (Vienna?/Komárom?), s. d. (1629). This case was thus an exception rather than the type described by István Hiller. Cf. Hiller, “A ’Titkos Levelezők’,” 210–11.

44 János Papp to Ferdinand II. Komárom, s. d. (1630) ÖStA FHKA HFU Kt. 339. fol. 245, 247.

45 Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid, 80–82; Hamilton, “Michel d’Asquier,” 237–40.

46 ÖStA FHKA SUS RA Kt. 314 (Fasz. 186) fol. 266–69. Schmid’s expert opinion about the “Secret Correspondence.” Vienna, s. d. (1646). About the route via Transylvania, see “Unter datum 23. und letzten jüngst verwichnen Maii durch Siebenbürgen…” ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 115. Konv. 2. fol. 69. Schmid to Ferdinand II. Constantinople, June 5, 1641.

47 István Hiller confused Fransesco Grassi with Grirolammeo Grassi, but the two were not the same person. According to the secondary literature, Francesco Crasso, of Ragusan origin, was the same person as Dr. Grassi, who was recruited by Schmid. Cf. Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid, 88–89; Hiller, “A ’Titkos Levelezők’,” 211–12; Molnár, “Egy katolikus misszionárius,” 249; Molnár, Katolikus missziók, 189, 275, 278; Rota, “The Death,” 58–63.

48 Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid, 186, 188; Hiller, “A ’Titkos Levelezők’,” 212.

49 Szabados, Die Karriere, 65.

50 Hiller, “Javaslat,” 183–84.

51 Czigány, “The 1644–1645 Campaign,” 87–111.

52 Eickhoff, Venedig, Wien, 17–48; Setton, Venice, Austria, 104–36.

53 On his subject see Würflinger, “Der Balkan,” 69–74.

54 Würflinger, “Der Balkan,” 73.

55 See Cziráki, “Ambassador or Rogue,” 128–45.

56 Kármán, “Grand Dragoman,” 11, 18.

57 Szabados, “A 17. századi Habsburg-hírszerzés,” 81–89; Szabados, “A Rákócziak Erdélye,” 784–85, 787–809; Die Karriere, 35–143 passim.

58 Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid, 117–21; Cziráki, “Making Decisions,” 92–93; Cziráki, “Habsburg–Oszmán,” 847–66.

59 Cziráki, “Habsburg–Oszmán,” 856–71.

60 Schmid’s final report about his mission. Vienna, October 24, 1649. Brunner, Würflinger, “Die Internuntiatur.”

61 Schmid’s final report about his mission. Vienna, October 11, 1649. Brunner, Würflinger, “Die Internuntiatur.”

62 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 121. Konv. 1. fol. 58–59. Schmid to Ferdinand III. Constantinople, April 30, 1649; See: Fundárková, Ein ungarischer Aristokrat, LXIV; Szabados, Habsburg–Ottoman,” 130, 132; Kármán, Confession and Politics, 192.

63 Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid, 121–29.

64 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 124. Konv. 3. fol. 7, 20, 24, 91v. Schmid’s final report. Vienna, June 10, 1651.

65 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 124. Konv. 4. fol. 12–13. Schmid’s expert opinion. Vienna, June 8, 1651.

66 Szabados, “Habsburg–Ottoman,” 129–34.

67 Szabados, Die Karriere, 92.

68 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 126. Konv. 3. fol. 65. Reniger to Schmid. Constantinople, April 9, 1654.

69 Szabados, Die Karriere, 93–94; Kármán, Confession and Politics, 192–93.

70 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 126. Konv. 1. fol. 17–18, 136–43, 194–95. Scogardi to Schmid, Constantinople, February 10, June 1, and June 26, 1653.

71 Gévay, A budai pasák, 40.

72 Szabados, “A 17. századi Habsburg-hírszerzés,” 85–87; Szabados, “A Rákócziak Erdélye,” 791–96.

73 Gévay, A budai pasák, 41.

74 Szabados, Die Karriere, 106.

75 Ibid., 105–6.

76 Ibid., 108–12.

77 B. Szabó, Erdély tragédiája, 51–243; Kolçak, “A Transylvanian Ruler.”

78 On the circumstances and consequences, see Szabados, “’...egyiket megsértvén…’,” 1, 259–76 passim, 2, 571–87 passim.

79 Szabados, Die Karriere, 129–31.

80 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 129. Konv. 1. fol. 1. Reniger to Leopold I. Constantinople, January 1, 1658; On difficulties in communication, see Szabados, “’...egyiket megsértvén…’,” 2, 571–87 passim.

81 Szabados, “A 17. századi Habsburg-hírszerzés,” 88–89; Szabados, “A Rákócziak Erdélye,” 801–9.

82 Once, Antonio Schumizza, who was in charge of organizing the forwarding of letters, simply stated that he would deliver the documents to Venice if he did not receive his regular payment. ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 112. Konv. 6. fol. 57. Schmid to the Aulic War Council. Constantinople, April 30, 1633.

83 Hiller, “A tolmácsper.” 147–54; Presumably, he was distrustful of Tudisi, too. Cf. Brandl and Szabados, “A Janus-arcú diplomata,” 91–92.

84 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 113. Bd. 2. fol. 352–353. Puchheim to Schmid. Buda(?), s. d. 1634.

85 Würflinger, “Der Balkan,” 72–73.

86 For the status and diplomatic role of Ragusa, see: Kunčević, “Janus-faced Sovereignty,” 92–121.

87 Szabados, Die Karriere, 82–84.

88 “Dem Bagio di Simone handelßman von Ragusa zu Griechischen Weissenburg wanhafft einen freyen paß 100 seck wohl herauf zu bringen, außferttigen lassen.” ÖStA KA HKR Prot. Bd. 304. 1651. Reg. fol. 89. Nr. 24. HKR to the Court Chamber. Vienna, 12 June 1651.

89 Szabados, Die Karriere, 92.

90 ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 126. Konv. 1. fol. 162. Reniger to Ferdinand III. Constantinople, June 8, 1653.; ÖStA HHStA Türkei I. Kt. 126. Konv. 2. fol. 3. Reniger to Schmid. Constantinople, July 12, 1653.

91 Szabados, Die Karriere, 106.

92 ÖStA KA HKR Prot. Bd. 313. 1656. Anw. Exp. fol. 518. Nr. 105. Privy and Deputy Councilors in Vienna to HKR. Vienna, 16 September 1656; ÖStA FHKA SUS RA Kt. 305. (Fasz. 187A) fol. 199. HKR to Court Chamber. Vienna, February 9, 1657.

93 Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid, 88–89; Molnár, Katolikus missziók, 189, 205; Miović, “Diplomatic Relations,” 192.

94 Hiller, “A ’Titkos Levelezők’,” 212.

95 Meienberger, Johann Rudolf Schmid,.186, 188; Rota, “The Death,” 57–63; Luca, “The Professional Elite,” 148–56.

96 Luca, “The Professional Elite,” 150.

97 Sturani visited Rome in 1626. He later became a spy commissioned with forwarding letters, and in the 1630s he continued his intelligence activity from Kraków. Molnár, Katolikus missziók, 213; ÖStA HHStA Polen I. Kt. 57. Konv. V, VI passim, Kt. 58. Konv. VII, VIII passim. Reports of Sturani an Arnoldius. Kraków, May, June, July, August 1635.

98 Cziráki, “Making Decisions,” 94–97; Cziráki, “Habsburg–oszmán,” 851–66.

99 Cziráki, “’Mein gueter…’,” 69–72.

100 Michel d’Asquier to the Aulic War Council. s. l. (Vienna?), s. d. (1632?). ÖStA FHKA RA Kt. 302 (Fasz. 185A) fol. 389.

101 Szabados, Die Karriere, 95–103, esp. 108–9.

102 Szabados, “A Rákócziak Erdélye,” 805–9.

103 Szabados, “A 17. századi Habsburg-hírszerzés,” 88; Hans Caspar explained to Dr. Metzger that Rákóczi had offered him the sum of 1,000 thalers, but he had refused to accept it. “Zum beschluß soll Eurer Fürstlichen Gnade ich unangezeigter nit laßen, daß der Hussein cziauss sich sehr beclagt und khein lust mehr habe, ichtes zu avisiern, weil man ihme schon so lange zeit nichts geschickht. Der Ragozi habe ihm 1.000 tl. versprochen, mit ihme zu correspondiren. Er habe es aber nit annemben wollen.” Dr. Metzger to Annibale Gonzaga. Túriszakállas (Sokolce, present-day Slovakia), July 16, 1658. Szabados, “Adalélok,” 309.

* This article has been written within the framework of the work of the HUN-REN–SZTE Research Group of the Ottoman Age (between 2017 and 2022 MTA–SZTE Research Group of the Ottoman Age and between 2022 and September 2023 ELKH–SZTE Research Group of the Ottoman Age). This project has received funding from the HUN-REN Hungarian Research Network.

 

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