AA-1025

Memoirs of the Communist Infiltration into the Church

Marie Carre

• Publisher: TAN Books
• Year: 1972
• eBook ISBN: 9780895559722
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Christian Denominations

Absorbing and compelling reading from beginning to end, AA -1025 Memoirs of the Communist Infiltration Into the Church is a must read for every Catholic today and for all who would understand just what has happened to the Catholic Church since the 1960's. In the 1960's, a French nurse, Marie Carre, attended an auto-crash victim who was brought into her hospital in a city she purposely does not name. The man lingered there near death for a few hours and then died. He had no identification on him, but he had a briefcase in which there was a set of quasi-autobiographical notes. She kept these notes and read them, and because of their extraordinary content, decided to publish them. The result is this little book, AA-1025 Memoirs of the Communist Infiltration Into the Church, a strange and fascinating account of a Communist who purposely entered the Catholic priesthood along with many others, with the intent to subvert and destroy the Church from within. His strange yet fascinating and illuminating set of biographical notes, tells of his commission to enter the priesthood, his experiences in the seminary, and the means and methods he used and promoted to help effect from within the auto-dissolution of the Catholic Church. No one will read this book without a profound assent that something just like what is describer here must surely have happened on a wide scale in order to have disrupted the life of the Catholic Church so dramatically.

CHAPTER 1

HOW THE MAN WITHOUT A NAME IS WILLING
TO REVEAL THE GREATEST MYSTERY OF HIS LIFE

I ask myself why I feel like writing my memoirs. It is rather strange. I believe that I write them because I do so every night in my dreams, whence a kind of complicity that forces me, I imagine, to continue during the daytime. But it matters not; no one will ever read them; I will destroy them in due time.

I am the man without a name, the man without a family, without a country and without heritage. I am one of those people whom bourgeois and bureaucrats despise. On account of this and of those who have wanted to be good to me, I have suffered stupidly. If only I had known what happiness would come from it! But I was too young to guess that from misfortune can spring up “rockets and suns.”

I was at first the small boy without a name. I seemed to be three years old. I was crying and dragging myself on a Polish road. This was in 1920. Therefore, I can safely presume that I was born in 1917. But where and from whom? It seems that I could scarcely speak, that my Polish was very poor and my Russian still worse. I did not appear to understand German. Who was I? I could not even say my name any more. For, after all, I had had a name and I had answered to the call of my name. Hereafter, I will have to be content with the name chosen by my adoptive parents.

Even today, after fifty years, a wave of anger, although much lessened, crosses my heart every time that I recall Doctor and Mrs. X—. They were good, they were generous, they were magnanimous. They had no child and they adopted me. They loved me more, I believe, than a child of their own. They loved me, because I had dragged them out of the despair in which sterility had plunged them.

I believe that they considered me as a gift from Heaven. For they had such a strong piety that they referred to God all that happened to them. Of course, they taught me, as if it were a game, to do likewise. Their virtue was so great that I never heard them speak ill about anyone.

At the time they found me, crying alone on a road, they were still young, about 35 years of age.

They were very good-looking and I was quickly sensitive to the almost exaggerated love that united them. When they looked at each other, then kissed, a pleasant feeling plunged me into delight. They were my father and my mother and I would say these possessive adjectives with a very juvenile ardor. My mother, especially, showed me such excessive love that I should have become unbearable. I do not know why it was not so. I was naturally calm and studious. I gave them no trouble. Not that I was girlish. I could fight quite well. To fight, it is not necessary to be violent or to be endowed with a bad character. My parents, especially my mother, thought that I had a good character, but they did not notice that, by a happy coincidence, my will agreed with theirs. I was very ambitious, and they approved of it. A boy does not ask for anything more.

In the year that I became fourteen years old, since I had achieved much success in my studies, it was decided that we would visit Rome and Paris. I was so happy that I tried to sleep less and less. Sleep seemed lost time to me, and I wanted to prepare for this trip. I read up on these two cities in advance, so to say.

One night, when my eyelids refused to obey me and to stay open, I imagined that my father must have some kind of medicine to keep sleep away. So I tiptoed to the parlor. They were in the adjoining room and were talking about me. They were worried about my passport, saying that I was not their son.

It was like a thunderbolt, do you know? At least that is what novelists say in like circumstances. But, I say that it is still worse and that human language simply has no word to express such abomination. And the pain that begins at that moment has the particularity of being immeasurable and as small as a newborn baby. Like a baby, it will grow and become stronger, but its victim is unaware of it.

I would have wished to die, and my heart seemed to go that way. How fast my heart beat while all the rest of myself seemed to be transformed into granite! When my heart came back to its normal pulse, I could again move. My body ached from head to toe. I did not know pain; that is why its first visit seized me completely and it took command of my life for a certain time. My pain urged me to leave, and I did so at once, without bringing anything with me. I would even have liked to leave naked, so as to owe nothing to those people.

For surely they were and are always “those people.” The hatred that I feel for them matches the love that they showed me. For they always lied to me, even if they really loved me. That I will never forgive them for; I forgive nothing, by principle. If I were logical, I would be grateful to them. It is thanks to them if I am today one of the most redoubtable secret agents. I have become God’s personal enemy, the one who has decided to have taught and proclaimed in the whole world the death of a God who in fact has never existed.

My pain urged me to run as far as Vladivostock. And I started out. But after a few thousand minutes, although I was a husky boy, I had to lean against a wall to regain my breath. The wall became a cloud to me, and I slid to the ground, stunned; at the same time, a far-off voice was saying, “Oh, he is a poor boy!”

I turned around with the intention of strangling the woman trying to show me some kind of maternalism.

My homicidal project was checked by disgust. I would never touch, even with the tips of my fingers, the skin of such a hideous person. I tried to speak, but I choked. Two women were trying to make me drink alcohol. I spat it out and immediately fell asleep. Broad daylight woke me up. A woman sitting at the foot of my bed was looking at me. Thence she had carried me. She might have been the same woman, but she no longer had make-up on her face. I said to her: “You are less disgusting than you were last night.” She answered calmly, “Than the day before yesterday.” That was why I was so hungry. I asked for something to eat, because women are destined to feed men. Might as well let her know at once that I would ask nothing else of her. I must say that she brought me heaps of good things.

I was beginning to soften when she said to me, “You have run away from home. You are ‘so and so.’ ” I answered nothing, waiting for what was to come next. She added, “I can help you to cross into Russia.” “How do you know that I wish to go to Russia?” “You spoke in your sleep.” “So that is how you have learned my name?” “No. It was in the newspaper. Your parents beg you to return. They promise not to scold you.” “I have no parents.”

She must have understood that I had decided not to return because she said, “I have relatives in Russia. I can help you, help you to cross the border.”

It was like a flash of light for me. So I asked her if she would agree to carry a letter to a comrade of mine, who would return from class at noontime. She seemed pleased to be able to do something for me. I prepared a short note in code. Happily, we had this habit to amuse ourselves and no one ever knew anything about it. In this dramatic circumstance, I could therefore make use of what had seemed to be just play for us. The pal in question was rich, and his parents were spoiling him outrageously by giving him much more money than he needed. I hoped that on this day he had some substantial savings destined to buy something completely useless. I knew that the friendship he felt for me—I mean that we felt for one another—would pass before anything else and that he would send me all the money that he could spare, all the more so because I did not hide from him my intention of crossing secretly into Russia, a country that he admired for its audacity. In fact, as he did not get along well with his father, he preferred Russia, his mother’s country; and I knew that, although he envied me, he would have died rather than admit that he had some information about my running away. I even remembered that an uncle of his was a civil servant, at Leningrad, I believe. I asked him the address of this uncle and a word of recommendation. At the moment the woman was about to leave, I quickly added a post-scriptum, saying, “I want to enter the Party and to become someone great in the Party.” It was to be my vengeance. The woman waited in front of my friend’s door until he would return from school. She was lucky, because that day he returned at two p.m.

My friend recognized her and gave her a parcel. It contained a long coded letter for me, a letter in regular wording for the uncle, and a nice bundle of money. A real good guy!

I will not divulge, for reasons easily guessed, how I came to pass the border and to end up at Leningrad.

But, on the other hand, my first visit to the Uncle had something of an unforgettable character, since I know it by heart and I amuse myself at reliving it periodically.

I ignored what position the Uncle occupied in the Russian administration, but I decided to be frank with him.

If I wanted to reach the rank that I had set for myself, I thought it better to play the game of frankness with this unique man.

I think that he understood me very well at this very first visit and that I pleased him.

The Uncle told me that I would have to study first of all the doctrine of the Party and languages.

All would depend on the quality of my studies. I answered that in everything I would always be first, and that I would soon know more than my professors.

It is agreeable to have someone with whom you can show your true self. He was the only one. I told him so. He was flattered, although he answered me with a slightly ironical smile.

At that moment, I undoubtedly was stronger than he, and I felt a wave of joy invading me, the first since I had run away. It did not last long, but it seemed to me a good omen, just the same.

I studied ferociously for six years. My two only joys were my trimestrial visit to the Uncle and my hatred for God, with the certainty of becoming the unquestioned Chief of Universal Atheism.

CHAPTER 2

HOW WE DISCOVER THAT MISFORTUNE WORKS
TO FORTIFY HUMAN BEINGS

The Uncle was my sole friend, the only man who truly knew me. For all others, I wished to be insignificant and I easily succeeded.

Women did not interest me; I even had a certain aversion for them and, as a consequence, for the idiots who love them too much. My determination to learn the maximum was greatly helped by an astonishing memory. After reading a book attentively, I knew it by heart, even if it were written in a pretentious style. But I also had the faculty of retaining only what was worthwhile. My distinctly superior intelligence would retain only the valuable ideas, and I knew how to criticize even the greatest professors. My liking for atheistic doctrines, which are the basis and foundation of the Party, exalted my zeal, which was unbounded.

At the end of six years of arduous studies, the Uncle summoned me one evening to his office. Until then, he had received me at his home.

On that day, I noticed that he was really a high police officer, as I had always supposed him to be.

He made me a tough proposal, capable, he thought, of upsetting me. He said to me: “I am now going to send you to practice a militant and international atheism. You will have to fight all religions, but principally the Catholic, which is better organized. To do so, you will enter a seminary and become a Roman Catholic priest.”

A moment of silence—during which I let joy pervade me while I kept an appearance of total indifference—was my only answer. The Uncle was satisfied and he did not hide it. With the same calm, he continued: “To be able to enter a seminary, you will have to return to Poland, reconcile yourself with your adoptive family, and present yourself to the bishop.” I had a short feeling of revolt. Since the beginning of my connections with the Uncle, it was the first time that I did not master myself. He seemed to be satisfied and amused by it. “So,” he said, “you are not totally made of marble.” This reflection made me furious, and I answered dryly, “I am and I shall remain so whatever happens.”

The Uncle seemed to be relaxed and even amused, as if my career, my vocation, my future (and therefore that of the Party) did not depend upon the decisions taken on this day.

He added: “Marble is a beautiful thing, of primordial use for one who wishes to become a secret agent, but on this occasion it is necessary that you show to your family the greatest affection.” I felt like a coward and asked in a pitiful tone, “During six years of seminary?” He answered me with the harshness shown toward the guilty: “And if I said yes, what would you answer?” It was easy for me to reply that I would submit, and I was surprised to feel more witty than he. He kept on smiling and said to me: “Yes, you were not able to hide that you thought me to be an idiot who was naively showing his hand.” I turned red, something that never happens to me. He added: “A secret agent has no blood in his veins, no heart, loves no one, not even himself. He is the thing of the Party, which will devour him alive and without warning. Keep this well in mind, that wherever you will be, we will watch you and get rid of you at your first imprudence. It is to be well understood that if you are in danger, even without its being your fault, you must not rely upon us. You will be disavowed.” I answered: “I know all that, but I never hid from you the hatred that I feel for them.” “Hatred, except the hatred of God, at Lenin’s example, does not enter into our services,” he replied. “I need you to be accepted by a true bishop of your native country, Poland. But, we do not intend to have you pursue your religious studies in that country. No, you will be sent to a country across the Atlantic, but this is confidential, and you will simulate surprise when you receive that order. Yes, we are led to fear a European war with that fool who rules Germany. Therefore, it seems wiser to have you study somewhere else, Canada, for example. We have another motive also; it is that European Seminaries are much more strict than those of America.”

I made an imperceptible gesture of protest, which was immediately detected. The Uncle kept on saying: “I know that you could endure six years of very strict seminary life without ever going out, but that is not the point. We need to have you learn what is going on in the world, and it is wise to be able to speak to the world in order to make it lose its faith, and it is to be understood, without ever being suspected. It would be of no avail to send young men to seminaries if they got caught. No, you will remain a priest until death, and you will behave as a faithful and chaste priest. Anyway, I know you, you are an intellectual.” Then, he gave me a few precisions on the operation of the service into which I was going to enter and at the head of which ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• chapter 1: How the Man Without a Name is Willing to Reveal the Greatest Mystery of His Life
• chapter 2: How We Discover that Misfortune Works to Fortify Human Beings
• chapter 3: How Pride is Exalted as a Dominant and Superb Quality
• chapter 4: How the Art of Playing the Comedy of Modesty Meets with a Perfectly Humble Obstacle
• chapter 5: How an Ambitious Anti-Christian Program Leads First to Assassination
• chapter 6: How the Anti-Apostle Effectively Begins His Work and Feels a Very Special Hatred for the Cassock
• chapter 7: How the Hero Tries to Test the Secret of Confession
• chapter 8: How the Ambitious One Who Thought Himself Stronger Than All Meets “Raven Hair” and Fears His First Weakness
• chapter 9: How an Anti-religious Zeal Would Like to Drag “Raven Hair” in Its Wake
• chapter 10: How a Simple Medal is Allowed to Play a Part as if It Had Some Kind of Right over the Men Whom It Encounters
• chapter 11: How the Destructive Work Seems to Make Great Progress although It Runs against Ridiculously Childish Obstacles
• chapter 12: The Catechism of the Year 2000 and a Poor but Zealous Student
• chapter 13: How the Apostles’ Creed and the Seven Sacraments are Severely Censured
• chapter 14: How a Universal Church Should Sing the Glory of Man
• chapter 15: How “Raven Hair” Writes a Letter Worthy of Medieval and Romantic Obscurantism
• chapter 16: How the Sacrifice of a Dear Friend Seems to Be Drowned in a Torrent Which Is about to Renovate the Face of the Church