On the night of April 2nd last year, shortly before 10 o'clock, I was sitting on a bus in Lublin, the biggest city in eastern Poland, on my way to my girlfriend's flat. It was a Saturday night and we were planning to watch a film downloaded from the internet, a common pastime among the cash-strapped youth of Poland. Suddenly, church bells began to peal through the quiet spring night. I knew what had happened: Pope John Paul II had died. The moment of his death was later given as 9.37pm, Polish time.
Through the bus windows I could see people leaving their apartments to make their way to the nearest church. I arrived at my girlfriend's flat at about 10.30pm. She had tears streaming down her face. In silence she got her coat and we joined the droves of people heading for the local church. It was already crowded. Many people didn't even bother trying to get in, but stood outside, their tear-stained faces bowed in silence. Inside, people knelt wherever a patch of floor presented itself. Hymns were sung, prayers were said and a priest spoke briefly.
Having knelt on the cold stone church floor to the point of discomfort, we got up to leave, making space for the hordes of others continuing to stream into the building. This steady flow of people into and out of church was repeated right across Poland as people interrupted their usual Saturday night routine to mourn the passing of a cultural, national and religious icon.
Back in my girlfriend's flat every TV station seemed to be playing footage of the visits John Paul made to his homeland during his papacy. One scene in particular illustrated the relationship between the Pope and his compatriots. The ailing pontiff was addressing a crowd gathered to greet him in the town square of Wadowice, Karol Wojtyla's birthplace about 50km south-west of Krakow. Pointing an unsteady finger, the Pope told the crowd: "That's where I went to school, that's where I attended Mass and that's where I used to eat kremówki." The latter reference was to the creamy custard cakes which, as every Pole can tell you, were the Pope's favourite. The message seemed to be: I'm one of you, an ordinary Pole - and by choosing me God has chosen all Poles. The crowd erupted spontaneously into cries of "Sto lat", the Polish equivalent of For He's a Jolly Good Fellow, whose words mean literally: "May you live to be a hundred". "Easier sung than done, " the Pope quipped, his sharp sense of humour contrasting with his physical frailty. In the days between the Pope's death and his funeral on the following Friday Poland was in unbroken mourning. Flags were lowered, many cinemas, theatres and discos closed, religious goods shops sold out of papal flags and pictures of the Polish Pope and there was a constant stream of people in and out of churches.
A picture of John Paul was placed above the main entrance of the Catholic University of Lublin (KUL) and below it a caption reading ". . .but his spirit is with us". On the Monday after the Pope's death the university authorities announced that KUL's name would be changed to the John Paul II Catholic University of Lublin. This change came into effect on October 16th last, the anniversary of Karol Wojtyla's election as Pope in 1978, known and celebrated in Poland as Papal Day.
Karol Wojtyla taught at KUL from 1954 on and became professor of ethics in the university's philosophy department, a position he held until he became Pope. The John Paul II Institute was established there in 1982 to research the ideas and works of the pontiff and a statue of the Holy Father was erected in the university courtyard in 1983. Immediately after his death heaps of flowers and clusters of candles were placed at the foot of this monument and in the days leading up to the funeral students, as well as inhabitants of the city of Lublin, maintained a near-constant vigil there.
Given the importance to Poles of John Paul II it is not surprising about a million or so travelled to Rome for his funeral. Only a tiny minority flew, with most going by car or in special buses and trains. For those who remained in Poland there were also things to do. On Thursday morning, the day before the funeral, I received a text message from an unknown number. "Lublin is saying goodbye to the Pope on Thursday at 8pm on John-Paul II Street. We will illuminate it with millions of candles. Send this message to everyone you know."
Everyone certainly seemed to have got the message. On Thursday night the road in question, a dual carriageway a couple of kilometres long, was lit up from end to end by an unbroken line of candles. Thousands gathered to pray and sing, massing around the Church of the Holy Family, one of the places where the Pope celebrated Mass during his 1987 visit to Lublin.
On the day of the funeral itself Lublin shut down. Crowds gathered in Castle Square to stand and watch the funeral broadcast live on giant screens. I saw no one showing any tiredness, boredom or desire to be seated during the almost three-hour funeral mass. Some were unable to hold back tears as the coffin was being carried away towards its final resting place. Later that evening young people gathered in the same square to pray and sing songs such as Barka, the melodious favourite song of their beloved Pope. On May 18th, Poles celebrated John Paul's 85th birthday, even though he had been pronounced dead 40 days earlier.
It is no surprise, then, that special trains and buses are currently making their way from Poland to Rome, carrying pilgrims to John Paul's tomb, where they will mark the first anniversary of his death.