(See Cover)
At the Monastery of the Mountain of Light in Czestochowa, early last week, the arm of the priest who stands to the left of the doorway, dips his little broom in a can of holy water, and dexterously swishes precious spray over the pilgrims, bestowing virtue on the devout but not wasting a drop, grew tired. Thousands of grim, black-clad peasants who had been living on potatoes and pickles, hundreds of gayly costumed villagers, a few colonels in uniform, and counts in Bond Street tweeds, were flocking to Poland's holiest shrine to pray to Regina Regni Poloniae, the "Black Madonna" with the sabre cuts in her cheek. Their monotonously repeated prayer: "Theotokos, Mother of God, thanks to thee the wheat is in. But let it not be wasted; let there be no war."
The devout in Warsaw went to mass. A few hours later they flocked to an international soccer match, were well pleased to see the Poles whip the Hungarians, 4-to-2. In bright red trolleys still carrying advertisements of German products, they rode to see Shirley Temple in The Little Princess. They bought lottery tickets in the tobacco shops. The best people still went to lunch at 2:30 and dragged it out until 6, sipped Kimmel at the streamlined Cafe Adria, laughed heartily over Geneva, a play by brash old Bernard Shaw about three dictators named Herr Battler, Signer Bombardone and General Flanco.
Even at the grim work of preparation, the Poles maintained an outward calm. To the Army, of which every Pole was proud, would fall the job of defending frontiers and stopping battalions. To the people fell the job of protecting themselves against bombs, gas, dissension, terrorism, discouragement. They did it magnificently:
>Men, women, children of all walks of life took spades in hand and dug 13 miles of zigzag trenches in parks, playgrounds, lawns, vacant lots. The rich rode in limousines to shady Lazienki Park, were bowed out by chauffeurs, pitched in until soft hands were raw. Men went straight from shops and offices to dig by night. Musicians' guilds and actors' associations were given schedules for digging. Alexandra Pilsudska, widow of Poland's great Josef Pilsudski, broke ground. The Mayor of Warsaw dug, and so did Premier Slawoj Skladkowski, right in his own front yard (he directed workers to dig in the lawn, avoiding the flower beds).
>Some 300,000 women and children were sent to the interior from Warsaw. But many women stayed in harness, 20,000 joined an organization called W. P. K. Its founder, Maria Wittek, fought in the World War in the Polish Legion and against the Bolsheviks under Marshal Pilsudski. He later gave her special permission to study in the military officers' college. She holds a rank in the regular army, is Inspectorette of the W. P. K. Her followers, in pleated blue skirts, khaki shirts, blue Sam Browne belts and berets, were last week taking over jobs as guards, drivers, messengers, signalers, nurses.