At a secret session of the Cominform in Sofia last month, Communist leaders spent an entire day discussing Josef Cardinal Mindszenty, 56, Prince Primate of Hungary. The decision to arrest him had already been made; it remained to concoct just the right charges.
A charge of black-market currency speculation would anger anyone living in black-market-ridden countries behind the Iron Curtain. Sabotage of Hungarian land reform? That should go down well with the British socialists, who approve of land reform. Conspiracy with the Habsburgs? That was a brilliant idea; it would arouse the antimonarchist elements in the U.S. Conspiracy with the U.S.? That was just as good; it would arouse anti-U.S. elements in Europe. Eventually all the Communist delegates agreed on a draft bill of particulars against Mindszenty.
A Buried Box. In Budapest, the cardinal soon learned of what had been decided during the Cominform's busy day. He began to prepare for his arrest. In a stern farewell message to the clergy, he recalled that he had been lenient with the Catholic laity in giving absolution in cases where wrongdoing had resulted from Communist pressure; he warned that there must be no backsliding on the part of the clergy: "I have eased the conscience of the faithful; naturally this does not apply to a single priest, monk or nun."
On the night after Christmas, as the police convoy approached the cardinal's residence, he scribbled a hasty postscript on the envelope that held his message. He warned his fellow priests to be skeptical if they heard that he had resigned, or had "confessed." Even if they were shown his authentic signature on a confession, they should consider his signing as the result of "human frailty," i.e., the result of his inability to withstand Communist torture.
Then he withdrew to his chambers to pray. There, the police arrested him. They had been careful to come at night, to avoid the repetition of a memorable scene, just four years ago, when Mindszenty was being arrested by Hungarian fascists. At that time he refused to be driven off in a police car. He donned his robes, and, followed by 20 priests, walked to prison in broad daylight, blessing the people who lined the streets kneeling in prayer.
This time, the more efficient Communist police gave him barely time to kiss his weeping, 85-year-old mother goodbye. Quietly, he said: "Very well," and quietly entered the waiting police car, rosary in hand. Sticking closely to the Sofia decisions, the government announced that Mindszenty was being held incommunicado on suspicion of "treason, attempting to overthrow the democratic regime, espionage and foreign currency abuses." The Communists gave out a long list of incriminating documents said to have been found in "a metal box buried in a cellar in the cardinal's palace."
1,500 Pairs of Underwear. Communist newspapers took up the hue & cry, screamed that Mindszenty's reputation as an anti-Nazi was unmerited, that he had been "a notorious anti-Semite." Climax of this farrago was the charge that the Nazis had arrested Mindszenty only because he refused to give up his hoarded "1,500 pairs of underwear."