(2 of 3)
Closed Case. To the Katangese, that closed the case. "I forbid the United Nations to take positions in this matter,"said Munongo, adding by way of explanation that the U.N. had never concerned itself about Sacco and Vanzetti, the Rosenbergs, Caryl Chessman, Draja Mikhailovich or King Feisal. As for any J.K. investigation, Katanga President Moise Tshombe snapped: "I couldn't give a damn."
While the world outside burst into uproar, the Congo itself received the news with sluggish calm, as if Lumumba's death was to be expected. There was some scattered violence—but not the widely predicted blood bath. In Léopoldville, Lumumba fans rioted for a night, and somebody cut a man in half. In Bukavu, drunken Congolese soldiers seized a Roman Catholic priest, cut off his ears and then beheaded him.
The Congo's squabbling politicians seemed more concerned about the line of succession. Almost to a man they found at least qualified praise for the man they had fought. They called days of mourning and turned out for Requiem Masses.
Among the mourners: President Joseph Kasavubu's government, which observed a minute of silent tribute for "a sincere patriot who got involved with bad foreigners"—though it was the Kasavubu government that turned Lumumba over to Katanga after he got too hot to handle in the Thysville prison.
Success Unpredictable. Chief aspirant to Lumumba's mantle is Antoine Gizenga, 39, a onetime schoolteacher and an all-out proCommunist. Gizenga founded a small anticolonialist party in a Léopoldville saloon two years ago, later flitted off to Prague's Institute for African Studies. His party won 13 Parliament seats in last year's election. He tossed them to Lumumba, and Lumumba made him Vice Premier. Since shortly after his boss's arrest last December, Gizenga has run the show from the Eastern province river capital of Stanleyville (and to one recent visitor, he remarked that he saw "no reason for a change" even if Lumumba were released). He keeps Lumumba's younger brother Louis close by for prestige purposes, but his closest ties are to the Communists.
In disorderly Stanleyville, a city of about 130,000, the Congolese soldiers are so unpredictable in their loyalty that Gizenga has three times asked for U.N. protection from his own army. Jungle mold grows thick on factory walls, and unemployment is almost total. The troops and officials have drunk up the stocks of imported cognac at the best hotels and are now reduced to palm beer. Gasoline and munitions are in short supply.
Conditions are even worse in nearby Kivu province, where Lumumba's old Communist-lining Information Minister Anicet Kashamura took over as boss two months ago. On hearing of Lumumba's death, Gizenga sent soldiers to Kivu, where they arrested and beat up Kashamura. But pro-Kashamura troops then beat up the captors and released their man, leaving the situation confused and Lumumba's heirs bitterly split.