Cracow was plunged into mourning this weekend with the news of the passing of Pope John Paul II. The city had been braced for the news since Friday morning when the Vatican announced that the Pontiff's condition had deteriorated. However, whilst the final announcement on Saturday night may have been long-expected, the outpouring of grief was on a scale that has not been seen for decades. This is hardly surprising, as of all the great Poles of the twentieth century, from Marshal Pilsudski to Cardinal Wyszynski, it is likely that none will remain as cherished as Karol Wojtyla, the young boy from Wadowice who went on to become not simply the first Polish Pope, but also, in many historians eyes, the key figure in triggering the collapse of the Iron Curtain.
Tearful faces were to be found throughout Cracow this Sunday. Mass vigils had been held outside the Archbishop's Palace for two consecutive nights, with several thousand souls gathering to pray for their Pope. Archbishop Macharski, a close personal friend of the departed hero and himself now an ailing man, stood with the crowds in the evening chill awaiting the news from Rome. Hymns rippled through the crowds, and once again that spirit of solidarity which had blossomed in the wake of the Pope's election - and which directly spawned the Solidarity protest movement itself - united Poles in a spirit of transcendence.
Having lived in Cracow for over thirty years, the Pope was seen by the Cracovians as one of their own. He was secretly trained as a priest here during the terror of the Nazi Occupation, and in 1949 he took the reins of his first Cracovian parish, at a time when the Communists were doing their best to cripple the Church. For fifteen years he served as Archbishop of Cracow, when the Church successfully led the path of the shepherd of the nation through the oppressive era of totalitarian rule.
Emotions have been high in Cracow throughout the last few days, yet several moments stand out as especially poignant.
Shortly after the dreaded news broke on Saturday night, thousands knelt in unison during a mass outside the Archbishops palace.
The following morning at midday, tens of thousands more gathered in groups across the city - and across Poland - for a silent tribute to the fallen hero.
On Cracow's Main Market Square, the several hundred year old tradition of the hourly bugle call was replaced by a longer lament. After the clock had struck twelve over the silent square (which was packed to the brim with mourners) the trumpet call began. As usual, it came from the highest tower of the medieval basilica of St. Mary's. However, this time the tune was a different lament, 'The Tears of The Holy Mother', played by a trio of trumpeters. As the mourners own tears swelled, all hands joined across the plaza.
Later that night, Cardinal Marcharski called Cracovians to prayer on Blonia, the expansive common that lies on the city's western fringe. It was here that the Pope had made his first electrifying speech after returning to Cracow in the wake of his election to the Papacy in 1978. Now, 26 years on, tens of thousands were holding candles aloft in tribute to their beloved Pope. When the time came to return home, they left their candles where they had stood, and a carpet of coloured lights flickered on through the night.
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