• Fine Arts Department

  • John Paul the Great Fine Arts Lecture Series

  • Kazimierz-Braun-large

    Kazimierz Braun

    The 2010 John Paul the Great Lecture
    "John Paul II At I Remember Him"

    March 5, 2010


    Full Text

    Inaugural Lecture

    Anathan Theatre
    Franciscan University of Steubenville

    March 5, 2010


    By Dr. Kazimierz Braun

    “You have gone, but through me you walk on,” penned Karol Wojtyła in his poem Redemption Seeks Your Form to Enter Man’s Anxiety, capturing the thoughts of Veronica, a good woman who rendered the merciful service of wiping Christ’s face on his way to crucifixion. This thought precisely and perfectly expresses my own thoughts since the passing away of John Paul II: he has gone, but he is still walking through me.

    Christ left Veronica the image of his face on the scarf that she used to alleviate his pain and exhaustion. It was Christ’s “sign of closeness,” as Karol Wojtyła writes in the same poem. He himself, Karol Wojtyła – John Paul II (nowadays we could safely say John Paul the Great) passing through this world left his own “signs of closeness” in the form of the immeasurable richness of both his spiritual and intellectual heritage. He left his prayers, thoughts, and teachings; his homilies, encyclicals, and apostolic letters; his poems and plays; and his personal example, actions, and even small gestures, such as kissing the ground wherever he stood on his pilgrim’s peregrinations. These riches are saved in books, documents, and albums, on photographs and computer disks. They penetrated human hearts and minds, became an integral part of the spiritual and cultural treasury of mankind. They are accessible. In ages to come, people will be able to draw from them spiritual energy, intellectual food, incentives for meditation, and direction for prayer. I have also profited from John Paul II's generous giving and I have my own—minute and modest—share in his legacy.

    I know that there are many scholars at Franciscan University of Steubenville who are excellent specialists on John Paul II. I would not dare to try to match their works. But having this opportunity to speak about him—an opportunity for which I am very grateful—I would like to share with you some of my personal recollections and impressions from the encounters with this great man and great saint.

    Why I dare to speak about Karol Wojtyła-John Paul II

    I had the undeserved privilege and providential grace of being a member of a group called Holy Linden (Święta Lipka) whose spiritual pastor and scholarly mentor was Bishop Professor Karol Wojtyła. The students and young faculty of the Catholic University of Lublin, Poland, made up the core of the group. I was studying theater directing in Warsaw at the time (my graduate studies) but I was invited to join Holy Linden by my sister, Maria (then a student at the Catholic University, now a professor at the same university, Dr. Maria Braun-Gałkowska), and some of my Warsaw friends, who were already members of the group.

    (I have to explain that Święta Lipka—Holy Linden—is the name of a monastery in the Mazovian Lakes region in northern Poland where the group was formed during a summer retreat in 1958.)

    Over the course of the years, the group had sporadic meetings—seminars, retreats, and vacations, including volley-ball playing, skiing, hiking or kayaking— with Bishop Wojtyła, the future Pope. My wife, Zofia, and I had already read and studied his book Love and Responsibility. In fact, we attempted to base our marriage upon it. I, personally, owed to him guidance and inspiration both as a director and a writer. Because of his own theater background he, probably, wanted to be a mentor to a young director. And I, knowing his theater background, was looking in a special way for his guidance.

    Theater background of Karol Wojtyła—the long view

    To understand Karol Wojtyła’s approach to theater, his own theater practice and his teaching about theater, we have at least very briefly (indeed—very briefly) to speak abut the history of Poland and Polish theater. So, only some major points:


    • The history of Poland as an identifiable, separate state is more then one thousand years old. Now it is precisely 1044 years.
    • The history of Christianity in Poland is also 1044 years old, because it was the acceptance of Christianity (acceptance from the West), which made Poland a state.
    • This state, Poland, was free and independent from 966 until 1795, when the Polish state collapsed because of an internal process of degeneration and, more importantly, because of the attacks of three neighbors—Russia, Prussia, and Austria. These three, based on absolutism, did not want to tolerate in their midst a democratic Poland. It would be worth while to think about the direct way leading from absolutism to totalitarianism in Russia and Prussia (which was, since 1871, Germany), because Poland was subjected first to the absolute regimes of these two empires (as well as the Austrian empire) and then to both Soviet and German totalitarianism. We don’t have time for a discussion of this problem.
    • From 1795 until 1918, Poland existed as a nation and as a culture, but it did not exist politically.
    • From 1918-1939, Poland was free again.
    • In 1939, attacked by Germany and the Soviet Union, and until 1945, Poland was ruled by these two neighboring powers.
    • In 1945, the Soviets imposed on Poland a Communist regime, which lasted until 1989.
    • Both the 19th Century and the period of the Communist rule were marked by subsequent and repeated uprisings and protests against the foreign rule. Only after the election of Karol Wojtyła (1978) to the throne of St. Peter and his visit to Poland (1979) did the Communist rule begun to crumble and it finally fell in 1989.
    • Since 1989, Poland was free again—with, of course, all sorts of political, economic, and moral problems inherited from the years of the Communist rule, which linger even if Communism fell.


    The history of Polish theater, generally speaking, developed as in the whole of Christian Europe: with medieval religious theater, with Renaissance and Baroque theater, with a very strong Romantic theater, and with an advanced, modern avant-garde theater of many different varieties in the 20th Century.


    • In the 18th Century the individual character of Polish theater began to emerge. It was a special and unique combination of artistic, national and moral values. In 1765, the National Theater was created in Warsaw (the second in the world of this kind after Comedie Francaise, 1680). It was indeed a theater of the nation: it was deeply embedded in the Polish culture, including the Polish language, and it supported Polish aspirations (and later the Polish fight) for independence and freedom. This theater was created within the context of efforts to save the independence of Poland, when it was already endangered. When Poland collapsed politically, the National Theater remained one of only a few national institutions which carried on, cherished, and promoted the idea of the independence of the nation.
    • During the times of the loss of independence theater played a very important role as a stronghold of the national identity, culture, manners and language. (The Polish language was suppressed or prohibited by the invaders.) Because the only other force so strongly and clearly united with the ethos of the nation was the Catholic Church, a special bond was created between theater and the Church.
    • In the “free 20 years” (1918-1939) theater in Poland flourished.
    • Polish theater was prohibited, as were all other Polish cultural, artistic or educational institutions, by the Germans and the Soviets occupying Poland during World War II. Theater, practiced underground, maintained its position and role as a defender of national values.
    • Under the years of Communist captivity (1945-1989), theater, although severely and strictly controlled by the authorities, was able to produce, from time to time at least, shows which expressed national values, sentiments and hopes—first of all hope for freedom. Theater was able to create certain enclaves and oasis in the desert of the “socialist culture.” The Communist regime—a totalitarian regime—treated theater as a propaganda tool in the political and social engineering of the nation, and promoted such theater. “Totalitarian regime” means, very simply, a regime which wants to control everybody and everything, people and economy, industrial and agricultural production, as well as, of course, culture and art, including theater. (Thanks to the resistance of so many people, this system was not perfect. If it was—I would not be talking to you today.) A very strict censorship was its “arm.” Among others, plays by Catholic playwrights were prohibited. I am directing now at your university Christopher Columbus by Paul Claudel, a great Catholic playwright and poet. I translated this play from French into Polish and prepared a project of mise-en-scéne of it years ago in Poland, but I never got permission to actually produce it. Yet, it was still possible, even under a very strict censorship, to smuggle on stage plays and productions which were a refuge from the unacceptable and unbearable everyday reality, a weapon in the struggle with the devastating culture and mind-corrupting system, a thread of Ariadne winding through a dark and dangerous world "out of joint" (Hamlet I. v, 189).


    Theater background of Karol Wojtyła—a close-up

    Karol Wojtyła started as an actor, he continued as playwright, and he was also a theater critic. He knew and participated in theater before WWII and during it, a theater which was a perfect union of art and politics, of moral and national values.

    As a young amateur actor Karol Wojtyła enthusiastically participated in the artistic life of free Poland in between the two world wars. He loved proclaiming beautiful poetic words. I could imagine his joy and energy while he recited the poetry of Adam Mickiewicz, Juliusz Słowacki, or Cyprian Norwid.

    Thanks to Mieczysław Kotlarczyk, his teacher and director of school productions in Wadowice, Wojtyła became a follower of Juliusz Osterwa, a great actor, director, and reformer of theater, who was both a devout Catholic and a devoted patriot. His hallmark production was The Constant Prince by Słowacki based on Pedro Calderón at his Reduta Theater, which he directed, and in which he played the lead. Osterwa’s Constant Prince was an open air production, attracting huge crowds, a modern morality play celebrating the values of sacrifice and constancy. (Not long ago I saw here at Franciscan University an excellent production of another Calderon play, Life is a Dream, prepared by Professor Shawn Dougherty.)

    In the years of World War II, under Nazi and Soviet occupation, theater in Poland was prohibited (as I mentioned above), since it was considered an expression of Polish national spirit. The same was true for the whole public cultural and artistic life. Thus, to do theater against the occupiers' will was an act of bravery and patriotism. Within such circumstances, Kotalczyk created, under the auspices of Osterwa, an underground theater company, the Rhapsodic Theater (Teatr Rapsodyczny) in Kraków. Wojtyła, at that time an underground university student, became its leading man. Shows were performed secretly in private apartments. The Rhapsodic’s productions were a manifestation of an unbroken spirit, a love of freedom, and the will to resist the oppression.

    During one of the shows, when Wojtyła was delivering a poetic monologue, from behind the windows a German public-address started to roar from the loudspeakers set on the streets, jamming the actor. Wojtyła did not interrupt his delivery. Not paying any attention to the noise, he continued his monologue. What an example of constancy! But, choosing priesthood over theater, he resigned from his—certainly promising—theater career.

    So, during such times, Karol Wojtyła was an actor, then a seminarian, then a young priest, then a professor and bishop. Under such circumstances he was performing, writing poetry, plays, and theater reviews, as well as his philosophical works.

    In brief: Karol Wojtyła’s theater experience and knowledge of theater were rooted in a theater of a free and independent Poland. He practiced theater and understood theater as both an artistic and moral expression of a human person. Learning and practicing theater in Poland, first free, then in captivity, he also saw theater as an expression of the nation's values, as a weapon in the nation’s fight for freedom, as a service to the suffering nation.

    My way to theatre

    I started to study theater in a Poland already under the Communist yoke. I studied theater history and tradition. Stanisław Wyspiański, father of Polish modern theater, introduced me to the notion of "theater-the temple of art." Adolphe Appia put forth the idea of the "theater-cathedral." Juliusz Osterwa, one of Wojtyła’s masters, proclaimed that theater is a "sacrificial art." Under their spell and direction, I started to understand and practice theater the same way. Theater was for me a very special and noble form of art, yet, most of all, an art. This art had to be practiced as a profession, as a craft, using certain methods and techniques, but first of all it was an art.

    Approaching theater as art was for me an escape from a theater brutally politicized by the Communist regime, from a “political theater” which should support the political objectives of the Communist, totalitarian regime.

    Practiced as art, and first of all art, theater maintained its liberating human soul and spiritual power. Yet it was losing its moral dimension—it was, in a way, returning to the early 20th century slogan, “art for art's sake,” and it was abandoning its mission of service to the oppressed nation, which it longed for a theater that would participate in the fight for freedom, as Polish theatre did so aptly in the 19th Century and during World War II.

    Karol Wojtyła opened for me the ethical aspect of the theater. I want to tell you how it happened.

    Karol Wojtyla my mentor

    One of my early professional assignments led me to Cracow in 1961, where, at that time Karol Wojtyla was a newly appointed bishop. As a member of Holy Linden, I called upon him. A former actor and playwright, he was always interested in theater life and followed its developments. He wanted to hear about new plays and premières, as well as the situation of the theater milieu. Towards the end of our meeting, he asked me to write for him a paper on the ethical problems which a young director encounters in theater.

    On one hand, I was not surprised. It was Wojtyła's way of teaching and guiding people: to let them identify their personal, moral, or professional problems and freely search for just, honest, and proper solutions. As a university professor he habitually asked people to express their problems and views in the form of a paper—then, he would offer evaluation, advice, encouragement. Summer vacations-retreats with Father, then bishop Wojtyła always had three components: prayer, tourism, and an academic program of seminars.

    This was his way of teaching his vision of the human person: a being internally integrated and whole. All elements of life of a person—be it spiritual, corporal, or intellectual; all aspects of life of a person: work, study, free time, and prayer had to be integrated.


    On the other hand, I remember that I was stricken by that assignment: a director asked to reflect not on art or the craft of theater, but on his own morality and attitude within the context of theater. I wrote the paper, which cost me more effort then the usual academic homework. I brought it to the professor-bishop. He called me back for discussion. I remember his questions: How do you want to unite faith with art in your theater work? How will you strive for the highest values in terms of both aesthetic and ethics? How will you work with living people in theatre, whole human beings with their biology, physicality and sexuality as well as their spirituality, psychology and their inner lives? How will you practice theatre as a service—service to people, service to the nation, service to God. And the most important question: In the time of trial what would you choose—the world or God?

    So, again, in this way he taught me theatre: an art in which aesthetic values are integrated with moral values; an art in which service to art is integrated with service to people and, more specifically, my compatriots; a theatre in which emotions, psychological processes and their physical expression of an actor are one; visuality and stage images are integrated with discourse and literary values.


    What my mentor and pastor was steering me toward was unlike anything I had studied at drama school or experienced in professional theater. In time I came to realize how radically different his vision of the theater was from the theater I was a part of.

    I believe this was one of Wojtyła’s peculiar gifts: pointing to new possibilities in every domain of human activity and restoring a proper sense of order to life—beginning with the spiritual life and branching out into politics, economics, scholarship, or art. This gift, among the many other charisms he possessed, he shared with individuals and, later on, with humanity at large.

    My mentor becomes the Pope

    On the sixteenth of October, 1978, we—my wife Zofia and I, and our children children, including baby Justyna—— heard the news on the radio that Cardinal Wojtyła had been elected Pope. This was stunning news that took our breath away. It pierced our hearts with joy, rousing us to expressions of thanksgiving to God. We have been avidly studying John Paul’s II teachings again. We tried to join ourselves to his prayers and imitate his witness.

    I could not help but to return to Wojtyła’s teachings when I listened to his—now papal— sermons and read his encyclicals, and when I had the joy to see him again. All his counsels and admonitions became somehow more obligatory coming from the Pope. I read again his plays, I studied his life, including those early chapters when theater meant so much to him.

    Thanks to John Paul II, with increasing clarity I saw how inseparable the union of the artistic and the ethical dimensions of theater is, and I understood that only this union can give a theater production meaning and energy, and express the abundant and inexplicable richness of the human being. I tried to express this understanding in productions I directed. Not always successfully. In the midst of theatre work, rehearsals and productions, devastated by theatre catastrophes and overwhelmed by theatre victories, I was often forgetting his teaching. But it always remained as a point of reference to which I could return in my theatre work.

    A written testimony…

    But I started to think that I also have to give some kind of written testimony to my personal interactions with the Pope and my—clumsy yet earnest—attempts to follow him. I felt that I have to try to repay at least a small part of my debt to him and give him tribute. I wrote a short story about a young priest who is Karol Wojtyła’s student and tries to be his disciple. It was the time of martial law in Poland and it was impossible to publish such a text. Yet, many people read the manuscript and they liked it. It occurred to me that this short story can be a part of a long story, indeed a whole novel about that priest, Wojtyła’s disciple, and—indirectly—abut Wojtyła himself.

    Gradually the fragments of Day of Witness began to take shape. The novel was constructed on three levels: on three kinds of witness. The first and most important—which also constituted the point of reference of the entire work—was the witness of Pope John Paul II: the witness of his faith, hope and love; his personal daily witness to Jesus Christ through every word, rosary, encyclical, pilgrimage, suffering, and Holy Mass. The second witness was that of the hero of the novel, Father Andrzej. This young priest strived to model himself on John Paul II, listened to his teachings and followed his example. He tried, often ineptly, to witness to the Pope through his own everyday priestly duties. In particular, he gave honor and witness to the Pope on the sixteenth of every month, and especially on the sixteenth of October of every year, commemorating the anniversary of Karol Wojtyła’s election to the Chair of Peter in 1978. The narrative of Father Andrzej was what knit the novel together. The third witness contained in the novel was that of the author himself.

    The whole novel acquired the form of what is called “historical fiction.” The story of Father Andrzej was fiction indeed. But it was solidly rooted in history. Thomas Merton aptly characterized this kind of fiction when he observed that the “integrity of an artist lifts a man above the level of the world without delivering him from it.” (The Seven Storey Mountain, Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1948, p.3.) Thus, the fortunes of my fictitious hero, Father Andrzej, were based on real events. The biography of Karol Wojtyła, his deeds and teachings, was true. The background to the narrative was true as well: the history of Poland during twenty four years of John Paul II’s pontificate (1978-2002)—the novel ends in the preparations for the twenty fifth anniversary of the pontificate. In this way, the action embraced the period of the decay of the Communist totalitarian order in Poland: Solidarity’s sixteen-month bid for freedom (beginning in August of 1980), the dark years of martial law (beginning December 13, 1981), the final demise of Communism in 1989, and the restoration of the nation’s sovereignty, with all its attendant hardships, frequent bitterness and great hope as well.

    Day of Witness also belongs to the category of “religious fiction,” that is, of novels in which narration, story, action, characters and events belong—in many different ways, directly and indirectly—to the world of religion. The phenomenon and mystery of faith, human belief in their dependence on God, and “life under God,” are the fabric of such a literary work. Gilbert K. Chesterton or Graham Greene wrote “religious novels.” With utter humility, yet consciously, Day of Witness associates itself with this kind of prose. My main hero is a priest. He prays, meditates, and tries to model his life on Jesus Christ. His vocation and priestly service lead him to different places and milieus in Poland, America, Holy Land, Germany, and Rome. Everywhere he tries to make his conduct and teaching measure up to those of the Pope. The numerous clerics and laypeople—the politicians, journalists, scholars and ordinary men and women—who appear in the book either profess or oppose religion. Generally speaking, Day of Witness portrays how John Paul II and his pontificate were reflected, understood, and absorbed—as well as rejected—by many people who loved him, and also by those who hated him.

    My own recollections of my contacts with “Uncle Wojtyła”, as we called him, also constituted part of the real-life backdrop to the novel. My hero reflects, "...when Karol Wojtyła was professor, bishop, archbishop, cardinal, we’d call him simply 'Uncle' or 'Unc.'”

    And the narration goes on:

    Father Andrzej always had doubts as to whether or not this showed a lack of respect. Should they address him in this way? But Wojtyła had accepted it, and even encouraged the usage. It was also a form of camouflage. They would often speak about him, make reference to his words, thoughts, sermons, teachings and books—and "Uncle" served as a handy cryptonym, enabling them to refer to him freely, to speak about him without drawing attention to themselves in the hall, train, hostel, or bus stop. “Uncle says... Uncle sends you his greetings... Uncle thinks... Is Uncle coming?” Strangers had no idea who we were talking about, although the professional informers knew. Well, maybe not always...There were instances of betrayal and denunciation. But Uncle came in handy. So it was always Uncle—instead of Reverend Professor, your Excellency, then, your Eminence. Instead of Bishop or Cardinal it was simply, “Uncle” or even “Unc”.

    Anyway, how could they call him otherwise, in view of the fact that their ethics seminars were held in the corner of a hostel cafeteria? That methodology paper which Andrzej presented took place on a meadow, while His Eminence, the professor, made his comments, seated on a life-jacket pulled out of a kayak. Then there was that philosophical discussion they’d conducted on the edge of a volley-ball court, on the heels of three hard-fought sets. The cardinal’s shirt and dress pants were as sweaty and dusty as everyone else’s. And what about those retreat meditations and question periods held in the calm of night, broken only by the sound of the dry branches crackling in the campfire? It was the same thing in the classrooms, on the pulpit, at the altar. He was never distant. He never set himself apart, put up barriers, flaunted or paraded himself. He was always present.

    This was most striking when he prayed. Before a meal. In a snow-swept forest. On skis. Andrzej recalled the Angelus they’d said that time, on the road to Turbacz mountain. It was the same thing, the very same thing at the Lord’s table raised above the crowds at the Skałka church. Andrzej couldn’t express it any better than to think that Wojtyła really prayed. When he prayed one felt God was there. Presence. Communion. The Spirit.

    And he was able to preserve this later. When he was dressed in white. In the glare of camera flashes. Amid the bustle of photographers, the dancing of film and TV cameras, the swarms of secret police and body guards. Always—then as now—there was present in him a concentration of mind and a sense of freedom. A sense of rootedness and of flight.

    There was something direct and personal about his relations with me—thought Father Andrzej. That’s right—personal. With me. Not just with me, of course. With everyone.

    I’ve always known and felt that there’s a bond between us. I with him. He with me. When we’re together I feel he’s talking to me, now, right this minute, and only to me. He hears me. He devotes time to me. Despite that killing schedule of his, he never rushes things. He focuses his whole attention on me. He has ears only for me. I’m chosen. Raised up. Unique. The most important one. And yet, in some strange way, others are included. There are others as well. Just as important and select. Everyone—individually. He’s able to talk to me, and only to me, while addressing a crowd three million strong.

    He’s always been like this. Uncle. Unc. Not very respectful really. But this has never taken away from his stature. Not one bit. And in addressing me, all of us, by name, he has never betrayed a trace of either scorn or undue favor. He was simply there.

    He was always himself, whether it be with Mother Theresa, President Reagan, the Rabbi of Rome, the Dalai Lama, a national Episcopal conference on an ad limina visit, or the Juventus soccer team from Turin. With each of us. With me...

    So, for me he’s never been an abstract authority, an unapproachable cardinal, and then some distant figure in a white cassock. He’s always been close. Like a member of the family. Uncle.

    "Uncle! Uncle!" That’s what we shouted during the audience, in Paul VI Hall, on the first anniversary of his pontificate. "Uncle! Uncle!" The whole bunch of us, in raptures, tears. "Uncle!"

    He heard us. He looked up and recognized us. Then coming up to us, he said: Isia! Jurek! Wanda! Bogdan! Andrzej! Our names on the lips of the Pope.

    I speak about John Paul II, at this special time, when we already pray to him, as he is on his road to the sainthood, perhaps close to the finish line, but we still mourn him. The sense of loss is overwhelming. We feel orphaned. So, it seems fitting to return to the conclusion of my novel. Father Andrzej, whose life was gravely endangered at this moment in the action, thought about John Paul II:

    Suddenly, he recalled the words of the Pope. That great and simple catch-phrase of his which he announced at the start of his pontificate:

    Be not afraid!

    It was a summons to the old and young, spouses and children, the lost and the doubters, the despairing, the fearful and the dying—indeed, to the whole of humanity. A prophetic call drawn from depths of Isaiah: “Be not afraid, for I am with you.” Christ’s fortification directed to the Apostles: “Be not afraid little flock.” A bold exclamation proclaimed in our time by John Paul:

    Be not afraid!

    Do not be afraid for you are redeemed. Do not be afraid since the Blessed Mother is with you, and she did not fear. Do not be afraid since the apostles, martyrs and saints did not fear. Do not be afraid since the light shines in the darkness and no darkness can quench it. Be not afraid since the power of Christ’s cross and resurrection is greater than any evil!

    Be not afraid!

    The Spirit of God gave these words to the man called to be Pope from “a distant land.” They were to serve him as a sword and buckler, as a torch and seed for sowing. He proclaims these words to the multitudes and he himself professes them in his deeds. He has been proclaiming them for years and he is going to proclaim them forever. And even when he is no longer able to voice them, these words will continue to sound in our hearts.

    Be not afraid!

    These were the last words of my novel. This exclamation, "Be not afraid!," had both a religious and moral dimension: Do not be afraid of affirming Christ, living out his teachings, and using them in your life and work. It had a political and social dimension: Do not be afraid of demanding freedom from tyranny, do not be afraid to stand up for human rights and human dignity, and do not be afraid to always defend human life. Do not be afraid of your neighbor of a different religion, race, or culture. It also was an encouragement directed to artists and scholars: Do not be afraid to search for beauty. Do not be afraid to search for truth. Do not be afraid to search for excellence. Do not be afraid to stand alone. And to all: Do not be afraid to love.

    John Paul the Great has enabled people to put fear behind them. Like a broken reed he has raised and made whole our hope. He has fanned the sparks of faith and courage into a flame. Above all, he has embraced all in unconditional love.

    Dr. Kazimierz Braun is a writer, director, and scholar. He is the author of more then 30 books, including studies of theater history, dramas produced in the US, Canada, Poland, and Ireland, and novels published in English and Polish. He has directed more than 140 theatre and television performances produced in many countries. Formerly the artistic director of Polish professional theaters and professor of Wrocław University, he is presently directing and teaching theater in America.

    In the above text I used the following:

    • Karol Wojtyła. Poezje. Poems. Translated by Jerzy Pietrkiewicz. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 2000.
    • Kazimierz Braun. Day of Witness. Translated by Christopher A. Zakrzewski. Toronto: Omnibus Printers, 2002.
    • Kazimierz Braun. Dzień świadectwa. Poznań: Wydawnictwo Św. Wojciecha, 2005.
    • Kazimierz Braun, „Znaki bliskości” Jana Pawła II. „Przegląd Polski,” April 8, 2005.

    Copyright 2010 Franciscan University of Steubenville. Online republication allowed with attribution. All other rights reserved.
FacebookTwitterFlickr LogoYouTube Logorss icons
MyFranciscan - Click here


Get Connected Picture  

for Future:

Click here to log in
Click here to get help
Contact Us | Campus E-mail | Directions | Search | CALENDARS | Privacy Policy | MYFranciscan  | Nondiscrimination Statement

1235 University Blvd, Steubenville, Ohio 43952 | Main 740-283-3771 | Consumer Information © Franciscan University of Steubenville