The Marian Martyrs of Rosica

121 Memoir returning to us from the countryside, but not much had survived. Whatever had been buried had rotted away completely. Father Leszczewicz delegated the matter of the church com- pletely to Fr. Czeczott as he was traveling around the parish, giving examinations, teaching, and encouraging religious prac- tices. Sermons were given in three languages. Father Laszewski did his best in Russian, Fr. Leszczewicz in Belarussian, and Father Czeczott in Polish. Father Anthony once said to me: “People are now more interested in you than in the priests.” “Why?” I asked. “Because they have been able to see priests for some time, but they have never seen a seminarian before. They don't know what one looks like.” They saw me soon, a young man with a mustache, as I read the passion narrative to them on Palm Sunday. Then soon Christmas was coming. We arranged the creche in the church. We brought tiny figures from Druja. We ham- mered the manger together out of sticks on the spot. People were coming in throngs for wafers, so they could enjoy the popular Polish custom of sharing the Christmas wafer with family and friends on Christmas Eve. Finally, Christmas Eve arrived. The Sisters were busy preparing the feast. Meanwhile, we were tapping on the walls in the sacristy. There were two sacristies. We decided to look in the one in which light was seen during the last days of Fr. Wojciechowicz. We wondered where the precious vessels had been hidden. Where was the cache? The hammer wandered in the hand of Fr. Czeczott. Tap, tap, tap. Father was tapping and listening for hollow space. But the sound was the same every- where. Finally, we seemed to hear some resonance. “Take the pick and strike. Maybe our treasure is hidden here.” I hit hard, but the mortar was strong. It was scarcely yield- ing. Suddenly, I saw signs scratched in the plaster. Two small crosses.