Pistol-Packing Padre

No flowers grow in Sains-en-Gohelle. The town, the houses and the people are grey. The miners who dig coal from the earth seem to bring some of the earth's blackness and dourness with them when they go home from the pit heads. Through this region, in the Pas-de-Calais, the wallowing armies of World War I swayed back & forth in the mud, and all around are historic names: Arras, Lens, Cambrai, Douai, Vimy Ridge. No flowers grow in Sains, but in season they can be picked from the fields and hedgerows outside, and there are usually some around the wayside crucifix at the top of the hill.

Last week the iron-gated entrances to the mines of Sains were locked. Outside the gates a striker had planted a tricolor flag, which drooped in the grey air. In Sains, as elsewhere in France, men wanted to work; in Sains they could not. In a tavern on the Grande Rue they discussed the extraordinary leader of the town's back-to-work movement: the Abbe Georges Lorent, priest of the local church, also the mayor of Sains-en-Gohelle.

"This priest-mayor," said one, "is a strange man. The women love him because he is so good-looking. The workers are spellbound by his eloquence. The old men are impressed by his record in the Resistance. They say he is always armed."

Plato & Slang. It was true. By his own admission, the Abbe Lorent always carries "at least" one loaded revolver when he leaves his house. He is 37, small, slight, black-haired, blue-eyed. In his sensitive mouth and finely carved features there is a hint of fanaticism and ruthlessness. The son and grandson of coal miners, Lorent taught a parish school before the war, had a brilliant record in the Front National, in which Catholics and Communists fought the Germans side by side. In his marked northern accent he quotes from Cardinal Newman and Plato, but he also uses proletarian vulgarisms such as "On s'en fout" (an untranslatable idiom which means, roughly, the hell with it), and slang such as "Celui-l`a, on le descendra" (that fellow's going to get bumped off).

The Abbe Lorent worked for social reform with the Communists before the war. During the Resistance, he began to distrust them; now he hates them, and they hate him.

Last week, after many miners had told him they wanted to work, the priest-mayor decided to take action. He collected a group of miners, wrapped a tricolor sash around his waist, and advanced on the pit heads. They were met by hundreds of Communists and hangers-on (only a few of them local people) who had armed themselves with clubs. After a short scuffle the Abbe Lorent's forces withdrew. "I wanted to avoid bloodshed," he said.

The Reds were angry. They marched on the Abbe's house, invaded his scuffed and untidy front yard. In the kitchen the Abbe had a group of faithful adherents armed with machine guns.

Deputy Sheriffs. "These," said the Abbe later, "are arms which we have kept since the Resistance days. Yes, I know it is illegal. But there are no police in Sains, and the nearest police station is five miles away. As mayor, I am solely responsible for preserving order; you might call these men my deputy sheriffs.

"When the strikers came into the front yard, I and some of my friends advanced to meet them. We had a short but quite violent fight. No shots were fired, but clubs were used on both sides. I had my blackjack. The Communists were repelled, and withdrew, leaving one badly beaten man on the ground. I picked him up, patched him up, gave him a drink, and sent him home."

At week's end tension was slackening in Sains, as it was elsewhere in France, but the mines of Sains we're still closed and the Abbe was still on guard. "This calm bodes evil," he said. "I don't trust it. I'm not afraid and the town knows that. Those who do not follow me as a priest respect me as the mayor.

"I have not slept for nights. My fear is that I shall fire the first shot. As a priest I cannot do it. It would destroy the work of a lifetime, and it would be bad for France. But they will not get me alive."

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