Wartime Rescue of Jews by the Polish Catholic Clergy

Although the priest promised to baptize me and I underwent the required preparation, my first communion didn’t happen because the priest had religious scruples.

In November of 1941 Maryla brought me to stay with Maslowa in Wola Rzedzinska [Rzędzińska]. Maslowa, a widow, lived with her three children in a house in the middle of the village. …

I went to the school run by the Catholic nuns. They were called Siostry Sluzebniczki [służebniczki] “Sisters of Service.” … One of them, Klara, had shining dark eyes and was often kind to me. … Sister Klara had given me this book.

“This is a catechism; study it every day,” she said. …

The Christian children from the village didn’t have to hide. Despite the war they still lived with their families. I wanted to become Christian and also feel safe. I didn’t want to be Jewish anymore. I memorized the prayers from the catechism. …

In the classroom I was praised for my quick memory. Sister Klara, the nun who was good to me, sometimes talked with me after class. …

“The priest will baptize you soon. Then you’ll go to the first communion with the rest of the children.” …

Two weeks before the scheduled first communion, the priest sent for me. I went to the church. …

“Praised be Jesus Christ,” I said, curtsying in front of the priest when I entered the sacristy. He extended his hand for me to kiss. …

“I will not baptize you,” he began looking at the ring on his finger, and I froze in place. “You may ask for it later, after the war…” His words caught me unaware. He talked in a solemn voice, clearly articulating his words, but I couldn’t understand them. I waited a long time.

“But prosze Ksiedza [proszę Księdza] …” I tried politely to argue, but he raised his hand and I stopped. His voice was cold. I looked at him with panic, but his eyes were still on the ring as he explained his plan.

“After the war, any priest will do it for you,” he said slowly, as if he feared that I didn’t understand. “I will not baptize you now when you may think that I am forcing my religion on you. … You have to wait for your baptism and for your first communion until after the war.”

I sat motionless while he explained:

“You must pretend that you are making the confession.”

My heart sank when I realized what he was saying. “I will be sitting in the confessional, so it should be easy for you. But you must be very careful.”

His large gray eyes were now looking straight into mine. …

“On Sunday you will not take the communion, but you must pretend that you are doing it. You must be careful and do exactly as I say.”

His words bit deep into my memory: “All you need to do is to imitate the motions of other children. You shall come to me for the confession, and I shall pretend to give you absolution. Then I shall pass you over at the communion. The sexton is prepared and will go along. …

Saturday came, and I went to church to fake my confession. …

On Sunday I went to the church early. … I did everything exactly the way the priest told me to do …

I saw the priest coming. The sexton followed him with a small round silver tray. I opened my mouth and relaxed my tongue. … No one noticed that the priest had omitted one child. I pretended to swallow, bowed my head, walked back with my palms joined together, fingers unified in a praying gesture. …

In a borrowed white dress I went with Maryla to Tarnow. …

The photographer put a white silk lily into my hand and carefully arranged a picture of Saint Anthony [actually, it was a picture of Jesus—M.P.] on a small brown table. …

The camera clicked; he removed the picture and the silk lily. … Maryla paid, and we went back to Wola Rzedzinska.

The priest’s refusal had serious consequences. It put me and those around me in danger. I had to pretend to be a Christian girl. Now it was harder for me to pretend. I was bound to make mistakes.
In Kolbuszowa near Rzeszów, the local pastor, Rev. Antoni Dunajecki, also responded to a call for help by Naftali Saleschutz.²⁹⁷ (Norman Salsitz, as told to Richard Skolnik, A Jewish Boyhood in Poland: Remembering Kolbuszowa [Syracuse, New York: Syracuse University Press, 1992], pp.292–94.)
I now remembered Kotulova [Kotulowa], the Polish widow whom I had visited just before I left Kolbuszowa to be with my family in Rzeszow [Rzeszów], and with whom I had left some belongings and merchandise. He house was right behind the fence that surrounded the ghetto I resolved to see her at once. After nightfall I left the camp without telling anyone, not even my brother. I climbed the fence and knocked on Kotulova’s door.

“Pani [Mrs.] Kotulova, I have to run away. I need forged papers, and I may need a place to hide.”

“I will help you,” she said.

“Where can I get papers?”

“I’ll have to talk to the priest.”

“Do I know him?”

“You should; Monsignor Dunajecki has been our parish priest for nearly twenty years.”

“Yes, I know of the Monsignor.”

“He has all the birth records of the parish, and he may be able to give you the birth record of someone who died during the war.”

“I had a friend in grade school, about my age, who was killed at the front in 1939. His name is Tadeusz Jadach. Maybe I could use his birth certificate.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Come back tomorrow night.”

… When I returned the next evening, Kotulova handed me something more precious than gold: the birth certificate of Tadeusz Jadach, a Roman Catholic Pole. With that paper I might survive the war. I put my arms around the ample frame of my saving angel, and hugged her until she protested she couldn’t breathe.

“I will be indebted to you as long as I live,” I told her.

“You would have done the same for me.”

“Just one more thing, my brother Leibush; I need a certificate for him. Could you possibly get one for him, too?”

“I’ll talk to the Monsignor.”

The next day I had a birth certificate for Leibush: a Ludwig [Ludwik] Kunefal [born in 1904, a Capuchin who died in 1936]. As she handed it over, she mentioned that the Monsignor wanted to meet Leibush and me. A few days later we went to her house to meet the Monsignor. When we saw him, neither of us knew what to do or say; we had never in our lives spoken to a priest, and we were overwhelmed by the man’s appearance. He was tall and majestic-looking, with an inscrutable face. We stood there embarrassed, but he quickly realized our discomfort and extended his hand to us in greeting.

“I am Proboszcz [pastor] Dunajecki,” he said in a warm, disarming voice. “I am pleased to meet both of you.”