Wartime Rescue of Jews by the Polish Catholic Clergy

It was on my way back to Ternopol [Tarnopol] that day that I stopped at the church in Janówka. …

There were not many people. They were peasants, mostly … The priest was speaking when I dipped my knee toward the altar and took a seat in the back.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes as though in prayer, but truly I was both exhausted and overexcited. … at first I did not pay much attention to his words. But then I began listening, and I realized that he was encouraging his flock to resist the Nazis and to help the Jews.

“…and to remember those who are less fortunate than you,” he was reminding them in a quiet voice. “Our Savior commands that we not stain our hands with the blood of innocents. The righteous path is never an easy path, but at its end lies eternal love, eternal life.” Surely, he must have known that the forest surrounding his parish was filled with hunted men. He was telling his parishioners to help them. What he was saying could well bring him punishment from the Germans.

I looked up and studied him with new interest. He was a very old man, bald and wrinkled, but he had an upright carriage and his voice had no quaver in it. I noticed him glance my way from time to time, and I thought his look was kind. …

When the service was over, I lingered in the churchyard, admiring the roses, while the priest blessed the country folk, and one by one, or in small family groups, they took their leave of him …

At last, he turned to me. “Good morning,” he said. “I am Father Joseph.” …

“Is this your dorożka [carriage]?” the priest said, walking to the bony horse and stroking his nose.

I wiped my nose quickly, sniffing back my tears. “Yes—at least, I borrowed it from a friend.”

“Making a delivery?” he asked. He turned his mild eyes to me, the eyes of a man who had seen everything and yet still loved people.

At once, my heart ached to confide in him, to lay my worries and responsibilities in someone else’s lap. … The only thing I did not tell him was that I was helping Jews escape. It was too dangerous a secret to share

When I was finished, I looked at him anxiously, waiting to hear the sort of sorrowful rebuke that so many priests specialized in. But Father Joseph only nodded again.

“Irena, this is a war. God knows your heart. And God knows what you are doing with that dorożka today.” …

“Thank you, Father Joseph,” I said at last.

“When you come through Janówka next time, stop and visit me.” …

I had taken six people to the forest, and although they had disappeared, they were never far from my thoughts. When I could, I borrowed the dorożka from Helen’s farm and drove to Janówka, where I left bundles of food. …

I did not always stop at the church to see Father Joseph. Occasionally, I was in too great a hurry, and had to be back to serve a meal. Or else I would see the old priest, with his straw gardening hat shielding his eyes from the sun, leaning on a pitchfork and talking with a neighbor. He knew what my trips to the puszcza [forest] meant. I was sure of it. I did not know if anyone else in the village noticed my comings and goings to the forest. In those days, people were either especially nosy, or they kept anxiously to themselves—but no one ever seemed to recognize me or take notice.
Irene Gut Opdyke vividly recalls the executions she, like countless Poles, was forced to watch with horror in nearby Tarnopol in November 1943; they were calculated to subjugate the Polish nation and strike terror into the hearts of ordinary civilians. (Irene Gut Opdyke with Jeffrey M. Elliot, Into the Flames: The Life Story of a Righteous Gentile [San Bernardino, California: The Borgo Press, 1992], p.139.)
I was running across the town square … and the square, although usually active on a market day, was choked with a milling, bewildered crowd. SS men abruptly pushed me into the middle of the square, just as they had the others, with a command not to leave. A scaffold had been erected in the center of the square, and what appeared to be two separate families were slowly escorted through the crowd to the block. A Polish couple, holding two small children, were brought up first, followed by a Jewish couple with one child, all three wearing the yellow Star of David. Both groups were lined up in front of dangling nooses. They were going to hang the children as well! Why didn’t somebody do something? What could be done? Finally, their “crimes” were announced—the Polish family had been caught harboring the Jewish family! Thus we were forced to witness the punishment for helping or befriending a Jew. I thought I would die! I closed my eyes tightly, but I could still hear the horrible thuds, as the weight of the bodies hit the ends of their ropes. It is impossible that what I imagined in my mind could have been more terrible than what I might have seen, had I watched, but I felt as if it were. Nightmarish images passed in front of my eyes, unbelievable and horrible, as I heard the death sounds emanate from the scaffold. Not a soul moved; no one made a sound, although a sigh reminiscent of a moan seemed to sweep over the crowd.

“This family, caught harboring Jews against the law, has been executed as an example to all,” and [sic] SS officer announced. “This is the result of their crimes.” The officer pointed accusingly at the bodies dangling in front of him.

My mind would not accept this statement of brutality. Innocent people killed for saving lives? I kept my eyes shut tightly, wanting desperately to erase the whole scene from my mind, but of course the incident was played back, over and over again in my memory. I saw the same fate ahead of me, if my actions were ever discovered. But I had to go on as before. I had no choice.