Wartime Rescue of Jews by the Polish Catholic Clergy

When Henek told Bronia the good news, her forehead crinkled like a washboard. ‘How do I know what to say to a priest?’ she fretted.

‘Don’t worry about anything, leave the talking to me,’ Henek said. ‘Anyway, he seems very approachable.’ As it turned out, the evening proceeded better than either of them could have hoped. Roman Soszynski was an entertaining raconteur with an easy flow of conversation, and although his observant gaze missed nothing, he knew how to put people at ease.

He loved to hear what was going on in the parish and laughed at jokes as loudly as anyone, but with his Jesuit training he also enjoyed arguing, debating and exchanging ideas. One of his regrets about coming to this sleepy hollow was that there would be little opportunity to sharpen his wits, so he was delighted that the dentist was a thinking man, well read and cultured. … Before leaving that evening, Father Soszynski told Henek that he’d welcome a game of chess in the presbytery. While they washed the glasses after their guests had gone home, Henek couldn’t help smiling. ‘Just imagine, the son of Reb Danil Baldinger playing chess with a priest!’ …

Not a day passed without some traumatic incident which threatened to reveal their secret. … before long, rumours about the Boguslawskis were spreading through the village. … Father Soszynski had heard rumours about the Boguslawskis. … ‘At school today one of the children said that Danusia was Jewish,’ he said casually. Henek’s eyes were boring into his face. ‘I told them it wasn’t true,’ Father Soszynski continued. … he [Henek] understood that the priest was letting him know that he was on his side.
Diane Armstrong’s recent meeting with the priest, now in his 80s, restored a lost part of her childhood and gave her a new perspective on those years in hiding. She had always been angry at the villagers and their rumours. Now she understood that everyone had suspected they were Jewish, but no one had denounced them. The village, under the guidance of the priest, had protected them. Her anger now turned into wonder and gratitude.
Benevolence shines from Father Soszynski’s face. In a voice that’s surprisingly strong for a man of eighty-three, he says, ‘I was thinking about you just two days ago. I thought about your parents and wondered whether little Danusia was still alive. While I was in town today someone said that people from overseas were looking for me. I thought of you straightaway. Danusia! I thought, and flew home like a bird!’

Why should this telepathy astonish me, when the fact that I am looking into the face of the priest who helped us survive the war in Piszczac is beyond anything I ever dreamed of? …

While he speaks, I keep pushing back the question that is nagging at me. Not yet, I keep thinking. Not yet. Suddenly Father Soszynski stuns me by answering my unspoken question. ‘Of course I knew that you were Jewish. We all knew.’ …

Father Soszynski continues his reminiscences. ‘Not long after I arrived in the village, your father asked the organist to enter his certificate of baptism into the parish records. This seemed a strange request, and I wondered then whether he had bought this certificate somewhere. If so, it was a very smart move because once the information was recorded, he’d be able to obtain authentic copies. Still, in those days it was better not to know too much so I decided not to inquire too closely into it and we entered your names in the parish records.’ …

One day in 1944, Mrs. Forycka, the doctor’s wife, came to see me and dropped a bombshell. “Has Reverend Father heard the latest? The whole town is saying the Boguslawskis are Jews!” I thought to myself, Jesus Maria, can this be true? Then I recalled that business with the baptism certificate, that embittered fellow Mr Jozek [Józek] who came to work with your father but turned out to be a Jew, your mother’s nervousness, your father’s constant vigilance …

Next day, your father came to see me. He was not the same person. He had lost all his strength, he was a crushed man. Despair in his eyes. So sad to see.’ … “Catastrophe, Reverend Father!” he told me. “They’re saying that we are Jews …” …

‘When your father came to see me that day, I felt like weeping,’ he says. ‘Such a cultured, witty man, so intelligent and companionable. How could I not extend a helping hand? I said, “Doctor Boguslawski, let’s look at it another way. There’s no merit being born a Pole any more than there is disgrace being born a Jew. It’s not up to us. It’s up to God. I can’t feel proud of being born a Pole any more than another should feel ashamed of being born a Jew. But the issue is that to accuse someone of being born a Jew today is to sentence them to death.”’ He leans towards me. ‘You know, the Gestapo were stationed only three kilometres down the road in Chotylow.

‘So I said to your father, “Doctor, let me figure out how to climb out of this pit. I won’t run from house to house, but what I will do is come to your place this afternoon with my sister, and we will walk down the centre of the main street of the town so that everyone will see that we’re coming to visit you as if nothing has happened. Let them all see. Will you give us a glass of tea when we come?” …

‘I can still see the relief on your father’s face when I told him that I’d come over that afternoon and keep coming to visit him,’ says Father Soszynski. … For the first time in my life I realise that our only hope of survival, however slight, rested entirely with Father Soszynski. …

‘After that visit with my sister, I kept coming more often than usual, to demonstrate my support. When the villagers saw their priest socialising with your parents, they figured out that I must know what I was doing, and decided that they had no business gossiping about them.’

Leaning towards me, Father Soszynski says with great emphasis, ‘And no-one in that village denounced you, even though everybody knew that you were Jews. In your case, Piszczac passed with flying colours. We had drunkards, thieves, and cheats amongst us, but on that occasion, everyone behaved beyond reproach.’ …

Throughout my life I had been angry that our existence in Piszczac had been so tenuous, that dangerous rumours had proliferated and that, had the war continued, one of our neighbours or acquaintances would have denounced us to the Germans. But Father Soszynski’s account of our survival helps me to see it in a different light. During the Holocaust it took only one person to send hundreds to their death, but it sometimes took one hundred people to save a single Jewish life. For the first time I realise that by their silence the people of Piszczac had helped us to survive.
An unnamed village priest in the vicinity of Drohiczyn on the River Bug assisted Bella Bronstein, an orphan, by finding her a position with a local farmer under her new Christian identity, Antonina Bujalska. Later the priest visited her when she was hospitalized, provided her with money, and invited her to sing in the church choir. Bella Bronstein was helped by many Poles as she moved from village to village, even though she was recognized as or suspected of being Jewish. The priest also kept a Jewish housekeeper who went by the name of Wanda. (David Shtokfish, ed., Sefer Drohiczyn, [Tel Aviv: n.p., 1969], pp.29–42 (English section).)
I came by a Catholic church, and sat down to rest a while chanting a holy Christian hymn. An old man came out of a little house and invited me in. I accepted the invitation willingly. The old man was the warden of the church. After he gave me some warm food in his cozy little room I asked him if I could find employment around the place. He suggested that we go in to see the priest who might take me in as help to his housekeeper. It turned out later that the priest’s housekeeper was also a refugee Jewish woman who was not too anxious to have another Jewess around … (not unusual in those terrible days).

The priest however, was glad to help a child in distress and sent me to one of his rich parishioners, with a recommendation. I was accepted and was again rechristened Antonina. My new patroness was the wife of a rich farmer. She offered me the job in the cow barn and sheep shed, in which they had over eighty heads. I was too timid and scared to refuse the job although I knew that it was really too hard for a girl. I was willing to try and so I remained in the service of this family.

The churchwarden left me there, and I again felt at home with good people. At night I heard them talk about the horrible situation and how the poor Jews were being exterminated. …

The rainy season began. Every day I had to take the sheep to pasture, and I returned soaking wet. Yet I didn’t mind the cold or the discomfort of my wet clothes. I was determined to go on; until one day I caught cold, and got sick; but I was afraid to tell anyone how miserably sick I was. However, my kind mistress noticed how I suffered, and when she measured my fever it was above 40 degrees C. The doctor came and I was ordered immediately to the hospital. Now it was a struggle for life and all my thoughts were how to get well again.

One night I dreamt that my mother came to me and said that soon I would get well; I should then try to get away from this hospital as far as possible. The priest also came to visit me. All the nurses took an interest in me, but I avoided all their questions about my past. I was afraid I might be discovered. During my recuperation period, I got acquainted with a nurse named Sophia. This nurse suggested that I should not go back to the farm. Instead she offered me a place with her sister who needed help with her little ones. I was considering the change but dared not tell my former patrons, who were very good to me. When I was well again I decided to leave the hospital under cover of darkness. …

Sophia’s sister received me gladly and offered me her home. I kissed her hand and immediately began to attend to the two little girls, who soon took a liking to me. They never asked me who I was and where I came from. Evidently, the letter I brought from Sophia explained everything.

Once I was so exhausted from work in the field that I fell asleep on the spot. I was brought home to rest, and was not even scolded. I felt happy in my new home, and even attended religious services with all the other children of the village. Once when I came to church I noticed that I was being pointed at. I thought that again I was recognized as being Jewish. So after the services I slowly slipped out into the street and was again on the road, feeling once more the gaze of hostile eyes on me. As I was walking along I found myself before a group of German policemen, two of which turned out to be Polish. I thought that the best thing would be to go on walking calmly and briskly. But then I heard one of them calling me to stop. They said “Gut Morgen” rather politely and walked away. One of them, however, remained behind. Now, I thought, is the crucial moment. It turned out that this was a young Polish policeman whose name was Solick. He was a native of Drohichin [Drohiczyn] and recognized me.

“You are Jewish, aren’t you? Your uncle’s name was Sholem. I know all about you. Let me see your identity card.”

Trembling I handed him the card with the name of Antonina Bujalska. Again he looked at me and said: “You are not telling the truth, but I shan’t do you any evil. You better clear out of here, for somebody else might recognize you. Then, you shall be among all the other dead of your people.” He let me go but wrote down the place where I lived.

Again I was facing danger. I didn’t sleep all night, planning how to find safety elsewhere. I did not run away the next morning for I was hoping that the war would end soon. So a few months passed and it was already the eve of Passover, the season when good Catholic Christians go to church to confess their sins. I, too, went to the “father confessor” with the other children of the village.

On the way to church the children were discussing how and what to confess and made fun of the whole thing. Wanting to be part of the conversation, I decided to say something positive and affirmative. So I said that we must perform the duties of our religion, and urged hem to hurry lest we be late. I was glad to be last to remain in the church after everybody had already gone and made as if I was praying devotedly. I drew the attention of a fine middle-aged lady who came over to me and asked why I had remained in the empty church so late. I took the opportunity to tell the lady about my sad lot. I told her how difficult it was for me to stay with the family I was living, and expressed the wish to find work with some other family, attending to children or taking care of an old woman. She immediately offered to take me with her as she had two children and an old mother.

I couldn’t believe my ears, but here I was already walking by the side of my new benefactress. As we were walking the distance of about 3 kilometers from church to her home, the woman told me how her Jewish neighbors were taken out to be killed. I listened to her story of horror but made no reply.

When we came into the house, I met the old lady her mother. I bowed, kissed her hand and greeted her in the manner that good Polish Christian children do. Her reply was also cordial and traditional, but I noticed tears in her eyes and a benevolent smile on her face. Later, when all left for the fields and I was left alone with the old lady and the two children I again felt at home hoping that now I would resume a normal life as a refugee Christian girl under the name of Antonina Bujalska. The old lady took a liking to me and told me her own story. It appeared that she too, was Jewish, but eloped with her Polish lover when she was only 16 and never returned to her family. Now she would recall her old father who never recovered from the shock of his daughter’s conversion, while her old mother perished in the Warsaw ghetto.