Wartime Rescue of Jews by the Polish Catholic Clergy

No ‘Prister' is a priest, a clergyman.

Yes. He explained among other things, that those here present are not criminals, that they are simply peaceful citizens. For that he was murderously beaten …
Throughout German-occupied Poland the Jews were being confined in ghettos, located in cities and towns, which were walled or fenced off from the remainder of the population. (In villages, the Jews were generally not enclosed.) The creation of the largest ghetto, in Warsaw, was described by British historian Martin Gilbert in The Holocaust: A Jewish Tragedy (Glasgow: William Collins, 1986), at pages 127–28:
Of the 400,000 Jews of Warsaw, more than 250,000 lived in the predominantly Jewish district. The remaining 150,000 lived throughout the city, some Jews in almost every street and suburb. On 3 October 1940, at the start of the Jewish New Year, the German Governor of Warsaw, Ludwig Fischer, announced that all Jews living outside the predominasntly Jewish district would have to leave their homes and to move to the Jewish area. …

Warsaw was to be divided into three ‘quarters’: one for Germans, one for Poles, and one for Jews. … More than a hundred thousand Poles, living in the area designated for the Jews, were likewise ordered to move, to the ‘Polish quarter’. They too would lose their houses and their livelihoods. On October 12, the second Day of Atonement of the war, a day of fasting and of prayer, German loudspeakers announced that the move of Poles and Jews into their special quarters must be completed by the end of the month.
A traditional Jewish upbringing could give rise to insurmountable psychological obstacles on the part of Jews who sought refuge in Catholic institutions, as was the case of a young yeshiva student from Zduńska Wola who was welcomed into a local monastery. (Isaac Neuman with Michael Palencia-Roth, The Narrow Bridge: Beyond the Holocaust [Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2000], pp.56–64.)
On my way home that cold December morning [of 1940]… I wandered into a relatively unfamiliar neighborhood. When I realized where I was, the yellow star on my jacket began to feel very large. … Then I saw something I had not noticed before: a small monastery, its courtyard slightly ajar. I had never been inside either a church or a monastery; as a yeshiva student, I did not enter churches and didn’t know much about Christian rituals. Yet the half-open gate beckoned. “Just for a minute,” I said to myself, “until I thaw out. And then I can continue home.”

I slipped through the gate, crossed the courtyard, and entered a dimly lit chapel. It was empty. … On the altar stood a triptych of scenes that, I concluded, depicted the life of Jesus. The woman with the infant at her breast must be Mary, I thought. I also noticed a picture of the Crucifixion. After wondering how Reb Mendel would describe these representations, I sat down in a forward pew and took off my jacket so that the yellow star was hidden. Long before, I had cut off my earlocks, hoping thereby to look more like a Pole or at least to draw less attention to myself. I must have sat there, alone and in silence, for twenty minutes. … Gradually my limbs thawed.

I was about to stand up when I felt a hand descend on my left shoulder. I had heard nothing, no footsteps, no breathing, nothing. He was just there. He kept his hand on my shoulder as I turned to look at him. I knew that I shouldn’t move, get up, or try to flee. “And now the Gestapo,” I said to myself, “for being in a forbidden place.” But the monk’s face was kind. “My son,” he asked softly, “are you hungry?” I nodded. He gestured for me to follow him. I walked behind his billowing, thick, dark robe, out of the chapel and down a long, bare corridor.

The silence seemed to intensify as we went further into the monastery. We crossed a small courtyard and came to a low pig shed. He led me inside and asked me to sit and wait for him. I sat and looked at the pigs in the shed with me. They appeared content and well fed. They were obviously indifferent to the German soldiers occupying Zdunska Wola. For a moment, just for a moment, I wanted to be one of those pigs. …

The monk returned with a bowl of potato soup. “I am brother John,” he said, handing me the bowl and a spoon. “Eat in peace.” He watched as I squatted on the floor and ate until my spoon scraped bottom. Then, from somewhere in the vastness of his robe he took out a piece of bread and gave it to me. I wiped the bowl with that bread until the entire surface shone. Watching my eyes and moving slowly, Brother John reached for my jacket, which still was inside-out on the floor beside me. His finger traced the outline of the yellow star. It was barely visible to the eye, although its six points were unmistakable to the touch. …

“I see you are a Jew,” Brother John said.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. At any moment I expected either to be tied up and handed over to the Gestapo or booted down the corridor through the chapel and out the courtyard gate. At least, I thought to myself, I had eaten a meal.

Then, only half intending to say what I said, I blurted out, “Perhaps these pigs need looking after. I could also help around the monastery. I could sweep and clean and light the stoves in the mornings. I am used to getting up early.”

“Oh?” said Brother John, “and why does a young boy like you get up so early?”

I told him about my duties at the stiebel, about lighting the stove every morning at five, and about Reb Mendel and my months of study with him. After recounting how Reb Mendel had died, I fell silent again, thinking that I had said too much. The silence between us grew.

Finally Brother John said, “We could use a boy like you, but you must promise me two things. First, while you work for us you must not leave the monastery. Second, you must tell no one else here that you are a Jew. And, of course, you must not mind sleeping out here with the pigs.”

I told him that I would agree to those conditions after I had spoken with my mother and father, for I did not want them to worry about my sudden disappearance. Brother John asked me not to tell my parents where I would be or even that I would be working in a monastery, any monastery. I agreed to that, too, and with some relief, for I was sure that my father would have been upset to know that I was working in a Christian house of worship.

That very afternoon, after assuring my parents I would be safe, I came back to the monastery. Before entering through the same half-open gate, I carefully looked around to make sure no one had seen me. In a small satchel I had packed a toothbrush and one change of clothing as well as my phylacteries and a prayer book. As dangerous a it was to bring the very things that would betray my origins, I did not consider leaving them behind. Brother John was waiting for me in the chapel. Together we walked down the same long corridor as that morning. The silence now felt inviting and safe.

In the pig shed, I noticed that Brother John had brought in some new straw and heaped it in a corner, along with two thick blankets. After bringing me another bowl of soup, this time with some kind of meat in it, and a piece of bread and cheese, he said goodnight and left me alone. Despite the cold, the blankets were sufficient protection, because I slept buried in the straw rather than on top of it. In the morning I hid my satchel under the straw and began my duties. I scrubbed floor, cleaned the kitchen, and lit the stoves every morning at five. I fed the pigs and cleaned the shed once a day. Every morning also, as soon as it was light enough for me to see my hand and I knew that I was alone, I would say my morning prayers.

None of the other ten or twelve monks spoke to me. I don’t know what Brother John told them, but it must have satisfied them, for none paid attention to me—none, that is, except Brother Peter. His dark and sad eyes, set close in a thin face, narrowed when he saw me, and soon I began to fear that he would report me to the Gestapo. But aside from staring at me at odd moments during the day, Brother Peter said and did nothing, and within three days I felt relatively secure in the monastery. Although I missed my family, I was glad to live without daily fear and grateful to have enough to eat. Every day the soup had meat in it, and some of it tasted unfamiliar, I decided not to worry about that. I felt increasingly at ease until I remembered that in two evenings it would be Hanukkah.

The burden of that thought coincided with a request that the monks made, and the confluence of the two disturbed me. One morning, Brother John asked me to take the place of a regular altar boy who was ill. Of course, I could not refuse, and I trembled as I put on the clothes of the absent altar boy, wondering what I would be asked to do. Immediately I regretted not having paid more attention to the boys. Although they were my size, they were somewhat younger, and I had not spoken to them since entering the monastery. I had not even watched them as they went about their duties. They regarded me, I hoped, as some sort of peasant boy brought in to do the heavy work of the monastery. At any rate, they paid me as little attention as I paid them.

Now I also began to regret having entered the monastery in the first place. Here I was, a yeshiva student, about to participate in church worship. I felt doubly hypocritical, first because I was pretending to be a Christian in the company of people who were believers and second because I was a Jew. I wondered what the law said about my actions. I racked my brain but had difficulty finding something that discussed my situation. So I did as I was asked. Yet when I carried a portrait of the Madonna, I hoped Reb Mendel was not watching. I also sought to ease my conscience by talking to the figure in the painting, “You’re a Jewish mother. You understand, don’t you?”

My silent comments to an image on canvas somehow eased my mind, but I soon experienced other moments of unanticipated theological delicacy. As I stood at the altar with the other boys and heard the mass being conducted, I tried to counteract that influence by whispering Hebrew prayers under my breath. By far my greatest fear was that I would be asked to carry the crucifix. That action, I was convinced, could not be balanced by Hebrew prayers on my part. Fortunately, I did not have to face the prospect of such apostasy, for after three days the ill boy returned to the monastery and I returned to scrubbing floors, lighting stoves, and feeding pigs.

At the same time I was carrying the Madonna, I was wondering how I could celebrate Hanukkah in the monastery. Hanukkah had wonderful memories for me. … Although Hanukkah was not a major holiday in my community, it was celebrated with joy. …

Again, I began to miss my family and resolved to take advantage of my special circumstances. Carefully, I began gathering wax from the drippings of the votive candles. After I had enough, I made one candle, using for a wick one of the fringes from my tallis-kattan (prayer shawl), which I had worn under my shirt since entering the monastery. Jewish custom requires that the tzitzis (fringes) have eight ends, but seven are also acceptable, so I felt it was kosher to use one as a candlewick. I also was concerned about taking wax meant for the Virgin Mary and St. Teresa and transforming it into a Hanukkah candle. Here I found justification in a talmudic law that states that when something is thrown away it is no longer owned by anyone, so the drippings from the votive candles were no longer the property of the monastery, the Virgin, or another saint. The wax, that is, no longer belonged to anyone, and thus making a Hanukkah candle from it was permissible.

Once I had made the candle, I wondered where I could celebrate the ritual of Hanukkah. A light, even from a candle, would surely be noticed, and my singing might be heard. I began to look around the monastery. Every place I considered seemed to be too public. Then I discovered that one of the smaller buildings used as a dormitory for the monks had a trap door leading to a small attic. … Entering the attic, I felt my way in the darkness along the woodwork until I reached an open space next to the chimney, a crawl space large enough for me to stand. … Lighting a match, I surveyed my domain. For the first time since beginning to live in the monastery I felt at home. No one would bother me here. Taking my candle from my pocket, I lit a match to its bottom. As soon as the wax melted, I placed the candle on the ledge, pressing it into the brick. The light from my Hanukkah candle cast a gentle glow.

Almost delirious with joy, I began to chant the Maoz Tzur. For just a moment I was back home and younger in age. … The monastery vanished. My struggles with the Madonna and the crucifix faded.

So concentrated was I on the traditional Hanukkah song that I heard neither the creak of the trap door nor the shuffling of feet. But suddenly I saw my shadow cast on the chimney in front of me and turned to see the intense, narrow stare of Brother Peter. I knew he had heard me singing the Maoz Tzur. I wasn’t frightened as I turned to face him, although I don’t know why I wasn’t. Perhaps I had become accustomed to the intensity of Brother Peter’s dark eyes, or perhaps I sensed a bond between us. We stood and looked at each other for a long, long minute.

Just as I was about to blurt out some improbable explanation, Brother Peter said: “Let us sing together, let us sing the Maoz Tzur.” And so we did. Brother Peter knew the Hebrew words and the melody. We sang about wanting to reestablish the Temple and to rededicate the altar. … As we sang, I watched our shadows on the wall. For a moment, just a moment, they seemed to merge into one.

I did not ask Brother Peter why he knew the melody, and he did not volunteer a reason. The next morning, I did not tell Brother John about Brother Peter and the singing, but I knew I had to leave the monastery. I told Brother John that my family needed me at home and that I felt I had to return. He thanked me for my work and told me that I could return whenever I liked. I thanked him and said that my father would call him one of the righteous men. Brother John blushed and said nothing.

I left the monastery that morning through the same half-open courtyard gate through which I had entered. As I left, I was very much aware that I had received one of the rarest gifts of life in the ghetto: kindness from a gentile stranger. In December 1940 any acts of kindness toward Jews would be punished in some way; by 1941 the punishment would be much more severe and specific. By then, anyone in Poland caught aiding a Jew outside the ghetto, either by offering food or lodging or transportation, would be subject to the death penalty. …

I was home for the final night of Hanukkah. As we sang the melodies, I thought of Brother John and Brother Peter and of my weeks of peace under the shadow of war and occupation. The festival now seemed deeper somehow, denser, and richer. I did not imagine that it would be the last Hanukkah I would celebrate with my family.

Many parish priest in many parishes in the General Government spontaneoudly provided assistance to Jews. Rev. Stanisław Cieśliński, the pastor in the village of Kampinos outside Warsaw, came to the assistance of Jews brought to the labour camp in Narty, which was in operation 1940–1941, urging his parishioners to help the unfortunate. Rabbi Simon Huberband, who was an inmate of the camp in April and May 1941, wrote in Kiddush Hashem: Jewish Religious and Cultural Life in Poland During the Holocaust (Hoboken, New Jersey: KTAV Publishing House; New York: Yeshiva University Press, 1987), at pages 95 and 101:

We received through some Christians the encouraging news that the priest of Kampinos had been giving fiery sermons about us in church every Sunday. He forcefully called upon the Christian population to assist us in all possible ways. And he also attacked the guards and the Christian camp administrators, referring to them as Antichrists. He harshly condemned the guards who beat and murdered the unfortunate Jewish inmates so mercilessly.

As a result, the peasants began to bring various food items to the labor sites. Any inmate who could manage to steal himself over to a peasant while at work received all sorts of delicious foods from him, and several dozen Jews owed their survival to the humane acts of the priest. …

We marched through the village. We were given a warm farewell by the entire Christian population. Dr. Kon told us that when we passed the home of the Christian priest, he would greet us, and that we, in turn, should tip our hats. And that is what occurred. The honorable priest came out of his house with a bouquet of white roses in his hand. He did not say a word, because there were Germans in his home. As we passed by his house we tipped our hats. He answered by nodding his head.

We owed him, the priest of Kampinos, a great deal. Many of us owed our lives to the warm and fiery sermons of this saintly person. His unknown name will remain forever in our memory.

Such open displays of solidarity by Poles were not isolated even in mid-1941, when the Germans were on the verge of implementing a mandatory death sentence for helping Jews since Poles continued to defy repeated warnings not to assist Jews in any way. In July 1941, the Germans created a transit camp in Pomiechówek, just north of Warsaw, where Jews were collected from neighbouring towns before being shipped to the Warsaw ghetto. Approximately 4,000 Jews lived in extremely harsh and cramped conditions, with no access to either drinking water or food. The situation was further exacerbated by the cruel treatment of “storm troopers,” mostly local ethnic Germans and Jewish order policemen. In a report prepared by the Jewish underground in August 1941, Jewish witnesses to those events attested to the widespread and spontaneous assistance of Christian Poles who were moved by the plight of the Jews. (Ewa Wiatr, Barbara Engelking, and Alina Skibińska, eds., Archiwum Ringelbluma: Konspiracyjne Archiwum Getta Warszawskiego, volume 13: Ostatnim etapem przesiedlenia jest śmierć: Pomiechówek, Chełmno nad Nerem, Treblinka [Warsaw: Żydowski Instytut Historyczny im. Emanuela Ringelbluma, 2013), pp.61–62.)
The local population showed great concern for the Jews locked up in the camp. Both Jews, as well as Poles. Already the day after the arrival [of the Jews] at the camp people were throwing loaves of bread over the fence, states Abram Blaszka. Szajndla Gutkowicz describes how the Polish population gathered near the fence bringing bread and cherries, but the authorities did not allow the Jews to approach them. Those [Jews] who were sent to get water [outside the camp] were given gifts of bread, milk and whatever else the farmers could give. Farmers who were ordered to transport Jews to Ludwisin gave them all the bread that they had with them.    
Such displays of solidarity and assistance would have been unthinkable in Germany or Austria at the time, not because it was against the law (which it was not), but because it would have run contrary to societal norms (public opinion) in those countries.
Michael Kossower, an eyewitness and chronicler of the Jewish community of Radzymin near Warsaw, wrote about the assistance provided by Rev. Maksymilian Kościakiewicz, the local pastor, and various other Poles when a typhus epidemic struck the ghetto in April 1941, in that community’s memorial book: Guerchon Hel, ed., Le livre du souvenir de la communauté juive de Radzymin (Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv: Encyclopédie de la Diaspora, 1975), at pages 48–49:
Apart from the president [of the regional court] Gasinski [Jerzy Gasiński], the commander of the Polish police lent his support to this safety operation [i.e., smuggling into the ghetto Dr. Henryk Janowski, a Jewish specialist from Warsaw]. It is also necessary to recall the boundless devotion of the pastor of Radzymin parish, Rev. Kaszczalkiewicz [sic, Kościakiewicz], who distributed hot meals to Jewish children in the church courtyard. After receiving threats from the Germans, he had to stop providing the service of his kitchen, but nevertheless continued to distribute dry food and also gave sums of money to the Jewish self-help committee. …

In the fight against the typhus epidemic, the Jewish doctor Abraham Deutscher of Skerniewice [Skierniewice] distinguished himself. He also managed to prepare medication from materials that he came by illegally from a pharmacy located in the “Aryan” quarter. … He was also aided by several Polish doctors, such as Dr. Wladyslaw Zaslawski [Władysław Zasławski], and Doctors Tucharzewski, Szymkiewicz, Truchaszewicz and Karpinski [Karpiński] of Warsaw, who entered the ghetto secretly at night bringing medicine and administering care to the most needy of its residents.
In the early months of 1940, Eta Chajt Wrobel, who was part of the nascent underground movement in Łuków, undertook a mission to Łódź, where she had lived previously and, with the help of a Pole, managed to steal some guns from German officers. On the way back she had an encounter with an unknown Polish nun—a chance meeting that saved her life. (Eta Wrobel with Jeanette Friedman, My Life My Way: The Extraordinary Memoir of a Jewish Partisan in WWII Poland [New Milford, New Jersey: The Wordsmithy; New York: YIVO Institute for Jewish Research, 2006], pp.53–54.)
In the meantime I decided that it would be prudent to go back to Lodz [Łódź] and get the guns that Janek was still hiding for me. And this time I didn’t wear any yellow stars; I wore instead the crucifix [her Polish girlfriend] Lola’s mother had given me. …

At Janek’s house, I knocked, and he answered the door. When he saw me, he pulled me into his apartment. I told him I’d come for the guns. He have me two guns wrapped in women’s clothing and put them in my handbag. We decided it would be best for me to make several trips to pick up the rest … taking only two guns at a time.

On my way back to Lukow [Łuków], as we pulled into one station, I noticed Gestapo agents surrounding the train. I was terrified. I had no papers and if they searched my bag, I would have been shot on the spot. Though I tried to keep my demeanor cool and calm, something must have shown in my face. A nun sitting across the aisle noticed me and looked into my eyes. I still remember how beautiful her young face was underneath the cowl of her habit. Suddenly, she got up and ordered me to take her suitcase. I obeyed without saying a word. She pushed her way past the Germans as I followed behind her like a maidservant. The Gestapo agents had no time to react to her leaving the train so quickly and never asked her or me for our papers—after all, she was obviously not Jewish, and I was wearing a crucifix.

I walked with her for at least two blocks before she stopped, turned, and looked straight at me. “What are you up to?” she asked. “I can see death in your eyes.” She also saw the cross I was wearing, blessed me, and sent me on my way. She knew exactly what I was up to, and must have guessed I was a Jew, but yet didn’t give me up. That woman, whoever she was, saved my life.