Wartime Rescue of Jews by the Polish Catholic Clergy

Hearing her mention Warsaw, I burst out crying. The old lady then told me that she knew right away I was Jewish by my appearance and gentle manners. …

I remained with this family for several months, and everything appeared normal for nobody but the old grandmother knew that I was Jewish.

One sunny Sunday morning I was in the fields with the children of my adopted family and I felt fine. The children wanted me to sing for them, so I began a church hymn I knew well. Just then I heard the voice of the local priest who remembered me from the time I was in the hospital. He was glad to see me again and said: “Good morning, Antonina … what are you doing in my parish?” I answered that I was already a year with the Timinsky [Tymiński] family and was fine and happy. Complimented [sic] me on my singing he invited me to come and sing in his church choir. Without waiting for a reply he handed me some money to buy myself some decent clothes before I come to church.

I was in a real predicament. To appear in a church choir before many people where somebody might recognize me was dangerous. But it was equally dangerous not to accept the priest’s invitation. I was also afraid to tell my patroness. So I decided to seek the advice of the old grandmother. I came to her room when everybody in the house was already asleep kissed her hand and sought her opinion in regard to the priest’s invitation. The wise old woman listened carefully and advised me to accept the offer; buy new shoes, dress nicely and join the choir. She was sure my outward appearance could never betray my being Jewish.

Next morning I did exactly as the wise old lady told me to do. I washed and dressed neatly and went to the priest’s house. From there I was taken by the priest’s housekeeper (who was also Jewish) to buy the right sort of clothes for a good Christian choir girl. We bought a pair of sandals, a beret, and a nice blue knitted skirt. When I was all dressed, Wanda (that was the housekeeper’s name) slyly remarked that now I really look like a “Jiduvka [Żydówka]” (a Jewish girl) …

I was really frightened, but soon Wanda calmed me by saying that nowadays anyone who looked gentle and cultured is suspected as Jewish … We both knew the truth about each other, but acted as if we didn’t, and so parted, to our respective non-Jewish “homes.”

I was nervous and impatient, during the last days of the week, thinking how it would be on Sunday morning—my hour of trial. At nine o’clock, when I heard the church bells ringing I was ready but jittery. I only plucked up courage when grandma, my old friend, wished me good luck saying: … “Sing well. Think of me when you stand before the public, and have no fears”.

So I did. Standing there among the other girls in the choir, I felt the priest’s approving look, and saw the old man’s lips whispering: “Dobje [Dobrze]” (Polish: well done!)

My first appearance was successful. The next time it was easier. They got used to me and no one seemed to question my origin. I was well liked in the village and at times I was even permitted to substitute my master on night watch duty with the other villagers. No one suspected my Jewishness. Yet, I was often tormented by the thought of being the only Jewess left in the world.

So the days and months passed. …
Rev. Jan Auder, the pastor of the village of Ostrożany, about 30 kilometres northwest of Siemiatycze, was known for his protective attitude toward Jews. Hinda Sarashka (Seroszko), who was sheltered by Poles in that area, recalled (“Christians Treated Me Well,” in Shtokfish, Sefer Drohiczyn, pp.400–404):
In Ostrożany the pastor was Auder, a decent man, very good and smart. He summoned all the Christians to church and told them that one must obey the Ten Commandments, help everyone who is in need, first of all those who are homeless. If one does not want to help, then one should allow them to go their own way. Many Jews survived thanks to that priest.
After their escape from the ghetto in the town of Siemiatycze, Chana Lisogurski Broder, then a four-year-old child, her parents and her grandmother were given shelter by several Polish families, most notably, the Kryński family in the hamlet of Morze, near Ostrożany. The Lisogurskis lived there for a year and a half in a bunker under a barn, coming out only late at night when it was safe to do so. The Kryński family gave them the sustenance to survive all that time, until the Soviets overran the area in 1944. When their Polish benefactors were at their wit’s end because of the fear of German reprisals if their charges were discovered, in desperation Mrs. Kryńska turned to her pastor, Rev. Jan Auder, for guidance. He told her, “What you are doing is very good. They are innocent people. If you can, continue to hide them.”⁴²³
The Sisters of Divine Providence (Siostry Opatrzności Bożej, commonly known as Siostry Opatrznościanki) in Międzyrzec Podlaski sheltered Irena Likierman, born in Warsaw in 1932, whose family had sought refuge in that area. A railroad worker found her and hid her temporarily before she arrived at the house of her mother’s friend. Afterwards, she stayed in two institutions run by nuns, an orphanage and a home for the elderly. (Account of Irena [Agata] Bołdok, née Likierman, ‘Back to Being Myself!” in Gutenbaum and Latała, The Last Eyewitnesses, volume 2, pp.30–32.)
I came from the train station to Mrs. Cydzikowa’s. I had jaundice. I remember that I looked completely different from the other kids. My mother’s friend let me stay for a little while, but then she said, “You know that I have two sons. I can’t take such a risk.” She turned me over to the nuns. These were the Sisters of Providence—located at 69 Lubelska Street, a place donated by Count Potocki. There was a barracks for orphans there. I was the oldest, but there were thirty other little ones. The nuns knew very well that I was Jewish. I was emaciated, with little braids, yellow like a lemon because of the jaundice.

I don’t know how long I stayed with those nuns. One time, Germans came and told the nuns that if they had any Jewish children, they would have to give them up. They ought to go back to wherever they came from. The nuns decided to send me back to the woman who had brought me there. You should have seen the expression on Mrs. Cydzikowa’s face when she saw me. She said that she was very sorry, but that unfortunately, she could not take me in and that I should return to the nuns. I didn’t really know what to do; I went back and forth maybe twice. … I spent the night on the doorstep of a church mortuary. … Gendarmes came in the morning. They asked, “What are you doing here, little girl?” I answered astutely that I was waiting for my mother, even though she wasn’t there, of course. “Where’s your mother?” “She went to the store.”

They came back once—I was still sitting there. A second time—I was still sitting. They said, “Come with us, your mother probably won’t come back.” They took me to the town hall, to the mayor. … I think his name was [Franciszek] Majewski. … The mayor got the idea to send me to a home for the elderly, so that I could wait out the worst period there. He figured out that I was Jewish. When someone asked me what my name was, I answered “Irena Likierman.” What more did he need?

At the home for the elderly, I sat under someone’s bed. I would only come out to eat and wash myself. I was already there for some time (months or weeks), when I once went outdoors. … In any case, some woman saw me and began screaming … I ran back into the home, and the nuns that were running it, afraid that this woman would come after me, took me back to the sisters where I had stayed before. I spent the following year with them. …

In 1944 the Russians entered. Some time before, when the front was approaching and there was nothing to eat, the nuns handed me over, as the oldest of the girls, as a servant to a woman teacher. I was twelve years old already. …