The Story of Prisoner 16670: A Radical Act of Love

By Sandro F. Piedrahita

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“No one has greater love than this,
 to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
- John 15:13

 “True courage requires fighting
when everyone knows the cause is lost.”
- Saint Maximilian Kolbe, A Hero of the
Holocaust by Fiorella De Maria

Prisoner Number 16670 had spent a lifetime preparing for this moment, and when it came, he was prepared.

He had already spent three days at the Starvation Bunker, and the other prisoners were lapsing into despair, to say nothing of hunger and thirst, so he did what he always did. He prayed the Rosary, ceaselessly, endlessly, without respite. Despite the dire circumstances, he placed his hope in God and in the Mother of God, the Immaculata. Even though many of the other captives were Jews, he encouraged his fellows to do the same.

“He who has God lacks nothing,” he proclaimed, quoting Saint Teresa of Avila. “God alone suffices.”

Prisoner 16350 was a rabbi wearing a yellow star on his striped uniform and told Prisoner 16670 that he could not pray to the Catholic Virgin Mary. Prisoner 16670 responded in a mirthful voice – yes, a mirthful voice! “Then we’ll both pray together to God Our Father. God will listen to us in this moment of tribulation.”

Prisoner 16350 bowed his head down and commenced an ancient prayer in Yiddish. “When I am shattered, assure me that I can heal,” he prayed. “When I am weary, renew my spirit. When I am lost, show me that you are near.” Like the other prisoners, the rabbi had a number tattooed on his arm and for all purposes had lost his name.

After the Rosary was completed, Prisoner 16670 lamented that he did not have a piece of bread to consecrate the Eucharist.

“I shall celebrate the Mass,” he said, “but I wish I could give you all the Holy Host. Now more than ever we need the body of Jesus.”

Prisoner 12200 – a Pole just like Prisoner 16670 and a huge muscular man – instantly objected. He still had a powerful voice despite three days without food or water.

“Do you think the Lord is with us here in the Starvation Bunker? God couldn’t be farther away from Auschwitz. I refuse to pray the Rosary, and I won’t join you if you say the Mass. It would be useless.”

“God is everywhere,” responded Prisoner 16670. “He is here with us, helping us to carry our heavy Cross. Never doubt in the darkness what God has shown you in the light.”

“What light?” scoffed Prisoner 12200. “Those Germans haven’t even placed a light bulb on the ceiling, and there is only a small barred window. We are doomed to die in darkness.”

“Don’t be afraid of the darkness,” responded Prisoner 16670. “This too shall pass. You are a Pole. Pray to our Lady of Czestochowa the Black Madonna. She has always protected the Polish people, and she won’t stop doing it now.”

“If what has happened to the Polish people under German occupation shows us the Black Madonna is protecting Poland,” retorted Prisoner 12200, “then I think very little of her protection.”

“Well, I’ll celebrate the Mass anyway. I only wish I had a loaf of bread.”

Suddenly Prisoner 13760, a weak lad of seventeen, intervened. He extracted a crusty piece of French bread from the pocket of his shirt.

“I was saving this for later,” he said in a weak voice, “for when I am really hungry. But I suppose it’s more important at this moment for you to deliver the Eucharist to us than for me to eat.”

“Thank you, thank you!” exclaimed Prisoner 16670. “That should be more than enough! We shall all be nourished by the Body of Christ even if our bellies remain empty.”

Prisoner 16670 officiated a Mass at the Starvation Bunker for the benefit of his nine fellow prisoners and himself. At the right moment, he raised the piece of bread in the air and said, “Do this in memory of me.” Then he tore the stale bread into little pieces and put them in the mouths of the other starving men. Aside from the Jews, only Prisoner 12200 abstained, since he no longer believed in the grace of God.

“I only wish we had more bread,” whispered Prisoner 51764 at the conclusion of the Mass. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and had a receding hairline. He had been employed as an accountant before the war. “And perhaps a little water,” he added. “Do you really think the Germans are going to let us die of thirst and hunger? At some point, they’ll bring us some food and water, won’t they?”

“Don’t delude yourself,” scoffed Prisoner 12200, the burly Pole. “They are doing this to us to frighten all the rest, to show what will happen if anyone else escapes. For every man that escapes, ten men are killed. That is their rule, and they have selected us to be the ten.”

“Except for 16670,” responded Prisoner 51764. “He wasn’t selected.” The Germans had demanded that the prisoners refer to each other by their numbers rather than their names, and even in their absence, the accountant in horn-rimmed glasses didn’t break the habit.

“Fools rush in,” retorted Prisoner 12200, referring to Prisoner 16670, “where angels fear to tread.”

“How can you call him a fool for his heroic act of bravery?” protested Prisoner 16350, the Jewish rabbi. “He saved a life and sacrificed his own.”

“They’ll kill the other man too eventually,” retorted Prisoner 12200 with anger in his voice.

“Prisoner 16670 saved nobody. He just hastened his own death.”

“Just like the Christ,” objected the seventeen-year-old Prisoner 13760 meekly. “No man has greater love than he who gives up his life for another…”

* * *

Raymund Kolbe was twelve years old when the apparition happened. He had stolen some eggs from a neighbor, and his mother had chastised him for doing so.

“What is to become of you?” she said. “If you’re a thief at your age, what will you be as an adult? The child is the father of the man. I couldn’t be more disappointed.”

Raymund was perturbed. He sped to Father Gajewski’s church and knelt before a figure of the Black Madonna.

“What will become of me?” he asked in desperation. His mother’s words had shaken him profoundly. “Am I to become an evil man, unworthy of your love?”

Then he started to weep. He looked up at the face of the Virgin of Czestochowa, kindness incarnate.

“I promise I shall never steal again,” he pleaded through his tears. “Just let me know I am still in your good graces!”

Then it happened. He heard a voice, and suddenly the statue of the Black Madonna came to life.

“I’m not angry at you for what you have done,” the Black Madonna reassured him. “I couldn’t love you more.”

“What shall I do? How can I know I’ll always be the object of your love?”

The Virgin of Czestochowa then showed Raymund two crowns, one of them white like the driven snow, the other scarlet like a rose.

“If you accept the white crown, you’ll be pledging your purity of soul to me. If you accept the red crown, you’ll be promising to be a martyr for the faith. Tell me, Raymund, do you willingly accept either of these crowns?”

The twelve-year-old gazed at the figure of the Black Madonna. “I’d like to accept both of them,” he said.

“Very well then,” responded the Virgin Mary. “For the moment, begin to live a life of chastity. At some point I shall call you to be a priest. And many years later, I shall give you the crown of martyrdom. When you grow older, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will gird you and carry you where you don’t want to go.”

* * *

Everyone thought that the thin, waiflike Prisoner 13760 would be the first to succumb to thirst and hunger, but he held on. It was Prisoner 19978 – a prominent thirtyish lawyer from Warsaw – who was about to die on his fifth day in the Starvation Bunker. His symptoms were unmistakable: an overwhelming weakness, a fast heart rate, slowed, shallow breaths and inexplicable diarrhea. His eyes had begun to sink in and glass over. His muscles had begun to become smaller, and muscle wasting began to set in. He was also afflicted with an overwhelming tiredness and dizziness, lapsing in and out of consciousness, and his skin was overly pale. His skin loosened and turned gray in color, and there was swelling of his feet and ankles.

Prisoner 16670 approached the dying man and asked if he wanted to give his last Confession. Prisoner 19978, amid his weakness, affirmed with a motion of the head.

“When was your last Confession?” asked Prisoner 16670.

“Maybe seventeen, twenty years ago since my last valid Confession,” responded Prisoner 19978 in a whisper. “I have been all things unholy, although I did a pretty good job hiding it, even in the Confessional.”

“What do you have to confess today?” asked Prisoner 16670.

“What don’t I have to confess?” responded the dying man. “I have been guilty of adultery, beating my wife, even consorting with men. Everyone thought I was a pillar of the community because I was such a hypocrite. I hid my vice in furtive corners, sought out temptations in dark places where prostitutes and buggers gathered. And I didn’t believe, I never prayed, even as I went to Mass to keep up appearances. My confessors thought I was a stalwart, virtuous man. My hypocrisy became so great that it led me to ignore my conscience. I no longer realized that I was sinning. But then I was imprisoned.”

Then Prisoner 19978 began to cough blood. Since Prisoner 16670 did not have a napkin or a kerchief, he cleaned the man’s face with the sleeve of his own shirt. Once Prisoner 19978 had recovered, Prisoner 16670 proceeded with the Confession.

“Do you sincerely repent of all your sins?” he asked.

“I repented on the first day of my incarceration when I realized what I had lost. I’m not sure I ever loved anyone but myself, but I sure do now. They imprisoned me because I was a member of Opus Dei, if you can believe that, Father. Can you gauge the extent of my hypocrisy? And now I would give anything – anything – to be back with my wife and sons, to live a Catholic life free from sin.”

“It’s good that you are going to die a holy death,” said Prisoner 16670. “Others will not be so lucky. I declare you righteous, forgiven. You can join the Lord in peace.”

Prisoner 19978 soon expired, and the other captives wondered what to do with his corpse. The German soldiers hadn’t appeared in days, and everyone knew the dead lawyer would simply be allowed to rot in their midst.

“I can’t deal with this anymore,” exclaimed Prisoner 12200, the burly Pole, in desperation. “Why don’t the Germans have the decency of just shooting us in the head instead of letting us waste away?”

“It is a heavy Cross we’re carrying,” said Prisoner 16670 in an impassive voice, as if he were somehow impervious to the horror all around him. “But offer your pain to Jesus as a way of carrying His Cross. This punishment won’t be eternal. We’ll all be in a better place in just a few days.”

Prisoner 12200 broke down and moaned. The two-meter tall man bawled like a child. “What have I done to merit such a punishment?” wailed the burly Pole. “What sin have I committed to deserve this torture?”

“Suffering isn’t always a punishment. Some say it can become the ladder to Heaven. Just start praying. Don’t give up. We shall all be soon delivered.”

“Don’t you see I no longer believe in a beneficent God?” cried out Prisoner 12200. “It’s not just what’s happening to us. It’s what’s happening all over the place. Some would say the devil is rampant in Europe. Millions of Jewish men, women and children killed. Our Motherland Poland enslaved. Priests like you sent into concentration camps and gassed. Millions of people praying to no avail.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” responded Prisoner 16670. “It is true that the demonic Fuhrer has corrupted an entire nation. Herod, killer of innocents, has returned and is wielding great power. Millions of formerly God-fearing people have suddenly become participants in a magnificent crime. But good always prevails over evil. It always has. It always will. Trust in the will of God.”

And Prisoner 16670 made a sign of the Cross on the forehead of his Polish compatriot before giving him a medal of the Immaculata.

* * *

Raymund Kolbe soon became a priest, as he had promised the Virgin of Czestochowa, taking on the name Maximilian. As part of his training he was sent to Rome, which filled him with joy and trepidation at once – joy because it was the seat of the Catholic faith, full of ancient splendor, trepidation because he had heard rumors that it was a city given to vice and sporadic acts of anti-religious fervor. Soon he witnessed something which made him shudder and think that the battles for the salvation of souls must be renewed. As he was walking toward Vatican City, he witnessed a huge parade of men, women and children. What he saw on their banners shook him to the core. He recognized that it was a group of anti-Catholics, marching under a banner showing the dragon crushing Saint Michael the Archangel. They were celebrating the victory of the enemy!

“Immaculate Virgin,” Maximilian earnestly whispered, “pray for us who have recourse to thee and for all those who do not have recourse to thee, especially the enemies of the Church.”

When he returned to Poland, he decided to form an army to combat against the Church’s foes, with the Immaculata as its general and the medal of the Immaculata as its mightiest weapon. He formed a group called the Knights of the Immaculata, which eventually formed the largest monastery in Europe, a place called Niepokalanow – City of Mary Immaculate – which housed more than seven-hundred friars. When he was asked how he could have achieved such a wonder, he always regaled his listeners with the same story about the miraculous medal of the Immaculate Virgin.

“Once,” he told them, “there was a wealthy Swiss banker who was virulently anti-Catholic. He said he had built a fortune without ever praying and called Christianity the cradle of superstitions and fairy tales for the lowly, ignorant masses. When a Catholic friend told him he couldn’t be more wrong, the banker scoffed with scorn. ‘Only a fool would think that a man could be crucified and returned to life in three days,’ he said. ‘Only a fool could believe in the virgin birth of Jesus.’ His friend challenged him to wear the medal of the Immaculata for a week. If he wore it and didn’t change his mind, his friend promised to never mention the Holy Virgin nor the Crucified Christ to him ever again. So the banker – his name was Alphonse Ratisbonne – put the medal around his neck, expecting to disabuse his Catholic friend of his religious delusions. One day, however, as he was walking about the streets, he came upon the Church of Sant’Andrea delle Fratte and was suddenly moved to enter it. He instinctively knelt at the feet of a statue of the Immaculata, which was identical to the image impressed about the medal hanging from his neck. Suddenly he felt himself shaking. The Virgin herself was speaking to him. ‘Be not afraid,’ she said in a kindly voice. ‘I am your mother Mary, and I come to you from Heaven.’ The Swiss banker collapsed in tears, never to doubt again. And just as she performed a miracle for the banker, she has graced the Knights of the Immaculata with her gifts. The grand monastery of Niepokalanow couldn’t have been built without her aid.”

Father Maximilian saw the creation of Niepokalanow – Mary’s city – as nothing less than miraculous. The first thing he had done was to form the Knights of the Immaculata with the purpose of renewing the Franciscan order. Despite much initial opposition from his superiors, he eventually obtained the blessing of Pope Benedict XV and set about his work. By then, Father Maximilian had already been introduced to the Cross: he had developed tuberculosis and lost a lung, but even that didn’t dissuade him from his grand purposes and outlandish plans.

His first accomplishment was to establish a newspaper in honor of the Immaculata called “The Knight.” Even doing that would have been impossible without Mary’s help, for the Franciscans did not have the money for such an endeavor nor a printing press. But Father Maximilian saw no limits to his quixotic quest. If Saint Francis of Assisi had lived in the twentieth century, he pleaded with his superiors, he would have used all modern means of communication to spread the Gospel message, not only newspapers but also the radio, film and even television. Why not modernize the teaching of the Good News?

When the first edition of “The Knight” was ready to be published, Father Maximilian needed five-hundred marks to pay the printer and did not have the money. In vain he knocked at the doors of wealthy Catholics and asked for help. In vain he went from door to door begging for alms, as the founder of his order once had done. His fellow priests thought the plan for the little newspaper would be aborted from the outset. But Father Maximilian did not despair. He grabbed a fellow priest by the arm and told him, “We are going to visit a friend who will provide us with the funds.”

“Do you have a friend who’s a banker?” asked his fellow priest.

“Better than that,” said Father Maximilian. “Come follow me.”

When they arrived at the place where Father Maximilian expected to obtain the funds, his fellow priest was flabbergasted. It was not the home of a wealthy benefactor. It was not a bank. It was the chapel of Our Lady of Sorrows in the Basilica of Saint Francis.

“Is this what you meant when you said you had a friend who would provide you with the money?” asked his fellow priest. “I assume you’ve already prayed, and your pleas have gone unanswered. I’m as faithful as the next fellow, but I think it’s rather late to ask for Mary’s intercession. It’s not the end of the world if your little newspaper fails.”

“Come, pray with me,” Father Maximilian responded. “Mary is the most powerful of intercessors and will never leave a son unaided.”

Father Maximilian then knelt before the statue of Our Lady of Sorrows and entered a trancelike state. He shut his eyes and prayed. After two hours of silent praying, Father Maximilian’s fellow priest stood up and walked out of the church to smoke a cigarette. He was convinced that Father Maximilian’s dreams of establishing a Catholic newspaper had failed. As far as Father Maximilian, his praying did not cease. He knew the parable of the insistent widow and firmly believed that if one persists in prayer, one always obtains what he requests when what one asks for is aligned with the wishes of the Immaculata.

When Father Maximilian’s fellow priest returned to the church, he was surprised to see a large envelope at Father Maximilian’s feet. Father Maximilian himself had not noticed it, as he was still immersed in prayer. When his fellow priest tapped him on the shoulder, it was as if Father Maximilian had been roused from a deep sleep.

“Have you seen the envelope in front of you?” asked his fellow priest.

“An envelope? What envelope?” asked Father Maximilian.

Then he saw it at his feet. He opened it slowly, deliberately, with his trembling hands. Inside the thick envelope there were five-hundred marks, the exact sum that he needed for the first edition of “The Knight” to be published. Father Maximilian’s fellow priest was astonished, for there was no way of establishing the envelope’s provenance. The only rational explanation, the only possible explanation, was that it had been a miracle.

From then on, everything seemed to fall into place. Father Maximilian could not fail to see that one miracle followed another. He was never sure whether he would have the funds to pay for the latest edition of “The Knight” until the very last moment, but the Immaculata always provided. And at one point an American benefactor – a Catholic priest of Polish descent – gave Father Maximilian the money for him to buy a massive printing press. Following that, Father Maximilian was able to distribute his little newspaper widely, and donations from readers started to come in, first as a trickle and eventually as a torrent. “The Knight” eventually achieved a circulation of a million copies, and membership in the Knights of the Immaculata reached one-hundred-fifty-thousand!

“We are going to build the biggest monastery in the world!” Father Maximilian told his superior Father Zeno. “You just see!”

* * *

By the sixth day in the Starvation Bunker, Prisoner 16670 was visibly fatigued but not defeated. His throat was dry, and there was no saliva in his mouth. His face was gaunt and yellowish, his body skin and bones. He wished he had a cane, for his legs were weak, and he felt his body was too heavy for his soul to carry. And yet he didn’t want to collapse on the floor like the other captives, for he knew his stamina gave them strength. He didn’t pray for a swift respite from his pain, the promise of a holy death. He prayed to be the last man standing, for without him the other prisoners would descend into the worst kind of despair.

“Let all of them be taken before me,” he intoned in a whisper to his God. “They need someone to gently guide them to their deaths. Let me give them an example of how to suffer and believe.”

By then, four other prisoners had perished. Prisoner 14688, a Jewish optometrist, had simply curled up on the floor and died. Prisoner 24678, a Polish butcher, had exhaled his last breath muttering nonsensical phrases, sounding like a madman. Prisoner 38675, a Dutch convert to Catholicism from Judaism, had first asked Prisoner 16670 to give him Extreme Unction and then had gently closed his eyes. Prisoner 77892 opened his eyes wide and muttered, “Maria, Maria” before he died. Prisoner 16670 did not know if he was invoking the name of Mother Mary or that of a wife from whom he had been separated. Their corpses were all on the floor, some of them already rotting and emitting a foul stench which drove the remaining men to vomit.

“I wish I had a pill,” confessed the once burly Prisoner 12200, now a shadow of himself. “I envy the men who are already dead.”

“Don’t even say that,” Prisoner 16670 gently reproved him. “You will die when the good Lord in His infinite mercy decides it’s time for you to go. Come, say a prayer with me. It will do you good.”

“I’ve already told you I see no point in praying. If God exists, He is a mercenary God.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” the seventeen-year-old Prisoner 13760 interjected. “God is good. God is merciful. God is faithful to the end.”

“I had a girlfriend, the apple of my eye,” Prisoner 12200 said almost in a whisper as his eyes began to water. “She lives in Krakow now. Her name is Julia Kaluzniacki, her hair is golden and her eyes are blue. And she is pregnant with my child. I had every intention to marry her, but then I was arrested. I had a Jewish friend – his name was Jacob Bronstein – and I hid him in a shed behind my father’s house. When the Gestapo appeared, they beat my father to his death and pulled at my mother by the hair. I know not what her fate is. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I don’t know who turned us in, what black-hearted traitor told the Germans about Jacob in the shed.”

“Think about that child,” suggested Prisoner 13760. “How lovely to know your seed will sprout.”

“I have two sons myself,” interrupted Prisoner 12445, a swarthy Jew with a thick beard, as if rousing from his sleep. “I thought they were safe in Holland, but now I know the Nazis are there as well.”

“Are they grown? Or are they children?” asked Prisoner 16670.

“Oh, they’re both in their twenties, a man and a woman now. I was about to join them when the Nazis caught me on a train. Maybe I should have told you about them. Maybe you would have taken my place instead of that of Prisoner 00960.”

“My regret is that I had but one life to sacrifice,” lamented Prisoner 16670. “That the Nazis didn’t accept my immolation instead of killing the nine of you.”

“No,” said Prisoner 12445. “The man you saved said he had small children. You did the right thing when you told the guards that you would take his place. I’m almost an old man now. No one will even miss me.”

“What you did – what you did,” stammered the seventeen-year-old Prisoner 13760, “replenished my faith in humankind. Amid the barbarity of the Nazis, your courage is a testament to the human spirit.”

“I hope the man escaped,” stated Prisoner 12200, “that at least he made it, that we did not lose our lives in vain, that you did not lose your life for nothing.”

“I’m sure he managed to escape,” said Prisoner 16670. “Otherwise the guards would not have acted with so much wrath. But now it will be nearly impossible for any other prisoner to attempt to flee. There will be a strong temptation for the other prisoners to turn him over, knowing that for every prisoner that escapes, ten will take his place in the Starvation Bunker.”

“What a macabre world!” exclaimed Prisoner 12200 with all the voice that remained in him. “It’s a macabre world, a nightmare somehow made a reality. It’s almost unbelievable that this is a world of men.”

Prisoner 16670 admonished him in a fierce voice. “Don’t allow the enemy to convince you that you are alone. Don’t ever give into despair. Never, ever give up. The God of all creation is with you here at Auschwitz.”

* * *

When Father Maximilian broached the idea of founding Niepokalanow – the City of Mary Immaculate – most of his fellow Franciscans were sure that he was building castles in the air. After all, he was speaking not only of building a monastery for more than seven-hundred friars but an entire little city devoted to the glorification of the Immaculata. How could he ever obtain the money to buy the vast plot of land that was required? How would he pay laborers to build the massive structures he envisioned? And how could Father Maximilian, a man already afflicted with tuberculosis, have the stamina to direct the project? No, it was just impossible. It was one thing to ask Mary for five-hundred marks to publish an issue of “The Knight,” quite another to come up with the millions necessary to finance such an inordinate dream.

But Father Maximilian had an idea. There was a huge unused plot of land close to Warsaw owned by a very wealthy man called Count Lubecki. The man was a Catholic – Father Maximilian had heard his Confession more than once – but he was afflicted with the stubborn sin of greed. He had inherited a fortune as a young man and had multiplied it through his wily business acumen. Every year he donated a new statue to the Basilica of Saint Francis in a desire to make up for his avarice, but the truth was that such gifts were an infinitesimal fraction of his net worth. One night Father Maximilian had a dream – he saw Count Lubecki dressed in rags and begging for alms – and the priest realized that he was seeing a vision of Count Lubecki’s soul. Although he was mightily rich in the eyes of his fellow citizens, he was poor in the eyes of God. By convincing Count Lubecki to donate the vast plot of land to the Franciscans, Father Maximilian would not only be fulfilling his dream of building a community dedicated to the Immaculata. He would be bringing Count Lubecki’s soul that much closer to Heaven. So one day Father Maximilian lifted a statue of the Immaculata in his arms and made his way to the castle of Count Lubecki on foot across the snow.

Count Lubecki greeted him with joy and noticed Father Maximilian had placed the statue of Mary Immaculate on a small hill overlooking the unused plot of land.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” asked Count Lubecki. He was a man in his mid-fifties, ruddy and robust, dressed in a suit of silk.

“I come to bless you,” said Father Maximilian as he took off his black hat, covered in snow. He knew that with his tuberculosis he shouldn’t travel during blizzards, but he seldom worried about his health. “One dies on the day chosen by the Lord and not the day before,” he said whenever anyone objected to the risks he was taking with his health.

“Thank you for the blessing,” said the Count. “I can use it. I see you’ve placed a statue of Mary Immaculate on my premises. Why have you done that, pray tell?”

“I’ve come to give you an opportunity to store riches in the Heavens. You know that huge plot of land to the south of your castle? I’ve come to respectfully request that you donate it to the Franciscans. I want to build a monastery, and we need the land for it.”

The Count was disturbed. He had never imagined such an outlandish request.

“I would gladly give you some money to help you,” said Count Lubecki, “or I can sell you the land at a discounted price so you can build your monastery. But the land is worth a huge sum of money, and I can’t just give it away.”

“Why do you need the land?” Father Maximilian probed. “You are the owner of vast properties and don’t even use the plot we’re discussing. I don’t mean to be importunate, but I’m not making the request for myself. I am asking on behalf of the Immaculata.”

“The Immaculata?” echoed Count Lubecki.

“Yes, I need to build a monastery for the Immaculate Mary. We have thousands of new members of the Knights of the Immaculata and have nowhere to house them.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Count Lubecki. “I try to keep all the Commandments and am punctiliously honest in business. I donate generously when I go to Mass. But you’re asking me for a property worth more than a million marks.”

“All right,” said Father Maximilian. “Think nothing of it. If your conscience is satisfied, who am I to question your decision?”

“A million marks!” Count Lubecki repeated. “You’re asking me for a property worth more than a million marks!”

“Whatever you give,” uttered Father Maximilian, “the Lord shall restore sevenfold.”

“I’m probably being a fool,” the Count replied, “but you shall have your plot of land. Let me speak to my lawyers. I’ll have them draw up the papers. You shall have your city of the Immaculata. Now give me your blessing. God knows how dearly I am paying for it!”

* * *

Prisoner 45900 was a long-haired and bearded bohemian used to making money by playing the guitar and singing songs at railway stations. He did not know why he had been arrested but suspected it was because, given his demeanor and style of dress, the Gestapo had taken him for a homosexual. Or perhaps they had realized he sang songs of Polish resistance and wouldn’t tolerate it. Once he arrived at the Starvation Bunker, he was in a better mood than most, and continued to sing, sitting in a corner against the wall and wishing he had his guitar. He was lanky and thin even before he began to starve and had a smile painted on his lips in the most inauspicious times. In him, Prisoner 16670 thought he had a kindred spirit, for Prisoner 45900 didn’t seem to be afraid of death.

It was Prisoner 45900 who saw the miracle on the eighth day.

While the other prisoners were huddled on the floor, Prisoner 45900 said, “Look! Do you see it?”

“See what?” the other prisoners responded in unison.

“The window. See the window. It’s snowing!”

Prisoner 12200 stood up and ran to see for himself. Prisoner 45900 was right: snow was accumulating on the ledge of the window. Since the window was not protected by glass and only by three steel bars to prevent escape, some of the snow was even falling inside the Starvation Bunker.

“A reprieve!” cried out Prisoner 12200 in a triumphant voice. “At least for now we won’t die of thirst.” Then he scooped up the snow on the window ledge and drank it avidly. He hadn’t felt such satisfaction in his entire life.

The other prisoners soon followed suit, except for Prisoner 12445, who didn’t have the energy to lift himself up from the floor. Prisoner 16670 took a clump of snow from the floor of the Starvation Bunker and fed it to Prisoner 12445.

“Thank you,” the glassy-eyed man said in the weakest voice. “Give me some more. Please, father, give me more.”

Prisoner 16670 collected some more snow in his hands and took it to Prisoner 12445. Only after Prisoner 12445 had had his fill did Prisoner 16670 begin to eat a little snow himself.

“The Lord has had pity on us,” he said in praise as he quenched his thirst. “The snow season has begun, and we are blessed by manna from Heaven. Thus say the Scriptures. ‘Every second, every minute, every hour our bodies will breathe in the manna of Heaven.’ Even in this accursed place, the Lord is near and has showered us with His mercy.”

From that day forward, at least the prisoners did not have to worry about thirst, although the icy cold was in no way pleasant given that they weren’t dressed for winter. Blizzards followed, and the floor of the Starvation Bunker was drenched in snow coming through the window. Everyone but Prisoner 12200 joined Prisoner 16670 in thanking God for such a manifest miracle. But it was not enough to save Prisoner 12445. He relinquished his soul on the ninth day despite the snow Prisoner 16670 had taken to him on the previous afternoon. Before Prisoner 12445 died, he made a final request to Prisoner 16670.

“If you survive and ever manage to go back to a normal world, please get in contact with my two children. They are named Jacob and Ruth Klausner. And their mother’s maiden name was Grossman. Last I heard they were in Holland, but who knows where they are now. I want you to tell them that I loved them to the end.”

“I promise you,” said Prisoner 16670, not wishing to remind the dying man that it was extremely unlikely that any of the prisoners would survive the Starvation Bunker. “If I can, I shall find them and make sure to tell him their father’s thoughts were on them even on his last day.”

“Why don’t we eat him?” said Prisoner 12200 in a frantic voice as soon as the man expired. “I’ve heard of men who’ve survived in the frigid mountains for weeks by eating the flesh of their friends. Who knows how long we can last if we drink the snow and eat the bodies of the dead?”

“Why are you so afraid of death?” asked Prisoner 16670. “We’re not freezing in the mountains. We’re in the Starvation Bunker. Even if we survive the hunger and the thirst, the German guards will come and inject our arms with carbolic acid at the end. It happened to Wieceslaw, who survived in the Starvation Bunker for an entire month.”

Prisoner 12200 hit his head repeatedly against the wall until his forehead bled profusely and covered his face in red.

“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die,” he said without cease. “There are so many reasons for living.”

Prisoner 16670 put his arms around his shoulders and told him to sit on the floor. “Offer it to the Lord,” said Prisoner 16670. “Share in His Passion. Await His mercy. Marvel at His goodness.”

“Goodness?” queried Prisoner 12200.

“Every man must die at one point or another. But you shall not die alone. I promise I’ll be with you till the end. And we won’t die of thirst. Our lives shall simply ebb away.”

“I wish you had taken my place instead of that of Prisoner 00960,” said Prisoner 12200 as he began to sob without control. “Why did he merit such a bounty? Don’t you know that I also have a reason to live, that a child is on the way?”

* * *

When Father Maximilian returned to the City of Mary Immaculate – Niepokalanow – after spending several years ministering to the citizens of Japan, he was astonished by what he saw. What had been a bunch of makeshift barracks now housed an enormous monastery and multiple other buildings. There was now a church, a seminary, a large publishing house, a library, a radio station, a sawmill, a carpentry, a dairy, a fire station, a hospital, a cemetery, a repair shop for farm machinery, a windmill and even a soccer field. The land adjacent to the monastery was used by the monks to grow a variety of vegetables. There was a farm to keep the cows, chickens, and pigs used to feed the seven-hundred monks of the City of Mary as well as the monastery’s many guests. And the huts of Polish peasants dotted the landscape of Nieopokalanow, all of them blessed by an image of the Immaculata. With the passage of time, various businesses managed by virtuous and hard-working men sprouted like flowers in the City of Mary. Against all odds, contradicting all the naysayers, Father Maximilian’s outlandish vision of a Marian village had become a reality.

However, the City of Immaculate Mary was in Poland, and it could not escape the fate of Poland when the Nazis took over the country in September 1939. Father Maximilian, by then the superior at the monastery, allowed fifteen-hundred Jews to hide in Niepokalanow in anticipation of the arrival of the German war machine. Father Maximilian also expanded the infirmary knowing the Nazis’ bombs would soon begin to pound Warsaw, which was only sixty kilometers away, and that the number of casualties would be massive. And soon, even from his cell at the monastery, Father Maximilian could hear the explosions of bombs rained from the sky by German warplanes.

As usual, his first instinct was to pray. He prayed for his beloved homeland, the land between two powerful and diabolical regimes, that of the German Hitler and that of the Russian Stalin, who had both gone mad at the same time. But he also prayed for the souls of the men who were bringing agony to Poland, the two totalitarian monsters included, for they knew not what they were doing. At one point, the monastery in Mary’s village was bombed as well, but miraculously no one was hurt, and the physical damage was minor. Father Maximilian attributed it to the intercession of the Immaculata.

One afternoon on a sunless day, the Gestapo arrived, asking for all the Jews to be turned over. Father Maximilian violently protested, especially when he realized the Nazis were prepared to take the women and the children with them. The frail priest marveled at the efficiency of the Gestapo operation, ready with a large group of black buses to take the Jews to the train station and from there to take them to their deaths. Father Maximilian was sure that the trains would arrive at their destinations on time, for the Germans were known for their punctuality. Yes! Known for their punctuality and for Goethe, Beethoven and Bach! The most cultured nation on earth had become the most depraved, engaged in a collective frenzy against the hated Jew and the inferior Pole, against the Catholic priests and nuns who objected, against the disabled and the feeble-minded who were ripe for martyrdom and could be eliminated like so much useless flotsam.

“At least let me give them some food,” pleaded Father Maximilian as he struggled not to cry. “How far are you taking these poor men and women, these little kids?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” responded the German soldier. “After all, they’re just despicable Jews. Just be thankful we’re not taking you as well. The next time, you might not be so lucky.”

After the Jews were taken, Father Maximilian convened all the monks in the monastery to tell them he had decided that they had to leave.

“You are no longer safe in Niepokalanow,” he said. “I feel I must remain in my role as the superior. A shepherd must never abandon his flock. But all of you have lives to live, relatives to take care of, souls you have to save. So I have decided to disband the monastery. The German wolf will soon come upon us, and I refuse to allow you to be endangered. I have one final piece of advice, my friends. In these trying times, wherever you find yourselves, no matter what happens, do not forget to love.”

In due course, what Father Maximilian predicted became a reality. A group of German soldiers arrived on motorcycles at the monastery, with a black bus trailing them. About fifteen monks had remained with Father Maximilian, and he told them to exit the monastery arm-in-arm to welcome the Nazis. Some of the monks began to weep in fear. There was no need for cowardice or despair at this moment, he told them. Their courage should be such that the Germans would be ashamed. The Immaculata was with them, he added with a voice that did not tremble. So even before the Nazis could proceed to enter the cloistered halls of Niepokalanow, Father Maximilian and his priests were ready for them. Father Maximilian made a final appeal for his fellow priests.

“I know you have come for me,” he said to the Nazis. “But why don’t you spare my brothers?”

One of the Nazis responded, “You are all guilty of trying to undermine the Fuhrer’s message. Don’t think that what you print in your little newspaper has gone unnoticed.”

“The newspaper,” replied Father Maximilian, “never contains any political messages. Its only purpose is to spread devotion to the Immaculata. And we haven’t written a word about Hitler or even about the invasion of Poland.”

“You have written that the Polish people must prepare to lift their heavy Cross and to prepare for better days ahead,” answered the Nazi. “Your religious prattle is sowing the seeds of insurrection. Do you take me for a fool?”

“I am planting seeds of hope, not insurrection. With the constant bombing, the people are desperate. Their country has been partitioned between you and Stalin, and the children are starving. Faith in Mary Immaculate will get them through the difficult days ahead. At all events, I’m the guilty party. Let my men go and take me where you will.”

Father Maximilian recalled the red crown of martyrdom which he had accepted from the Virgin of Czestochowa when he was a child. And he remembered the Christ words to Saint Peter: “When you grow older, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will gird you and carry you where you don’t want to go.”

“You’re all going,” announced the Nazi. “We plan to use your monastery as a military base. You’ve had more than enough time to leave.”

“Where are you taking us?” asked Father Maximilian.

“To Auschwitz,” responded the Nazi. “To Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

The fifteen monks got on the bus without resistance, since they all knew it would be futile to resist. They were all wearing their medals of the Immaculata and continuously prayed the Rosary. Some six hours into their journey, the bus stopped in front of a large structure encircled with barbed wire. That was where the monks were to spend the night.

As soon as they entered the barracks, the Nazi who had led the invasion of the monastery addressed Father Maximilian directly.

“Listen, swine,” he said. “Are you prepared to abjure the Christ and pledge your devotion to the cause of the Fuhrer? Say that you no longer believe.”

“I believe in Christ and the Immaculata,” pronounced Father Maximilian without a hint of fear.

The Nazi – his name was Gunther – struck the priest hard across the face. Father Maximilian’s nose began to bleed.

“Let me ask the question once again,” said Gunther. “Do you renounce your faith in Jesus and swear allegiance to Adolf Hitler?”

“I believe in Christ and the Immaculata,” the priest repeated. “I pay homage to no earthly ruler but to our King who is in Heaven.”

Gunther punched the priest once again across the face. This time Father Maximilian fell to the ground. But he rose immediately. Without cowering he lifted up his face in the air, prepared to receive more blows.

The Nazi repeated his question a third time. Once again Father Maximilian expressed his faith in Jesus.

Gunther pummeled the priest with a limitless fury, and Father Maximilian fell to the ground again. The Nazi proceeded to kick his head relentlessly. But to the priest’s great surprise another Nazi came to his defense.

“Come on, Gunther,” he said. “You’re going to kill the man. Just let him be. You’ve made your point.”

Father Maximilian prayed to the Lord in thanksgiving, not because he had been spared for the moment, but because compassion despite everything still existed in the German heart. And he said a small prayer to the Immaculata.  

“I am ready to accept the crown of martyrdom,” he said, “which I promised as a child. But do not tarry, Mother Mary. Let the moment come sooner rather than later. Do not let me suffer much.”

* * *

On the fourteenth day, only three prisoners remained alive in the Starvation Bunker: Prisoner 16670, who did not stop praying; Prisoner 45900, who still sang; and Prisoner 12200, who had lapsed into despair. Three days earlier, the Nazi guards had moved the seven corpses from the bunker and had announced that the escapee had been found and had promptly been drowned in a latrine. Prisoner 12200 had immediately asked if that meant the three survivors would be released, and one of the Nazi guards had laughed in his face, telling him the plans for their starvation had not changed. And the other guard had added scornfully that if they made it past the fourteenth day, a doctor would be sent to finish them off with an injection.

“One way or another, your days are numbered,” the Nazi promised. “That will show the other prisoners never to attempt to escape again.”

So the fourteenth day was one of apprehensive expectation. All three men had spent the previous night wide awake, with Prisoners 16670 and 45900 praying without ceasing while Prisoner 12200 paced the small space of the Starvation Bunker without respite. Prisoner 16670, a mere skeleton by then, had prayed only a little for himself – asking the Black Madonna to give him the courage to meet his fate – but had mostly prayed for the soul of the desperate Prisoner 12200. All his life Prisoner 16670 had spent his days working for the salvation of souls and felt that his last day should be no exception. The Immaculata had placed him in the Starvation Bunker for a purpose – to save Prisoner 12200’s soul from perdition – and Prisoner 16670 would not shirk his duty. No matter how weak he felt, no matter how much blood he coughed, no matter how little time he had, he was determined to accomplish his purpose. Prisoner 12200 had to be saved from his fatalistic despair, the stubborn belief that he was no longer in the hands of God.

Prisoner 16670 approached Prisoner 12200 some time after the break of dawn. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but now you must think of things of God,” said Prisoner 16670. “Admonishing the sinner is one of the greatest spiritual works of mercy. I can’t let you go to your death without trying to persuade you to return to Jesus and give a full Confession so that you can die a holy death.”

“Confession? What do I have to confess? What have I done to confront this punishment? My only sin was to make love to Julia without being married to her, but that is only because the Nazis have closed all of the churches in Poland and the priests have been hunted down or exiled. It was impossible to marry her. Beyond that, I was a faithful Catholic, kept all the Commandments, went to Mass and firmly believed in God.”

“That’s all the more reason to implore God’s succor at this moment. That’s all the more reason to tell me your sins so that they may be forgiven. You don’t want the devil to snatch away a prize you have sought after for so long.”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m suffering from the hatred of God. Why else would he permit that I go through such a monstrous trial and lose my life at the age of twenty-five in a German bunker, completely alone in my misery?”

“You are not alone. I am at your side. We’ll both receive the injection from the doctor at the same time. More importantly, you are not alone because Jesus walks with you. It may be hard to believe, but the Lord is present even at Auschwitz – especially at Auschwitz. You must remain strong. Trust in God. Ask the Blessed Mother for protection. Lift up your heart to God even when you are afraid.”

“I am so afraid,” Prisoner 12200 confided. “There are so many things I don’t want to lose.”

“If you believe and pledge the remainder of your life to God, however short it may be, the Lord Jesus will await you in Heaven. You have to remember you’ve suffered – we’ve suffered – for fourteen days. That is a small drop in the vast ocean of eternity. That is why it so important you immediately become reconciled with Christ crucified now, in whose power you can do anything.”

“You are fearless, aren’t you?” asked Prisoner 12200.

“I was very afraid of a slow, grueling death by starvation,” responded Prisoner 16670, “but frankly a shot in the arm doesn’t frighten me at all.”

“At least we won’t be tortured,” said Prisoner 12200 as if in an effort to persuade himself. “A quick shot in the arm, and we’re gone.”

“You won’t be gone. You’ll be entering the hereafter, welcomed by the angels and escorted by the saints of Heaven.”

“All right,” said Prisoner 12200, “listen to my Confession, and then give me the Viaticum. You’re right. What do two weeks of suffering matter in the vast sands of eternity? And if there is a Heaven –”

“Don’t doubt it for a minute,” Prisoner 16670 interrupted him.

“If there is a Heaven,” Prisoner 12200 continued, “we shall be able to rest peacefully in the arms of God.”

“These two weeks won’t even be a bad memory,” Prisoner 16670 assented.

Around three o’clock in the afternoon, two guards arrived at the Starvation Bunker accompanied by a slight, sixtyish physician who didn’t seem to derive any pleasure from what he was doing. He looked at the three men with a melancholy expression and recognized Prisoner 16670, for he had once tended to him in his clinic at the concentration camp.
“Oh, you’re here,” the gray-haired doctor said in a soft voice. “I suppose it could happen to anyone. Come, let me see your arm.”

“I want to go last,” stated Prisoner 16670. “Not because I am afraid, but because I want to be with my two friends at their last moment.”

“That’s fine,” said the physician in a voice which was almost inaudible.

Then Prisoner 16670 hugged the young Prisoner 45900. “May we meet again and hear your songs in Heaven,” said the priest.

“I’m sure my ditties will sound a lot better when we get there,” joked Prisoner 45900. And then he extended out his arm and let the needle puncture him. He collapsed at the feet of Prisoner 16670.

The doctor turned to Prisoner 12200. “It’s your turn now,” he said.

“Courage, brother,” said Prisoner 16670 as he placed his hand on the shoulder of his friend.

“Everything will be all right, won’t it?” Prisoner 12200 asked Prisoner 16670 in a tremulous voice.

“Everything,” responded Prisoner 16670. “Everything will be fine. Just surrender to the will of God and the mercy of His Mother.”

Prisoner 12200 pulled up the sleeve to expose his arm. “Have at it!” he cried out at the physician. “You can take my life but you won’t conquer my spirit. Long live the Immaculata!”

Prisoner 16670 picked up the cadaver and placed it on a chair.

“Are you ready?” Prisoner 16670 asked the doctor.

“I wish it hadn’t come to this,” said the physician. “I enjoyed your presence at the clinic. I still keep the medal of the Immaculata which you gave me. I admired the way you tended to the other patients, giving them both spiritual consolation and physical comfort. I try to ease the prisoners’ pain at the hospital, but I am here at the pleasure of the Fuhrer, and sometimes I have disagreeable duties.”

“Orders are orders,” said Prisoner 16670 in an effort to make the doctor’s task easier. And then the syringe filled his veins with poison, and he expired.

The doctor muttered, “Surely I’ve killed a saint. This man was guilty of no crime.”

And then he washed his hands as doctors are wont to do.

He comforted himself by thinking the death of Prisoner 16670 was on the hands of the man who had ordered it, Lagerfuhrer Fritsch, the man who ran Auschwitz, and not his own.

* * *

When the train arrived at Auschwitz, the first thing Father Maximilian saw was the sign at the entrance of the concentration camp which read, “Work makes you free.” Perhaps, he hoped, it was just a labor camp, but he knew better in his heart. He had heard the rumors of massive executions, particularly of the despised Jewish “vermin,” and knew Auschwitz was not a work camp but a death camp. The Poles were not immediately killed, but entire trainloads of Jewish people – men, women and children – were often sent to the gas chambers as soon as they arrived. And the work given to the Poles, in addition to toiling in the fields, was to transport the dead bodies of the Jews from the places where they were gassed – euphemistically called “de-lousing facilities” – to huge trenches dug by the Poles or to enormous ovens where the corpses were incinerated.

It was extremely physically fatiguing for Father Maximilian to carry the cadavers of the Jews to their graves, but it was spiritually fatiguing most of all. For the first time in his life he felt utterly incapable of combating evil. He prayed ceaselessly, but there was nothing he could do to help the luckless Jews. He wished that before they were gassed, he could have proclaimed the message of Jesus to them. After all, Father Maximilian saw himself first and foremost as a priest, and his first duty was to ensure the salvation of souls. He was pleased when he discovered that at least he could help a few Polish Catholics maintain their faith in God in the worst of circumstances. Of course, in doing so he was risking his own life.

Francis Gajownicsek was one of the first to seek Father Maximilian’s help and spiritual consolation. He was a Polish Catholic who as a sergeant had fought unsuccessfully to stave off the German occupation of Warsaw. When he was caught by the Gestapo as he was trying to flee by crossing into Slovakia he was sent to a work camp at Tarnow and was subsequently transferred to Auschwitz. He first appeared to Father Maximilian in the middle of the night as the priest was sleeping on a metal bed in a sort of barracks where the Polish captives were imprisoned.

“I’ve heard you are a priest,” said Gajownicsek in a whisper. “I want you to lead me in prayer.”

“I am a priest,” responded Father Maximilian. “Do you want to pray the Rosary together?”

“Yes, for the intentions of my two children and my wife. I don’t know how they’re getting on without me. Frankly I don’t know if they’re still alive, Father, since I heard the village where we lived was bombed by the German air force. My boy is seven, and my daughter five. My wife is only twenty-six. The only thing I can do at this point is pray for them.”

“Entrust yourself to Saint Joseph. He is the patron saint of fathers. Don’t forget he saved his own son from being killed by Herod.”

The two men prayed the Rosary together in a hushed tone. Father Maximilian well knew that if he was caught leading a man in prayer, the German guards would severely punish him, perhaps even resort to killing him. But Father Maximilian did not care. He was not one to cower in the face of evil.

Thereafter, it became vox populi that the thin, frail Maximilian was a priest, and many Poles sought his aid and prayers. Father Maximilian took greater and greater risks. Sometimes he would even say the Mass at night, surrounded by two dozen prisoners. He knew that he was gambling with his life, but he prayed for protection from the Immaculata. The main reason he didn’t want to be caught was not his fear of death, but the feeling his presence and guidance was needed among his tortured flock.

But caught he was. One night, as he was saying the Mass, three Nazi guards appeared and began to beat him with their billy clubs in front of all the supplicants. There was a primal hatred in the guards who did not stop the beating until the priest was left unconscious and bleeding on the ground. It was then that Francis Gajownicsek, realizing the priest was still alive, carried him to the infirmary where Doctor Botz tended to his wounds. The old man was fatigued by seeing death and torture daily and sometimes thought of leaving Auschwitz. But then he reasoned that at least with him the prisoners had a clinic, a last bastion of hope amidst the horror.

After Father Maximilian was released from the infirmary, he continued to minister to his sheep, caring not a whit about his fate.

One night, a gaunt and emaciated man woke him and demanded that the priest hear his Confession. The man’s name was Zygmunt Pilawski, and he told the priest that he intended to escape the following day as he was working in the fields. He told the priest that sometimes he spent hours working with no supervision from the Nazi guards, and that he planned to hide in the nearby forest until the coast was clear and then make his way to Krakow where one of his brothers lived. Since the penalty for attempted escape was death, Zygmunt felt it was necessary to confess his sins before he began his journey.

“You realize,” asked Father Maximilian, “that if you escape, ten men shall be killed as a warning for no one else to do so?”

“I realize that, Father, but I cannot stand living one more day at Auschwitz. We are not treated like men but like animals.”

“Well, I won’t attempt to dissuade you. It is no sin to try to save your own life. Come on, son, let me hear your Confession.”

Two days later, Lagerfuhrer Fritsch assembled a hundred prisoners in a courtyard. He announced that Prisoner 00960 had been found missing and asked the prisoners if any of them had any idea where he might be. Father Maximilian said nothing about Pilawski’s plan to make his way to Krakow. Then Fritsch announced that ten men would be chosen from the hundred-man group and sent to die of hunger at the Starvation Bunker. He seemed to derive a macabre pleasure when walking by the prisoners and deciding whom to choose for starvation. Most of the men averted his eyes from his as he passed by, praying not to be chosen. Only Father Maximilian looked at him fixedly in the eyes, without fear, but Fritsch did not choose him. On the contrary, he was discomfited by the priest’s silent act of defiance.

After nine men had been chosen, Lagerfuhrer Fritsch chose the tenth. It was Francis Gajownicsek, who nearly fainted when Fritsch pointed at him with his index finger. Then he began to sob. “I have a wife. I have two minor children. I’ve done nothing to warrant my death. Please have mercy on me. In the name of the Immaculata, please have mercy on me! Who will take care of my family?”

“So you want me to take another man in your place?” asked Fritsch sardonically.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” responded Gajownicsek. “I’m just begging you to spare my life. I had nothing to do with the man’s escape. I work daily in the fields without complaint. What have I done to merit such a punishment? I appeal to your sense of justice.”

“I should kill the whole lot of you,” exclaimed Fritsch. “You should be a man and not humiliate yourself further.”

Then Gajownicsek dropped to his knees and pleaded to be spared as he sobbed uncontrollably.

“I am not a saint,” laughed Fritsch, “that you should direct your prayers to me on your knees. All you Poles are fanatical Catholics. Pray to your Lady of Czestochowa, and see if she will save you.”

Suddenly Father Maximilian approached the weeping man and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Courage, brother,” he said. “The Black Madonna has heard your plea.”

Then Father Maximilian turned to Fritsch and told him in an even voice, “I want to take this man’s place.”

---

Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.

Sandro's other work on Foreshadow:
The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022)
The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022)
​A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023)
A World for Abimael Jones (Part 2 of 2); Fiction, March 2023)
A Jew and Her Cross (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, April 2023)
A Jew and Her Cross (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, April 2023)
God Alone Suffices (Fiction, June 2023)
Salvifici Dolores​ (Fiction, July 2023)
That Person Whom You Know (Fiction, September 2023)
The Slave and His Master (Fiction, September 2023)
The Knight and Lady Poverty (Fiction, January 2024)
The Crosses of Father Rutilio Grande (Fiction, April 2024)