Authors: Patrick Abbruzzi
Frank came back after about twenty-five minutes and parked on the opposite side of the street where we had a good view of all the parke
d
cars. We opened our coffees but saved the lids. Just because we were on a fixed detail in front of a church didn’t mean that we wouldn’
t
respond to a 10-13 if it came over the radio. All street-wise cops saved their coffee lids. It was a good waste of both coffee and money if you had to throw out your food every time you got a hot run.
The tuna salad was good and fresh and the pickles were crunchy. We settled down for a peaceful albeit boring night. About 45 minutes later Father Josef came out of the church hall and walked over to our car. Frank and I had our windows rolled down becaus
e
there was a nice breeze coming right up York Avenue off of the Kill Va
n
Kull. He approached Frank’s side of the car with a smile.
“My friends! Please to come with me into the church?
”
“Is everything okay in there, Father?
”
asked Frank.
We both thought maybe there was a dispute or someone ha
d
gotten sick, but Father Josef smiled again and said, “Everything is good. I want for you to join with me for a while.
”
We got out of the RMP after rolling up the windows and lockin
g
the doors then followed the priest through the front door of the church. The vestibul
e
area of the beautiful building was enormous. There was a literature rack to the righ
t
of the entrance filled with daily and weekly schedules of events as wel
l
as the schedule of masses. To the right of the vestibule and just before th
e
main door that led to the center aisle of the church was another door that the portly priest opened and walked through. Next he led us down a set of stairs which took us to the basement hall. As we reached the bottom of the stairs, we heard the distinct sounds of polka music.
We followed Father Josef into a great hall where couples were dancing and accordio
n
music seemed to be coming from everywhere. There were tables se
t
up that were mostly occupied by women, while groups of men stoo
d
everywhere engaged in conversation. Children played in group
s
but were not loud or overly boisterous. The smell of Polish food seeme
d
to waif over everyone’s head and went straight to our noses. We were enticed with the familiar scents of sauerkraut and Kielbasa. I wasn’t surprised when the pungent aroma of potato latke
s
drove me wild and made my stomach rumble.
At first Frank and I thought the priest was going to seat u
s
somewhere and feed us. After all, we had told him earlier that we wer
e
going to take a rain check on the drink he offered. We quietly followed him up to a raised platform which doubled as the stage and soon saw a small table with two fresh place settings wher
e
no one else was seated. The priest walked beyond the table and made his way up to
a
set of stairs that led to the stage itself. He walked over to a podium and grabbed the microphone tightly between his hands.
“My friends, my friends,” he began loudly before he cleared his throat and patiently paused. Within thirty to forty seconds, as if Jesus was about to give the Sermon on the Mount, silence blanketed the room as everyon
e
waited attentively to hear his words. Even the kids who were playing stoppe
d
without being told by their parents.
“First, I hope that you have good time tonight,” said Father Josef, smiling at the faces staring up at him as the crowd applauded and showed their satisfaction. “When you arrive tonight, you see that you park your cars in differen
t
way so you could be closer to our holy church. These two polic
e
officers who you see outside have been watching your cars for you so yo
u
do not have to worry about their safety.”
We weren’t sure if Father Josef meant the car’s safety or ours, but we kept silent as he continued.
“They would be outside now but I brought them in so we can show them you
r
wonderful cooking food. I want them to sit with me at my table to toast this night and to thank God that we are all safe together,” he said wit
h
deep emotion.
Applause filled the room for several long seconds, then the priest introduced us by our first names. As the entire audience clapped again, loud cries of thank you could be heard both in English a
s
well as Polish. Humbled, Frank and I sat down as women brought us a little bit o
f
everything.
“Now you will sit down and drink with me, no?
”
asked the priest.
“Now we will drink with you, yes!” said Frank emphatically.
While Frank and I ate, we shared stories with Father Josef, and he did the same with us.
He described how he had been in a concentration camp in Treblinka then shared stories about the camp commandant who had
a
passion for using Jews and the elderly as targets for his sharp-shootin
g
practice. He told us of many atrocities and explained how the Germans used to take smal
l
children away from their mothers, never to be seen again.
For some reason
,
Father Josef took a liking to Frank and Ithat night and invited us to visit him at any time. I found him to be a man of such great compassion that I began to stop i
n
and see him in the days and weeks following that first assignment, even in my off duty time. I would call ahead and he would tel
l
me the time was perfect and to come right on over. That first visi
t
was the start of many in which I would learn about life’s sufferings as see
n
through the eyes of Father Josef.
Frank, on the other hand, never took Father Josef up on his invitation.
Perhaps I was drawn to him because he reminded me of another great priest. I had been married by a Mary Knoll missionary wh
o
had served in the Army during the war. He was nicknamed Fighting Fathe
r
Dunne and had been portrayed in the movies by Pat O’Brien.
The first time I visited Father Josef after our initial trip was after an 8X4 on a Saturday afternoon. When I arrived, the priest took me into his kitchen where he offered m
e
a seat and a cold drink, then asked me what it was I had on my mind
.
“Father, I couldn’t help but notice the number tattooed on your wrist. Were you a prisoner in a concentration camp?
”
I asked.
“Yes, I was,” he said quietly, “and if you wish, I will tell you about it.
”
“If it’s okay with you, Father, I would certainly like to hear it.”
After getting us each a glass of iced water, Father Josef began his story.
“I was in the Treblinka camp for a short time in 1943. It was in operation for one year only. During that time, 850,000 murders were committed against my people. When I say ‘people’ I mean the Jews of Poland.
“Before World War Two, three million Jews lived in Poland. They made 10
%
of population of thirty three million people. Hitler’s Army invaded Poland in September, 1939. It was start of Second World War. By end of month our government fled into exile to Romania. When they regrouped, they operate out of London, sending support to th
e
underground groups which were in existence. They start to round up m
y
colleagues and fellow priests, and many were shot in street. That is whe
n
I join underground to help in any way I can. They killed not only priest but also teacher as well. The Germans regarded my Polish brother
s
as sub human and Polish Jew beneath that.”
Lt. A. paused and looked at Charlie.
“I’m sure you’re not surprised when I tell you I listened to Father’s story in utter stillness. This man had endured such obvious brutality and harshness of life, yet he was sharing it with me.”’
Charlie nodded with understanding as the lieutenant continued.
“My friend, the German program for Polish Jews was one of concentration
,
isolation and eventually, annihilation. By 1942, Poland was the Nazi regime’s dumping ground for Jews from all over Europe. B
y
the end of the war, over three million Polish Jews were dead with onl
y
fifty to seventy thousand surviving. It was my job as part of underground to hide Jews whenever I could until the time I could sneak them into other part of underground that would take them out of country. I did this for a few years but was eventually captured.
“To this day, I do not know why I was not summarily shot on the spot. Instead, I was transported to Treblinka. It was amazing the way the Germans led us to believe we were only going on a temporary journey instead of being led to our deaths.
“I know that always some ask the question of why the Jewish people did not fight back or resist. Well, there was th
e
small pocket of resistance, but why would anyone offer to fight if the
y
thought the journey was only temporary? They believed the end of th
e
trip offered an opportunity to be re-introduced into society as a productive member,” Father Josef said as he paused to take a drink of water.
“Father, you mentioned that the Jews did not resist because the Germans gave them hope that they would be returned to their homelands. I
s
this true?
”
I asked.
“My friend, the Germans took care to send the message that those who wer
e
about to die would be given the impression that they had arrived at
a
transit camp from which they would be sent on to a work camp. Befor
e
they were herded onto the freight trains and put in box cars like so many cattle, they were given very explicit and detailed instructions o
n
how to mark their luggage and belongings so they would be able t
o
identify them later at their journey’s end. Of course, we now know tha
t
each piece of luggage was collected and sifted through, any usable items taken by the Nazi regime. Books, photos, shoes, jewelry, clothing an
d
absolutely everything else was put into piles and inventoried.
“My camp was situated in the north eastern end of the province, not far from
Malkinia, a town with a railroad station which was built in a heavily wooded area making it naturally concealed. The Germans even tried to hide the gas chambers in Treblinka from the rest of th
e
camp. It was totally separated from the camp by barbed wir
e
and high fences, with the barbed wire intertwined by tree branch limbs to conceal it even further. The entrances to this area of the camp were then hidden behind special partitions and a tube in which th
e
victims were led through, delivering them directly into the crematoriums.
“The SS men of the Treblinka camp called this tube ‘the street to heaven.’”
Father Josef paused, took a deep breath then continued in a quiet voice trembling with grief and anger.
“The gas chambers were lined with white tile and installed wit
h
shower heads which led to the realism of the showers. The water pipes
,
running across the full length of the ceiling, did not carry water bu
t
the horrible gas which took its victim’s lives. When the doors were close
d
the room became pitch black, adding to the terrifying horror of the moment.
“To the east of the gas chambers lay huge ditches where the countless bodies were tossed away like garbage. Many of the victims were still alive but met their fate after being buried alive.”
The priest sighed, his eyes filled with sadness. I could see that the retelling of this story was starting to take its toll on this burly, yet angelic man, so I decided this was enough for one day.
“Father, maybe I should come back another day,” I said as I moved to stand up. Before I could get very far, he placed a warm, wrinkled hand on top of mine. Understanding he was not yet ready for me to go, I sat back in my seat.