“Fr. Kolbe did not come directly to Auschwitz following his arrest that February day. First the Gestapo drove him to Warsaw where he was locked in the dreaded Pawiak Prison. There he was cruelly beaten by a guard who had a special hatred for priests. As a result of the beating, which weakened him, Fr. Kolbe came down with pneumonia. He was put in the prison hospital, more a sentence of death than a place of treatment. Sick patients were allowed only half their regular rations.
Elaine Murray Stone, Maximilian Kolbe. Saint of Auschwitz, Paulist Press 1997, p. 77-86
Learning of the beloved leader‘s illness, twenty friars of Niepokalanow offered themselves as hostages in exchange for his release. Instead the Gestapo leaders were so furious that they ordered Fr. Kolbe transferred to Auschwitz. Once in the infamous death camp, Fr. Kolbe was given no quarter. Weak and ill and having only one healthy lung, he was forced to do the same heavy labor as all the others.
Every day Fr. Kolbe marched with hundreds of prisoners to work in the fields outside the camp. Carrying hoes and rakes, they bent over the rows of stalks from early morning until dusk. Their pitiful rations were barely enough to sustain a child, much less men at hard labor. They were given one cup of imitation coffee in the morning, and weak soup and half a loaf of bread after work.
At night Fr. Kolbe would not lie down to rest. His bunk was on the second floor, near the door. He moved from bunk to bunk, saying, ‘I am a Catholic priest. Can I do anything for you?‘ Many were tormented by the thought of imminent death and he offered to hear their confessions.
There were strict rules in the camp against any kind of prayer, but Fr. Kolbe took his chances. He made the sign of the cross before eating his meager meals. At night he knelt on the floor beside his bunk to pray for others. When he was beaten by a guard, he never cried out. Instead, he prayed for his tormentor.
(…)
Everyone from Bunker 14A had gone to work in the fields that day. Suddenly, there was a commotion among the guards. One prisoner was missing from the group. There had been no response although his identifying number had been called several times. Each prisoner‘s heart began pounding with fear. They knew what had happened before. For every person who escaped, several men in his bunker would pay with their lives. The cruel camp commander ordered ten men put to death until the escapee was found. The innocent hostages were locked into starvation cells to die of hunger and thirst. No one had ever survived this punishment. (…)
‘This man!‘ shouted the commandant, pointing to a prisoner in the front row. ‘Step forward. State your number!‘ ‘And you over there.‘ Two choices had been made. The men stood together knowing their fate was sealed. No one had ever come out of the starvation bunker alive. As the fourth man was ordered out of the lineup, a frantic voice rose from a few rows in front of Fr. Kolbe. ‘No, Commandant, please, not me.‘ A man with a thick peasant accent was sobbing loudly. It was Francis Gajowniczek, imprisoned for helping the Polish Resistance. The icy-faced commandant stared unmoved, as Francis cried again. ‘Please, I have a wife and two children. I‘ll never see them again.‘
Suddenly a frail figure broke ranks and moved toward the commandant. The guards lifted their guns ready to shoot. Speaking in German, Fr. Kolbe said calmly, ‘I wish to make a request.‘ No one had ever approached the sadistic commandant before. ‘What do you want?‘ he growled.
‘I wish to take this man‘s place,‘ said Fr. Kolbe, pointing toward the sobbing Gajowniczek. The priest, looking far older than his forty-seven years, explained, ‘I have no family. I am old and sick. He can do more work.‘
The puzzled commandant asked him, ‘Who are you?‘
Without blinking, Kolbe replied, ‘I am a Catholic priest.‘
Standing silent for a few minutes, Commandant Fritsch stared at the strange prisoner who was willing to die for another.
‘Request granted,‘ he mumbled.
(…)
Little is known of Fr. Kolbe‘s final days. We offer here the report of Bruno Borgowiec whose job it was to enter the cells each day and remove the dead.
He recalled, ‘Each time I went to the underground cell of Fr. Kolbe and his companions, I was greeted by fervent prayers and hymns to the Holy Virgin. Fr. Maximilian would start to pray out loud. Then the others would join him. By the sixth day even Fr. Kolbe was too weak to sing anymore. The others lay motionless on the cement floor, but not this priest who still went from one sufferer to the next praying in a whisper. Yet a look of serenity still lit his face. The prisoners were dying fast. I had to remove a corpse each day.‘
On August 14, two weeks after the hostages were locked in Cell 3 of the starvation bunker, only four remained alive. Commandant Fritsch needed the cell for the next group of condemned prisoners. He sent the camp doctor to inject the dying men with carbolic acid to speed up their deaths.
As he testified at the inquiry, Dr. Bock entered the dark cell carrying the deadly syringe. In the dim light he made out three men unconscious on the floor. He placed a rubber thermostat around their arms and then plunged in the syringe. In seconds, all three were dead.
Fr. Kolbe, however, was still conscious, seated, leaning against the wall. The courageous priest looked into the face of his murderer. He smiled sweetly, as though giving the doctor his benediction and forgiveness. Then he held out his emaciated arm for the injection. That day he would wear the promised crown of martyrdom. His wait was over.
Fr. Kolbe‘s body was removed and on August 15, the Feast of the Assumption, his remains were dumped into the fiery oven of Auschwitz‘s crematorium.“
In 1982, Father Maximilian Kolbe was canonized as a saint and declared a martyr by Saint John Paul II, the Polish Pontiff.
Saint Maximilian Kolbe, holy martyr, pray for us!