Catholic Heroes… Blessed Julia Rodzinska
Catholic Heroes…
Blessed Julia Rodzinska
By DEB PIROCH
Born Stanislawa Rodzinska, the second of five children of Polish parents, her father delivered her himself because the midwife didn’t make it in time. He wasn’t a doctor but an organist by profession, and he and his wife needed permission to marry early, as his wife was only 15 years of age at the time.
Unfortunately, one of Stanislawa’s sisters did not outlive childhood and her mother died when Stanislawa was only eight. Her father, who was afflicted with rheumatism, had a very hard time supporting his four children and died two years later of pneumonia. Relatives managed to find room for the two boys, but not the two girls, who were actually blessed to be taken into the Congregation of the Sisters of St. Dominic in Tarnobrzegu-Wielows.
The girls loved the nuns and came to call them “mother” in place of their dear, deceased one. Stanislawa not surprisingly developed a vocation and would later enter this order herself.
She was born about twenty years prior to Pope St. John Paul II (1920-2005). Poles and the faith are almost intertwined from birth; in Dachau, the priests most targeted for extinction were the Polish priests — over 1,000 were murdered there.
At the age of 17, Stanislawa began her novitiate, which was in 1916. She took her vows in 1924 and after a short time was sent to work in Vilnius, Lithuania. Eventually she became mother superior there and, in 1934, ran the convent’s orphanage. Stories that filtered down indicate she was greatly loved and far from above sneaking an extra sandwich into one child’s bag who needed it, or providing whatever love was needed. She knew, after all, how they felt; she had been an orphan herself.
These were the beginning of difficult times back in Germany. In 1933 Hitler came to power. By 1941, Lithuania came under German occupation and, with it, persecution began in earnest. Religious orders were disbanded. For a time, her order stayed together by wearing secular clothes and staying under the radar, but not for long. As mother superior, she felt responsible for finding safe places for her sisters, and she found homes and jobs for them as best she could. Then Sr. Maria Julia, as she was now known, went to work for the underground. It may have been forbidden to teach Polish language or history, or assist the priests in financial need, but her conscience gave her absolutely no qualms in any of these efforts.
However, even this “good time” came to an end. On July 12, 1943 Sr. Maria Julia was arrested and sent to Lukiskes Prison, also in Vilnius. The year of internment spent there was difficult. From the beginning, she was singled out for extra punishment, imprisoned in solitary. Her cell was so small that she could sit, but never lie down, leading to cramping of her muscles. And one of the punishments meted out was to scrub the torture areas where the floors bore a coating of blood.
Amazingly, though, none of this seemed to disturb her calm. Yes, it was suffering, but more than one person who saw her said she radiated peace, for she had truly turned her suffering to use, and her imprisonment quarters into a monastic cell. Prayer was always her rock, and one of her nicknames was the “Apostle of the Rosary.”
But then, in 1944, she was sent on a four-day harrowing trip, via cattle car, to Stutthof. This was a concentration camp near Danzig. Many did not survive the insane heat and conditions. Others arrived and were singled out for the gas chambers. It began as a civilian camp but by this time was a concentration camp and was always a place for sending Poles primarily, for the Germans to rid themselves of intelligentsia, religious, or other undesirables.
Naturally, there were many Jews, as well, and people from over 20 nations. Over 100,000 passed through the gates. but when the camp was liberated, only 100 were left inside. Orders had been to kill the prisoners rather than allow them to be liberated.
Her number? 40992. Her badge? A tag signified she was a political prisoner. Life in Stutthof was a living hell, but her presence made it better. Those around her gained strength from her presence. She prayed — which of course the Nazis had banned — and others prayed with her, primarily Jewish women. She knew the Psalms extremely well from the Divine Office, and by praying, she showed them how this gave them a freedom that the Nazis could never take from them. Many would have been too fearful to pray in such a group without her leadership, and anyone was welcome.
She also saved from her meager food and clothing rations to share with others even worse off. She never hid the fact that she was a Dominican, putting her faith into practice in word and deed.
The camp was terrifying. Days began with gatherings from which persons were chosen for random executions. There were beatings, heavy work, and never enough to eat. Those who were ill were frequently given an injection to stop the heart. If the Germans didn’t like the look of you, you might never even get a bunk, but be sent straight to the gas chambers. But Sr. Maria Julia stressed that she was submitting to God’s divine will, though what was being done was contrary to His Commandments. And in knowing that thereby came the peace and calm. Here was a camp where the doctor — who later committed suicide after liberation — was experimenting with using human fat to make soap. But still Sister hoped.
The Angel of Stutthof, as she came to be known, also saved at least two and probably more from certain death. One was a man she wrote notes to, encouraging him so that he would not commit suicide. He survived. The other was a woman thought dead, in a pile ready for the crematorium, and Sister yanked her out from certain death before her body could be burned.
Ewa Hoff, a German of Jewish blood, was in the camp with Sr. Maria Julia:
“She showed unwavering faith and hope in God. She consoled all of us, entrusted us to God and encouraged us to pray. She organized and led common prayers. We always prayed the rosary, the Litany of Our Lady, hymns, and any number of prayers she composed according to our needs and situation. Prisoners of different nationalities came to pray. People spread the word — let’s pray the rosary with Sr. Julia. The image will always stay with me — the small, poorly lit room overflowing with people on bunk beds, three or even four levels high; here and there, rags drying in the air. Kneeling on a wooden plank, straight, with her head lifted up and eyes aimed at the Infinite is our Sr. Julia. She holds a rosary in her strong, shapely hands. Her face is focused. . . . She was very pious. Her piety influenced others. In her presence, one felt the need to pray.”
Her piety could not keep her from ministering to those in the “death house.” Mostly Jewish women were there, and no one entered to help them. This was because no Jews received any medical care. She would try to get them food, wipe their parched lips, and care for them though warned to stay away. They had typhus, a potentially fatal disease spread by infected lice or fleas. She naturally caught the disease, but even when sick, continued to nurse as best she could. She passed away February 20, 1945, at the age of 46.
One of her compatriots, Blessed Stefan Wincenty Frelichowski, was at Stutthof, but was moved to Dachau and died February 23 of both typhus and pneumonia, likewise ministering to other prisoners.
One other piece of information has been passed down to us from the camps. Before her body was burnt, someone took the time to take a precious bit of clothing to cover her nakedness, to honor her dignity in death before her cremation. Her feast day is February 20. Let Sr. Maria Julia, OP — who it was said once made a rosary of bread — intercede for us, that we never take prayer lightly, nor the ability to help our neighbor in need.
