Prisoner No. 16670

The year is 1941. The place is Auschwitz. His official name is Prisoner Number 16670. But his real name is Max.

Max isn’t old, but he looks ancient. Prison camp will do that to a man. He is here because he was caught sheltering 3,000 Polish refugees—half of whom were Jews.

At age 47, Max looks like he is in his eighties. The bruises on his face are fresh. But the smile has been there for years.

He’s always so cheerful. On the day he was captured, for example, while being herded into cattle cars, he told fellow prisoners, “Courage, brothers. Don’t you see, we’re going on a mission! And they’re paying our fare! What a bargain!”

Likewise, whenever Max is roughed up by angry guards, everyone in camp can hear Max shouting, “Please forgive this man, Lord, he doesn’t understand what he’s doing!”

Today, however, is a pivotal day for Max.

Last night, a prisoner was caught escaping. The fugitive was led into the camp at gunpoint. The guards sentenced him, along with 9 randomly selected men, to the starvation bunker.

The starvation tank was a cruel game played on prisoners. They would toss 10 people into a cramped bunker, naked, then lock the doors. No food. No water. No nothing. For weeks.

The objective of the game was to cause the prisoners to go mad, to get aggressive, and… Well. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that today one of the young men randomly selected for the starvation bunker is Franciszek Gajowniczek. Try saying that three times fast.

Franciszek is Polish. A family man. He starts pleading. “Please, not me!” he begs. “I have a wife and child!”

And that’s when Max steps forward.

“Take me instead,” Max says.

The guards laugh. “You?”

Max glances at Franciszek and gives smile. “Please, sir. I will go in his place.”

And so it is. The guards herd the men into the starvation cell. Franciszek is spared.

The men are stripped, then led to Block 11, shoved inside the cell, shoulder-to-shoulder, and the doors are bolted.

And this is where our story truly begins.

Over the following weeks, the guards report strange supernatural things occurring in Block 11.

Firstly, a warm glow emanates from the cell, nonstop. Guards can feel it when they walk by. It’s like someone left a heater on.

Oh, and there is singing. Lots of singing. Morning, noon, and midnight. The guards can’t get the singing to stop. The prisoners sing hymns although their throats are parched. Their lips, cracked and bleeding from dehydration.

When the prisoners aren’t singing, they’re praying. Aloud. Whenever guards peek into the bunker window, they see naked men, lying on the floor from exhaustion, chanting prayers to God.

Found in the center of the men is Max. Always Max. He is usually kneeling. Hands clasped. Head bowed. Speaking prayers to the ceiling. Smile on his face. A strange glow surrounding him.

Over the next weeks, almost all the men die. Each passes while whispering the lyrics to a hymn, or the words of a prayer. Max is one of only three survivors.

The guards are confused by this. They simply cannot break these men. So they remove Max from the cell. They inject him with carbonic acid.

Franciszek, the man who Max volunteered to save, survives Auschwitz, lives until age 93, and is present at Max’s canonization in 1995.

Franciszek recalls Fr. Maximillian Kolbe’s last words. With tears in his eyes. They are words I hope I never forget. Just before Max left this earth, he said:

“Hate is useless. Only love creates.”

Have a great day.