The Marian Martyrs of Rosica

150 The Marian Martyrs of Rosica “Look,” I shouted at some point. “See the smoke. It’s the church burning.” We could see the fire engulfing the entire roof and flames bursting out of the windows. Yes, the church was burning like a terrible torch. The Soviet Air Force was making its presence felt. Brother Sigmund later told us that it was not possible to save anything. The broken windows caused such a draft up to the spire that the organ burned like dry logs. The largest bell, the hidden one, melted down. And what happened to Mr. Walter? He died, the only one killed in the bombardment. He went to sleep after dinner. He wanted to rest, so he went to the Father Superior’s bedroom, just as a bomb hit the room. There were several bombs. We could tell that they were phosphorus bombs because the bed had completely melted. We collected his remains, just some bones, in a very small coffin, 20 to 30 cen- timeters long. A large man, almost two meters tall, he did not need a large coffin after all. A small one was enough. His blue eyes still look at me, blue as cornflowers, forget-me-nots, or flax flowers. I can see his smiling face high above mine: The organist, Mr. Walter Bohatkiewicz, brother of the murdered Fr. Miecislaus, was buried in such a tiny coffin. The front passed through. There was calm again, and again Soviet rule. We resumed our work as priests, organizing a chapel in the vestibule of the church. We moved into the cells that were still fit for habitation. In my old one, there was a huge hole over the bed with a view of the sky. I was assigned to the church in Malkowszczyzna, and I went there every Sunday. It was nine kilometers away. I had to take care of everything: con- fession, Holy Mass, baptisms, and the sick. Around four o’clock, I had breakfast and then returned home. A dysentery epidemic broke out and was spreading terribly. I explained to people how important it was to observe person- al hygiene during epidemics, but I had to do my own work as a priest. I administered Last Rites to a woman who was suffer- ing from dysentery, and then I buried her. My body, weakened by my recent experiences, succumbed to the disease.