A Life With Karol

1.

The First Meeting

It all began on an October day in 1966, which was the start of something like a new life for Stanislaw Dziwisz. Because it was on that day that he was asked by the archbishop of Krak—w to become his personal secretary. Wojtyla had decided that the young priest would make an outstanding assistant, one whom he could entrust not only with the management of his appointment calendar but also with his confidences, his thoughts, and even-why not?-with a bit of his heart.

He looked right at me and said, "I'd like you to come live here . . . and give me a hand."

Stanislaw was born in 1939 in Raba Wyzna, a village in the foothills of the Tatras, Poland's principal mountain chain. So it was logical that he would learn to ski as a child and would become a connoisseur of snow and ski slopes. He was the fifth of seven children, five boys and two girls.

His father, Stanislaw Dziwisz, Sr., worked for the railroad. His mother, Zofia, took care of the household and the upbringing of the kids. It was she who taught them what it means to live out Gospel charity. The doors of the Dziwisz home were always open to the poor and the needy. If you visited them in the evening, you could always be sure of a hot meal and a place to spend the night.

But World War II was raging. The Germans had invaded Poland from the west and the Soviets had marched in from the east.

Those were terrible years for everybody, and we were no exception. There were so many mouths to feed, but it wasn't easy to find food. And on top of that, my family was hiding a Jewish man. That was dangerous, given the risk of detection. Who knows where we might all have ended up if the Nazis had found out.

Not too far away from us, in Rokiciny Podhalanskie, the Gestapo had arrested the superior of the Ursulines, Sister Maria Clemensa Staszewska, because she had given sanctuary to some Jewish women in the convent. Sadly, she ended up in Auschwitz.

The only thing we knew about the man hiding in our house was his name, Wilhelm. Actually, we kids called him "Wilus." He was from Wadowice. He had escaped from the Nazis, though how he ended up at our house was something of a mystery. He was a likable man. He stayed with us until the end of the war, and would do little odd jobs around the house to help out. He bid us all a tearful good-bye before he left. But we completely lost track of him after that.

After the end of the war, Poland began to breathe a little more easily, although storm clouds were glowering threateningly on the horizon. The "liberators" from the east did not seem particularly interested in leaving. And at the Dziwisz home, there was a terrible tragedy.

It happened on a typical morning while my father was on his way to work. He was struck by a train as he was crossing the tracks. He was only thirty-nine. When they came to break the news to us, I immediately went totally cold, realizing I would never feel his hand on my shoulder again. My mother was a woman of great faith and courage. Despite the huge grief she was carrying in her heart, she showered us with love. And she managed to raise the seven of us, magically multiplying her modest pension.

Stanislaw was going on nine when his father died. He had to grow up in a hurry, but he did his part. After finishing elementary school, he started attending high school in Nowy Targ. Meanwhile, though, another vocation was budding inside him: He wanted to become a priest, a minister of God. So after graduation, he entered the seminary. It was 1957. And it was then that he first met Father Karol Wojtyla, who at that time was a professor of moral theology at the seminary.

He immediately made a big impression on me. First of all because he was so devout and learned, plus being an outstanding lecturer. But also because he had an easy way of relating to people. On one hand, my classmates and I felt that he moved in a higher sphere than we did because of his deep interior life and his amazing intellectual qualifications. On the other hand, it was obvious to us that he took a close interest in our lives, and we saw how easily he opened up to other people and entered into human relationships.

The year 1956 inaugurated a time of major change in Eastern Europe. In February, Khrushchev used the XXth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union as a platform to denounce Stalin and condemn his grisly crimes. In June, there was a workers' revolt in Poznan, instigated by revisionist backers of Gomulka, the chief spokesman of a national way to communism. Cardinal Wyszynski was released after thirty-seven months of confinement, and other bishops were let out of prison, as well.

Admittedly, there were completely opposite signals, too, such as the Soviet tanks that bloodily suppressed the October uprising in Hungary. And yet, at least in Poland, there was more breathing room, even for the Church. In December 1956, Father Wojtyla was finally appointed to the chair of ethics at the Catholic University of Lublin, where he was already teaching. Despite his new position, he also continued teaching at the Krak—w seminary.

I remember that in the third year he taught us the principia-that is, the fundamental philosophical principles of moral theology. Although those lectures were pretty hard for us, he prepared them extremely carefully. In fact, I'd have to say perfectly. It was in those lectures that we got the philosophical background we needed to go on with further studies in moral theology. But Father Wojtyla had a lot of responsibilities, and he was increasingly absorbed by them. He was only thirty-eight when he was named auxiliary bishop of Krak—w. And being a bishop was something he took really seriously. By the time we entered the sixth year, he stopped teaching completely, because he no longer had the time to lecture at the seminary. The archbishop, Eugeniusz Baziak, had died, and Wojtyla became the capitulary vicar, which meant that he had to take over responsibility for the whole diocese.

The great day arrived. On June 23, 1963, Stanislaw received Holy Orders from his former moral theology professor. He had become a priest. Shortly afterward, he was sent as associate pastor to the parish of Mak—w Podhalanski. It was one of the best parishes in the diocese: It was modern, well-managed, and had a lot of ministries-for example, for the sick, for children, and for families.

I'm really glad to talk about that, because it was an unforgettable experience. The pastor was an excellent priest by the name of Franciszek Dzwigonski. He had divided the parish community into several sectors and appointed someone in each sector to keep him informed about what was going on-for example, who was sick, who was having problems or was out of work, or if there were neglected children. Could there be a better apprenticeship for a young priest?

Two years went by, and then Father Dziwisz left the parish because his superiors wanted him to pursue further studies. He consulted the rector of the seminary about which field he should choose-patristics or Scripture. Finally, it turned out that there was need for a liturgist. He thus began to do the necessary research, first for the licentiate, then for the doctorate. The topic of his doctoral dissertation was the cult of Saint Stanislas in the diocese of Krak—w up to the time of the Council of Trent. But, just twelve months into the project, Archbishop Wojtyla summoned him unexpectedly to the episcopal residence.

It was October 8, 1966, the day that would change Stanislaw Dziwisz's life forever. He was twenty-seven years old.

As soon as I came in to see him, he looked straight at me and said, "I'd like you to come live here. You can continue your studies and give me a hand." "When?" I asked. He replied, "Today will work." He turned toward the window and noticed that it was getting late. "Go to the chancellor and he'll show you the room." "I'll come tomorrow," I said. He watched me leave with a certain curiosity, but I noticed that he was smiling.