Zitat
In the autumn of 1935, an uneasy Europe was stunned by the death of Marshal Pilsudski, the leader of the Polish state. I received an invitation to attend a funeral mass at the Church of St. Hedwig in Berlin. The church was packed with the Ambassadorial rep-resentatives of all the countries having legations in the German capital. The Papal Nuncio himself presided over the mass, and every important political personality in the country had managed to wangle entry to the ceremony.
The front row was entirely occupied by the Nazi hierarchy— Hitler, Goebbels, Goering, Hess, Himmler, and the rest. It was the first time I had ever seen them in full regalia, and the only time I was ever to observe Hitler at such close range. I was surprised by the humility with which Hitler knelt during the Services. How strange that he, of all men, should conduct himself with such piety throughout the solemn and sacred rite. I found myself overwhelmed by the frightening hypocrisy of this religious persecutor, this purveyor of genocide.
I began to tremble. My mind was dazed by dizzying jumbled images of my whole life, memories of my childhood, Poland, things I had not thought of in years. I began to sob aloud. The Polish choir was singing the funeral hymn. I saw my father: it was his death and Pilsudski's and—I suddenly knew—and Poland's.
Without the leadership of my country's liberator, her freedom would come to an end. The kneeling brown-clad dictator would see to that. It was what motivated this too friendly display of sympathy towards the bereaved nation. As a friend he would come with a sword well concealed beneath his cloak—a sword that would be plunged into the heart of Poland.
