“I don’t consider myself a hero,” the devout Polish Catholic man told me.

“But you saved the lives of 32 Jewish men, women and children during the German occupation of Poland!” I declared.

Stanisław Jackowski, who preferred to use the Polish diminutive, Staszek, replied: “I did what I had to do. After all, Jews were human beings.”

“What gave you the strength to risk your life for so many people?” I asked.

“My Catholic faith,” he replied without hesitation. “I prayed to God every day.”

On the eve of World War II, Jackowski was a young carriage maker in Stanisławów, Poland (now, with the shifting of borders, the city of Ivano-Frankivsk in Ukraine). The majority of the population comprised Ukrainians, Ruthenians and Russians. Poles and Jews were minorities.

Jackowski, who was a bachelor in his 20s, never dreamed that his modest home, less than two blocks from the local Gestapo headquarters, would become a haven for so many Jewish people seeking refuge from their German tormentors.

Jackowski’s odyssey of courage began with his attempt to find and rescue Max Saginur, an old school friend. Their friendship had been discouraged by both of their parents. Unless they were assimilated, few Jews sought close personal relationships with Polish Gentiles.

Most Jews in wartime Poland were unassimilated and spoke Yiddish. Few of them knew or spoke Polish well enough to deceive the Germans. Only 10% of Poland’s Jews were assimilated and spoke Polish fluently.

“Rarely did a Polish Jew think it necessary to learn Polish; rarely was a Jew interested in Polish history or politics,” Isaac Bashevis Singer, the great Polish-born Jewish writer, observed. “I sensed the oddness of the situation and often considered moving to Palestine.”

After conquering Poland in October 1939 the Germans initiated a reign of terror, murdering more than 10,000 Stanisławów Jews and herding 20,000 more into a ghetto that would later be emptied.

Seeing the horrible and desperate situation in which the Jews found themselves, Jackowski’s mission to find Max Saginur and his wife, Gitya, became especially urgent. He found his friend and his wife. But they had two relatives, who also accompanied the Saginurs to Jackowski’s home.

Jackowski understood what every Pole knew — giving aid to a Jew carried the death penalty. Even the simple act of offering a Jew a cup of water and a piece of bread was grounds for execution.

Jackowski partitioned an area behind the kitchen for his four guests. But that proved unsuccessful because there was a lack of oxygen in the hiding place. Moreover, the movements of the four people could be heard in the rest of the home, a recipe for disaster for Jackowski and the Jews if the Germans searched the place.

“That’s when I decided to build a bunker in the cellar,” Jackowski said.

As the months passed, more Jews came to Jackowski for refuge. Jackowski helped them all.

“Before it was all over, I ended up building three bunkers to accommodate the growing number of Jewish men, women and children,” he said. He was forced to take in some Jews who threatened to denounce him to the Germans if he didn’t give them shelter and food.

Some of the Jews he rescued came from another “basket,” a word sometimes used to describe a hiding place. These Jews had hidden with another Polish family who learned that the Germans were close to discovering their refuge.

Jackowski’s efforts to save as many Jews as possible were not always successful. He made preparations to accept six Jewish physicians, but before the doctors could get to Jackowski’s home, the Germans arrested them. Rather than wait to be killed by the Germans, the physicians committed suicide by ingesting poison.

“It wasn’t easy to look after 32 people a stone’s throw from Gestapo headquarters, yet keep a secret of it,” Jackowski said as his eyes filled with tears. His bunkers were well-equipped with water, unmetered electricity, beds, and even stoves for cooking. He bartered and bought food for his charges from peasants. In one interview, he mentioned peasants who willingly and anonymously left containers of food at his door.

Intrigued by his comments, I asked: “How many of these peasant Good Samaritans were there?

“I know there had to be many of them because the Germans repeatedly confiscated food, leaving Polish families with very little to eat,” he explained. “They gave me what little they had.”

According to one Jewish source, Jackowski always treated his guests with respect, calling them “ladies” and “gentlemen.” He spent much of his evening with them. “I talked, joked and played cards with them, trying to keep up their spirits and mine.” A Jewish lady, whom he protected, told stories to the children to entertain them.

One of the Jewish children saved by Jackowski was Nina Dannenberg Frisch. “I was always petrified,” she said. Before ending up in the care of Jackowski, she and her parents found their way to a forest near the city. They were in a camp to which 40 other Jews had retreated. When the Germans accidentally discovered the hiding place, people fled in panic. With the help of a Polish peasant woman, Frisch and others returned to the hiding place after the threat from the Germans had passed. Unfortunately, Frisch’s mother had been killed by the Germans.

Eventually, Frisch and her father, escorted by yet another Polish woman, ended up at Jackowski’s home. Frisch was dressed like a young Polish girl, complete with a cross around her neck, to escape suspicion from the Germans. On her way to Jackowski’s home, Frisch recalled, “They told me to look down because I had dark hair and brown eyes. I didn’t look like a typical Aryan.”

“There’s just no describing what kind of person Staszek was,” Fritsch said. She described this good Catholic man as a “savior.” Jackowski took in Frisch and her father, who lived with him for 10 months.

No sooner did Jackowski deal with one threatening problem than another one developed. He was arrested in a German dragnet that was intended to round up as many able-bodied Polish men for forced labor in Germany. Fortunately, he managed to escape before the Germans had transported him. “After all,” Jackowski said, “32 people depended on me. Their lives were at stake. If I left, they were doomed. I could not allow that to happen.”

When Jackowski returned to his home, he fully expected the Germans to find him. He immediately jumped into the bunker with his Jewish charges.

“I had guns and ammunition there. Everyone was armed, ready to kill Germans if they opened the trapdoor. But, thank God, they didn’t find it,” he said. Although he did not reveal where he acquired guns and ammunition, it seems probable that he had Polish sources, perhaps in the Polish Underground.

The Germans were determined to find and kill Jews and the Poles who aided them. Moreover, he was a fugitive from a German dragnet. Wisely, he explained to the Jewish families that an escape plan needed to be developed. Using simple shovels and pails, Jackowski and the Jewish men dug a tunnel from the house to the sewer system that could be used to escape out of the city. The tunnel never had to be used.

When I asked Jackowski about the risk of being killed by the Germans for helping the Jews, he matter-of-factly replied: “The Germans could kill me only once.”

When the Soviets captured the area from the Germans, 32 Jewish men, women and children came out of their bunkers to see starry nights and blue skies once again.

Stanisław Jackowski survived the war, married and had a family. After the war, some of the Jewish people he had saved expressed their gratitude by helping him emigrate to the United States, where he began a new life.

Richard C. Lukas, Ph.D., is a retired professor of history and author of 10 books. His most recent book is The Torpedo Season: Growing Up During World War II.