Blessed Natalia Tułasiewicz (9 April 1906 – 31 March 1945)
Feast day: March 31st | Beatified in 1999
This article was originally published in Polish on Aleteia. Click here to view the original.
On August 14, 1943, Natalia wrote in her diary:
“I have the courage to be a saint (…) only holiness is the fullest form of love, so not only do I want to be, but I must be a saint, a modern saint, a theocentric humanist! That is the goal I openly and boldly claim as my own.
Today there are people who want to be dictators at any cost, others who want to be multimillionaires, oil kings, lard kings, princes of the press, radio, film, and television. And no one is surprised by them. I want much less and yet much more. Let whoever wishes, be surprised (…).
I want to carry Christ, who has chosen my heart as His dwelling, I want to bring Him to every person I meet – on the streets, in trams, offices, shops, restaurants, cinemas, theaters, everywhere!”
Typing “Natalia Tułasiewicz” into an online search engine brings up a smiling, young woman with large eyes and dark, curly hair. In her most famous photo, the Blessed – posing like a slender model – stands in an elegant summer houndstooth dress with a dark collar and belt. A braided bracelet decorates her wrist.
Experts today might say, “Mrs. Natalia’s styling brings to mind the classic dresses of Audrey Hepburn.” And they wouldn’t be far off. While studying Polish philology at Poznań University, she was known as a fashionable woman. She liked artful outfits and simple accessories.
Despite the turmoil of war, the writings of the young Polish woman who was gassed in Ravensbrück camp have survived. Natalia’s diaries, written from 1938 to August 1943, show the path of her inner transformation—from completing her Polish studies to joining the resistance.
She chose God as the most important person in her life very early, at the age of 16.
Natalia, called “Nata” by her family, was born on April 9, 1906, in Rzeszów. She was the second of six children of Natalia Amalia and Adam Tułasiewicz. Her father, whom she described as “a real Tułas – both for dancing and praying the rosary,” was a tax official.
From early childhood, she loved books, theater, and music. She wrote poetry and played the violin. After completing her Polish studies at Poznań University, she planned to earn a doctorate but began teaching Polish while still in school and discovered her professional calling as a teacher.
“She was short, seemingly delicate and fragile. What distinguished her from other teachers was her deep sense of justice,” one student wrote.
The outbreak of war found her in Poznań. On September 1, she had just completed a retreat with the Seraphic Sisters. In her diary, dated September 2, she wrote: “War. Yesterday we survived the first bombing attacks.”
She described going down to cellars as temporary air raid shelters, the howling of sirens, packing suitcases, and fear—for loved ones, for the future. “I pray with all the strength I can, offering myself, all my loved ones, and all of Poland to God.”
On September 6, she launched a “makeshift school” for children and taught them on the lawn of her courtyard. She brought in other women – and together, they gave lessons in Polish, history, geography, arithmetic, and religion.
At home, the family prayed a novena to St. Andrew Bobola, entrusting him with the safe return of loved ones—Zygmunt, Józek, and Hala. At the same time, churches were closed by order of the authorities. Masses and devotions were banned, and receiving Holy Communion was forbidden.
“Once again, Poland has been erased from the map of the world,” wrote Natalia. “In these difficult days of war, I try to stay as close as possible to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I talk to Him as if I were speaking to Christ in Nazareth, but most often I say nothing—I pray in silence, quietly embracing the cross with Mary—and I remain like that,” she recorded on October 1, 1939.
On the day of her deportation from Poznań, November 23, her suitcase stood in the hallway, packed and ready. In the evening, when loud knocking on the door interrupted dinner, she was the one who answered and calmly asked in German how much time they had.
In a visible spot, she left a note written in German for those who would take over their apartment: “In the name of God, please do not destroy the books, manuscripts, instruments, and flowers…” A soldier didn’t allow her to take bedding or her dog Muszka. At the last moment, Natalia managed to pray briefly in front of the home altar.
The whole family was transported to a transit camp set up by the Germans between the road to Gniezno and the railway to Warsaw. “We were crammed into two vehicles and dumped on the straw in the barracks like garbage. Children are sick, and some women are wailing in agony,” she noted.
She finally confided in prayer:
“To leave everything and follow You to Calvary – that is, Master, Your teaching. You are hard when You temper us with suffering. I thank You for allowing our family and country to follow You, beaten and suffering…”
A week later, she was deported from Poznań with a group of 3,000 people.
“The Christ from the holy cards, the one with eyes always turned to the ground, that one would be convenient for us! But He, Mercy incarnate, knows no mercy for comfort and spiritual laziness,” she wrote.
In cattle cars, her family arrived in Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski, but there was no chance of work or housing for nine people.
Natalia went to Kraków and later brought her family there. When her father died in the spring of 1940, she felt entirely responsible for the family. At the same time, she began to see her personal mission in the flood of war that was drowning the world.
Her daily life was filled with work, prayer, and the constant search for what God wanted from her.
“My destiny is to remain in life—in its conflicts, its variety. I do not separate ordinary life from the ideals I pursue. Everything—work, study, sleep, eating—I incorporate into my program of self-perfection,” she wrote.
In 1943, she was recruited into the “West” organization, created in 1942 by the Polish Government in London to assist Poles deported for forced labor in Germany. Priests—Monsignor Ferdynand Machay and Fr. Kazimierz Świetliński—who knew Natalia, saw her as a good candidate for the mission.
In the spring of 1943, she took part in volunteer training. In August, just before departure, she wrote—keeping all the rules of secrecy:
“Tomorrow at 8:30 I report for a new position. I am certain of God’s help. I offer the coming days for the intention of difficult souls. I have only one desire today: never to offend God, even with a venial sin.”
On August 19, she departed for Hanover with a transport of forced laborers. She worked as a manual laborer in the Günther-Wagner “Pelican” factory and lived in factory barracks for women of various nationalities. Despite her preparation, she encountered difficulties she had never known.
From her letters, we know she was shocked by the level of demoralization in the camp—fighting, theft, drunkenness, and prostitution. Nevertheless, she quickly gained the sympathy of her roommates and step by step carried out her mission—teaching prayers, reminding others of moral principles, and discreetly catechizing.
By December 1943, she had given 60 catechism lessons, started rosary circles, prepared a Christmas nativity play, and gathered people for evening prayer before a small altar with an image of the Merciful Jesus. She spoke German, French, and some Italian and used these languages in her ministry.
She was arrested on April 29, 1944. The Gestapo entered the barracks after a careless courier from Poland exposed her. Imprisoned in three German jails, she endured torture without betraying anyone.
“May 16, 1944, was critical for Nata. They pulled her from sleep for interrogation and returned her so battered that there wasn’t a single unbruised spot on her body. She had to undress and was beaten. When blood spurted from a healed gland in her neck, the executioner stopped. Likely, Nata’s calmness drove him mad—she didn’t scream or cry,” testified fellow prisoner Janina Domagalska from Cologne.
In prison, she set a daily routine.
“The day began with Holy Mass, which Nata knew by heart. We always prayed, but she prayed differently—more devoutly—and she taught us how. I learned to pray. She taught us songs and hymns, talked with us about many things to prepare us younger women for the hardship ahead,” remembered another prisoner, Stefania Wiatrolik-Balcerzak.
In the autumn, after six months of wandering through prisons, she was sentenced to death and transported to Ravensbrück camp. She was murdered in a gas chamber on Good Friday, March 30, 1945, at the age of 39.
“I met Natalia Tułasiewicz in the German camp in Ravensbrück, where I was deported with my mother from Warsaw after the Warsaw Uprising in August 1944. When I fell ill, I was in hospital block no. 10, and there I met Mrs. Nata. She was a frail, sickly woman, lying beside me and Krysia Olszewska. Krysia and I were young—we had finished four years of high school before the war, but we couldn’t continue our education during the war.
Mrs. Nata decided to educate us. She gave lectures on literature and history, told us about the books she’d read, and even organized literary evenings on my bed. On the blank sides of German newspapers, we listed authors and book titles—I still keep those notes today.
Mrs. Nata also taught us how to pray. On Sundays, she would recite prayers appropriate to the parts of the Holy Mass,” recalled Maria Grabcowa.
“On Palm Sunday, Nata still had enough strength to lead a service from her bed to honor the beginning of the Passion of the Lord…” recalled another fellow prisoner.