I recently read this story about Richard and
Sabina Wurmbrand, VOM’s founders, in the book In
God’s Underground. This excerpt is long, but I think it’s worth the
read. I love the picture it shows of the Wurmbrand’s hearts.
When
Romania entered the war on Germany's side, a pogrom began in which many
thousands of Jews were killed or deported. At Iasi alone 11,000 were massacred
in a day. My wife, who shares my Protestant faith, is also of Jewish origin. We
lived in Bucharest, from which the Jews were not deported, but her parents, one
of her brothers, three sisters, and other relatives who lived in Bucovine were
taken to Transmistria, a wild border province that the Romanians had captured
from Russia. Jews who were not murdered at the end of this journey were left to
starve, and there Sabina's family died.
Sometime
later our landlord, a good Christian, told me sadly of a man who was staying in
the house while on leave from the front. “l knew him before the war,” he said, “but
he's changed completely. He has become a brute who likes to boast of how he
volunteered to exterminate Jews in Transmistria and killed hundreds with his
own hands.”
I
went upstairs after supper to the landlord's flat. Lounging in an armchair was
a giant of a man whom the landlord introduced as Borila, the killer of Jews
from Transmistria. When he rose he was even taller than l, and there seemed to
be about him an aura of horror that was like a smell of blood. Soon he was
telling us of his adventures in the war and of the Jews he had slaughtered.
The
murderer proved to be not only a murderer. Nobody is only one thing. He was a
pleasant talker, and eventually it came out that he had a great love of music.
He mentioned that while serving in the Ukraine he had been captivated by the
songs there. “I wish I could hear them again,” he said.
I
knew some of these old songs. I thought to myself, looking at Borila, The fish has entered my net!
“lf
you'd like to hear some of them,” I told him, “come to my flat—I'm no pianist,
but I can play a few Ukrainian melodies.”
The
landlord, his wife, and his daughter accompanied us. My wife was in bed. She
was used to my playing softly at night and did not wake up. I played the folk
songs, which are alive with feeling, and I could see that Borila was deeply
moved. I remembered how, when King Saul was afflicted by an evil spirit, the
boy David had played the harp before him.
I
stopped and turned to Borila. “l've something very important to say to you,” I
told him.
“Please
speak,” he said.
“If
you look through that curtain you can see someone is asleep in the next room.
It's my wife, Sabina. Her parents, her sisters, and her twelve-year-old brother
have been killed with the rest of the family. You told me that you had killed
hundreds of Jews near Golta, and that is where they were taken.” Looking into
his eyes, I added, “You yourself don't know who you have shot, so we can assume
that you are the murderer of her family.”
He
jumped up, his eyes blazing, looking as if he were about to strangle me.
I
held up my hand and said, “Now—let's try an experiment. I shall wake my wife
and tell her who you are, and what you have done. I can tell you what will
happen. My wife will not speak one word of reproach! She'll embrace you as if
you were her brother. She'll bring you supper, the best things she has in the
house.
“Now,
if Sabina, who is a sinner like us all, can forgive and love like this, imagine
how Jesus, who is perfect Love, can forgive and love you! Only turn to Him—and
everything you have done will be forgiven!”
Borila
was not heartless: within, he was consumed by guilt and misery at what he had
done, and he had shaken his brutal talk at us as a crab shakes its claws. One
tap at his weak spot and his defenses crumbled. The music had already moved his
heart, and now came—instead of the attack he expected—words of forgiveness.
His
reaction was amazing. He jumped up and tore at his collar with both hands, so
that his shirt was rent apart. “Oh God, what shall I do, what shall I do?” he
cried. He put his head in his hands and sobbed noisily as he rocked himself
back and forth. “I'm a murderer, I'm soaked in blood, what shall I do?” Tears
ran down his cheeks.
I
cried, “ln the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, I command the devil of hatred to
go out of your soul!”
Borila
fell on his knees trembling, and we began to pray aloud. He knew no prayers; he
simply asked again and again for forgiveness and said that he hoped and knew it
would be granted. We were on our knees together for some time; then we stood up
and embraced each other, and I said, “l promised to make an experiment. I shall
keep my word.”
I
went into the other room and found my wife still sleeping calmly. She was very
weak and exhausted at that time. I woke her gently and said, “There is a man
here whom you must meet. We believe he has murdered your family, but he has
repented, and now he is our brother.”
She
came out in her dressing gown and put out her arms to embrace him; then both
began to weep and to kiss each other again and again. I have never seen bride
and bridegroom kiss with such love and purity as this murderer and the survivor
among his victims. Then, as I foretold, Sabina went to the kitchen to bring him
food.
Excerpted from In
God’s Underground, pages 222-224.
If my husband woke me up in the middle of
the night and told me the man who killed my family was in the living room, I’m
not sure I would have the same reaction that Sabina did. But praise God this
incredible woman was able to respond with the same grace and forgiveness God
has shown us. I hope I can someday be the Christ-like woman Sabina was.