Here's the short version: Beth Murphy, a Plymouth writer and filmmaker, met John Torunski through her father. The elderly men were retired, but not ready to sit in the rocker. So each went to work in security at a nuclear power plant in Waterford, Conn. When Murphy's father began hearing his new friend's stories, he was amazed.
In all her years of making documentaries, Murphy had never had one pitch or push on a subject from her father, a retired music teacher. But this time, he could not stop talking about a man he had met at work. The man was inspiring, a real-life Santa, her father told her.
When she at last met Torunski, Murphy knew her father was right. Physically, Torunski is the image of St. Nicholas: rotund, with flowing white hair and a beard, and even the half-specs. More importantly, at 82 he embodies St. Nick's spirit of help and hope. He still volunteers at hospitals, schools, and senior centers, and given his past, his giving is all the more incredible.
During World War II, Torunski, a Polish Catholic, was captured and sent to various prisons and concentration camps because of his resistance work. From the Pawiak Prison windows, he watched the liquidation of the Warsaw ghetto, directly across the street. From there, he did time at some of the most notorious camps, including Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. Christmas 1944 found him in Dora, a small Polish camp. He and his fellow prisoners had been working underground for months, breaking stones and building tunnels in the mountains to create an underground airplane factory for the Nazis.
Murphy, who has traveled the world's war zones making documentaries, was so taken by Torunski's story that she submitted it for King's book, which is subtitled: "Celebrating Our Common Humanity."
In it, Torunski describes the horrendous working conditions. "The dust was so thick that we often couldn't see our hands working. We breathed dirt and sweat. A man next to me whispered that even God couldn't find us. As Christmas approached, he whispered that Santa Claus couldn't find us, either."
Torunski remembers the cold, the hunger, the loneliness of prisoners from different countries, of different languages, all trying to survive another day. One day as Christmas approached, the Nazi captors called the prisoners into the common yard. Torunski was certain they would all be killed. "It's Christmas," the sergeant told them. "We should celebrate."
The disbelieving prisoners stood still, shocked. "Perhaps we could sing?" he went on. "Surely there's a Christmas song we all know." So they sang, prisoners from various countries, in various languages, "badly and out of tune, and it was the most beautiful music in the world," Torunski recalled.
The Nazi passed around a bottle of alcohol for the prisoners to take a swig. It was hardly fit to drink; in fact, it was the fuel they used for missiles. To the prisoners, the bitterness was nonetheless sweet. Next to Torunski, a German prisoner took a swallow and looked skyward. Torunski followed his gaze.
"The Allies had been making constant air raids, and above us floated the long streams of white vapor from behind the planes. The whole sky was colored with it. `There,' Torunski whispered, `Saint Nicholas, with his long beard. He is protecting us.' "
Not long after that Christmas, the Allies marched into the territory, and the Nazis fled. Torunski joined the British forces. After the war, he married a Polish woman, and they moved to Pennsylvania and then Connecticut, raising six children. Torunski, who spoke no English at the time, taught himself the language and became a builder. His family was never rich in anything but love.
Six decades later, Torunski would tell you he still believes in St. Nicholas and tries to live by his example. "St. Nick had known the misery of prison -- he had been persecuted and imprisoned for years for his faith," says Murphy. "He had known hunger. St. Nicholas was, in a way, a simplified version of God -- omnipotent, omniscient, all-loving, and all-just."
Since the war, Torunski has spent his spare time helping street people, alcoholics, veterans, immigrants, children, the sick, the alone. Every Christmas Eve, he dons his Santa suit, climbs into his station wagon and heads out, starting in the morning and ending late at night. The back of the car is filled with gifts. He ends the evening at midnight Mass, slipping out just before the service ends, to ring a brass bell as the churchgoers exit, playing Santa to the sleepy children whose eyes widen when they see him.
He wanted to be a doctor and help people in that way. Beth Murphy, who accompanied him on his Christmas Eve rounds this year, says he is indeed a doctor -- a doctor of the spirit.
"John possesses a kindness that champions other over self, and with that he gives love to those around him -- even those he hardly knows," she says.
Murphy, who is working on a documentary about Egypt's pyramids, has produced nine films for PBS. "An Unlikely Santa," which is about Torunksi's life, has been optioned by publisher McGraw Hill, and Murphy hopes to complete both the book and a film adaptation in time for next Christmas.
"John doesn't do it for gratitude, or money, or any earthly reward -- he does it because, as he says, `These are just all of our obligations,' " says Murphy.
"Wouldn't the world be a better place if we all believed, as he does, that these small acts of human kindness are all of our obligations?"
Bella English writes from Milton. She can be reached at 617-929-8770 or via e-mail at english@globe.com.
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