Braun and Rademacher

Braun had a smug manner, always asking questions, pointing out concerns about our well-being, and particularly complaining about the presence of eggshells and chicken bones—after all, signs of good nutrition. We all in the camp struggled to appease him. Everyone feared him because he was not to be trusted.

Our hope for a cooperative relationship rested on the fact that he had a sweetheart. She would come over from outside on weekends and make requests, especially to my wife and me, which we tried to fulfill. By today’s standards, they were modest demands—such as a handbag, an umbrella, a scarf, a blouse, or coffee beans—but under the circumstances at the time, obtaining such things was very difficult. Eager to stay on Braun’s good side, we ensured that these wishes were always granted.

Apart from minor harassments, nothing extraordinary happened under his rule, except for one incident I must mention: In March 1944, I was summoned to the camp gate, where a car with SS officers was waiting outside. Braun was there as well. I reported to them and was ordered to assign—or name—forty tailors and seamstresses. They were to be taken to Stawy the next morning to sew uniforms for Wehrmacht auxiliaries, who were already fleeing in panic from the advancing Russians.

I myself was aware of the conditions in Stawy from information that had come to me. Executions and mistreatment of Jews were a daily occurrence, and in my view, transferring our people there meant a death sentence. I desperately thought about how I could prevent this disaster. I can only attribute it to a higher inspiration that I came up with the idea to tell the leading Hauptsturmführer that our people would be willing to take on this work additionally, in their free time, given the urgency, and that only the materials needed to be brought to the camp. I believe my proposal was well received also because, due to the unexpected influx of people in Stawy, there was a lack of space. In any case, the idea was approved, and we were able to keep our people in the camp. But the best part was that after I reported this incident to the command, the operation was refused. The delivered materials and supplies were sent back, and the whole thing fizzled out. Within the camp itself, this matter was quickly forgotten, as people generally paid more attention to their daily worries than to major events, even after significant occurrences.

This attitude is easily explained by the uncertainty of one’s own fate, without any possibility of influencing it. People lived only for the present and left the future to a fortunate turn of fate. Indifference and resignation were widespread.

The year 1944 was marked by events on the collapsing Eastern Front. The relentless retreat did not escape our notice, and we also knew about the successful Western offensive of the Allies. Our informants were Poles who worked at the airbase and apparently had connections with partisans who had radio devices and received news from abroad. Even from the German side, we received information about the situation.

One time, while I was on duty heading to the command, I was approached by a uniformed German soldier who called me by name and introduced himself as an architect from Vienna. In our conversation, he mentioned the collapse of the Eastern Front and predicted that the Red Army would soon arrive in Dęblin. He offered me the opportunity to go underground with him, as he belonged to a resistance organization. He said it was the only way to save myself. He knew that when the Germans withdrew from Poland, all Jews would be exterminated beforehand. The “scorched earth” order had already been issued. I told him that I could not abandon my family, and he regretfully took his leave.

However, I also suspected him somewhat of being an agent provocateur. Even if I had no family in the camp, I would not have accepted his proposal, out of loyalty to my comrades. I told the “Council of Elders” about the incident, and they were pleased that I was thinking so responsibly.

At the beginning of July, I was introduced by Braun to a German civilian named Bartenschlager, who questioned me about the inmates of our camp. I had no way of knowing who Bartenschlager was or what role he would still play. I knew nothing about the purpose of his visit and assumed he was a personal acquaintance of the non-commissioned officer. I answered his questions very cautiously and reservedly. He himself was surprised that Jews in Poland in 1944 still looked so well-dressed and well-fed. I explained this by saying that our diligence, discipline, and hard work had earned us recognition from the command. When he said “Goodbye” upon leaving, I had no idea how soon we would meet again. Shortly afterward, Braun was unexpectedly replaced. His successor was Sergeant Rademacher from Berlin, an older, long-serving non-commissioned officer. He negotiated with me calmly and composedly, always valuing my opinion. I suspect that the command had recommended me to him as trustworthy.

On July 14, 1944, I was summoned to the chief staff quartermaster, our highest camp authority, who informed me that due to the advancing front, our camp would be evacuated to Częstochowa, to the Warthewerk, a munitions factory. The camp would fall under factory security, not the SS, and he had already spoken with the factory security chief. He assured me that we would be treated humanely there, similarly to how we were in Dęblin.

My first concern was for the fate of the women and children, as I knew from Polish and German reports what the SS did to Jewish children. Wolfram gave me his officer’s word of honor that nothing would happen to our children. I do not know what made me doubt his word and what gave me the courage to ask him for a letter signed by Colonel Hönig, the airbase commander, to reassure our mothers and fathers. I am glad I had this idea because this letter would ultimately save 36 children. Surprisingly, Wolfram did not reject my request; on the contrary, he promised to have such a letter given to the transport leader.

At this meeting, our labor deployment leader, the German Pole Wiszniewski, was present. He was ordered to prepare the camp for transport in three groups. The dates were set: Group I on July 17, Group II on July 20, and the last group on July 23, 1944. Wolfram explicitly insisted that the children be included proportionally so they would not stand out in large numbers and risk being singled out. Wiszniewski promised to follow orders and also to ensure family unity.

With very mixed feelings, I left the command and returned to the camp, full of concern. Our situation in Dęblin had been bearable compared to other camps, but what awaited us in Częstochowa?

From the command to the camp was about 2,500 meters. I rode a bicycle. Usually, it took ten minutes, but this time, I took almost twice as long. Filled with worry, I pondered the consequences of our relocation. I knew the dangers we faced under German rule. We were at the mercy of an individual’s whims, and the coming days were uncertain. Everything depended on chance. What were our chances of survival? All we had was hope.

What I had not accounted for was the reaction of my fellow inmates. That evening, I gathered the entire workforce, except for the children, and informed them of my conversation with Wolfram, including my efforts to secure the safety of the children and the written assurance. At first, there was dead silence. Then, an uproar of unexpected proportions erupted. Hysterical screaming broke out, like during a shipwreck. The crowd was in turmoil—otherwise calm men shouted over each other, mothers shrieked about the impending doom of their children, and everyone talked about escaping the camp. No reasonable argument was heard. It was as if hell had been unleashed.

I realized that the crowd was unreliable and called the “Council of Elders” to the office, as I could not get them to listen to reason. We discussed how to manage the relocation with as little hardship as possible, especially ensuring families were not separated, as we did not fully trust the promise that the entire camp would be transferred together. It was a very long discussion, and we went to bed filled with worry. The next morning, red eyes showed that hardly anyone had slept.

In the days leading up to our relocation, I witnessed more human weaknesses, ingratitude, and shortcomings than in my entire life. An unparalleled selfishness was unleashed. Formerly friendly faces contorted into grimaces, calm voices became shrill, and sheer fear made me the perfect scapegoat.

As the first transport left on July 17, under the supervision of seemingly trustworthy militia soldiers, our spirits calmed slightly. Events at the front escalated, and on July 22, we received the order to prepare for departure. The sight of waiting freight cars led some to suggest mass escape, but with women, children, and elderly people, such an attempt would have been suicide.

On the morning of July 23, we were finally loaded onto the trains. As we departed, we heard the distant rumble of the advancing front.