Collapse

The return of our children made us forget that on the very first day, we had been robbed of our belongings, subjected to body searches for hidden valuables, and even stripped of our outer garments. We were assigned to barracks wearing only skirts and trousers. Everything was filthy and poorly furnished. Only the infirmary, under the direction of a good doctor from Bialystok, was comparable to the conditions in Dęblin. The food was nowhere near as good—we received not even 700 calories a day. If not for bakers working in the city of Częstochowa who smuggled bread into the camp daily, many would have starved to death.

Two of my Viennese comrades, my deputy Großmann and the quartermaster Pollak, could not endure the hardships. They fell ill and died in Częstochowa. The camp inmates worked in the munitions factory, some at the machines, others transporting loads. In total, 2,000 people worked there, strictly guarded by the Ukrainian factory security force—Russian defectors who opposed Bolshevism and were not exactly friendly towards Jews. Their commander was Bartenschlager, assisted by Keutsch, who took pleasure in playing the tough man, strutting through the camp with a whip and lashing it down on a Jew’s back at the slightest provocation. Our children would hide without a trace the moment they heard that this sadist was coming.

In numerous conversations with long-time camp inmates, mostly from Kraków, our descriptions of the conditions in Dęblin were met with disbelief. Had they not seen with their own eyes our relatively healthy appearance, our clothing, and our luggage—which suggested a neutral foreign country rather than forced labor camps in the East—they would never have believed us.

It was heartbreaking to watch the work crews line up early in the morning, dressed in tattered clothes, their faces blackened with machine oil, emaciated by hunger, and then march into the factory halls, which were just as uninviting. We called these unfortunate souls the “Mongols.” The work hours were from 7 AM to noon and then from 1 PM to 6 PM—a total of ten hours a day, which was a long time given the inadequate nutrition. The only exception was Saturday, when work ended at noon, followed by cleaning duties in the camp and factory. The same happened on Sunday mornings. The only hours we had to ourselves were on Sunday afternoons. That was when conversations took place, bodies were given a more thorough cleaning, and—above all—plans were made.

What would happen when we were free? Each of us built castles in the air, imagined a wonderful life, and tried, through these illusions, to forget the cruel reality for a few hours. Precisely because we did not know if we would live to see the next day, precisely because everything was so hopeless, we planned—boldly and confidently—to keep from losing the last shred of our self-respect.

The exhausting work drained us so completely that after our meager evening meal, we would collapse onto our primitive bunks, staring blankly ahead. Few managed to sleep. The coming morning was too uncertain, the present too bleak, and the future too full of unanswered questions.

A recurring topic of conversation was the comparison between Częstochowa and Dęblin. The difference was stark! Both camps were not under the feared SS but rather under the Wehrmacht (Dęblin) and the factory security force (Częstochowa), which in turn answered to the civilian factory management.

Nevertheless, the difference was glaring. In my opinion, the blame lay with the factory security chief, Bartenschlager, as well as the Jewish camp elder, Jolles, who obediently carried out all orders. But I also held the factory director and his civilian foremen responsible. In Dęblin, many of the construction supervisors were always trying to improve and ease the suffering of the Jews. I remember names like Thiele, Gall, and Leistikov, as well as construction manager Figura and many department heads who treated us better than we ever experienced in Częstochowa.

Bartenschlager had introduced the kapo system, typical of concentration camps, through Jolles. These kapos were responsible for maintaining order in the camp. To their credit, I must say that I never heard any complaints about them during my time there.

I was assigned to the bathhouse, which also contained a large disinfection boiler. My task was to hang the dirty laundry of the factory workers in the boiling vat and, after disinfection, pass it on to the adjacent laundry facility. Once cleaned and repaired, the laundry was returned for exchange. This was only possible because the clothing of our transport had been confiscated and added to the depot. The bathhouse kapo had to enforce strict discipline, as there was constant conflict between the inmates from Częstochowa, whose clothing was already in tatters, and those from Dęblin, who had brought better garments. These disputes, as well as other minor issues, often escalated into loud arguments. Quelling these conflicts required great authority, which kapo Weiß possessed—even without being harsh.

Dipping and removing garments from the boiling disinfection solution, surrounded by the hot, suffocating steam, took a heavy toll on me. In the nearly six months I worked there, I lost almost twenty kilograms. That it wasn’t more, I owed to the selflessness of my wife.

She worked in the factory security kitchen as a potato peeler and cleaner. As a reward for her difficult work, she received a liter of stew containing meat, barley, potatoes, and a lot of bacon. She brought this as a supplement to the meager camp rations for my mother-in-law, Ruthi, and me. We always devoured the meal greedily—too late realizing that my wife was going without, claiming she had already eaten. Eventually, she grew so visibly thin that I protested. But she simply replied, “First, I must keep you alive. You must survive. A life without you is meaningless to me.” I was deeply moved by this declaration.

It was a terrible year, and then came January 15, 1945. We in the camp were more or less aware of the front lines, as a resistance group had formed under the leadership of our camp doctor, who had radio contact with the partisans.

It was said that the deportation of the camp into the interior of Germany was imminent, and indeed, the first transport was dispatched on January 15. It was sent to Buchenwald, with many casualties.

Soon after the first group of factory workers departed, we noticed unrest and uncertainty among our civilian supervisors. It was clear that they were thinking more about themselves than about work. Even the factory security force had lost much of its usual arrogance. We even noticed that Keutsch was no longer carrying his ever-present whip.

There was no longer any real work in the factory. Production had completely ceased, and the Mongols were put to work dismantling machines, while we—especially the resistance group—carefully observed the foremen’s mysterious activities. We rightly feared that the factory, with its abundant supply of explosives, would be blown up with us inside when the front approached.

In the camp office, transport lists were being prepared, and the deportation was being organized. Fortunately, since my wife worked for the factory security force, she and I were assigned to the last transport.

Great anxiety and fear gripped us when, on January 16, Ukrainian Waffen-SS troops arrived at the camp. We all feared the worst—liquidation. Everyone’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point.

The resistance group issued an order: if there was any sign of execution preparations, we were to fight back as hard as possible—there were weapons ready.

The emotions we felt for our wives and children can only be compared to those of a condemned man awaiting his execution. We looked up at the overcast sky, and it felt like our prayers were answered when, suddenly, an air raid alarm sounded and Russian planes appeared overhead. We were ordered into the barracks, while the Germans took cover in the bomb shelters.

The explosions of the falling bombs did not bother us inside the barracks, where a heated discussion began about what would happen next.

One decision was clear: we would delay every deportation as much as possible—to stall until the Russians arrived. And if danger arose, we would retreat into the barracks to avoid execution on the camp grounds.

It was an uncertain plan—but the next day, it would prove to be a brilliant one.

The bombardment lasted all day, and when the all-clear was given late in the evening, it was too late to organize the second transport. We received the food that had not been distributed at midday and were instructed to pack all our belongings and be ready for transport. I spent the seemingly endless night with my family—none of us could sleep, no matter how exhausted we were.

At last, dawn began to break. I left the barrack to visit the latrine and, at the same time, to see what was happening outside. My first glance was toward the bivouac of the Waffen-SS troops who had arrived the previous day. When I saw nothing, I naturally assumed they had positioned themselves somewhere, ready to receive us. I could not have known that what we had perceived as an aerial bombardment was already the thunder of artillery, signaling the proximity of the front lines.

The camp came to life. A fine drizzle fell. Keutsch, without his whip, went into all five barracks and said: “Everyone must form up by barrack for transport. Wagons are ready at the station. No more work will be done in Częstochowa.”

When asked about our destination, he said he believed it was Gleiwitz but was not sure.

The mere fact that he allowed the question and was even willing to answer it made us sense a change in the times. Who among us would have dared to ask Keutsch a question before? A whip blow would have been the inevitable response. Around nine in the morning, the first barrack was called up. Each name was read aloud, and the delayed responses of each man took up a lot of time. Just as they were finishing, and the second barrack began to be called, the inmates of the first barrack slowly shuffled back inside. The same thing happened when the third barrack was called. The other two barracks were never even reached. Despite Keutsch’s screaming and fits of rage, and the efforts of his obedient camp elder, the pattern kept repeating. As soon as one barrack was called outside and the names were read, everyone withdrew inside as soon as the next barrack was called. We seemed to obey, but Keutsch was driven almost mad.

The short winter day passed, and just as darkness fell, another air raid alarm sounded. The call of “Everyone into the barracks!” was music to our ears. I made plans with my family. If men and women were separated during transport, I felt obliged to arrange with a friendly couple from Prešov that Mrs. Wahrmann, a young and resolute woman, would take care of my family. I wanted to ease the burden on my wife, who had to care for my 75-year-old mother and six-year-old Ruthi. In return, I promised to look after Mr. Wahrmann, who was less agile.

Bombs fell near our factory complex, striking a nearby paper factory. We saw bright flames shoot up and heard explosions. In terror, we rushed outside, fearing the fire might spread to our wooden barracks. The factory itself, which was said to store an unknown quantity of explosives, also seemed at risk. We all remembered Keutsch’s words: the factory was rigged for destruction to prevent it from falling into Russian hands. That was supposed to make us more willing to march out. After the liberation, we learned that machine guns had been set up at the entrance gate, ready to mow us down at the slightest disturbance.

The Warta River flowed beside our barrack, and I had my family step into the water at the riverbank to escape the inferno. I myself went to the factory gate to see what was happening. It was night, the sky eerily red from the flames, and the constant crashing of explosions frayed our nerves. What a liberating feeling it was when we heard a loudspeaker announcement: “All Germans to the gate immediately!” We sensed that salvation from fear, terror, and mortal danger had finally arrived. Liberation seemed near.

Our hopes were strengthened when we saw our comrades wearing steel helmets and carrying machine pistols, led by the camp doctor holding a revolver. They drove the Ukrainian factory guards before them. A cry rang out from all lips: “We are free!” People embraced, tears streaming down their faces, without caring whether they knew each other or not. Comrades stormed the storage rooms and distributed bread and canned food to the starving prisoners.

On January 17, Red Army tank units entered the factory. We learned that the Germans had been surprised and attacked from the rear through a flanking maneuver, making it possible for a Jewish camp to be liberated without evacuation for the first time.

It is impossible to describe the elation that followed the liberation from barbaric oppression.

I hope my words have proven that every German, if they wished, could have acted humanely toward the persecuted and oppressed, even in the most precarious situations, without putting themselves in danger. Many may see my fate as an exception, but I believe it only further exposes the web of lies in which Nazi leaders ensnared the public. It was not some inevitable fate that led to this inferno, which defied all notions of culture and humanity. It was the willingness of so many to participate in the crimes, the sheer moral indifference, and the lack of will to act humanely that made it possible. The passivity of the indifferent, the collaboration of the willing, and the negligence of many—also from other nations—created the vacuum of humanity from which we have yet to fully recover.

No whitewashing, no denial, no so-called “coming to terms” can obscure this reality. Only a clear and unequivocal rejection of the perpetrators—whether those who carried out the crimes with their own hands, those who devised the ideological foundation from their desks, or those who issued the orders—can consign this shameful past to history. It will remain alive for as long as criminals from that time walk free and rise unpunished to high positions. Only the dying out of that cursed generation will truly close this chapter.

My examples should make it clear that there was no such thing as an unavoidable “necessity to follow orders” for leading Nazis. Whether an officer or a soldier in a camp, each had the ability to prevent atrocities in their own way. Those who shed blood did so willingly and with full knowledge of their actions. They knew that the mass murder of women, children, and the elderly—of innocent people—was wrong, that the persecution of Jews, Roma, and others declared enemies of the regime was a crime. Any remotely responsible German must have recognized the injustice of these acts, even if they were sanctioned by the authorities, and must have realized they bore responsibility.

Perhaps I am simplifying a highly complex matter, but I want to make one thing clear: these horrors were not an inescapable fate for those who became accomplices.

For those within my view, however, any claim to leniency has been forfeited—they should bear the full weight of the law. The claim that most of them “did not know what they were doing” is likely a postwar fabrication. The broad outlines of the truth were clear to nearly everyone. The Eichmann trial proved beyond doubt that the “Final Solution” was widely known, even before the Wannsee Conference, and was propagated in Nazi publications like Das Schwarze Korps.

At the very least, those who carried out the actions, eyewitnesses, and through them an even wider circle, knew about the mass murder of millions, the theft from countless victims, and the sheer lawlessness of these crimes.

I reject the idea of collective guilt, as I know from my own experience that many Germans did everything in their power to alleviate the suffering of the persecuted. But I cannot absolve many others of complicity. It is essential that all decent people clearly distance themselves from the perpetrators so that these crimes are never silently accepted—and never repeated.