Częstochowa

Late in the evening of July 25, we arrived in Częstochowa. Rademacher called the Warthewerk, our future place of stay, and was informed that we would be picked up the next day. We spent the night restlessly in the wagons. In the morning, the detached freight cars were moved from the sidings to the factory premises.

The sight of the electrified factory fence, the high watchtowers, and the heavily armed factory guards at the gate gave us a foreboding of a grim fate. We could see little more through the narrow gaps in the doors. When the train stopped, the wagon doors were flung open from the outside with shouting, and we were met by a crowd of factory guards in green uniforms. Some aimed submachine guns at us, while others lashed out wildly with whips, driving us out of the wagons.

We had no illusions about arriving in good conditions, but none of us had expected it to be this bad. Despair overtook us. I was accused of lacking the courage to make a better decision in Dęblin, and some claimed they could already smell gas when they saw the tall factory chimneys spewing thick smoke. To make matters worse, our children were separated from us. We had to put down our luggage and assemble for roll call in the vast factory courtyard, separated into men and women.

Sergeant Rademacher and his accompanying soldiers stood indifferently to the side, as if they had nothing to do with us. Our hope of be-

ing under the Wehrmacht’s protection was shattered. A deep sorrow overcame me, and I feared as never before for the fate of my comrades and, above all, for my family. Up until now, even in the most hopeless situations, I had always kept my head up, always found some glimmer of hope. But this time, I truly believed our end had come.

To the side, the heavily guarded children were crying and calling out for their parents. Being separated from Ruthi, my mother-in-law, and my wife—without knowing what would become of them or of myself—was a crushing blow. No wonder I doubted myself. Had I been right to trust Wolfram’s assurances? These were moments of utter despair.

For over half an hour, we stood in formation, surrounded by factory guards who watched us grimly and menacingly, their submachine guns at the ready. Their ominous looks were so oppressive that we could only stare in silence at the children standing to the side. The wait for the factory security chief lasted only half an hour, but under such psychological strain, it felt like an eternity. We were so consumed by fear that we forgot to express any pain or make a single sound.

Finally, the awaited man arrived, accompanied by his deputy, Keutsch, and some factory guards. Since he wore a dark uniform resembling that of the SS, I did not immediately recognize him. It was only when he called out loudly, “Where is Wenkart?” and ordered me to step forward that I realized it was Bartenschlager—the very same Bartenschlager who had interrogated me in the camp about the prisoners, assessing their suitability for labor. His personal address snapped me out of my lethargy, and I regained some courage. My innate optimism gave me hope once more.

Snapping to attention, as I had done in Dęblin, I reported my name and the arrival of the Dęblin camp members. Without waiting for a reaction, I immediately said, “Herr Factory Security Chief, we have the word of honor of a German officer and a written document guaranteeing our protection. I hope the word of a colonel still holds and that nothing will happen to our children.” Thankfully, he did not interrupt me. Only after I finished speaking did he ask, “Where is this letter?” “Our transport leader, Rademacher, has it,” I answered immediately. Rademacher was summoned and handed the letter to Bartenschlager. He tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and read it—once, then again—shaking his head as we anxiously watched his face, awaiting his decision. I did not know what was written in the letter, so I was very surprised when Bartenschlager, after reading it, asked, “Wenkart, is your child among them? You can have yours, but the others must leave the camp.”

I protested, “Herr Factory Security Chief, this is not about my child. Either all or none! But if you do not return our children, then shoot me right now, because I was a fool to trust the word of a German officer.”

I saw that my words had an effect. Around me, unrest spread, and it seemed the guards were just waiting for an order to punish me for my audacity. Bartenschlager turned away without a word and ordered his deputy to take the men and then the women to their quarters. The children were to be housed separately outside the camp. No final decision was made about their fate.

Dejected, we followed our guards to our factory quarters. The only glimmer of hope in our bleak situation was that we knew our children were housed in a wooden hut outside the camp, surrounded by a garden. We could see them playing, and even exchange calls with them. One remark from Ruthi, who was not even six years old at the time, has stayed with me because it shows how serious-minded she was: “They wanted to give us tea, but we didn’t drink it—it could be poisoned!” What must have been going on in the minds of such children to have thoughts like that?

The effects of the separation varied. Some of the affected parents wailed loudly, while most were in a state of despair so deep it was almost manic. These desperate ones turned on me, spurred on by members of the first transport, who had also had their children taken away. Nothing was known about the fate of the sixteen children from that group, and they heaped unimaginable abuse on me. I endured it all without the slightest feeling of guilt.

Those were two bitter days for me. While I understood the parents’ anguish, their baseless accusations and foul insults wounded me deeply.

On the third day, as if by a miracle, the children were returned to us in the camp. The factory security chief’s wife was about to give birth, and the attending midwife had urged her to intervene so that the Jewish children would be returned to their parents.

I will never forget that day as long as I live. If my faith had ever wavered, this event made me believe again. Not only did the children’s return spark joy throughout the camp, but it also brought me personal relief.

Bartenschlager himself later told Jolles, the camp elder—loud enough for many to hear—“Only Wenkart’s intervention made me decide to let the children return to the camp.”

I do not believe that. More likely, his concern for his own newborn played a role. But I am certain that my actions helped ensure that the children were not taken away on the very day of our arrival, as had happened with the first transport.