Deportation

In the first week of January 1940, an order from the “Emigration Office” on Argentinierstraße arrived at our home. We were to report to the relocation camp at Sperlschule by January 12, bringing no more than 20 kilograms of luggage, including two blankets. Furthermore, we were instructed to lock our apartments and bring the keys with us.

We knew from the press about Hitler’s order to make Vienna “Jewfree” as soon as possible. Rumors spread rapidly, claiming that Jews were now being gathered into designated ghettos. The daily harassment—both small and large—the hostility of much of the population, incited by vicious propaganda, and the open display of their disdain were all part of a calculated effort to make this “relocation” seem more acceptable to us. But who among us had the imagination to foresee what was truly coming? We knew of the horrific conditions in the concentration camps, of the sadistic torment inflicted by individual guards, and even of the cruelty of mobs during so-called “people’s uprisings,” which we had experienced firsthand.

Yet, we knew nothing of the perfectly orchestrated machinery of murder—of gas chambers, of mass executions! Who could have believed that the nation of poets and thinkers, the great German cultural nation, was capable of such things? During World War I, reports of German atrocities spread through the world press, but most Central Europeans dismissed them as mere propaganda. We ignored every warning from well-meaning neutrals, even from emigrants who had found refuge abroad, simply because we could not believe such things were possible. Even when faced with undeniable evidence, we downplayed events as wartime excesses. After all, we considered ourselves German citizens, not enemy aliens. We spoke the same language, had the same education, and saw ourselves as part of the same culture.

Despite the discrimination we faced because of our ancestry, we were a peaceful group who wanted nothing more than to be left alone. That is why we offered no resistance. The accusations from younger generations of Israeli Jews, who ask why we did not fight back, are misplaced. Most of the youth who might have resisted had already emigrated.

There were no signs of resistance among us, nothing that would have required harsh suppression. Yet, the authorities acted as though they feared us. We could not understand any of it.

I leave it to historians to explain the extent to which internal political difficulties or other factors led to these events. We, the victims, followed orders almost without protest, shaken by the indifference of other nations. Nowhere was there any willingness to accept the unfortunate refugees; everywhere, bureaucratic hurdles and insurmountable obstacles blocked the way. Humanity seemed to have vanished. Only those with financial means had any chance of emigrating. Large and small countries alike failed us. If one compares this with how Austria—still under Four-Power occupation—opened its borders after the Hungarian uprising of 1956, without asking whether the refugees had money or possessions, the contrast is staggering. A wave of global solidarity and aid followed in that case.

But from 1938 to 1945, there was a collapse of humanity on an unimaginable scale. That is the true reason we, leaderless and desperate, walked toward our doom. We felt betrayed and abandoned by the entire world.

At the school on Große Sperlgasse (the counterpart to the school on Castellezgasse), those who had been summoned gathered—mostly elderly couples carrying only their most essential belongings, as only kilograms of luggage was permitted. However, very few adhered to this limit. How could they? A bit of bedding and clothing, some cooking utensils, cherished personal items, and the required two blankets—20 kilograms were simply not enough. Their luggage resembled that of Russian Jewish petty bourgeoisie fleeing pogroms in earlier times. It was a sorrowful sight.

The school was under the control of the infamous SS Untersturmführer Brunner II. He was assisted by a Jewish orderly service, tasked with rounding up those who were late and assigning arrivals to empty classrooms. For more than three days, we had to endure the barren rooms as best we could. We slept on the floor, using one blanket as a mattress, our backpacks as pillows, and the second blanket for warmth. A kind of stew was distributed from a communal kitchen for lunch and dinner, along with bread from a school storeroom.

The heartbreak and despair that unfolded during those days are beyond description. I can only offer glimpses to help convey the reality. Elderly, frail couples leaned on one another for support. Individuals arrived alone. Families with children—mostly adults over fifty—gathered in silence. Young people were few. Fear was etched into every face. Everyone looked like hunted prey. Every conversation revolved around personal tragedies—each story a novel of human suffering. It was overwhelming to witness so much misery, fear, and helplessness crammed into such a confined space. The air was thick with sorrow, a crushing sense of despair that stripped away all will to resist.

As many as forty people were packed into a single classroom. Living in such close quarters, with people of different backgrounds and temperaments, bred hysteria. Petty matters that would have been ignored in normal times erupted into heated arguments, leading to hostility and incomprehensible hatred—even though we were all fellow sufferers, bound by the same fate.

For me, these events had an unexpected effect. Always trying to mediate in disputes, I found myself shaken out of my own despair and apathy. It was as if I had been given a stimulant, jolting me into action.

I forgot my own fate and began helping others. Wherever there was need, I stepped in. I assisted the elderly in setting up their sleeping areas, tidied during the day, made room for new arrivals, comforted the desperate, and handed out medicine to the sick. My efforts were noticed, and I was soon approached by Commander Brunner with a question that troubled me deeply—whether I wanted to stay behind until all deportations from Vienna were completed. Given my attachment to the city and the uncertainty of what lay ahead, it was a tempting offer. But witnessing the daily horrors of our situation, I rejected it. I longed for the “relocation” to its supposed destination—a place in occupied Poland that promised work and rest.

On the evening of January 15, 1941, we were called up one by one. Beforehand, we were ordered to surrender all valuables, especially money. Hiding anything, we were warned, would have “terrible consequences,” even the death penalty. We had to sign a document—one we were not even allowed to read. A brief, discreet glance revealed that we were signing over all our possessions, including our abandoned homes, to the German Reich. It was outright theft. Money and jewelry were tossed into a drawer without receipts, and we were each given twenty Polish zlotys as “travel money.”

This moment shattered us. We stared at each other in silent shock, unable to speak.

At four in the morning, we were herded into waiting trucks and driven to the Aspang Railway Station. There, we joined another group from the Castellezgasse school and were loaded into old, decommissioned passenger train cars. The Jewish Community provided us with food parcels, and then the train departed. Almost everyone wept. Yet, in our compartment, an air of forced optimism took hold. My wife and I were traveling with the Birnbach family—he was a pharmacist from Praterstraße, with two daughters aged fifteen and sixteen. Slowly, the mood shifted toward hopeful denial. I even exclaimed as we passed the Ferris wheel: “We’ll see each other again, even if it takes a while!”

The journey was slow, with few stops, moving at the pace of a freight train.

At Oderberg, during a longer stop, I went to fetch water. Upon my return, the Birnbach daughters greeted me with laughter. A policeman nearby muttered: “You’ll lose that laughter soon enough!” Did he already know our fate?

After more than forty hours, we arrived late at night in Nalęczów, where we were to transfer to another train bound for Opole. As we disembarked, German police and local collaborators beat us with whips. The sick and elderly, burdened by their luggage, fled from the blows in terror.

Even in the bitter cold, we were grateful to survive the journey. But this was only the beginning.