Homecoming

We stayed in Częstochowa for a few more days, surviving on the camp’s supplies, which were now being distributed in a somewhat organized manner by a newly formed committee. The inactivity, the rumbling of the Stalin organs (rocket launchers), and the fear that we might fall back into the hands of the Germans drove me to leave the camp. My destination was Kraków, in the already liberated Polish hinterland. The odyssey of the eight-day, 128-kilometer march that I undertook with my wife is impossible to describe in its entirety, with all its hardships and dangers, so I will limit myself to the most striking episodes.

It must have been January 23rd when I set out, carrying three loaves of bread and two kilograms of soap from the factory warehouse. Due to the severe frost—about minus twenty degrees—my mother-in-law and child remained in the camp. In Kraków, I hoped to secure an apartment through the JUS (Jewish Support Office), from which I had previously received medical supplies for the Dęblin camp and which I still believed to exist. We lacked proper outer clothing. Instead of a coat, I wore a heavy scarf and a blanket; my wife wore a light coat with a camp blanket over it, made of a mixture of cotton and paper fibers, which provided little warmth. The strong wind whipped our faces, and our breath turned into tiny ice crystals the moment it left our mouths. Nevertheless, our spirits were not low. With every step, with every kilometer, we knew we were escaping the place of our captivity.

Since I did not speak Polish and speaking German was unwise, I memorized a few sentences in Russian to respond to the Russian patrols that appeared frequently. I always stated that I was a Jewish concentration camp prisoner to avoid trouble. When trucks carrying Russian soldiers stopped, I never dared to ask for a ride—partly because of my wife, who only spoke German, and partly because I sensed that my Jewish identity did not make me particularly welcome. Every time I used the Russian word for Jew, “Jiwree,” during an inspection, the initially friendly faces visibly darkened. This made me cautious, and I tried to avoid encounters altogether.

After about twenty kilometers of walking, we reached a small village in the evening. I went to the village elder, the “Wójt,” and asked for a place to stay. He sent us to a widow with a young daughter, who offered my wife and me a shared bed in the kitchen. The exceptionally warm welcome quickly made us forget the day’s hardships. We were immediately offered hot tea and given fragrant pork lard. After washing ourselves in warm water, we slept in a soft bed for the first time in nearly four years. We woke up rested the next morning, were given warm milk, and, in gratitude for their hospitality, gave them two bars of soap, which they lacked.

At our heartfelt farewell—the two women spoke German—they warned us about the AK (Armia Krajowa), the Polish national underground army, which killed Jews as bloodthirstily as the SS did. I later learned how justified this warning was. Many of my fellow prisoners from Dęblin fell victim to this murderous gang after liberation. To avoid them, we steered clear of industrial towns and instead followed the main road to Będzin. We had been told that the AK avoided highways because they feared Red Army patrols.

At nightfall, after a bitterly cold day with nothing but dry bread in our stomachs, we saw a lone farmhouse by the roadside. Despite a loudly barking giant dog, I bravely knocked on the door and asked the farmer for shelter for the night. After questioning us about where we came from and where we were going, he let us in and prepared a straw bed for us in the entrance hall. We also saw his wife, who, like him, was rather gruff and unfriendly. It was clear that we were not welcome, and only the grim cold kept them from turning us away. Exhausted, we sank into the straw and covered ourselves with our blankets. Soon, we fell into a restless sleep, from which I was awakened around midnight by strange noises.

When I opened my eyes, I was paralyzed with fear. The farmer entered the room with a long knife in his hand, followed by his wife carrying a bucket of boiling water. I gave my wife a rough nudge, convinced that they were about to kill us. I quickly wrapped my hand in the blanket, ready to defend ourselves, determined to sell our lives as dearly as possible. But my fighting resolve turned into a sigh of relief when the farmer explained that we could go back to sleep—he was on his way to the barn because a cow was giving birth. I followed him to the barn to see for myself but left soon after, not wanting to witness the birth.

In the morning, we were given milk and received two loaves of fresh bread and canned sausage from a traveling Red Army field bakery. After another exhausting march, we reached the town of Będzin, where we met other liberated Jews who welcomed us warmly. We were served a hearty stew with plenty of meat and noodles, tea, and had a long conversation about the past.

Our host’s family had spent three years hiding in an underground dugout in the forest. They had survived only with the help of Polish villagers who, in exchange for large sums of gold, provided them with food. Their life in a concealed forest trench was so full of danger that our time in the camp seemed almost bearable in comparison to their suffering. For days without sunlight, packed tightly in a tiny space filled with the stench of their own waste, without any real way to clean themselves—and this for years...

We stayed in Będzin for three days, as our hosts insisted we wait until the biting cold subsided. The four-person family lived in just one room and a small shop, simply furnished. Despite their own hardships, they took us in, fed us, and even gave us provisions for our journey—a true example of selflessness, especially considering that they had spent years isolated from the world, completely at the mercy of their greedy helpers.

Strengthened and rested, we set off again. The harsh frost had eased slightly, and the winter sun shone in a clear sky. That day, we covered more than thirty kilometers. The cold, the worry about our relatives still in Częstochowa, and the determination to escape the war zone drove us forward.

By evening, we reached a suburb of Kraków. At the entrance to the town, there was a Russian checkpoint. I was separated from my wife and brought before an officer, who interrogated me for two hours. They searched me and my belongings thoroughly and asked me the most absurd questions in German. At the end, the officer gave an order I did not understand, and I was placed in a small, windowless room where I had to spend the night alone.

In that prison, the most terrible thoughts ran through my mind—deportation to the Russian hinterland, even execution. I suspected a trap in the interrogation conducted in German, and only my often-emphasized social democratic background gave me hope. The highly intelligent Russian officer had asked me many questions about Marxism, but his inscrutable expression gave me no clue as to whether my knowledgeable answers had impressed him. My ignorance of military matters, such as the condition and morale of the German army, surely did not hurt me either.

The next morning, they brought me tea, bread, and jam, and soon after, I was led into a large common room—where my wife was waiting. We embraced, tears in our eyes, and left the command post with a Russian-issued travel permit. My wife had spent the night in the common room with about thirty people of both sexes. Unable to understand anyone due to the language barrier, she had spent the night in deep anxiety over my fate.

The fortunate outcome of this intermezzo quickened our steps, and by around one o’clock in the afternoon, we had completed the ten-kilometer journey into the city center. We stood in front of the JUS building. There were no signs outside indicating an office, which surprised me greatly, as I had imagined a large organization. After all, the Jewish Relief Agency was listed under the protection of the International Red Cross in Geneva on its letterhead and was responsible for distributing medication, Ovomaltine, Vigantol, powdered milk, and bandages to Jews in SS camps.

In the courtyard, I discovered a warehouse with a tiny office, apparently looted, as only empty crates and packaging remained. My optimism plummeted to zero, and I reproached myself severely for having subjected my wife and myself to such hardships in pursuit of a mere illusion. The disappointment was immense. Unable to make any further decisions and as it was already getting dark, I asked the janitor who had accompanied me through the warehouse for permission to spend the night in the office. He had referred me to the city’s social welfare office, where I intended to try my luck the next day.

He provided us with some hot tea, and we choked down liverwurst and dry bread as a meager supper in a rather dejected mood. In the dirty, unheated room, covered with coarse blankets and plenty of packing paper, we spent the night, dozing off occasionally, and were relieved when morning finally came.

The local relief committee did, in fact, assign us a well-furnished apartment that had been vacated by the Germans, already inhabited by fellow sufferers. We were given a room to ourselves, along with money, medication for my wife, and ample food, allowing us to spend the next few days without much worry. Unfortunately, my wife’s worsening illness made hospitalization necessary. We had to go to Katowice, as it was the only place where hospitals were still operational. Clinging to the footboard of an overcrowded tram, we made our way there. Everywhere I pleaded for help for my feverish wife, but I was turned away.

In utter despair, I approached a Catholic priest whom I recognized by his cassock and asked for advice. My account seemed to shake him, as he gave me tips that initially seemed implausible but later proved extremely useful. He advised me to go to the Russian guard in Bogucice, a suburb, and, accompanied by soldiers, demand my wife’s admission to a hospital run by nuns, as she would likely be turned away otherwise. For myself, he suggested that I claim to have a Christian parent and register at a Caritas camp, where I could wait out the war in relative safety in exchange for a little work.

I owe a great deal to this man, who seemed like a saving angel. Everything he suggested worked. A fearsome-looking Russian soldier with a machine gun slung over his shoulder accompanied me to the hospital, and the admitting doctor did not dare refuse us. After diagnosing my wife with a fever of 40.1°C, she was given a bath and taken to a hospital room. The scene on the staircase was heart-wrenching when my wife cried out in despair, “This is my end. I will not leave here alive!” My words of comfort were met with disbelief. I, too, had little hope, as the doctor told me that only good nutrition and air with less coal dust than that in Katowice could help her.

Relieved that my wife was now safely in a hospital bed, I went to Caritas, where I received clean shelter in an emergency barracks and sufficient food. My willingness to help soon caught the attention of the nuns in charge. They listened to my story and soon offered me a job as a kitchen helper for decent pay. I accepted immediately, as I wanted to work—not only to distract myself from my worries but also because my thoughts were constantly filled with fear for my wife, my motherin-law, and my child, who had remained in Częstochowa. The sparse information I received about them did little to ease my concern. Since I was stuck in Katowice, I asked a Polish acquaintance to inquire about their whereabouts. The news he brought was devastating.

A fire, apparently caused by overheating, had broken out in a barracks, and my mother-in-law had suffered a heart attack and was buried in the Częstochowa cemetery. Our orphaned daughter, Ruthi, had been taken to Łódź by a fellow inmate from Dęblin. Later, I managed to track down her address and brought her to me in Katowice.

My wife remained in the hospital for four weeks, but the time passed quickly, and I was able to speed up her recovery with vitamins. As a surprise, I had arranged for a private lodging with a Volksdeutscher, a favor from the kind-hearted nuns. It was just a small furnished room with a single window, but to us, it felt like a palace. It had a small iron stove that we fueled with coal from the mines, creating a cozy warmth that made us feel at home. Best of all, after many hardships, we were reunited with Ruthi.

The only cloud over our joy was my wife’s occasional severe asthma attacks, which we managed to alleviate with Asthmolsin injections. I soon learned how to administer them myself.

Around May 1, 1945, we read in the Polish newspapers that the Red Army was advancing and that Vienna was already free. Our longing to return home grew immense, especially after seeing an old Viennese film in a cinema a few days earlier. The sight of the Ringstraße, the Parliament, and City Hall moved us so deeply that tears streamed down our faces. We resolved to leave, despite our relatively comfortable life and the dangers we anticipated. It was no small undertaking, given the widespread insecurity.

One was at the mercy of marauding occupation soldiers, and even the newly formed Polish militia was no guarantee of safety. But our yearning for Vienna overcame all doubts. On the morning of May 1, we went to Katowice station to find a way to depart. The direct route via Oderberg-Prerau-Lundenburg was impossible, as German troops were still fighting in the Ostrava coal region, cutting off the route. Moreover, I wanted to avoid combat zones. Our only option was a long detour through free Slovakia via Krosno-Debrecen-Budapest-Bratislava.

We boarded a coal freight train despite the prohibition and traveled undisturbed until late evening. We spent the night in a small station’s waiting room and caught another freight train in the morning. During the journey, we witnessed a Hungarian soldier, a former German ally, being identified and summarily executed by Russian soldiers. They threw his body off the train without hesitation. We watched in horror, reflecting on how little a human life was worth in those times. Even he had a right to a trial.

Later, we were forced off the train ourselves but managed to board another soon after, arriving in Krosno on the Polish-Slovak border. There, a Jewish committee assigned us money and accommodation with a Jewish couple. However, my wife fell seriously ill again, suffering severe asthma attacks due to a bad cold. The doctor forbade further travel, and I often had to administer injections to relieve her breathing difficulties. It was a hard time, but with the help of kind people, we got through it.

Once she recovered, my wife insisted we continue our journey home as soon as possible. Luck was on our side. A Red Cross train carrying sick concentration camp survivors was about to depart for Debrecen. Without hesitation, I gathered our few belongings and jumped onto the already moving train at the last moment.

After a series of hardships, we finally crossed a pontoon bridge over the Danube and stepped onto Austrian soil. A Russian truck brought us to the Urania in Vienna’s first district. Our odyssey had ended. Despite the destruction in Vienna, our hearts were light.

A chapter of our lives, written in blood and tears, had finally closed.