Stephen Shooster Upon hearing this, the good fellow brought me to the back of his carriage and showed me a little bread and a little butter. Sharing this bread with me at the time was one of the kindest acts a man could do for another, and we became friends, or rather ghetto employee and employer. Sol Westrich, the owner of the horse and carriage, was a tailor before the war. His father had owned the horses and carriages near the mikvah (bathhouse), but now his father was gone, deported. In fact, Sol’s, whole family was deported, and I don’t think any survived, including Sol. But at that moment, Sol (27), was the head of his family with a brother and sister, and horses and carriages to care for. When Moshe came to Tarnow, the three of them were still living at the family house and still trying to care for each other as well as the horses. But this was a big stable, and they needed help. The timing was perfect. Sol asked me where I slept last night. I told him, “I was working at a road camp not far from here when I was arrested for being Jewish and herded with about 400 other Jews onto a train that took us to Tarnow. When I got here, the Ordnungsdienst took me to a home of a widow and her child with over ten other displaced men and, even though the home offered a little protection from the elements, it was so overcrowded the woman tried to chase us all out, and that last night I slept on the stairs. Sol could see right through me as I added with a smile that I preferred to see the stars. Sol was not shocked by anything I was saying. Living in Tarnow, he must have seen so many bad things happen in the ghetto that this was just another one. For me, it was more important that he asked anything. Luckily, when I was done, Sol said, “You can sleep in the stables if you want.” Upon hearing this, my eyes brightened, and I readily agreed. That night I slept in luxury. The horse stable was like a hotel to me. There was plenty of room, and straw for a blanket, plus the horses were good company, and the rich odor of the manure did not bother me in the least. Before long, I was driving the carriage I cleaned, and my customers would be the feared Gestapo or the local Judenrat. No one paid for my services, but now I had a little freedom and a way to get around. When the Gestapo wanted service, The Jewish Police would come to the stable and give the order to the next driver in line. I remember one morning a policeman stood in front of me and said, “You need to go to Urszulanka 22, Gestapo headquarters.” It was located outside of the ghetto in the town of Tarnow. This is the first time I met two characters in fancy black jackboots: Kastura and Grunov. I took them to a local restau- rant and bar as they instructed. I was always subservient to their requests. I expected
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