Stephen Shooster two Gestapo soldiers gestured abruptly for the girls to get out. Continuing with hand motions, they pointed to them to go over there; it hardly mattered where. In silence, they both pointed their guns and shots ripped the early evening. The girls fell. Still silent, the men gestured for me to come down from the coach and go with them. I thought I would be killed at that very moment. He said, “Take the boots.” I took the boots off of their now limp bodies and returned to the coach. I carefully put both pairs in a box, next to my driver’s seat. With the deadly act completed, both of their moods changed. Speaking with a sense of relief they told me, “Take us to the nightclub on Krakauer Street.” Their conversation returned to regular banter. They did not speak about what they had done, only about whom they might meet tonight at the nightclub. When we arrived, they got out of the carriage. It was as if nothing hap- pened. I asked them as innocently as possible, “What should I do with the boots?” Kastura said, “Sell them.” He knew I was making small deals on the street while I waited and did not care. They left to go inside the nightclub as I stood there dazed, a witness to multiple murders. That night, I returned to the ghetto and shared my experience with Sol and the other stable boys. They already knew about it. They said, “Those girls were killed because they were discovered to be Jewish and they had non-Jewish papers. Someone tipped off the Gestapo.” On another night, I got a job from Kastura. Upon his order, the Jewish police found me at the stable and told me to pick up a bread wagon and go to a certain place. Since the bread wagon in the ghetto was used for picking up dead bodies, I knew this could not be good. I arrived around midnight and alerted the guard that I was there to pick up the bread wagon. Then I backed up the horse and connected the wagon. As I did this, out of the shadows came two prisoners carrying a box on poles. They placed the box into the back of the wagon and left. Within the box, I saw a person and thought he was dead. Then Kastura appeared as if from nowhere and sat next to me. “Junge, go to the cemetery,” he said. It was a short ride. By this time, I had taken it many times. When we arrived, I parked next to an open grave. I had no idea who the man was in the box, and would not dare to ask. Within a few moments, a few more Gestapo arrived. They parked their Mercedes and got out of the car. As I held my horse still, workers from the cemetery took the box from the wagon. That is when I realized the person was still alive, badly beaten. I heard sharp interrogation and more beatings. Then they dropped him into an open grave, and a single shot rang. I have no idea who he was. With the evening’s work completed,
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