The Horse Adjutant were scurrying around trying to move all the people to the marketplace. It was chaos. Nobody knew what was going to happen next, but everyone feared the worst. I’m sure they all thought, as bad as the ghetto was, being deported must be worse. Everyone was frantic. While this tragedy played out, I had plenty of time to realize I was not really in a wood mill, but the Singer crate factory. As I watched and waited, those assembled were loaded on trucks, and slowly the ghetto was being emptied. This was perhaps the worst thing I have ever witnessed. I do know one family that escaped: the Volkman’s. Somehow they were spared and sent with an officer named Kellerman who took them across the border to Hungary. I can only imagine there must have been some kind of payment or favor to do this. It took a while. Most of the Jews were gone. The marketplace was empty. The town was essentially without Jews. At this point, a big truck came into the square and parked. A Ukrainian driver exited the vehicle and stood nearby. In front of the truck was a spar- kling, black Mercedes car. The truck driver was ordered to collect any valuables still left in the ghetto. Just before we were released to begin the cleanup, about 50 people were flushed out of hiding places in the ghetto. Most were women with small children. They were promptly lined up and executed, some while holding their babies. As this was done, Blache and Goth stoically looked on. I could see the whole thing from my location. By this time of my young life, I had seen many deaths, but this was one of the most callous events I ever witnessed. Children in the arms of their parents dropped after loud sounds cracked the air. A single bullet would shoot through both their bodies, pools of blood formed around them as they wilted to the ground. At one point Goth became annoyed. His boots became bloody with the gore from the executions. Calling over to the Special Police guarding us, he gestured towards his boots, “Send me someone to clean my boots.” We stood frozen. This could easily be the last thing any of us ever would do. The guard turned to me and using only his finger directed me to go and help the dreaded Hauptsturmfuhrer. Reluctantly, I walked over and bent down to clean the boots of Amon Goth with my cap while the shooting con- tinued around us. As he stood arrogantly in his boots, I was shaking in my shoes. After I polished them, he looked at me and asked Commandant Blache, “Who is this boy?” At that moment I realized I did not have an armband. Again, I froze in the August heat. Blache responded in a way to distract and yet move the conversation forward, “Just leave him to clean up.” They walked away, and I returned to the limited safety of my carriage. My friends
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