Stephen Shooster months, and forced to watch all kinds of debased behaviors. I could not cry, my tears dried up. I could hardly think about anything other than finding the horse. Moshe was equally distraught and disheveled. Neither of us, however, was unnerved; we were instead numb in the deepest sense of the word. As I looked for the horse, I saw other ghetto workers. Some were still picking up furniture house-to-house and placing it in a big truck. Eli Sommer, who I met after the war, was among them. He confirmed that the truck was going to bring the Jewish property to Germany. Others, like me, were cleaning up bodies and debris. The ghetto was empty but for we few workers and the Gestapo. I saw old clothing strewn all over the place. It wasn’t difficult to find some that fit me. I quickly changed clothing. Then, as directed, Moshe and I reported with the horse to the deportation area where Com- mandant Blache was waiting for us just as he said he would. Looking back, I realize how hard it is for me to weigh the fact that by shipping us off he was saving our lives at least for the time being. As we prepared to leave Tarnow, he said, “You cannot stay here. They will shoot you. Here is a letter of recommenda- tion. You are to take this with these two Ukrainian guards and the horse. They will take you to a work camp. I know the Kommandant there. He will take care of you.” Maciek stood as the Kommandant finished, his long tail flowing in the breeze. I don’t know how animals process the misery that I saw that day, but at that moment he was my ticket to another day of life. And leaving here I thought it could not get any worse. How wrong I was. Before parting, Blache touched the nose of Maciek and wished him, “Auf Wieder- sehen.” I know he was talking to the horse, but I am sure he meant all of us. As he turned away, we were quickly loaded onto a cattle car with Maciek. Once onboard, we traveled about 60 miles to Szebnie (Sheb-Knee-ah), a combined horse stable and concentration camp. This is how Moshe Blauner and I both got out of Tarnow alive. I have never returned to Tarnow, nor did I ever see Blache again. I passed by years later, but the thought of returning sickens me to this day. It is hard to think I may have to thank Blache for my life, knowing, after the war, that according to the courts he was a cold-blooded mass murderer. For years I have tried to come to terms with why he would have put himself at risk to save us.
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