Stephen Shooster in the adult blocks, you may do so, after the last meal of the day or on Sunday.” I thought, ‘Sunday? A day off from slave labor?’ Then, he gave me a little soup to eat and allowed me to get used to the barracks. I idled the rest of the afternoon walk- ing around the grounds testing out my new shoes. They were not really new, but that didn’t matter, they were new to me. I cleaned them with a soft rag. At the same time, I thought, ‘I am never taking them off.’ As I cleaned them, I could not help but remember Dr. Ameisen lying on the ground with those nice shoes, or cleaning Goth’s bloody boots in Tarnow on that terrible day of the liquidation. In the early evening, the rest of the young men filed into the barracks. Looking around, I saw my peers, other teenagers. The youngest was about 15 and, I guess, I was one of the oldest, at 17. They were a well-groomed, friendly bunch, repre- senting nationalities from all over Europe, including Holland, France, Hungary, Greece, and Poland. Each nationality stayed together and spoke their own language among themselves. To communicate between the nationalities, we spoke German. Everyone needed to at least understand German or suffer the abuse of the guards. Many of them could speak Yiddish, but none was spoken. No one went out of their way to look for trouble. We all had the same uniform, including the little yellow star. I don’t know why, but in July 1944, five or six months after my arrival, the yellow star was changed to a red triangle with a thin yellow horizontal stripe on top. All of the boys’ voices were quiet, even subservient. I know the reason for this well. It comes from years of abuse, and the deep sense of loss brought on by being displaced and incarcerated. We were always in fear of reprisals. As young Jews, each of us carried the heavy burden of friends and families displaced or destroyed. Over the next few months, I heard the same story over and over by each of them. I had plenty of time to talk to the kids in my barracks. Our conversations were about the fates of our families and where we came from. We talked about our jobs in the factory. We also spoke about when there would be another air raid alarm, and our biggest fear, rumors that they might liquidate the camp and send us all back to Birkenau. The best thing we could do to survive was to just stay healthy and keep working, the rest would be God’s will. Everyone knew their personal health was paramount. Once admitted to the infirmary, the chance of survival would plummet. Selections were frequent. The sick had no use in the factory, and the SS had plenty of fresh labor to replace them. They needed little excuse to make room for fresh labor. I believe the Nazis would only get paid if the worker worked. There were no selections in the barracks like at Birkenau. The selection occurred in the infirmary, at least as far as I knew. I am not aware of a single survivor that was shipped back
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