Stephen Shooster Moshe continued, “I was still hurting badly, but there was no excuse to miss roll call or work afterward. That first day after a 6-week hiatus in the hospital I was assigned one of the worst kommandos of my incarceration. Kommando 92, work- ing with a group of Gypsies who were in charge. Our job was to lift heavy bags of cement from a train and move them to where they could be used. Obviously limp- ing, I was a target to prey upon instead of someone to give just a little bit of extra care.” With tears beginning to form in his eyes thinking about that time long ago, he said, “They would beat me like schoolhouse bullies to bring them some of my meager portion of food and if I complained or did not comply, they would double the workload, forcing me to lift two bags of cement instead of one at a time. I had a huge strain on my already wounded leg, and if they were to hurt me badly enough, it would not matter for at that time my life was almost worthless they would just as well bring my bones back to camp in a wheelbarrow, as long as I could be counted and did not escape. Escape was the furthest thing from my mind at that time all I wanted to do was stop my leg from throbbing. This was a very dangerous group to be among, especially for me.” Moshe continued, “That night I attempted to re-enter the infirmary. Worried, it was almost impossible to find the male nurse that offered to help me, but with persis - tence I did. When we spoke again that night, it was like I was talking to a stranger. I begged to be readmitted, and instead, the nurse said, ‘What do you want? What do I owe you?’ Since I felt like I knew the fellow I had to assume that he was be- ing watched. This wasn’t the same good-natured, kind-hearted man that saved me. I was beside myself. I could not go back to the Gypsy kommando. I think this was one of the lowest points in my life. This may have been the one time I gave up hope. Repulsed, I slinked back to my barracks limply in the freezing cold, tired, hurting, hungry, and worn out.” “On the way back I happened upon a prisoner that I knew from Tarnow. It was Chaim! I was miserable but very pleased to see the fellow who had been deported was standing in front of me, alive. I told Chaim what happened, about the runaway train hitting my leg and the infirmary and how somehow my foot was saved and I was still walking, barely. But, alas, I told him how hopeless I felt at that moment Chiam offered me hope when I needed it the most. He said, ’Moshe, I am working with kommando 116. We know about 92, the Gypsies. We know how mean they are. My kapo is kind. He was a bookkeeper in Holland. Our foreman is German, but
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