“This is because of the resistance of Kiev! There are positive reports from the eastern front! That’s why you’re shaking hands!” said Margolies.

“No wonder he wants to be our friend. The shoe is on the other foot now!”

“Yes!” cried two or three others. “The other foot!”

Then Nomberg, still the Minister of Religious Affairs, held up his palms. “Jews of the Judenrat! What kind of talk is this? We should welcome the head of the Civilian Authority as an honored guest.”

“Please, that’s all right,” the Volksdeutscher said. His damp skin shone in the window light. He stared at the Council, member by member: waiters and musicians and actors and cooks. Yet, in their black jackets, their stiffened shirtfronts, they were dressed better than he. They laughed, they swaggered, they would not shake his hand. How could this be?

The fact was, it had been ages, a lifetime, since Philosoff had carried dishes, or an oboe had been played by Mordechai Kleen. It was in another world that Verble had begged for a living. Now the Minister of Housing decided who was to live in what house and what room. He had under him hundreds of inspectors and almost one thousand clerks, not to mention two private armies—the fumigation squads and the chimney sweeps. And every other member of the Judenrat had his own private office, his own desk and telephone. All day long Jews stood outside the House of Lords, that’s what they called the building at Dworska 20, waiting to get a food coupon from Miss Kleinweiss, or a tax receipt from Popower, the Minister of Finance now. No wonder then, that in Wohltat’s presence, they dared to light up cigars.

Kleen, presently Minister of Public Works, had not only put his hat on, but hitched his pants up by the belt. “What do you want, anyway?” he demanded. “This is an official meeting.”

“Maybe some herring,” remarked Paradyz, of Water and Power.

“Or snuff!” said Schpitalnik, holding out to the Volksdeutscher his little tin. “It makes you feel you are floating in a bath.”

“Ha! Ha!” The whole Judenrat brazenly laughed.

Schotter rocked forward on his turned-up shoes. “I just heard the following news. Horowitz has requisitioned every chair in the Ghetto.”

“I know why!” said Margolies, waving his arm like a school-child. “Because he’s tired of standing outside of Kiev!”

Wohltat turned to Dorka Kleinweiss, the Minister of Provisions and Supply. “I will tell you why I have interrupted your meeting. I need one hundred Jews. It’s for a farming project. Light work. In the open air. There will be meat to eat, and vegetables and dairy products. All the Jewish Council must do is draw up a list of names. Old people, Madame Minister. Or young people. Or healthy or sick. It is completely up to you to decide. Each Jew is allowed to make up a bundle of twenty kilos. They must be at the Radogodsh Station tomorrow at noon.”

The former cellist changed color. It was as if someone had drawn a green shade over her face. “They want a hundred Jews!” she screamed.