“One tractor,” said Wohltat, “costs forty thousand zlotys.”

“Agreed!”

“The Jewish quota is reduced to eighty-five!”

Urinstein was far from finished. “Then we shall raise eighty thousand zlotys. Am I correct when I say that makes a total of not more than seventy Jews?”

The membership became agitated. “Shhhh! For God’s sake!” some of them said.

Nomberg whispered, “Urinstein, Urinstein. We’ve done enough. We’ve saved fifteen lives!”

But to the amazement of everyone Wohltat crooked a finger in his damp collar and said, “All right. Very well. It’s a hard bargain. Seventy Jews.”

The relentless Urinstein pushed on. “By that token, a further forty thousand zlotys would bring the total to—” But before he could finish his colleagues ran to him and grabbed his arms. The bald Popower stepped on his toes. They feared he would undo the good that had been accomplished.

“To fifty-five Jews.” The coffee merchant completed Urinstein’s phrase. “If the sum you mention, the full one hundred and twenty thousand, is brought in cash, I shall make the final total exactly fifty. I cannot reduce that number by a single Jew. Do you accept, or don’t you?”

Margolies, among those there the most Jewish-looking, was the first to respond. “We definitely accept!” he cried. “The number has been cut in half!”

“We’ve saved them!”

“Yes! And at what risk to ourselves!”

“I told you,” said Rabbi Nomberg, “that this was our friend. He is practically a Jew himself.”

Minister Verble: “We thank our good friend Wohltat!”

“Yes, yes, many thanks!”

They all turned toward the Volksdeutscher. He remained where he had been, the sweat rolling off him, like rain from an awning. “But where,” he asked, “is the list?”

“The list?”

“The fifty names. Write them down. You—” He pointed to the Minister of Vital Statistics. “You with the pen. Draw up the names.”

“I am a stranger here,” Urinstein hastily said. “A Hungarian citizen. I hardly know a soul in the Ghetto. In my opinion, to choose a name, one name and not another, that is an ethical question. It has a spiritual dimension. Perhaps the Minister of Religious Affairs—?”

“But I represent only a single congregation,” Nomberg responded. “And the Italianate Synagogue has been burned down. I would need the advice of the wisest rabbis. The Pshiskher Descendant and other scholars. However, these matters also come under the jurisdiction of the Security Minister. After all, his men will have to deliver the quota. Ask Mister Rievesaltes about it.”

Rievesaltes did not have to be asked. “The Jewish police know their duty. Whoever we have to, we’ll bring to the train. But since the Jews are being sent to another country, it’s mostly the job of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, who, as the whole world knows, is Trumpelman himself. Alas, the Eldest of the Jews is not present. These days he rarely leaves his summer estate.”

“Let’s call him in!” the Judenrat ministers shouted. “We can’t act without his permission!”

“Enough! No more talking! I know this is an attempt to stall for time! I have been here already an hour! Do you know I have the right to shoot anybody I wish? That is the strain that I live with. It’s anguish!” The pudgy man was beside himself. His eyelids fluttered wildly. He blew air from his cheeks. “Watch out, Jews! Watch out! I’m changing!”