Faulhaber turned to the boy who was closest, the one with the thick milky glasses. He had a mole, a birthmark, under his eye. “I know you! You are from the Hatters’ Asylum!”

“We know you, too, Mister Faulhaber. A monopolist exploiter. A Yankee boss!”

That speaker, with his wide forehead, the narrow, indented chin, was also familiar. “Is your name Szypper?” Faulhaber asked.

The third lad spoke for his companion. “Yes, it’s Comrade Szypper. And I am Comrade Einhorn. Although there remain ideological differences between us, the time has come to forge a popular front. Together the democracies shall crush the fascist forces. Those are the words of the Man of Steel!”

The other two boys simultaneously shouted, “Death to the jackal!”

Then silence. Faulhaber became aware that a fourth boy was also sitting in the room. He still had his stocking on, and his featureless head kept falling onto his chest or his shoulder. Then Faulhaber saw the rope that bound his feet together and the rope that tied him to his chair.

Julius Szypper started speaking. “I have subjected my earlier remark, about the Yankee exploiter, to self-criticism. Of course America will now enter the war. We shall be allies. You must insist to your government that they open a second front. To relieve the pressure on Moscow.”

“Meanwhile,” Einhorn put in, “you will contribute your American dollars to the Edmund Trilling Brigade.”

Faulhaber felt as if a school of fish were swimming in his inner parts. “What American dollars?”

Nachman Kipnis: “Our agents have discovered the nature of your mission to the Balut. We know you have brought secret funds from American Jewish organizations. But neither you nor they know where that money goes. Into the tyrant’s pocket! It pays the salaries of the policemen you saw tonight!”

“We are not obliged to make explanations!” said Szypper. “At this moment Leningrad is under siege. I know where he’s hidden the money.” The boy dropped to his knee and with great cunning pulled off Faulhaber’s right shoe. It was full of green dollars.

“Aha!” shouted Einhorn. “I thought I saw him limp!”

“Bandits!” cried Faulhaber, his argyle sock showing. “Thieves!”

“How much?” Kipnis asked.

“Ten thousand! All cash!”

Szypper and Kipnis childishly cackled. “Quack! Quack!” said the former. “What a fat duck!”

But Einhorn’s face was grave. “Do not call us bandits,” he said to the courier. “Every penny shall be accounted for. The Edmund Trilling Brigade is a commando force, an advance unit of the Red Army. Five thousand dollars will be used to buy weapons from the Poles. The other five thousand will go into the ransom fund. In case our comrades are caught.”

“But the money was specifically for medicine! For food! Why do you need guns? Do you think you can attack the Occupying Power?”

“That time will come,” Einhorn replied. “For now, we have different targets. Nodelman, Turski, the rest of the police command. Including Rievesaltes himself. Warnings have been sent to profiteers in the Ghetto. They’ll be eliminated, too. Next come the traitors on the Judenrat. We shall execute them one by one.”