At the top of the bridge he took a coil of rope from his pocket. It was thin as a clothesline. His intention was to drop from the end of the rope into the avenue. From there he would make his way to the train tracks and follow them to wherever—it couldn’t be far—the engine turned around. The road below was deserted. Not a Pole. Not one of them. He tied the end of the rope to the base of the railing and threw the length down. He squeezed between the wooden supports. In the brown horsehair coat, he must have been nearly invisible. And even if someone did see him, he’d think it was only another despairing Jew. Nisel sat on the edge for a moment, clutching the rope, letting his feet, like a boy fishing, dangle down.

Then, from the south, from beyond Brzeszinska, the light of dawn appeared. It moved toward him quickly, blue-colored, and yellow and orange. Nisel pulled the visor of his cap over his tender eyes. But the light kept drawing closer, making a snapping noise. It wasn’t dawn; it was the first run of the Zgierska Boulevard No. 4 trolley. He knew that, with one part of his mind. He could see the tramcar itself, swaying and jerking past the Baluter Ring. But in the other part of his mind, the part that made him lean forward, slack-jawed, gaping, the light that raced at him along the taut cable was like a star’s. It sizzled. It shot out sparks. He thought he felt the hot blue bits of flame burn on the cloth of his coat and touch his face. Then the tip of the trolley passed under the bridge.

“There! It’s a Jew!” An Aryan somewhere was shouting.

Nisel opened his mouth, as if to let his heart fly out, and fell toward the humming wire. Something ripped his glove off and scorched the palm of his hand. At the same instant a hot tongue of flame licked across his cheek. Then the rope, which had slashed him, ran out; he dropped hard onto the roof of the tram. He lay there, with his head twisted about, looking upward. The lights parted above him, like the phosphorescent wake of a ship. It was like staring into the gleaming crystals of the Szapiro & Son chandelier. Then, while he was watching, the lights grew dim and soon faded completely. That meant he was falling unconscious, or else, behind the clouds, from a distance of billions of kilometers, the spark of the sun had lit a new day.

The No. 4 trolley, stopping and starting, rolled over its route. Poles climbed onto it. They stood in the narrow aisle and clung together at the platform in the back. By the time they reached Piotrkowska Street, there wasn’t room for another passenger. With its bell ringing, the old car ran right by the crowds who were waiting. No one, either inside the trolley or in the streets or looking down from their windows, saw the boy stretched out on the roof. At last the tram swung off Alexsandrowska into the Central Square. It made a complete circuit, right around the Rumkowsky Monument, and came to a stop. End of the line.