When the children were done, they ran off the stage to tremendous applause. People were stamping their feet on the floor. They whistled and shouted. It’s difficult to say why the skaters appealed so much to the Ghettoites. Naturally everyone knew the performance was an illusion. There wasn’t—in July, in Poland—any ice. You could see that the young men and young women were wearing regular shoes. Still, the applause got louder and louder. It would not stop. So the vocational students appeared once again. They slid forward on one foot and held the other one up behind. They leaned into the wind. This time Smolenskin was not playing a tune. The feet of the skaters went shhh-shhh over the wooden boards. In the audience no one spoke a word. The Baluters looked dazed. Perhaps it was because they were reminded of other places? Of prewar times? Perhaps it was because the pantomime was so carefree and—the bright skirts, the ruffles—so gay? The girls from the Vocational School had their hair done in braids, which swung across their faces. How red their cheeks were! It was exactly as if they were crossing the surface of a frosty pond.

Down from the rafters descended the Szapiro & Son chandelier. There was a light bulb inside it and this, with the houselights, came on. The Jews sat for a moment, staring quietly at the empty stage. Then more Jews pushed in. They came through the back doors and milled in the aisles. The men and women were wearing elegant clothes: jackets and trousers that matched and, in spite of the heat, shawls and long dresses. No one could remember seeing so many jewels, such brooches and rings. It was a stunning gala. “We want the skaters, too!” the latecomers shouted. The rest of the crowd took up the cry. “Encore! Encore!” But the skillful students did not reappear; the two halves of the big purple curtain swung shut, from either side of the stage.

It was amazing how the old warehouse for furs, briefly the House of Pleasure, had been transformed. The whole upstairs, where the skins had been stored, did not even exist. In the huge open space a balcony, and some boxes, had been constructed on poles. Underneath these, covering the entire floor, was the orchestra section. The back part was just wooden benches, but farther on there were regular seats, with cushions and armrests and, the same as in a cinema theater, bottoms that folded up. At the front were two rows of separate, upholstered chairs. That’s where the Judenrat, the bigwigs, sat. Right now, however, these places were empty. The last stragglers found their seats and twisted about, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ministers when they came in. It was becoming a long delay.

Just then a disturbance broke out overhead. From the edge of the balcony, sheets of white paper came slipping and sliding down. There were dozens and dozens of these. The first-nighters stood on their seats to catch them. Something was written on each. ONE DOESN’T PUT ON SHOWS IN A CEMETERY! That was the message on one. Another one went like this: NO DANCING ON THE GRAVES OF THE DEAD! In short, it was the Lipskyites. They wanted the Jews to boycott the House of Culture! There was a sudden silence. People were staring upward, to see where the agitators might be. Then a plumpish man with black hair parted in the middle—it was Mister Luftgas—folded one of the broadsides in half and in half again. He threw it scornfully over his shoulder.