“We’ve heard all that before,” he said.

True, true. Everything that Lipiczany announced at the midnight mass—the forest, the bus trip, the naked Baluters on the dried-up riverbed—all this had been printed on paper and dropped from building tops. The same documents showed up beneath people’s doorways and on the benches of the spinning mills. The big presser, a member of the Edmund Trilling Brigade, walked all over the Suburb, carrying a leather suitcase. It was so heavy he had to keep setting it down. When he picked it up again a slogan was cleverly stenciled on the ground: DEPORTATION=DEATH, for instance, or DON’T GO LIKE SHEEP TO THE SLAUGHTER! The Ghettoites could not say they hadn’t been warned.

Still and all, they didn’t believe it. Everyone maintained that the only eyewitness was little more than a child. It was possible he had dreamed up, or misunderstood, the entire scene. And even if he had reported everything accurately, that didn’t mean that all the deportees were subject to the same measures as those on that particular train. Besides, what if—just for the sake of argument, to take the devil’s part—what if it were true that all the Jews were being killed, what were they, the Baluters, supposed to do? Fight back against tanks and airplanes and machines for flames? One might as well put the warnings out of one’s mind. There were cafés to go to. Casinos sprang up. And above all, this great event: the grand premiere of the House of Culture. Eat, drink, and be merry, that’s what people wanted. Ladies and gentlemen, wouldn’t you?

Meanwhile, on Assisi Street, someone was standing at the lip of the stage. It wasn’t a Bolshevik, not a pamphleteer. It was—in a tux, in a top hat—the master of ceremonies. The crowd clapped rhythmically, impatiently. They wanted to see the show.

“Look,” Schotter cried. “It’s Baggelman! And Urinstein! Also Verble and Mordechai Kleen!”

The audience turned around. In a bunch, in the doorway, were the members of the Jewish Council. They were dressed in special frock coats and polished shoes. All the big rabbis—Nomberg, naturally, and the Descendant, Wolf-Kitzes, Trunk of the Devout Butchers—were standing there, too. With Margolies in front, the officials walked toward the front of the room. Nobody cheered. But there weren’t any catcalls, either. The procession went slowly, only as fast as Philosoff, using two canes, could shuffle. While they took their seats, the plush ones, Schotter spoke.

“Distinguished Ministers! Fellow Baluters! Did you hear what happened in the town of Stok? That’s far from here, over the mountains, and the whole place has only eight or ten thousand Jews. It’s not like our town at all.” The master of ceremonies was rocking on his turned up shoes. Many of his teeth had fallen out of his gums.

“In Stok, like everywhere, they had a Jewish Council. It had a Minister of Housing and a Minister of Public Health, and all the rest. Yes, even a Minister of Water and Power, like our friend, Paradyz. One day—in this respect, it’s true, their town resembles our own—the Others ordered the Judenrat to make a list of one hundred Jews. If the Council refused to do it, the Lords and Masters would snatch up a thousand on their own. Of course there was a big discussion. Some members would not put down even a single name. But a different faction won out. They said, We are rescuing nine hundred Jews. The problem was, the Others were not satisfied. They kept asking for more. Every time was supposed to be the last time, but it never was. Pretty soon only half the town of Stok was left, and then only a quarter. And so on.”