Spittle came from Schotter’s mouth. It flew to the nearest rows. “To make a long story short, before you knew it, in the entire town there were only two people left, both members of the Judenrat. Then the train pulled in once more. The one Minister says to the other, ‘You go. Otherwise it will be harder on the rest of us!’”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Only three people were laughing—Schotter himself and, with their arms linked, Fried Rievesaltes and Miss Brilliantstein, who were just starting down the aisle. Then the rest of the crowd joined the Police Chief in the joke. Wave after wave of laughter rolled up past the gleaming, quivering lozenges of the chandelier. People were holding their chests, they were wiping their eyes. One minute—with the skaters—tears; the next moment laughter. How to account for such glee? Something about the story—the deserted village, the train, the gall and scorn of the Judenrat member—must have struck them as funny. Unless it was because they were sitting in the House of Culture, in the Baluty Suburb, with jewels on, and not in the town of Stok.

Suddenly there was a gasp, then a whisper, then a general murmur. The Chairman and Madame Trumpelman were in the building! A flash lamp went off. Bing, bing—it exploded twice more. Young Krystal, as usual, was taking pictures. The couple walked into the glare. This was the first time Madame Trumpelman had appeared in public since the catastrophe of the Christmas mass. The citizens of the Balut had started to think they would not see her again. In the new cafés they had begun to play music. Yet here she was, clutching her husband’s arm with both her hands. Her veil was down, at the line of her lower lip, which was unpainted. She was as thin, in her tight, shiny gown, as a silver fork or a spoon.

The Elder wore a black cape with gold trim, and a hat just as black on his head. He was stooped and his spectacle frames had slipped down the bend of his nose. There were lines on his cheeks that made him look like a man aged one hundred. The two of them—with no Guardsmen to help, no sweepers standing by—reached the end of the aisle. Alone, they sat in the two biggest chairs.

Then the chandelier speedily rose up and up, and Schotter, with his hands in his armpits, made an announcement.

“Our show is ready to start! It’s by a world-famous author. It takes place hundreds of years ago, before there were clocks or gas lamps or engines for steam. Here we are, in a faraway land. This is a country without any Jews. A place where it’s always misty. What a fog! If you put your hand up, you can’t see your fingers! Look! It’s like smoke from a fire! Seed of Abraham, close your eyes! You have to imagine these things, the way children do!” And, taking the edge of the curtain in his hand, the master of ceremonies walked across the stage: like magic the great purple sheet parted behind him.