Ladies and gentlemen, the Manchester of Poland is one thing, America is another. In the New World even schoolchildren know this famous drama by heart. There’s no need to dwell on details. Here is what happens next: Macbeth orders some people to kill General Banquo, and, before you know it, it’s done. All this took place in front of the curtain, a terrible thing to see. One of the killers ran at the soldier with a sword. It went into his chest, right through his armor, and came out the other side. But Flicker did not fall down. He staggered toward his assassin, who, in terror, let go the weapon. Then a second killer stabbed him in the throat with a dagger. Bright-colored blood came out of the general’s mouth. Yet, amazingly, even with the sword blade still running through him, he stood his ground. That’s when a third murderer, in a cloak, with a mask on, struck him over the head with a spike-filled club. The brave fellow plunged down. They dragged him away by the legs. All this so that none of Banquo’s children could ever be king.

Imagine how our local Jews responded to that scene! The murder of Duncan had been bad enough, but at least it took place behind closed doors. Flicker was killed before their eyes. They had seen the dagger go in to the hilt! But before the uproar had a chance to swell, a line of retainers, Lifshits’ now, no longer Hobnover’s, marched across the front of the stage. On platters they carried the roast beef and the duck. There was fruit, too: melons and apples and oranges and pears. More: a golden-scaled fish, a pike probably, with its head and its tail attached; round red and round yellow cheeses; and a whole tray of cakes and pastries and—could it be?—crumb-crusted butter tarts. The Baluters were suddenly speechless. One after the other the servants disappeared into the center crack of the curtain. As the last orphan, the one with the sweetmeats, stepped through, these draperies parted, the drama went on.

The scene was just the same, except that a large wooden table, fully set, with chairs all around, had been pulled into the center of the hall. Much of the Hatters’ Asylum population were seated around it, drinking goblets of wine. They were meant to be lords and ladies. The queen was at the far end of the table, her white teeth, her white eyes, flashing in her dusky face. What a hubbub! What a jolly feast! The crowd in the House of Culture could actually smell, that’s how realistic it was, the smoked fish. After a time Macbeth went to his end of the table. Before sitting down he picked up a silver cup. “Now good digestion wait on appetite,” he loudly toasted, “And health on both!”

The company raised their goblets in response; they gulped down the wine. But the king thrust his fingers, wet with grease, into his curly beard. He gasped. He croaked.