It was silent throughout the theater. No one knew whether the show was over or not. The Szapiro & Son chandelier started down from the ceiling; Trumpelman looked at it, glared at it, and slowly it rose again.

“Relax! Don’t worry! There’s only one thing I want to know. A little thing. Who is responsible for this production? Tell me his name! Don’t say the children did it! Don’t make me laugh! Somebody tricked them into this job. I forgive them. I kiss you, children! I am blowing you kisses! My dears! My darlings! You know I am not a bad man!”

At that moment the owl hooted again. Everyone searched for the bird, for its lit-up eyes. It wasn’t there. Not on its perch. Not anywhere. But the hoot-hooting continued, louder than before. It seemed to be coming from far off, perhaps from outside the theater completely. And drawing nearer, too. The audience stirred. People who had pocket watches took them out. From either side of the stage the curtains were coming together. Still no sign of the bright green eyes! What could it mean? Then someone, a person inside the House of Culture, declared, “The train!”

“Not possible!” a different Jew shouted.

“It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon!”

Then the whistle blew sharply from the direction of the Radogodsh Station.

“Maybe,” said Minister Schpitalnik, “we should go home.”

From the benches, from the balcony, from the expensive, upholstered chairs, the whole crowd rose together. They did not know whether to stay or to go. Everyone looked, not at Trumpelman, not at his wife, but over to where Fried Rievesaltes was still sitting down in his comfortable chair.

“Sit, sit,” the Police Chief said. “Let’s see what happens next.” And the crowd, obeying, sank back in their places.

From then on the performance switched back and forth, from one place to another. First we would be in England, where the forces of law and order, led by Myer Krystal, the dead king’s son, were preparing to attack the despot. England! Imagine! The next moment we would be back in Macbeth’s kingdom, that dark, smoky land. Crowds of orphans dragged over the stage, crying for pieces of bread. Blind people fumbled about, bumping into the props. Worst were the killers, who trotted this way and that way, stabbing whoever they wished. It was a charnel house.

The scene: the hall of the villains’ castle. Night. Always night. At the top of the stairs a woman appeared holding a candle. This was Gutta Blit. Her hair was loose and full of electrical charges. Shoeless. Her nightdress undone. Sleepwalking! The beams from the candle glistened on her open eyes. What struck the Jews were the little jerks her head made, just a few centimeters at a time. They heard her sniffing at something. “Here’s the smell of the blood still!” she said. Then she began to glide down the flight of stairs.

“Crazy woman!” said Popower, the former waiter.

“Witch!” hissed the oboist, Mordechai Kleen.