I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane!

At that moment one of the evergreens came a step closer. It had feet on the bottom! It moved! So did another one of the firs! One little plant, ragged and windblown, dashed almost to the tyrant’s elbow, and then held perfectly still. All the foliage at the edge of the stage began to shake and stir. The twigs were nudging each other.

Someone walked onto the stage. It was the messenger, little blond Citron. This time he spoke fluently.

I looked toward Birnam and anon methought
The wood began to move.

The dictator gaped and raised his blade. “Liar and slave!” he shouted. But already the whole of the forest was closing upon him. New trees ran in from left and right. Not trees! Children holding branches! With leaves glued on their backs! This was young Krystal’s army! The English troops had arrived!

“Hurrah!” cried the Baluters, tremendously excited. “Kill him! Kill the tyrant!”

In an instant the children surrounded the king completely. Snarling, sneering, he waved his sword in the air.

I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked.

No hope for Macbeth. Wherever the Jews looked, even in the aisles of the House of Culture, and along the theater walls, they saw the forces of order. But then the poor devils had to look twice. For those in the aisles were not orphans, but, in their uniforms, with their armbands, grown-up men. They had rubber clubs in their hands. And caps on! Caps! The theater was filled with fifty or sixty or seventy members of the Jewish Police!

And more were still pouring through the Assisi Street door. The train whistle blew. Everyone knew that the train itself was now at the transfer station. But there was not the pandemonium you would expect. The players onstage stood frozen. The audience simply sat. They could not believe this was a roundup. Not in daylight. Not of the Ghetto’s most prominent Jews. So it was really rather still in the House of Culture when Trumpelman, upright, with his back to the stage, started to speak.

“I know there are Jews in the Ghetto who hate me and want to kill me. Some of these so-called Jews are in this theater now. Well, here I am! Here’s my bare breast! Anyone can shoot me who wants to! From the balcony! The way they shot Abraham Lincoln! Stab me, Communists! Like Caesar! Why should the Elder want to live? You killed his child!”

But no one was watching. Or listening, either. The Elder might just as well be talking to the artificial wind. Anxiously the Jews waved their ration coupons, their identity cards. Then the Minister of Housing, Verble, rose in the midst of the crowd. He twisted one end of his waxy mustache.

“Jews! Jewesses! Look how calm your Judenrat is. We are all sitting, watching the show. We have special information. This is not an ordinary transport. No, no! Just as you are not ordinary Jews! Everyone who goes on this train will be an agricultural worker! This time it’s guaranteed! You will be used on the Others’ farms!”