The Jews are a desert people. Dry. Arid. Always moving around. Not like the Others, a forest folk, deeply rooted, used to mists and dampness and fogs. Thus there was a possibility Trumpelman had only fainted; perhaps he had had too much steam. Indeed, he did awake somewhat later. He opened both eyes. Everything was quiet and shadowy and still. The fire in the fire pit had gone out. There was no one in the upper benches. No one in the benches below. The municipal bath was deserted. Had anyone ever been there?

But when the Elder attempted to rise, he could not. He wanted to lift his head; his head would not move. He saw out the open top of the dome. The sky, not really dark, was covered with powdery light, as if on its surface one professor had just erased all of another’s equations.

III

There was more left of that night. It wasn’t over. Inside the House of Culture some spectators still remained. Not many. All fast asleep. The Judenrat members and the big rabbis were huddled together, near the orchestra pit. Smolenskin was missing. So was Schotter. Luftgas, up until then an important person, was likewise gone. It turned out that hardly anyone had had a plain yellow card. Maybe two dozen, maybe a half dozen more. The Vocational School students, the wonderful skaters, had been taken away. But the orphans from the Asylum were dozing on the stage. Some of them still had fir branches glued to their clothes. Madame Trumpelman’s chair was empty. There was a hat on it, however, as if someone had wanted to save the place.

Let’s leave the Jews there, quietly sleeping. Do not ask about dreams.

A little more time went by. Then Philosoff stretched, yawned, and sat upright. Some noise had disturbed him. Clumsily he collected both of his canes. He walked slowly, in quarter steps, to the Assisi Street door. He stopped there, his head cocked, listening to whatever it was that had waked him. The entrance was already open a crack. The minister peeked outside.

“Hello! Verble! Wolf-Kitzes! Minister Baggelman! Hello! Hello!” Philosoff, his beard like ten twisting fingers, called to his colleagues. His voice broke from excitement.

The ministers turned and groaned. Schpitalnik hugged his knees. Popower pulled his collar tight. But the others looked at their pocket watches. Hours and hours to go!

“Wake up! Wake up! Tell me if I’m dreaming!”

The old waiter was pointing into the street where, pale and ghostly, with its pink lips, its milky tail, a stallion stood. Repeatedly it stamped its hoof, and rolled its swollen eye.

The Council members stared at the riderless horse. “The Elder,” one of their number whispered, “is dead.”

Then they all turned and looked up, to a spot well above the stage. There the lifelike head of Macbeth, its beard black and curly, was stuck on the end of a pike. Its mouth was twisted. Its eyes were blank and white. Though this was a sight to strike one with terror, the Judenrat did not quake. The rabbis and the orphans, who were also gazing up at the usurper, were unafraid. Slowly, unaccountably, all those in the House of Culture began to smile. It was as if a voice had spoken to them: Take heart, Jews! See the dead butcher! After the night comes the dawn!