This caused no great alarm. First, the Lithuanian’s life was not in danger. He could speak, lift his arm, and sit normally in a chair. Also, he did not abandon his official tasks. The Chancellory was shifted from Dworska Street to Tsarskoye Selo. To the estate were summoned all sorts of people—foremen, ministers, Jews with petitions. And from the mansion messengers ran to every part of the Ghetto, carrying orders for this man or that man, holding the text for the latest wall poster decree.

Still, no matter how vigorously Chaim worked to retain his power—and the light in his room burned, as always, through every night—it inevitably slipped away. He would call Wohltat, but Wohltat would not respond. The leaders of the chimney sweeps, his allies till then, found some pretext not to appear. In June the workers at the print shop returned his announcements, claiming that the next run of posters was already filled. It developed that Rievesaltes had occupied the printing house. To secure it from Lipskyites. Not long after that the Police Chief took over the Office of Posts and Telegraphs, too. Trumpelman picked up the phone to fire the Minister, Miss Megalif, but the instrument was dead. Not even buzzing. Worse by far was the way the Ghettoites themselves, with their thousand worries, began to forget the former leader. When they thought of him at all, it was not as a striding, striking figure, taller than anyone, with hair like a lion’s mane. He was a sick man, an old man, aged seventy-four: older than any Jew in the world.

We come to 4 August, 1943. Many interesting things were happening in the world on that date. The Americans had practically captured the island of Sicily, and Ben Moses, the boss of the boot, Il Duce, was now locked in jail. Hamburg harbor was being bombed. Yes! It was flaming! Lots of fine fellows killed. Best of all, the Russian summer offensive just then broke through. The Red Army was in Stich, in Pilatovka. Now Orel was about to fall. More! The partisan forces were ranging far ahead of those lines. Getting closer! Burning the oil in Boryslaw! Hope! What a thing it is! Like a worm! Cut it and cut it and cut it! Still it won’t die!

But in the other war, the one against the Jews, Horowitz was winning as usual. On that very day the Ghetto of Sonowiec-Bendzyn was liquidated. All of its citizens just disappeared. That left only Minsk. And Vilna. And the Balut.

And in the Balut, just before dawn on August 4, a fearful thing happened. Hasensprung defected. Not only defected, but took all the bullets from the Elite Guardsmen’s guns. Now they were defenseless. The whole summer palace could be overrun. At least that is what Rievesaltes said when, later that morning, he brought his men up to the entrance of Tsarskoye Selo. It was for the Elder’s protection that he ordered the grounds surrounded. No one could come in or go out. Even the Judenrat was turned away. Imagine how Trumpelman—all his life afraid of being put like a beast in a cage—felt then. A prisoner on his own estate!