The boy gazed at Trumpelman, his mouth hanging loosely. He looked as if he were mesmerized. “Did you? Did you solve it? The answer!”

Trumpelman turned his head away. “No! No more study! I cured people by twisting their necks!”

“You know! Tell me! Do they beat us because we’re bad?”

“This is what a Jew is.” The Elder gripped the horsehair coat. He clung to it. “A Jew is a shit like everyone else.”

Enough talk! A cock was already crowing. The orphans started to stretch, to stir. Shoot! Shoot! Why the endless delay? The rooster, way off in the Walburska section, crowed once again. With both hands, Nisel raised the pistol. He pressed the end of it against the Elder’s chest. Yes! He was squeezing the trigger! But the blunderbuss did not go off. Not cocked. He pulled back the hammer. But the trigger still did not budge. Perhaps it was rusty, or else the boy did not pull hard enough.

For a moment Nisel simply stood there. His head, on its little neck, drooped.

“I can’t,” he said.

And why not? Why not seize Bass’ pistol? Why not stab the Elder with something sharp? Hurry! Choke him! Choke him with your bare hands!

Too late. Trumpelman started speaking. “Do you call that a gun? It’s an antique! Older than I am. How will you attack the warriors with such toys?”

“The Red Army will send us rifles. Until then we must fight with whatever we can.”

“Open the drawer. The table drawer,” said the Elder. “See what is there.”

Nisel, as if following orders, jumped to do it. There was a pistol inside, the kind that shot bullet after bullet. A revolver. The boy snatched it up. He ripped open the chamber for shells.

The Elder—his glasses had slipped sideways on his bony face—gave a tiny wave. “It’s loaded,” he said.

This gun was not heavy. Lipiczany aimed it with only one hand. “Why did you show me this? Are you giving it to the resistance movement? But the brigade is determined to wipe out the whole Judenrat!”

“If only I had done it before! If I had listened to Lipsky! I know how I have made our people suffer. I hear their voices. Putermilch! Schneour! Mister Szapiro! Blum! Mister Mosk! It’s a roar like an underground train!”

Was it getting light outside? Nisel squinted. His face was pinched and lined. He heard Trumpelman speaking, on and on: “Lipsky knew! He is the real hero! I am a traitor! A worm! Tell him to come and kill me!”

“Commander Lipsky does not leave headquarters. I will carry out the sentence alone. I will!”

“No, no. He must come! I have more weapons! Not just guns! I have exploding bombs! Think of it: Jews with guns! Warrior Jews! Armed partisans!”

Lipiczany did not lower his arm. But the lips of his monkey mouth were sucked in. It’s obvious he was thinking. What if there were such guns and explosives? Then the Trilling Brigade would be an army!