The line moved slowly forward to where, on a couch, with his feet up like a pasha, Fried Rievesaltes attended to tasks. At last Schpitalnik arrived. He looked at the Police Chief, whose head, because of the way the light struck his temples, seemed to shine. Like a halo, almost.

“Mister Minister!” Rievesaltes exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You have not been arrested!”

Schpitalnik just giggled and opened his tin of snuff. Verble, from over his shoulder, responded.

“Yes! Arrested! The same as I! We’re both supposed to report! To the Radogodsh Station! Here is the order, which you signed yourself!” The Minister of Housing thrust the document toward Rievesaltes. The latter did not blink or budge. “This is a pity. A tragedy. Even Judenrat members!”

“It’s no pity! It’s a joke! You arrest us in the morning and free us in the afternoon. For cash! What a racket!”

“And what does the Housing Department now charge for a mattress? Is it not sixty zlotys? That’s for a mattress filled with rags. But what if a Jew should want something soft? He has to pay exactly one hundred. And where does such stuffing come from? You bribe the feather cleaners. You smuggle from the Christian church. Stealing the property of the Occupying Power is a capital offense. You could be shot!” The whole room fell silent. No more jokes. Impossible not to hear what the Security Minister said. “I shall not, however, mention this matter when I discuss your case with my friend, the Obergruppenführer. The price of this negotiation is twenty-five thousand zlotys—ten thousand in advance, fifteen later.”

Everyone gasped, even the waiters. It was a ransom for a king. “Swindle!” poor Verble cried.

Rievesaltes now swung his feet off the sofa, onto the floor. “If by any chance we should not have success,” he said, “never mind about later.”

Schpitalnik, meanwhile, had been going through his coat pockets, his pants pockets, turning everything out. He stood there, with little inverted bags all over his body. “Ha! Ha! I’ve only sixteen Trumpkies!”

Verble snorted. “Trumpkies are not worth a thing!”

“Ha! Ha! Completely worthless. But I don’t want to be transported. I could play on the piano. I could learn to sing. Tum-tum-de-tum!”

Fried Rievesaltes cut in. “Time always passes. Jews, shadows grow. Look at the size of the line. For another five thousand, five thousand on top of the rest, I’ll argue for you both with my friend. Come, Minister Verble! Just fifteen thousand! Not a word about the feathers! Come! I’ll get down before Grundtripp on my knees!”

Now it was the Housing Minister’s turn to pick through his pockets. He found, he handed over, the staggering sum. This was the equivalent of one hundred and fifty mattresses, the soft kind: enough for one hundred and fifty Jews to dream, on those feathers, they were flying away.

The next man stepped forward and removed his hat. Simultaneously somebody screamed, “Watch out! A Guardsman!”

Rievesaltes reached into his armpit. A dozen policemen, in theory unarmed, did the same. The stranger held up empty hands.