“At this moment, in New York City, it is not night. It is afternoon. A sunny afternoon!” This was, of course, James Faulhaber.

No one spoke after that. Not even to ask for the time. Nothing to do but look out the windows. How dark the night was, how dark the town. Houses, factories, streets, all the thousands of people—did they even exist? Impossible to tell the black earth from the black sky. That darkness! Like a mouth! Eating you up!

Then the dawn, as promised, arrived. The eastern half of the sky flared up, as if someone had set it on fire. Overhead there was a flapping sound, like pigeons, and then, behind, somewhere in the city, a series of explosions.

“Lightning!” screamed Chaffer, on the second floor. “Thunder!”

“No! It’s not! It’s the artillery barrage!”

And so, eight minutes early, it was.

“Comrade Kipnis.” Hersh Einhorn was surprisingly calm. “You may break radio silence. There has been a mistake. Tell them to stop their fire.”

But before the boy could respond, there was a second round.

Downstairs, Pipe cried, “Ah! Look there!”

The Jews gazed out the windows. Hung between the bright sky and the dark water, like an immense, shining harp, was the King Ladislaus Bridge.

“Hello, Comrades! Hello, Comrades!” That was Kipnis, shouting into the radio. Then he reported to his friends. “They’re playing music!”

Another salvo. This time the two little boats were illuminated, for all to see. The Jews in them were paddling madly. You could see their faces. Their mouths made many black O’s.

“This is the Edmund Trilling Brigade. Cease fire! Cease fire at once!” Kipnis tore his earphones off. “They heard me!” he said. It was true. The distant batteries had fallen still. The night was coal-black again.

Outside, between the house and the river, the Others were jumping up from where they had taken cover. They ran to their tanks. They manned their artillery gun. But they didn’t shoot bullets. They shot up, one after the other, three blazing flares. This brought once more into view, with the white froth around them, the twin bobbing boats. Was it possible the Warriors still hadn’t seen them? Why didn’t they shoot?

It was Kleiderman who realized that the Others were not looking at the water, but at the bridge above it. The Warriors pointed. They laughed. The finisher looked, too. “There’s somebody there!” he exclaimed.

One floor higher, a fighter sighed. Lipiczany said, “Chaim.”

No doubt about it: the black cape, the white hair, the spectacles winking, blinking—it was the Elder. He banged his cane. He started to speak. “Don’t shoot! No shooting, soldiers! The war must end without bloodshed. We have to be friends!”

The flares drifted downward, swaying beneath their tiny tufted umbrellas. The Blond Ones stood there, transfixed. Trumpelman lifted his arms. “The Elder of the Jews has a peace plan. He is a neutral figure! The only one in the world both sides can trust!”

Carefully, slowly now, the rubber boats made for the shadow of the bridge, which lay like a slick on the water. The Jews inside the building held their breath. They saw Taradash, the commando, in one of the bows. He was stroking the little vines of his beard.