Dawn. The three Jews looked out the window. Across the river, all along the bank, were the tents of the Red Army. Here and there smoke rose. Here and there a tiny figure walked around. It was like a painting of a sleeping, peaceful village. Nachman Kipnis stared intently, even though, without his glasses, he could see little more than a tan-colored foam. “The Jewish question,” he said.

Neither of his comrades—pale Faulhaber; the boy, Ignacy—replied. Kipnis continued:

“After the last Ghettoite is dead, then they will come.”

It got lighter out. Sunbeams came in the windows. Thus the fighters discovered that the three-story building was in fact some kind of schoolhouse. The room was full of desks with built-in chairs. Blue inkwells were screwed into the tops. Books were tucked inside them. On the wall in front there was a blackboard, with a ledge for erasers and chalk. It was bright enough to see the last lesson.

*

Kopérnik, Mikołaj 1473-1543
De revolutionibus orbium coelestium

A breeze sprang up. The sky turned blue. Kipnis was reading a book—that is, he wet his finger, he turned the pages. Faulhaber? Faulhaber’s lifeless head was on a desk top, for all the world like a drowsy pupil. Bloomgarden went to the window. The schoolyard below was in shambles. You could see in the gravel where the Warriors had dragged their countrymen away. Of all the playground equipment—the overturned slides, the climbing bars twisted and bent—only a single swing remained standing. Lipiczany was in it, going back and forth. It made a squeaking sound.

“Look!” cried Bloomgarden, and he began to beat two erasers together.

“You look!” answered Nisel, pumping himself into the air.

A big cloud rose from the window. It was as if Bloomgarden, with the chalk dust around him, were a Red Army of his own.

Nisel swung even higher, so that his hair flew back and his toes pointed at the center of the sky. “Hurrah!”

Bloomgarden pounded and pounded. “Hurrah!” he shouted, too.

III

The transport had been scheduled to leave at dawn, but there it was, still in the Radogodsh Station, well after nightfall. Every time the Others thought the roundup was finished, out came a fresh bunch of Jews. So new cars—not just boxcars, but tenders, flatcars, even first-class passenger coaches—had been hitched to those that were already full. By noontime the Jewish police, busy for twelve hours straight, were relieved by Death’s-Headers. Then Verble and his men were driven into stockcars of their own.

No one could be left behind. Ghettoites who were dead—in other words, the ones who had resisted, or who had attempted to hide—were stuffed beside the ones still alive. Ladies and gentlemen, enough. Enough. Let’s just say they caught everybody. Even Lifshits and Krystal, high up in their chimney roost, were shot to the ground. Look: the Baluty Suburb is empty. The windows are open, the lights are ablaze. Pots and pans are scattered over the roads. Engineer, blow the whistle! Ring the bell! Time to get under way!