What the hunters did find—everywhere—were pictures of the Elder: on thousands and thousands of paper “Trumpkies” and—with his head surrounded by cotton bobbins and clouds—on the Ghetto stamps. Souvenirs. The Poles even found some of Krystal’s photos: Chaim on his stallion, making a speech; Chaim in the doorway of the brothel on Assisi Street; getting married, he in a dark tuxedo, she, Madame Trumpelman, covered by a veil. But of Chaim himself, the man in the flesh, there wasn’t a trace.

A month went by. It was June. It was July. At last a Jew told them that he had seen the Elder, not once, but many times, with his own eyes. Where? At the Astoria Café, at the front table, drinking a clear-colored drink. There the orphans, so frightful-looking, blind, bald-headed, arrived. The café had been completely redone. No Putermilch. No Baggelman. No musicians of any kind. The boys sat down and from one glass of wine got tipsy, got dizzy. They giggled. They crossed their legs. It got later and later and nobody came. The top of the room started spinning. Their chairs, like in a séance, rose into the air. Drunkards! Fools! They didn’t notice that the front table was no longer empty. Never mind, never mind. For while the person who sat there was tall, almost two meters, and with a whole head of silver hair, he was not old Trumpelman.

A short while after this the city announced it was going to dedicate a monument to the Ghetto dead. People began to arrive from near and far. Among them was a Mister Impik, from the Hatters Young Men’s Benevolent Association, who took a room at the Hotel Europa. With red hair, with red-colored freckles, he was a healthy fellow, the size of two of our Jews. It was he who offered the orphans the steamship tickets. However, they politely said no. For a whole week he struck his chest, with his lips he made the sound of horses, of an army, so that they would change their minds. But the boys said they wanted to search for the Elder. Then came the day of the dedication.

The man and the two boys went to the ceremony together. A platform had been erected in the Baluter Square. Thousands were there. It was sunny. It was balmy. The memorial itself was made out of marble and stone, huge block on huge block, with near-naked figures crouching inside. The mayor stood to make a speech. This was the same hairless man, the bullethead, who had held that job during the reign of the Others. It seemed he got along with the new Occupying Power as well. Indeed, he was slapping the Soviet general, the Liberator, on the back. The two of them shared a loud laugh.

Kipnis, behind the dark balls of his lenses, gasped. “I heard them!” he said.

Then the mayor started to speak. A real oration! About the rights of man, about the dignity of men and women. A silver tongue! He said that suffering makes people noble. He said that in the end goodness would prevail.