II

In the early days of the war, there were still many wealthy Jews in our town. It is true that their money was impounded and that they had to register valuable items like jewels or furs. They weren’t allowed to keep servants either. But in spite of these restrictions, there they were, out on Leczyca, on Pabianice, wearing high boots and walking their dogs. For a time it was the fad to own different kinds of animals, parrots or monkeys, which people carried about on their shoulders, or little lizards that turned the same color as the coat you wore. After that, cane furniture became the rage. Tables, chairs, lounges—everything was made out of wicker or bamboo. The clothes in that season: in addition to boots there were leather belts and brass-colored buttons. Madame Tort, the former Widow Greenkraut, actually wore padded shoulders and a pair of pants. Everyone wanted to look like a soldier. Do not ask how these pleasures were paid for. The money just seemed to come from the air. At a time when Polish officials had to walk to their jobs, when even the Others, for lack of petroleum, were forced to leave tanks and trucks in the depot, the “Spider” Gran Sport of Doctor Zam was parked in front of the Hotel Europa, and Plumb drove his Daimler Double Six wherever he wished in the town.

The problem for our upper-class Jews was not how to spend money but time. Professional people, doctors, lawyers, could not treat Polish patients, or serve papers, or appear in court. The fashionable shops had been taken over by Volksdeutscher trustees. What to do? Even the Rumkowsky Geyser, once a popular gathering spot, was—because of lice, of typhus—now closed to Jews. Which left the cafés, where you sat at tables and talked about the end of the war: that month, that winter, sometime before the spring thaw. Then the Occupying Power set a curfew at 9 P.M., and the cafés shut, too.

Not the Astoria, however. It was an exception. On the night following the pageant in the Central Square, for instance, you could find all sorts of well-known people—the importer Blum, Szapiro the furrier, bald Jacob Tort—eating broilings and meat balls behind the famous blinking sign.

“Boogie-woogie!” That was Plumb, the bachelor. “Boogie-woogie!” he cried, using the American term.

Baggelman raised his arms to conduct the orchestra of eleven pieces. His shoulders, from his years as a musician, had a slight hump. Rabbi Nomberg—his face was shining from a recent shave—stood up to dance with Malka Korngold. Schneour took the arm of the new Madame Tort. The linoleum dance floor filled up. The men and women took short little steps. Their cheeks were together and their eyes, with their painted shadows, stared.

The waiters, with towels over their arms, ran from table to table. Because of the cigarettes, smoke in a cloud hung in the air. Rievesaltes and Miss Lubliver were sitting to one side of the dance floor. He leaned toward her, with his lips near her ear. Not far away Isaiah Trumpelman drank off a clear glass of kümmel and strode to the window. It was already dark in the streets. A streetlamp, a second streetlamp, came on. At the front table Nisel Lipiczany, to keep the old man in sight, swung his head around.