“Name?”

“Putermilch, Herman.”

The thin, black-haired Conqueror spoke right through the proprietor, as if he were not there. “Jews and Jewesses! The old Community Council is from this moment dissolved. It no longer exists. A new Judenrat must be formed. It will be known as the Council of Elders. Sixteen members, no more, no less. To be picked from those now in this room. This Council will be the instrument of our will among the Jews. It shall raise taxes and control its own police. It will run all religious organizations, all cultural affairs, all charitable institutions. It appoints the judges, the teachers, the hospital heads. Putermilch! You are the new President of the Judenrat. The Chief Elder. Your first task will be to draw up a census with the name of each able-bodied Jew. All men between the ages of fifteen and sixty must work on the river dike. The only exceptions are those too sick even to lift a shovel, and of course the sixteen members of the Council itself. The rest will work, work!”

Once again Wohltat, the coffee roaster, removed his hat. The part in his hair was just over his ear; the long, damp strands of hair went over the dome of his head. His little red lips formed a smile. “My dear Jews. It is time for you to choose the members of your new Council. Please select whoever you want, in a completely democratic way. We won’t interfere. We’ll wait outside. If you will allow me, I have one small piece of advice. These are difficult and unhappy times. So in your deliberations, elect those who have the most to offer, the most intelligent, the most resourceful among you. We all have need of such leaders now.”

The four Others went to the door. The man with the double-breasted suit had the last word. “No one may leave here until the selection of the Council has been completed. After the fifteen Elders have been selected, Putermilch, the President, will bring them to me in the road outside. Then the remaining Jews may return to their homes.”

The door opened, it closed. A breath of the cool night air entered the room. Putermilch remained where he was. At last he looked up—he had light-colored eyes, he had invisible lashes—and said, “Does everybody have enough to eat?”

“This is no time, Putermilch,” said Lipsky, the progressive attorney, “to be thinking of food.”

A well-dressed man, with eyeglasses and a full black beard, stood up at a rear table. No one knew his name. “I am not from this city. I am from Budapest. I have a passport to prove I am not a Pole!” With that the stranger put on his top hat and his handsome coat. “What has been said does not apply to nonbelligerents. I shall leave here. I shall explain.” To the astonishment of the entire café, the Hungarian went out the front door. No one moved. It was as if there had been an agreement to count to ten. Then Szapiro leaped to his feet as well.