Blum, also a member of the defunct government, Department of Commerce and Trade, supported his former colleague. “I refuse to serve! Anyone who goes on the new Judenrat has to be crazy. These Elders will be responsible the first thing that goes wrong. They could go to jail. They could be deported. No! Don’t mention my name!”

But Mordechai Kleen held his ground. “Let’s vote on the idea! How many want to reelect the old Council?”

But before a vote could be taken, Lipsky the lawyer climbed onto a chair. He was a slight man with a narrow face, whose hair stood up in the back. His ears were large, nearly transparent, and pointed. “I can hardly believe the things I have been hearing. From you, Rabbi. From you, Blum. I feel ashamed to be in this room because of what the musicians suggested. As for you Putermilch, you’re a disgrace to us all. How dare you ask for volunteers? It’s a scandal!”

Pale Putermilch turned completely pink. It was like dipping an egg into a dye. “But Lipsky,” he said. “What else can we do?”

“Do? Don’t do! Nothing! No elections! No Council! No police and no judges! Nothing at all! They are waiting for an answer? Here is our answer: Do whatever you want to! We can’t stop you, but we don’t have to cooperate, either. You want to snatch? All right, snatch! You want to kill? So kill. But we will not do this work for you! Putermilch, it’s up to you! Go out there! Don’t be so shy! Tell them: Sorry, not willing. If not, if we collaborate, if we hold this election, for sure sooner or later our own Elders will end up killing Jews.”

For a moment no one even breathed. Little Lipsky stood poised on his chair, on tiptoe, with his chin up—it looked as if he meant to leap, to fly. Then Mordechai Kleen, the oboist, responded. “I withdraw my support from Miss Kleinweiss’ idea.”

“Bravo!” cried Plumb. “It’s the resistance!”

Baggelman raised his baton. “We will play Chopin! Even if it’s against the law! Yes, and Paderewski!”

The crowd cheered. “Bravo!” they yelled. The musicians—Salpeter and Murmelstein, violinists; Andrei Schpitalnik, the piano player; Kleen, Miss Kleinweiss, and all the rest—lifted their instruments, their gleaming trumpets, and prepared to play.

At which point a voice—high, forceful, lisping, a singsong voice—cut through the expectant hush.

“May a Jew speak?”

It was, of course, I. C. Trumpelman, the Director of the Hatters’ Asylum. Like a man half his years, he jumped to the top of a table. The eleven-piece orchestra laid their instruments in their laps. Lipsky folded his arms.

“What patriotism! It’s touching! What heroes! Maybe you’ll let me talk for a minute and I’ll tell you something these smart lawyers and businessmen don’t even know.” Trumpelman’s head was practically level with the bulbs in the chandelier. His skin was tanned, healthy-looking, and his teeth and his hair were bright, white, gleaming.

“You heard the news that the Conquerors set up labor brigades. But they don’t care about damming the rivers or blasting tunnels for mountain roads. No! The Jews dig the holes and then fill them in. They carry rocks from one side of the road to the other and then drag them back again. Jews working! That’s what the Others want. They think it’s a bigger achievement than making a farm from a swamp.