“The first position is the Vice-President of the Council. Mister Mosk, am I mistaken, or did you not mention two thousand zlotys?”

Mosk sat rigid, with a fork and a spoon in either hand. “No. It was my mistake. I meant four thousand five hundred.”

“Mosk, of the Mosk Mills, is the Vice-President of the Judenrat. You can see my associate, Mister Turski, to settle details.”

Rievesaltes did not pause. He waved the smoke cloud from in front of his eyes and continued speaking. “Next is the Department of Finance, a big position. More or less treasurer and tax collector for all the Jews. Fiebig’s old job. Mister Plumb? Mister Schneour? Mister Szapiro?”

Each of those called held up a different number of fingers. Plumb, the bachelor, had to use three on his second hand.

“My good friend Plumb, the diamond dealer, is now Chairman of the Department of Finance. Eight thousand zlotys to Nodelman, my associate, please.”

A murmur from the crowd. A pit-pat of applause.

“Now we turn to the third vacant position, the Department of Religious Affairs.” Rievesaltes turned his circular face onto the restaurant patrons. Kornischoner, the rabbi of the Fur Trimmers’ Synagogue, held up a single thin finger. Kelbasin, the dairyman, though a nonbeliever, put up four. But one man was frantically waving all ten.

“To Rabbi Nomberg it goes! An excellent choice!”

What an exciting half hour then! People were putting up fingers and waving their hands. There were shouts of encouragement, bursts of applause. Anyone looking in the window would have thought it was some kind of sale, an auction, not a matter of how the Jews were to govern their lives. No one thought of anything but the bidding, the suspense, the amazing sums. And as the vacant places were slowly filled, the higher their prices became. Szapiro took over the Housing Department, a fourteen-finger position, and Zweideneck, the balloon tire dealer, had to pay fifteen to become head of Charities and Welfare. Such prices left people dizzy. They were biting their tongues.

At last Rievesaltes, with his face wet and shining, declared, “Only one position left. The Department of Public Health. Do my ears hear ten thousand—?”

Immediately Anton Schneour, who had once held that office, put an end to all bidding. “Twenty-five thousand zlotys,” he said.

There was a gasp, then a sigh.

“Mister Schneour once. Mister Schneour twice—”

“Wait!” Lipiczany was on his feet, squinting and wincing. “Chaim said he would run! It was his idea to save the children! It’s because of him that we’re choosing a Council. It’s not fair that he won’t be on it!”

The crowd at once responded. “That’s true!” they cried. “Let’s elect him Chairman of Public Health!”

Nisel was beaming, babbling almost. “Chaim is a wonderful doctor. He saved my life.”

The whole room started to cheer—not so much for Trumpelman or for his skills as at the thought that they were the ones who were going to choose him.

“Twenty-eight thousand, in cash!”