Rievesaltes put out his hands. “What can I do, Mister Schneour? In this case we must bow to the will of the people.”

The former Chairman of the Public Health Department pulled on his mustache, as if he meant to rip it off. “A wonderful doctor! Who has seen his diploma? Where are his credentials? Lithuania is not on the other side of the world!”

“Call the question!” That was the musician, Kleen.

“Vote, vote!” A regular chant.

The election was held on the spot by a show of hands. Rievesaltes announced the results. “Schneour, sorry. The new boss of the Public Health Department is I. C. Trumpelman. Eighty-seven to six.”

A shout. A roll of applause. Rievesaltes climbed down from the table and made his way to the crestfallen Schneour. “A word,” he said, “in your ear.”

Dozens of hands pushed Trumpelman up where Rievesaltes had stood. “Speech!” cried the Jews.

And Trumpelman obliged them.

“Maybe a time will come when we can forgive our enemies. Maybe someday the war will end. Then we can all meet together. Even the six Jews who voted for the other person. Ha! Ha! Even that person himself. Then we can talk and drink tea and read newspapers. Until then, too bad. We have to be the way they are. Like bandits. Like wolves.”

Impossible to say whether it was those words, so strange and unexpected, that sent a chill down everyone’s back, or whether it was the cold air that rushed through the open front door. Putermilch was standing in it, filling it, with only a small space for the black of the night.

One by one the new Judenrat members drew up nearby. They put on their hats, their expensive mufflers. But no one made a move to go. Putermilch, parsnip pale, continued to stare back at the café, at his four waiters—Popower, Margolies, Philosoff, Hasensprung—and at the bottles with their silver caps lined up at the bar.

Then someone in the crowd impatiently cried, “Leave! Go! The rest of us want to go home!”

“Wait! Wait!” Mosk, the new Vice-President, cupped his hands around his mouth. “There is just time for everyone to have a drink. An alcoholic drink. I am paying for everything!”

In seconds the atmosphere of the café was almost normal: the band playing, waiters running, and people ordering gin with aerated water.

Mister Turski came up to Trumpelman. “Somebody wants to see you,” he said.

“Can’t you see I am a member of the Council?”

But Rievesaltes’ associate opened his hand under the older man’s eyes. There was a hothouse flower inside. Trumpelman clutched it and followed the no-necker, who was already wending his way through the crowd.

Lipiczany followed, looking over his shoulder to where Schneour and Rievesaltes continued their conversation. He saw the zlotys the former handed the latter. To his dismay he also saw how the previous Public Health Director put on his hat and his coat and took Trumpelman’s place in the line.