The Lithuanian struck his own forehead. “Yes! I see! It was a plot! Rievesaltes! You did this! You sold my office to Anton Schneour!” He descended upon the table where Fried Rievesaltes was calmly sitting. Pravenishkis, another no-necker, stepped between them.

“Don’t blame me,” said Rievesaltes. “I can explain.”

But Trumpelman had already whirled around and was striding, with his long legs, toward the door.

“Wait! Stop! Don’t go!” cried Gutfreind, his cook’s hat collapsed on his head.

Trumpelman flung the door open and stepped boldly through. Then his strength left him. He tottered like an old man against the frame. It was what he saw, a little way down the lamplit street, that struck him this blow. There, between the gutters, in their underclothes, or wearing no clothes at all, were the Council of Elders, hopping like frogs over each other’s backs. On either side, holding a pistol, stood a Totenkopfer. Laughing. Joking. Puffing a cigarette.

As soon as a Jew had jumped over a Jew he had to drop to the ground, so that the next one could leap over him. They were all doing it, the white shapes of their bodies shining strangely, the sexual parts of the naked men hanging down. Putermilch was on his hands and knees, his bent back milk-white in the light from the streetlamp. Mosk put his hands on that back and pushed himself up, halfway up, and then, with his black mouth open, he climbed the rest of the way. Schneour bent his legs and jumped over Plumb. At the top of his leap, while in the air, he saw Trumpelman. The latter, under this gaze, backed into the café.

“See?” said Gutfreind. “I told you.”

Rievesaltes came up to the taller man. He actually put his hand on his shoulder. “This I suspected. My connections said this would happen. That is why I asked her to see you.”

Paradyz crossed the dance floor, dragging his set of drums. “We’re free to go, you know. We don’t have to sit here until something happens. Let’s go home, brothers! Tomorrow is another day!” But no person stirred from his chair—not even the ruined Hungarian, so far from his home.

Some time went by. Mister Schpitalnik played a few notes on the piano. Not a whole melody. Naymark, a trombonist, took apart his trombone. After a while Schotter started to speak. “Did you hear how Horowitz and the statesman Weizmann were going to settle everything by fighting a duel? So on the day of the duel Weizmann doesn’t show up. Instead he sends a messenger who gives Horowitz the following message: Weizmann can’t make it, please kill yourself.”

No laughter. No comments. Klapholtz, the modernist painter, removed the cigarette from his lip. The Jews were waiting, calmly, quietly, to see what would happen to the Council: manufacturers and merchants, professional people, the cream of our crop. Then, slow enough to count them, there were sixteen shots.

Immediately Wohltat rushed in, followed by the man in gray. The Volksdeutscher turned his hat in his hands. “Listen, Jews! This is terrible. It’s the worst day of my life. Who would believe what I have been through?” True enough, the man really suffered. His eyes were popping. There were circles of sweat under his arms.