“This can’t go on, my dear people. One day it’s a riot, like at the Central Square, the next day your coreligionists are actually shot. We’ll have to set up a special quarter, just for the Jews. That way you’ll be protected from anyone who wants to hurt you. The place is the Baluty Suburb. Take whatever you want with you. Don’t worry! Poles living there will have to give up their apartments. We’ll put guards there to keep them away. And you have up to seventy-two hours to make the move. That’s three whole nights and days.”

The waiters and musicians were too thunderstruck to say a word. The thin, lipless man spoke instead. “Everyone in this room is now a member of the new Judenrat. You must make arrangements for the transfer of population, for housing, for kitchens, for movement of goods. Your orders will come from the President of the Council. Every member of the Mosaic community, every Jew and Jewess, must obey the Elder’s commands. Who, then, will be this first among you?”

It was Wohltat who pointed then at his childhood physician. Trumpelman, with his hair like a mane, with all his teeth showing, slowly rose. The black-haired man continued. “You are the Chairman of the Jewish Council. The Elder of the Jews. Your word in the Suburb is law. Anyone who shirks his duty toward you will be arrested and subject to further measures. Seed of Abraham! Run now to your homes! You will not see them again!”

The coffee roaster, the native son, was calmer now. He smiled. “You see? No more beatings. It’s best for everyone.” He put his hat on. Then he, with his companion, walked out the door.

In less than ten minutes the café was completely empty. Everyone was gone. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how they killed the rich Jews in our town.

III

From the Astoria Café to the Orphanage Number 2 was not a long walk. For Trumpelman, however, there was a detour, since the old Council of Elders, arranged neatly head to toe, lay in what was the most direct path. When he saw this, the Lithuanian turned left instead of right. It is not difficult to imagine what his thoughts must have been, as he and Lipiczany walked through the windy street. Of course it was he, Trumpelman, who should have been lying there, with Blum’s feet on his forehead and his own feet on Zweideneck’s nose. It was as if God had put down His hand and, groping about on the darkened earth, specifically had forbidden this to happen. Perhaps that is why Trumpelman stopped and looked up at the nighttime sky. It was covered with stars, like a wizard’s cloak.

At that instant, while they were standing there, an awful thing took place. Nisel was aware of it first. He pulled the Elder’s arm and pointed to where a figure, half-naked and missing an ear, was running toward them out of an alley. This bleeding person threw his bare arms around Trumpelman’s shoulders. It was Nomberg, the Italianate Synagogue rabbi.