Einhorn ran a hand through his wavy hair. “Lipiczany! I have faith in you. I don’t even know why. But I am going to take a tremendous risk. I am going to tell you something top secret. Listen! The reports we have are true. There is an underground clinic, don’t ask where, don’t ask how I know; in this clinic the children are simply starving. It’s a waste of good, useful, productive lives! So what do you think? We are going to bring them milk in the form of a cow!”

“Ha! Ha!” Szypper laughed. “The Trumpelman Holstein! It’s a stupendous operation!”

“Oh, hooray!” shouted Nisel, for an instant carried away. Then he felt his heart expanding, as if someone were pumping it up like a tire. “No! Wait! It’s not possible. You can’t succeed. Why don’t you just send out some milk? Throw a liter container over the wall? A whole cow? Do you mean a live one? One that’s still living?”

“This way,” said Szypper, and led them all to the back of the barn. There a black and white cow was standing, chewing on something. “See that?” he continued. “We’ve already muffled her hooves.” It was true. The beast was wearing, on all four feet, what appeared to be pairs of thick woolen socks. Nisel stared at her flanks, where the patches and markings looked like a map of the Mediterranean area, black for land, white for the sea.

“How is it to be done?” he found himself asking. “The gate is locked. It’s guarded.”

“Not tonight, Comrade. Tonight the funeral wagon has been delayed coming in and will be late coming out. Who knows why? A broken axle. A lame horse. Muszkat knows what to do.”

“Muszkat,” young Kipnis explained, “is the driver on top of the wagon.”

“Inside! Don’t you see? Inside the hearse! What a plan!” Szypper, in his enthusiasm, balled up his fist and struck the animal behind the ear. Her tail flew up, as if there were a mechanical connection between the two parts. To those present, this was hilarious, and before you knew it everyone was laughing and kicking the straw. Then the boys began leaping about the only cow that existed inside the Ghetto. Around they went, and around, in the opposite direction from the hands of a clock. And it may be said that Nisel Lipiczany, waving his arms like a monkey, danced about too.

Then the door at the end of the barn opened and the pin-headed gardener boy looked in, his finger against his lips. The smugglers then fell in a heap, gasping, holding their sides. Einhorn was the first one up. “Lipiczany, your task is to make sure the Elder does not suspect what is going on. He trusts you. If he asks any questions you have to answer. It’s an indispensable job.”

Nisel stood, squinting. “I am full of different emotions, Hersh Einhorn. The trouble is, the Elder saved your life and also my life, and he protects the lives of the orphans. How can we betray him by stealing his cow?”