This disturbance differed from others in the quarter in that the hitting and beating, which went on through the night, reached as far as Lepecky. The waiting room at Number 6 became crowded with people suffering from wounds, from burns, from broken limbs.

By the time dawn broke Trumpelman was exhausted. The walls of his office, his new armchair, his wrists and thumbs, were smeared with blood. Plasters and bandages hung everywhere. A child with a crack in his head was lying on the movable table, and a middle-aged Jew, a complete stranger, was shaving in the surgical mirror. At this point the doctor happened to look out the window. In the first light two Poles were walking down the middle of Lepecky, carrying a rolled-up carpet on their shoulders. Without hesitating, Trumpelman picked up whatever came to hand—it turned out to be his little rubber hammer—and went into the street.

“Stop!” he cried. “What’s that you have?”

The first Pole halted, but the second, a stocky man, kept going, so that the carpet looped in the middle. “It’s a rug,” said the lead man, with a smile.

“To walk on,” said the rear fellow, who at last stood still.

“Where did you get it? Explain yourselves!”

“It belongs to my aunt!” said the first Pole, quick-witted. “On my mother’s side.”

From fatigue, not from fear, Trumpelman swayed. The crowd had come out on the steps of Lepecky 6. More Jews peered from the windows. The tall doctor stared down at the Poles.

“Describe the rug! Tell me what it looks like!”

The second man began grinning, too. “That’s easy!” he said. “Blue! And green! Like when a peacock spreads its tail!”

“It’s more of a yellow, a yellow-green. Not like peacocks, exactly.” This was said by the more intelligent man.

“Roll it out!” Trumpelman demanded. With his left hand he grasped the frame of his glasses. With his right hand he waved his mallet, a foolish weapon. The Poles paused, shifting their feet.

“You see, sir, what’s blue to one man is green to another—”

“At once! Unroll it!” Trumpelman’s voice, always high, nearly screeched.

The two men obeyed him. A sigh, ah, came from the crowd. For the rug, a beauty, from Bessarabia, was bright red, except for a border of purple plums.

Wordlessly the doctor turned and strode to where two of the “mayor’s police” were sitting on brown horses.

“Arrest them. They have stolen a valuable carpet. They have broken into a citizen’s home.”

The policemen looked at each other. One of their horses blew air through its nose. The sun was now high enough to give everybody a shadow.

“Why do you sit there? Didn’t you hear? I, Trumpelman, order you to do your duty!”

The Lithuanian, bloodstained, white-maned, must have made an extraordinary impression. The two policemen advanced upon the thunderstruck looters and, between the flanks of their horses, led them away. Most people said that was the end of the pogrom. And it is true, within a few hours the whole Walburska quarter was quiet again. As for Trumpelman, he smoothed down his hair and returned to his work at Lepecky 6. Behind his back people threw their caps and their derbies into the air.