Trumpelman paused. His hat was on, and his white hair came from underneath in wisps, in billows. The orphans and guards stared at him, not saying a word.

“I’m smart! I know the smuggling is Rievesaltes’ work. He takes fifteen percent of every load of potatoes, fifteen percent butterfat, fifteen percent coffee, sugar, and the rest! What a racket! But the Elder will root it out! He has a thousand eyes and a thousand hands. He will be standing at each gap in the wire, at each hidden hole in the earth. Nothing can escape him!”

“But we’re innocent!” cried Szypper, trembling against his will.

Then the orphans were dumbstruck to see real tears in the Elder’s eyes. “My dear ones,” he said. “I am praying to God that is true. My own sons! My own life! You know how I love you! But if you are guilty, even though you’re my own children, you’ll be punished like anyone else. To set an example! Lipiczany! You tell me! Tell Chaim! Is this a smuggling job or not?”

Everyone looked up at Nisel, who held quite still. Muszkat loomed over him, like an organ grinder over a monkey, and nudged him with his elbow. But the boy sat mute, screwing his eyes up, though there was no light. Then Julius Szypper, who was standing closest, reached up and patted Nisel’s knee. He said softly, “Tell him, Comrade. It is your duty.”

To see the face of the poor boy then! There was a deep crease in his brow, lengthwise, where he was being split in two. His head shook, as if he meant to say, no, no smuggling here. Then the tremor stopped. He blurted aloud, “But it’s milk for babies!”

Immediately, as if to confirm this, the Holstein bellowed, “Moooo!”

The next thing that happened was that Kipnis jumped into the air and, though a small person himself, knocked Nisel Lipiczany head over heels off the wagon. “Fifth Columnist!” he cried.

At the same instant a shot rang out—impossible to tell whether the gun had been purposely fired or whether Nisel, in falling, had struck Bass’ arm—and the bullet went past Szpilfogel’s shoulder and spun harmlessly into the air. The terrified mare reared, then bolted toward the opening in the wall. The two Guardsmen jumped out of the way, and the wagon rolled safely through to the center of the Balut.

Trumpelman, meanwhile, had got hold of Einhorn by one arm and Kipnis by the other. Guardsman Bass tackled Szypper around the knees.

“My ears are ringing!” Szpilfogel said. “I could have been shot.”

Bass lined the three guilty orphans against the wall. Each of them, defiantly, spat on the ground. Then Isaiah Trumpelman, with his huge hands, iron hands, struck them on the face.

“Einhorn! You! Einhorn! I wrapped you in my coat! I kept you alive like an ember! My darlings! My sons!” The terrific slaps went on and on. They made each boy’s head slam back against the stone and left, on the skin, the whole hand’s impression. Some distance off Lipiczany put his own hand to his own cheek, which was burning, as if on fire.