By the time Lipiczany arrived at this address, hundreds of Jews were already standing on the opposite side of the street. Directly in front of the warehouse, wearing their green uniforms, stood the Men of Valor. Twenty or thirty in all. A pink ribbon had been stretched across the fur factory door, and Wohltat stood on a step beside it, shining the knobs of his shoes on his trousers. Nisel glanced up. The wall of the building had been freshly whitewashed; there were shutters by every window. And in each of those windows, along the whole second story, was the shadowy face of a Jewish girl. Wohltat, in his derby, began to speak.

“My dear Jews! The time has come to open the House of Pleasure. As the head of the Civilian Authority, it is my privilege to cut the ribbon in two.”

One of the soldiers handed the Volksdeutscher a pair of shears. But before Wohltat could use them, a horn sounded and the fifty-horsepower Daimler raced pell-mell down Assisi Street at tremendous speed. Everybody—Jews on one side, the Brave Ones on the other—leaped out of the way. But two lads remained in the street, not flinching even when the jet-black fender came to a stop not more than half of a meter away. It was the team of Krystal and Lifshits, with their camera and flash clearly displayed.

The back door of the Double Six opened and the President of the Judenrat stepped into the lightning strokes of the photoflash. There was thunder also: Trumpelman! Trumpelman! The word echoed and rolled. Then the coffee merchant called out from the warehouse.

“Come! My friend! Take half of the scissors. As co-workers we shall cut the ribbon together!”

In Yiddish they say, the same as you do in English, “to die from shame.” That was how Nisel felt then, though he had no real idea of what a House of Pleasure might be. Somehow it was connected with the Warriors in their helmets, with the lavender-colored ribbon, and most of all with the six windows, with the actual window glass, against which were pressed, so that their features were flattened, the faces of the Ghetto girls. It was that, the spreading mouths and splayed noses, the distortion of people, that made the boy’s own face feel hot and burning, as if the Elder—my friend, co-worker—had slapped it again.

In giant strides, his cape alternately swelling behind him and sucking the back of his legs, Trumpelman crossed the roadway. When he reached the steps of Number 2 Assisi he climbed them, then swung around.

“A Jew speaks to Jews! Citizens of the Balut! The Judenrat has not issued a permit for the operation of this building. We have not given approval. Therefore, no one may pass!” With those words, the Elder threw both arms high against the doorjambs. The top of his hat brushed the lintel. Then the flash lamps went off again. Everyone in the crowd was excitedly talking. Lipiczany had heard and seen what had happened, but it took him an extra moment—gulping and gulping, like a fish—to realize that the Judenrat Chairman was actually blocking the door.