Trumpelman still towered over the Security Minister. “It is forbidden for anyone except the President of the Judenrat to contact the Occupying Power. To do so is treason against the Balut. As the Elder of the Jews, Trumpelman informs you that you are relieved of your official duties. You are no longer head of the Jewish police.”

“That is not possible, no, it cannot be,” Grundtripp intervened. “Only last night I returned from Berlin. There I received two new orders, vital orders, for the Jews of the Suburb. Both will require tremendous efforts from everyone—but especially from the Jewish police. The leadership of that organization cannot be changed.”

Rievesaltes, with a handkerchief, wiped his bulging temples. Trumpelman turned to the Obergruppenführer.

“What orders?” he asked.

“There is to be an increase in production. The millworks will have to make winter uniforms for the army. There must be woolen linings. Jackets are to be filled with feathers and down.”

“Impossible,” Trumpelman snorted. “Where will these linings come from? And where the feathers, the down?”

“We will supply the raw materials, you the labor force.”

“But our workers are already exhausted. They will rebel! It can’t be done. The Elder refuses to do it.”

“This command,” said the Obergruppenführer, “came from the highest circles.”

There was a sudden silence. Trumpelman seemed to rise a bit on his toes. “When you say Berlin, when you say highest circles, do you mean, have you talked to—?”

Grundtripp nodded.

“Ah!” The Elder sighed.

Here Rievesaltes quietly put in a word. “May I ask, how many of these uniforms, of these wool linings, do you have in mind?”

“We demand ninety thousand complete outfits for each two-month period.”

At this even the Police Chief objected. “But that is a doubling of production! One hundred percent! It would take a miracle to do it!”

“Quiet, Rievesaltes!” Trumpelman commanded. “You will round up the wild children. Bring them into the mills! The Elder will give our clock watchers a good kick, a good slap or two! We’ll triple our output!”

Grundtripp stretched out his legs, with one shiny boot on top of another. “In Berlin everyone says the same thing. That our Jew is a magician, a Houdini. For every zloty brought into the Balut—for cotton, for cabbages, for materials of any kind—fifty zlotys come back again in the form of finished products. We expect the same miracle with the winter clothes.”

“I shall call the Big Man on the telephone. As one head of state to another. I shall invite him to our Ghetto. He will see our spotless streets. He will see how everybody works, nobody complains! When he sees what my Jews can do, we can discuss the role Trumpelman will play after the war.”

For an instant Grundtripp seemed honestly puzzled. “After the war? What do you mean, after the war? In springtime we prepare for the winter campaign, and in the winter you have to spin linen so we can fight in the spring.”