There, on the horizon, the real sun was leaking something. Red stuff, like jam, came out of it and spread over the nearby sky. “Like a raspberry drop,” said Usher Flicker. He took the Elder’s hand. Citron, a new boy, had curly blond hair coming from under his cap. He laid his head across the Elder’s knees. Dark Gutta Blit leaned on his shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, gazing off to where the sun, cut by the earth’s edge, still pumped the sweet-looking syrup from its center. All the children—the planets, the satellites, Hobnover the comet, and at last even Shifter—pressed close to Trumpelman, and to each other. They were like his missing cape.

III

There was no synagogue in the Baluty Suburb. Not allowed. And over there, in the Aryan section, the Italianate Synagogue, the Central Synagogue, the synagogues of the Devout Butchers and the Fur Trimmers—all these had been burned down. But there was, on Lutomierska Street, the Church of the Virgin Mary. This was a big, solid building, made from brick and stone. Here, every Sunday, gathered our Christian souls. Some were converts and some the sons and daughters, or even grandsons and granddaughters, of baptized Jews. There were even cases of worshipers who had not known, until they found themselves in the Ghetto, from whom they had descended.

No matter, the Judenrat treated all of them well. They received double rations and worked in this or that department of the Council itself. Inside the church there was a big picture of Jesus, coming down from the cross. A man in a red robe was kissing one of his feet. A man in a green robe kissed his hand. The ex-Jews prayed to this. They knelt before it. Around the head of everyone in the picture there was a circle, a halo, painted from melted gold.

Shortly after the closing of the House of Pleasure, the Occupying Power began to store inside this fireproof building hundreds and hundreds of bolsters and mattresses and sofa cushions. This bedding was the property of people in the hospital, people in the Tsarnecka Street jail. No one dared ask what the sick people would sleep on once they got well. It was the feathers the Conquerors wanted, to put in their winter uniforms. All day long women sat on church benches, slitting pillows, pulling the stuffing out. They had to wear face masks because of the lint. The down always hung there, drifting and blowing on currents of air.

Three months later, at the end of June, Klapholtz, the artist, walked into Mary’s church. He had a soft hat on his head and a cigarette stuck to his lower lip—habits he had picked up during his studies in Paris. With the help of Brauwatt, the carpenter, he built a tall scaffold, so that he could paint directly onto the ceiling. Then he stretched canvas panels to hide his work from view. Day after day he painted, week after week. Finally one of the feather cleaners called up to where he was lying on his back.