“Hold his legs,” he ordered one of the men in black clothes. The officer did so. Propped up that way, Klapholtz stood swaying. The three Others unstrapped their weapons. Grundtripp and Madame Trumpelman moved off to one side. The Men of Valor pointed their rifles at Klapholtz, at his heart it looked like, and his head. It was shocking how close they stood—only a meter away from their victim. If his arms had not been broken, the artist could have reached out and touched, practically, the barrels of the guns.

“Jew! Be still!” one of the squinting officers demanded.

But Klapholtz continued to sway, and his lips, though swollen, moved.

“Is he talking?” Grundtripp, the Obergruppenführer, wanted to know.

Sheftelowitz, from twenty meters away and in a trembling voice, responded. “He wants a cigarette. It’s his right!”

The head of the Totenkopfers stared at the finisher as if he could not believe his ears. It was as if a dog, or a tree stump, had started speaking. Even Trumpelman’s wife, so silent, so still, jerked her head.

Grundtripp dug in his pocket and took out his “Virginia” cigarettes. He put one into Klapholtz’s mouth. The officer who had been holding his legs jumped up to light it. Yet, without support, and in spite of his shattered bones, the painter did not fall down. Instead, his back somehow grew straighter. His head lifted up. He even cocked it a bit, and took a puff. Then the whole street became very quiet. Not a person moved. Everybody had to wait until Klapholtz finished his cigarette. It hung on his lip, barely burning, in the French manner.

High above this scene, halfway up the Mosk Works chimney, Krystal and his assistant, Mann Lifshits, looked dizzily down. “Higher!” said Krystal, hauling himself upward by the rust-covered rungs. Near the top the boys stopped again. Young Lifshits—he was that year not even ten—hung by his strong left hand and passed the camera to Krystal with his right. The amazing thing was how far they could see. Kilometers and kilometers. Fields with hoarfrost shining. The silver strand of the river Dolna. Below were the rooftops of the city and streets in which Poles moved around. Throughout the Balut the chimneys were steaming and smoking. How peaceful the Jews looked! How small!

The photographer, leaning perilously out from the smokestack, looked into his camera. Klapholtz came into focus. Either the smoke from his cigarette was, at that distance, not visible, or the stub on his lip had gone out. Two of the Death’s-Headers crouched on a knee. The other two leaned over their shoulders. The four rifles fired at once. Krystal snapped his shutter, capturing this. The dead Jew fell down. Then Grundtripp, with his revolver, shot Klapholtz in the back part of his head. This also the two daring boys put on film, so it would last forever.

“Jews! Jewesses! On the morning of January 28, 1941, the saboteur Klapholtz was publicly executed at the telephone exchange wall. Beware, Chosen People! All those who violate the laws of the Occupying Power will be crushed the way lice are crushed. Do not make trouble but return now to your work. It is warm inside. There is soup. If you refuse, you will end up the same as this garbage. For him the shit wagon is coming. Spinners! Seamstresses! Watch out it does not come for you!” That was the speech that Grundtripp made. Then he, with the Ghetto Queen and the shooting squad members, got into the limousine, which at once drove away. The line of Jewish policemen likewise disappeared.