Behind the lawyer’s back somebody shouted, “Free the prisoners!”

Nachman Kipnis cried loudest of all. “Attack the depot! Distribute the wealth of the Ghetto according to need!”

Then the workers demanded, “Free food! Free food for all!”

It was, of course, a wild, daring maneuver—as if the strikers, not the policemen, were the ones with the guns. Yet Rievesaltes was smiling. His voice was soft when he spoke.

“Yes, yes, we know what your plans are. That’s why we came here. To bring you what you need.” With that he waved his arm and the policemen stepped away from the entrance to the cellar. A whole crowd—smugglers, wood burners, thieves—was standing by the roadway. There was even the famous “broadcasting station”—that is, two Jews, one of whom tuned in the foreign newscasts, after which the other stood on a corner and for three zlotys a person read the bulletins out. And there, with the others, was Edmund Trilling, the Bundist. In short, it was the whole jail population.

As if that were not astounding enough, the Security Minister next handed his gun to the hatless Lipsky, and ordered his men to do the same.

The strikers instinctively shrank back. “It’s a trick!” somebody shouted.

But the Police Chief was completely unruffled. “We don’t have to fight each other,” he announced. “You want to get the food out of the warehouse and so, as a matter of fact, do I. It follows we can make an agreement.”

“The revolution doesn’t bargain with class enemies,” Kipnis shot back.

“Or with Judenrat members,” Szypper added.

But Lipsky put up his hand. “What do you mean, an agreement?”

“Advocate Lipsky, you want to get into the warehouse but can’t because of Bloygrund, my close relation, and the rest of the Smugowa Street Brigade. Also, there is the Elite Guard with its guns. I, too, want to get into the warehouse, but the strikers, your comrades, are camped all around it. What could be simpler? I’ll talk to the firefighters and you talk to the spinners. That way we can all get the food together and not a drop of Jewish blood hits the ground. That’s my proposal. We can clean the whole depot out!”

“What’s in it for you?” Edmund Trilling, still standing with the group of freed prisoners, wanted to know.

Rievesaltes grinned. “One thousand ice blocks, one hundred fish in each ice block, at ten zlotys a butterfish is, to answer your question, one million zlotys.”

Nachman Kipnis was horrified. “It’s economic speculation!”

“True. But what do you want? To feed the Ghetto or not? If we agree, no one is hurt, everyone gets a meal. Your way people will be shot. How much is the life of a Jew worth? Ten zlotys for a butterfish is these days an excellent price. If a Jew can’t afford it, he’ll get a loan from Rievesaltes Associates! At good interest! Ha! Ha! The Ghetto will bless the Police Chief’s name!”

The raiders were thrown into confusion by this clever plan. For no reason Szypper turned his cap backward. “It’s wrong,” he said. “But I can’t say exactly why.”