Chapter Six

A Decision for the Judenrat

I

That summer there were more flies than usual in the Suburb of the Balut. They dropped, fingernail-sized, into the tin bowls of soup. They banged like hailstones against the sides of the excrement wagons. How awful it was when they whirled over the Ghetto in clouds, touching down now and then like tornadoes, making a roaring sound. “And there came a grievous swarm of flies,” said Rabbi Wolf-Kitzes, quoting his text by heart. He thought the Jews were suffering the seven plagues. But the other rabbis answered him calmly. “The war is going to end in a few months,” said Trunk, of the Devout Butchers. “In November.” This is how such true believers reckoned: the new Hebrew year, which fell in November, would be 5702; and was not 5702 the numerical value of the Hebrew phrase The Sabbath Brings with It Peace? Meanwhile, in 1941, the flies hung in the air, like spots in front of a sick man’s eyes, like ashes, like dust.

Because of these buzzing insects the windows of the Chancellory, Dworska Number 20, had to be shut, in spite of the heat of the day. Inside, the Judenrat members also were certain the war would soon end. Not on account of the New Year, but because Russia was at last in the war. It was to celebrate that event that the Council, before the start of its regular meeting, was having a party of sorts. Schotter, of course, had been invited. There was creamed herring and, in wineglasses, purple wine. Popower, once a waiter, was speaking.

“Listen! Horowitz has gone crazy! He thinks he’s Napoleon now! That’s why he invaded Russia on June 22. The same date as the Grande Armée!”

Margolies, another ex-waiter, Minister of Justice now: “But Kiev has not fallen! No, they won’t take Kiev!”

Schotter, thinner than at the wedding, with fewer teeth, less hair: “They say that at the start of the Russian campaign Napoleon wore a red shirt, to hide his blood in case of a wound. Horowitz just put on a pair of brown drawers!”

There was a peal of laughter. Schpitalnik, the piano player, inhaled some snuff into his nose. “It makes me feel happy,” he said.

Next to speak was the Minister of Water and Power, the percussionist, Paradyz. “I have also thought of a joke. What is the difference between Horowitz and the sun? The sun goes down in the west and Horowitz goes down in the east!”

“Ha! Ha! In the east! In Russia, you mean! It’s clever!” The person laughing had just that moment come through the door. It was F. X. Wohltat. He had on a white linen suit with wet stains under both arms. As soon as the Jewish Government saw him, they jumped up from their places. Off went their hats. Even Schpitalnik stood up, dizzily swaying.

“Sit down, ladies. Gentlemen, please, replace your hats. All men are the same to me.” Then Wohltat did something unique, something new: he held his right arm outward, toward the shocked Jews, as if he wanted to shake their hands. “Friends! Let us greet each other as colleagues. As equals. If you won’t put your hats on, look, I’ll remove my own.” In one hand he gripped his derby; with the other he squeezed the fingers of Gutfreind, Minister of Education.