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like molten lead. I was in the midst of prayer when suddenly there was shouting in the streets. I quickly unwound my phylacteries and ran to the window. Hungarian po- lice had entered the ghetto and were yelling in the street nearby.
    “All Jews, outside! Hurry!”
    They were followed by Jewish police, who, their voices break- ing, told us:
    “The time has come…you must leave all this…”
    The Hungarian police used their rifle butts, their clubs to indiscriminately strike old men and women, children and cripples.
    One by one, the houses emptied and the streets filled with peo- ple carrying bundles. By ten o'clock, everyone was outside. The police were taking roll calls, once, twice, twenty times. The heat was oppressive. Sweat streamed from people's faces and bodies.
    Children were crying for water.
    Water! There was water close by inside the houses, the backyards, but it was forbidden to break rank.
    “Water, Mother, I am thirsty!”
    Some of the Jewish police surreptitiously went to fill a few jugs. My sisters and I were still allowed to move about, as we were destined for the last convoy, and so we helped as best we could.
     
     
    AT LAST, at one o'clock in the afternoon came the signal to leave.
    There was joy, yes, joy. People must have thought there could be no greater torment in God's hell than that of being stranded here, on the sidewalk, among the bundles, in the middle of the street under a blazing sun. Anything seemed preferable to that. They began to walk without another glance at the abandoned streets, the dead, empty houses, the gardens, the tombstones… On everyone's back, there was a sack. In everyone's eyes, tears and distress. Slowly, heavily, the procession advanced toward the gate of the ghetto.
    And there I was, on the sidewalk, watching them file past, un- able to move. Here came the Chief Rabbi, hunched over, his face strange looking without a beard, a bundle on his back. His very presence in the procession was enough to make the scene seem surreal. It was like a page torn from a book, a historical novel, per- haps, dealing with the captivity in Babylon or the Spanish Inqui- sition.
    They passed me by, one after the other, my teachers, my friends, the others, some of whom I had once feared, some of whom I had found ridiculous, all those whose lives I had shared for years. There they went, defeated, their bundles, their lives in tow, having left behind their homes, their childhood.
    They passed me by, like beaten dogs, with never a glance in my direction. They must have envied me.
    The procession disappeared around the corner. A few steps more and they were beyond the ghetto walls.
    The street resembled fairgrounds deserted in haste. There was a little of everything: suitcases, briefcases, bags, knives, dishes, banknotes, papers, faded portraits. All the things one planned to take along and finally left behind. They had ceased to matter.
    Open rooms everywhere. Gaping doors and windows looked out into the void. It all belonged to everyone since it no longer belonged to anyone. It was there for the taking. An open tomb.
    A summer sun.
     
     
    WE HAD SPENT the day without food. But we were not really hun- gry. We were exhausted.
    My father had accompanied the deportees as far as the ghetto's gate. They first had been herded through the main syna- gogue, where they were thoroughly searched to make sure they were not carrying away gold, silver, or any other valuables. There had been incidents of hysteria and harsh blows.
    “When will it be our turn?” I asked my father.
    “The day after tomorrow. Unless…things work out. A mira- cle, perhaps…”
    Where were the people being taken? Did anyone know yet? No, the secret was well kept.
    Night had fallen. That evening, we went to bed early. My fa- ther said:
    “Sleep peacefully, children. Nothing will happen until the day after tomorrow, Tuesday.”
    Monday went by like a small summer cloud, like a dream in the first hours of dawn.
    Intent on