“What the hell is this?” Emil Wiskoff said, standing at the doorway, assessing the company in his apartment. “We live here,” said Pani Lescovec. “We live here,” said Emil, and soon enough it became clear that Henryk had snookered all of us out of our own places, for reasons we couldn’t begin to fathom (who was he putting up? why did he need our money? our apartments?), and that he had made various promises we couldn’t imagine were true: he’d find us papers, he’d arrange a passage out of the ghetto, he’d take care of our former apartments as if they were his own.
