"Look, with the situation as it is we have no transportation available to collect the Jews. Administratively they belong to Upper Silesia. I've talked to my superiors and we're in agreement that the easiest and best thing would be for you to dispose of them."

I didn't answer.

"Do you understand?" asked the voice from Warsaw.

"Yes, I understand," I said.

"Then we have a solution, don't we?"

"That's right," I said. "But I'd like to receive the order in writing," I added. I heard a pealing laugh at the other end of the line. It could be my son's laugh, I thought, a laugh that conjured up country afternoons, blue rivers full of trout, and the scent of fistfuls of flowers and grasses.

"Don't be naive," said the voice without a hint of arrogance, "these orders are never issued in writing."