It was the last of the holidays. The little church was packed, and the stout village priest, with his low forehead and wiry bristling hair, preached and preached. Everyone knew that he had gone to visit the landowner the day before and had been wined and dined and gone home loaded with presents; indeed, he repeated what he had been told there: that the Jewish banker, Herr Junger-mann, wanted to attach the landowner’s property. So he told how all the Jews ate white rolls and fish and plum jam on Friday evening. And after all it was the Jews who had crucified our Saviour. And yet there were people in the village who lived on friendly terms with them, who mingled with them and even nursed their children.