The fires won't light. The Zyklon B won't dissolve into gas. Feeding them
less and less, but they're not getting any weaker — in fact, they seem
to be actually getting stronger. Just yesterday, Moishe, 88225547,
casually hurled a giant boulder over his shoulder during work detail. And
he hasn't been fed since early 1943.

I heard from a guard at Birkenau that each time they try the gas, instead
of a gray-green fog, a golden mist comes out, and hugs and surrounds all
the naked Jews — and then when it clears, they're gone! The Commandant
just shrugs and figures Herr Hitler will be satisfied, one way or
another.

Maybe he doesn't realize — it's El Shaddai, Yahweh of the Lion's Den,
Yahweh who saved Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in Nebuchadnezzar's
furnace! He's back! No Jew who died in the camps ever died — Yahweh
gathered them all like plucked shoots. He planted them in the ricefields
of Heaven, and they flourish in the cool water.

Once a year, they gather for Kristallnacht — close your eyes, and you'll
see the lights gathering, like crystal reflections, and before long, a
beautiful crystal castle appears as if by magic, towers and turrets and
ramparts glowing and growing and articulating and thrusting up into the
ultramarine sky.

No Kristallnacht Palace is ever the same. Slip in a window, down vaulted
hallways, spiral staircases, promenades and concourses, to the Grand
Ballroom — there you'll see all the Holocaust Jews chatting, dancing,
laughing, drinking, smoking. 60's sunglasses at a table. Women with wraps
and shiny teeth throwing their heads back laughing. Men in prayer shawls
beneath the skylight, gesticulating, shaking their heads, stomping, a
passage in the Torah. Silk suits & loincloths — they do, after all, have
Alltime as their fashion closet.