At that time of the afternoon, the sun is at its highest, and the whole expanse of stone between the buildings on either side of the yard is turned into a well of scalding hot, white light. Only later in the afternoon does a narrow shadow start to edge from the long row of sheds and outbuildings running along the exterior of the crumbling stone wall. Those just arriving all cluster in the thin strip of shade. In the end there are so many of them jostling together along the wall that the chief of the ghetto fire brigade, Mr Kaufmann, feels impelled to emerge from his cool office and push or pleadingly pull on reluctant arms to make the crowd space itself out a little. But nobody willingly stands in the broiling hot sun. When the Chairman finally arrives, it is half past four and the area of shade has spread halfway across the inner courtyard. But it is by now such a huge gathering that only a fraction can stand in that shade. The rest have either moved to the gable end, deeper into the courtyard, or climbed onto the roofs of the sheds and outhouses.
