Hersh Einhorn, the adolescent, temporarily lost his nerve. He asked, “Now what do we do?”

As if in reply, the cannibal woman leaned from the second floor window and began to fire her rapid-shooting gun. Over her shoulder Kleiderman hurled out a grenade. It exploded, the way it was supposed to. Then the top and bottom floors joined in. The Jews were shooting from every window. They were throwing their bombs.

To the Blond Ones, it must have seemed like a whole army attacking. In their surprise, their panic, dozens of Warriors ran pell-mell toward the embankment, and over into the river. Other soldiers either retreated to the brickwork under the bridge, or took cover behind the two gray-green tanks.

One of these started its engine and immediately rumbled off down the promenade. The other held its ground. It aimed its gun point-blank at the ground-floor windows; out of those windows, with a roar, the presser fired first. Poof! Like a flaming dessert, the machine ignited. Blue fire came from the turret, the peepholes, the barrel of the gun. Then it detonated inside, and the blue flames turned into orange ones, which steadily burned.

Then Einhorn gave the command: “Ground floor out! Second floor out! Top floor, maintain covering fire!”

Right away six Jews rushed from the rear exit of the house, shooting automatic guns. Simultaneously, the Warriors beneath the bridge scattered left and right, along the embankment. Some of them threw their weapons down.

And that was that. The Edmund Trilling Brigade controlled the approach to the bridge. The Blond Ones had not fired a shot.

“Ha! Ha!” laughed the presser. “We’ve done it!”

“Shhh!” said Chaffer. He was listening.

“Come in, Comrades. Come in, Comrades. Comrades, come in.” It was Nachman Kipnis, up on the second floor, talking on the radio. “Bridge secure. Repeat: bridge secure.” The boy’s voice droned on and on, while in the yard below him, and at the edge of the river, the wounded Warriors gasped and groaned. The flaming tank hissed terribly and lit the scene. At last the Jews heard what they were waiting for:

“They answered! They heard me! Now they will come!”

“Three cheers for Comrade Kipnis!”

Wearing his earphones, the lad appeared at the window. Like a boxer he clenched his hands.

Faulhaber, Einhorn, Lipiczany—the whole top floor raced down the stairway and out of doors. “To the bridge!” cried Faulhaber.

“To the bridge!”

The brigade ran to where the abandoned artillery piece still pointed down the length of the arching span. Miss Bibelnieks reached inside her blouse and removed a small bouquet: horsetails, buttercups, daisies. “Only paper,” blushing, she said.

“Brigade, attention!” Einhorn commanded.

Everyone stood rigidly, in parade formation. Then, as if they had communicated secretly to one another through the ether, each man, each woman, each child burst into “The Marseillaise.” How lustily they sang it! Loud enough to hear clear across the swift Dolna! And when they had finished the first verse—about the hateful tyrants, about the peace which lay bleeding—they repeated the chorus, Victory or Death! and began to sing the second. Only not so many brigaders knew the words. They had to drop out. They had to hum. Silence soon. Miss Bibelnieks held out her damp, drooping horsetails. There was no one on the King Ladislaus Bridge.