But where were the Russian forces? Where? Even with binoculars, Hersh Einhorn could not see the slightest movement on the eastern bank. In the Suburb, however, the shooting continued. Lights blazed as if there were no need for a blackout at all. At times the brigaders imagined that, across half the city, they could hear people scream.

“Don’t they know there is a roundup in the Ghetto? Why don’t they cross?” Kleiderman, in his anguish, beat a fist on a wall.

Kipnis touched him on the shoulder. “This war is only part of the world revolution. What appears to be a struggle between nation and nation is in reality a battle between classes.” They boy looked up. He raised his finger. “To advance merely for the sake of the Ghetto would be reckless adventurism!”

“But there are still fifteen thousand people in the Balut!”

Zam came forward. “There has to be an explanation. The bridge might be mined. That’s why they have not yet come.”

Kleiderman wrenched away. He backed from his fellow fighters. “Fools!” he told them. “Fools!” Then he leaned well out the window and began to shout. “I know! I understand! I know what you’re doing!”

A sniper, lying quietly by the river, shot his rifle in the direction of that voice. Kleiderman doubled up, like a person in a fit of laughter, and pitched out the window. There was a crack from his bones when he hit the ground.

Immediately a second sniper opened fire.

“Yes! Ha! Ha! Hit me in the thigh!”

The presser, though wounded, managed to set off the cannon again. The big gun ripped a crater in the stone-covered embankment. “Ha! Ha! It’s the last shell!” There was a lull in the shooting. Then you could hear men running across the gravel behind the house.

“They’re charging!”

“Fire!” ordered Einhorn.

This time the Blond Ones did not retreat. Instead, they flung themselves down where they were. There was nothing for the Jews to aim at, except the occasional flash from an enemy gun.

“No more bullets!” Mister Pipe called.

The cannibal woman said she had ten shots left.

The fighters all moved to the second floor. They gathered around the old wireless set. Purplish lights ran up the length of the tubes. Between the transformers, electricity leaped and cracked, making a smell like toast. Kipnis put on the earphones. Endlessly he repeated the single word: Comrades.

The Jews leaned forward, their faces sweating like plums. Nothing. Silence. No reply.

Doctor Zam straightened up. He handed his bullets to Pipe. “I will contact our allies in person,” he said. “I must show them the bridge is not mined.”

“But how—” asked Einhorn.

Zam was already down the shattered stairs. He shouted over his shoulder, “The taxi!”

Sure enough, a moment later the interior light went on in the Packard, and the doctor, who had once driven a sports car, slid behind the wheel. The engine started. The bulb on the roof, indicating the car was for hire, began to wink. The vehicle roared off. At the first intersection the Packard made a right turn and disappeared. Immediately four shots rang out, one atop the other. Not shots, it developed. The taxi had plunged through the barricade; the barbs on the wire coils had punctured the tires. Yawing one way, veering another, the auto lurched down the embankment and onto the three-lane bridge. Recklessly, with abandon, the underground fighters crowded into the window. Nobody fired. Nobody attempted to halt the careening cab.