Instantly Luftgas swung open the mill gates. “Now we will forget what happened,” he shouted. “Everybody who comes to work is forgiven!” But there was no surge toward the factory grounds. The pressers and cutters, along with the finishing and buttonhole sections, stood in place. They were watching the fecalist wagon which, with pails clanging, had turned that moment onto Jakuba Street.

The Bloomgarden children pushed the wagon to the spot where the shooting had taken place. Pipe took Klapholtz’s heels and Sheftelowitz lifted his head up. They handed him to Zinta, Bloomgarden’s wife, who pulled him atop the barrel. Then the driver removed his cap. It was not Bloomgarden, it was Hersh Einhorn. A leader of the underground forces! “Comrades! Look what they have done to him! They have murdered him!”

Meanwhile a second fecalist wagon drove up behind the first. The driver was young Julius Szypper. He stood on his seat. He was openly wearing his red star. “The members of the Fecalists’ Guild wish to show solidarity with the plight of the spinning-mill workers. There will be no more movement of sewage!”

A bit of a cheer went up. The finishers were taking heart. But Luftgas made himself heard. “You’re making a big mistake! Come back to work! Today there is kohlrabi leaf in the soup! And pea bread! It’s illegal not to be at your spindles!”

No one paid any attention. Now a third wagon, with Jews pushing its metal-rimmed wheels, rolled up next to the others. The driver had a cap on, and his coat collar was pulled over his face. “Citizens of the Balut! Look at Klapholtz, shot full of bullets! How skillful he was! How expressive! He could have been a gold medal winner! But they broke his legs and his arms!” The fecalist removed his cap. A shock of hair stood up in back like a cardinal bird’s. You could see the tips of his pointed ears. Lipsky the lawyer! The outlaw!

“Who did this thing? Mosk workers, have you got eyes? Wasn’t the tyrant’s wife right on the spot? What kind of government is this that shoots its own people? Jews are now killing Jews! They’re collaborating with the Others! We repudiate the authority of the Judenrat! We are the tens and tens of thousands! We shall get weapons! We’ll throw the dictator down!”

There was, for a hair’s breadth, a split second, a pause. Then Marbled, all his life a buttonholer, ran forward, seized Bloomgarden’s harness, and slipped the leather strap over his head. It was just what was needed. Pipe and Sheftelowitz and Kleiderman threw their shoulders against the spokes of the wheels. A roar went up. Hundreds of workers broke ranks and rated across the street. Even the shirtwaist girls were coming. They surrounded the excrement wagons and turned them around. Then they began to march behind them out of Jakuba Street. Their voices rang out: “Food! Fuel! A better life!” Their fists were in the air.

On Wesola Street passersby stopped and stared. The rickshaw drivers made their customers get out of the rickshaws, and they too fell in line. The caravan swept by the shed of the crystal sorters, and those workers, mostly old women, came outside and joined the throng. They tramped straight up the thoroughfare. There was not a soldier or policeman in sight. The ground shook. The buildings seemed to tremble. At Brzeszinska the comb-and-cork shop emptied out. Brush makers lined the sidewalk, waving strips of paper like flags. The demonstration grew and grew. What a spectacle it was. A procession of resolute Jews! They seemed to themselves to consist of an irresistible force. The world, which had been snatched from them, would be seized once again. What could they not do?