“Poor woman,” said Mister Kemp.

“A pity,” Marx responded.

Hersh Einhorn snatched the earphones from his fellow orphan. Frantically he spun the transmitter dial. “Hello? Is this Pinsk? Reply, please, Comrades! Is this Grodno speaking? Help us!”

Without warning a stranger came in, walked right pass the watchman, and took off his hat and his glasses and, to everyone’s amazement, his mustache and nose. It was Lipsky, their leader, in a disguise. The Strike Committee crowded around him, teary-eyed, and at their wits’ end. The little fellow took out the pistol he owned. “They’re shooting? That’s easy! We shoot back. We attack the warehouse with guns!”

“That means revolution! It’s the revolution!” Nachman Kipnis, his thick lenses full of the lamplight, raised a finger to the ceiling. “Friends, this is what Rosa Luxemburg said: From the whirlwind and the storm, out of the fire and glow of the mass strike and the street fighting, rise again, like Venus from the foam, fresh, young, powerful, buoyant trade unions.”

Julius Szypper stood on a chair. “This is a great moment for the Balut. The mass strike is inseparable from the revolution. Comrade Luxemburg said those words, too!”

It was Hersh Einhorn’s turn. “Remember this, Comrades. We are not fighting simply for the Jews of the Ghetto, but for the proletariat in every land. First we must contact the Polish workers. The left-labor parties. They will carry our strike to the Aryan section. Thus it will spread—from the Balut, to the city, throughout the General Government, from nation to nation. The hour of the working class is at hand!”

“What we do is of world historical importance!”

“Our struggle is the Götterdämmerung of capitalism! We are doing it! We simple Jews!”

Lipsky called for silence again. One of his eyebrows was thick and bushy; the other one, the narrow one, was his own. “First things first,” he said. “We need guns. We have to seize them from the Tsarnecka Street jail. At the same time we’ll free the prisoners there. It’s a dangerous job, brothers. Is anyone willing?”

Madame Trilling stepped forward first. “I’m coming! They are holding my husband there.”

The three orphans were next. “We too!” they cried.

“We are the forward scouts of the glorious Red Army!” Hersh Einhorn declared.

Marx, Kemp, Kleiderman linked arms with each other. “We’re ready!” they shouted.

In no time, everyone volunteered. All together they rushed out of the cellar and opened the narrow trapdoor to the street. They were met by a hot, bitter wind. Not only that: three no-neckers—Turski, Nodelman, Officer Pravenishkis—were stationed there, flanking the Chief of Police. Each had a gun.

“Rievesaltes!” cried Hersh Einhorn.

A spinner shouted, “Betrayed!”

But Lipsky kept his head. He pushed his way forward to where the two groups confronted each other. “Minister Rievesaltes! On behalf of the workers’ movement, I inform you that the Tsarnecka Street jail no longer exists. From now on Jews will not arrest Jews! No exceptions! Anyone who violates this order will be dealt with by our armed units. There is only one enemy: the Occupying Power, along with its collaborators on the Judenrat. We’ll take care of them, too. I order you to hand over your weapons to the officers of the Strike Committee!”