“Are we in a fairy tale?” whispered Milena.
“That’s how I feel,” said Bart. “Either that or we’re dreaming the same dream at the same time.”
Soon they had lost their sense of direction and didn’t know which way to go. Wherever they turned, they saw the same multitude of backs, shoulders, kindly faces, and there were the same large hands to shake. Immersed in the warmth of this human throng, they no longer felt concern either for what the next day would bring or for the biting cold of winter.
“Which way is the village?” asked Milena at last, feeling dazed.
A young horse-woman heard her and took her arm. “Would you like me to take you back? Follow me!”
She set off ahead of them, very proud to be their guide. She was bare-headed, and her straight hair, growing untidily, stood up on her strong skull in tufts. There were deep folds around her neck. Her man’s coat flapped around her legs, and now and then she turned to see if they were still following her. When she saw that they were there, she smiled with delight. Once she took her opportunity to whisper to Milena, “Oh, you’re as beautiful as a princess!” Then she turned away very quickly, moved with emotion at her own daring.
“You’re the beautiful one,” Milena murmured to herself. “Much more beautiful than me.”
Back in the village they all met at Faber’s house again. Jahn left briefly, accompanied by the inevitable Jocelin, to go to the post office, the only place in the village with a telephone. He came back looking very pale to announce his news: the uprising had begun in the capital during the night, and the army had opened fire, terrorizing the population. There were dozens of dead, and this morning the Phalange had restored order. However, in several northern towns, young people had put up barricades, which they were defending doggedly, and those barricades were still holding.
“Good God!” swore Lando. “Things are moving much too fast! It’s far too soon!”
“Yes, it’s too soon,” Jahn agreed, “but there we are. The fire has been lit. No one can put it out now.”
As soon as she woke up, Helen realized that this wasn’t going to be a morning like any other. After her fright when the militia broke into Milena’s room, she had fallen asleep. It was a heavy, dreamless sleep, and now she was sitting on the edge of her bed, feeling numb. Her alarm clock told her that it was nearly ten in the morning. She had never gotten up so late since coming to the restaurant. She washed, dressed hurriedly, and went out into the silent corridor. The sight of Milena’s shattered door brought last night’s violence straight back to her. She passed it without stopping and went downstairs, feeling vaguely that the whole world was out of joint.
On the second floor, she went to Bartolomeo’s door, and saw that it too had been forced open. She glanced inside the room, where the same chaos reigned as in Milena’s after the barbarians had ransacked it. Objects were lying around on the floor, broken and crushed underfoot. Her stomach muscles cramped with fear: what would happen if her two friends ever fell into the hands of these men?
The two restaurant rooms were empty. Helen took the elevator down to the basement. In the silence its iron machinery seemed louder than ever. Passing through the kitchens, she finally heard a faint sound coming from the staff canteen, and then voices. She opened the door and saw about thirty of her fellow workers sitting there, crammed into a space too small for them. They were in the middle of such a lively discussion that they hardly noticed her arrival.
“We can manage the meals no problem without Lando,” a boy sitting at the corner of the table was saying. “I mean, we’re not total idiots!”
“It’s not a matter of being idiots or not,” said another boy, wearing a warehouse man’s gray apron. “It depends on whether we can serve the customers anything. The suppliers know that Mr. Jahn has gone away, and we haven’t had half this morning’s deliveries: no vegetables, no bread. So what do you think we’re going to give people?”
A young woman leaning on a cupboard said placidly, “I’m perfectly happy to serve anything we have, but I don’t think anyone’s likely to turn up. They say the factory’s on strike.”
“Exactly,” agreed a man beside her, smoking a cigarette. “There was a scuffle at the entrance.”
“So what are we going to do?” one girl asked.
The discussion went around in circles like this for several minutes, until a young man of about twenty suddenly got up on his chair. He was clearly angry. “Look, I’m sorry, but you’re really getting me down with all this talk about vegetable deliveries!” he cried. “Going on about carrots and potatoes when people were putting up the barricades last night. You heard them too, I suppose. What are we waiting for? Let’s get moving!”
“Hear, hear!” another young man agreed. “I’ve no intention of sitting here twiddling my thumbs. I’m off into town to see what’s going on. Coming?”
The two of them put on their jackets and marched out.
“Be careful!” the boy smoking the cigarette called after them. “They’re saying people died last night!”
There was a long and weighty silence.
“I wonder what Mr. Jahn would say,” one of the cooks, a girl in a white apron, said with a sigh.
“What would he say?” replied another girl, getting to her feet. “He’d say he’s not our father, and maybe we should learn to manage without him. And not be scared anymore! Those two boys are right. I’m going after them. Who’s coming with me?”
It was Rachel, a friend of Dora’s. Helen knew her well.
“I’ll come,” she said, surprised to find herself so bold.
Going along the corridor to her room, she felt a sense of elation. There were three days left before the winter fights. Only three days. But suppose the revolution was already beginning? Suppose the city was suddenly in chaos? Wouldn’t the Phalangists have more urgent things on their minds than going to watch gladiators die? Surely they would! They wouldn’t go to the arena. They’d stay away and the fights would be canceled! For the first time in months, she saw hope ahead. A faint hope, but a real one.
Looking around her little room at her few ornaments, the two bookshelves, her clothes hanging from the cord, she asked herself an unusual question: what do you take with you when you’re a girl of seventeen going off to build barricades in the street to save your lover? Unable to come up with any satisfactory answer, she put on her brightly col ored cap, her scarf, and her winter coat, and set off.
The other three were waiting for her outside the restaurant. They conferred briefly and decided to go to the factory. From a distance they saw that the tall gates were guarded by a dozen armed militiamen. They turned away and went along small streets, taking care not to slip on the black ice. The boy who had spurred them into action in the canteen was still talking passionately. “They want to prevent crowds from gathering, but they won’t do it! We only need people to stop being frightened and come out into the street, that’s all!”
“Don’t talk so loud,” the other boy warned him.
“I’ll talk any way I like,” his friend retorted. “I’ve kept my mouth shut for years and I’m sick and tired of it, do you hear? Sick and tired!” He shouted it out at the top of his voice, and then roared with laughter. “Oh, how good that feels! Why don’t you all try it?”
Luckily, the tram was running normally. They boarded it, and immediately noticed three militiamen sitting at the back, clubs in their hands and pistols at their belts. The enthusiastic boy calmed down a little but still stared defiantly at them.
“Got a problem?” inquired one of the men.