Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/104

youth, the sole support of a half-paralyzed mother, was already a man. He knew life in all its aspects; there were no mysteries left.

Lustily he sang in his high-pitched boy's voice. Anna handed her a wrinkled leaflet, and now her voice was swept tried to join in, but she wasn't sure of the words. Someone up in the general chorus. From all about her came the chanting of more slogans. She could hear Pierre's voice above the rest-"We demand! We demand!"

"What do you mean 'we?'" came the laughing voice of a girl in the row ahead. She was apparently amused by her remark, clanking her metal bracelets as she chuckled.

"That's a good question," Pierre called back. "This is who 'we' are!" He waved his hands to take in the marching multitude. "We are the bricklayers, the road builders, the railroad workers, the furriers, cobblers, tailors," he shouted oratorically. "We are the ones who plough the fields and plant the vineyards. We are the engineers and mechanics."

"And what about us-the students?" the laughing, braceleted girl called out teasingly. But Pierre paid no attention to the interruption and went on with his inventory.

"Hey, maybe you'd like a trumpet, comrade-or a soapbox." The good-natured cries came from all sides. But still Pierre was undeterred. "Yes, comrades," his voice rang out, "the future depends on us."

Anna gazed at him in surprise. Was this the quiet Pierre, the youth she saw day after day in the shop, patiently nailing down the fur skins to the board, one nail after the other? Was this the same timid-seeming fellow? Only in dramatic moments does the individual reveal himself, she reflected. Moments that smash windows open in the soul so that can breathe in the bright sun, the irresistible beauty of life. His flushed face was wet with perspiration and his eyes