Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/284

Berger. He lit two cigarettes and put one between the lips of his bound comrade, offering the other to Anna.

For a time they puffed in silence. Berger's mind was a confusion of thoughts and images. He wanted to talk-or cry- but even before he could open his lips, the sudden tide of energy receded and left him exhausted and apathetic. Lamarque pulled over a chair and sat down near him.

"Guts, my friend," he began, talking slowly and as though measuring every word. "A militant fighter must have guts. I know that it hurts, believe me, I know. But this is war-mass killing. The individual doesn't count a damn!"

The blood rushed into Berger's face. "What do you mean-the individual doesn't mean a damn?" he fumed. "To me the individual is everything!"

"Even so, comrade," Lamarque insisted, "we must have guts, we mustn't break down. Pain is a clarion call to new action, a clear and unmistakable sign that truth and justice are on our side. Yes, my friend," he took a long pull at his cigarette, "courage and patience are still the best weapons. Sooner or later we must win."

"Of course we'll win," Morris said feeling the luxury of freedom in his released limbs. He stretched his arms and uttered a deep sigh of relief.

"Of course we will," he repeated. This time Berger's voice as calm, and the sudden change in the quality of the spoken words came almost as a physical shock to Lamarque. "But did you ever figure out who will win? The tortured, the persecuted, the sick and the careworn! The cripples will win, Lamarque. And is it with these that you want to introduce an order of peace and justice in the world?"

"Let's not fret our brains with what'll happen later," Lamarque answered. "Let history worry about that."

"History?" Berger repeated ironically. His mouth twisted