I think she must have been one of
those fiery, eloquent leaders in her factory clique. The
banner she carried was a large one, and it flapped
prodigiously in the breeze, and its pole was thick and
heavy. She was a very small girl, even in that group of
pale-faced, under-sized, under-fed girls. A Russian Jewess,
evidently. Her shoes were ludicrous. They curled up at the
toes, and the heels were run down. Her dress was a sort of
parody on the prevailing fashion. But on her face, as she
trudged along, hugging the pole of the great pennant that
flapped in the breeze, was stamped a look.--well, you see
that same look in some pictures of Joan of Arc. It wasn't
merely a look. It was a story. It was tragedy. It was the
history of a people. You saw in it that which told of
centuries of oppression in Russia. You saw eager groups of
student Intellectuals, gathered in secret places for low-
voiced, fiery talk. There was in it the unspeakable misery
of Siberia. It spoke eloquently of pogroms, of massacres,
of Kiev and its sister-horror, Kishineff.
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