Still, the court considered the government's position in the fairest way that it could, without assuming any facts or statements not presented.

The decision, unlike most Supreme Court decisions that would come in future years, was only four pages long. The reasoning behind the Court's decision was contained in the second paragraph: "In the absence of any evidence tending to show that possession or use of a 'shotgun having a barrel less than eighteen inches in length' at this time has some reasonable relationship to the preservation or efficiency of a well-regulated militia, we cannot say that the Second Amendment guarantees the right to keep and bear such an instrument. Certainly it is not within judicial notice that this weapon is any part of the ordinary military equipment or that its use could contribute to the common defense."

Gordon Dean's straw man argument had worked. Without opposing counsel, the Court was never told that shotguns with barrels of less than eighteen inches were used in the military. The Court was never informed that the National Firearms Act applied to automatic weapons that were obviously military issue, which would have killed the government's own argument right there. Finally, no one had pointed out, as had District Court Judge Heartsill Ragon, that militia weapons were, by definition, the personal arms of the private citizenry, and therefore whether or not a particular weapon was issued to army troops was completely irrelevant.

The language of the decision would ultimately cause the government much trouble, however. The wording clearly showed that the Supreme Court viewed all military-issue small arms as being Constitutionally protected. Since the National Firearms Act infringed upon the citizens' right to keep and bear many obviously military-issue small arms, the Court should have found the Act unconstitutional. But the Court did not know about this element of the Act, and so the National Firearms Act remained on the books as part of federal law.

Jack Miller and Frank Layton, innocent men the day before, were once again guilty of a federal crime. They had no known address, however, and in 1939, tracking down a couple of poor Arkansas hillbillies because a year earlier they had had a piece of steel shorter than a certain length was not top priority for Treasury agents. Jack Miller and Frank Layton were never seen again by law enforcement authorities.

In 1939, few if any people complained about the National Firearms Act, just as few people complained about the much more obvious 'Jim Crow' laws that existed throughout the country. Just like the doctrine of 'separate but equal,' the National Firearms Act would remain an embarrassing stain on the nation's fabric for over half a century. Just as with that other civil rights violation, the National Firearms Act would spawn other, more outrageous infringements, like a tumor that slowly metastases into ever-widening and ever more aggressive forms of cancer. Finally, as was true of civil rights violations everywhere in the world, the choice would come down to eradicating the cancer or letting it kill the patient.

That decision, however, would not happen for more than fifty years. When it did, it would be precipitated by several people who on that May afternoon in 1939 had not yet been born, and one who was then only a year old.

Part Two.

"Listen, Goddamnit, I told you I was going to enlist, and this is the least you could do for me, for Christ's sake!"

GROWTH.

"But Max," Zofia pleaded, pronouncing his name 'Mecks', "you have a child. You are almost thirty years old. Your family needs you here. If you must leave us, do it. But please don't send this letter. It is a...a lie."

"I'm not going to get stuck on some base in Texas while there's a war going on in Europe! You have to sign this letter. It's the only way I'll get in the Airborne. The kid will be fine with you, and you can live with Father in St. Louis. You've been bitching about New York for two years now." He looked her in the eye. Jesus, I hope this stunt works he thought. This woman is driving me crazy here. "I would have thought you'd be more supportive. After all, it's your relatives that are being slaughtered over there by the krauts."

His final words did it. Zofia Collins hung her head in shame and signed her name to the letter her husband had typed to the War Department.

"Collins, this has to be you. Jesus, man! You must have really wanted to get away from that wife of yours. I guess nobody will call you a liar any more." Private Hemmings had just run into the barracks, and now stood by Max Collins' bunk, holding out a folded section of the New York Times. Everyone in basic training had heard the story of how the oldest new recruit on the base had made his wife sign a letter to the War Department demanding they accept her husband for combat duty.

Max looked down at the newspaper and laughed out loud. "In the goddamn New York Times'. I'll be a sonof-a-bitch!" He took the paper from the younger man and read the news item

Wife Wants Father Of Her Child In Combat Begs War Dept. to Put Him in Airborne.

N.Y. Times Staff Report.

Most women weep at the thought of their husbands going into combat. A Polish-born woman in St. Louis, Missouri, however, has urged the War Department to make sure that her husband gets in the Airborne, even though he is twenty-nine and they have a young daughter. The letter was sent to one of the husband's relatives who is connected with the present Administration. There, it was forwarded to the appropriate department. In part, it reads: ...my husband is strong man, and going nuts with war in Europe and nothing can do here. You must take him or not good for me live with here more. My husband must go jump in where fight, not stay at Texas waste of time...

The letter goes on to state that the writer's American-bom husband is very concerned for her family in Poland. The couple has not heard from any of them for almost two years. It is not often that a wife insists that her husband be accepted into the Airborne during wartime. Our prayers are that such demands will soon be unnecessary.

"Well, I guess I'm not a liar after all," he said with a smile. Some of the other men looked at Max with dubious expressions. All of them were single, and few could imagine wanting to leave wife and child to join the 82nd Airborne. That was just one of the things that differentiated Max Collins from other men. Buell 'Anvil' Jenkins was a short, barrel-chested man with a look of perpetual disgust on his face. At fortyone, he was old enough to be the father of most of the other enlisted men on the Pensacola Naval Air Station, and a few of the officers. A year earlier, he had been the hard-drinking crew chief of an Ohio dirttrack team that had aspirations for a shot at the Indianapolis '500'. His nickname came from the fact that he built durable cars. "My rides don't break," he had often said. "They ain't the lightest ones on the track, but they'll be there at the finish if the damn drivers do their part."

One day a new mechanic had made a mistake when working on the steering of the team's sprint car, and the driver had crashed into the wall during practice. When Jenkins had discovered the cause of the accident, he had hit the mechanic hard enough to detach his retina, leaving him blind in the left eye. The judge had given Anvil Jenkins the choice of five-to-ten in Marion, or the opportunity to serve his country in the war that the judge felt the United States was sure to join. Despite his age and lack of prior service, the Navy needed men with Jenkins' exceptional mechanical skills. The mechanic had chosen the second option, but not without considerable deliberation.

Jenkins, with his uncommon talent, had quickly become a qualified airframe and powerplant mechanic in the Navy, but he hated it. He had the best tools and equipment to work with he had ever seen, but it was wasted. The airplanes, especially the clunky old Stearman biplanes, had engines that were antiquated by race car standards, and the planes themselves were boring. The young fliers were worse prima donnas than the most irritating race car driver he had ever met, and they treated him like he was the garbage man instead of the one who made sure they didn't fall out of the sky. The officers were the worst of all. It was more than he could stand to have to call these young punks 'sir', and he had gained a reputation for never speaking unless he absolutely had to.

One of them was walking towards him now.

"Mind if I help with that damaged wingtip, Chief Jenkins? I'm a fair hand with wood. I know it wasn't my student that groundlooped it, but I like these planes, and I'm not doing anything else. Can you use some help?"

Jenkins was surprised by the request, and curious, so he grunted his agreement. Never seen a college boy yet could use his hands he thought.

"Lieutenant Walter Bowman," said the young man, extending his right hand with a smile. The older man shook Bowman's hand without expression and was surprised to feel calluses on it.

"Folks call me 'Anvil', sir," Jenkins replied without explaining.

In the next two hours they worked quietly together, with the mechanic occasionally giving a brief suggestion to the superior officer. Anvil Jenkins immediately learned that the young pilot had great woodworking skill. His own experience had always been with metal, but Jenkins could see craftsmanship in any area, and the young man obviously had talent.

"Why do you like these old Stearmans so much, sir?" the older man finally asked. "I figured you'd much rather be in a fighter." Bowman shrugged and gave an answer the mechanic had never expected.

"Fighters are fast, all right, and they're getting better all the time, but there's maneuvers I'd be afraid to try in every one I've ever flown. You can't break a Stearman without flying it into the ground." Anvil Jenkins looked up and Bowman misinterpreted his look of surprise. "Don't believe me? What's the redline speed on a Stearman? It doesn't have one. What's the maneuvering speed? It doesn't have one of those either. You can put a Stearman in a vertical dive with full power from ten thousand feet until it won't go any faster, and then haul back on the stick as hard as you can, and you might black out but you won't break anything. Most planes will have the tail come off in the dive, and the ones that stay together there will have the wings come off in the pullout. I honestly don't believe you can hurt one of these 'yellow perils' while it's still in the air. That's why I like these old yellow, open-cockpit biplanes," he said with finality.

So this is the guy who bet one of the other instructors that a Stearman wouldn't lose its wings in a maximum-G pullout Jenkins thought. 'That was you, huh? Pretty relaxed about the taxpayer's money, ain't you, sir?" The mechanic expected a reprimand for his tone of voice, but the young lieutenant was smiling. Bowman shook his head. "I knew they'd stay on. I even offered to try it without a 'chute." He winked to let the mechanic know his last statement was a joke.

Anvil Jenkins looked at his own powerful arms and then at Bowman's thinner ones. The words that came out of his mouth startled him. "Lieutenant, what if you'd had another 200 pounds in the plane and two more arms hauling back on the other stick to pull out faster?"

Walter Bowman was already heading for the door. "One way to find out, Anvil."

The Stearman's 220-HP Continental engine fired up on the second revolution. As he watched from the front cockpit, Anvil Jenkins could not believe what he was doing. He didn't much like flying straight and level in airplanes, let alone trying to make them disintegrate in midair. His stomach was churning, and they were still on the ground.

Walter Bowman gave the engine full power and shoved the stick forward while stepping on the brakes. The tailwheel lifted off the ground, although the plane was stationary. He pulled back slightly on the stick, keeping the biplane balanced on the mains only, and released the brakes. Through judicious use of power, stick, and brakes, Bowman taxied the Stearman out to the end of the runway without ever letting the tailwheel touch the ground. Damn thought Jenkins. / heard about this, but I never saw it. Like a good driver, steering with the throttle. Guy's having fun with his favorite airplane.

There wasn't another pilot on the base who could taxi a Stearman on the mains without putting a prop tip into the asphalt. For a few minutes, Anvil Jenkins began to feel a little better about the whole endeavor. His comfort was short-lived.

It seemed to take forever to get the biplane to altitude, and as it climbed slowly, Anvil Jenkins' wish to be on the ground grew stronger. What kind of idiot goes up in an airplane trying to tear it apart? We don't even know if these chutes'll work. Hell, we don't even know if there's really chutes in these backpacks. The plan was looking more and more like insanity with every additional foot of altitude.

At ten thousand feet, Walter Bowman pounded on the fuselage with his fist and the mechanic turned in his seat to see Bowman nod his head. Anvil Jenkins turned forward, took a deep breath, clamped his left hand on the back of his neck, and began to count to twenty. Immediately, Bowman shoved the control stick all the way forward. The engine was already at full throttle. The Stearman nosed over sharply, and the two occupants were forced upwards against their harnesses. Oh, Jesus Jenkins thought. The mechanic's stomach felt as if it had relocated itself to a spot underneath his breastbone. When they were looking straight at the ground, Walter Bowman eased off on the forward pressure, and the plane stabilized in an attitude that was slightly past vertical. He had explained to the mechanic during the preflight that if you aimed the plane straight down, the shape of the wings' airfoil would cause the plane to move forward slightly. To get a true no-lift dive and the absolute maximum speed, the aircraft had to be positioned slightly past vertical, so that it would fly straight down. No wonder fighter planes have their tails flutter and disintegrate Jenkins thought dismally as the shriek of the wind flowing over the flying wires increased in pitch. Anvil Jenkins had never felt such pure terror in his life.

The young pilot had told him that it would take sixteen seconds for the plane to reach a speed where wind resistance would let it go no faster. Kid must have timed it with a stopwatch Jenkins thought. Crazy fucker does this shit for fun. Guy said to count to twenty 'cause I'd probably be excited and count fast.

The mechanic reached a count of twenty but the pitch of the screaming wires was still changing. No way this college boy is going to tell me I jumped the gun he thought grimly. He stopped counting but kept his hand behind his head. When the tremendous noise in his ears stopped changing in pitch, he raised his left elbow slightly to signal the young man in back, and pulled his arm down into the cockpit where his left hand joined his right one on the control stick. Anvil Jenkins pulled the control stick towards his gut with all his might. His upper body was thick and powerful, and at the moment he was charged with more adrenaline than he had ever been in his life.

Walter Bowman's hands were already on his own control stick. When he saw Anvil's hand drop from behind his neck, he tensed his stomach muscles as hard as he could and then hauled back on the controls with all his strength. Just as he started, he felt the older man's efforts join his own, and the stick moved backwards more quickly than he had ever experienced. The elevator was forced against the stops, a feat Bowman had only accomplished at lower speeds before, and the controls would move no farther. New sounds emanated from the screaming aircraft as the atmosphere was forced in a new path over the tail's control surfaces. Bowman had experienced high G-forces before, but none like this. His body pressed into the seat as if it weighed over eighteen hundred pounds.

The aircraft was almost level and passing through four thousand feet. Walter Bowman noticed that his own peripheral vision was diminishing but Jenkins was still helping hold the controls against the stops. Bowman smiled into the horrendous wind blast. The G-forces were dragging the flesh of his cheeks and lips downwards, making the young man's face look like something out of a carnival funhouse.

Suddenly the controls got much heavier in Walter Bowman's hands. Anvil Jenkins had released his pull on the stick, and Bowman knew that Jenkins had either lost his nerve or blacked out. Positive G-forces drove the blood out of the brain, and could cause unconsciousness at modest levels if the passenger was a neophyte, or in anyone if the forces were high enough. It was a lesson Walter demonstrated to each new cadet on his first flight by pulling enough Gs to put the new student out. It taught respect for the dangers of flight. It also caused the young lieutenant to be referred to as 'Blackout' Bowman by his contemporaries on the base.

Walter Bowman relaxed backpressure, reduced power, and was prepared to let the biplane fly itself into level equilibrium when suddenly the stick jerked forward in his hand and the airplane nosed over again into a dive. Bowman pulled back as hard as he could, but the stick wouldn't budge.

He immediately realized what had happened. The unconscious man had slumped forward onto his own control stick. The G-forces had caused Jenkins' heavy body to compress the seatpack emergency 'chute enough to make the harness loose. Bowman's 'chute pack, after daily high-G maneuvers, had already been as solid as a rock.

The pilot knew that he couldn't possibly budge the other man by pulling on the stick, so he did the only logical thing. Bowman pushed the controls forward to steepen the descent. As negative Gs raised the unconscious man's body off of the stick, Walter pushed his own control hard against his left knee. The biplane started to roll, and when it was inverted, Bowman leveled the wings. The airplane was now flying upside down at a speed of about a hundred seventy knots, descending in a steep dive at a rate of over three thousand feet per minute.

Walter pushed the stick forward, raising the nose, until the biplane was flying straight and level. The pilot and the mechanic were suspended in their harnesses, blood rushing to their heads. The unconscious mechanic's arms flailed over his head in the windstream. Walter flew the plane upside down on a heading towards the airfield and waited for the older man to regain consciousness.

When Anvil Jenkins came to, he immediately realized he was about to die. I'm falling out of the plane he screamed silently to himself. It's upside down and about to crash! The mechanic frantically grabbed the edges of the cockpit to hold himself in. I'm strapped in! Got to unbuckle the harness to bail out. Oh Christ, the ground's right there, and where's the release ? I didn't practice this-where's the fucking harness quick relea Before he could get a grip on the quick-release mechanism, the plane miraculously righted itself and flew normally. Jenkins held onto the sides of the open cockpit with a death grip, hyperventilating and waiting for the plane to try to kill him again, when he remembered where he was and who he was with. He turned in his seat to look behind him and saw the smiling young face of Lieutenant Bowman, who was giving him the 'thumbs up' signal. Waves of relief swept over him, coupled with stark horror that he was the one who had suggested this adventure.

The trip back to the base was uneventful, if you ignored the snap roll that Walter Bowman executed on final approach at an altitude of three hundred feet. When the plane finally rolled to a stop on the flight line, Anvil Jenkins climbed down out of it on shaking legs. The mechanic resisted the overpowering impulse to lie down on the asphalt and hug the earth. He could feel his heart rate slowly returning to normal.

Bowman was smiling at him. "You've got a hell of a set of arms, mister. We bottomed out the elevator with the airspeed indicator pegged."

Guy actually looks happy Jenkins realized with astonishment. Better get my sorry ass together, 'fore he thinks I should be wearing diapers.

"Uh, what'd we pull, sir?" Jenkins asked. The mechanic noticed that it didn't bother him so much to address the young officer properly.

"Anybody's guess. My peripheral vision was closing in, so I was getting close to a blackout, even with this damn thing on the last notch." Lieutenant Bowman unzipped his flight suit to expose a thick leather harness that compressed his abdomen like a corset, which he then began to unbuckle. The mechanic looked at him quizzically.

"Had it made. Holds your guts in on high-G maneuvers. Keeps you from blacking out as soon. I've pulled eight with it before, in a plane with a meter, and didn't feel anything like what we got today. I'd say we saw at least ten."

The mechanic shook his head in amazement and reached over to pluck at one of the flying wires, expecting it to have lost some tension. It thrummed like the string on a bass guitar. Bowman tied the plane down and the two men headed back to the hangar. The mechanic was thinking.

"Awful strong airframe, but a little shy on power, ain't it, sir?" the man ventured, remembering how long it had taken the 220-horsepower Continental to get them to 10,000 feet.

"No need to buy expensive engines and burn twice the fuel just to train cadets," Bowman replied realistically.

"I might could do something about that...sir," the older man found himself saying. He was starting to feel eager about something for the first time since joining the Navy. Bowman turned towards him and brightened visibly.

"That's right! You build race car engines!" He frowned and shook his head. "I think the brass would come down hard if they found out you modified an engine in a trainer. It wouldn't be worth it for a few more horsepower."

Anvil Jenkins let out the first laugh anyone on the base had ever heard him utter. "A few more horsepower? Hell, I ain't talking about tryin' to soup up one a them worthless Continental stem-winders! That thing was out a date the day the first crankcase came out a the foundry. This ain't the race track, with some damn rule book to get around. I got me a wrecked SNJ sitting back of the hangar. Think you could fly that plane of yours with a real engine in front of you?-uh, sir?"

Walter Bowman was not a man who was easily surprised, but his jaw dropped. The SNJ was a heavy, allmetal trainer. It was powered by a Pratt & Whitney Wasp nine cylinder radial that produced six hundred horsepower.

"You want to put a Wasp in a Stearman?" Bowman was incredulous, but thrilled at the same time. "What about the CG?" He was referring to the change in the center-of-gravity the heavier engine would make, but already he was thinking of the solution. "The plane's got such big control surfaces, moving the CG forward would probably make it more stable. And we could probably relocate some components aft, section the front of the fuselage..." He was imagining his airplane with almost triple the power. "Damn, Jenkins, the thing would climb like a rocket."

"What else would you want to change, sir?" Jenkins had his head cocked, and was eyeing the young man speculatively.

"A wish list? Well...ailerons on all four wings, first of all, for better roll. Maybe aileron spades, too, to reduce control pressure. Shorten the wings, even. Shorter throw on the stick, too, if we don't need as much leverage any more, lighter gear if cadets aren't going to fly it..." His voice trailed off. "Hell, what am I saying? We'd both face court-martial if you start sawing on one of the trainers on the flight line."

Anvil Jenkins looked at the young man with an evil grin, and for a moment he forgot who he was talking to.

"Those college boys may run most a this base, but I run the maintenance shop. I got me a Stearman in the back with a cracked block and some gear damage, and if I say it ain't fit to return to service with students, then it ain't, and that's that. And I got me that wrecked SNJ, and before you tell me the base might need it for parts, let me tell you that we got another wrecked one behind the south hangar, and if these kay-dets keep slammin' 'em into the runway like they been doin', we're gonna have another wrecked one pretty soon, and the one spare part we don't seem to need is engines, 'cause that Pratt & Whitney is a pure-D anvil. Unless I start drainin' all the oil out of 'em before puttin' 'em out on the flight line, we're likely to end up with nothin' but busted airframes with hundred-percent engines by the time this damn war is over.

"Now, you got you a ride what won't bust 'less you run it into something, and I reckon you ain't gonna do that, but it's got no steam." He spat on the tarmac. "Well, if you want to put together a Stearman that'd make a Boeing engineer's hair stand on end, and you want to do most of your own woodwork, 'cause I'm a hammer man myself, I got me a machine shop Wilbur Shaw would kill for, and I'm sick of seein' it used on nothin' but these airyplanes what look like they was taken to a dee-molition derby by drunk kids in short pants."

Lieutenant Bowman was astonished. He did not know it, but he had just heard the longest continuous utterance Anvil Jenkins had issued since his forced enlistment in the Navy the previous year. He was at a loss for words, so he looked at his watch absent-mindedly. "I've...got to check in. When can I look at that Stearman?"

"I'll be in the shop all night, sir. Come by after dinner if you want."

"I will," the young lieutenant said, nodding slowly as he turned to leave. He was still shaking his head when one of the other instructors hailed him near the Officer's Club.

"Didn't I see you with Jenkins by the hangar? What were you doing with that sour old prick?" "I'm not sure," Bowman said with a puzzled look on his face. "I think I may have created a monster." "Both of you-on your feet. You will come with us." The four men in uniform looked terrifying to the young couple.

"But-"

"No talking." The soldier in charge looked at Irwin. "You have one minute to pack a bag. You," he said, addressing Irwin Mann's twenty-three-year-old wife Magda, "will not need anything else. Now!" he commanded.

At least they won't be detaining her overnight Irwin thought. As if in a daze, the young grocer retrieved a battered case from under their bed and hastily put some clothes and toiletries in it. He wanted to find out where they were taking him, but the four soldiers with submachine guns did not look as though they would be agreeable to questions right now.

As they left the small shop, Irwin took out his keys to lock up. One of the soldiers snatched them from his hand. "We will take care of your shop for you," he said in a tone that invited no argument.

Irwin and Magda, flanked by the four soldiers, walked down Bahnhofstrasse. As they came up to the edge of the railway station, Irwin Mann's heart sank. There were scores of Jews being herded along towards a freight train. All of them were men.

"I believe your husband has a ticket for this one, Frau Mann," said one of the soldiers, and his three companions broke out into raucous laughter. Two of them started to lead the girl away. "Wait! You can't-" The rifle butt hit him squarely in the solar plexus, and Irwin Mann was immediately doubled over in agony. He could neither talk nor breathe.

"Don't worry, Herr Mann," one of the two departing soldiers said over his shoulder. "I assure you that your wife will not be bored. I am sure that our fine officers will keep your little Polish cunt occupied in ways you have never imagined." The others laughed as they picked Irwin up and threw him bodily through the open door of the freight car.

"Irwin!" Magda screamed as the freight car door clanged shut.

They would never see each other again.

Irwin Mann could still not believe it. The day before yesterday I was working in my produce and grocery shop in Danzig he thought. Now I'm packed like a piece of livestock into a vile-smelling railway car. The train had made several stops to pick up more citizens, but no one had been permitted to get off. There were now so many of them in such a small space that if anyone fainted from fatigue, he would be held erect by the closeness of the others around him. The passengers' requests to be allowed to relieve themselves had been ignored. The oppressive heat generated by so many human bodies packed together made the inevitable result all the more nauseating.

Irwin knew they were being taken to Warsaw. The men in the freight car had talked freely at first. Then, as their confinement in the darkness of their current prison had continued, Irwin had seen their spirit disintegrate. Now, no one is speaking Irwin thought. Many of these men have much more education than I, and are in well-respected professions. Their demoralization was overwhelming. Irwin, too, felt the crushing reality of what was happening to him build on itself, but he was younger than most of those around him, and he had not yet lost his young man's unerring faith in what the future held in store for him.

The train finally arrived at its ultimate destination. The air brakes filled the cars with a cacophony of hisses, squeals, and sounds of creaking metal as they gradually dragged over 1200 tons of freight train to a halt. Immediately, the passengers heard the sounds of soldiers pounding on the latches to open the freight doors on the sides of the cars.

When the doors swung open, all the people inside squinted in the bright sunlight as they stumbled and fell out of the cars. Irwin was stronger and quicker than most of the others, and he escaped the wrath of the soldiers who stood to the sides of each freight car door, urging the captives out.

"Move! You are delaying the others!" A soldier was prodding a man of about sixty with the bayonet attached to the muzzle of his rifle. The man had fallen from the freight car to the gravel and wrenched his ankle. The soldier kicked him in the thigh. "Jewish filth-you have soiled yourself. Animals!" He spat on the fallen figure and turned to vent his anger on another captive.

When Irwin Mann's eyes adjusted to the bright daylight, he was amazed at what he saw. The railroad yard appeared to be at the edge of a city. A high wall extended as far as he could see between where he stood and the city itself. At an opening in the wall, Nazi soldiers armed with submachine guns stood guard. Can this wall extend all the way around the city? he asked himself in disbelief. They have transformed all of Warsaw into a prison camp!

"Your things are being unloaded now. Take them and get moving!" Irwin looked in the direction of the soldier's gaze and saw some shabby-looking Jews haphazardly throwing suitcases and duffel bags off of one of the freight cars. "Get going!" the soldier commanded, and to emphasize his point he jabbed at the people nearest him with his bayonet, eliciting two screams.

Irwin followed the others towards the pile of baggage. He noticed a few women among the group. None of them are under thirty-five. A feeling of dread ran through him as he located his bag and followed some of the others towards the gap in the wall. When they passed though it, Irwin Mann saw that his suspicions had been accurate. They were in the city of Warsaw, and the wall extended around all of it that he could see. There were other drab-looking people off in the distance. The entire tableau before him was one of utter despair.

"Now what?" asked an elderly man standing near Irwin Mann. He was addressing no one in particular. "I think we're on our own," Mann said as he started walking into the city.