Savage Coast by Muriel Rukeyser Page A

guns!”
    That pulled them to their feet. The sickly school teacher took the Belgian woman’s shoulder and steered her through the door; the one with the long teeth went out after them.
    The sounds came up like giant plants around them, a forest of noise.
    Peter lit cigarettes for Helen and himself.
    â€œShe has to think it’s coming nearer,” he said.
    â€œShe’s Belgian.” He grinned in sick humor, the grin of pain that sick babies show.
    â€œWe have to have something to do,” Helen said suddenly. “From the minute they said General Strike, I’ve been wanting to push through until we could do something.”
    â€œIf there were only something close to us, beside the noise,” said Olive. “Why should it be so remote?”
    The Swiss in the corner looked sharply at her. He had not said a word. He did not understand at all.
    â€œWell,” said Peter, “if this were a meeting—”
    Olive laughed, “It’s manifesto time,” she said,
    â€œOK, Olive.”
    â€œShe’s right it is,” said Helen abruptly.
    â€œYes,” Peter answered, on two slow notes. “From the train to the town—a manifesto. A letter.”
    The Swiss began to understand. His slow, kind face churned. “And a collection,” he announced.
    The two women were back in the doorway. “Collection?” asked the sickly one. “The Belgian woman went in with the English.”
    â€œCome on in,” said Helen. “Come help us. We’ll take a letter through the train, to tell the town we’re with them.”
    â€œIt isn’t true,” Peter contradicted. “The train’s not.”
    â€œWe have to do this well,” said Olive. She found a sheet of paper. The Swiss leaned forward.
    â€œWe’ll compose,” he said. “Write: ‘The passengers of the train standing in the Moncada—’”
    Olive looked out of the window for the spelling. The station sign was directly outside their window, half buried in leaves, lit by a raw white light.
    â€œâ€˜â€”wish to thank the citizens of the town for the courteous treatment they have received—’”
    â€œNo. ‘Treatment received during their stay at the station.’ You can’t tell how long we’ll be here.”
    Helen and Olive looked at each other, startled.
    â€œâ€˜â€”and to express our sympathy—’”
    â€œWe can’t,” said the Swiss.
    â€œWe’re foreign nationals,” explained Peter. “It was like that in Paris on July fourteenth. The government asked all foreigners who wanted to march to mingle with the demonstration, and not to go as foreign nationals. Can’t, in a revolutionary situation . . . Incorrect.”
    â€œTo express our understanding of the hardships of the people’s cause, and to present this, this—”
    â€œâ€”small sum collected on the train, for the care of the wounded and mutilated in today’s battle—”
    â€œOh, no,” said Helen. “If we can’t sympathize, we can at least give them money for their own uses.”
    â€œOK” said Peter. “Collected on the train for the town to use as it sees fit.”
    â€œYes,” said the school teachers. “That’s it, if anyone will sign it.”
    â€œNo signatures,” the Swiss declared, waving his hand before his marked face.
    â€œOK. What’ll we do, go right through?”
    â€œWell, it should wait until morning, we ought to give it as we pull out,” said the school teacher.
    Helen said, “We can give it then, if you want, but we ought to see how the train feels about it now.”
    â€œYes,” said Olive. “You go with Peter, Helen.” The school teacher agreed.
    â€œWe’ll report to the rest of this committee on the way back,” said Helen. Peter interrupted. “We’ll start the collection here.”
    The Swiss