Had the starved villagers of Sukovoly lifted above their sorrows a mere rainbow vision that led them—where—where? To the stifling submission of the sweatshop or the desperation of the streets!
“O God! What is there beyond this hell?” my soul cried in me. “Why can’t I make a quick end to myself?”
A thousand voices within me and about me answered:
“My faith is dead, but in my blood their faith still clamors and aches for fulfillment—dead generations whose faith though beaten back still presses on—a resistless, deathless force!
“In this America that crushes and kills me, their spirit drives me on—to struggle—to suffer—but never to submit.”
In my desperate darkness their lost lives loomed—a living flame of light. Again I saw the mob of dusty villagers crowding around my father as he read the letter from America—their eager faces thrust out—their eyes blazing with the same hope, the same age-old faith that drove me on—
A sudden crash against my back. Dizzy with pain I fell—then all was darkness and quiet.
I opened my eyes. A white-clad figure bent over me. Had I died? Was I in the heaven of the new world—in America?
My eyes closed again. A misty happiness filled my being.