“In God’s name stop! That singing of yours is making my back as crooked as yours!”
Chertoff turned swiftly, with arm upraised, but before he could utter a word a huge flame of fire shot from the open doorway and enveloped the sweater, and a crash, loud as a peal of thunder, filled the room.
The benzine had exploded. In a twinkling bright flames seemed to dart from every nook and cranny, and the wall between the two rooms was torn asunder. Then a panic of screams and frenzied cries arose, and the workers ran wildly, some to the door, some to the windows that looked down upon the street four stories below, some trying frantically to tear their way through the solid walls. The voice of Chertoff rose above the tumult. “Follow me!” he cried. “Don’t be afraid!” He seized Babel, who had fainted, laid her gently upon his misshapen shoulder, and led the way into an adjoining room where the windows opened upon a fire escape. “Take your time,” he cried. “Follow me slowly down the ladders. There is no danger.”
Once out of sight of the flames calmness was soon restored, and one by one they slowly descended the iron ladders, following the lead of the hunchback with his burden. Babel soon regained consciousness. She looked wildly from face to face and then, clutching Chertoff’s arm, asked hoarsely, “Gurtman! Where is he? Is he safe?”
Chertoff smiled. “Do not worry, Babel. He probably will never torment a human being again!”
Babel relaxed her hold and every drop of blood left her face. She began to moan pitifully: “I loved him! I loved him!” She buried her face in her hands and burst into a fit of weeping. Chertoff’s eyes closed. A look of hatred, unutterable, venomous hatred, flashed into his face. He swayed to and fro with clenched fists, as though he would fall. Then swiftly he raised his head, his eyes opened, and a smile overspread his face. “Wait, Babel,” he whispered. “Wait!” With the agility of a gorilla he sprang upon the iron ladder and climbed swiftly upward. The bright moon cast a weird, twisting shadow upon the wall of the house, as of some huge, misshapen beast. He reached the fourth story and disappeared through the open window, whence the smoke had already begun to creep. Presently he reappeared with the form of Gurtman upon his shoulder, and slowly descended. With the utmost gentleness he laid his burden upon the ground and placed his hand over the heart. Then he looked up into Babel’s face.
“He is alive. He is not hurt much.” Then Babel cried as though her heart would break, and Chertoff—went home.
Gurtman lived. He lived, and in a few days the sweatshop was running again exactly as it had run before, and everything else went on exactly as it had gone on before. Perhaps Chertoff’s pale face became a trifle whiter, but that only brought out his ugliness the more vividly. He was a splendid workman, and Gurtman could not afford to lose him. Sometimes when the task was hard he sang that old song:
“Sang a little bird, and sang,
And grew silent;