And beside her, as she finished, stood an Irish woman, taking up the thread of the Hungarian’s woman’s cry:
“If we women, to whom even a partial knowledge of these happenings has come, remain silent now, then we are blood guilty. We are more than blood guilty, for we must be numbered with those who will even dare the murder of a soul.
“Let us not blind ourselves with talk of the glories and heroisms of war. We dare not ignore the moral and spiritual wreckage that remains unchronicled. We have to think of men brutalized and driven to hideous deeds by their experiences; of men with reason destroyed; of men disgraced for lack of the cold courage that can face such horrors; of men with a slain faith in good, their outlook on life eternally embittered. What of the women for whom the French government has had to devise legislation to deter them from infanticide? What of the children begotten under such conditions? Women of the world, where is your voice, that should be sowing the seeds of peace?”[8]
Almost as her own voice, went on the voice of another woman, the brief poignant entreaty of an English woman:
“We ask nothing strange! Only that which Christianity, civilization and motherhood dictate.
“The well-being of children touches all. On that common ground the opposing nations could meet and crown their courage by laying aside their arms at the call of a higher humanity.
“Can mother hearts turn from this cry? Will not womanhood join in resolve, though in divers tongues, yet with but one Voice—the Voice of pure human love and pity....”[9]
The Inger stood against the wall, and listened. A place had opened into which he had never looked, whose existence he had never guessed. He stood frowning, staring—at first trying to understand, then understanding and passionately doubting. The appeals of the first speakers did not touch him. What did women know of these things?
Then the Polish woman had spoken. Then the Servian woman. Then the Belgium woman. These undeniably knew what they were talking about! But not until that woman of Hungary had stood there, did the thought come which had pierced him: What if all that she said was true—and was true of Lory? What if it had been her child whom Lory had lost from her shawl as she ran....