Later, we liked to tell ourselves we would have pushed still had there been nothing – or less – to push against, like swimming in air. The smoke, Paolo would say, waggling a heavy hand to make it symbol smoke – the smoke of their unending cigarillos would have been enough. And people nodded. For surely, his hand had been the first upraised. Had I not seen myself, having been led shivering into the courtyard, and weighed fight or else escape against the cold and danger and undignifying bulk of hurried dress? Nor seen him stand there, cupping his broad hand with the other hand, the fallen officer forgotten under him? Too long, yes, when the men stood teetering a wild instant for want of a leader. Still, they would have pushed somehow, regardless of his push, I'm sure and nod when he says 'smoke'. But Marco was a white babushka when we rose, and grown has something fierce or hungry in him, says, But Uncle, smoke is something, though. Thus can I push it, though it pushes not my hand: so we would revolution. And the men who made the smoke, what were they made of – smoke? Most like! snorts Paolo. Then, Why not? For smoke's meager enough a cause. Let's have them smoke! At this, laughter, a semaphore of applause. New faith. But hadn't I watched that morning as we fled into the pinewoods, the roof and walls of the fired building spilling in? Had he not turned to watch its ending, with the march of unremitting days ahead, till it seemed he'd turn and walk back if he could, and lay himself where'd been his bed - Had I not seen?