“That girl with the ‘Uemaru’ towel on her head, whose daughter is she?”
“What?”
Gohei left off his chopping and straightened himself to take a look at the girl. She was helping to make the rice balls. Then, without bothering to answer, he relapsed into a disgruntled silence.
Machida went over to Handa, who was standing near the step, eating. As the girl was sitting quite near, he put his mouth up to Handa’s ear.
“Who is she?”
“Her, don’t you know her? She’s the daughter of Niemon, the cooper.”
“She looks fine, doesn’t she?”
The girl seemed to know that they were talking about her; you could tell it by the way she deliberately refrained from looking in their direction. Machida kept on staring at her, until Handa poked him on the elbow.
The girl was not so very beautiful; her features were regular and her nose was good, but she was under-nourished. It was as if the odour of her father’s barrels had been communicated to her, too. This girl had left her own home and was staying at Gohei’s.
When they first went on strike, in order to rally their spirits, they had all formed up in columns and marched out of the factory. Now, whenever they looked up at the smokeless chimneys they felt their power. If we don’t work, not a puff of smoke comes out, not a barrel can be moved—this they understood and their blood danced and pulsed in their veins. But at home, wives were trying to
