They tried lining their coats with newspapers and old rags to soften the impact. Nothing made much difference, though. By now everyone had a collection of livid bruises to show for her hours on the picket line. Many girls had refused to return after the first time they were kicked. These were the gentle, obedient daughters and sisters who had never felt a blow in their entire lives, who had never been ‘knocked about.’ Delia would plead with them to come back to the picket lines. “It is nothing,” she would say over and over, while they sobbed hysterically “I too, have marks, here and here and here.” She would point to her ribs, her shoulders, breast, belly and back and thighs. No part of her body wasa calm, even voice, telling them that they would never father children and how they would suffer the despicable diseases that turned men into eunuchs before they finally died in misery and shame. Delia knew enough Italian to understand and was grateful that the men, who were mostly Poles and Irish, didn’t. And Reenie, who had known nothing but kicks and blows all her life, would drop and roll herself into a little ball, tight as a stone, whenever the men approached. Not a peep would escape her. She would remain motionless until they were gone. And just when Delia feared she might really be dead, she would spring to her feet, taunting the thugs triumphantly. They were nothing compared to her stepfather, she shouted. “Nothing, nothing, nothing,”