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could do for me. He told me he was an actor over at the Abbey Theatre. He’s another of the misdirected. He told me that when he heard the rebellion was on again, he went to the Abbey to get his rifle, which he had hidden under the stage, and then joined Connolly around the corner at Liberty Hall. That’s how he found the GPO.
    Arthur is about six or seven years older than I am. He asked me where I was from, and I told him I was born on Camden Row. He said we were from the same neighborhood because he was born in Portobello, down by Harrington Street. He asked about my people, and I told him my mother’s people, the Conways, were from Temple Lane. It’s turning out to be a small world, because Arthur said he lived on the next block, Crow Street, as a child. I feel a little bit more comfortable now, having a neighbor for company in the GPO.
    Arthur was chatting with me when the Angelus bells rang about the city, revolution not stopping devotion. I blessed myself, but some of the Volunteers dropped to their knees, starting banging their craws, hugging their rosaries, and began reciting: “The angel of the Lord announced unto Mary.” Looking around, Shields said: “I wonder if I’m the only Church of Ireland man in the GPO this week?” Then be added with a wink and an actor’s flair: “Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God!”
    We were joined by a comrade of Arthur’s. “You may be the only Church of Ireland man here, Arthur,” he interrupted, “but I know I’m the only Jew.”
    Arthur then introduced me to Abraham Weeks, just over from London. “My God,” I said, “what are you doing in Dublin?”
    “I’m avoiding conscription,” he said defiantly. “I will fight for the working man, but not for the corrupt bourgeois.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
    “He’s devoted to Jim Connelly” Arthur helpfully added. “Abraham is a dedicated trade unionist.”
    “That’s a unionist I can deal with!” I said, getting a laugh out of the two of them.
    The men were still working on the Angelus when Captain Collins came by. “Jaysus,” he said dismissively as he observed the kneeling men. “Will these people ever learn?”
    Seán MacDiarmada, one of the big shots who signed the Proclamation, has also come over to say hello. He is from the North and is strikingly handsome. He has a stiff leg and walks with a cane. I asked him if he was wounded. He smiled and said no, that he had a bout of what he called poliomyelitis a few years ago. It seems to me that there are more unpronounceable diseases to fight in Dublin then there are British soldiers. It looks like we’re in an awful fix.
    The shelling has finally stopped. The men are running around with buckets and pots of water, trying to put out fires. With all the fires we’re roastin’ in inside the GPO, it can’t be much hotter than this in hell. They say there is a gunboat on the Liffey, and that’s where the shells are coming from. All in all, our spirits remain high. There’s been plenty of grub for us all. Some of the Cumann na mBan women are manning a makeshift kitchen, and there is enough commandeered bread and butter, spuds, and meat to go around. I wonder how long we can hold out. I’m sure the British aren’t finished with their shelling yet.
    Yesterday I was bored, so I quietly went to the front of the GPO to see what the bosses were doing. It was quite remarkable. Several of them—Pearse, old Tom Clark, the newsagent from Parnell Street, MacDiarmada, even Collins—were sitting where the postal tellers usually sit. I didn’t tell anyone, but those teller cages, with the bars in front of them, did not seem to foretell a bright future for them—or for myself either, now that I think of it.
    I can’t stop thinking of me Mammy. I hope I haven’t broken her heart, and I hope I don’t get sent to prison, because the strain just might kill her, with the delicate condition she’s in. But I didn’t get a lot of time to dwell on Mammy.