The young man's name was Mordecai, and he was not yet twenty-five years old. He had been appointed as a Resistance Group Commander a few months previously, and was now actively leading the uprising. People looked to him because he was young, he understood them, and he was a good speaker.
"You have to understand that they will try to overcome us, and they will try to kill us. Many of us will fall." He was also brutally honest. "But the rest of us will arise from the streets that are littered with corpses, our flags flying high, and we will continue to fight. Because we must."
"How many?" asked one young girl, perhaps eighteen. "How many will die?"
"Not as many as have been killed by cholera, typhus, starvation, gassing..." He glared into the crowd. "These people are animals. We, at least, have our humanity still. We care for each other and do not turn to violence needlessly. And yet still they treat us like scum. Why? For no reason."
"But if we fight, surely we are as bad as them?"
"No -- because we fight for our beliefs. We fight for what we love and to protect those that we love. We fight because we have to, and only in self-defence. As bad as them? Have we locked innocent people up in horrific conditions?" Mordecai stared around at the people around. "I think not."
"And will you be fighting?" The speaker was a young man, still reasonably strong despite the starvation rations of less than two hundred calories per day. He stared at Mordecai. "Or will you be cowering in your room while the rest of us march to our deaths?"
"I will be fighting," Mordecai confirmed. "I will obtain the weapons. I will organise the march. And I will be at its head, no matter where it takes me. I have been imprisoned before now: this time, I will fight back. They will not take me easily!" He raised his arm and a great cry went up.
The Jews of the Ghetto were ready to fight.