He held Julia’s supple waist easily encircled by his arm. From the hip to the knee her flank was against his. Out of their bodies no child would ever come. That was the one thing they could never do. Only by word of mouth， from mind to mind， could they pass on the secret. The woman down there had no mind， she had only strong arms， a warm heart， and a fertile belly. He wondered how many children she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen. She had had her momentary flowering， a year， perhaps， of wild-rose beauty and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized fruit and grown hard and red and coarse， and then her life had been laundering， scrubbing， darning， cooking， sweeping， polishing， mending， scrubbing， laundering， first for children， then for grandchildren， over thirty unbroken years. At the end of it she was still singing. The mystical reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with the aspect of the pale， cloudless sky， stretching away behind the chimney-pots into interminable distance. It was curious to think that the sky was the same for everybody， in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under the sky were also very much the same — everywhere， all over the world， hundreds of thousands of millions of people just like this， people ignorant of one another’s existence， held apart by walls of hatred and lies， and yet almost exactly the same — people who had never learned to think but who were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that would one day overturn the world. If there was hope， it lay in the proles！ Without having read to the end of the book， he knew that that must be Goldstein’s final message. The future belonged to the proles. And could he be sure that when their time came the world they constructed would not be just as alien to him， Winston Smith， as the world of the Party？ Yes， because at the least it would be a world of sanity. Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen， strength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal， you could not doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their awakening would come. And until that happened， though it might be a thousand years， they would stay alive against all the odds， like birds， passing on from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not kill.
“Do you remember，”he said，“the thrush that sang to us， that first day， at the edge of the wood？”
“He wasn’t singing to us，”said Julia. “He was singing to please himself. Not even that. He was just singing.”
The birds sang， the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the world， in London and New York， in Africa and Brazil， and in the mysterious， forbidden lands beyond the frontiers， in the streets of Paris and Berlin， in the villages of the endless Russian plain， in the bazaars of China and Japan — everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure， made monstrous by work and childbearing， toiling from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You were the dead， theirs was the future. But you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body， and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four.
“We are the dead，”he said.
“We are the dead，”echoed Julia dutifully.
“You are the dead，”said an iron voice behind them.They sprang apart. Winston’s entrails seemed to have turned into ice. He could see the white all round the irises of Julia’s eyes. Her face had turned a milky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out sharply， almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath.
“You are the dead，”repeated the iron voice.
“It was behind the picture，”breathed Julia.
“It was behind the picture，”said the voice. "Remain exactly where you are. Make no movement until you are ordered."
It was starting， it was starting at last！ They could do nothing except stand gazing into one another’s eyes. To run for life， to get out of the house before it was too late — no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had been turned back， and a crash of breaking glass. The picture had fallen to the floor uncovering the telescreen behind it.
“Now they can see us，”said Julia.
“Now we can see you，”said the voice.“Stand out in the middle of the room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do not touch one another.”
They were not touching， but it seemed to him that he could feel Julia’s body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He could just stop his teeth from chattering， but his knees were beyond his control. There was a sound of trampling boots below， inside the house and outside. The yard seemed to be full of men. Something was being dragged across the stones. The woman’s singing had stopped abruptly. There was a long， rolling clang， as though the washtub had been flung across the yard， and then a confusion of angry shouts which ended in a yell of pain.
“The house is surrounded，”said Winston.
“The house is surrounded，”said the voice.
He heard Julia snap her teeth together.“I suppose we may as well say good-bye，”she said.
“You may as well say good-bye，”said the voice. And then another quite different voice， a thin， cultivated voice which Winston had the impression of having heard before， struck in；“And by the way， while we are on the subject， ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed， here comes a chopper to chop off your head’！”
Something crashed on to the bed behind Winston’s back. The head of a ladder had been thrust through the window and had burst in the frame. Someone was climbing through the window. There was a stampede of boots up the stairs. The room was full of solid men in black uniforms， with iron-shod boots on their feet and truncheons in their hands.