in schindler's absence, the workers attempt to operate the unfamiliar machines, to figure out the unfamiliar process of manufacturing artillery shells. there's movement, there's noise, the machines are running, but little is being produced.
the machines are silent, the people are not. women are in their husbands' arms, sons in their fathers'. there's food on the tables but it's largely ignored, the reunion taking precedence.
schindler strolls through his factory looking over the shoulders of the workers, nodding his approval. the place is in full operation, finally; the people, having figured out the complicated hilos, turning out shells by the caseload.
a nineteen year old boy with his hands in the air stands terrified before commandant liepold and the revolver he wields. workers, trying to reduce the likelihood of getting hit by a stray bullet when liepold fires on the boy -- which seems a certainty -- scramble out of the way.
in a corner of the factory, workers hammer at pine lumber.
workers glance up at a horrible apparition from the pit of their foulest dreams -- amon goeth crossing through the factory.
warmed by cognac and friendship, goeth comes through the factory again carrying the suitcase, schindler at his side, steering him to some degree.