Some of the coffins were open, the lid carried behind them; others
were covered with gilded or silvered cloth, or had a soldier's hat
nailed on the top. There were many wreaths of hideous artificial
flowers....
Through an irregular lane that opened and closed again the procession
slowly moved toward us. Now through the Gate was flowing an endless
stream of banners, all shades of red, with silver and gold lettering,
knots of crepe hanging from the top-and some Anarchist flags, black
with white letters. The band was playing the Revolutionary Funeral
March, and against the immense singing of the mass of people,
standing uncovered, the paraders sang hoarsely, choked with sobs....
Between the factory-workers came companies of soldiers with their
coffins, too, and squadrons of cavalry, riding at salute, and
artillery batteries, the cannon wound with red and black-forever, it
seemed. Their banners said, "Long live the Third International!" or
"We Want an Honest, General, Democratic Peace!"
Slowly the marchers came with their coffins to the entrance of the
grave, and the bearers clambered up with their burdens and went down
into the pit. Many of them were women-squat, strong proletarian
women. Behind the dead came other women-women young and broken, or
old, wrinkled women making noises like hurt animals, who tried to
follow their sons and husbands into the Brotherhood Grave, and
shrieked when compassionate hands restrained them.
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