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Chapter 11

This year, as in every year, the demonstration to the Communard Wall of the Père Lachaise cemetery was scheduled for the last Sunday of May. Morris Berger was restless. With the first signs of dawn he carefully got out of bed so as not to disturb Gertrude, who was still fast asleep. The sharpened female odor of his sick wife made a bad combination with the stuffiness of the room. He felt a vague spiritual nausea as if his soul were locked up with a decaying carcass.

He hurriedly dressed and went out into the street. The stores were closed, the sidewalks deserted; vast patches of blackness still occupied the sky. Berger walked straight ahead. His eyes sought for a clear area of sky through which the sun might peer. He waited urgently for the sun to lend its golden benediction to this day of remembrance, this golden day when the people, reborn under the banner of the People's Front, would loudly proclaim their unity.

When Morris reached the Belleville station of the subway, he saw Pierre, the nailer hurrying towards him.

"Berger!" the other cried joyfully. "What are you doing out so early? And on a Sunday, too."

Berger, a bit confused by the unexpected meeting, smiled and said, "I just couldn't sleep," and he pressed Pierre's hand warmly.

The two walked on together. A thin drizzle began to fall from the clouded skies. On the wet boulevard benches, dirty