It is about ten o'clock in the morning. The sun casts its bright rays into every corner of the great East Side—and everything seems to be radiant with life.
But humanity is in mourning. Everywhere, black flags, bearing the white six-pointed stars, are displayed.
Men, women and children, American born, immigrants of years ago, as well as recent arrivals—whether they come from Russia, Austria, Hungary, Germany or Great Britian, prepare for the march. They are bound for East Broadway. Thousands pour into Rutgers Square—the stream seems endless! Though the police exert all their power to keep the crowds in order, their efforts seem ineffectual.
At last, the order is given. "Fall in!".And those who had expected great confusion, a terrible rush of a bewildered humanity, were greatly surprised. Solemnly and quietly, the large army of mourners formed into the greatest march the East Side ever saw. Not a voice was raised; not a word uttered; a solemn silence prevailed. Only now and then was heard the shrill command of a police official instructing his subordinates how to hold the surging throngs of people, surging to and fro, from interfering with the marches.
The march has reached Broadway. Crowds of well dressed people line up on both sides. These are Gentiles and Jews, the latter, of course, being in the majority. Grace church is passed, the band in a melancholy tone, plays the "Hatikvah" and from the church tower the bells toll solemnly. For the first time in my life I heard Jewish prayers unite with those of the Christian church in expressing one thought:
mourning “the loss of our brethren slaughtered in darkest Russia.”
The first division composed of the actors' union and the choirs of the various synagogues, passes. The second division pre-ceeded by a band of about thirty playing, "Dort wo die Zeder" approaches. A well built Jew, with broad shoulders, an erect body and long flowing beard carries a Zionist flag draped in black. Following him come the paraders headed by the president of the society, who had organized this march, the man responsible for this unusual demonstration. He walks slowly, his head bowed and his features betraying his feelings. He gives one the impression of a true Jewish prist, of that class to which the father of Judas Maccabeus belonged.
The procession reached Union Square. The large plaza on the 17th street side has been cleared; mounted police are stationed on all sides; the newspapers set up their cameras and photographs are taken; the reporters are the only ones permitted to cross the police lines. They walk up and down, viewing the situation; the sun begins to set in the west, and bathes the large square, when the marchers appear. The procession seemed a triumphant army marching to bury—not its own dead, but its enemy's.
They are the dead spaces between these words, the interval between the thought and its expression. They cloak the mysteries and enfold the darkness in luminous mystery. They are the ghosts