1919

The Camera Eye (40)

I walked all over town general strike no busses no taxicabs the gates of the Metro closed Place de Iéna I saw red flags Anatole France in a white beard placards MUTILES DE LA GUERRE and the nutcracker faces of the agents de sûreté

Mort aux vaches

at the place de la Concorde the Republican Guards in christmastree helmets were riding among the crowd whacking the Parisians with the flat of their swords scraps of the International worriedlooking soldiers in their helmets lounging with grounded arms all along the Grands Boulevards

Vive les poilus

at the Republique à bas la guerre MORT AUX VACHES à bas la Paix des Assassins they’ve torn up the gratings from around the trees and are throwing stones and bits of cast iron at the fancydressed republican guards hissing whistling poking at the horses with umbrellas scraps of the International

at the Gare de l’Est they’re singing the International entire the gendarmerie nationale is making its way slowly down Magenta into stones whistles bits of iron the International Mort Aux Vaches Barricades we must build barricades young kids are trying to break down the shutters of an arms shop revolver shots an old woman in a window was hit (Whose blood is that on the cobbles?) we’re all running down a side street dodging into courtyards concièrges trying to close the outside doors on cavalry charging twelve abreast firecracker faces scared and mean behind their big moustaches under their Christmastree helmets

at a corner I run into a friend running too Look out They’re shooting to kill and it’s begun to rain hard so we dive in together just before a shutter slams down on the door of the little café dark and quiet inside a few working men past middle age are grumblingly drinking at the bar Ah les salops There are no papers Somebody said the revolution had triumphed in Marseilles and Lille Ca va taper dure We drink grog americain our feet are wet at the next table two elderly men are playing chess over a bottle of white wine

later we peep out from under the sliding shutter that’s down over the door into the hard rain on the empty streets only a smashed umbrella and an old checked cap side by side in the clean stone gutter and a torn handbill L’UNION DES TRAVAILLEURS FERA