Lacrimation

On an August day that was cold and gray, with flags at half-mast, Germany tearfully commemorated the tenth anniversary of plunging the world into war.

The climax of Berlin's tremendous open-air tribute to her fallen soldiers was reached when an orderly, black-dense crowd assembled before the Reichstag, packed all the side streets around that building and filled the tree-lined avenues of the Tiergarten.

President Ebert, standing outside the Reichstag beneath an inscription, To the Living Spirit of Our Dead, said in a speech: "We swear today that we will do all in our power to help Germany resume her proper place among the nations. . . Let us swear to build in memory of our dead and our sacrifices a memorial more permanent than iron--a free Germany."

A gun boomed its dull, monotonous roar, the crowd became bareheaded, two minutes' silence was observed with reverential solemnity. Then, thousands of melancholy voices sang the old German hymn: Wir treten zum Beten. As the vibrant notes of the hymn found thundering echoes of grief in thousands of hearts, tears welled, men and women allegedly fainted--not from heat, for it was cold--not from crowd roughness, for there was order--but from grief.

The crowd dispersed to the strains of Deutschland ueber Alles. The only disturbance occurred when Communists, hung like monkeys in the trees, booed, yelled, scattered propaganda leaflets among the crowd during the two minutes of silence. Several Communists were caught by the infuriated mourners, were badly mauled, taken to hospitals.

In the Pariserplatz, where stands the French Embassy, police mounted, and on foot, solid contingents of Reichswehr prevented any hostile demonstration.