Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [448]
The noise and music swelled in volume, and he told himself, as if in an argument with someone else, that with things as bad, why couldn’t the Reds let well enough alone, put their shoulders to the wheel, try to help things along back to prosperity instead of making conditions worse by parading to foment all this trouble and agitation. Kicking was all right, he continued with himself, and the Lord knew that he had as much reason to kick as any man. But that was no cause to want to tear down everything and have anarchy like in Russia. Why did these Jews and foreigners and Reds want to go on disrupting the way they did?
An explosion of shouts burst against his eardrums, and he stiffened with fear and surprise. He saw the head of the parade, half a block down, moving toward him like a howling mob. He remembered Scaramouche, a movie about the French Revolution that he and Mary had seen a long time ago in the old neighborhood. Were these Reds going to burn, and kill, and destroy the way the mob had in that picture? He looked at the broad back of a bull-necked policeman a few feet in front of him, and he guessed that the cops would be able to take care of any trouble if it started.
The shouts of the paraders broke upon him, the flag-bearers passed, several feet in advance of the parade, and he saw a swarm of faces, poster signs, banners, for blocks and blocks back. A tall, solid blond man in an unpressed blue suit, with frank features, followed the flag bearers, and Lonigan guessed that he was a Swede or an American. Behind him came a Jew, a Negro, and another tall, solidly built fellow who looked to Lonigan like a white man. A band followed, playing that strange tune, and Lonigan saw a sunken-chested little fellow in a gray shirt step beside him and raise his right fist and forearm. He couldn’t understand it. A white and a black marcher carried the poles supporting a large banner.
TRADE UNION UNITY LEAGUE
They passed in a steady and confusing flow, men and women, white and black, blond and swarthy, carrying crude signs, slogans written on cardboard and attached to sticks and poles, singing and shouting, a succession of slogans breaking forth clearly, causing Lonigan to knit his brows and shake his head in wonderment.
Down with Imperialist War
Hands Off Nicaragua
We Demand Unemployment Insurance
Down with the Cossack Police Terror
“Comrades, join our ranks,” a plump girl called, passing Lonigan.
File after file strode forward. Poor people. Shabby people. Hunched and underfed men and women. Tall and powerful young men. Hefty, buxom Slavic girls. Lonigan looked idly from face to face, and singled out a tall buck Negro, his face black and surly, his pleated wide-bottomed brown trousers frayed, flopping and dragging at the cuff. Not a nice-looking customer, Lonigan decided. At the outside of the next rank a fat Negress with a red bandana about her head walked flat-footedly, constantly jerking her head about, smiling in a broad, white-toothed grin. She saw two flimsily-dressed, red-lipped, Slavic-faced girls on the curb ogling two corner hoodlums who had stepped out of the corner speakeasy.
“You ain’t too pretty to starve,” the Negress called out loudly in a deep, rich voice, causing laughter to rake the marching ranks.
“Go on back to your washing,” one of the girls flung back, applauded by the loafers.
“Come on, folks,” the Negress shouted with a wave of a beefy arm and flashing a broad smile as she flat-footed by Lonigan.
“Comrades, join our ranks.”
Lonigan’s mouth popped open in surprise. He watched a column of children in light blue uniforms with red armbands swinging behind a large banner.
YOUNG PIONEERS
A silent