our terms we shall fight to the end—but possibly for others will find it impossible to continue the war… Above all, we want to finish the war…”
It was exactly 10:35 when Kameniev asked all in favour of the proclamation to hold up their cards. One delegate dared to raise his hand against, but the sudden sharp outburst around him brought it swiftly down… Unanimous.
Suddenly, by common impulse, we found ourselves on our feet, mumbling together into the smooth lifting unison of the Internationale. A grizzled old soldier was sobbing like a child. Alexandra Kollontai rapidly winked the tears back. The immense sound rolled through the hall, burst windows and doors and seared into the quiet sky. “The war is ended! The war is ended!” said a young workman near me, his face shining. And when it was over, as we stood there in a kind of awkward hush, some one in the back of the room shouted, “Comrades! Let us remember those who have died for liberty!” So we began to sing the Funeral March, that slow, melancholy and yet triumphant chant, so Russian and so moving. The Internationale is an alien air, after all. The Funeral March seemed the very soul of those dark masses whose delegates sat in this hall, building from their obscure visions a new Russia—and perhaps more.
You fell in the fatal fight
For the liberty of the people, for the honour of the people…
You gave up your lives and everything dear to you,
You suffered in horrible prisons,
You went to exile in chains…
Without a word you carried your chains because you could not ignore your suffering brothers,
Because you believed that justice is stronger than the sword…
The time will come when your surrendered life will count.
That time is near; when tyranny falls the people will rise, great and free!
