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There are no worshipers in the procession, but now—now the rabble breaks in. As though pouring through the smashed doors of a store, as though hurrying to grab the loot, to steal the rations, sweeping past the gate posts, whirled into the torrent, boys and girls push and jostle and shove their way —why? They themselves don't know. To watch the priests fooling about? Or just to jostle? Is that their assigned task?
A procession with no one praying! A procession with no one making the sign of the cross! A procession in hats, with cigarettes, with transistors slung around necks! The picture must include the front rows of the crowd as they squeeze through the railings—then it will be complete! One old woman, standing aside, crosses herself and says to another: "It's good this year—no hooliganism. Look how many policemen ..." So now we know. It was worse in other years.