It was a grey morning, and the smell of exhaust fumes was heavy along Massachusetts Avenue; even so, when the wind shifted you could just catch the scent of flowers.
Folding chairs were laid out in a little arc to accommodate a small crowd of perhaps 150 people. The fragrance came from flower garlands: Twenty-odd bright wreaths on little wire stands, each from a different part of the world, each commemorating some of the estimated 100 million victims of communism.
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