Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

Antonija begged him not to. Her hands clasped to her chest, her eyes filled with tears and: You can’t have him! She went to watch them dig that night, proud and not her usual self. Four young men came down the road in a cart pulled by a lame mare, and got to work. The boys stole glances at Toņa and, laughing and snorting, shovelled her hero unceremoniously into a wooden box. Or rather, what was left of the hero – his pelvis and ribs, then his head with its mat of hair, his liver and hands with now-emaciated fingers, which were no longer beautiful. Because the soil by the Daugava was wet, and time had taken its toll. Finally the diggers rambled off toward the Brothers’ Cemetery, challenging one another to see who could stand up in the cart the longest. They looked back at Toņa for some time. The wooden box with the hero jostled around the cart.

– Riding, riding, with a horse, once it keels we’ll get a new one of course! children shouted from the ditch.

Toņa didn’t watch them leave. She studied the scattered earth for some time, the opening like a raw wound, like it had just given birth, imprinted by someone from an unknown and past life. Everyone else had already gone home, but Toņa still sat with her back against the oak, facing the crimson sunset. The evening wind thrummed over the Daugava. A storm was in full force on the opposite side of the river.

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