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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.