The Funeral
(Based on 'Marcia Funebre' from 'Piano Sonata No.2' by Frederic Chopin)
Pyotr – a young lad of nineteen – checked once or twice whether the coffin was falling down or not. A brave soldier was he, Pyotr thought, as he walked down slowly down the road. The streets looked like they had been long dead….there were mournful cries filling the atmosphere…
The priest, Potzysky, remembered how he generously gave away all his wealth for the welfare of the poor, and defended them from evil. The rain had wetted his nearly-bald head, which was almost dried up. His eyes were still wet, unable to control the tears coming up, as he walked through the mud, towards the finale…
The gate was already opened, so they didn’t have to call the guard up – he was there though already. He was a reclusive person, never talked with anyone – but it seemed that the deceased had some relations with him, for he gave out a loud sob – like the one whose dearest had suddenly passed away…
The group of fifteen continued to walk down the solitary path. The trees looked hauntingly mournful. The wind was – as if – mournfully howling, while the rain continued to pour.
Then – at a point in the far south of the cemetery – they stopped. Pyotr asked the priest, ‘Over here…?’
‘Yes.’
The four of them – Pyotr, Baronysk, Jonzyk, and Kristoff – laid down the stone-cold coffin. Tears flooded once more in Pyotr’s eyes, and he used all his might to control them, but in vain…
Then, just as the priest began performing the rites, Pyotr suddenly saw a picture floating in front of his eyes…it was not one, but many came before his eyes. At first they were swirling about in a mist, then – upon clearing – he saw…
He was standing on a very much familiar road – the winding path of the cemetery where he was. Only this time, he saw himself as a twelve-year old boy, and he was holding the hand of a thin, but burly-looking man, whose face was slightly littered with soundless tears. They were standing beside a grave, but Pyotr couldn’t make out whose grave it was.
Another picture came floating by. This time, he was in one of the gardens which were used popularly in Poland for picnics. He recognized immediately some of the trees over there – and that’s where…
Pyotr had stopped at a tree – at the very far end of that garden. Yes, from over here, he had heard the distant, chilling war trumpet.
The picture disappeared, and Pyotr saw he was now standing on one of the massive, dirt-filled, and war-torn Polish grounds. He saw that the land was divided in two: on one side were several soldiers, which looked like Russians, and on the other side, who was the man who was leading…
Pyotr gasped. But before he could do anything, he felt his body whirling about, and from his mouth, nothing but a scream erupted….
‘Pyotr, Pyotr! Hey, what’s wrong?’
Pyotr opened his eyes. But where were those images? Instead, he found himself back again to the graveyard where the funeral was going on. After performing the last rites, Potzysky was nearly horrified at the sight of Pyotr – he had been rolling down the mud, as if something was strangling him.
‘No, I’m alright.’ replied Pyotr.
‘Well then, let’s move on then. Pardon me for my hurriedness, but I have two more funerals to go to.’
‘Yes, Father.’
The procession turned back – turned away from the grave where their hero lay – and began marching silently. Darkness had begun to fall, and the rain had increased, so did the winds. The people then departed one by one, and no one – except Pyotr, remained over there. He was all alone.
He turned his head to where the grave lay. He now understood why those pictures were shown to him. It was not his imagination, but reminiscences – reminiscent of his past, and the moments he spent with his beloved friend…
He walked up to the grave, and said – in a tear-filled voice:
‘Farewell, Papa. I’ll never forget you.’
***
M.Macabre
21.08.2020
Dedicated to: Frédéric Chopin, Redi
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