On the truck is a red cloth.
The black hats of the men bob quickly by. The black headscarves of the women pass more slowly behind them. Loosely tied to the black knots of their rosaries. The coachman walks. He talks loudly.
The guard of honour on the truck is tossed from side to side. The soldiers hold on tightly to their rifles because of the pot holes. They are too high above the ground, too high above the coffin.
Widow Kroner’s grave is still black and high. “The earth hasn’t settled, because it hasn’t rained,” says Skinny Wilma. The bunches of hydrangea have crumbled away.
The postwoman comes and stands beside Windisch. “How nice it would be,” she says, “if young people came to the funeral too. It’s been like this for years,” she says. “When someone in the village dies, none of the young people turn up.” A tear falls onto her hand. “Amalie has to come for an interview on Sunday morning.”
The prayer leader sings in the priest’s ear. The incense distorts her mouth.
She is so transfixed and holy in her singing that the whites of her eyes grow large, sluggishly covering the pupils.
The postwoman sobs. She grips Windisch by the elbow. “And two sacks of flour,” she says.
The bell strikes till its clapper is sore. The volleys of the military salute rise above the graves. Heavy clods of earth fall onto the tin coffin.
The prayer leader remains standing at the war memorial. With the corners of her eyes she searches out a place to stand. She looks at Windisch. She coughs. Windisch hears the phlegm breaking in her throat, now emptied of song.
“Amalie is to come to see the priest on Saturday afternoon,” she says. “The priest has to look for her baptismal certificate in the register.”
Windisch’s wife ends the prayer. She takes two steps. She stops in front of the prayer leader’s face. “The baptismal certificate isn’t so urgent, is it?” she says. “Very urgent,” says the prayer leader. “The militiaman has told the priest that your passports are ready at the Passport Office now.”
Windisch’s wife crushes her handkerchief. “Amalie is bringing a crystal vase on Saturday,” she says. “It’s fragile.” “She can’t go straight to the priest from the station,” says Windisch.
The prayer leader grinds the sand with the tip of her shoe. “Then she should go home first,” she says. “The days are still long.”
GYPSIES BRING LUCK
The kitchen cupboard is empty. Windisch’s wife bangs the doors shut. The little gypsy girl from the next village stands barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, where the table used to stand. She puts the cooking-pots into her large sack. She unties her handkerchief. She gives Windisch’s wife twenty-five lei. “I don’t have any more,” she says. The tongue of ribbon sticks out of her plait. “Give me a dress as well,” she says. “Gypsies bring luck.”
Windisch’s wife gives her Amalie’s red dress. “Now go,” she says. The little gypsy girl points to the teapot. “The teapot too,” she says. “I’ll bring you luck.”
The milkmaid with the blue headscarf pushes the handcart with the pieces of the bed through the gate. The old bedding is tied to her back.
Windisch shows the television to the man with the small hat. He switches it on. The screen hums. The man carries the television out. He puts it on the table on the veranda. Windisch takes the banknotes from his hand.
A horse and cart from the dairy are standing in front of the house. A man and woman are standing by the white patch where the bed used to be. They look at the wardrobe and the dressing table. “The mirror is broken,” says Windisch’s wife. The milkmaid lifts up a chair and looks at the underside of the seat. Her companion taps the table top with his fingers. “The wood is sound,” says Windisch. “You can’t buy furniture like that in the shops any more.”
The room is empty. The cart with the wardrobe goes along the street. The chair legs stick up beside the wardrobe. They rattle like the wheels. The table and dressing table are on the grass outside the house. The milkmaid sits on the grass and follows the cart with her eyes.
The postwoman wraps the curtains in a newspaper. She looks at the refrigerator. “It’s been sold,” says Windisch’s wife. “The tractor man is coming to collect it this evening.”
The hens lie with their heads in the sand. Their feet have been tied together. Skinny Wilma is putting them in the wicker basket. “The cock went blind,” says Windisch’s wife. “I had to kill it.” Skinny Wilma counts the banknotes. Windisch’s wife holds her hand out for them.
The tailor has black braid on the points of his collar. He rolls up the carpet. Windisch’s wife looks at his hands. “You can’t escape fate,” she sighs.
Amalie looks at the apple tree through the window. “I don’t know,” says the tailor. “He never harmed a soul.”
Amalie feels a sob in her throat. She leans her face out of the window. She hears the shot.
Windisch is standing in the yard with the night watchman. “There’s a new miller in the village,” says the night watchman. “A Wallachian with a small hat from a water mill.” The night watchman hangs some shirts, jackets and trousers over the carrier of the bicycle. He reaches into his pocket. “I said, it’s a present,” says Windisch. Windisch’s wife tugs at her apron. “Take them,” she says, “he’s glad to give them to you. There’s still a pile of old clothes lying around for the gypsies.” She tugs at her cheek. “Gypsies bring luck,” she says.
THE SHEEP FOLD
The new miller is standing on the veranda. “The mayor sent me,” he says. “I’m going to be living here.”
His small hat is at an angle. His sheepskin is new. He looks at the table on the veranda. “I could use that,” he says. He walks through the house. Windisch follows him. Windisch’s wife follows Windisch barefoot.
The new miller looks at the door in the hall. He turns the handle. He looks at the walls and ceiling in the hall. He knocks on the door. “This door is old,” he says. He leans against the door frame and looks into the empty room. “I was told the house was furnished,” he says. “What do you mean, furnished?” says Windisch. “I’ve sold my furniture.”
Windisch’s wife stamps out of the hall. Windisch can feel his head throbbing.
The new miller looks at the walls and ceiling in the room. He opens and closes the window. He presses the floorboards down with the tip of his shoe. “Then I must phone my wife,” says the miller. “She’ll have to bring some furniture.”
The miller goes into the yard. He looks at the fences. He sees the neighbour’s spotted pigs. “I’ve got ten pigs and twenty-six sheep,” he says. “Where’s the sheepfold?”
Windisch sees the yellow leaves on the sand. “We’ve never had sheep,” he says. Windisch’s wife comes into the yard with a broom in her hand. “The Germans don’t have any sheep,” she says. The broom crunches lightly in the sand.
“The shed will make a good garage,” says the miller. “I’ll get hold of some planks and build a sheepfold.”
The miller shakes Windisch’s hand. “The mill is beautiful,” he says.
Windisch’s wife brushes large circular waves in the sand.
THE SILVER CROSS
Amalie is sitting on the floor. The wine glasses are lined up according to size. The schnaps glasses are all shiny. The milky flowers on the sides of the fruit bowls are rigid. The vases stand along the wall. The crystal vase stands in the corner of the room.
Amalie holds the small box with the tear in her hand.
Amalie hears the tailor’s voice inside her head: “He never harmed a soul.”
A piece of fire burns in Amalie’s forehead.