The Passport

THE GUARD OF HONOUR

The militiaman is standing in the tailor’s yard. He’s giving schnaps to the officers. He’s giving schnaps to the soldiers who carried the coffin into the house. Windisch sees the stars on their epaulettes.

The night watchman leans his face towards Windisch. “The militiaman is happy,” he says, “because he’s got company.”

The mayor is standing under the yellow plum tree. He’s sweating. He’s looking at a sheet of paper. Windisch says: “He can’t read the writing, because the teacher wrote the funeral speech.” “He wants two sacks of flour tomorrow evening,” says the night watchman. He smells of schnaps.

The priest comes into the yard. His black coat trails along the ground. The officers quickly shut their mouths. The militiaman puts the bottle of schnaps behind the tree.

The coffin is made of metal. It shines in the yard like a gigantic tobacco tin. The guard of honour carries the coffin out of the yard, their boots faithfully keeping time with the march.

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.”