The Hidden Letters of Velta B. by Gina Ochsner

Author:Gina Ochsner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

True to Mr. Zetsche’s word, the Jewish Burial Society came to town on the early bus. They walked the length of the lane toward the cemetery with such solemnity, it was as if they could feel beneath their canvas shoes how badly worn the earth’s overcoat was. The arrival of ten men carrying shovels provoked instant curiosity in the same way a crowd attracts a crowd. Soon everyone who didn’t have jobs, that is, nearly all the men and a handful of women, Ligita and I included, gathered outside the cemetery, not even bothering to conceal our open interest. Father introduced himself to the oldest of their number, Mr. Serotsin. Then Father followed them into the cemetery as the men walked among the plots, touching the stones. One of the men chanted a prayer in front of each of the Jewish markers, and after this prayer, each of the men balanced a small pebble on the marker, which seemed odd to me considering the fact that the stones would be moved soon. After ten sets of hands touched every Jewish marker and everybody resting beneath had been remembered in a prayer, the men sang a song. Maybe it, too, was a prayer, but it was so sad that the magpies and corncrakes went silent.

“Let me help dig. It’s the least I can do,” Father said.

“No.” Mr. Serotsin shook his head. “We will do it—our way.” With a nod from Mr. Serotsin, the men split into two groups, each of them carrying shovels and ropes to the farthest Jewish graves, where they began to dig. When the first group cleared a deep trench around a pine box, the second group worked the ropes through the large pulleys and snatch box that had been erected over the plot. Without heavy machinery, this was the only way to pull a casket from the ground onto the thick linen drop cloths. Then they began the slow pull over the grass.

All this Ligita and I watched from behind the gate. It reminded me of the times when Rudy and I were younger, watching the slow procession of the Jewish pallbearers carrying their heavy load. The men would take a few steps, stop, and carefully lower the coffin to let it rest for a moment. Then they’d pick it up and carry it a few paces more. And it was much the same way now: the men pulled the cloth sled several meters over the grass. Then they’d stop for a moment, as if to let the soul, tired now and perhaps disoriented, catch up with the box.

The next afternoon, a Friday, the men of the burial society—all ten of them—stood at the bus stop, the place in the road where the shoulder widened a bit. The last body had been reburied. Sabbath was only a few hours away; they were anxious for the bus to take them home. Overhead, a damp tent of clouds sagged onto the tops of distant pines, making the hour seem later than it really was.

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