Tarzier
Memoirs |
Part I Old
Latvia
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PICKING UP THE
PIECES
After the opening of mass graves at Gulbene in June, 1919, I was given
leave to drive home the droshka, bearing the sad cargo of Father’s
remains. We went to the local chapel first, but Uncle Janis insisted that
Karlis come home to his beloved farm one last time, and from there to
the cemetery with all honor due the last Predelu Tarziersam. We did as
Uncle Janis suggested. We placed the coffin under the arbor of sweet scented
lilac Father had planted, staked, and pruned. By afternoon, a procession
had gathered, neighbors, friends and relatives, even a small brass band.
As the eldest son in attendance, I led the funeral procession, carrying
the striped maroon and white Latvian flag. Peter carried the cross that
would initially mark the grave. We slowly made our way to Murenu cemetery,
past the gnarled old maple tree, across the creek, three kilometers down
the road. Neighbors emerged from their houses to pay respects to a man
they had either loved or resented, it didn’t matter now. The shadows
of that summer day lengthened as we laid our father’s body to rest.
War
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