Death in the Market Square

I woke up early one Saturday morning, and somehow I just knew that something extraordinary was occurring in the market square.  I could hear many voices and the sounds of people moving about.  I dressed quickly and went to investigate.  A few yards from the main paved highway I saw an unmoving large peasant wagon drawn by two beautiful horses.  The town's doctor was looking into the straw filled cart, shaking his head, and talking to the peasants who were with the wagon.

"I can’t do anything for this boy.  I am not a surgeon.  My hospital is not equipped for an operation."

I looked down into the wagon.  There lay a young Polish peasant boy of about 18 years of age.  It was obvious that he was in a great deal of pain.  He kept moaning,

"I want to live.  I want to marry my girlfriend.  Don’t let me die."

The young priest came, and he gave the boy the Last Rites.  The father, a huge man, kept on shaking his head, 

"It’s nothing, it will go away."

The mother of the boy kept on crossing herself as her tears flowed.  Two of their younger children were with them.

The injury had actually occurred the night before.  Some young people were playing around, when one of them produced a handgun.  It went off, and the bullet lodged in the abdomen of this young Polish peasant boy.  This had happened in a small village a few miles from our town.

The boy was still bleeding.  Evidently infection had already set in.  He was drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Rush the boy to Zamosc where there is a big hospital with good doctors.  They will try to save your son, but you must sell your horses, as an operation of such magnitude is very expensive, and the doctors will want to be paid in advance."

"What?  Sell my horses?  Impossible.  This is the only thing that I have saved up after years of hard work and slavery.  Without my horses I am nothing."

The doctor, the priest, and many of the people that surrounded this sad wagon pleaded with the father of the boy to do just that.

The peasant couldn’t, or wouldn't, understand. 

"It is nothing.  The boy will soon get up and we will go home."

This went on all day.   People brought water and food for the horses, also food for the whole family.  Night came.  The boy continued moaning.  The parents talked to him, held his hand.  He cried, 

"I love my girl, I want to get married."

In the morning, a Sunday morning, the church bells rang louder and longer than usual.  We knew that this young, handsome boy had died.  The parents sat on the wagon, still talking to the now dead young man.  They did not let anyone near him.

After Mass in the cathedral, the senior Priest came to the wagon and  looked at the dead boy and the stunned ignorant family.  He asked them to follow him to the church.

They obeyed.  A few Nuns and other clergy came over and they removed the boy’s body to be prepared for burial.

The night was quiet.  The horses were again fed.  In the morning the members of this peasant family, like somnambulists, were led to a horse drawn carriage where a plain pine coffin containing the dead young man's body was lying on the bed of the wagon.

The funeral procession moved slowly.  I too followed, accompanied by my cousin Nathan. (Nathan the only one in the family who saved himself from the Nazis by escaping to Russia).

We watched the funeral service, observed  the freshly dug grave, and the lowering of the casket.  The peasant family stood and watched unbelievingly.  There were no cries. They did not even cross themselves as expected.

Later someone took their hands and led them to their own wagon.  A few minutes later we heard the most blood curdling screams.  The father began to beat up his family – first with his fists, yelling curses and obscenities, and later with a huge wooden club.

The family ran away.  The man then started clubbing his horses, swearing, screaming wildly, hitting the poor animals on their rears and on their backs, and finally on their heads.

The horses snorted, reared up on their hind legs, and it was apparent that they wanted to run off, but the wagon to which they were hitched held them in place.

It was bedlam.  People came begging and screaming – trying to calm down this poor distraught man.

Finally he sat down and tried to cry, but no tears came.  The family returned and talked to him.  Someone calmed the horses, adjusted the harnesses, turned the wagon in the direction of the village, and put the reins in the peasant's hand.  The wagon slowly pulled away from the market square.

A little later that Monday evening, my cousin Nathan and I went to the market place where the wagon had been standing.  There was dried blood in clumps, and there was also some fresh red blood.  Nathan got a bucket of sand, and we covered the ugly debris.  I found a shovel and stirred up the ground, leveling the area.

I had a hope, and even an expectation, that a fruit tree, or at least some flowers would emerge on this blood soaked spot, but it stayed barren and sterile.

"Let’s say Kadish," (the prayer for the dead) suggested Nathan. 

But I refused.  At this point in my life I was not a believer, and I angrily said to Nathan,

What kind of a God is this that takes away such a young life, and why did God give him to dumb parents who put the value of their horses above that of their son’s chance of survival?

Then my cousin spoke out,

"Then I will use my own words."

As we stood there he quietly said, 

"I hope you will find peace in a state of no pain and your parents will always love you, and the girl that you loved will carry your memory with her all her life."

I simply said "Amen."

Tuesday was market day.  Peasants came and brought their produce to sell.  On the very spot where the young boy had died, a wagon full of sacks of grain, potatoes, beans, and cabbages stopped so that the peasants might sell their wares.  I wanted to find out if they came from the same village as the peasants who had brought their dying son to our market square, but I was too bashful to ask.  Secretly I hoped that they did, and that the young tragic Pole had helped plant and cultivate those nourishing products which we all needed to sustain our lives.