Don't cry, Melchior. Not when Ilse is looking at you like that.
Don't.
They lower the coffin into the ground.
I can't watch but I have to. I can't show anything I'm feeling for Ilse's sake. She'll get so scared if I do.
The men begin to dig the pile of dirt back into the coffin and I shift Ilse around in my arms. I asked for no priest in this service because neither Wendla nor I believed in God.
Wendla…
It's too hot today, too late in the afternoon for me to be wearing this coat. However, it was the only piece of black clothing I owned.
They finish filling the hole and we bow our heads. Ilse picks up a leaf that has fallen on my shoulder and looks at it before ripping it in half. Delighted with her little game, she throws the pieces behind her and claps, giggling.
I look down and shush her, we have to be quiet. The other people at the service walk past me, patting my shoulder, kissing Ilse and whispering rushed apologies and condolences. I am stuck to the ground, unable to move, rooted to the spot, only looking at the now covered hole, littered with flowers.
Turn around, Melchior.
What was that?
Turn around. You'll hurt yourself if you stay longer.
What was that voice? It was a boy's voice, perhaps even a man's.
She's not gone, Melchior, she's not gone. Go home and take care of your daughter. She needs you.
I know this voice. It's dazed, in a dream, somewhat unconfident.
Go, Melchior.
I know it so well.
Melchior…
Moritz.