Chapter five: In the house of my mother --- 1903 04/02
A newspaper
At the tender age of fourteen, during the height of a warm midsummer, the blow fell upon me like a blade, swift and unforgiving. Even now, the events that followed remain etched in my memory, their edges carrying within them the sharpness of the day they occurred, as though time itself refuses to dull their edges.
"He, Died."
The black-tipped brush slipped from my fingers, striking the floor with a hollow thud—a sound that seemed to echo the emptiness forming within me. My face, once flush with youth's vitality, turned pallid as disbelief gripped me. Unbelievable—no, intolerable! Still, I obeyed the call, trailing the voice across streets and blocks, the question burning within my mind: could it be true? And then, as I rounded the corner, the scene struck me with brutal clarity. There he was---the coroner standing solemnly, Mother and Gustav gathered around his lifeless form. From where I stood, only his legs protruded from beneath the darkened shroud.
But as I drew nearer, his face emerged with a grim clarity from beneath the edge of the cloth. Pain had carved itself into his features; terror clung to his countenance. A strange detail held my focus---stranger still, perhaps, that it would be what I remembered most vividly. Not the coroner's declaration of a stroke as the cause of death. but the newspaper---clutched tightly in his lifeless left hand, as though it were some precious treasure. He had perished for it. Just a newspaper.
That was all.
That was what he died for.
His entire life lost, lost to a newspaper.
The pavement pressed cold against my knees as I knelt beside him. I couldn't look at Mother, her quiet sobs cutting through the stillness. I wanted to cry, to rage, but all I could do was stare at his hand clutching that crumpled newspaper, as if it might still matter.
I could not grasp my emotions, adrift between grief and a hollow longing. Despite his stern demeanor, I loved him dearly. Yet, he had kept so much of himself hidden---stories of his parents and grandparents, the passions that stirred within him beyond the toil of work and the escape of drink. Those tales, those truths, were now lost forever. A history buried with him, swallowed by the earth.
Despite his harshness, he was still my father---my provider, my guide. He had been there alongside Mother when I broke my arm, ensuring I was cared for. Yet now, I was numb, unable to reconcile with the finality of it all. Grief bound us momentarily, but soon, as was our way, we resumed our routines, ignoring the obvious. Each silently carrying the weight of what we had lost.
By the following day, my sorrow had transfigured into a seething anger---a burning nail lodged deep within my heart. Even then, I knew this wound would remain unhealed, a scar upon my very spirit forever.
"Why him? Why for something so meaningless?" I demanded of God, but the heavens offered no reply. Only silence greeted my anguished plea---a silence I had come to expect. What kind of God would allow such a cruelty to previal?
Reflecting now, I finally comprehend the macabre wisdom within a piece of my fathers counsel.
"A man does not truly become a man until he buries his father."
At the time, I dismissed it as little more than a contrivance, a well-worn aphorism meant to instill guilt or compliance. Like his musings on politics or his unsolicited advice on marriage, I assumed it would prove hollow with age. But I was mistaken---utterly and profoundly mistaken.
For in burying him, I learned more than I could have anticipated. It was the unspoken proof that, beneath his reserved exterior, my father had possessed a kernel of wisdom---a wisdom he rarely chose to share.
Death brought with it a deluge of obligations---documents to sign, wills to decipher, or in our case a lack thereof. It seemed as though the world itself descended upon us, each part demanding its due.
The burden was maddening.
His entire existence, squandered through drink, smoke, and deceit. Forty years as a customs officer, with little to show beyond the bread he placed on our table. He provided for us, yes, and for that, I remain grateful. Yet his death was as unremarkable as his life's achievements. Were it not for Gustav and myself, his memory would have vanished within a month of the world, his name unspoken and his legacy forgotten.
A simple newspaper.
After he was laid to rest beneath the shade of an oak tree, we said our final goodbyes. I sought to console Mother, who appeared as fragile as a leaf, ready to be carried by the gentlest breeze. Once the service concluded, Gustav and I remained behind, seated in silence before the marble grave.
We simply started at it, contemplating what he had become. Gustav's face was expressionless, yet I knew his mind mirrored my own---reflecting on Father's life, his death, and the emptiness it left behind.
In that moment, seated by his grave, I made a solemn vow---a vow known only to myself until now. I swore that my life would not be squandered as his had been. No drink, no deceit, no indulgence in vice. Above all, I vowed that I would die for something I deemed meaningful. Not for nothing. Not an simple newspaper and a lukewarm cup of coffee. Whatever the cost. Never to die like him.
Yet, as we walked away from his grave, the unspoken question further weighed down upon me: was my life destined to follow his path, or could I break free? I didn't know the answer, but I knew this—I would not let my days slip by unnoticed. Whatever I did, it would matter. My final secession would carry a purpose. Never forgotten by the world and betrayed by its simple trivialities.
Though I may have faltered in fulfilling every aspect of that promise, in spirit, I have remained true. The core of it---an unyielding resolve to carry a meaning in my life---has guided me ever since.
Not a god forsaken newspaper.
I would always try.