The Grave (F)

I went back to my home village for the first time since the war began. I say home because it was my place of birth and of my parents, of my grandparents and their parents.

Now the village was mostly rubble.

I left my village when I was 18 after securing a university scholarship. The day I left my mother wept and my father took me by the shoulders and offered a few words. “Be something.” He shook me gently. “Be something.” My grandfather beamed proudly. My grandmother shook her head and spat. “This is no good. It is a fool’s errand.”

My family’s home burned to the ground in the attack. I would be sleeping in one of many volunteer tents. I would shower at the hospital and I would eat in the mess tent.

On the little stand next to my cot I set my mug and a dog-eared copy of The Gulag Archipelago. Two of my tent mates took no notice, but the third eyed it with contempt.

“You should not have such a thing as that. It is an affront to the dead.”

“You misunderstand—appreciate the irony.”

“It should be burned.”

The first morning, after a breakfast of boiled eggs and bread and coffee, we mustered in two lines about ten yards from the gravesite. We were handed a trowel, a short folding shovel—like one would take camping in the mountains to dig a latrine, a small sieve, and something like a small serving spoon.

We were stationed every three feet around the perimeter of the freshly turned earth. An army corporal marked our place with orange spray paint. Then a man with a bullhorn introduced himself as the UN liaison.

“Start with your shovel, dig slowly until you meet any kind of resistance. Place the dirt in the sieve and shake it through. You are looking for jewelry, keys, coins, paper money, small bones, and the like.”

Several of the men—two of the youngest in particular—shifted back and forth, staring at the ground, muttering to themselves.

“Use the pointed end of the trowel to probe around larger objects, slowly, slowly, finding the edges. Perhaps an arm or leg, maybe the torso, maybe the head, perhaps a foot. Use the spoon to scoop away smaller amounts. Photographers will be moving around you to document the scene.”

The man to my left began to drop to his knees.

“Wait! One last word. I am sorry if this happens, but some of you may uncover someone you know. Signal me and we will move you to another section if you wish. Any questions?”

We knelt down.

I decided to start on the left side of my small parcel. A shallow angle and the dirt gave way easily. I turned and dropped the load through the sieve. Nothing.

I aimed to the right a bit. Again, a scoop of dirt. Nothing.

Once more. Something this time. I took my trowel and gently pushed forward. A smallish stone dislodged. I flipped it over my shoulder.

I glanced at some of the other men. No one seemed to have reached a body yet.

With my shovel I worked back and forth, moving the dirt, striking a few stones, a coin, a bit of broken glass. I inched forward on my knees. My shovel easily penetrated the dirt.

Sometimes I would stand and stretch my legs and back. Others would do the same. Clearly we were getting closer to the mound itself.

“One here!” We all stopped and stared. The UN supervisor jogged over to the spot. He stooped and immediately signaled for a photographer to come over.

I returned to the task. The shovel cut easily down half a foot or so. Nothing. Another deeper cut. Nothing.

I pulled off my sweatshirt and tossed it back behind me.

Again, a deep gash. Resistance. I pushed again. Something. I picked up the trowel and scraped at the object.

Slowly I moved away the dirt. An outline emerged. A small shoe. I worked around the toe and along the top. Some white laces.

“One here.”

A photographer close by came over and stood behind me. My companions on either side stopped and leaned in my direction.

I took the spoon and removed a bit of dirt. A tennis shoe. Pink. Gently I worked around the shoe. And then a bare ankle. What I already knew was now clear. A child.

The photographer tapped me on the shoulder and had me step back. He took several shots and then kneeled and took several more.

My fellow diggers averted their eyes and returned to the task at hand.

I took a deep breath and kneeled.

Greenville 2022