Second Cut iv -- finis

The next morning Edgar realized very soon that the funeral would be an important event to the community.  From all parts of the surrounding countryside, the staid farmers and their families descended on the village.  The church was full of friends and relatives, coming to pay their respects and express their deep sympathy to the family.  Edgar saw no smiles there.  He heard the community's grief in the tolling of the bell and felt their mournful acceptance in the heavy rhythmical chanting of the Psalms.  But no, as he walked east, he could remember little else from yesterday's funeral, for his eyes and thoughts had wandered from the caskets to the families, over the large assembly of worshipers before him, and finally to Cornelius Den Boer, whose eyes stared at the pulpit.

But the funeral wasn't the end.  The atmosphere of the village was laden with emotion that day, as men acknowledged each other on the street but rarely paused to exchange conversation.  The women spoke quietly to each other, congregating in little groups of two and three, the July sun beating down heavily, but only the corn profited from its strength.

Edgar kicked at a lump of dry clay along the road.  Today was another day.  The effect of the tragedy of last Sunday lessened, and while the drownings and their meaning would certainly continue to be heard in the dark blacksmith shop, Edgar knew that most people understood it was time to continue and overpower yesterday's agony.

He kept walking along the rutted trail.  His father's business had brought contact with many farmers, and frequently he had been requested to help with work which had piled up beyond the control of one man.  Today was such a day.  One of his father's American customers had second cut of hay to do and needed some help.

The farm lay closer to the lake than the village and some distance to the north.  The walk was pleasant this morning, the sun just beginning to breathe its warmth into the cool lake air which still lay over the lakeshore area.  From scattered farms, all neatly kept, dairy cows wandered out to pasture, their morning milking over.

Eventually he saw Jung's farm.  Tall pines grew all around the homestead, giving it shade from the sun and a shield from the wind.  He could already see his employer walking in front of the barn.  Edgar had worked for this man before and was happy to return.  Mr. Jung had treated him well in the past, and Edgar quietly enjoyed his jovial but salty tongue.  Mrs. Jung always prepared massive feasts, and her husband paid as well as any of the farmers of the area, better than most Hollanders.

Jung waved as he saw Edgar approach.  Edgar raised his arm and waved a reply.  The early morning sun had now nearly rid the ground of the dew which temporarily postponed the work, and Edgar knew he would spend little time talking.

"So, Hartman," he said, "are you ready to work?"

"Ja, Mr. Jung," Edgar replied.  "Good to see you again."

Jung removed the faded black hat he wore for work and wiped the sweat which had already formed on his forehead.  A thick-standing crop of gray hair stood proudly above a ruddy, red-nosed face, round and full, the kind of face that begged a smile.  Edgar, despite his years, already stood above the man, but Jung's weight certainly surpassed the boy's.  Packed into the shirt and pants he wore was a torso of lumpy and uneven bulk.  He replaced the battered hat and looked back to Edgar.

"Hartman," he said, "let's see once, what Mama has."

Edgar willingly consented, and Jung put his hand on his shoulder to lead him to the house.  They sat down on a step before the house, and the old man roared for service.  The humid air provoked more sweat from his blue-lined temples, as the temperature rose with the sun.

"Mama," he roared, "I want a beer and one for Hartman too." The command had been given, and a graying woman returned to the kitchen after greeting the visitor.

"So tell me, Hartman, what do the Hollanders say about the two boys who drowned on Sunday?"

"Their funeral was yesterday, Mr. Jung.  Many people were there."

"Yep, it's a terrible thing, what happened."

"Ja, terrible," Edgar repeated.

"The two boys were good boys.  Van Ess, he worked here for me too.  The other one I don't know.  But they're too young, huh, to die already."

"Ja, they were only 18." Edgar was reluctant to talk about the deaths anymore, but the old man sat on the step, looking as if he had more to say.  His belly hung over his thighs.

"The Hollanders send them to Hell, I suppose?" An ironic smile spread across his face and grew into a belch of a laugh that exploded out of his round chest.  He shook his head in mock disbelief.  "They're good boys, Hartman.  What does your father say?"

"My father is sad."

"Sure," the old man went on, "the lake, it's been rough, you know.  Those boys shoulda’ bin more careful."

Mrs. Jung returned silently with two short glasses of beer, offering them to the men.

"Hartman, you drink a beer with me? Some of your people don't like it."

Edgar sipped the luke-warm beer and assented with a faint, sarcastic laugh.  He was miles from Oostburg now.

"The lake was too dangerous, Hartman. Those boys, should not bin swimming.  They shoulda’ known. They was born here."

When Jung's glass was nearly empty, he was back on his feet.

"We go now, there is much work today."

Edgar swallowed the heavy brew and rose to his feet.  The sun was beating down on the Wisconsin countryside.  The burly old farmer tipped his glass to the sun and the beer was gone.  He walked to the barn, where his team waited.

Edgar watched Jung closely.  He saw his father again and heard the rhythmical clang of the hammer on the anvil.  He glanced at his own nearly emptied glass, then poured the remaining contents into the light dirt of the path to the barn.

The lake air was hot and heavy, and the day would be long and hard.