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THE SIGN
By Steven Kas
I've never missed a road sign yet. I read them all. It's a deep-seated habit with me. Distances, directions and warnings, but most diligently the signs of towns, cities and villages. I know where it started.
One day I made a very peculiar observation. Considering my age at the time, I have to grant myself high marks for wisdom. I was about eight or ten years old at the most, when I came across the most startling realization.
There was the customary sign at the end of the main street, with the name of our village, Reformatuskovacshaza (I'm not kidding) and under it: Population 970.
It so happened that I attended a funeral with my mother one day. I suppose it was one of those "must" funerals when the entire population of the village turned out. Not necessarily to pay respects to the departed, but more likely so as not to miss a major event. Mr. Hedvig, the retired caretaker of the huge baronial estate, called it quits. He was the most hated character, - let me correct myself; the only hated character in the village that I can remember. He was a ruthless employer, driving the farm workers, mostly day-men from sun-up to sundown at a backbreaking pace.
According to the rumors, Bacsa Jula put a curse on him long ago; she got half a pig as restitution for her effort. Some curse, they said, Mr. Hedvig lived to be eighty-six, and enjoyed bachelorhood as a rich man, with only a housekeeper around, nobody else. (They say she was in on the curse business herself.)
So he finally expired, to the general satisfaction of his former charges. The visiting Bishop didn't get such a mob, and that was on a Sunday. No urgent chore could keep people away. It was a beautiful, mild, early summer day, the strong fragrance of fresh-cut hay drifted toward the peaceful cemetery. Expectation hung over the congregation as they gathered around the grave. The Head Pastor, the Most Reverend Szabo Dani, finished the brief service and the four men holding the ropes started to lower Mr. Hedvig into the hole...
And at that moment the curse kicked in. One of the ropes slipped, the casket fell into the grave head first, and split open dumping the corpse into the grave in an undignified fashion. The crowd let out a hushed roar... (Bacsa Jula's name was whispered jubilantly).
"The curse!" somebody yelled out. "The mother earth doesn't want to take him in". The somber ambience gave way to a festive mood as the men pulled out first the body by its legs, then the casket. They hastily rearranged the wood-chip pillow, the torn shroud, and then put the corpse back into the coffin. Somebody ran for a hammer and nails and finally it was over. A single wreath was laid on the grave, - the baron's token of appreciation.
The procession dispersed into the lazy afternoon as Bacsa Jula's reputation and rates skyrocketed. What did they say? "Better late than never."
What I wanted to say has really nothing to do with the undignified final appearance of the dearly departed, but more like my momentous discovery I had made as collateral fallout.
A few days after the above described funeral I passed the sign at the end of the main street and I expected a corrected figure, like 969, acknowledging old Mr. Hedvig's passing. But nothing.
From that day on I made it my business to keep an eye on the sign. Not long after, my great grandfather died. 970. I had a kid brother born, Leslie, one more sister Sara, (like we didn't have enough) No change. 970 still. Countless burials and the sign stubbornly stated: Population 970. I was afraid to ask. Who knows somebody might have neglected his responsibility to record the change in the number of souls inhabiting our tiny settlement. Nobody noticed besides me, and by asking questions I might have caused trouble for someone.
I lived with this burden for a while, and then suddenly it hit me. That's it! For every old person who dies, a new baby is born, a kind of replacement, so the sign can stay. What a clever arrangement.
This proves how much you can learn about the world and it's mysterious order if you pay a little attention to your surroundings.
Just one thing wasn't clear though, who controls the traffic? Who decides who is going, who is coming? There must be somebody at the Village Hall, I thought. It was common knowledge that everything, good or bad always came from the Village Hall. Anyway, I found the whole thing a very agreeable solution to the sign problem.
Oh, by the way one other strange coincidence: the undertaker and the midwife lived side by side... and they were related... If you ask me, it couldn't have been accidental.
***The End***
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