To the bone
Catacombs in Durnstein.
I liked the idea of being a martyr. The term always sounded nice to me when I was a teenage. Dying for something you believe in? Yes, sign me up. Being reduced to a stack of bones? No, that was not in the job description.
My final resting place is a catacombs in Durnstein, Austria. Our region is now known for apricot exports. How do I know this nearly a thousand years later? My death has been reduced to listening to tour guides wax poetic about fertile soil, deep apricot flavor, and impeccable wines. I’d really like to get my hands on some of that wine. It might ease the pain of all these bones stacked together.
On this sunny day, someone actually bothers to stroll up the stairs toward the cemetery. Usually we do not get many visitors up here save for a few locals who grew up here, and I am confident they also hate hearing the apricot’s virtues extolled almost daily. My eyes follow the woman walking quietly, reverently through the cemetery.
Ours is small compared to other cities in Europe. The cemetery dates to the 1300s where the old church stood. A tower remains, as does this catacomb that you’d miss if you’re not looking for it. Surely I think this woman will be scared away by a pile of bones, but she is approaching.
Rarely does someone approach I have no idea what to do with myself. Rattling would surely send her running. I mean, I think it would anyway? A pile of bones rattling around in the middle of nowhere? That seems like a hard pass for most people. The woman is getting closer, so I choose stillness. Nobody comes this close to the cage. In fact, most people walk right by it.
Most tourists stand and gawk at the remains of the tower where Richard the Lionheart was held during the Crusades. I get it. It’s a neat part of our town, and the ransom paid for his release sure didn’t hurt Austria. But among the bones surrounding me are other forgotten soldiers and sons who fought (or retreated) during those scary, dark times. My body is among them. I don’t know everyone’s story, but mine is far from being the martyr I dreamt about.
I was caught up in a battle here during Napoleon’s right. It was an epic sight to see scores of French, Austrian, and Russian troops descending on our small riverside town. This was it. My chance to be a martyr even though I was too young to officially join the fray. That didn’t stop me. I had big dreams, after all. I donned the heaviest jacket I could, thinking it would protect me from these heavily armed and armored troops. I sprinted out of our farmhouse before my mom could stop me, and I ran straight for the fight.
I was killed mere minutes later when a stampeding horse kicked up a rock that hit me in the head. I dropped immediately. It didn’t matter how I died, though. My body, with thousands of others, was thrown into the catacombs. Now, we are reduced to bones and top of bones. All without stories. No histories. No families or friends to visit us. Indeed, we are all seemingly forgotten behind these metal gates.
The woman is still approaching. She leans on the wall to take a cautious step down into the recess of our burial space. This is the point people usually leave, when they see the reality of war. Of what it means to be lost without a name, a story, a past. Barely even a present.
She takes a photo. She doesn’t flee. She kneels down for a closer look. I’m lucky - at least people can see my skull when they bother to get close enough. It almost feels like someone is looking right at me. Or through me. But for a brief moment, I feel seen. This woman talks with her friend in hushed tones. I want her to stay. To talk to me, but before I know it, she’s standing up to leave.
I wonder what happened, and then I see Old Man Hank. At least that is what I call him. I don’t know who he is, but I do know he’s a local who comes in here every week to visit his family buried nearby. I can see him tend to the flower-covered gravesite given my vantage point. I wonder what it’s like to have someone care for you like that. To make sure even in death, you know your life mattered.
That’s why I thought I wanted to be a martyr. People would talk about me forever. I’d be part of history. Instead, I am lost to it.
