A Knight’s Funeral
Mitte Imperial Cemetery, Constantinople - November 2, 2016
The honor guard fired off a twenty one gun salute. One member of the marching band played taps while Heinrich and three men who had served under Prince Horst lowered their late commander’s casket into the ground. A chaplain recited a prayer, not that Georg was listening. The memorial service went by in a flash for him.
Suddenly, it was time for the memorial lunch. His brother got up and left with Francesca. It was no secret Wilhelm Karl and Horst were not on good terms. Ever since childhood, they’d butted heads often. Horst always eagerly read up on tales of medieval Roman knights, especially the two Friedrichs and the two Saints. Georg remembered many happy summer afternoons from his childhood spent playing with Horst and Heinrich.
“Come on!” Horst would say. “The evil Hassan is about to summon the dragon of darkness! You must help me reclaim the legendary sword Enonon so I can stop him!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Georg would always reply.
“For justice!” Horst would say.
Those were fun afternoons, running though the woods of western Anatolia behind Horst’s family’s estate and whacking crudely drawn pictures of dragons pinned to trees with sticks alongside Heinrich. Georg smiled.
“And thus, the evil Hassan was slain when the dark magic protecting him was pierced by the light of Enonon’s blade, which would then go on to slay the dragon of the darkness and save the Reich from being dragged into the shadows,” Georg said, “The brave Horst reclaims his kingdom and marries his sweetheart.”
Speaking of sweethearts, Georg looked back at Horst’s widow. Funny enough, she had once been engaged to Wilhelm Karl, before she met Horst and changed her mind. That was probably why they had a falling out. Then again, there were other signs.
“You’re a fool, Horst,” Wilhelm Karl would say whenever they met, “Chivalry never existed.”
“What do you mean?” Horst would reply.
“It’s all a lie, made up by people from a later time who wanted a romanticized past to fondly look back on,” Wilhelm Karl would say, “All those ideals of justice mean nothing.”
“Then what’s your idea of justice?” Horst would say.
“We can only know justice from our own experiences,” Wilhelm Karl would say, “Through what we see and do, we can develop our own code of justice and work to make that a reality.”
“Nonsense,” Horst would say, “Justice is universal. It is a constant. It is the same no matter what your life is like! And I must work to uphold that!”
“You’re wasting your time,” Wilhelm Karl would say, “One man’s justice could very well be another’s injustice and vice versa. If you enforce your unreasonable ideas of justice onto all, there will be those who will see that as unjust.”
“If anything, you’re the one with the unreasonable ideas of justice!” Horst would inevitably say. “We must eliminate those who cling to unreasonable ideas of justice!”
“Are you listening to yourself?” Wilhelm Karl would counter. “You’re silencing me. Just like the left!”
It surprised him Wilhelm Karl even showed up for the service. Maybe it was Father who asked him to go, as Otto couldn’t make it. He had a medical checkup today. Georg came on his own, because unlike his cynical brother, he was more fond of his cousin. And Heinrich came because he was their friend.
Georg walked up to the casket as it lay in the grave. He knew it was empty. Horst’s body couldn’t be recovered from the crash, and even if it could, it would’ve been in pieces. Not everyone could be as fortunate as Anne Frank. The Church should declare that one of the miracles considered for canonization. Then again, she wasn’t even Christian or that religious.
“So, uh...” he began. “Looks like you beat me to the grave.”
He laughed. “You were always the kind of guy who’d end up like this. Rushing in guns blazing, playing the hero every chance you get. Sometimes, I envy you. You actually get to be the hero. Me? I...just do my work without much recognition. I hope you found what you were looking for all these years, Horst. That justice you wanted to bring to the world.”
Georg looked around at the men and women who still gathered in the cemetery. Horst’s widow and children quietly sat in the back, contemplating a future without him.
“These days, we need more men like you,” Georg said, “Always ready to step in and do the right thing even without personal gain. You rushed straight to Malaya as soon as you could after finishing the Yucatan talks, exchanging your life for one Malayan city. That’s dedication.”
He looked down. “Me? I’m not a fighter. I’m not a hero. I’m just trying to do my part.”
Georg thought about that. Was he really doing his part? MSC had interrupted the pacing of his work lately. He realized he had been spending more time in China, trying to secure aid, than actually providing the aid. He blamed it on MSC making it hard to deliver the aid. But Horst didn’t care about that. He jumped right into Kota Bahru without breaking a sweat. He didn’t worry about terrorists. Though it did cost him his life in the end.
“Yeah, Horst, I know,” Georg said, “I don’t really have the best track record lately, what with all of the chaos going around. I’ll try to do better. You wouldn’t slow down, would you?”
He laughed. “So I’ll make sure your death wasn’t in vain, Horst. Heinrich and I'll do our best. You have my word.”