My Burial

By Hanns Heinz Ewers
(Mein Begrabnis 1910)

Translation by Joe E. Bandel 2008

Copyright 2008 by Joe E. Bandel
Protected under United States Copyright Law as a derivative work of a foreign Author originally published prior to 1923

Three days before my death I sent a postcard to the "Red Riders". Even so, this story should really have occurred in Berlin! The "Berliner" is refined. They say "lift" instead of "elevator". They are "Gents" and on no account "Gentlemen". When they want something done they send a dispatch to the "Messenger Boy Institute".

You can gather from that why this story never happened in Berlin. I wrote to the "Red Riders" because they sounded very nice and not to the Messenger Boys because they would have thrown my postcard away.

My card announced:

Three days after receipt of this card please pick up a crate for the cemetery. The presence of all Red Riders is required. Payment and further instructions will be with the crate.

Then my name and address.

The Red Riders came promptly and with them came the Chief Rider. In Berlin you would say the General Director of the Messenger Boy Institute. He was inspecting a large coffin sized crate on which I had painstakingly painted "Glass", "Fragile", "Caution" and "Do Not Drop".

Naturally my corpse was in the old crate but I had not closed the cover because I wanted a beautiful funeral and needed to pay attention to make sure everything went right.

First the Chief took the gold and counted it. "Forty five Red Riders for two hours-it fits". He put the gold in his wallet and looked at my instructions.

"No", he said then. "It doesn't. We don't do this."

I made my voice real hollow and answered from out of the crate, "The Red Riders will do anything".

The Chief Rider was not certain where the voice had come from. He scratched his nose.

"Should I?" He said. "Should I?"

His conscience hit him. On all his advertisements it explicitly stated "The Rider Riders will do anything". One of the boys wanted to nail the cover down but the Chief waved him back.

"Forward!" He cried and pointed to the directions. "It specifically says here the cover must stay open. I will do what I'm paid to do. There will be no black marks on my account even if it would be allowed."

"First we say a short prayer. Do any of you know a short prayer?"

None of the Red Riders knew a short prayer.

"What about a longer one?"

But they couldn't get a longer one right.

"The Red Riders will do anything!" I said hollowly from out of my crate.

The Chief Rider looked around. "But of course!" He cried quickly.

"There is still a beautiful one if the Red Riders can't come up with anything else."

He turned to all the youngsters.

"Frtiz, you certainly know a prayer?"

"I know a prayer all right," opinioned the urchin. "But not ordinarily for..."

"That doesn't matter!" The Chief Rider interrupted. "Whether it is an ordinary prayer or an unordinary one, the important thing is that we pray! So say your prayer and everyone else say it with him."

Fritz prayed and the others shouted along as loud as they could.

"Come Lord Jesus, be our guest and let these gifts to us be blessed."

"Amen," said the Chief Rider unctuously. "That is really an excellent prayer. Remember it for the future."

He followed my orders completely. Then they loaded the crate on a cargo tricycle that the strongest youth drove. Fritz needed to sit on top so the cover wouldn't fall off. All the Red Riders sprang onto their bicycles and went as fast as they could through the streets. The people cheered at the lively train of Red Riders. In my crate I thought how different is was to be so enjoyably rushing to the churchyard instead of going slowly in a black funeral carriage with ghastly mourners trotting alongside.

In twenty minutes we were there. They leaned their bicycles against the fence and the four largest carefully unloaded the crate. The Chief Rider looked at my instructions and directed:

"2nd crossroads, 8th corridor left from the main road! On the right side! Grave #48678!"

That is where the solemn procession brought the old crate. The grave was already open; a pair of large shovels were stuck in a pile of loose dirt. A single Red Rider crept into the grave and carefully placed the crate. Then they stood in a wide circle around the grave.

"Everyone light a cigarette!" The Chief Rider commanded.

Most of them had their own cigarettes and offered their tins to those that didn't.

"I can't smoke," said Fritz. "It makes me- "

But I interrupted him, "The Red Riders will do anything!"

The Chief glanced around his company deeply insulted.

"Who said that?" He cried. "I will not tolerate any more useless words from any of you. Obviously the Red Riders will do anything! You, Fritz, smoke! A Red Rider must smoke as well as they can pray!"

Fritz lit his cigarette and so did the others.

"Now," said the Chief Rider looking again at his slip of paper. "Now we begin the funeral service. We sing a melody like we are in a dark gloomy forest."

"All together-this verse:

The Red Riders will do anything- for the living and the dead- it is our job!"

They all sang so that it resounded and I sang along with them in my crate.

"Now comes the eulogy," he continued. "Today we have the honor and great pleasure of being permitted for the first time to escort someone to their final resting place. We don't know any more of his virtues except for the fact that his last request was to permanently set a memorial in the hearts of all Red Riders by paying them each 3 Marks and 45 pennies for two hours work. Friendly patronizing aside, on these grounds let us all join in a cheer to the blessed deceased."

"Hurrah, Hurrah, Hurrah!"

And the Red Riders screamed, "Hurrah, Hurrah, Hurrah!"

"Very good," said the Chief Rider. "If I were in that crate I would gratefully applaud! Now to close we will sing the favorite song of the deceased and let him sleep in the Lord."

"Daughter of Zion be glad; Jerusalem rejoice!"

It sounded out across the cemetery to where another group was singing at the 3rd crossroads, 8 corridors down and left from the main road. That is to say, to where another funeral was taking place at grave #48679 on the left side diagonally across from me.

They were burying some honorable Privy Councillor and there was a horrendous number of people, Professors, Judges, Military Officers and wealthy industrialists"all refined people! But it was still only an old style funeral without Red Riders.

The Chief Rider waited politely until the people finished singing. Then he cried anew, "Now we sing the favorite song of the departed."

"Daughter of Zion be glad"," but he couldn't finish because the fat pastor began a droning eulogy over at the other funeral.

The Chief Rider waited another five minutes, ten minutes, but the pastor would not stop and was making it bad for me.

"Such speech will speed the decomposition of my corpse considerably," I thought to myself.

The Chief Rider thought so too and looked at his watch. But the pastor talked and talked.

Finally it was too long for the Chief Rider. He had only been paid for two hours. He commanded anew and all forty-five Red Riders let out once more:

"Daughter of Zion be glad!"

The pastor fought on and would not give in. But what is the power of a preacher against forty-five Red Riders? I felt solid satisfaction that the youths were winning and my modern funeral would clear the battlefield and put the old middle class world to shame.

The pastor stopped. But the clergy can never really be defeated. That will not do. He spoke to a couple of gentlemen in top hats and they in turn spoke to some guards. The guards put their helmets on their heads and came over to my grave. They were eager to speak with the Chief Rider but he held his position.

"We are doing our job," he said coldly.

"Do you have a permit?" One of the guards asked.

"Certainly!" The Chief Rider answered and reached into his wallet. "Here it is. An official permit for my Red Riders!"

"Hmm," remarked the guard. "A permit for burials?"

"The Red Riders will do anything!" The Chief declared bravely.

"Bravo! Bravo!" I cried in my crate.

"No one here shouts Bravo!" The guard yelled.

He demanded that all the Red Riders leave but the Chief Rider would not. He was not yet finished with the celebration that he had been commissioned and paid for. He was an honorable man and his highest principle was a strict sense of duty. He requested that the guards leave in an orderly way.

"Such a shrewd citizen!" I thought. "Now it will get into the press and make good publicity for him."

The guards yelled but the Chief Rider yelled even louder. Slowly all the Professors, Judges, Military Officers and wealthy industrialists came over from the other funeral and mixed in. When the pastor came it was entirely too late.

He saw the Red Riders in their red caps and jackets with cigarettes in their mouths.

"Pfui!" He said.

Then he took his glasses off and set them on my crate.

" 'Fragile', 'Do not drop', What's going on here?" He asked sharply.

It was little Fritz that gave him the dreadful answer. He really couldn't smoke and the cigarette was making him sick. He bent forward and then back and then forward again in even faster motion. That's when the accident happened all over the black gown of the pastor.

At first he was speechless, but then everyone was trying to give him his or her handkerchiefs. He got hold of himself and declared seriously:

"That really oversteps all boundaries. I am publicly offended."

"I am also publicly offended," voiced a gentleman with twenty-seven medals.

"We have jurisdiction because we are publicly offended," said the guards.

Things were getting much too colorful for me. I saw that I must come to the help of my hard-pressed Red Riders. I shoved the lid open, stood up and cried in wrath.

"And I, gentlemen, for your disrespectful participation in my burial, I am publicly offended!"

The pastor stared horrified into the grave.

"Is this a Christian burial?" He stammered.

"No," I said. "This is a modern burial with Red Riders."

I sat on my crate, jammed my eyepiece into my eye and glared at the people. I was in pajamas but had been afraid of getting too cold in the grave so I had brought my fur coat along as well. That made quite an impression on the gentlemen since it was the middle of summer. No one was paying attention to the funeral of the Privy Councillor, that was for certain.

"Get out of here, go away!" I started. "I paid for this grave and it belongs to me. I am legally dead and can have a little fun if I want! Go away! Here in this hole and in this crate I am Master of the house and I advise you not to trespass.

"This is a scandal," said the gentleman with the medals. "This is a malicious scandal."

Then the Public Prosecutor came.

"There must be an end to this foolish charade," he hissed at me. "I arrest you in the name of the Law. I request the guards do their duty."

The guards climbed into the hole and laid their wide paws on my shoulders, but I looked at them sharply and said.

"Have you lost all respect for the sanctity of the dead?"

"He is not dead! He is a fraud!" The very angry Public Prosecutor cried.

"Really?" I laughed. "Just a moment, I will offer the guards my death certificate. Here, satisfy yourselves. And by the way," I went on. "If this slip from the county doctor is not enough, prove it yourself, you old ass!"

The gentleman with the medals stuck his nose in the air, sniffed, and moved back.

"The Devil!" He cried.

"Please keep the boundary of decency and good manners my friend," I admonished. "Bear in mind where we are. It is a torrid red-hot July day and almost noon. I am a corpse. I have a right to stink!"

But the Public Prosecutor wouldn't calm down.

"That means nothing to me," he declared. "I see only that a rude public nuisance has begun and the public nuisance demands legal atonement. I request the guards lay the gentleman in his crate and bring him along. Everyone else, please follow me!"

The guards grabbed me. I attempted to offer resistance but they were much stronger than I and quickly stuck me into the crate and carried me out of the cemetery to the carriage. Everyone followed. The gentlemen climbed into their light carriages and the Red Riders sprang onto their bicycles. Even the gravedigger came with.

The only thing I was happy about was that the Privy Councillor whose old fashioned funeral I had so disturbed was now all alone and lying abandoned. The stupid fellow must really be annoyed.

My crate sat on a beam of wood and a fat policeman sat up on top. Thank God I could see a little through a knothole. We traveled back through the city at a sharp trot, and then we halted in front of the court building.

"Room 41," cried the Public Prosecutor.

The guards carried my crate and me inside. Everyone else pushed hastily into the room. The District Court Judge sat above between his lay magistrates.

The Public Prosecutor stopped a long speech. He apologized for so suddenly interrupting the proceedings but some very urgent, pressing, really brooking no delay business needed to be dealt with. Then he told the entire course of events and what had happened.

"The fellow claims to be dead," he closed, "and is in possession of an authentic legal death certificate."

The District Court Judge let me get out of my crate.

"Is there a doctor in the audience?" He asked.

Three gentlemen came forward, an ordinary Doctor, a staff Doctor and a Psychiatrist, the Director of the State Lunatic Asylum. They examined me while holding handkerchiefs over their noses. They made it really short.

"He is most certainly a corpse!"

I had won.

"I would like to charge the Public Prosecutor with violation of a corpse," I said.

"Let the accused stand here for the time being," moved the Chairman.

"Not any longer dear Sir," I replied. "I am in a condition of..."

"Observe the dignity of the court," he interrupted me. "I would like you to be fined."

"Permit you to..."

"Be quiet!" He yelled.

"No," I said. "I will not be quiet. As a Prussian I have the right to freely express myself in word, writing or image."

He laughed. "We are not in Prussia any more! And besides, you are not a Prussian, you are a corpse!"

"I'm not a Prussian any more?"

"No."

"Then I am a dead Prussian."

"And a dead Prussian," he trumped me. "absolutely has no civil rights. Even you must understand that!"

I thought about it. He was right. I was vexed but quieted.

"You stand here," he began again, "accused of gross misconduct, resisting arrest and contempt of court. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

"I am a corpse," I whimpered downcast.

"That is no excuse," asserted the Judge. "It would be nice if corpses and especially Prussian corpses could go unpunished for all misdemeanors. But that would be contrary to what is said about corpses, that they are quiet to the highest degree, well mannered and take great pains to be well behaved. You should, so to speak, be setting a shining example of virtue for all living citizens. As a former Prussian you should know that is the first duty! And that goes for all types of so-called corpses.

This case is entirely unheard of, that a deceased individual has become indignant and even more, openly stands in front of me. Nothing like this has ever happened in all my long years of practice. Have you ever been convicted?"

"Yes," I stood straight. "Seventeen times. For contempt, for two fights, for spreading malicious pamphlets as well as for all the misdemeanors I stand here accused of!"

"You are back sliding," he stressed. "It appears that you don't want to remain quiet!"

"I was always innocent," I stammered.

"Always innocent," scorned the Judge. "I wonder, will you quit these misdemeanors? Will you learn from this?"

I sealed my fate.

"I don't care about any of that at all. Leave me in peace! I am a corpse, and you are an idiot and all of you are idiots!"

The Chairman raised his hand, but before he could say a word the Public Prosecutor stood up.

"I propose the accused should be transferred to the Insane Asylum for six weeks and his state of mind observed."

The Psychiatrist, the Director of the asylum, came forward quickly and declared.

"Under these circumstances the Insane Asylum must refuse to take the accused for six weeks. I can't risk the danger of keeping him that long!"

There was a small pause; then one of the jurors asked.

"Yes, but what are we going to do with him?"

"We are going to give him a fine," said the Judge.

"That won't do you any good," I remarked. "I am dead and don't have any more money than when I was alive. I gave out my last coin for a proper burial! The Chief of the Red Riders made a contract with me."

"Then he must certainly not go free under any circumstances," said the Public Prosecutor.

"But the prison won't take him any more than the insane asylum!" The Chairman objected.

He was very inconsolable. I believed I had won when suddenly the unctuous pastor came to their assistance.

"I think I can make a suitable proposal gentlemen!" He said. "I believe it would be best if the deceased, the accused, were given a Christian burial."

"I don't want a Christian burial!" I cried wildly.

But the pastor paid no attention to me. "A very Christian and very civilized burial." He went on, "I believe in this case it would put things right for the charity and honor of the court and for all decent thinking people. It would also to a certain extent cause this confused spirit of the accused to be punished and regret his actions. This is dangerous but if I am permitted to inter the deceased in this way I believe he will remain quiet, unmoving and won't cause any more problems in the future."

"Very good! Very good!" The Chairman nodded, the Public Prosecutor nodded, both jurors nodded, everyone nodded.

I screamed furiously and turned in my despair to the Chief Red Rider.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I am very sorry," he said. "We were only paid for two hours and they have run out. The Red Riders will do anything" That is our highest principle" But" only when we are paid!"

No one sympathized with me. I defended myself the best I could but was quickly overpowered. They stuck me in a black coffin and carried me out.

The pastor held a eulogy for me free, without pay. I don't know what he said because I plugged my ears.

Brute force has conquered. What is the use of turning over three times whenever a Public Prosecutor or District Court Judge walks past my grave?

I Need Your Help!

Have you enjoyed this story by Hanns Heinz Ewers? Do you want to read more?

I've translated over 350 pages so far and am working on the next 350. I've got a dream that the writings of Hanns Heinz Ewers should be made available to American and English readers. I'm doing my best and offering my translations freely on my website but I'm getting burned out. I'm putting out way to much and not getting anything back. The time and expense involved is formidable. I've spent several hundred dollars on this nice website. Now thousands of readers are checking it out and bandwidth is increasing. German source material is not cheap. Fundvogel cost me $60, Vampire cost $50, Alraune cost $30, Grotesken, Die Besessenen, Die Schonsten Hande der Welt and Das Grauen all cost around $35. I've still got to buy Nachtmahr and several others if I want to translate them.

The time spent translating is almost unthinkable considering I'm working a 40 hour/week job at the local electronics factory and two part time jobs as well, Driver Ed and Security. Almost all my free time goes into this and my wife doesn't like it. I need to cut one of my weekend jobs to free up more time. My computer is seven years old. The list can go on and on. The point is that I'm putting out and giving out and nothing, nothing is coming back! I'm getting fried!

What I'm asking is that if you enjoyed this story and intend to read more of them please send me a $5 donation to help the cause. That is little more than the price of a cup of coffee and a donut! I think I've given more than that. If you really want to help out you can do a Paypal subscription of $5/mo. I promise I will do my best to keep the new material coming. Another way you can help is to spread the word. Hanns Heinz Ewers is more than a horror writer! He deserves to be read. People would read him if they knew about him. I think I've proven myself as a translator as well. My translations are good and I've already translated more Hanns Heinz Ewers into English than anyone else ever has and I've done it freely and out of love. I'd love to make some movie scripts as well, sigh. Well that's it. I can't do this alone but I can do it with your help and support.

Thank you,

Joe E Bandel