There's no chapel, they knocked it down. But
there is still one, a tomb, which is closed, there still is one.
And there was another gentleman with the old master, a brother, it
seems, a colonel in the Polish military. From his mother said, he
was interred so conservatively, that now there are many that are buried
better. I myself saw, after the war I was still a kid here.
And these kids, you know, came, broke open the tablet, which was
closed, threw everything out, opened the coffin. So what did they
find? Coal! He was pickled, black-black, like coal. I
saw it myself. We went, there where we dug potatoes, we're going
- that tomb was open, we'll go in and take a look, what's there.
He's lying, it's true, those cuffs were so wide: He was military,
and shoes on him and everything, but it was all black, and he has a
face, has everything, only black. And this girl lifted his
arm. That's how unafraid she was. She climbed down into the
tomb, knocked off the load, which they had thrown on him, and you know,
she dreamed of him at night. She did not know him, did not
know. You, it seems, have made me faint.
(Dzyashenko, Ksaveryy Kazimiravich, n. 1920, Dzyashenko, Sof'ya
Stsyapanauna, n. 1921, Pershamayski settlement).