In the spring of 1936, my older brother Peter died of double pneumonia. I recall, a few

days before, that Dad, Peter and I were out to a rented farm three miles east of home to

bring back grain from a bin. After a day of work we returned home just as the sun was

setting. Peter decided to get home faster and ran most of the way. He picked up

melting snow along the way to cool himself down while he ran. I did this as well, but

after a very short time decided to ride the rest of the way back home.

The next day Peter and I were sick in bed. We both ran a high fever. We were nursed

by Mom and Margaret. I seemed to be not as sick as Peter. He began to breathe very heavily.

His chest would heave up and down with every breath, then his breathing became shallower.

Mother urged Dad to get the doctor, but Dad didn’t think it was urgent. A neighbor

came over one evening to console Mother, saying, "Don’t worry so. He will get better. He

will not die". Mother was very worried about Peter.

Peter slept in the bed next to mine and I remember that on the third day and evening

his breathing was very heavy and his forehead was extremely hot. Then, as the sun began to

set, Peter got out of the bed and went outside to sit on a chair to watch Dad do some work.

We covered him with a blanket and he seemed better. When he came up that evening, I

remember seeing him breathe heavy for a while, then very shallow, then he finally stopped all

together. I called to the ones downstairs to come quickly – that something had happened to

Peter. Mother came up and began to weep like only a mother who has lost a child can. I

shall never forget that grief.

Neighbors came over shortly and helped Dad carry the body downstairs and place it

on a bench in the living room. The next day a doctor arrived and performed an autopsy to

confirm the cause of death. Mother first refused to permit the doctor to cut the body of her

son, but then relented after much crying. The body lay in the living room, until a coffin was

made by a neighbor. The funeral service was conducted at our house with most of the family

and friends standing outside. I was not permitted to go to the grave because of being in bed

myself.

There was a long period of grief in our home. At mealtime mother would set the table

with plates for all the family, including a place set for Peter. Then she would remember that

Peter was gone, and would pour out her heart in sorrow and pain. Later someone else set the

table until some time had passed and some healing had taken place, but this took a long time.

Peter was two years older than I. We were pals. We did farm work together. We

played well at school. Generally we were not a great deal of trouble at home as far as I can

remember.

Before Peter died, a strange thing happened that frightened all of us. One night he

had a dream that giants were after him. He got out of bed and in his sleep went downstairs,

and outside. He ran across a ploughed field to a granary one half mile to the west. He hid

under the granary. Mom and Dad went to look for him, and they called the neighbors to help.

When Peter saw someone coming toward him he crawled out from under the granary, crossed

two barbed wire fences, and hid in the shrubs in the pasture. At sunrise he was located hiding

behind bushes just south of the house, dressed in only his bedclothes.

Peter’s funeral procession, 27 April 1936.

From Kif(f)iak Family Tree "100 years in Canada" CD