by Beat Sterchi
Another swallow of blood squeezed out of the throat. The basin that catches the blood puts pressure on my spine. Enormous thing.
Then there’s blue murder: Dr Wyss wants to know where the blood of the fourth cow has got to.
His vet’s knife disappears into the delicate sheath.
Hasn’t anyone here read through the meat-inspection rules properly!
Dr Wyss is speaking loudly. Back in his office, it would have been called shouting.
How often do I have to remind you, gentlemen, that before the meat inspection is completed and the carcass duly stamped according to regulation, no cow’s blood may be poured into the tank with the other blood? Is that so hard to understand? Now be so good as to pour away all the blood so far collected today before my eyes. Gentlemen. The fourth cow goes to the cheap-meat department, her blood is not to be allowed into general circulation.
Kilchenmann unrolls the thick hosepipe.
Hügli and Überländer say nothing.
Together they tip out the contents of the blood-tank.
A red flood covers the floor, and meets the jet of water directed by Kilchenmann.
Huber and Hofer sharpen their skinning gear. They cast sidelong glances at me.
*
And then the quiet of the morgue: chewing, munching, biting into the smacking pork sausages out of the hot water in the pail at break time in the dark eating hall, and beer bottles pop open, air is let in under sweat-drenched cloth, belts loosened, the belches rise from way down, ah, the first swallow of beer, and greedy guzzling in rows at long tables, only Krummen, rage-red, the grimly chewing face, sits alone, sees nothing, hears nothing, says nothing but at the back of his neck, the muscles play, twitch, twitch, and Buri glances at him, you get cows like that sometimes, and it’s not possible to split them, not often but sometimes, and it’s a disease, everything goes into those animals’ bones, they get hard as iron, I know. I’ve seen it a couple of times before, at SWIFT & CO., and Buri goes over to the pail, and fishes another sausage out of the water, bites into it, fat squirts out, and Rötlisberger is in there too, and he bites, and Hügli wipes his face with a big handkerchief and protests with mouth full, don’t need to spit at me, eat your sausage by yourself, and Piccolo sets off on his fly hunt, smack, one more mark on the dining-room wall, and Krummen opens the newspaper, his hands are shaking, and he sees nothing, hears nothing, says nothing, and Rötlisberger stares venomously at Hügli, goes on chewing, Hügli moves back, stop spewing all over me, you bastard! And Rötlisberger gets up and sits next to Krummen, who moves his forearm protectively over the sports page, a Krummenrumbling: What are you coming here for, eh? Spitting at me now? Can’t you even eat your banger in peace without bothering me, and smack! Piccolo laughs, that was the second stroke, bloody hell I get dem, and in comes Master-Baker Frutiger with two baskets, baking smells: here’s the cake! What about you? Try a sausage? Click-clacking, Überländer’s tongue emerges. I’ve got something caught in my back teeth, three fingers digging around in his mouth, traces of blood still on the hairy back of his hand, and then, examining the recovered meat fibre: Nut kipfels? Hey? Got any nut kipfels? Give me a couple, here’s the money, and Luigi grabs the curved biscuits, holds them against his temples like horns, moo, moo, moo, he goes, and won’t pass them on, laughs and moos and smack! Piccolo another triumph, and another, smack! Give them here, Luigi! Hey! Luigi! And he laughs and laughs, and now stop it you fool! You meathead! Yes, you’re a meathead! Come on, you berk, you silly bugger! What a stupid joke! And still Luigi moos and laughs, and Christ, watch it! You must have got an itchy hide! Why do those foreigners behave like pigs at a carnival the whole time? Fucking hell! And where’s Gilgen? Where’s Ambrosio? And I’m going to the canteen, you off to get a drink? Then bring me back a bottle, or make it two, and yeah, yeah, drink, drink in the name of the Lord and chop your paws off afterwards! You watch what you’re saying! And a MARY LONG lights up, and the coins jingle in Master-Baker Frutiger’s hand, yes, he’s seen Gilgen, he knows where he is, out by the kiosk in front of the weapons factory, that’s where he is, and Ambrosio with him, and you should have seen them, they were keeping half that bloody shift away from work, and Krummen sees and Krummen hears, and Ambrosio was still in his apron, yes, of course, that blood-covered apron he had on, and still got his knives buckled on, and Krummen shoots his jaw, puts his left hand on the chair under his bum, and who wants another custard slice? Fresh today, yes all right. I’ll have one says Hofer, give me one, of those pus-strips, and Huber gets up, yes. I’ll have one too, and Krummen explodes, Krummen speaks: God damn the fuckingshitheadbastards! Hanging round the kiosk the great arsehole, while we’re killing ourselves here! And right at the back, out of deep eye sockets, goggles the apprentice, says nothing, chews and stares and pale isn’t he, Gilgen was going to donate blood, today, yes, at the Red Cross, and he wanted to take Ambrosio with him, the loon, what are they doing giving blood? Not working is what they’re doing, lazy sods. Work-shy layabouts, gypsies, vagrants, and we’re supposed to get through our work with the likes of them, don’t get so worked up about it, I’ve had just about enough, same here, and those fucking Eyeties, and Fernando gesticulates, eh watsheet, yeah, yeah, you can laugh and you can wave your hands around like a combine harvester, that’s about all you’re good for, but you should all be rammed into the ground, yeah right, unsharpened, ma che cosa vuoi, mamma mia yourself, now you’re laughing again, laughing, yes, they can laugh, and they can make holes in the guts and fuck up all the intestines, they can do that, says Buri, and they can cut holes in the hide you can put your fist through and we get the blame for it, they’re good at that, says Hofer, and pissing off to the bog every ten minutes for a smoke, they can do, or a wank, says Hügli, and Buri says it’s all a matter of scale, you see, you must think on a bigger scale, at SWIFT & CO. in Chicago, it wasn’t the end of the world just because there were one or two more animals out in the pens! You tell that to Hugentobler, this isn’t Chicago here, and Krummen folds his newspaper together neatly, gets up, the chair crashes against the wall behind him, corners of his mouth pulled down, stands there like a Neanderthal with his receding forehead, invisible club at his feet, his eyes as though he was about to launch another blow with his cleaver, and the order comes: There’s another little cow out in the shed, and I want the apprentice to bring her in, you hear, and you’re to go with him, yes, you, and Krummen points with his newspaper at Überländer, show him the holds, he’s to estimate the weight, it’s about time he learned how to bring in a cow on a halter! Now? Today? Überländer stops, you see the half-chewed biscuit in his throat, why now? Don’t you think? Why today? He’s never yet taken in a cow, and what are you mouthing off about, Bössiger says so, and smack! another fly sticks to the wall, and time’s passing, and Krummen puts his watch back in his trouser pocket, looks around, shaking his head, Überländer goes on chewing, the apprentice stretches his back, you’d better watch out, because a cow can smell it if you’re not quite sure what you’re doing, you’ve got to show them who’s in charge, yes, they can smell it, and what are you trying to put the wind up him for? For Chrissake! And the same with Huber and Hofer, nothing but choking down cake, and empty bottles disappear under the table, you shouldn’t drink so much, and you can’t talk, you and your BRISSAGO, shut up, and the door crashes shut behind Krummen, and what’s eating him? What’s the matter with him? And you’re asking? Did you see the hole in the floor he made with the cleaver? Fucking terrifying! And you go and chuck tripe water all over him! That wasn’t my fault, ah, give it a rest! It was that cow, he wrecked a whole sirloin, it just finished him off, she was rock hard, and what would you have done in his place? God, that cow’s a sight! It hurts your eyes, and now Ambrosio’s run off, just like that, gone! Yes, those cow halves are pretty fucked up, they’re going on the cheap-meat stand, and Gilgen is going to have a hard time when they stick him in jail again, but if you never, ever complain even a tiny bit, then they’ll never take us seriously,
and what are you talking about now? And they want to promote me, he said, put me in charge of the machine in that chest out there, and the student? Yes, that fool, he probably takes you seriously now! Take the little weed, the milksop, grab him by the tail, give him a bit of stick, dip his head in the blood-barrel so he knows what he’s got his long hair for, let him spit blood for a day or so, that’s doing something, that’s better than sounding off, and Buri says he’s not sure but a couple of clips round the earhole never hurt anyone, big mouth, chewing bread, but meat, meat, by God there wasn’t much of that, you saw that yesterday and he wouldn’t be coming back, you could bet on that, and he could go and take his snapshots elsewhere, and Rötlisberger should stop pretending, should be pleased, they won’t be promoting me to any intestine washery, of course they will, and you’re a fool because you’d have a cushier time there, my God a cushy time at my age, learning how to feed a machine like that, I can’t do that, oh crap, any old monkey can mind one of those slime-machines, there’s nothing to it, yes, it’s dead easy, well if it’s so easy why don’t they stick a monkey up there, and not old Rötlisberger, I’m a triper, you at your age, and what’s my age got to do with it, eh? If they stuck a proper monkey in there, they’d have the animal welfare people breathing down their necks in no time, but everything’s got an end, only a sausage has got two, but don’t worry, an old ox like me kicks hard, I’d chuck the lot in, oh stop that, why don’t you go join them at the armaments factory kiosk, the three of you go well together, and take that student with you, and he can take pictures of you all, and Luigi’s listening, and Fernando’s listening, and Pasquale’s listening, and José’s listening, and Piccolo’s listening, and not one of them says anything, and the apprentice is stretching, and Piccolo goes smack! on the wall, but he’s not laughing any more, and if everyone was like you! Oh, go and lick Krummen’s paws, if you want, but I’ve got a head, here, knock! But what’s eating you, we’ve got a few things going for us here, we’re not short of work, and parking’s no problem, yes parking’s worth something, here in the yard, you’ve always got a space, exactly, that’s what my brother-in-law said, and when the beefing programme is finished, then things will cool down a bit, and other people’s cows always have bigger udders, but we’re here, and cows should be milked, not sent to the knacker’s, and go crawl up Krummen’s arse, but mind out because he’s got his head up Bössiger’s, who’s got his head up, and now give it a rest will you? It’s not easy for them either, and this morning at six there wasn’t a single tail in the shed, well, and if the goods arrive late, is that my fault? Surely it’s right to try and get things the way you want them? Well, but all that running and cursing and hustling and criticizing, you’d think, and it’s getting worse and worse, and you really should have been a preacher not a triper, if your mouth could ride a bicycle you’d have to put the brakes on going uphill, and with both hands, oh, let him talk, no, as late as that? Oh shit! We’re late, we’ve got to go, fine words never slaughtered a cow yet, and benches are shifted, trousers done up, one more sip, a STELLA SUPER dies next to a PARISIENNE in the ashtray, come on then, andiamo, and Rötlisberger’s BRISSAGO is still going, and...
*
Nine fifteen.
Cigarette away.
Why not stay for lunch too, while you’re about it?
Let’s go.
Who cares?
That gut would have to burst.
Haven’t I had it coming for weeks now, like a gigantic wheel that sooner or later will roll over me?
I gulp.
Well, come on, if we have to, they’ll have their reasons even if we can’t understand them.
Überländer ties his rubber apron round his waist as he walks. It’s less a walk than a fidget, and he waves to me to follow without turning round. I tramp off after him. My stride isn’t characterful, but it’s long and heavy.
Courage.
My toes feel the empty space in my boots, but their shafts squeeze my calves.
Überländer stops at the door of the cattle hall.
Hey, Kilchenmann! he shouts, the apprentice will be bringing in another cow to be shot, so don’t put your gun away just yet.
We’ll manage that one too.
You can if you want to. You want to if you can.
I don’t want to.
Not even if I have to.
You would sooner not.
I don’t even dare to demand the toilet tokens owing to me. Stand up, go up to Krummen, and say I want... I didn’t have anything to eat either.
Nothing but bearing up, enduring, surviving, getting through. Getting through is their favourite. Get through this or that, you have to get through it. He got through it. It was terribly hard, grim, inhumanly difficult, but he got through it. Everyone has at least got through cadet school.
Get through.
You can if you must. You will if you must.
If only I could swear properly.
Heaven... God... Devil... I can’t swear.
For days now. I’ve had no peace in my lunch breaks. I couldn’t lie down on the wooden slats on the floor. Or on the bench in the locker room. No more catnaps.
I had to get out in the lunch breaks.
From the loading-apron by the railway tracks to the sliding doors of the killing bays, to the animals’ entrance to the slaughterhall, I wandered all over the slaughterhouse terrain. I passed from one grille to another, along the bars, through the maze of squeeze gates, driving passages and waiting pens. Absent mindedly I opened the bolts on the doors, drove away a calf that was following me, climbed over pigs that had been hurt in transit, pulled muscles or a broken leg, and lay grunting at me from the furthest recesses of cages. I hardly saw them. The pain of those pigs, lying around in passages, separated from their herds, was not my own pain. And the thin-shanked sheep, thrusting their woolly heads between the bars of their folds, and bleating at me, didn’t interest me either.
I drifted.
Apparently aimlessly, only to find myself sooner or later standing by a snorting cow in the cattle stall. There was no getting away from it. Every day I wound up among these animals.
And in my thoughts, I untied them.
Whole herds of them.
As though I had to rescue them from a fire, I unchained them and drove Simmentalers, Freiburgers and Eringers through the gates and out into the open.
I kept going up to them.
I touched their backs, their necks, their heads.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid, I whispered to them. It’s all right, don’t be afraid.
I tried to take away their fear, when it was they who had me with my back up against the wall.
Now I can feel the pallor in my face.
Überländer opens the door of the first pen. It’s empty. A smell of dung, urine, hay, sawdust.
I choked. Now it’s got me by the throat.
The second pen is empty. In the third is a single cow.
There, says Überländer. The cow is standing right at the back. She tugs at her chain, snorts out air through dripping nostrils. She’s restless. Her ears are circling and pointing.
There now, what kind of live weight would you say?
Eh? What do you think? An estimate. Look at her. Imagine you were wanting to buy her.
I don’t want to buy a cow.
Eight hundred kilos! I burst out with.
Eight hundred kilos? That frail little thing? What are you looking at? Is there another cow in there? Or haven’t you got any eyes in your head?
Six hundred kilos!
Little under-age Miss Simmental here? Now watch it, you. One of these days you’ll be doing your qualifying exams, and you’ve got no idea of livestock. You’ll have to get it right to within 20 or 30 kilos, or else!
Else what?
Weighing-master Krähenbühl looks in. Broom in hand. Another one of Schindler’s. Nervous little thing. And in late.
Krähenbühl vanishes.
But what I was going to say, there are
dealers who are rarely out by more than 3 kilos. You need practice. Look at one or two animals every day. Properly, mind. Remember how the quarters are put together, watch the proportions.
Live weight. Dead weight. Meat yield. Degree of fat. State of health.
The cow bends her neck, lifts her hindlegs by turns.
She wants out. She’s used to straw and hay and long ropes. She wants to get out of this gloomy pen, away from the thin layer of sawdust, and the empty feed trough.
Are you scared? Überländer laughs. I’ll bet you she’s not more than 400 kilos. Just on 400. Nicely filled out round the pelvis, but not yet broad. Shoulders barely winged. Bones only sticking out slightly. Not like some old nanny. No, she won’t have had more than one calf. And her height. Small, small. A good little cow!
Überländer perks up. I notice how he likes being near the animal. He responds to it. Talks to it. Touches its back, its neck, its head.
A fine head, a light head. Now see this. They’ve amputated the horns. A crime if you ask me. A head always seems lighter with-out horns. You have to bear that in mind.
It should be outlawed.
Taking a cow’s horns away.
I made an effort.
And what’s she here for? She’s not a feeder cow.
Maybe she refused the bull. None good enough for her.
If she doesn’t want to. Oh well.
Now he scratches his own neck.
Doesn’t look to be ill. Would have made a fine cow once. Oh yes. Look what a straight back she has. Like a broom handle. A straight neck like a duchess.
His eye follows his hand, as it strokes withers, back and loins. With his other hand, he fondles the full flank.
Nice and plump.
And then? What do you do next? After you’ve made your estimate? Seeing as we’re here.
His hand still lying on the back of the cow.
I...
Did you not talk about it at trade school?
I know the cross-hatched places in the drawing in the book: ear hold, middle hold, rib hold, loin hold, breast hold, udder or scrotum hold.