by Beat Sterchi
In what form was Ambrosio paid?
In cash. The banknotes, together with a counterfoil for social security payments, came in a window envelope. The envelopes were handed out by Foreman Krummen. Payday was every other Friday. After work, the men stood in line, bumping and barging each other playfully, trying to look over each other’s shoulders, making jokes, barely able to wait for their turn to come.
What particularly attracted Ambrosio’s attention?
The fact that the majority of the men thanked Krummen as they picked up their envelopes.
What chiefly characterized the work in the city, as against that on Knuchel’s farm?
Principally its monotony, the result of the extreme division of labour practised in the slaughterhouse. However, the fact that Ambrosio now found himself among people who spoke the same language as he did was an inestimable compensation for this.
But did Ambrosio make no efforts to learn the language of the country?
Yes he did. Great efforts. He wanted to get away from the speechlessness that had made his position in Innerwald so difficult. However, the language courses of the various adult education institutes began very early in the evening. Tired and without having eaten, Ambrosio still forced himself to attend one for some weeks. Finally he gave up. When he then discussed another possibility with colleagues, and proposed to the slaughterhouse management that the company itself might usefully organize courses for its foreign employees, this was dismissed as unnecessary.
What was the result of Ambrosio’s fruitless endeavours?
He acquired a few phrases of abattoir German, but otherwise shared the indifference, prevalent among his foreign colleagues, towards the affairs of a society of which they did not feel themselves a part.
What were the names of Ambrosio’s friends and acquaintances?
Giovanni, Mario, Diego, José, Pasquale, Domenico, Fernando, Juan, Vincenzo, Nicanor, Manuel, Félix, Ernesto, Marcial, Domingo, Luigi, Enrique, Ignacio, Luis, Manuel García, Chicuelo, Vicente, Mauro, Fabrizio, Roberto.
How did the numerous inhabitants of the beautiful city refer to workers of foreign origin ?
Salami-Turks, knife-stickers, hod-carriers, skirt-chasers, video gamesters, dagos, no-guest-in-my-house workers, Spaghetti-Chinese, smelly feet, Fiat-stallions, gypsies, money-senders, fornicators, exploiters, pimps, Chestnut-Fritzes.
Why did Ambrosio never go to the bar in his own street?
Because guest-workers were not allowed in there. There was a sign on the door to that effect.
Was Ambrosio himself ever the object of xenophobia?
Oh yes.
For instance?
At the Kursaal on Saturday nights, a biggish dance orchestra would sometimes play lively southern tunes. Ambrosio was a good dancer. He saw a woman who reminded him of Coruña. She was wearing a white blouse, red shoes, and black skirt. ‘Le gusta bailar, sí sí por favor!’ he said, going up to her. But she turned to her friend and asked: ‘What do you think he wants, Sophie?’ Her friend replied that he probably had a screw loose somewhere. ‘Sí, sí, bailamos!’ insisted Ambrosio, and twirled round his own raised arm, making the little table shake. She of the black skirt and white blouse hid behind her friend’s back, and said: ‘Nix dance with Italianos!’
Could such an episode be described as an unfortunate exception?
No, quite the opposite. Once, an acquaintance of Ambrosio’s was almost arrested for singing an Italian song on the street. Someone took such exception to this that he called the police.
Where did Ambrosio’s friends often spend their days off?
At the station.
What would Ambrosio do before leaning against the railing outside the station, for an hour’s smoking and chatting and laughing?
He would wipe the dirt off the railing with his handkerchief.
Which sentences of German did Ambrosio soon come to master?
1. ‘Attention, please! The express train is due in on Platform...’
2. ‘All passengers please board the train and shut the doors behind you.’
3. ‘The buffet car is at the rear of the train.’
4. ‘The doors on this train will close automatically.’
Why these?
Because Ambrosio liked to walk along the platform.
To what class of person did Ambrosio feel himself strongly drawn?
To waitresses. Behind their professional friendliness, their trained public front, he suspected they had a degree of self-confidence most people lacked. He admired the ease with which these women could defuse potentially unpleasant confrontations. The way they stood, looking for the right change under their white frilly aprons, or at the cash desk, one knee bent and slightly in front of the other, making out a bill, as though oblivious of all the looks hovering at the back of their necks.
Why, on the other hand, did Ambrosio feel pity and sympathy for foreign waiters, feelings that prompted him to leave generous tips?
Because foreign waiters seemed to him like driven animals, because most of the clientele would constantly poke fun at their imperfect or accented speech, because all foreign waiters seemed to have flat feet, because he read terrible sorrows in their faces, because Ambrosio thought that even abattoir work was more humane than being hustled from table to table, spurred on by dissatisfied faces, unfriendliness, complaints of all kinds, and always in a white jacket, always in a tie, and never allowed to have an opinion of their own.
When Ambrosio once expressed himself to this effect, what conversation could be heard in the changing room of the municipal slaughterhouse?
—That he himself had worked in the hotel industry before coming there.
—Really? As what?
—As waiter and room service.
—Where?
—In a cow hotel.
What were Ambrosio’s relations with his colleagues like?
Very good. Ambrosio was popular. He was cheerful, made many jokes, and was able to infect the whole of the workforce with his good humour, and make the work easier for all of them.
What was Ambrosio’s style of humour?
Ambrosio was something of a clown. He would pretend to be smaller or stupider than he really was. For instance, with his rubber apron as a red cloth and a cow for the bull, he staged a bull-fight in the pens at the back, to loud calls of Olé. Or he would scratch his head under his beret with a bloodied finger, and when he dropped the beret on the floor, there would be a red cross on his scalp.
With which of the butchers did Ambrosio hit it off from the start?
With Ernest Gilgen, who was about three heads taller than himself.
What was it about Ambrosio that first attracted the attention of his colleagues?
His tinderbox. They laughed because it seemed old fashioned and cumbersome. Also because Ambrosio swore that as soon as the ball of tinder was used up, he would go to Spain.
Did he keep his word?
Yes, after three years he went for the first time. He wanted to bring his wife and children back with him, but only returned with a new ball of tinder rope. The government had foiled his hopes by making an agreement with Spain, that wives and young children should not be allowed to follow their working menfolk to the small country.
What were the adverse consequences of this visit?
Profound apathy, loneliness, and depression. Free time in the no-man’s-land between slaughterhouse, bed, baths, supermarket and station, became a torment for him. Some Saturdays he was already looking forward to Monday morning. He sometimes tried to sleep right through Sunday. He would try to convince himself that he was still asleep, that he was dreaming, even though he had been lying awake for hours.
How often did Ambrosio visit Innerwald?
Once only. To visit Luigi on the Boden farm, to tell him about conditions in town.
Was it then that Luigi decided to work at the slaughterhouse?
Yes.
How was Ambrosio received on the Knuchel farm? Did they remember him?
>
Ambrosio went walking on the Galgenhubel with Luigi. He sat on the side of the road, below the little wood, and looked down on the Knuchel pastures. He counted the cows, and tried to recognize them from a distance. A milking machine had been installed on the farm. Otherwise nothing seemed to have changed. He did not want to go down there himself.
Did Ambrosio bear Farmer Knuchel a grudge?
No. He often spoke about Innerwald and the Knuchel farm as something dream-like, unreal.
Was it perhaps the news that Fritz Mader, the field-mouser of Innerwald, had hanged himself from a fir tree near the shooting range that deterred Ambrosio from making further visits to the highlands?
Possibly.
What was the greatest material acquisition that Ambrosio made?
A bicycle (make of TIGRA).
What amused Ambrosio about the others, only for him to do the same himself?
The widespread enthusiasm for gloves among slaughterhouse employees. Many could imagine nothing more elegant on a woman, and they would often talk about that. If talk was of presents, someone would usually make the suggestion: ‘Buy her a pair of gloves, that’s always useful and beautiful too.’ Ambrosio took his wife a pair of fine kid gloves. The children were given woollen ones.
How long had Ambrosio been employed at the slaughterhouse?
Seven years.
What was the work he hated most?
Feeding meat into the mincing machine, which he had to do for weeks once to the exclusion of all other tasks. Every morning at six o’clock, he would go off into the machine room, to feed tonne after tonne of partly thawed frozen meat into the funnel of the mincing machine. Since the meat was like ice, the circulation of Ambrosio’s hands suffered. He was troubled by the conviction that he had only insentient stumps at the end of his arms.
How does a mincing machine work?
‘In a casing with screw threads, a worm-conveyor pushes meat against cutting tools: perforated steel sheets, between or in front of which are revolving blades.’ (Brockhaus)
Why did Ambrosio often wake up in the middle of the night?
There was a rock-hard vibration in the inside of the mincing machine, comparable to the gurgling from a bottomless gorge, and this vibration had slowly transmitted itself from the shaking machine casing to Ambrosio’s body. It was particularly bad when pieces of bone or cartilage got into the cutters. Whenever Ambrosio heard that happen, he would swear at the machine, Krummen, the slaughterhouse, and the whole country where everything seemed to be turning incessantly as on the worm-conveyor in the mincing machine. And if he dreamed of the noise, Ambrosio would wake up sweating.
How did Ambrosio try to avenge himself on the machine?
He pummelled its iron plating with his numb fists. He tried to break it by over-feeding it. He pressed as much meat as he possibly could into the gullet of the machine at one go. But it kept turning and grinding and spitting out everything he crammed into it, without losing its composure.
What happened when Bössiger caught Ambrosio kicking the machine?
Krummen brought Ambrosio orders that the frozen meat needed to be passed through the machine twice. At the same time, he was able to report that there would soon be more fresh meat on the market, and that, therefore, Ambrosio’s unpleasant task would no longer be necessary.
What did Ambrosio do when shortly afterwards his right hand emerged from a pile of meat above the machine’s gorge missing the middle finger?
Holding the hand out before him, he went to the office of the vet. Dr Wyss, and in complete bewilderment rested it on a pile of letters, forms and meat-inspection reports.
Did he cry?
Yes.
What did Bössiger then successfully look for in the mincing machine?
Ambrosio’s pulped finger. To avoid the sausage-meat having to be impounded.
How did Bössiger say he was able to recognize it?
By the colour. He had seen a lighter coloured patch.
Was that Ambrosio’s worst experience in the slaughterhouse?
One of the worst.
12
HANDS STROKED CALLOUSES, stroked wounds, smoothed over strained wrists and finger joints. Where was the scab that had been there this morning...?
Hands probed at nails torn loose, they massaged wrists, skin rubbing skin, the hands turned, faced each other, palm against palm, and for an instant were folded as in prayer, and hands with the strength to grip knives, to work and graft away, to move mountains of flesh and bone, these hands now lay on the tables of the little slaughterhouse canteen: rosy bunches of sausage fingers, trembly flesh, exhausted animals.
They lay next to glasses, or they were holding playing cards. The forearms too were dry, and the bodies of the abattoir workers relaxed in their unbuttoned working clothes. Grateful lungs sucked in smoke from cigarettes and cigars, and during working hours employees are strictly forbidden to indulge in alcoholic drinks and tobacco, and under the table, feet were resting in boots: It was still the lunch hour.
—Oh, this is so terrible! The landlady spilt coffee, served warm beer, took it back again. Heavens above! You can’t imagine how awful I felt. What was I to do? He was clinging onto me, as though he never meant to let go. Such a heavy man! Without fingering the coins, without counting them, Frau Bangerter just slipped the money she took into her apron pocket. And when he was lying on the floor, just there, and not moving a muscle, God, I thought for a moment that’s it, he’s dead.
—Oh, it’ll take more than a tongue-lashing from Bössiger about a poxy fox calf to kill Schindler, said Pretty Boy Hügli. Fritz Überländer straightaway concurred:
—Just because Bössiger shows his teeth a bit? That’d make a horse laugh! It would take one hell of a row to finish Schindler.
—And one hell of a thunderbolt to crack his thick belly, said Huber and arranged the cards in his hand.
—Well, but if he goes on drinking schnapps, then I’m not so sure, said Überländer.
—It’s nothing to do with schnapps, Gilgen butted in. He spoke loudly to make himself heard above the squealing of the pigs.
—What is it then? What else, if not schnapps?
The three card players turned their heads and Gilgen got to his feet. It’s his blood. Schindler’s got too much blood in him!
Frau Bangerter plucked at her hair, covered her ears with her hands, and said: ‘What’s the matter today? Those pigs! The way they’re grunting! All day they’ve been going like that!’
—Here, sit down, have a cup of coffee. Buri pulled Frau Bangerter down onto a chair. You mustn’t take Gilgen so seriously, the stuff he comes out with. God knows what they did to him at the Red Cross.
—Did you even go? asked Pretty Boy Hügli. Or was donating blood just another one of your jokes?
—You should try going yourself! Gilgen sat down again.
—Oh, he’s much too sensible to let those fools have all his worldly bloods. Rötlisberger walked into the canteen, stood behind Gilgen, drew on a BRISSAGO, and kept one hand tucked under the bib of his apron. Giving blood! What an idea! It takes you to come up with something like that. But you were just taking the day off, eh? But you’re right enough, Ernest, right enough.
—Nom de Dieu, Fritz, you should have seen it! Gilgen put his arm round Rötlisberger’s shoulder. Those little nurses in their little white uniforms! Feast your eyes on them! Not even one little stain on their aprons. And blondes, the lot of them blondes. So you lie on one of these beds, with a tube stuck in your arm, and there’s guys either side of you, and they’re being tapped too, and the place is as quiet as anything, and these nurses are twinkling back and forth, and you can practically see their legs through their white skirts, and not a drop of blood anywhere. None at all, Fritz! No blood. Just in the plastic bag, and it’s so dark, darker than an old sausage-cow’s blood, nom de Dieu, Fritz! It’s a clean, well-ordered business, donating blood, and they could teach us a thing or two, they don’t splash it all over the walls. And I
said to one of the nurses: You should come and see us do it some time, over at the slaughterhouse. And then afterwards, everyone gets a sandwich and coffee with a little red cross on the cup, and there’s these little red crosses all over the shop, the nurses even have them on their udders. And you know, Fritz, when they take the needle out of your arm here, do you think they make a mess? They don’t lose a drop of it! Nom de Dieu, if only Schindler had gone there...
—What, you mean instead of making black pudding out of it at home, eh, giggled Rötlisberger, and Buri growled:
—If only Aschi Gilgen would work nineteen to the dozen too!
—So long as they don’t try passing it on to me, said Pretty Boy Hügli. And Huber and Hofer wondered why he hadn’t just stayed there at the Red Cross if he’d liked it so much. He should show them just how gifted he was at drawing blood. But Gilgen overheard their remarks. He stood up and glared at Hügli.
—Hey, say that again!
—Didn’t you hear me?
—Say it again!
Bloodshot eyes avoided each other, jaws worked, lower lips trembled, hands reached nervously for beer and cigarettes.
—I said I didn’t want to be the one to get your blood! said Hügli.
—It’s enough to give anyone the creeps, said Huber, and Hofer said:
—Sooner die than run around with Château Gilgen in your veins!
The muscles lifted on Gilgen’s arm, and his fist smashed down on the table. Glasses shook, coffee spoons rattled in saucers. Gilgen went back to his chair. Arseholes!
—Why don’t you stop bullocking around? Buri laid a hand on his shoulder. Not now. When you can see they’re holding a knife to our throats. We’re drowning in work, with all the animals they say they’re having to shoot, and first you leave us in the lurch, and now when you come back you talk garbage. Get your gear on! Hey! Where’s your butcher’s blouse? Your boots! Give us a hand! Listen to those sows! They’ve unloaded over three hundred of the cunts.
—Forget it! Hügli waved his hand dismissively. We don’t need him. If he thinks he’s too good for us. What do we have to go to him on bended knee for?