Cow

by Beat Sterchi

Blood.

  Off to get first aid.

  My blood.

  I cut myself.

  It’s deep.

  There’s all hell let loose out there.

  A wriggling pig. One of its hooves kicked the point of my knife. The slimy grip slipped through my hand. I found myself gripping the blade.

  For the Lord is the shadow over your right hand.

  There are delays on the slaughter line.

  Not enough manpower anywhere.

  Index and middle fingers will definitely need stitches.

  Accident.

  Unfit for work.

  No blood, no backbreaking.

  Hugentobler was shouting.

  Why Krummen wouldn’t take it down a bit.

  Give us a break.

  It’ll be hard playing pinball like this.

  Just coming.

  Hall-supervisor Kilchenmann is weighing pigs. He leans over the sliding-weight, gives it a little nudge, blinks. He pulls the blocking lever, and writes down the weight.

  Dead weight.

  I can feel it dripping from my fingers onto the floor.

  Rage.

  Krummen, you silent cripple.

  It’s burning, I’m sweating. Tears. Sweat.

  Rage and joy.

  Do you want a sedative? You’re pale.

  That look of Kilchenmann’s.

  A pleasant feeling of weakness comes over me. I felt the pain earlier, when it happened, now I don’t feel any. I lean back on my chair, put my head against the wall and look up at the ceiling.

  I’m not knife-proof. A slip, and this machine’s out of commission.

  Kilchenmann’s washing his hands.

  Just coming.

  That look again, over the rim of his glasses.

  Locher’s look. He spits on everything, looks down on everything. Now he can find someone else.

  As I climbed out of the killing bay holding my hand out in front of me, Pasquale and Eusebio stopped dragging out pigs for a moment. They laughed at me.

  They’re just jealous.

  Kilchenmann dries his hands on a red-and-white cloth. City property. He opens the white wooden box with the red cross on its lid.

  He dabs my wound with cotton wool.

  I turn away.

  Deep, not too bad, but deep.

  I know.

  Does it hurt?

  No, I didn’t feel much earlier either.

  Yes, the body reacts quickly. It puts the place to sleep, stuns it. It’s only later that the pain comes.

  Kilchenmann is a good Samaritan. He doesn’t ask questions. He must have dabbed at worse things. Butcher’s stab wounds in the groin. Accidents with machines. Ambrosio’s hand. He stays in practice. He knows how to stop the blood. He’s there to prevent bleeding. Here of all places. He knows how to dose iodine. He bandages neatly. And thickly.

  You cut yourself before, didn’t you?

  You don’t say.

  You’ll have to go to the doctor with this anyway.

  I know what’ll happen.

  The warmth in the factory doctor’s waiting room will put me to sleep. I’ll sit there, perfunctorily washed. The magazines won’t interest me.

  How will I get my bloody rags off?

  With one hand.

  The nurse will give me an injection.

  She’s always encouraging.

  You must be used to pain.

  Then the doctor will take his needle to my finger. A concerned look at my index card will tell him that this is the third time I’ve cut myself.

  He’ll tell me some trace of it will always remain.

  Even a tiny cut destroys nerves. You can never restore anything to exactly what it was before.

  No, doctor.

  You should really be very careful.

  Yes, doctor.

  I’m not allowing you to work. The finger must be kept dry. Take these tablets three times a day after meals.

  I’ll go to see every film on in town. Every one. The lousiest spaghetti Western.

  This butcher won’t be whetting his knife for a while.

  Come back in a week.

  Yes, doctor.

  Very well, doctor.

  Kilchenmann says you should be especially careful with pig-sticking. Because of the dung you can get very bad blood-poisoning. Terrible infections.

  But the scars will always remain, the doctor will say as I’m leaving.

  The scars of freedom.

  The nurse will smile.

  Well?

  All right?

  My hand feels for the doorpost.

  Yup.

  Just felt a bit faint.

  Look after yourself now! See a doctor right away!

  Kilchenmann has gone back to weighing pigs. They swing past on the overhead rail. Their eyeless heads stare at me.

  Calm!

  What time is it?

  Take it easy. Shit! My knees are like jelly.

  Now they’re shouting again.

  Hugentobler! Where’s he going? His stiff, clumping walk. Frankenstein. Back to the cooler-room. Krummenroar. Time I wasn’t here!

  The devil’s cow is still hanging up in front of the meat-inspection office. But it wasn’t just me she got the better of. Krummen too.

  She’s disfigured. Her flanks chopped to buggery. The flesh black and slack. The triangular cheap meat stamps are barely visible. Not a gram of fat on her.

  Are they still doing tests on her in the lab?

  Perhaps she won’t even be fit to be sold.

  My knives!

  I go back. I must get my sheath.

  I want to sit down.

  Take a deep breath, come on!

  I grit my teeth.

  This hand won’t make a fist easily.

  But I stick my chin out.

  Fucking pigshit abattoir!

  *

  —Yes, it’s been pouring down. Rötlisberger took his cap off and looked up at the sky. Ah, that’s good. It’s rained like a cow pissing on cobblestones from both barrels.

  —Comme vache qui pisse, said Ernest Gilgen.

  —But look, it’s clearing up! Won’t be long now, and the sun will come out. Rötlisberger put his cap back on, and sucked a BRISSAGO. He stood in the enclosure in front of the pens, and held the Eringer cow, the late arrival, by her rope. She was a brown-black cow, with short, sharp horns. Her muzzle was wet like a dog’s nose, and her eyes were lively and sighted. She wasn’t much bigger than a small Simmental, but broader, and low slung on short, sturdy legs. Her healthy udder had four almost black teats. Her body was still, only the tail moved, and an emergency slaughtering is the slaughtering of sick or seriously injured animals, whose life appears to be in danger, and which must be slaughtered to prevent the meat losing most of its value, but Gilgen and Ambrosio took such pains over the cow’s appearance, it was as though she was shortly to be shown to a thousand knowledgeable eyes at an agricultural exhibition: they curry-combed her hide, cleaned her hooves with a brush, polished her horns with one of Rötlisberger’s hessian aprons, buckled Gilgen’s cow bell round her neck, and wove the gladioli in a wreath and placed it on her head.

  —That yellow really shows off her dark hide, said Rötlisberger. She’s a good-looking cow. I can’t for the life of me understand why she’s down as an emergency slaughtering. She looks the picture of health!

  —Well, let’s go then! Come on! Let’s take a walk! said Gilgen who had also been admiring the tricked-out cow.

  —Vámonos! said Ambrosio, and the three men set off with the willing cow.

  Rötlisberger opened the gates between the driving passages, Gilgen led the cow on a loose lead right through the whole slaughterhouse yard, but, finding the cattle entrance to the slaughterhall barred, he turned and said:

  —Right, then we’ll just go in the front way. With such a well-turned-out cow, I don’t see why we shouldn’t. Come on! We’re going through the pig hall! He tugged a little at the rope, the cow’s neck bent, and her bell sounded. G
ilgen pushed open the swing door and walked into the steam-filled pig room, followed by Ambrosio and old Rötlisberger.

  —Now, I don’t believe it! God Almighty! gasped Überländer as a cow appeared amid the din of pig slaughtering. What the hell! He rested his cleaver on its end, and scratched his neck.

  Pretty Boy Hügli gaped. He forgot to throw the intestines that were on his arm into the trough, and stood there, hugging them and staring at the wreathed cow following Gilgen among the half pigs and machinery.

  At first Huber and Hofer merely shook their heads. Jesus Christ! Then Hofer’s eyes shone, and he took a few paces away from the razing-table and stared after them, still holding his long blade while Huber picked up the whetsteel absent-mindedly to sharpen his own.

  Up on the killing-bay floor Locher forgot to pull the trigger, even though he already had the barrel down on a pig’s forehead; and Pasquale put his bloody fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly.

  The whistle was louder than the noise of machinery and cow bell, like an explosion its sound went right through the hall, and even Buri looked up from his labour at the intestine-washing machine. Covered in shit from head to foot, Buri just caught sight of the cow disappearing past the weighing machine into the long passage. He turned round. His face was brown and caked, like a mask. He looked for some explanation, and watched the others through the steam. How were they taking it? What did their gestures mean? Mouths gaped in sweating, blood-soiled faces. They stood and gasped. Gilgen! That jailbird! They’ve flipped! An Eringer cow with flowers round her horns! And that bell! Jesus Christ! And that little spic Ambrosio’s in on it too! Those buggers, they want! Instead of working, those idiots! But they haven’t seen the last of it! Won’t they just catch it! And with the image of the garlanded cow deep in their brains, the men furiously went back to work. They set about their tasks as though chained to them. But the rhythm had gone: the lines of pigs lengthened in front of each of them, every one of the butchers fell behind, swore, raged with his knife.

  But Ernest Gilgen walked quietly and proudly down the passage with the cow. He didn’t need to look round, she obeyed the slightest pressure on the rope. The sound of the bell didn’t carry, but it was bright and clear.

  —That gave them a bit of a welcome distraction, said Rötlisberger.

  —Yes, did you see the way they were sweating? replied Gilgen.

  The little procession filed past the meat inspectors’ offices, past the carcass of Blösch hanging from the overhead rail, and reached the cattle hall where Gilgen led the cow to the first slaughtering bay. Whoah! Easy! The cow wanted to go on. You hold her. I’ll get my tools. Gilgen held out the rope to Rötlisberger.

  —No you won’t! roared Foreman Krummen from the entrance to the hall. You’ll take that cow straight back to the pen! Immediately! I’m not giving you another chance!

  The veins stood out on Krummen’s forearms. He bulked tall, blew up his lungs and clenched his fists, he thrust his chin forward, covered his mouth with the thin line of his lower lip, but his face looked flabby, his eyes were barely visible, and the ranting and raving that had become a habit with him no longer impressed the men, and if an emergency slaughter requires to be performed according to paras 1 and 3, then this must occur at a time and place, or at least a place, different from normal slaughtering, and Krummen tried desperately to look fiercer, he lowered his head and stepped closer. Only the smack of his rubber apron on his rubber boots could be heard. Take that cow back!

  —And I say she stays here! Gilgen stepped out in front of Rötlisberger and Ambrosio.

  —Then I’ll take her back!

  —Just you try!

  Aiming an elbow at Rötlisberger, Krummen grabbed at the cow’s halter, but Gilgen’s long arm shot forward and snatched it just below the cow’s ear, while with his other arm he pushed Krummen away. Krummen rocked back, but immediately he leaped back at Gilgen. You big bastard! You Tyrolean arsehole! I’ll teach you!

  Gilgen had gone into a wrestling crouch, and fought off the attack, then he grabbed Krummen by the belt through the rubber apron, and as the President of the Military Department, I am especially heartened by the valuable contribution made by our wrestlers to the state of our military preparedness. ‘Schwingen’ wrestling is one of the oldest forms of unarmed combat. It demands not only toughness, courage, discipline and endurance, but physical and mental agility. Also the ‘Schwingen’ wrestler is taught from the outset that he must fight fairly, and despise dirty tricks and unfair tactics, and as Gilgen and Krummen stood locked together, each with his chin boring into the other’s back, Rötlisberger untied the knot on the cow’s halter, and Ambrosio held the animal by the bell-band, and after an uneventful and indecisive early phase, Champion-wrestler Krummen almost won the bout several times, in spite of brave opposition, by means of repeated head-holds and left swings.

  Veteran wrestler Ernest Gilgen had beads of sweat on his forehead as thick as cod-liver oil, but he didn’t accept defeat, and at the decisive moment came the lightning counter-attack. An immensely powerful, sweet and well-aimed move of incredible strength that almost inevitably secures victory.

  Krummen propped himself up on an elbow, and slowly got to his feet.

  —Ha! you amateur! You Sunday wrestler! Gilgen dodged behind the cow. He had pulled Krummen up by the belt, and thrown him onto his back, and the trouser-lift, so this year’s wrestling president tells us, is gaining in popularity at the present time, and Krummen was pale, he rubbed his back and groaned. I’ll teach you! Jesus Christ! I’ll teach you! I’ll... I’ll oh what? It’s always me, I always have to see to everything myself! Slowly Krummen stepped back. He stood stooped, had one hand rubbing his kidneys. You can’t... why doesn’t someone else come and run the show? His neck quivered. He looked at the ornamented cow that Ambrosio was now leading in a circle round him, bell ringing. His face darkened again. He turned to leave the hall, but saw the twin doors were barred. In front of the bar stood Cooler-man Hugentobler.

  Krummen straightened his apron, and pulled his torn shirt together. He stared down at Hugentobler’s stiff, dangling arms, and then up at his eyes. Hugentobler wasn’t squinting.

  Over his shoulder, Krummen caught sight of Gilgen coming at him again. Have you taken leave of your senses...? Hugentobler grabbed him. With a grip of iron. Krummen measured his length a second time on the granite floor. Gilgen took him by the boots. Stop it! Stop! You great idiots! Krummen no longer tried to resist.

  Rötlisberger tossed Gilgen the cow-halter. Ernest Gilgen and Christian Hugentobler took Foreman Krummen, tied hand and foot, and carried him out of the hall on their shoulders, like a quarter of beef.

  —Got the keys on you? asked Gilgen in the first cooler-room on the other side of the passage.

  Hugentobler, who had pulled his fur cap down over Krummen’s face, nodded, and tolerance of cold is the genetically conditioned capacity of organisms, graduated by genus and species, to withstand cold to a certain limit without detriment (q.v.: resistance to cold).

  *

  Is that two fifteen or ten past three?

  Who cares?

  Krummen smashed the clock. When he had the machine on the fork-lift.

  The long passage.

  I picked up my sheath.

  I hung the belt over my right shoulder. The blades clink as I walk, in time with my steps. But we’ll lock them away for the next fortnight or so.

  I’m clearing off now.

  I shoulder open the door of the changing room.

  Dr Wyss is standing with Frau Spreussiger up there by the devil cow. He’s telling her about something. Maybe...

  Who cares?

  My locker is at the back.

  The mirror!

  My face.

  Head on.

  In profile.

  Those stupid bloody mirrors on those filthy walls.

  To get us to stare at ourselves, in case we go out into the world with red noses.

  So we don’t look like what
we are!

  That grinding.

  Is the grinding of my own teeth.

  You damn...

  I rip the sheath off my shoulder, and hurl it...

  Crash!

  The mirror shatters. The glass falls onto the wooden slatted floor. The knives are halfway out of the sheath. I hurled it at the mirror as hard as I could.

  Damn!

  My hand is hurting again.

  There’s a pale square on the wall where the mirror was.

  Seven years of bad luck!

  Ha!

  Now out of this place!

  With one hand I peel off my wet rags.

  Getting the rubber boots off is hardest.

  The big wash basin.

  This is where Gilgen grabbed us all yesterday and called us cows. Because we let Bössiger lecture us.

  I keep my bandaged hand out of the way, and try and wash. I need a shower really.

  There’s blood in my hair.

  When I lift my bandaged hand, it hurts less than when I let it hang down. Then I can feel the blood throbbing in the wound.

  Towel dry, brush my left hand over my hair, shut my locker.

  I’d like to throw the key somewhere far away.

  The broken glass. Someone’ll have something to shout about.

  Who broke the changing-room mirror?

  Step forward!

  It was me. Abattoir Commander Sir!

  Once more down the long passage.

  I’ll have to leave my LAMBRETTA here. Can’t ride it one-handed. The devil cow. Away from that drooping flesh. Those chopped bones. Away from it all.

  The calf slaughterhall is squeaky clean.

  The cattle hall is barred.

  Emergency slaughter?

  Who cares?

  I’m off.

  I...

  Stamp.

  Small, tidy and red: 15.19.

  In the box to the left of the clock-in, only three cards.

  Ambrosio, Gilgen, Rötlisberger.

  And now mine.

  I’d like to tear it up.

  This is where I start to count.

  This is my hand!

  The asphalt in the yard is wet, the sky is blue.

  This is my hand! I want to shout.

  My hand!

  Shout!

  This is my hand!

  And again!

  I know what goes on out here behind this fence! This is where we are, where I am, where the rest of us are, and nothing else!