The Land of Green Plums by Herta Müller

Author:Herta Müller [Müller, Herta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

Kurt didn’t think much of Tereza; you shouldn’t trust her, he said, and he slammed his bandaged hand down on the table. He had a split thumb, an iron bar had landed on it. A worker dropped it on my hand, said Kurt. On purpose. It was bleeding. I licked the blood off with my tongue, so it wouldn’t run down my sleeve.

Kurt had already drunk half his tea. I’d scorched my tongue and was still waiting for mine to cool. You’re much too sensitive, Kurt said. They left me there wounded, they stood by the ditch and watched me bleed. They had eyes like thieves. I was afraid they’d lost their minds. The minute those people see blood, they gather round to drink, to drink me dry. And afterward they all denied it. They were mute as the ground they were standing on. That’s why I quickly licked the blood off and swallowed and swallowed. I didn’t dare spit it out. Then it got to me, I began to scream. I practically tore my mouth with screaming. They all belonged in the dock, I screamed, they had stopped being human a long time ago. They made me sick with all their blood guzzling. I told them that their whole village was one big cow’s ass, which they slip into at night and slip out of again in the morning to guzzle more blood. That they lure their kids into the slaughterhouse with dried cowtails and intoxicate them with kisses that taste of blood. That the sky ought to fall in on their skulls and crush them. Then they turned their thirsty faces away from me. They were one big speechless herd in their loathsome guilt. I walked through the slaughterhouse halls looking for some muslin to tie up my thumb. The first-aid box didn’t have anything but an old pair of glasses, some cigarettes, matches, and a tie. I found a handkerchief in my jacket, wrapped it round my thumb, and bound it on with the tie.

Then the herd slowly shambled into the building, said Kurt, one after the other, as though they didn’t have feet, just big eyes. The slaughtermen, who were drinking blood, called them over. The herd shook their heads. That one day they shook their heads, said Kurt, the next day they’d forgotten my screaming. Habit turned them back into what they already were.

When Kurt fell silent, there was a crackling behind the door. Kurt looked at his bandaged hand and listened. I said, it’s Frau Margit eating the scraps left from the Communion wafers. You shouldn’t trust her, said Kurt, she snoops around when you’re not here. I nodded. The letters from Edgar and Georg are in the factory, I said, with the books. I didn’t say that the books were with Tereza. Kurt’s bandaged hand looked like a misshapen lump of wafer-dough.

Mother rolls the strudel dough across the table. Her fingers are nimble. They snatch and pluck as if they were counting money. The dough turns into a thin tablecloth.

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