Herta Müller - The Hunger Angel

There were days when the steppe-dogs didn’t fear the wheels as much as they should. Perhaps on those days the wind whooshed like the truck, and the similarity confused their instincts. As the wheels approached they’d start to run, but in a daze, not at all as if their life depended on it. I was certain that Kobelian never took the trouble to avoid hitting a steppe-dog. And equally certain that he had never hit one, never caused one to whistle underneath his wheels. Not that you would have heard its high-pitched squeal—the Lancia was too loud.

Even so, I know how a steppe-dog whistles when it gets hit by a truck, because I hear it in my mind on every trip. A short, heartbreaking sound, three syllables in a row: ha-se-vey. Exactly like when you kill one with the shovel, because it happens just as quickly. And I also know how at that spot the earth trembles in fright and sends out ripples, like a fat stone falling into water. And I know how your lip burns right afterward, because you bite into it when you strike with all your strength and kill with one blow.

Ever since I left that one dog lying there, I’ve been telling myself that you can’t eat steppe-dogs, even if you don’t feel a trace of compassion for the living ones or the slightest disgust for the dead. If I felt either, it wouldn’t be about the steppe-dogs but about me. The disgust would be with myself, for hesitating out of compassion.

But if we have time on our next trip, if Kobelian lets Karli and me out of the truck even for a little while, just for as long as it takes him to stuff three or four sacks full of young grass for his goats. Only I don’t think Karli Halmen would do it, not with me there. I’d end up wasting several minutes trying to talk him into it, and then it would be too late, even if we did have enough time. I’d have to tell him: There’s no reason to be ashamed in front of a steppe-dog, or in front of the steppe. I think he’d be embarrassed in front of himself, at least more than I would be in front of myself. And more than I would be in front of Kobelian. I’d probably have to ask him why he was making Kobelian out to be some kind of standard, and tell him that if Kobelian were as far from home as we are, he’d undoubtedly eat steppe-dogs too.

Some days the steppe was covered with brown-lacquered crushed bundles of grass that looked as though they had appeared overnight. And overnight all the clouds had melted away. The only things left were the skinny cranes in the sky and the wild, fat blowflies on the ground. But not a single dead steppe-dog lying in the grass.

What do you think happened to them, I’d ask Karli. What are all those Russians doing, walking through the steppe and bending over and sitting down like that. Do you think they’re just resting, that they’re all tired. They have a tangled nest inside their skulls just like we do, and the same empty stomach. The Russians have their ways, too, I’d say to him. And they have all the time they need, they live here on the steppe. Believe me, I’d say to Karli, Kobelian doesn’t have anything against eating steppe-dogs. Why else would he keep a short-handled shovel in the cab next to the brake—after all, he picks his grass by hand. When we’re not with him, he doesn’t just stop to pick goat grass. I’d say all that to Karli, and I wouldn’t be lying, because I’d have no idea what the truth was. Even if I did know, it would only be one truth, and the opposite would be another. Besides, I’d say, you and I are different when we’re with Kobelian than we are without him. And I’m different without you. You’re the only one who thinks you’re never different. But when you stole bread you were different, and I was different, and all the others, too—but that I’d never say to him, because it would sound like a reproach.

Fur stinks when it burns. Hurry up and build the fire, I’d say, if Karli Halmen did decide to join in, I’ll skin the animal.

Another week had passed. Karli Halmen and I were once again riding across the steppe in the Lancia. The air was pale, the grass orange, the sun was turning the steppe into late fall. Night frost had sugared the steppe-dogs that had been run over. We drove past an old man. He was standing in a whirl of dust, waving to us with a shovel. It had a short handle. A sack was slung over his shoulder, it was only a quarter full and looked heavy. Karli said: That’s not grass he’s getting. If we have time on our next trip, if Kobelian lets us out of the truck even for a little while. I know Kobelian wouldn’t mind, but you, you’d rather be tenderhearted, you’d never join in.

They don’t call it blind hunger for no reason. Karli Halmen and I didn’t know much about each other. We were together too much. And Kobelian didn’t know anything about us and we didn’t know anything about him. We were all different than we are.

Shortly before Christmas I was sitting next to Kobelian in the Lancia. It was getting dark, and we were making another illegal trip, this time to his brother’s. We were hauling a load of coal.

Cobblestones and the ruins of a train station marked the beginning of a small town. We turned onto a rough, crooked street at the edge of the settlement. Behind a cast-iron fence a cluster of fir trees stood out against the last band of light in the sky, black as night, slender and pointed, rising high above everything else and very distinct. Kobelian drove past two houses and pulled up in front of the third.

When I started to unload the coal he gave a relaxed wave as if to say: Not so fast, we have time. He went into a house that was probably white but which the headlights had turned yellow.

I put my coat on the roof of the cab and shoveled as slowly as I could. But the shovel was my master, it set the time, and I had to follow. And it was proud of me. For years now, shoveling was the only thing left to be proud of. Soon the truck was empty and Kobelian was still inside the house with his brother.

Sometimes plans hatch slowly, but sometimes you make a decision so fast you start acting before you even know you can do it, and that can be electrifying. My coat was already back on. I told myself that stealing could land me in the concrete box, but my feet carried me even faster toward the fir trees. The gate—it must have been an overgrown park or a cemetery—wasn’t locked. I broke off the lower branches, then removed my coat and wrapped them inside. Leaving the gate open, I hurried back to Kobelian. His brother’s house now loomed white in the darkness, the truck’s headlights were no longer on, the tailgate was already closed. My bundle smelled strongly of sap and sharply of fear when I tossed it over my head into the back of the truck. Kobelian was sitting in the cab, stinking of vodka. At least that’s what I’d say today, but at the time I thought to myself: He smells of vodka, but he’s not a real drunk, he only drinks with heavy meals. Still, he could have shared some with me.

When it’s that late you never know what’s going to happen at the entrance to the camp. Three guard dogs barked. The guard knocked the bundle out of my arms with the barrel of his rifle. The branches fell to the ground, on top of my fancy coat with the velvet collar. The dogs sniffed first at the branches and then just at the coat. The strongest one, he may have been the leader, bit into the coat and dragged it like a corpse halfway across the camp to the roll-call grounds. I ran after the dog and was able to save the coat, but only because he let go.

Two days later the bread man passed me, pulling his cart. And lying on the white linen was a brand-new broom, made from a shovel handle and my fir branches. In three days it would be Christmas—a word that puts green fir trees in every room. All I had were Aunt Fini’s torn green woolen gloves stashed away in my trunk. Because Paul Gast the lawyer had been working as a machine operator for the past two weeks, I asked him for some wire. He brought me a bundle of wire snippets, all cut to the width of a hand and tied at one end like a tassel. I used his wire to make a tree, then unraveled my gloves and tied bits of green yarn onto the branches, very close together, like fir needles.