John Berger - Once in Europa

I kept my room at the widow’s house and I spent every night IN EUROPA. On two Sundays when Stepan was working the day shift, I watched the swallows: on two Sundays when he wasn’t working we stayed in bed till nightfall. He talked a lot now. In his sleep he talked in Russian. We’ll stick it out another year, he said, then we’ll leave and I’ll find a job. You ought to make beds like this one! I told him. We’ll find a house by the sea, he said. Why not by a lake? I suggested.

Sometimes he talked of the factory. I asked him if he’d heard about Michel’s accident. I’d just arrived, he said, it was my first week and I was in his team. It was Peter we were tapping, and the wall broke. When that happens it’s like hell let loose. Hell itself, my little one. To pierce the wall you have a probe — do you know how long the tip lasts? Less than eight minutes. Vossiem . He was still conscious. May God help him. We got him clear and put the fireproof gown on him. He’s still in hospital, I commented. With two legs gone, said Stepan.

Towards evening he shaved. I liked watching him shave. We had a jug and basin on the table by the door and he went to fetch some hot water from the bathhouse, a stone building next to the shop. Naturally I never set foot inside there. Stepan would fetch water for me to wash, and for the calls of nature I went into the plantation. This time the water was for his shaving. How much I liked to watch him shave! Perhaps any man shaving? If I’d gone into the bathhouse I’d know. It’s the only moment men show their coquetry. The way they pull their skin and focus with their eyes, the noise of the blade against the stubble, the white soap on the rosy skin. After shaving, Stepan’s face was softer than mine, soft as a baby’s.

He was killed on July 31st. He didn’t take the leather-covered flask with him. He left it on the table beside his shaving brush. He was killed at four-thirty in the morning. Régis telephoned the news to the widow Besson’s house just before I was leaving for work. I spoke to him myself. Is it certain he’s dead? Certain? Certain? I asked six times. I went to work. The pieces I was pressing, tiny as earrings, were for electric irons. After work I went to the Barracks and into our room. There was a knock on the door. I opened it. Giuliano stood there. It was he who obtained the oak for our bed.

Where is he? I asked, I want to see him. Niente , Giuliano said. I want to see him, I said again very quietly. Niente! he shouted at the top of his voice. Over his shoulder I could see other men from shed A and sheds P, O, R, U, E, N standing at a discreet distance, looking towards me, caps in hand, shoulders hunched. Where is he? Giuliano’s eyes filled with tears as he shook his head. Not for a moment did he take his eyes off me. And suddenly I understood. He had disappeared. There was no body. Like it happens in an avalanche.

I did not cry, Holy Mary Mother of God, I did not cry. I said to Giuliano: Who’s got a motorbike in our shed? None of us. Who then? Jan in U has a motorbike. Ask him if he can take me to work tomorrow morning, I’m going to stay here.

I slept in our room. Every morning Jan took me to the Components Factory in Cluses. On the second day Emile came to the Barracks. We want you to come home, he said, and shyly, without a word, he deposited a goat’s cheese on the table. Later, I told him, tell Maman and Régis I’ll come home later, for the moment I must stay here.

I lay on the bed with the carved roses at each corner and stared at the planks of the roof. I found a suitcase under the bed and into it I packed his clothes, with no idea of what I was going to do with them. Perhaps his father or his wife would want them? I still did not cry. The nothingness into which he had disappeared filled me. Every hour was the same. Every minute was the same. To piss I went into the plantation just as I did when his boots weren’t open mouths screaming. Odile did not scream, she waited, IN EUROPA, shed A. I went on waiting. Every evening some of his comrades came to see me. They came in pairs. They brought me plates of food which I couldn’t eat. One brought me a newspaper in a language I couldn’t understand. They said I should go home. They said they would come and see me if I went home. One of them gave me a lace shawl in black. I folded it up. Each day which passed brought me more hope. Each night I slept in the shed. In the nothingness into which he had disappeared, in the nothingness in which he had left me, I was listening for him. And at last I heard. Now I could go home, now I could weep, now I could wear my black shawl.

I went to the factory manager’s office. His secretary asked me what my business was. I said it was private. Would you like to take a chair? I could hear the avalanche roar of the big furnaces. I knew that it never stopped, yet, as I sat there waiting, I thought it might. Impossible things happen. I believed that if the roar stopped I would hear his voice. On the walls were framed photographs of other factories. The frames were oak like the bed. I waited for an hour. He shouldn’t be much longer, said the secretary. Where is he? He’s on a long-distance call, she replied and continued her typing.

If I’d taken a back-of-the-arse, I could have done her job. Would you like some coffee? she asked. She knew me, everyone in the factory knew by now that I was Stepan Pirogov’s concubine. It wasn’t of course the word they used, but it was the legal term which I would have to use. Please, I said.

After another half-hour the manager saw me. His wife used to order fresh eggs from Mother. When Father was alive, Mother had to wait until he was in the fields before delivering her eggs. Food for the enemy! Father would have screamed.

He never looked at you when he was talking, the manager. It was as if he were trying to read the captions of the framed photographs on the wall. He had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. It was hot everywhere with an August heat. I had put on a skirt and jacket so as to look more legal, and I was wearing the black shawl over my head. He motioned to the chair in front of him.

What can I do for you?

I’ve come about Monsieur Pirogov, Monsieur Norat.

I know. May I offer you, and the family, my sincere condolences.

I understand that if a worker is killed at work, the Company pays his wife a pension.

It is discretionary. We are not obliged to, and the pension terminates when and if the widow marries again.

Monsieur Pirogov was killed at work, I said.

The cause has not yet been ascertained.

Everyone knows he was asphyxiated by fumes. That’s why he fell.

We will see, Mademoiselle Blanc, when the investigation is finished. I wish I could tell you more.

I have come to apply for a pension.

How old are you?

Seventeen.

And the date of your marriage, Mademoiselle Blanc? He was obliged to look at me at that moment.

We are not married.

Then I don’t understand.

I lived as Monsieur Pirogov’s concubine.

May I ask where?

I knew he knew where.

In shed A, I told him.

That’s company property.

I want our bed too.

You want a company pension and a bed! If we gave pensions to all our workers’ concubines, Mademoiselle Blanc, we’d be bankrupt!

Are there so many killed in your factories, Monsieur Norat?

I understand your distress but I’m afraid I can do nothing.

I’m pregnant. In the name of his child which I’m carrying, I’m asking, Sir, for compensation.

Monsieur Norat was surprised. He left his chair and came to stand behind me.

Odile, if I may so call you, for you’re young enough to be my daughter, I believe you, but the Company can’t. From the Company’s point of view you’re not married, you had no fixed residence of concubinage, and you have no proof at all that Stepan Pirogov is the father of your child.