H. Adler - Panorama

Work begins, some having no trouble with it, some a bit more skilled and others less so, Sláma often taking the pick from someone’s hand and showing how it’s done. “See? Shoop! And I don’t even have to strain at it. Out comes the hunk of turf!” But simply explaining and demonstrating is not enough, for some are still terrible at it, though Sláma doesn’t grow impatient but instead talks to the boys, it being only the first day, they will all learn, you just have to find your rhythm, that’s all. Some work too fast, the foremen shouting to them, “Boys, that’s no way to go about it! You need to pace yourself and remain calm. Always the same motion. That way you won’t be tired in the evening.” Soon it grows hot, the workers throwing off their jackets, then their shirts, though some of the more sensible tell them that they should watch out for sunburn. Josef is neither particularly adept nor not adept, Sláma explaining how to do it a number of times and showing him as well, after which he doesn’t seem to be too worried about Josef, who doesn’t strain himself too terribly, though he gives his best, for Sláma needs it, and his intentions are good. The time passes frightfully slowly, each minute stretching out with a perpetual slowness, it having been about ten o’clock when each laborer pulled up his first hunk of turf, many of the boys tired already, their backs aching and their palms hurting, Sláma advising them to just spit into their hands, showing them how to, for then the shaft sits right in your hands, you need to draw back after each stroke and stand erect, and not hold the pick too tight, only one hand gripping it a bit more, the other relaxed and sliding back and forth, which makes it easy and helps it to feel good.

It’s only eleven o’clock, but the boys take ever more frequent breaks, short ones at first, then longer and longer, Sláma reminding them that they have to do something, they can be seen from too far off, and all the masters have damned good eyes, so make sure to always work like a madman, especially if they’re watching, rather than just dumbly slacking off and gawking or leaning on your shovel until you get swelling under your chin. Many of them understand what Sláma wants, though unfortunately others do not and believe he’s a phony who pretends to be friendly and yet is a slave driver, but Sláma does what he can to take care of his men, he only reminding them of what is necessary, once yelling, “Boys, Rybák!” He has just seen the master as he starts to climb down the embankment, which takes about ten minutes, though it actually takes him about half an hour, because he stops to talk to Vodil. Everyone works vigorously, though Rybák is not fooled and knows that this hurry is not real, he telling the new arrivals that they should not strain themselves, no one expects anything superhuman from them, just honest work, as he goes from man to man and looks at each for a while, taking the pick from most and showing them what Sláma has shown them already, the master telling them that he also started as an unskilled laborer when he was very young and just out of school at fourteen, and now he’s a master, meaning that everyone here can aspire to be an overseer, which is not bad, after which Rybák writes down all the names on a list, since Sláma has their work cards, on which he notes how many hours they work each day.

As soon as the overseer has disappeared behind the hill, the tempo eases a lot, everyone hot and wrung out, each wanting something to drink. Sláma asks if anyone brought a can for water, and indeed no one has thought to, at which it occurs to Sláma that there are some down by where they are building the bridge, so he sends a boy to ask Vodil for a can. Then someone says to Sláma that it’s already twelve, he should let someone go to the canteen to get some soup, to which Sláma says he has no problem with that, except that unfortunately he isn’t the one who can grant permission, it has to be arranged with the master, not with Sláma, who knows nothing about it and is just an everyday foreman who has to answer to Čiperný and, should he find out about it things could get sticky, which is why there won’t be any soup today. The boy returns from Vodil with a can and asks Sláma where he can get some water, but the former has already picked Josef, telling him, “Go down toward Najdek, but not all the way to the path. Instead, head left until you get to a couple of houses. If no one is home, just go a bit farther until you come to a well.” Josef is pleased by this unexpected reprieve, reaching the first house after five minutes, though no one is there, while at the next he sees an old woman who tells him to come as she asks what he wants. Josef says he wants to get some water, at which she tells him to come in and begins to ask what he’s really doing, who are these people in Wirschenowitz, why have they been sent here, for there is no sense in building a railroad while there’s a war on. It also doesn’t sit well with the woman that the train will pass by her house, all that noise, and how easily a spark from the locomotive can land in your eye, that having once happened to her son, he having ridden on the train and stuck his head out the window, a spark having hit him in the eye and burning him terribly, such that he couldn’t see for three days, nor does anyone in Najdek need a new railroad, but if indeed it is to be built, then it shouldn’t be with forced laborers, whether Christians or Jews, she having already had a look at the people and concluding that they looked all right and not like criminals. For Josef the conversation takes too long, he needs to get the water so that his comrades are not kept waiting. The woman agrees, giving him an apple and saying that he should always feel free to come to her for water.

Josef heads back and wants to place the can in the middle of the site, but Sláma orders him to carry it from man to man so that each can have a drink, and as soon as he finishes his round some call out that he should come back, but Sláma declares that it’s enough for now, you shouldn’t drink too much, soon the lunch break will come and everyone will be thirsty, it being best for Josef to put the can in the shade so that the water doesn’t get warm right away, and once the can is empty someone just needs to tell Sláma and he’ll send someone to get more. The change of pace has done Josef good, the pick feels lighter in his hand, he pulling up one hunk of turf after another, as Sláma looks at his watch to see if it’s not already time for the lunch break, saying perhaps it’s not easy to hear the whistle from here, the locomotive of the light train is supposed to give the sign, though in a headwind they could have missed it, so Sláma holds strong, a bit more time passes, then it’s one o’clock and still no whistle, then Sláma calls out, “Stop! Lunchtime!” Right away he lies down and pulls a sausage sandwich from his pocket, the other workers also sitting down and tearing into their snacks, though after a while a siren sounds. “Boys, they’re late again! Lunchtime was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago!” Some have fallen asleep, others just stir and doze now and then. Josef squints at the sun and thinks about how best to fit in here, how things are with Sláma, it being indeed quite comfortable, though it can hardly remain so, one needing to be ready for much worse. A nice conversation with Sláma would be good, but Josef feels that it’s better to keep his distance, for he doesn’t want to become Sláma’s pet. All too quickly the lunch break is over, although Sláma doesn’t make them begin at one-thirty but instead waits for the siren, which means the break ends up lasting forty-five minutes, though the new arrivals are already tired, some of them with hands hurting.

The afternoon drags slowly on, Josef having three times looked at the clock, after which he vows not to do so again, it being better to work slowly and be surprised when quitting time finally arrives. He feels wrung out and empty, though he’s not sleepy, not at all overtired, yet his life spirit is drained and dim, as if erased by a mantle of fog, his pick growing ever heavier in his hands, though it doesn’t hurt, he believing nonetheless that he has gotten much more adept at using it, Sláma at least not having said anything to him, even though he corrected others, repeating the same words over and over in a monotone, Josef looking on as he stands behind and demonstrates once again the right way to hold one’s hands, the pupil standing next to him with a somewhat strange expression, happy at least not to have to hold the pick for a moment. The fact that time rushes by concerns Sláma less and less, he only casting a furtive glance at people without saying anything, only once becoming more attentive when one of his group clearly isn’t applying himself and keeps taking longer and longer pauses, Slama calling out, “Boy, what are you doing?” He’s a smart guy who answers peacefully with the sheepish face of a schoolboy who’s been caught, “Nothing!” Good-natured, yet unflinching, Sláma replies, “Then do something!”