Nyugati Train

Budapest.

Nyugati. January. 6.20am. Dawn. A small man is hustling along before me. Crouched in himself, a jacket and a hat. Getting on the train, checking which wagon to take. Few people on the freezing corridor. Some wagons are filled. This one is empty. No light. Cold. On the opposite side a man is wrinkled into the edge between window and couch. He looks up. Tired eyes. Unwilling movement from behind the jacket. Relatively young. End twenties, beginning thirties? Shock, surprise, vanishing fear, acceptance. He had slept and had gone astray. Hallo. - Hallo. Critical seizing of the other. I am wearing a fleece, sports bag, leather shoes – he stuff from the second hand store. Feels Weak. Still seizing me, than relaxing. Ok. His eyes close, he slightly turns away. When there is movement on the corridor he awakes and turns to me again. Shunning away from a might be question reveals the foreigner. To the airport. Yes. How long? Twenty, twenty-five, thirty… ok. I have thirty-five, 60 till take off. Drowsy. His eyes. Still clammy, cold, dark, grey. Where from? Germany. Germany. Ich Schlachter - I butcher. What? Ah. My eyes open, pretending a relaxed posture. He leans back. Quick look to the door. Ich arbeite Deutschland. - I work Germany. Open nodding on my part. Ein halbe Jahr - A half year. Where? Nürnberg. Köln. Greifswald. Close to the window besides him stands an ice tea bottle. It’s not 7am yet. When have you been to Germany? Last year. Deutschland gut. – You will go again? Not now. Difficult. Hhmh. Hungary? Nicht gut. Hungary nicht gut. Not pay. Hungary. Hm. You? How Hungary? Budapest? Good. Everything good. As if he did not know. Study, a small scholarship, a room. Everything good. He knows. later: What does he earn? 400 a month. Not good. No family, nothing. Food. He is going to is aunt. She lives outside of Budapest. Will you work there? Maybe. Visit. … We come back to the beginning: sheep butcher in Greifswald. Pig butcher in Köln. Cattle in Nancy. We talk about the prices, the wages, the ratio’s of animals per day, the differences for different animals. 10 hours. 100 pigs. One butcher. Standing. Machine? Yes, also with machine. Any break? One hour in Germany, half an hour in Hungary. One third of the wage in Hungary. Work. Sleep. A cold room. Work. Sleep. Three months in Greifswald, 2 months in Köln. In between Hungary. A labor migrant’s odyssey. I take meat, he starts again. Put in bag. Good meat, Germany, good meat. Take home. Eat. The foreman sees it. What happened when he saw it? Not good. Problem. I afraid. But then ok. Not too much he says. Here, Budapest, – no.

The airport. I had gotten off. The train leaves. Metal moving along me. The bridge to the airport. Sausages in my bag as a present to bring home. Another world, having passed from a layer down, man, Budapest, Europe, to a layer up, on top of it, fearing its below. Pushed-thrown butcher. Sheep, pig, cows. Hungary, Germany, France. part of the machine. ice-tea bottle instead of meat. sausages in my bagpack. facing the unability to bridge, the need to fly and forget. Rushing along steel, organized stores.

by Moritz Poesch