In the morning, the first task of the engine operator is to pour each of his men a big shot of kümmel schnapps. The rotgut was supposed to revive the flagging energy attributable to a short night’s rest. And indeed, the drink works wonders. Once all of the workers have had a hefty kümmel on an empty stomach, everyone’s sluggish spirits revive noticeably. Accompanied by the humming of the threshing box, all hands go about their work in the same mechanical fashion as the day before: the throwers toss the sheaves toward the machine; the string cutters pull their knives through the sheaf twines; the packers feed the lose sheaves through the drum; the binders tie up the threshed straw into bundles; like machines, the grain carriers lug bag after bag to the loft; the “chaff major” weaves his way through the crowd with a full tarpaulin; and on the heap, bundle after bundle is piled up in regular rows. Finally, morning is breaking, the dim oil lanterns are extinguished, and a whistle calls the crews to breakfast: the first two hours of the new day are behind you.
After 20 minutes, everyone is back at his post again, and now the work continues without pause, with only a short break for greasing, at most, until noon. With fork and spoon flying, you devour your food; you’ve scarcely choked down the last bite when the whistle calls you back to work again. There’s not even enough time to wash your spoon; all you manage to do is lick it or wipe it on the corner of your dusty overalls. An afternoon snack break is scheduled for 4 o’clock, but as for finishing time, only the machine operator can say.
And the very same cycle repeats itself day after day. Since most of the time, work also continues on Sundays, it may well happen that you work for three weeks straight, without giving yourself a proper washing even once or resting in a real bed. If you do risk sticking your head in a bucket of water just once, you usually have to dry yourself with your own clothes or an old grain sack, as the farmers will not give you a towel; they feel the crews aren’t good enough for such a thing. After all, you’re in such a state that even the grubbiest gypsy looks like a nobleman in comparison.
Source: Franz Rehbein, Das Leben eines Landarbeiters [The Life of a Farm Worker] (orig. 1911), edited by Urs J. Diederichs and Holger Rüdel. Hamburg: Christians, 1987, pp. 253-64.
Translation: Erwin Fink
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