The Dark Meadow Read Online Free PDF

He propped himself on the table with his clenched fists, leaning forward as far as he could, coming very close to Zauner. Zauner could feel the man’s breath, smell his sweat. The man’s voice rose until finally he began shouting, saying he wanted to hear the truth, the whole truth, he wanted to know everything. Johann Zauner didn’t know what to reply. All he could have said was that Afra was dead, and they had taken Albert away. So he said nothing, lowered his eyes and looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. They were callused and cracked. His fingers were crooked, his joints gnarled from the hard work he had had to do all his life. On many days they hurt so much that he could hardly use them. The other manshouted at him, asking what he had done. What was he supposed to say?
    *
    He had risen early in the morning, before sunrise. He had said his morning prayers, and then he had gone into the kitchen as usual. Breakfast was already on the table. He sat down in his place opposite the crucifix on the wall, said grace, and ate. Then he had gone out to the shed, had put the whetstone in his pocket, taken the scythe and gone to the railway embankment to mow the little meadow, which belonged to him, and was just large enough to provide for the two goats and the cow. Money had always been short, and poverty was a guest seen only too often in their house, but since there had been two more mouths to feed when Afra and the child came home, it all had to stretch even further than before. However, they would manage, even though the Lord God had tried them sorely. He could have told the man all that, but he said only, ‘I got up and went out to the meadow to mow it.’
    Hadn’t there been a quarrel that morning?
    Johann Zauner couldn’t remember any quarrel, only how the child lay on the floor panting for breath. He had knelt down to pick the little boy up and hold him tight. Then he had gone out to get help. The toddler had been heavy in his arms, and his stiff hands hurt.
    â€˜Did you quarrel with your daughter?’ The other man repeated the question.
    Johann said quietly, without going into the matter, ‘My hands hurt so much.’
    â€˜Why do your hands hurt? Do they hurt because you kept hacking at your daughter and your grandson with that hoe? Is that why you’re hurting?’ the stranger asked, and he went on, ‘Tell me, do your hands hurt because you hit them? With your hoe?’
    â€˜The hoe was lying there. I pushed it away.’
    â€˜What or whom did you push away? The hoe, your daughter’s body?’
    â€˜It was lying there, the hoe was lying there.’
    â€˜Where was the hoe lying?’
    The old man said nothing.
    â€˜What was the matter with Afra?’
    â€˜I couldn’t tell, she was just lying there.’
    â€˜And the little boy, what about him?’
    â€˜The baby was breathing heavily.’
    â€˜The bastard, did he bother you? The child you didn’t want to have there?’
    â€˜He was breathing so heavily.’
    â€˜He was always in your way, wasn’t he?’
    â€˜Always getting in the way. Always underfoot. Always there.’ And he went on quietly. ‘It wasn’t right of Afra.Wasn’t right to have the baby. But what could I have done?’
    â€˜So you hit the bastard child with the hoe, and your daughter too?’
    â€˜Hit with the hoe, yes, Afra is dead. There was blood everywhere.’
    â€˜What about the child?’
    â€˜The child was all over blood.’
    â€˜Show me your arms.’
    The old man stretched out his arms.
    â€˜Why are your forearms covered in scratches?’
    â€˜It comes of the work, the scratches come of the work and then they heal up.’
    He lowered his arms again.
    â€˜How can all those scratches come of the work? Isn’t it a fact that you’d been fighting with your daughter? Come on, tell me, why did you do it? What wasn’t right about