klaus

Klaus left home predictably at 6.45am. After working four hours, he sat and quickly ate a tasteless sandwich. The soapstone that floated throughout the factory clogged his throat and nostrils leaving them dry. Water was no relief. Instead he chewed handfuls of liquorice-flavoured tobacco.

Klaus had three years to learn the rhythm of the revolving wheels, the moving hooks and the clanking belt. Klaus’ hands fed the rubber sheets into the rolling mill every weekday.

The quitting whistle blew at 3pm and Klaus walked for ten minutes from Hampden Street. As he headed home he felt the wind come across the barren Trumper Park, and then he stopped for a while where Alma meets Goodhope Street. As he made his way up the hill his boot steps made a dragging noise.

He reached the front iron gate and felt a whoosh of air on his neck as a raven swooped down and pecked his hand. He dropped the dismissal letter on the ground and turned to look at two black shapes flutter away.

The other mill hands had said, “You’ve been sacked, mate.” “Entlassen,” he kept thinking. Klaus used neither word in front of Heike.

He saw Heike dry her hands as he walked through the flat door. Her 24-year-old body barely showed the signs of another pregnancy. Her bright blue eyes bared the fatigue of another sleepless night with the twins. She smiled, but said nothing.

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