He’s just mooching off. He’s still got his camera out, maybe he’s found something better to photograph.—Stop your mooing, ox. I’m thirsty as well, and I’m not getting anything to drink, even though there’s a well in every one of these farms.—Kalübbe is pretty hacked off, but he’s putting a good face on it. Farmers are farmers. A thick skin and do your job, and don’t think too much. The Middle Ages and hangmen—wonder where that comes from? He must have read about it somewhere. I play skat, and he has his family, and we both have Altholm, so what do we need farmers for? It’s pretty here, even though there’s something bad in the air . . .

He dozes gently in the noonday sun. The two oxen toss their heads from side to side, and switch their tails to keep off flies.

IV

Kalübbe is standing in front of the table. ‘Drop off, did you? Yes, there could be a storm coming. It’s a day to curdle milk.—Well, Storm isn’t interested. He’s afraid of being blacklisted, and then he won’t be able to buy meat any more anywhere. Leave him be. My wife will change her butcher.’

‘And the revenue councillor?’

‘Yes, well, the revenue councillor, our Herr Berg, of course he doesn’t get what’s happening. He’s baffled. But he says he wants to send the farmers a message. We are to drive the oxen to Haselhorst, and put them on a train to Stettin. Pleasant prospect, eh? I’ve ordered up a cattle car. So I think we’d best be on our way. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll get our glass of beer. The station pub will have to serve us.’

‘All right then! Let’s go. Which one will you take?’

‘Leave me the one with the crooked horn. He’s a bit of a fidget. If yours gets any ideas, just keep a hold of the rope, and give him one over the muzzle. That’ll make him think again.’

They have untethered the beasts from the post, and are about to set off. The pub door opens, and a dozen, two dozen, three dozen farmers emerge into the open. They line up by the roadside and stand there in silence to watch the two men set off.

They drive the oxen along the village street. The beasts are placid. Kalübbe turns to Thiel and remarks: ‘How do you like this running a gauntlet?’

‘Well, so long as they’re happy!’

‘Sure they are!—Hey, what’s that?’

They’re at the end of the village.