We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [236]
As a parting gift, Vilhjelm's father had presented Knud Erik with two leather patches, with straps attached. "They're for your hands," he'd said. Being a man of few words, he'd offered no further explanation—and it wasn't until the Active called at Egernsund to take on a cargo of bricks bound for Copenhagen that Knud Erik learned their purpose. Pinnerup showed him what they were for, strapping the leather patches to his hands and then giving him a slap across the face by way of encouragement.
So he did have some compassion in him after all, Knud Erik thought.
The bricks were brought from the wharf to the ship, then down a chain of men until they reached the first mate in the hull, who passed them into the stows. They came flying from man to man in packs of four, each bundle weighing somewhere between ten and fifteen kilos. The first one Knud Erik caught nearly knocked him over. If it hadn't been for the leather patches, his skin would have been flayed.
He stood panting for a moment, then took a couple of staggering steps toward the docker next to him in line.
"Listen, pal," the docker warned. "Don't break the chain. Your arms won't be able to stand it. If you don't keep the bricks moving, they get too heavy."
He showed Knud Erik how to twist his body and send the bricks on in a single movement. Knud Erik kept the chain going the next time, but whenever a pack passed through his hands, it felt as if his arms were being wrenched off. His limbs were lead weights, and he strained for breath. But he refused to give up. He found himself drawing on a violence he didn't even know he possessed, a force that came not from his paltry boyish muscles, but from some nameless inner place where it had lain dormant for years.
The docker glanced at him from time to time. "You're doing all right," he said, but the pity in his eyes belied his words. He was an older man who sweated profusely, but he knew the routine. He quickly forgot Knud Erik. There was a piecework rate to keep up.
Every time there was a hitch in the delivery, Pinnerup's hoarse voice would shout from the hull, "Is it that damn boy again?"
The crew of the Active had to help with the unloading in Copenhagen as well. They moored in Frederiksholms Kanal; its high granite wharves were a long way up, so it was hard work. The first mate kept well away, sitting on the hatch coaming and watching Knud Erik fall out of rhythm again and again. The difficulty wasn't just passing the heavy pack along, but throwing it upward too. Each time he pushed off, he had to squat deeper. "Lazy swine, Sunday sailor," Pinnerup snarled, and removed the broken meerschaum pipe from his mouth to spit on the deck.
Knud Erik was so used to this kind of thing that he hardly noticed. But one of the dockers put down his pack and went over to the first mate. "We won't put up with this," he said. He pointed to Knud Erik. "The work's too heavy for a boy. Swap places with him and give him a rest."
Pinnerup grinned and pulled his cap down. "So you think you're in charge here?"
"No," the docker said. "I'm the one doing the unloading. But perhaps you'd rather do it yourself?" He turned to his mates. "Feller here thinks he doesn't need us."
They swung themselves up on the wharf and sat down. One of them took out a cigarette, lit it, and passed it around. They didn't look in Pinnerup's direction, but started chatting among themselves, dangling their legs over the edge casually. Knud Erik stood there, confused. Something was happening that he didn't understand. These men didn't belong on the ship. They weren't familiar with its hierarchy or its unseen life-or-death struggles. They seemed to be a law unto themselves, with a strength of their own. They appeared to be their own masters.
"So when's break time over?" Pinnerup snorted sarcastically.
"When you take your hands out of your pockets," retorted one of the dockers.
The other laughed in approval.
Pinnerup shrank. Here he was