Epitaph for a Working ManO Page A

We drove the lorry over to the forge shed; there they pile the offcuts on pallets. I chose what I wanted and Franz – Estermann’s son – loaded the pieces I selected on to the lorry. There are days when I can hardly walk for the pain in my leg, and there’s no question of me hauling large rocks around. Even ten kilos is too much for me to lift by myself. It’s a strange mason who has to have someone carry around even the smallest slabs! Well, that’s how things are now, ever since his accident Haller can’t manage without a dogsbody to help him. Chiseling, bush-hammering, broaching – those are things I’m as good at as anyone else. Just bashing the stone isn’t enough, you see, it takes more than muscle; you have to have a feeling for where the stone is likely to break, you have to have a feeling for the direction and the angle at which you need to point your iron, you have to have an eye for it. Some people never manage. Gerber, for example, he never managed. I know what I’m talking about; we spent enough time wielding mallets, chisels and pneumatic hammers side by side. No one could ever teach Gerber anything; he understood all right, he’s not an idiot, but understanding something in his head and then doing it himself with his hands, that was beyond him. So all he could do was become the boss.”
    *
    Sitting at the round table, smoking. Crossing the hall step by step, past the kiosk, past the staircase, on his way to the lift. Hooking his cap on the clothes stand down in the corridor by the X-ray room, propping his stick against the wall before pulling his left arm, then his right arm, out of his jacket, hanging his jacket up under his cap. Reaching for his stick again, turning around and limping over to one of the chairs. Sitting down, panting. Sitting there, holding his stick in his hands in front of him, between his knees.
    *
    He acted as though he was sure he’d be alive for a long time yet. We hadn’t talked much about his illness before; now we didn’t talk about it at all. It was just that his having to go to the hospital three times a week was a nuisance: on those days he couldn’t go to Estermann’s. The second fountain wasn’t finished yet; Estermann had planned to exhibit both fountains at the Outer Brühl District Trade Fair in October. Both had already been sold, but showing them at the exhibition would bring in further orders. Then Father would have work all winter. “If only there wasn’t such a draught in that shed,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll move into the garage, it’s a bit better there.” No, he wouldn’t run out of work. And that was a good thing. “By the way, why don’t you come and help me?” he suggested. I’d probably be quite a good workman, he said. He was even confident that I knew how to handle a chisel.
    *
    I wondered if I should talk to Estermann, tell him to be wary of accepting too many orders for new fountains. You never knew; after all, Father was sick.
    Sophie was against the idea. Why should I interfere? If Estermann was left with an unfinished fountain in his shed, that was Estermann’s problem. He knew Father wasn’t well, he knew that he’d had to go for a third round of radiotherapy, he could draw his own conclusions. Up to now he’d always made more money out of it than Father. And if he was so keen on doing business with a sick old man let him bear the risks.
    She was probably right. How could I have told Estermann something that Father himself didn’t want to know?
    *
    Why was he so fond of working? Because it took him out of the home. He couldn’t have endured spending all his time at the home. Through his work he got out, he met new people. And they made demands on him, showed him that they needed him. He had something to offer: he could clean gravestones, bush-hammer steps, mend fountain basins. And he did it all for a bit of