Story: The 1979 sugar beet harvest

This story is part of my first collection of short stories Feelings in Staccato: The book of stories.

This story is a memory from my school years. Flashes from that day kept coming at me for a while. I don’t know why but I ended up writing this story.

I hope you’ll enjoy it.



The 1979 sugar beet harvest

During communism, school years were defined by the farming practice. That day was about harvesting sugar beet. The sun gleamed on the autumn dew; the fog hovering over the ground hid our boots. We breathed steam out of our mouths, ready to warm up with the work ahead. The field of dark green leaves as far as our eyes could see lowered in the wind with a deep hush.

We teamed up. Our competition was who could finish their rows first. The first line pulled the beets out and threw them in a pile, the second line chopped the leaves off the roots.

To chop the roots, we created our own routine: positioned around the pile to easily reach the beets, we picked up a root with the left hand, then dropped the knife in a ready move where the leaves came out of the root. The leaves were left on the ground and the roots were thrown into the truck. Our bodies were in concord, dancing like the old clocks’ ballerinas with lifted arms and twisted heads. After only a few hours, our dance was properly memorised.

I had a brilliant knife — extra big and sharpened by my brother. From an old bag, he had also handstitched a sheath with a nice clasp. The four of us stood around the knee-high pile of beets left behind by our classmates; the sugar beets in this pile were silenced, and no wind rustled their leaves. We became machines: pick up, hold, lift the knife, lower the knife, swish, chop, throw.

I lifted my nice-looking knife. Next to me, Carmen was singing By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. For a moment there, my mind drifted. I started bringing the knife down. Its blade was honey-coloured from the sun. I liked Boney M, and Carmen’s baritone voice sounded warm in the air that was permeated with the sweet smell of the chopped roots. My elbow, for the nth time that day, moved back, then front, up and ready to complete the same motion as a coupling rod on the wheel of a train.

Near my beet, on my thumb, I saw an ant crawling. A big red ant. Should I blow it away? No, I didn’t want to break up the routine. My heart was flooded with a warm intuition, in contrast to my ice-cold feet. The beet in my hand was muddy, my thumb was captive on the beet, and the ant was moored on my thumb. Was the knife on the way to chop the ant? The knife moved down.

And then I screamed ‘My finger!’ Was it in my head or out loud?

The knife reached my finger. The knife slid through it. I felt hot even with the chill wind on my back. My face went pale joined by immediate nausea. I dropped the beet and the knife as if they were burning.

And I stood there, holding my hands out like a blind man finding his way, with my fingers spread. All but one.

With the nice-looking knife that my brother had sharpened for me, I had chopped my finger off. Carmen was singing Yeah, we wept, when we remembered Zion.