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Gustáv Murín

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A Taste of Slovakia

Well-Organized Hopelessness

Gustáv MURÍN (1959)

Students at fieldwork to help farmers had been harvesting
potatoes and massacring field-mice. Each time the tractor-towed
harvester opened up a new furrow, tiny gray victims dodged between
the freshly turned lumps of soil, only to be smashed at cruelly regular
intervals by a well-aimed hit of a potato. A short, sharp fi llip into the
back of the neck crack their fragile skulls.
Since the morning, they had kept warm with this contest about
which the gray victims had known nothing except that their part
demanded the stubbornness of a runner on a hopelessly long track.
It always took a while before they grasped what was going on and
decided to run. It was a fair battle. Only running field-mice were
attacked and killed. A little kick jump-started those that hesitated.
They sometimes attacked the shoe, sometimes, in desperate confusion,
they clung to the shoe and tried hiding beneath it. Others dashed
with unexpected speed, successfully scrambling through the potato
bombardment. They ran on and on and futilely, for eventually an
accidentally precise potato pinned them down. Laying on their backs,
legs trembling in the air, they protested in high-pitched squeaks. Their
appeals were denied by another potato shelling.
Then again, sometimes this was unnecessary. The rodent stiff ended
quickly as the legs turned rubbery and unusable from the exhausting
dash, collapsing like a sprinter at the end of a race. In an instant they
froze in the air as if they had stumbled into a photograph.
The air was frostily clear, betraying each unintentional move,
crystallizing each terrified sigh on the ground.
It had been a perfect day for a bombing raid.