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Fiction

In Praise of an American Egg Wholesaler

By Francis Nenik
Translated from German by Amanda DeMarco
The droll Francis Nenik tracks a surprising postwar delivery from the United States to Poland.

May 6, 1946, thirty miles east of Dayton, Ohio, at an altitude of six thousand feet, in an old C-54 transport plane. John Conkey, six feet four inches and still completely pale after the fudged takeoff, unbuckles himself and wriggles forward through the gutted interior of the aircraft to Ray Melanchthon Petersime, who is sitting in one of the two remaining rows of seats and watching as a backwater called South Solon emerges beneath him, a heap of houses dumped between sodden fields by the Almighty in a moment of carelessness, preceded by a postal depot cobbled together by God knows who at the edge of some tilled acreage and which . . .

“Mr. Petersime?”

. . .

“Mr. Petersime, sir?”

“Yes.”

“We can get started with the interview now. If it’s all right with you, that is.”

“Interview?”

“For the Hatchery Tribune.

“Solon was also a tribune.”

“Uh, how so?”

“Have you ever seen chickens roosting on a tribune, John?”

“You know, I could try later . . . ”

“No, no, have a seat. Come sit by me and take my mind off things a little.”

“Thank you, Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray, call me Ray.”

“Of course Mr. Petersime. Ray.”

“Well, have at.”

“First I should let you know that the Hatchery Tribune isn’t the only poultry-farming trade magazine I write for. I mean, American eggs don’t fly to Poland every day.”

“At least not in this form, John.”

“Mr. Petersime?”

“Ray.”

“So, what I was meaning to say is that a piece will also appear in American Poultry Journal, and the Poultry Tribune has reserved two pages in its Midwest edition.”

“And you’re the goose who lays the golden eggs with a typewriter.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, then let’s get started.”

“Before we begin, I’d like to, I mean, just for my files . . .”

“I’m listening.”

“Ray Melanchthon Petersime, born April 6, 1899, in Darke, Ohio.”

“Absolutely correct.”

“Son of Ira Melanchthon Petersime, who developed the first electrically heated incubator in 1922.”

“A true marvel of American engineering.”

“You yourself are the inventor of a poultry incubator with multiple patents.”

“You said it!”

“And the owner of the Petersime Incubator Company in Gettysburg.”

“Unfortunately not the Gettysburg where we had the Confederates by the heuvos. In the war whose three great generals all came from Ohio. Ulysses S. Grant”raising his voice“Philip Sheridan, and”standing up“William Tecumseh Sherman.”

“Do you happen to know the patent numbers?”

“Of the generals?”

“For your incubators.”

“Oh, of course: 1884843, 1918125, 2248296, and, hold on—“

“Thank you, that’s good enough, one for each article. I mean, then it will look like, as if . . .well, you know . . .”

“. . . as if the goose that lays the golden eggs had three typewriters?”

“As it were.”

“Good. Where were we?”

“Your eggs, Mr. Petersime.”

“John!”

“Please forgive me.”

“Ray.”

“I mean, we wanted to talk about Poland, and the fact that you’ve chartered this plane to bring 55,800 eggs to Warsaw to stimulate Polish poultry production.”

Now the moment has come for the pilot to turn to Mr. Petersime.

“Sir, we’ll be landing in a few minutes in Newark, if you could take a seat and fasten your seatbelt.”

“Newark?!” The word tumbles from John Conkeys mouth in unpremeditated wonder, after which he turns in disbelief, seeking an explanation, to Mr. Petersime, who is looking not at him but at the pilot.

“Thank you, Jakem.”

And then quietly, very quietly, to John Conkey:

“We got him from the Air Force. We should do what he says.”

Just after takeoff from Newark, somewhere over the western Atlantic, at 8,000 feet.

“Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray.”

“You’d said that the idea about the eggs came to you when you saw fifteen hundred head of American cattle boarding a ship for Europe.”

“It was many ships, John. And to be honest, it all started with Ben Bushong’s bulls. On May 14 of last year, they boarded a ship in St. John’s and sailed to Greece.”

“Greece?”

“Athens, to be precise.”

“And the ship?”

“The M.S. Boolongena, John.”

“I’m not sure if I can write Ben Bushongs bulls board the Boolongena, Mr. Petersime. Ray.”

“I understand. Too much B-grade material, right?”

“You said it!”

“Well, then you just write that the idea with the eggs came to me on September 6, 1945, when I saw a hundred and fifty heifers on board the S. S. Zona Gale leaving the harbor of Baltimore.”

“Heifers, sir?”

“Cows that haven’t calved yet.”

“Oh, right, of course.”

“The craft conveyed the cows to Caledonia, accompanied by the cowboys of the sea. They were the first of their kind, John. Men who had just gotten their social security numbers at the Boston harbor and were now haunting about on the open water, pressing their leathery faces into the warm sides of the cows.”

“Ray?”

“John?”

“Didn’t the cowboys get seasick?”

“They were all seasick, John, every last one of them . . .”

“And what became of them?”

“Pacifists. Every one of them became a damned pacifist!” This of course comes from Jakem. “And now buckle up again, we’re about to dig our landing gear into the very last bit of concrete in all of Newfoundland . . .”

Over the Atlantic at 12,000 feet, flying southeast.

“Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray.”

“I’d like to return to the starting point of your journey.”

“Transporting the cows?”

“Actually I was thinking of how you collected the eggs. Fifty-five thousand eight hundred, you said.”

“Absolutely correct, John. Fifty-five thousand eight hundred eggs laid by certified hens and approved by no-less certified experts.”

“What kind?”

“White Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds.”

“Two exceedingly robust breeds.”

“Absolutely, and that’s why they’re perfectly suited for Poland. After all, the external conditions there aren’t the best at the moment as far as the husbandry and breeding of chickens goes.”

“You’re telling me.”

“And I’ll tell you another thing, John. The chickens that disembark from our American eggs know that they have to scrape out their own existence in Poland from the very first minute. As soon as they break the shell that currently protects them, nothing will be as it once was.”

“Beautifully put, Mr. Petersime, Ray. May I quote you on that?”

“Of course, John. But don’t forget to add that the first American chickens set foot on Polish soil on May 7, 1946.”

“But why? I mean…”

“Listen, John, the thing is: as far as I know, Don Turnbull, president of the International Baby Chick Association, is also planning a Polish egg transport.”

“You don’t say?!”

“You’d better believe it! Supposedly Turnbull wants to fly out  fifty-six thousand eggs and personally present them to the Polish minister of agriculture.”

“That’s two hundred more eggs than we have on board!”

“Right. But the aircraft that the IBCA chartered won’t be ready for takeoff until May 18, which is why we’ll be the first to bring eggs to Poland—on May 7. Less than a year after the official end of hostilities.”

“I see, Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray.”

“If you want, you can tell me about the political dimension of your journey.”

“Oh I don’t know much about politics, John. For politics, you’d be best off asking”loudly“Mr. Quibble!”

A hatch opens at their feet and a smooth-shaven pate thrusts up from the bowels of the aircraft, rising to the level of Mr. Petersimes knee.

“Mr. Quibble negotiated permission to land from the Russians.”

“But”—John, confused“I thought we were flying to Poland.”

“And you see, that’s just why,” Quibble speaks, looking insistently at John Conkey and beginning to lecture. “European geography is an amalgamation of imponderables, a lake in which everyone throws their stones, claiming that the ripples mark their empire. And it doesn’t matter if they’re throwing from the shore or dropping their stones from the sky. Sometimes they even skip them up out of the deep.”

“You mean . . .”

“I mean you need a good lawyer if you want to cross the big pond, Mr. Cockney.”

“Conkey.”

“You never know who the land you’re setting foot on belongs to at the moment.”

Pleased that Mr. Quibble has appeared before him and cleared up this politics business, Mr. Petersime interrupts the dialogue and turns to John.

“Mr. Quibble is a lawyer. In other words, a specialist for quiddities of all kinds.”

“Mr. Petersime!”

“Don’t worry, Quibble, I’m glad to know you’re on my side.”

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray. But in any case, tell our young friend a little about the political dimension of our journey.”

“Let’s just say that the UNRRA organized the whole thing, and the BSC helped to make sure that everything took its proper course. I mean, the boys were there for the Minnesota Starvation Experiment, and they know what they’re getting into.”

“Ahem, Mr. Quibble, if you could . . .”

“Listen, Cockney, I don’t have much time. We have our hands full down there.”

“Problem, Quibble?”

“You could say so, Mr. Petersime. We were just trying to stuff a few chickens back in their eggs. Apparently they think they’re already in Poland. Professor Jull is completely stumped. He said he’d never seen such a thing.”

“This Jull should come topside.”

“He should stay down there, if he’s such a chicken. We’re all going down anyway.”

 Jakem, of course . . .

“Jakem, where are we?”

“About to reach the Azores, sir.”

“And what’s that below?”

“It’s a major American airport, sir.”

“Military holding, Jakem?”

“An air base. The Holy Virgin watches over it personally. There’s no better place for your eggs, far and wide.”

“Then take us down, Jakem.”

“That’s what I’m doing . . . ”

Just after taking off from the Azores.

“Professor Jull.”

“Yes?”

“Come up here and tell us what’s going on down there.”

Morley A. Jull sticks his head up from the hatch as if it were a trench.

“Gladly, Mr. Petersime.”

And nudging his glasses aright, he turns to John Conkey:

“I take it the young gentleman is aware of my study.”

“Which study?”

“The one about the influence of air pressure and temperature on flying eggs.”

“What?”

“Apparently he hasn’t seen it.”

“Well, then I’ll have to hold forth a bit.”

And nudges his glasses back a second time.

“Two years ago, Dr. Philipps and I conducted a study whose purpose was to find out if the transport of breeding eggs can be accelerated, that is to say, if your garden-variety egg can be sent via air freight. Our findings were of extraordinary interest, but before I share the results of the study with you, I’d like to note that Dr. Philipps and I are employed at the Poultry Science Department at the University of Maryland and that—and you should note this in your article—the study was financed with the support of American Airlines.

Got it? Very good. So, what did we do? Basically it was a simple comparison. But in order to even execute such a thing, you need a point of comparison, a—as they call it in Europe—tertium comparationis.”

“Could you please spell that, Professor Morley?”

“We’re sitting in an American airplane, my young friend.”

“Sure, but we’re flying . . .”

“ . . . with a C-54 from American Airlines. Just like our eggs did two years ago, or half of them anyway, since we left the other half at the Poultry Science Department at the University of Maryland.”

“For the purpose of comparison, I take it.”

“For the purpose of comparison, precisely, and because the Poultry Science Department at the University of Maryland offers ideal storage conditions for this sort of experiment.”

“Sir?”

“One hundred eighty eggs at PSDUM and  one hundred eighty eggs in the air with AA—and now take a guess at what happened?”

“Nothing?”

“Exactly, nothing! Absolutely nothing happened. Fifteen embryos died on the ground and twenty in the air—not a significant difference. And the hatch rate? 88.7 percent for the American Airlines eggs and 91.5 percent for the University of Maryland eggs—not a significant difference. Unfertilized eggs? Three here, three there. Absolutely no difference. Even though the eggs flew through the air for thirty-six hours at an elevation of twelve thousand feet.”

“Just like we are.”

“Yes, just like we are, except that in our case there is a teensy little problem.”

Which provides the cue for the poultry-farming egg-wholesaler to enter the dialogue.

“Problems, Mr. Jull? With the chickens?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Petersime. They’re beginning to hatch from their eggs in significant numbers. I mean, they’re still just chicks but they’re starting to . . . ”

“What are they starting to do, Mr. Jull?”

“To grow . . . ”

“And you don’t know why?”

“Well, I’m worried it has something to do with the time change. With our eggs, we just flew back and forth between Washington and L.A., which means, we only had three hours’ difference, and even then they ended up canceling each other out. Three one way, three in the other, until we were home in Maryland again. But now . . . now we’re getting farther and farther from Maryland.”

“We’re flying to Poland, Mr. Jull.”

“Poland, right. And the chicks are hacking through their shells like Silesian miners.”

“How many are we talking about?”

“A few dozen, but it’s more by the minute. We can count ourselves lucky the eggs are stacked in there so tight. Most of the chicks just peck into another egg when they break their own shell.”

“What does that mean, Mr. Jull?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. Maybe they’re fraternizing in there, and pecking on together, maybe they’re founding communes, colonies, entire cities.”

“In this airplane?”

“I would like to hope not, Mr. Petersime. But the Poles should throw up a couple of chicken-wire fences before we land. Otherwise it could be that their country is overrun by white Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds.”

In response to which, John:

“Mr. Petersime, I’m afraid I’d have to write about it if it happened.”

“It won’t happen, John!”

“But how do you . . . ”

“Who is in command in the cargo space, Mr. Jull?”

“Mr. Martinet, he’s an experienced soldier. He says he held a troop of Germans in check for days in the Ardennes. Alone, with a Quaker gun.”

“A Quaker gun?”

“A tree trunk painted to look like a Howitzer.”

“And the Germans fell for it?”

“And how!” shouts Mr. Martinet from the depths of the airplane, “But you won’t get these damned chicks here back in their eggs with that, so why don’t you get down here, Mosley, and help your comrades with stuffing them back in.”

Morley A. Jull takes a step back.

“Mosley, the whole time he’s been calling me Mosley.”

And opens the hatch and disappears.

“Now let’s hope that they manage it, isn’t that so, John.”

“Shouldn’t we . . . ”

“Help?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, John, the belly of this airplane is full of men who are just waiting for something to do.”

“And I thought we only had eggs on board . . . ”

“Have you ever seen American men without heuvos, John?”

“No, Mr. Petersime . . . Ray . . . I mean, I’ve never . . .”

“Well, if there are no American men without heuvos, why do you think that there are American heuvos without men?”

“And why the hell should American heuvos fly alone to Paris?!”

“Paris, Jakem?”

“You got it, Johnny-Boy. You just make sure your heuvos are securely packaged, ‘cause we’re almost there.”

On the way from Paris to Warsaw.

“Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“Unless you have something else . . . ”

“Well, there was one more thing.”

“Good. Have at.”

“Are you aware of the fact that the A&P supermarket chain has established a Chicken-of-Tomorrow competition with a cash prize of five thousand dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Will you participate?”

“No.”

“But . . .”

“Listen, John”leaning forward, in a suddenly threatening tone“I don’t give a damn about these grocery schmucks”and then, as if he had stored his contempt over the course of decades just for this moment“They can take their five thousand dollars and stick it up the nearest oviduct, those chickenshits!”

At which point Quibbles high-polish pate pops up.

“What Mr. Petersime is trying to say is that, because of his many years of personal experience, he himself knows best how to breed the chicken of tomorrow.”

And, because he wants to avoid any more stupid questions and correspondingly stupid answers, he continues to describe what the animal is like himself. “Down below a pair of magnificently juicy thighs with soft yet firm flesh, pale pink in color, on top of it all a breast that you can carve plate-sized steaks out of, and bones buried deep below in thick layers of flesh.” And then to the egg wholesaler: “A pretty bird for the whole family, right Ray?”

“That it is, Quibble, that it really is. A pretty bird for the whole family . . . ”

And then Quibble snaps back at Conkey with his skin stretched tight over his skull.

“You see, John, the days are long gone when our industry bought up old chickens who were no longer fertile and pumped predigested grains and buttermilk down their gullets by the pound. Their meat just wasn’t good enough. Too dry. At least until Mrs. Steele from Maryland came along. Ask Professor Morley, he can tell you all about it. He’ll tell you that the fryer industry was born in Maryland.”

At which point, he submerges and said Morley A. Jull pokes his head out from the hatch.

“In Maryland—and in a moment of error, John. One day Mrs. Steele’s chickens simply hatched too many chicks. So she slaughtered the little ones and sold them to the local butcher. And what can I say? The people were enraptured and the butcher paid her sixty-two cents per pound, six times what she got for her old chickens. As far as we’re aware, at that moment, the fryer industry was born. But now, John, this magnificent branch of all-American business is expanding immeasurably, which is why we call it the golden age of the fryer industry. After all, we’re in the middle of turning chicks into chickens that taste like chicks, but are bigger than any chickens that came before them. And how do we do that? Well, it’s easy, we increase the animals’ vitamin and mineral rations. Just three years ago, we still needed four and a half pounds of feed to get a pound of pure poultry to your plate. Today—thanks to the University of Maryland and a handful of chicken feed producers whose names I’ll write down for you in a minute—we don’t even need two pounds. And what does that tell us? Exactly, the fryer industry is booming and we’re leading the pack. Today Poland, tomorrow—who knows . . . in America millions of carefully bred hybrid hens are awaiting their deployment, in genetic uniform and unafraid to be stuck on a plane and sent overseas. That’s why, John, you should write down what I tell you: American chicken breasts have brought peace to Europe! American chicken breasts will keep Europe at peace!”

And out.

“Ray.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“What for.”

“For helping me to finally understand. And for . . . ”

“Petersime, get down here right away! The chickens have surrounded us. We have to negotiate!”

“Damn it!”

“Hold steady boys, we’re about to land!”

That’s Jakem, of course, at which point Ray Petersime turns to the cockpit.

“Are you sure, Jakem?”

“Less than three minutes, sir.”

“Fine work, Jakem, really damned fine work!”

“Thank you sir.”

“But say . . . ”

“Sir?”

“What’s that down there?”

“A church.”

“A church?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“It’s enormous!”

“Correct, sir.”

“The tower is at least a hundred meters tall.”

“At least, sir.”

“But why is such a big church in the middle of a field?”

“That’s no field, sir.”

“Not a field?”

“No, sir.”

“What is it then, Jakem? What?!”

“Warsaw, sir.”

 

“Hymne auf einen amerikanischen Eiergroßhändler” © Francis Nenik. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Amanda DeMarco. All rights reserved.

English German (Original)

May 6, 1946, thirty miles east of Dayton, Ohio, at an altitude of six thousand feet, in an old C-54 transport plane. John Conkey, six feet four inches and still completely pale after the fudged takeoff, unbuckles himself and wriggles forward through the gutted interior of the aircraft to Ray Melanchthon Petersime, who is sitting in one of the two remaining rows of seats and watching as a backwater called South Solon emerges beneath him, a heap of houses dumped between sodden fields by the Almighty in a moment of carelessness, preceded by a postal depot cobbled together by God knows who at the edge of some tilled acreage and which . . .

“Mr. Petersime?”

. . .

“Mr. Petersime, sir?”

“Yes.”

“We can get started with the interview now. If it’s all right with you, that is.”

“Interview?”

“For the Hatchery Tribune.

“Solon was also a tribune.”

“Uh, how so?”

“Have you ever seen chickens roosting on a tribune, John?”

“You know, I could try later . . . ”

“No, no, have a seat. Come sit by me and take my mind off things a little.”

“Thank you, Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray, call me Ray.”

“Of course Mr. Petersime. Ray.”

“Well, have at.”

“First I should let you know that the Hatchery Tribune isn’t the only poultry-farming trade magazine I write for. I mean, American eggs don’t fly to Poland every day.”

“At least not in this form, John.”

“Mr. Petersime?”

“Ray.”

“So, what I was meaning to say is that a piece will also appear in American Poultry Journal, and the Poultry Tribune has reserved two pages in its Midwest edition.”

“And you’re the goose who lays the golden eggs with a typewriter.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, then let’s get started.”

“Before we begin, I’d like to, I mean, just for my files . . .”

“I’m listening.”

“Ray Melanchthon Petersime, born April 6, 1899, in Darke, Ohio.”

“Absolutely correct.”

“Son of Ira Melanchthon Petersime, who developed the first electrically heated incubator in 1922.”

“A true marvel of American engineering.”

“You yourself are the inventor of a poultry incubator with multiple patents.”

“You said it!”

“And the owner of the Petersime Incubator Company in Gettysburg.”

“Unfortunately not the Gettysburg where we had the Confederates by the heuvos. In the war whose three great generals all came from Ohio. Ulysses S. Grant”raising his voice“Philip Sheridan, and”standing up“William Tecumseh Sherman.”

“Do you happen to know the patent numbers?”

“Of the generals?”

“For your incubators.”

“Oh, of course: 1884843, 1918125, 2248296, and, hold on—“

“Thank you, that’s good enough, one for each article. I mean, then it will look like, as if . . .well, you know . . .”

“. . . as if the goose that lays the golden eggs had three typewriters?”

“As it were.”

“Good. Where were we?”

“Your eggs, Mr. Petersime.”

“John!”

“Please forgive me.”

“Ray.”

“I mean, we wanted to talk about Poland, and the fact that you’ve chartered this plane to bring 55,800 eggs to Warsaw to stimulate Polish poultry production.”

Now the moment has come for the pilot to turn to Mr. Petersime.

“Sir, we’ll be landing in a few minutes in Newark, if you could take a seat and fasten your seatbelt.”

“Newark?!” The word tumbles from John Conkeys mouth in unpremeditated wonder, after which he turns in disbelief, seeking an explanation, to Mr. Petersime, who is looking not at him but at the pilot.

“Thank you, Jakem.”

And then quietly, very quietly, to John Conkey:

“We got him from the Air Force. We should do what he says.”

Just after takeoff from Newark, somewhere over the western Atlantic, at 8,000 feet.

“Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray.”

“You’d said that the idea about the eggs came to you when you saw fifteen hundred head of American cattle boarding a ship for Europe.”

“It was many ships, John. And to be honest, it all started with Ben Bushong’s bulls. On May 14 of last year, they boarded a ship in St. John’s and sailed to Greece.”

“Greece?”

“Athens, to be precise.”

“And the ship?”

“The M.S. Boolongena, John.”

“I’m not sure if I can write Ben Bushongs bulls board the Boolongena, Mr. Petersime. Ray.”

“I understand. Too much B-grade material, right?”

“You said it!”

“Well, then you just write that the idea with the eggs came to me on September 6, 1945, when I saw a hundred and fifty heifers on board the S. S. Zona Gale leaving the harbor of Baltimore.”

“Heifers, sir?”

“Cows that haven’t calved yet.”

“Oh, right, of course.”

“The craft conveyed the cows to Caledonia, accompanied by the cowboys of the sea. They were the first of their kind, John. Men who had just gotten their social security numbers at the Boston harbor and were now haunting about on the open water, pressing their leathery faces into the warm sides of the cows.”

“Ray?”

“John?”

“Didn’t the cowboys get seasick?”

“They were all seasick, John, every last one of them . . .”

“And what became of them?”

“Pacifists. Every one of them became a damned pacifist!” This of course comes from Jakem. “And now buckle up again, we’re about to dig our landing gear into the very last bit of concrete in all of Newfoundland . . .”

Over the Atlantic at 12,000 feet, flying southeast.

“Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray.”

“I’d like to return to the starting point of your journey.”

“Transporting the cows?”

“Actually I was thinking of how you collected the eggs. Fifty-five thousand eight hundred, you said.”

“Absolutely correct, John. Fifty-five thousand eight hundred eggs laid by certified hens and approved by no-less certified experts.”

“What kind?”

“White Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds.”

“Two exceedingly robust breeds.”

“Absolutely, and that’s why they’re perfectly suited for Poland. After all, the external conditions there aren’t the best at the moment as far as the husbandry and breeding of chickens goes.”

“You’re telling me.”

“And I’ll tell you another thing, John. The chickens that disembark from our American eggs know that they have to scrape out their own existence in Poland from the very first minute. As soon as they break the shell that currently protects them, nothing will be as it once was.”

“Beautifully put, Mr. Petersime, Ray. May I quote you on that?”

“Of course, John. But don’t forget to add that the first American chickens set foot on Polish soil on May 7, 1946.”

“But why? I mean…”

“Listen, John, the thing is: as far as I know, Don Turnbull, president of the International Baby Chick Association, is also planning a Polish egg transport.”

“You don’t say?!”

“You’d better believe it! Supposedly Turnbull wants to fly out  fifty-six thousand eggs and personally present them to the Polish minister of agriculture.”

“That’s two hundred more eggs than we have on board!”

“Right. But the aircraft that the IBCA chartered won’t be ready for takeoff until May 18, which is why we’ll be the first to bring eggs to Poland—on May 7. Less than a year after the official end of hostilities.”

“I see, Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray.”

“If you want, you can tell me about the political dimension of your journey.”

“Oh I don’t know much about politics, John. For politics, you’d be best off asking”loudly“Mr. Quibble!”

A hatch opens at their feet and a smooth-shaven pate thrusts up from the bowels of the aircraft, rising to the level of Mr. Petersimes knee.

“Mr. Quibble negotiated permission to land from the Russians.”

“But”—John, confused“I thought we were flying to Poland.”

“And you see, that’s just why,” Quibble speaks, looking insistently at John Conkey and beginning to lecture. “European geography is an amalgamation of imponderables, a lake in which everyone throws their stones, claiming that the ripples mark their empire. And it doesn’t matter if they’re throwing from the shore or dropping their stones from the sky. Sometimes they even skip them up out of the deep.”

“You mean . . .”

“I mean you need a good lawyer if you want to cross the big pond, Mr. Cockney.”

“Conkey.”

“You never know who the land you’re setting foot on belongs to at the moment.”

Pleased that Mr. Quibble has appeared before him and cleared up this politics business, Mr. Petersime interrupts the dialogue and turns to John.

“Mr. Quibble is a lawyer. In other words, a specialist for quiddities of all kinds.”

“Mr. Petersime!”

“Don’t worry, Quibble, I’m glad to know you’re on my side.”

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray. But in any case, tell our young friend a little about the political dimension of our journey.”

“Let’s just say that the UNRRA organized the whole thing, and the BSC helped to make sure that everything took its proper course. I mean, the boys were there for the Minnesota Starvation Experiment, and they know what they’re getting into.”

“Ahem, Mr. Quibble, if you could . . .”

“Listen, Cockney, I don’t have much time. We have our hands full down there.”

“Problem, Quibble?”

“You could say so, Mr. Petersime. We were just trying to stuff a few chickens back in their eggs. Apparently they think they’re already in Poland. Professor Jull is completely stumped. He said he’d never seen such a thing.”

“This Jull should come topside.”

“He should stay down there, if he’s such a chicken. We’re all going down anyway.”

 Jakem, of course . . .

“Jakem, where are we?”

“About to reach the Azores, sir.”

“And what’s that below?”

“It’s a major American airport, sir.”

“Military holding, Jakem?”

“An air base. The Holy Virgin watches over it personally. There’s no better place for your eggs, far and wide.”

“Then take us down, Jakem.”

“That’s what I’m doing . . . ”

Just after taking off from the Azores.

“Professor Jull.”

“Yes?”

“Come up here and tell us what’s going on down there.”

Morley A. Jull sticks his head up from the hatch as if it were a trench.

“Gladly, Mr. Petersime.”

And nudging his glasses aright, he turns to John Conkey:

“I take it the young gentleman is aware of my study.”

“Which study?”

“The one about the influence of air pressure and temperature on flying eggs.”

“What?”

“Apparently he hasn’t seen it.”

“Well, then I’ll have to hold forth a bit.”

And nudges his glasses back a second time.

“Two years ago, Dr. Philipps and I conducted a study whose purpose was to find out if the transport of breeding eggs can be accelerated, that is to say, if your garden-variety egg can be sent via air freight. Our findings were of extraordinary interest, but before I share the results of the study with you, I’d like to note that Dr. Philipps and I are employed at the Poultry Science Department at the University of Maryland and that—and you should note this in your article—the study was financed with the support of American Airlines.

Got it? Very good. So, what did we do? Basically it was a simple comparison. But in order to even execute such a thing, you need a point of comparison, a—as they call it in Europe—tertium comparationis.”

“Could you please spell that, Professor Morley?”

“We’re sitting in an American airplane, my young friend.”

“Sure, but we’re flying . . .”

“ . . . with a C-54 from American Airlines. Just like our eggs did two years ago, or half of them anyway, since we left the other half at the Poultry Science Department at the University of Maryland.”

“For the purpose of comparison, I take it.”

“For the purpose of comparison, precisely, and because the Poultry Science Department at the University of Maryland offers ideal storage conditions for this sort of experiment.”

“Sir?”

“One hundred eighty eggs at PSDUM and  one hundred eighty eggs in the air with AA—and now take a guess at what happened?”

“Nothing?”

“Exactly, nothing! Absolutely nothing happened. Fifteen embryos died on the ground and twenty in the air—not a significant difference. And the hatch rate? 88.7 percent for the American Airlines eggs and 91.5 percent for the University of Maryland eggs—not a significant difference. Unfertilized eggs? Three here, three there. Absolutely no difference. Even though the eggs flew through the air for thirty-six hours at an elevation of twelve thousand feet.”

“Just like we are.”

“Yes, just like we are, except that in our case there is a teensy little problem.”

Which provides the cue for the poultry-farming egg-wholesaler to enter the dialogue.

“Problems, Mr. Jull? With the chickens?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Petersime. They’re beginning to hatch from their eggs in significant numbers. I mean, they’re still just chicks but they’re starting to . . . ”

“What are they starting to do, Mr. Jull?”

“To grow . . . ”

“And you don’t know why?”

“Well, I’m worried it has something to do with the time change. With our eggs, we just flew back and forth between Washington and L.A., which means, we only had three hours’ difference, and even then they ended up canceling each other out. Three one way, three in the other, until we were home in Maryland again. But now . . . now we’re getting farther and farther from Maryland.”

“We’re flying to Poland, Mr. Jull.”

“Poland, right. And the chicks are hacking through their shells like Silesian miners.”

“How many are we talking about?”

“A few dozen, but it’s more by the minute. We can count ourselves lucky the eggs are stacked in there so tight. Most of the chicks just peck into another egg when they break their own shell.”

“What does that mean, Mr. Jull?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. Maybe they’re fraternizing in there, and pecking on together, maybe they’re founding communes, colonies, entire cities.”

“In this airplane?”

“I would like to hope not, Mr. Petersime. But the Poles should throw up a couple of chicken-wire fences before we land. Otherwise it could be that their country is overrun by white Leghorns and Rhode Island Reds.”

In response to which, John:

“Mr. Petersime, I’m afraid I’d have to write about it if it happened.”

“It won’t happen, John!”

“But how do you . . . ”

“Who is in command in the cargo space, Mr. Jull?”

“Mr. Martinet, he’s an experienced soldier. He says he held a troop of Germans in check for days in the Ardennes. Alone, with a Quaker gun.”

“A Quaker gun?”

“A tree trunk painted to look like a Howitzer.”

“And the Germans fell for it?”

“And how!” shouts Mr. Martinet from the depths of the airplane, “But you won’t get these damned chicks here back in their eggs with that, so why don’t you get down here, Mosley, and help your comrades with stuffing them back in.”

Morley A. Jull takes a step back.

“Mosley, the whole time he’s been calling me Mosley.”

And opens the hatch and disappears.

“Now let’s hope that they manage it, isn’t that so, John.”

“Shouldn’t we . . . ”

“Help?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, John, the belly of this airplane is full of men who are just waiting for something to do.”

“And I thought we only had eggs on board . . . ”

“Have you ever seen American men without heuvos, John?”

“No, Mr. Petersime . . . Ray . . . I mean, I’ve never . . .”

“Well, if there are no American men without heuvos, why do you think that there are American heuvos without men?”

“And why the hell should American heuvos fly alone to Paris?!”

“Paris, Jakem?”

“You got it, Johnny-Boy. You just make sure your heuvos are securely packaged, ‘cause we’re almost there.”

On the way from Paris to Warsaw.

“Mr. Petersime.”

“Ray.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“Unless you have something else . . . ”

“Well, there was one more thing.”

“Good. Have at.”

“Are you aware of the fact that the A&P supermarket chain has established a Chicken-of-Tomorrow competition with a cash prize of five thousand dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Will you participate?”

“No.”

“But . . .”

“Listen, John”leaning forward, in a suddenly threatening tone“I don’t give a damn about these grocery schmucks”and then, as if he had stored his contempt over the course of decades just for this moment“They can take their five thousand dollars and stick it up the nearest oviduct, those chickenshits!”

At which point Quibbles high-polish pate pops up.

“What Mr. Petersime is trying to say is that, because of his many years of personal experience, he himself knows best how to breed the chicken of tomorrow.”

And, because he wants to avoid any more stupid questions and correspondingly stupid answers, he continues to describe what the animal is like himself. “Down below a pair of magnificently juicy thighs with soft yet firm flesh, pale pink in color, on top of it all a breast that you can carve plate-sized steaks out of, and bones buried deep below in thick layers of flesh.” And then to the egg wholesaler: “A pretty bird for the whole family, right Ray?”

“That it is, Quibble, that it really is. A pretty bird for the whole family . . . ”

And then Quibble snaps back at Conkey with his skin stretched tight over his skull.

“You see, John, the days are long gone when our industry bought up old chickens who were no longer fertile and pumped predigested grains and buttermilk down their gullets by the pound. Their meat just wasn’t good enough. Too dry. At least until Mrs. Steele from Maryland came along. Ask Professor Morley, he can tell you all about it. He’ll tell you that the fryer industry was born in Maryland.”

At which point, he submerges and said Morley A. Jull pokes his head out from the hatch.

“In Maryland—and in a moment of error, John. One day Mrs. Steele’s chickens simply hatched too many chicks. So she slaughtered the little ones and sold them to the local butcher. And what can I say? The people were enraptured and the butcher paid her sixty-two cents per pound, six times what she got for her old chickens. As far as we’re aware, at that moment, the fryer industry was born. But now, John, this magnificent branch of all-American business is expanding immeasurably, which is why we call it the golden age of the fryer industry. After all, we’re in the middle of turning chicks into chickens that taste like chicks, but are bigger than any chickens that came before them. And how do we do that? Well, it’s easy, we increase the animals’ vitamin and mineral rations. Just three years ago, we still needed four and a half pounds of feed to get a pound of pure poultry to your plate. Today—thanks to the University of Maryland and a handful of chicken feed producers whose names I’ll write down for you in a minute—we don’t even need two pounds. And what does that tell us? Exactly, the fryer industry is booming and we’re leading the pack. Today Poland, tomorrow—who knows . . . in America millions of carefully bred hybrid hens are awaiting their deployment, in genetic uniform and unafraid to be stuck on a plane and sent overseas. That’s why, John, you should write down what I tell you: American chicken breasts have brought peace to Europe! American chicken breasts will keep Europe at peace!”

And out.

“Ray.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“What for.”

“For helping me to finally understand. And for . . . ”

“Petersime, get down here right away! The chickens have surrounded us. We have to negotiate!”

“Damn it!”

“Hold steady boys, we’re about to land!”

That’s Jakem, of course, at which point Ray Petersime turns to the cockpit.

“Are you sure, Jakem?”

“Less than three minutes, sir.”

“Fine work, Jakem, really damned fine work!”

“Thank you sir.”

“But say . . . ”

“Sir?”

“What’s that down there?”

“A church.”

“A church?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“It’s enormous!”

“Correct, sir.”

“The tower is at least a hundred meters tall.”

“At least, sir.”

“But why is such a big church in the middle of a field?”

“That’s no field, sir.”

“Not a field?”

“No, sir.”

“What is it then, Jakem? What?!”

“Warsaw, sir.”

 

“Hymne auf einen amerikanischen Eiergroßhändler” © Francis Nenik. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Amanda DeMarco. All rights reserved.

Hymne auf einen amerikanischen Eiergroßhändler

Am 06. Mai 1946, dreißig Meilen östlich von Dayton/Ohio, in 6.000 Fuß Höhe, in einem alten C-54 Transportflugzeug. John Conkey, einssechsundneunzig groß und ob des verschaukelten Starts noch immer reichlich bleich im Gesicht, schnallt sich ab und trabt  durch den komplett entkernten Innenraum der Maschine nach vorn zu Ray Melanchthon Petersime, der auf der anderen der beiden verbliebenen Sitzreihen Platz genommen hat und gerade ein Nest namens South Solon unter sich auftauchen sieht, ein vom Allmächtigen in einer nachlässigen Sekunde unmotiviert zwischen klatschnasse Felder geworfener Haufen Häuser, der seinen Ursprung in einer Poststation hat, die Gottweißwer am Rand einer Ackerfurche hochgezogen und –

 

»Mr. Petersime?«

»Mr. Petersime, Sir?«

»Ja.«

»Wir könnten dann mit dem Interview beginnen. Das heißt, wenn es Ihnen recht ist.«

»Interview?«

»Für die Hatchery Tribune

»Solon war auch ein Tribun, nicht wahr?«

»Äh, wie meinen?«

»Haben Sie je Hühner auf einer Tribüne sitzen und brüten sehen, John?«

»Ich könnte auch später «

»Nein, nein, setzen Sie sich, setzen Sie sich zu mir und lenken Sie mich ein wenig ab.«

»Danke, Mr. Petersime.«

»Ray, nennen Sie mich Ray.«

»Natürlich, Mr. Petersime. Ray.«

»Also, schießen Sie los.«

»Ich sollte Ihnen zunächst vielleicht mitteilen, dass die Hatchery Tribune nicht das einzige Fachmagazin für Geflügelzucht ist, für das ich schreibe. Ich meine, amerikanische Eier fliegen nicht jeden Tag nach Polen.«

»Zumindest nicht in dieser Form, John.«

»Mr. Petersime?«

»Ray.«

»Also, was ich damit sagen will, ist, auch im American Poultry Journal wird ein Beitrag erscheinen, und die Poultry Tribune hat in ihrer Midwest-Ausgabe gleich zwei volle Seiten reserviert.«

»Und Sie sind die eierlegende Wollmilchsau mit der Schreibmaschine.«

»Sozusagen.«

»Na, dann wollen wir mal.«

»Bevor wir anfangen, würde ich gern, das heißt, nur für die Akten «

»Ich bin ganz Ohr.«

»Ray Melanchthon Petersime, geboren am 6. April 1899 in Darke/Ohio.«

»Korrekt.«

»Sohn von Ira Melanchthon Petersime, der 1922 den ersten elektrisch beheizbaren Brutschrank entwickelt hat.«

»Ein wahres Wunderwerk amerikanischer Technik.«

»Sie selbst sind Erfinder eines mehrfach patentierten Geflügelbrutkastens.«

»Absolut.«

»Und Inhaber der Petersime Incubator Company in Gettysburg.«

»Leider nicht das Gettysburg, in dem wir damals den Konföderierten die Eier abgeknipst haben.«

»Ich nehme an, Sie meinen den Bürgerkrieg.«

»Ich meine den Krieg, dessen drei größte Generäle allesamt aus Ohio stammten. Ulysses S. Grant« – hebt die Stimme – »Philip Sheridan und« – steht auf – »William Tecumseh Sherman.«

»Sie wissen nicht zufällig die Patentnummern?«

»Der Generäle?«

»Ihrer Geflügelbrutkästen.«

»Oh, natürlich, klar: 1884843, 1918125, 2248296 und, warten Sie – «

»Danke, das reicht schon, ist genau eine für jeden Bericht. Ich meine, dann sieht es so aus, als ob … naja, Sie wissen schon …  «

»… die eierlegende Wollmilchsau drei Schreibmaschinen hätte?«

»Gewissermaßen.«

»Also gut, wo waren wir stehen geblieben?«

»Ihre Eier, Mr. Petersime.«

»John!«

»Verzeihen Sie.«

»Ray.«

»Ich meine, wir wollten über Polen sprechen, und die Tatsache, dass Sie dieses Flugzeug hier gechartert haben, um 55.800 Eier nach Warschau zu bringen und die polnische Hühnerzucht anzukurbeln.«

Zeit für den Piloten, sich an Mr. Petersime zu wenden.

»Sir, wir landen in wenigen Minuten in Newark, wenn Sie sich bitte hinsetzen und anschnallen würden.«

»Newark?!«, kommt es ebenso plötzlich wie verwundert aus John Conkeys Mund, doch als er sich mit um Aufklärung bittenden Augen zurück zu Mr. Petersime dreht, sieht er, dass der nicht ihn, sondern den Piloten anschaut.

»Danke, Jakem.«

Und dann leise, sehr leise, an John Conkey gewandt:

»Wir haben ihn von der Air Force bekommen. Wir sollten tun, was er sagt.«

 

 

 

Kurz nach dem Start in Newark, irgendwo über dem westlichen Atlantik, in 8.000 Fuß Höhe

 

»Mr. Petersime.«

»Ray.«

»Sie haben gesagt, die Idee mit den Eiern sei entstanden, als Sie gesehen haben, wie anderthalbtausend amerikanische Kühe ein Schiff nach Europa bestiegen.«

»Es waren viele Schiffe, John. Und um ehrlich zu sein, hat es mit Ben Bushongs Bullen angefangen. Sie haben am 14. Mai letzten Jahres in Saint Johns ein Schiff bestiegen und sind damit nach Griechenland gefahren.«

»Griechenland?«

»Athen, um genau zu sein.«

»Und das Schiff?«

»Die M.S. Boolongena, John.«

»Ich weiß nicht, ob ich Ben Bushongs Bullen besteigen die Boolongena schreiben kann, Mr. Petersime. Ray.«

»Verstehe, zu viel B-Ware, was?«

»Sie sagen’s.«

»Na schön, dann schreiben Sie einfach, die Idee mit den Eiern sei mir gekommen, als ich sah, wie am 6. September 1945 einhundertfünfzig Färsen an Bord der S. S. Zona Gale den Hafen von Baltimore verließen.«

»Färsen, Sir?«

»Kühe, die noch nicht gekalbt haben.«

»Oh, natürlich, klar.«

»Die Färsen sind mit einem Frachtschiff nach Frankreich gesegelt, und die Cowboys der Weltmeere haben sie dabei begleitet. Es waren die ersten ihrer Art, John. Männer, die sich erst kurz zuvor im Hafen von Baltimore ihre Sozialversicherungsnummer abgeholt hatten und plötzlich auf dem offenen Wasser umhertrieben und ihre ledrigen Gesichter auf die warmen Leiber der Kühe pressten.«

»Ray?«

»John?«

»Sind die Cowboys nicht seekrank geworden?«

»Sie waren alle seekrank, John, allesamt – «

»Was ist aus ihnen geworden?«

»Pazifisten, sie wurden allesamt verdammte Pazifisten!«

Dies natürlich Jakem.

»Und jetzt schnallen Sie sich wieder an, wir bohren unser Fahrwerk gleich in das einzige Stück Beton von ganz Neufundland «

 

 

 

Über dem Atlantik, in 12.000 Fuß Höhe in südöstliche Richtung fliegend

 

»Mr. Petersime.«

»Ray.«

»Ich würde gern noch mal auf den Ausgangspunkt ihrer Reise zurückkommen.«

»Das Verschiffen der Kühe?«

»Ich dachte eher an das Einsammeln der Eier. 55.800 Stück haben Sie gesagt.«

»Absolut richtig, John. 55.800 Eier, von zertifizierten Hühnern gelegt und von nicht weniger zertifizierten Experten für gut befunden.«

»Welche Sorte?«

»Weiße Leghorn und Rote Rhodeländer.«

»Zwei äußerst widerstandsfähige Rassen.«

»Gewiss, und deshalb bestens geeignet für Polen. Schließlich sind die äußeren Umstände dort derzeit nicht gerade die besten, was die Haltung und Aufzucht von Hühnern betrifft.«
»Sie sagen es.«

»Ich sage Ihnen sogar noch mehr, John. Die Hühner, die unseren amerikanischen Eiern entsteigen, wissen, dass sie sich in Polen von der ersten Sekunde an durchkratzen müssen. Sobald sie die Schale zerbrechen, die sie jetzt noch schützt, wird nichts mehr so sein, wie es war.«

»Ein schöner Satz, Mr. Petersime, Ray. Darf ich Sie damit zitieren?«

»Natürlich, John. Aber vergessen Sie nicht hinzuzufügen, dass die ersten amerikanischen Hühner am 7. Mai 1946 polnischen Boden betreten haben.«
»Aber wieso, ich meine «

»Hören Sie, John, die Sache ist folgende. Soweit ich weiß, plant Don Turnbull, der Geschäftsführer der International Baby Chick Association, ebenfalls einen Eiertransport nach Polen.«

»Was Sie nicht sagen?!«

»Und ob! Angeblich will Turnbull sogar 56.000 Eier ausfliegen und sie dem polnischen Landwirtschaftsminister persönlich übergeben.«

»Das sind 200 Eier mehr als wir an Bord haben!«

»Richtig, nur ist das Flugzeug, das die IBCA gechartert hat, nicht vor dem 18. Mai startklar, weshalb wir die ersten sein werden, die Eier nach Polen bringen. Und zwar am 7. Mai. Weniger als ein Jahr nach dem offiziellen Kriegsende.«

»Verstehe, Mr. Petersime.«

»Ray.«

»Wenn Sie wollen, können Sie gern noch etwas zur politischen Dimension Ihrer Reise sagen.«

»Oh, ich verstehe nicht viel von Politik, John. Was Politik angeht, so fragen Sie am besten« – laut – »Mr. Quibble!«

Zu ihren Füßen öffnet sich eine Klappe und ein kahl rasierter Schädel schiebt sich aus der Tiefe des Flugzeugbauches empor, hoch bis vor die Mr. Petersimes Knie.

»Mr. Quibble hat mit den Russen die Landegenehmigung ausgehandelt.«

»Aber« – John, verwirrt – »ich dachte, wir fliegen nach Polen.«

»Sehen Sie, genau deswegen«, sprichts, schaut John Conkey eindringlich an und fängt an zu referieren. »Die europäische Geographie ist voller Unwägbarkeiten. Ein See, in den alle ihre Steine reinwerfen und behaupten, die Wellen markierten ihr Reich. Und dabei ist es ganz egal, ob sie am Ufer stehen und werfen oder ihre Steine aus der Luft fallen lassen. Manche schnippen sie sogar aus der Tiefe empor.«

»Sie meinen – «

»Ich meine, man braucht einen guten Anwalt, wenn man den großen Teich überqueren will, Mr. Cockney.«

»Conkey.«

»Sie wissen nie, wem das Land gerade gehört, auf das sie Ihren Fuß setzen.«
Erfreut, dass Mr. Quibble vor ihm aufgetaucht und die Sache mit der Politik damit geklärt ist, unterbricht Mr. Petersime den Dialog und wendet sich an John.

»Mr. Quibble ist Rechtsanwalt. Mit anderen Worten, ein Spezialist in Spitzfindigkeiten aller Art.«

»Mr. Petersime!«

»Keine Sorge, Quibble, ich bin froh, Sie an meiner Seite zu wissen.«

»Gut zu hören, Mr. Petersime.«

»Ray. Aber wie dem auch sei, erzählen Sie unserem jungen Freund doch bitte etwas über die politische Dimension unserer Reise.«

»Sagen wir so, die UNRRA hat die ganze Sache hier organisiert und die BSC hat geholfen, dass alles seinen Gang geht. Ich meine, die Jungs waren schon beim Minnesota Hunger Experiment dabei, die wissen, was sie sich antun.«

»Ähem, Mr. Quibble, wenn Sie vielleicht «

»Hören Sie, Cockney, ich hab nicht viel Zeit, wir haben da unten ne Menge zu tun.«

»Probleme, Quibble?«

»Kann man so sagen, Mr. Petersime. Wir versuchen gerade ein paar von den Hühnern zurück in ihre Eier zu stopfen. Glauben offenbar, sie seien bereits in Polen. Professor Jull ist vollkommen verzweifelt. Hat gesagt, er habe so was noch nie erlebt.«

»Soll nach oben kommen, dieser Jull.«

»Soll unten bleiben, dieses Weichei, wir gehen sowieso alle gleich runter!«

Natürlich, Jakem …

»Jakem, wo sind wir?«

»Kurz vor den Azoren, Sir.«

»Und das da unten?«

»Ist ein amerikanischer Großflughafen, Sir.«

»Militärgebiet, Jakem?«

»Ein Luftwaffenstützpunkt. Von der Heiligen Maria persönlich bewacht. Gibt weit und breit keinen besseren Ort für Ihre Eier.«

»Dann gehen Sie runter, Jakem.«

»Bin schon dabei «

 

 

 

Kurz nach dem Start von den Azoren

 

»Professor Jull.«

»Ja?«

»Kommen Sie hoch und erzählen Sie uns, was da unten los ist.«

Morley A. Jull steckt seinen Kopf aus der Luke, als sei’s ein Schützengraben.

»Gern, Mr. Petersime.«

Und, während er sich die Brille zurecht rückt, an John Conkey gewandt:

»Ich nehme an, der junge Herr kennt meine Studie.«

»Welche Studie?«

»Die über den Einfluss von Luftdruck und Temperatur auf fliegende Eier.«

»Was?«

»Er kennt sie offenbar nicht.«

»Nun, dann muss ich ein wenig ausholen.«

Und rückt sich die Brille ein zweites Mal zurecht.

»Vor zwei Jahren haben Dr. Philipps und ich eine Studie durchgeführt, bei der es darum ging, herauszufinden, ob der Transport von Bruteiern beschleunigt, das heißt das gemeine Ei auch per Luftfracht versandt werden kann. Was wir herausgefunden haben, ist äußerst interessant, doch möchte ich zunächst einmal anmerken, dass Dr. Philipps und ich am Institut für Geflügelkunde der Universität Maryland beschäftigt sind und dass – Sie sollten das in Ihrem Artikel unbedingt erwähnen – unsere Studie von American Airlines mitfinanziert wurde.

Notiert? Sehr schön. Also, was haben wir getan? Im Grunde handelte es sich bei unserer Studie um einen einfachen Vergleich. Um einen solchen aber überhaupt durchführen zu können, braucht man einen Vergleichspunkt, ein – wie sie das in Europa nennen – tertium comparationis.«

»Könnten Sie das bitte buchstabieren, Professor Morley.«

»Wir sitzen in einem amerikanischen Flugzeug, junger Freund.«

»Gewiss, aber wir fliegen «

»  mit einer C-54 von American Airlines. Genau wie unsere Eier vor zwei Jahren, das heißt die Hälfte von ihnen, schließlich hatten wir die andere Hälfte im Institut für Geflügelkunde der Universität Maryland eingelagert.«

»Zu Vergleichszwecken, nehme ich an.«

»Zu Vergleichszwecken, genau, und weil das Institut für Geflügelkunde der Universität Maryland ideale Lagerbedingungen für derlei Experimente bietet.«

»Sir?«

»180 Eier im IGUM und 180 Eier mit AA in der Luft – und jetzt raten Sie mal, was passiert?«

»Nichts?«

»Genau, nichts! Es ist absolut nichts passiert. Fünfzehn Embryonen starben am Boden und zwanzig in der Luft – kein signifikanter Unterschied. Und die Brutquote? 88.7% bei den American-Airlines-Eiern und 91.5% bei den Universität-von-Maryland-Institut-für-Geflügelkunde-Eiern – kein signifikanter Unterschied. Und die unfruchtbaren Eier? Hier drei, da drei. Überhaupt kein Unterschied mehr. Und das, obwohl die Eier sechsunddreißig Stunden lang in 12.000 Fuß Höhe durch die Luft geflogen sind.«

»Genau wie wir.«

»Ja, genau wie wir, nur dass es in unserem Fall ein klitzekleines Problem gibt.«

Was für den Geflügel züchtenden Eiergroßhändler das Stichwort liefert, sich in den Dialog einzuschalten.

»Probleme, Mr. Jull? Mit den Hühnern?«

»Ganz recht, Mr. Petersime. Sie fangen an, in signifikanter Zahl aus ihren Eiern auszubrechen. Ich meine, noch sind es nur Küken, aber sie beginnen «

»Sie beginnen was, Mr. Jull?«

»Zu wachsen «

»Und Sie können sich das nicht erklären?«

»Nun, ich fürchte, es hat etwas mit der Zeitverschiebung zu tun. Wir sind mit unseren Eiern damals nur zwischen Washington und L. A. hin- und hergeflogen, das heißt, wir hatten nur drei Stunden Zeitunterschied, und selbst die haben wir noch miteinander verrechnet. Drei vor, drei zurück, drei vor, drei zurück, so lange, bis wir wieder zu Hause in Maryland waren. Aber jetzt … jetzt entfernen wir uns immer weiter von Maryland.«

»Wir fliegen nach Polen, Mr. Jull.«

»Polen, ganz recht. Und die Küken hacken sich wie Schlesische Bergmänner durch die Schale.«

»Wie viele sind es?«
»Ein paar Dutzend, aber es werden mit jeder Minute mehr. Wir können von Glück reden, dass die Eier so eng gestapelt sind. Die meisten Küken dürften nur auf ein weiteres Ei treffen, wenn sie ihre Schale aufgebrochen haben.«

»Was bedeutet das, Mr. Jull?«

»Um ehrlich zu sein, ich weiß es nicht. Vielleicht verbrüdern sie sich und hacken zusammen weiter, vielleicht gründen sie aber auch Wohngemeinschaften, Kommunen, ganze Städte.«

»In diesem Flugzeug?«

»Das will ich nicht hoffen, Mr. Petersime. Aber die Polen sollten noch schnell ein paar Drahtzäune spannen, bevor wir landen. Es könnte sonst sein, dass das Land von Weißen Leghorns und Roten Rhodeländern überrannt wird.«

Woraufhin John:

»Mr. Petersime, ich fürchte, ich werde darüber schreiben müssen, wenn es passiert.«

»Es wird nicht passieren, John!«

»Aber woher wollen Sie «

»Wer hat im Frachtraum das Kommando, Mr. Jull?«

»Mr. Martinet, er ist kriegserfahren. Sagt, er habe in den Ardennen einen Trupp Deutscher tagelang in Schach gehalten. Allein, mit einer Quäkerkanone.«

»Quäkerkanone?«

»Ein Baumstamm, der eine Haubitze nachahmt.«

»Und die Deutschen sind darauf reingefallen?«

»Und wie sie das sind!«, dies Mr. Martinet lauthals aus dem Bauch das Flugzeugs, »aber die verdammten Küken hier kriegen Sie damit nicht wieder zurück in die Eier, also scheren sie sich gefälligst runter, Mosley, und helfen sie Ihren Kameraden beim Stopfen.«

Morley A. Jull tritt zurück.

»Mosley, er nennt mich die ganze Zeit über Mosley.«

Und öffnet die Klappe und verschwindet.

»Nun, wir wollen hoffen, dass sie es schaffen, nicht wahr, John.«

»Sollten wir Ihnen nicht «

»Helfen?«

»Ja.«

»Hören Sie, John, der Bauch dieses Flugzeuges ist voll mit Männern, die nur darauf warten, etwas zu tun.«

»Und ich dachte wir hätten nichts als Eier an Bord «

»Haben Sie jemals amerikanische Männer ohne Eier gesehen, John?«

»Nein, Mr. Petersime … Ray … ich meine, ich war noch nie …«

»Gut, wenn es keine amerikanischen Männer ohne Eier gibt, John, warum glauben Sie, sollte es amerikanische Eier ohne Männer geben?«

»Und warum, verdammt noch mal, sollten amerikanische Eier allein nach Paris fliegen?!«

»Paris, Jakem?«

»Ganz recht, Johnny-Boy. Und jetzt sehen Sie zu, dass Ihre Eier gut verpackt sind, wir sind nämlich gleich da.«

 

 

 

Auf dem Weg von Paris nach Warschau

 

»Mr. Petersime.«

»Ray.«

»Gibt es noch etwas, das ich wissen sollte?«

»Wenn Sie nichts mehr haben …«

»Nun ja, eine Sache wäre da noch.«

»Gut, schießen Sie los.«

»Ist Ihnen bekannt, dass die A&P Supermarktkette einen Hühnchen-von-morgen-Wettbewerb ausgerufen und 5.000 Dollar Preisgeld ausgelobt hat?«

»Ja.«

»Werden Sie sich daran beteiligen?«

»Nein.«

»Aber «

»Hören Sie, John« – und beugt sich nach vorn und klingt plötzlich bedrohlich – »ich habe keine Lust auf diese Supermarktheinis« – und dann, als hätte er all seine Verachtung seit Jahrzehnten für diesen einen Moment aufgespart – »die können sich ihre 5.000 Dollar in den nächstbesten Legedarm stecken, diese Scheißvögel!«

Woraufhin eilends Quibbles frisch polierter Schädel auftaucht.

»Was Mr. Petersime damit sagen will, ist, dass er auf Grund seiner langjährigen Erfahrung selbst am besten weiß, wie man das Hühnchen von morgen züchtet.«

Und fährt, weil er nicht will, dass noch mehr blöde Fragen gestellt und entsprechend beantwortet werden, gleich selbst fort, das Tier zu beschreiben.

»Unten ein Paar herrlich saftiger Schenkel, dazu weiches und doch zugleich bissfestes Fleisch von einer leicht blassrosa Farbe, und über allem eine Brust, aus der man tellergroße Steaks schneiden kann, derweil die Knochen tief unten, in dicken Fleischschichten begraben liegen.«

Und dann, an den Eiergroßhändler gewandt:

»Ein Vögelchen für die ganze Familie, nicht wahr, Ray?«

»Das ist es, Quibble, das ist es wirklich. Ein Vögelchen für die ganze Familie «

Und schon schnippt der mit fester Haut überspannte Schädel wieder zu Conkey zurück.

»Sehen Sie, John, die Zeiten, in denen unsere Industrie die alten, unfruchtbar gewordenen Hühner aufgekauft und ihnen kiloweise vorverdautes Getreide und Buttermilch in den Kropf gepumpt hat, sind vorbei. Das Fleisch war einfach nicht gut genug. Zu trocken. Jedenfalls bis Mrs. Steele aus Maryland kam. Fragen Sie Professor Morley, er kann Ihnen alles darüber erzählen. Er wird Ihnen sagen, dass die Brathühnchen-Industrie ihren Ursprung in Maryland hat.«

Womit er abtaucht und der erwähnte Morley A. Jull seinen Kopf aus der Luke schiebt.

»In Maryland – und in einem Versehen, John. Mrs. Steeles Hühner hatten eines Tages einfach zu viele Küken ausgebrütet. Also schlachtete sie die Kleinen und verkaufte sie an den örtlichen Fleischer. Tja, und was soll ich ihnen sagen? Die Leute waren begeistert, und der Fleischer zahlte ihr 62 Cent das Pfund, sechs Mal mehr als sie für ihre alten Hühner bekommen hatte, womit nach allem, was wir wissen, die Brathühnchen-Industrie geboren war. Jetzt aber, John, beginnt dieser herrliche Zweig uramerikanischen Wirtschaftens ins Unermessliche zu wachsen, weshalb wir es auch das Goldene Zeitalter der Brathühnchen-Industrie nennen, schließlich sind wir gerade dabei, aus Küken Hühner zu machen, die wie Küken schmecken, dabei aber größer sind, als alle Hühner zuvor. Und wie machen wir das? Nun, ganz einfach, indem wir die Vitamin-und Mineralrationen für die Tiere erhöhen. Es ist noch keine drei Jahre her, da brauchten wir noch viereinhalb Pfund Futter, um auch nur ein Pfund reines Hühnerfleisch zwischen die Zähne zu bekommen. Inzwischen aber – der Universität Maryland und einigen Futtermittelherstellern, deren Namen ich Ihnen gleich aufschreiben werde, sei Dank – brauchen wir nicht einmal mehr zwei Pfund. Und was sagt uns das? Genau, die Brathühnchen-Industrie boomt, und wir sind ganz vorne dabei. Heute Polen, morgen – wer weiß … In Amerika warten Millionen hochgezüchteter Hybrid-Hühner auf ihren Einsatz, genetisch uniformiert und ohne Furcht, in ein Flugzeug gesteckt und nach Übersee verschickt zu werden. Deshalb, John, schreiben Sie auf, was ich Ihnen jetzt sage: Amerikanische Hühnerbrüste haben Europa den Frieden gebracht! Amerikanische Hühnerbrüste werden Europa den Frieden erhalten!«

Und ab.

»Ray.«

»Ja?«

»Ich danke Ihnen.«

»Wofür?«

»Dass ich endlich verstehe. Und dass ich «

»Petersime, kommen Sie sofort runter! Die Hühner haben uns umzingelt. Wir müssen verhandeln!«

»Verdammt!«

»Durchhalten, Jungs, wir landen gleich!«
Dies natürlich Jakem, woraufhin sich Ray Petersime dem Cockpit zuwendet.

»Sind Sie sicher, Jakem?«

»Keine drei Minuten mehr, Sir.«

»Gute Arbeit, Jakem, wirklich verdammt gute Arbeit!«

»Danke, Sir.«

»Aber sagen Sie «

»Sir?«

»Was ist das da unten?«

»Eine Kirche.«

»Eine Kirche?«

»Jawohl, Sir.«

»Sie ist riesig!«

»Ganz recht, Sir.«

»Der Turm ist mindestens einhundert Meter hoch.«

»Mindestens, Sir.«

»Aber warum steht eine so große Kirche auf einem Feld?«

»Das ist kein Feld, Sir.«

»Kein Feld?«

»Nein, Sir.«

»Was ist es dann, Jakem? Was dann?!«

»Warschau, Sir.«

 

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