The Butcher

The butcher at the school where I teach is a very tall man. He is certainly at least six foot four. I expect he may be taller. He fills rooms. He is also by no means a slight fellow. He is a tree of a man. His name is Herr Schwaiger, and I have never heard anyone use his first name, though with most teachers the first name is the only one I knew all of last year. Nonetheless, he is one of the warmest people at the school. He always has a smile and a hearty greeting for me. For everyone.

I once met him in town while he was bicycling. I was waiting at a crosswalk for the light to change. He dwarfed his bicycle. He stopped, smiled, gave me a handshake and a hello. His hand enveloped mine, and his grip had a strength so sure of itself that it need not be strong. He was not in a hurry.

A week or two later, I attended his class. I came late, not able to make it until my own teaching duties were fulfilled. I found a white jacket and a pair of rubber galoshes so as not to contaminate the sterility of the workroom. Entering, he looked up at me, and not missing a beat said, “Welcome Daniel! Come to cut up pigs?” I had to laugh. His own mirth was so catching.

The students love him. He has a way with them, the other teachers say. He does. He has a way with life. I watched him slice cutlets from a pork shoulder. The knife was a good two feet long, sharp enough to require chainmail vests and gloves on the part of the students. He set the blade firmly fractions of an inch from where his hand held the meat. In one smooth motion he cut down to within half an inch of the cutting board, and with a deft twist opened and smoothed the flap. With another, swifter motion he made another slice next to his hand. A perfectly butterflied weinerschnitzel. He handed me the knife. “Cut, don’t press” were his instructions. I was surprised to feel how much resistance there was, even with so sharp a knife. And how difficult it was to hold the meat still. Still in a couple saws I had a cutlet. “Not bad” was his evaluation. He was being generous, though his cutlet next to mine was honest to anyone with eyes.

He knows, Herr Schwaiger. He knows how to do something, and masterfully. He has no doubts. He is completely assured of his craft. His trade. Benjamin Franklin, in his “Autobiography”, talks about being “brought up to a trade.” This isn’t something we give much respect these days, the trades. In fact, the very idea of sureness doesn’t get much credence. I don’t often give it much credence. Question everything. But perhaps that includes even the asking of questions?

But here is Herr Schwaiger. He knows what he is, and what he does. He knows how to do it. He needn’t improve, he is a part of an art so ancient that it is spread over the world. It is not a science with a frontier of knowledge; there are not more parts of a pig yet to be discovered. Yet we cannot mechanize his art. It must be learned, studied, passed on. The old binding agreement of apprenticeship still rules. The apprentice must learn with the master. He must practice, learn by doing, witness his master’s foibles and faults, his scruples and values. He must decide what he will leave and what he will take. But he learns the ins and outs.

Of course, we would argue with the freedom of this. Personal choice seems restricted. In tying ourselves to learning only one trade aren’t we closing off doors that would otherwise remain open to us? Yes, perhaps. But if we are forever leaving all doors open, we will never be able to go through any of them, into the wider world.

So perhaps we shouldn’t all become butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. But then, we should also not forget the confidence with which the butcher strides into the room. He has a mind free from crippling doubt, from modernity’s love affair with Hamlet. He is vigorous and decisive. We could learn from that, couldn’t we?