Horse Meat in Sweden. Its Troubled Past.
Dead horses hang from a giant tree. Blood drips from their lacerated flesh. Below, hooded figures tend to cauldrons, the air putrid from boiling meat. Did I dream it? Or did I hear about it as a child in Sweden? Perhaps I read about it in the family encyclopedia, those ponderous volumes that were my gateway to the world. Or was I too young to read and only saw an illustration? For all my searching, I cannot find it now. Still, I do remember, men and women cloaked in gray, blood splattered on autumn leaves, the huge tree groaning.
Adam of Bremen, a monk who traveled to Sweden in the 11thcentury, heard about it too. He wrote about a sacred grove outside Uppsala, not far from what is now Stockholm. Every nine years people from all the provinces would arrive to attend a great sacrificial feast. One of his informants, a heathen turned Christian, claimed to have seen no less than seventy-two corpses hanging in a grove, horses and other animals too, “among them corpses of men.” The celebrants had been eating and drinking, the songs “so many and disgusting that it is best to pass them over in silence.” Of course, Adam was a monk. Unlike the Vikings, he saw the profane and the sacred as opposites, not aspects of the same.
As Sweden converted to Christianity, the Vatican banned the consumption of horse meat, linking it more closely to pagan worship than that of other animals. Through the centuries the taboo gained in strength, even though its alleged origin became increasingly obscure. The very act of killing a horse was shameful in itself, carried out by rackare, a shunned breed of men, who also assisted in human executions, quartering and disemboweling the condemned.
As for how the rackare treated horses, I can only hope that the killing itself was swift. Little went to waste. Shoes were ripped off and sold to farriers, hooves boiled for glue. Hacked close to the root, tails and manes reappeared in upholstery, paint brushes, and the bows of musical instruments. But the meat itself remained tainted, fit only for prisoners and dogs. That is, if the horse was lucky enough to be killed at all. Several methods existed to make an old horse look young, such as stuffing its anus with tobacco, or filling the hollows of its teeth with tar, likely to dupe the most experienced trader. Was the old gelding lame? Make him limp on the other leg too, and no one would know.
Then, in 1784, at a manor house not far from Uppsala, Baron Adam Germund Cederhielm slaughtered his own horse. Assisting him were 18 of his farmers, dour men in coarse, dark wool. At least some of them had been promised tax relief for their services that day. Crops had failed, beggars wandered the road. Nödbröd was common fare, bread baked on chaff and bark, even mosses. For some time Cederhielm had written letters to people of influence, in both the countryside and Stockholm, advocating horse meat as a healthy and flavorful food. The response had been cautious, privately positive but rarely public. Aside from the 18 farmers, close to 400 people, all of them living and working on the estate, attended the slaughter. Cederhielm was known to take care of his own. A philanthropist of note, he preferred to stay at his manor house, unlike his brother, who was drawn to Stockholm, where his vitriolic wit, as exercised in his polemic journalism, led to his exclusion from the House of Nobility, a disgraceful conclusion to his political career.
Brunta, the horse, was accustomed to crowds. Cederhielm used to ride her in parades, amidst drums and flags, the colonel saluting as they passed. Now, standing in the courtyard, she likely remained calm. After a clergyman offered a prayer, Cederhielm rammed the knife into Brunta’s throat, the most common method to kill a horse, supposedly also the one that caused the least pain. Still, she would have taken her time to die. The knife still stuck in her throat, she might have circled the courtyard, nosing the ground, spread with meal and salt to soak up her blood. Once she went down, Cederhielm pulled the knife and waited while her eyes clouded over and stilled. As he slit her coat from head to tail, the farmers stepped up to help, one after the next, a pool of roiling intestines at their feet. The meat, dark red with murmurs of blue, sizzled on the glowing coal. Cederhielm, the first to eat, pronounced it good. A shudder ran through the crowd, mixed with disbelief. Still, Cederhielm’s matter-of-fact-ness won out, and what was not consumed was cured in vinegar and stored away.
Serving Horse à la Cederhielm became the fashion of the day. After all, it was the Age of Reason, and all manners of prejudice were under attack. Concerns for animal welfare were also on the rise and employed in the cause. Their meat valued, as that of a cow or an ox, horses would be well treated for as long as they lived, not die in harness, half-starved and flogged, which was not an uncommon sight. I envision elegant coaches drawing up in front of marble steps, roses scattered on a table cloth, footmen along the walls, menu cards beside each plate. Cederhielm sent steaks to King Gustav III himself. An enlightened despot and admirer of Voltaire, the king was embroiled in a battle of his own, caught as he was between the warring factions of his noblemen. In view of “certain considerations,” he did not officially endorse horse meat as human food, not even to ease the privations of the poor. Nor did he oppose it. Certain is that the name Cederhielm was again on everyone’s lips, although the king at times found it difficult to tell the two brothers apart, as in “the one who eats people, or the one who eats horse?”
Reason did not prevail. When the old idols collapse, new ones are born, or so Friedrich Nietzsche wrote. Horses have been a large part of my life, and even now, I never miss an opportunity to press my face to their necks and draw in their musty, grassy scent. Eating their meat, for that reason alone, strikes me as repulsive, akin to eating a friend. But what if there’s more? Carl Jung suggested that ancestral memories are embedded in our collective unconscious, a theory that scientists today continue to pursue. That prayer before Brunta’s death, what was it really about? A plea for forgiveness? A plea for better crops? Could it have been a throwback to those pagan times, when carcasses hung from a tree, and the cries of animals carried in the wind? What if deep within us, that savage place still lives? What if Nietzsche was wrong? What if the gods are the same?
Portrait of King Gustav III (1746-1792), by Lorens Pasch the Younger
My main source was Hästslakt och rackarskam, by Brita Egardt (Nordiska museets handlingar 57, 1962)
by Birgitta Hjalmarson
The End of Christmas.
The girl’s breath misted the glass as she pressed her nose against the windowpane and looked out at the street. An eerie stillness ruled out there, no movement seen, other than snowflakes falling slowly from a black evening sky. In front of the house, a solitary lamp post shed a small circle of light. The father and the boy had shoveled the garden path free of snow, all the way from the white wooden gate to the front door.
In this town, on the west coast of Sweden, winter had come early that year. The war had ended less than a decade earlier. Memories of the camps already seemed distant, the guilt assuaged, for all the claims of ignorance of something that should have been known. But the girl and the boy knew nothing of that, especially not on an evening like this, the house warm and snug, the oil furnace humming in the cellar, the Christmas creche on display in the fireplace, the wise men in their richly colored robes, the ceramic ox looking down on the infant in the manger. Out in the bicycle shed, the hedgehog had bedded down for the winter, underneath a pile of twigs and leaves, its breathing suspended, its torpor all but complete.
From the sofa in the living room, the sister-in-law watched the wife. The sister-in-law came rarely to the house. She was a stranger to the children. Even the husband, her younger brother, had long since tried to understand who she was, or perhaps he understood it all too well, her desire for his wife, her need to see her, if only from a distance, and only once a year, as this evening in the living room, her mind taking note of the wife’s every gesture, her quietness and content, and yet that hint of strain, the skin below her eyes tinged with blue, and now the news, as the wife had whispered in her ear, even as they greeted each other in the hall, that she was expecting a third child.
The boy joined the girl at the window. He wore his new pullover sweater, an early Christmas gift. Early that morning, he and the father had gone to the country, the boy in the back seat of the Volvo, as they traveled along winding forest roads, with glimpses of the frozen river against the gray winter light. At the farmhouse, the grandmother had been waiting, a devout woman in black, made even more devout by the death of her husband years before the war. A horse dealer, he had lived on too grand a scale in a place where most of the forest had already been felled, leaving the ground scorched and too stony for crops. No one, not even the grandmother, had been willing to admit that his death had been a suicide. Rather, it was blamed on a sudden dizziness, which must have struck as he crossed the old stone bridge, his body floating ashore a couple of miles to the south.
While the grandmother stayed behind, the boy and the father had walked out into the forest, following the tracks in the snow, the boy carrying his grandfather’s rifle. The fox had waited for them, or so it seemed to the boy, at the far end of a meadow, the boughs of the fir trees weighed down by snow. As the father guided him, the boy raised the rifle to his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. The fox looked straight at them, as if in anticipation of what the boy would do next. Blood hammering in his ears, gun oil stinging his nostrils, all the boy could think of was the stillness of the fox, the frozen landscape around them, and the father wanting him to shoot. Just then, the fox turned and loped back in among the trees, and the boy lowered the rifle.
On their return to town, the boy and the father had found the Christmas tree toppled by the cat, ornaments scattered all over, the cat on the windowsill licking its paws. Order had been restored, the Christmas star rewired to the top of the tree, the tree itself secured to the wall, and the shards of the broken glass balls, covered with fake frost, swept off the floor. At last, after hiding in his room, the boy had come out to light the candles in the tree, not electric, as in the houses of his friends, but real, the candleholders made of brass with drip pans for the melting wax. He bowed before the aunt and joined the girl at the window, who kept wiping the mist off the glass. He was not at all sure that Santa Claus would come, especially not since the father was still in the house. In the past, the father had always disappeared just before Santa Claus arrived. Now, looking at his father converse with the aunt, the boy felt sorry for his sister, who clung to the notion that Santa Claus was no less real than the grandmother’s God.
The wife was still in the kitchen, preparing the sauce for the lutfisk, rich enough to conceal the blandness of the cod. The afternoon had grated on her nerves, and she had reached for one of those pills she kept hidden in the corner of the cabinet, behind the crystal glasses. She could hear her husband’s voice from the living room. A month earlier, her sister-in-law had helped her with a dress that needed to be let out. It was only natural that the wife should have asked her, the sister-in-law being a seamstress with clients coming to see her as far as from Berlin. In the bright atelier, the sister-in-law had bent at her side, one knee against the floor, as she pinned the dress around her waist, the porcelain pin heads like pricks of blood. Even now, the wife could feel the hands of her sister-in-law resting on her hips, longer than necessary, long enough for the wife to respond, as if a small animal had stirred inside her womb. That night, unable to forget, she had turned away from her husband in shame. The following morning, a messenger delivered the dress with a note from the sister-in-law, embossed in blue and gold, with hopes that the dress would now be a better fit.
To this day, the wife could see the husband enter the shop where she used to work, his collar raised, his coat of the latest cut. He had asked to taste almost every cheese in sight, buying two or three, as the other customers waited in line, the matrons smiling behind his back. When she married him, she had already been pregnant with the boy. Crushing his dreams to become an architect, she expected him to provide for her in style, all those dinners and bridge parties, the maids in starched aprons and caps. Once he became a successful businessman, he took her to Milan and Paris, the two of them sitting in their own loge at the opera house or walking hand-in-hand along the Seine. Even now, after all these years of living in this small Swedish town, when he thought she was asleep, he would leave their bed for the room in the attic. Here, when cleaning, she would see his blueprints spread on the drawing board, his pencils sharpened and lined up, his compass and triangles laid out the way one might set the table for a long-lost friend, someone who might still return, all those dreams stashed away, like her pills.
Now, as the wife entered the living room, she found her sister-in-law talking to the husband, the cat purring in his lap. Both children were at the window, looking out. This year, aware of the boy’s suspicions, she and her husband had agreed to hire a Santa Claus. Other parents in the neighborhood had asked to join, and an advertisement had been answered. The man, named Linder, was given not just the addresses but also the names of the children, their grades at school and the subjects in need of improvement. He should already be making his way down the street, sacks of presents waiting for him in garages and cellars, a glass of snaps offered him in each house, strong enough to warm his insides. The wife did not know this man, nor did her husband. According to the agency, he lived east of the river. People there had little to do with the people who lived in the villas to the west, but the agency had presented him as a retired engineer, very respectable, his own son long since grown.
Approaching the house, Linder saw the children’s faces in the window, noses pressed against the glass. His mask had holes cut for his mouth and eyes. Rubber bands attached his cotton beard to his face and dug into the skin behind his ears. He did not need the money, but he was willing to suffer it all, as long as he did not have to be alone on this one night, when once, underneath the stars, the shepherds heard the angels sing, “Glory to God on high!” Before he knocked on the front door, he stomped the snow off his boots, loud enough to make sure the children heard him. The husband and the wife shook his hand, as did the girl and the boy, curtsying and bowing, neither one brave enough to look him in the eyes. The woman, who introduced herself as the sister-in-law, remained seated, while the cat hissed at him and hid under her chair. He had seen women like that in the other houses too, widows and maiden aunts, their relatives taking turns in having them over for the holidays, as inconvenient as it was, and in this particular case clearly putting added pressure on the wife, whose hand had been cold and wet in his, before she quickly took it back.
Linder sat on a chair in the middle of the room. He emptied his glass of snaps, uttered a few Ho-Ho-Ho’s, pulled the presents out of the sack, and read out the names on the tags. When still in his thirties, he had come down from the north, building railroads through the wilderness, living in barracks with the other men, carousing and fighting, until a young woman from one of the villages stood at the barrack door, wanting to save him, her face tapered and pale. She had a child by a man, whose name she never knew. The boy, she said, needed a father, and so a deal was struck. She had been pliable, adjusting to his ways to please him, quoting from the Scriptures, and calling him a decent man. In the end she had bent too much, and she broke right under him, something erupting inside her; the doctors were unable to save her, or even explain what had gone wrong.
After the funeral, he moved with the boy to this town, where the railroad company paid him handsomely and called him an engineer. When Germany occupied Norway, the Swedish government allowed German trains to travel through Sweden to transport wounded soldiers back to their own country. He stood on the platform, as did many of the other townspeople, watching the trains roll by, the soldiers leaning out the windows to wave. Several newspapers published articles in protest, claiming that the trains carried not just wounded soldiers but also Swedish iron to be forged into guns. The townspeople jeered and shook their fists, the air hot with hatred, but one man – he recognized the husband, who now stood behind his seated wife, cupping his pipe, making sure his children behaved — had raised his right arm in salute, palm down.
The distribution of presents over, the mood in the room was one of comfort and warmth, all meant to convince the children that they were somehow in good hands. For a moment Linder too felt drawn in, but only until he met the stare of the cat, still crouching under the older woman’s chair, its pupils opening and closing, yellow slits against black. At the husband’s insistence, he accepted a second glass of snaps. It was then that the girl climbed up on his knee, her stockings white and crumpled at her feet. Someone ought to have stopped her, but no one did. She was too close to him, her scent of vanilla and milk, her slight body trusting his. He heard himself burst into song, his voice like the cranking of a rusty shaft, raucous words about lonely men around a fire, miles and miles of forest to the nearest town, the curses and profanities shielding them from the dark, but the girl still leaned against his chest, until he wrenched her away and the wife rushed in to gather her up. The girl was crying now, not loud, more a drawn-out sob, as if she had glimpsed the hunger in his eyes and made it hers.
From the window, the boy and the girl watched their father walk Santa Claus down the shoveled garden path, through the gate and out into the street. Stopping under the lamp post, the father handed Santa Claus an envelope, slapped him on the back, and returned to the house. The snow had stopped falling now. Pressing her cheek to the misty glass, the girl looked up at the stars. She told the boy she could see the star of Bethlehem leading Santa Claus on his way, his red hood bobbing and disappearing in the night. The boy put his arm around her shoulders and told her about the fox, all that wood stacked in front of their grandmother’s house, enough to take her through the winter, the empty stalls in the stable, halters hanging from iron hooks, the wood nicked from kicking hooves. He told her he was all she had.
This essay was first published by Women Writers, Women's Books. Garbo portrayed you in Queen Christina, beautiful, when you, in fact, were not. These days you’re celebrated as an early feminist, although you, of course, would have sneered. And to be fair, some still...
When I was young, I went crayfishing with my father in Sweden. Although I can’t remember the exact year, it must have been on August 7, for that was the day the season began. My father and his brothers were fortunate enough to have their own fishing waters. They had...