by Günter Grass
When we reached the kitchen gardens outside Neuschottland, we stopped to catch our breath. I had a rage inside me and my rage was getting kittens. I thrust an accusing forefinger at the accursed thingamajig and Mahlke quickly removed it from his neck. Like the screwdriver years before, it was attached to a shoelace. Mahlke wanted to give it to me, but I shook my head. “Hell, no, but thanks for nothing.”
But he didn’t toss the scrap metal into the wet bushes; he had a back pocket
How am I going to get out of here? The gooseberries behind the makeshift fences were unripe: Mahlke began to pick with both hands. My pretext cast about for words. He gobbled and spat out skins. “Wait for me here, I’ll be back in half an hour. You’ve got to have something to eat or you won’t last long on the barge.”
If Mahlke had said “Be sure you come back,” I would have lit out for good. He scarcely nodded as I left; with all ten fingers he was reaching through the fence laths at the bushes; his mouth full of berries, he compelled loyalty: rain is a binder.
Mahlke’s aunt opened the door. Good that his mother wasn’t home. I could have taken some edibles from our house, but I thought: What’s he got his family for? Besides, I was curious about his aunt. I was disappointed. She stood there in her kitchen apron and asked no questions. Through open doors came the smell of something that makes teeth squeak: rhubarb was being cooked at the Mahlkes’.
“We’re giving a little party for Joachim. We’ve got plenty of stuff to drink, but in case we get hungry …”
Without a word she went to the kitchen and came back with two two-pound cans of pork. She also had a can opener, but it wasn’t the same one that Mahlke had brought up from the barge when he found the canned frogs’ legs in the galley. While she was out wondering what to give me—the Mahlkes always had their cupboards full, relatives in the country—I stood restless in the hallway, gazing at the photograph of Mahlke’s father and Fireman Labuda. The locomotive had no steam up. The aunt came back with a shopping net and some newspaper to wrap the cans and can opener in. “Before you eat the pork,” she said, “you’ll have to warm it up some. If you don’t, it’ll be too heavy; it’ll sit on your stomach.”
If I asked before leaving whether anyone had been around asking for Joachim, the answer was no. But I didn’t ask, I just turned around in the doorway and said: “Joachim sends you his love,” though Mahlke hadn’t sent anything at all, not even to his mother.
He wasn’t curious either when I reappeared between the gardens in the same rain, hung the net on a fence lath, and stood rubbing my strangled fingers. He was still gobbling unripe gooseberries, compelling me, like his aunt, to worry about his physical well-being: “You’re going to upset your stomach. Let’s get going.” But even then he stripped three handfuls from the dripping bushes and filled his pants pockets. As we looped around Neuschottland and the housing development between Wolfsweg and Bärenweg, he was still spitting out hard gooseberry skins. As we stood on the rear platform of the streetcar trailer and the rainy airfield passed by to the left of us, he was still pouring them in.
He was getting on my nerves with his gooseberries. Besides, the rain was letting up. The gray turned milky; made me feel like getting out and leaving him alone with his gooseberries. But I only said: “They’ve already come asking about you. Two plain-clothes men.”
“Really?” He spat out the skins on the platform floor. “What about my mother? Does she know?”
“Your mother wasn’t there. Only your aunt.”
“Must have been shopping.”
“I doubt it”
“Then she was over at the Schielkes’ helping with the ironing.”
“I’m sorry to say she wasn’t there either.”
“Like some gooseberries?”
“She’s been taken down to the military district. I wasn’t going to tell you.”
We were almost in Brösen before Mahlke ran out of gooseberries. But as we crossed the beach, in which the rain had cut its pattern, he was still searching his sopping pockets for more. And when the Great Mahlke heard the sea slapping against the beach and his eyes saw the Baltic, the barge as a far-off backdrop, and the shadows of a few ships in the roadstead, he said: “I can’t swim.” Though I had already taken off my shoes and pants. The horizon drew a line through both his pupils.
“Is this a time to make jokes?”
“No kidding. I’ve got a bellyache. Damn gooseberries.”
At this I swore and looked through my pockets and swore some more and found a mark and a little change. I ran to Brösen and rented a boat for two hours from old man Kreft. It wasn’t as easy as it looks on paper, though Kreft didn’t ask very many questions and helped me to launch the boat. When I pulled up on the beach, Mahlke lay writhing in the sand, uniform and all. I had to kick him to make him get up. He shivered, sweated, dug both fists into the pit of his stomach; but even today I can’t make myself believe in that bellyache in spite of unripe gooseberries on an empty stomach.
“Why don’t you go behind the dunes? Go ahead. On the double!” He walked hunched over, making curved tracks, and disappeared behind the beach grass. Maybe I could have seen his cap, but though nothing was moving in or out, I kept my eyes on the breakwater. When he came back, he was still hunched over but he helped me to shove off. I sat him down in the stern, stowed the net with the cans in it on his knees, and put the wrapped can opener in his hands. When the water darkened behind the second sandbank I said: “Now you can take a few strokes.”
The Great Mahlke didn’t even shake his head; he sat doubled up, clutching the wrapped can opener and looking through me; for we were sitting face to face.
Although I have never again to this day set foot in a rowboat, we are still sitting face to face: and his fingers are fidgeting. His neck is bare, but his cap straight. Sand trickling from the folds in his uniform. No rain, but forehead dripping. Every muscle tense. Eyes popping out of his head. With whom has he exchanged noses? Both knees wobbling. No cat offshore. But the mouse scurrying.
Yet it wasn’t cold. Only when the clouds parted and the sun burst through the seams did spots of gooseflesh pass over the scarcely breathing surface of the water and assail our boat. “Take a few strokes, it’ll warm you up.” The answer was a chattering of teeth from the stern. And from intermittent groans chopped words were born into the world: “…fat lot of good did me. Might have guessed. Fuss for a lot of nonsense. Too bad. It would have been a good lecture. Would have started in with explanations, the sights, armor-piercing shells, Maybach engines, and so on. When I was a loader, I had to come up all the time to tighten up bolts, even under fire. But I wasn’t going to talk about myself the whole time. My father and Labuda, the fireman. A few words about the accident near Dirschau. How my father by his courage and self-sacrifice. The way I always thought of my father as I sat there at the sights. Hadn’t even received the sacraments when he. Thanks for the candles that time. O thou, most pure. Mother inviolate. Through whose intercession partake. Most amiable. Full of grace. It’s the honest truth. My first battle north of Kursk proved it. And in the tangle outside Orel when they counterattacked. And in August by the Vorskla the way the Mother of God. They all laughed and put the division chaplain on my tail. Sure, but then we stabilized the front. Unfortunately, I was transferred to Center Sector, or they wouldn’t have broken through so quick at Kharkov. She appeared to me again near Korosten when the 59th Corps. She never had the child, it was always the picture she was holding. Yes, Dr. Klohse, it’s hanging in our hall beside the brush bag. And she didn’t hold it over her breast, no, lower down. I had the locomotive in my sights, plain as day. Just had to hold steady between my father and Labuda. Four hundred. Direct hit. See that, Pilenz? I always aim between turret and boiler. Gives them a good airing. No, Dr. Klohse, she didn’t speak. But to tell you the honest truth, she doesn’t have to speak to me. Proofs? She held the picture, I tell you. Or in mathematics. Suppose you’re teaching math. You assume that parallel lines meet at infinity.
You’ll admit that adds up to something like transcendence. That’s how it was that time in the second line east of Kazan. It was the third day of Christmas. She came in from the left and headed for a clump of woods at convoy speed, twenty miles an hour. Just had to keep her in my sights. Hey, Pilenz, two strokes on the left, we’re missing the barge.”
At first Mahlke’s outline of his lecture was little more than a chattering of teeth, but then he had them under control. Through it all he kept an eye on our course. The rhythm at which he spoke made me row so fast that the sweat poured from my forehead, while his pores dried and called it a day. Not for a single stroke was I sure whether or not he saw anything more over the expanding bridge than the customary gulls.
Before we hove alongside, he sat relaxed in the stern playing negligently with the can opener, which he had taken out of its paper. He no longer complained of bellyache. He stood before me on the barge, and when I had tied up, his hands busied themselves on his neck: the big thingamajig from his rear pocket was in place again. Rubbed his hands, the sun broke through, stretched his legs: Mahlke paced the deck as though taking possession, hummed a snatch of litany, waved up at the gulls, and played the cheery uncle who turns up for a visit after years of adventurous absence, bringing himself as a present. O happy reunion! “Hello, boys and girls, you haven’t changed a bit!”
I found it hard to join in the game: “Get a move on. Old man Kreft only gave me the boat for an hour and a half. At first he said only an hour.”
Mahlke calmed down: “OK, never detain a busy man. Say, do you see that bucket, the one next to the tanker, she’s lying pretty low. I’ll bet she’s a Swede. Just for your information, we’re going to row out there as soon as it gets dark. I want you back here at nine o’clock. I’ve a right to ask that much of you—or haven’t I?”
The visibility was poor and of course it was impossible to make out the nationality of the freighter in the roadstead. Mahlke began to undress elaborately, meanwhile spouting a lot of incoherent nonsense. A few words about Tulla Pokriefke: “A hot number, take it from me.” Gossip about Father Gusewski: “They say he sold goods on the black market. Altar cloths too. Or rather the coupons for the stuff.” A couple of funny stories about his aunt: “But you’ve got to give her credit for one thing, she always got along with my father, even when they were both kids in the country.” More about the locomotive: “Say, you might drop back at our house and get the picture, with or without the frame. No, better let it go. Just weigh me down.”
He stood there in red gym pants, a vestige of our school tradition. He had carefully folded his uniform into the regulation bundle and stowed it away in his old-accustomed place behind the pilothouse. His boots looked like bedtime. “You got everything?” I asked. “Don’t forget the opener.” He shifted the medal from left to right and chattered schoolboy nonsense as if he hadn’t a care in the world: “Tonnage of the Argentine battleship Moreno? Speed in knots? How much armor plate at the waterline? Year built? When remodeled? How many hundred-and-fifty-millimeter guns on the Vittorio Veneto?
I answered sluggishly, but I was pleased to find that I still had the dope. “Are you going to take both cans at once?”
“I’ll see.”
“Don’t forget the can opener. There it is.”
“You’re looking out for me like a mother.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d start going downstairs.”
“Right you are. The place must be in a pretty sad state.”
“You’re not supposed to spend the winter there.”
“The main thing is I hope the lighter works. There’s plenty of alcohol.”
“I wouldn’t throw that thing away. Maybe you can sell it as a souvenir someplace. You never can tell.”
Mahlke tossed the object from hand to hand. He slipped off the bridge and started looking step by step for the hatch, holding out his hands like a tightrope walker, though one arm was weighed down by the net with the two cans in it. His knees made bow waves. The sun broke through again for a moment and his backbone and the sinews in his neck cast a shadow to leftward.
“Must be half past ten. Maybe later.”
“It’s not as cold as I expected.”
“It’s always that way after the rain.”
“My guess is water sixty-five, air sixty-eight.”
There was a dredger in the channel, not far from the harbor-mouth buoy. Signs of activity on board, but the sounds were pure imagination, the wind was in the wrong direction. Mahlke’s mouse was imaginary too, for even after his groping feet had found the rim of the hatch, he showed me only his back.
Over and over the same custom-made question dins into my ears: Did he say anything else before he went down? The only thing I am halfway sure of is that angular glance up at the bridge, over his left shoulder. He crouched down a moment to moisten himself, darkening the flag-red gym pants, and with his right hand improved his grip on the net with the tin cans—but what about the all-day sucker? It wasn’t hanging from his neck. Had he thrown it away without my noticing? Where is the fish that will bring it to me? Did he say something more over his shoulder? Up at the gulls? Or toward the beach or the ships in the roadstead? Did he curse all rodents? I don’t think I heard you say: “Well, see you tonight.” Headfirst and weighed down with two cans of pork, he dove: the rounded back and the rear end followed the neck. A white foot kicked into the void. The water over the hatch resumed its usual rippling play.
Then I took my foot off the can opener. The can opener and I remained behind. If only I had got right into the boat, cast off and away: “Hell, he’ll manage without it.” But I stayed, counting the seconds. I let the dredger with its rising and falling chain buckets count for me, and frantically followed its count: thirty-two, thirty-three rusty seconds. Thirty-six, thirty-seven mud-heaving seconds. For forty-one, forty-two badly oiled seconds, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine seconds, the dredger with its rising, falling, dipping buckets did what it could: deepened the Neufahrwasser harbor channel and helped me measure the time: Mahlke, with his cans of pork but no can opener, with or without the black candy whose sweetness had bitterness for a twin, must by then have moved into the erstwhile radio shack of the Polish mine sweeper Rybitwa.
Though we had not arranged for any signals, you might have knocked. Once again and again once again, I let the dredger count thirty seconds for me. By all calculable odds, or whatever the expression is, he must have… The gulls, cutting out patterns between barge and sky, were getting on my nerves. But when for no apparent reason the gulls suddenly veered away, the absence of gulls got on my nerves. I began, first with my heels, then with Mahlke’s boots, to belabor the deck of the bridge: flakes of rust went flying, crumbs of gull dropping danced at every blow. Can opener in hammering fist, Pilenz shouted: “Come up! You’ve forgotten the can opener, the can opener…” Wild, then rhythmic shouting and hammering. Then a pause. Unfortunately, I didn’t know Morse code. Two-three two-three, I hammered. Shouted myself hoarse: “Can o-pen-er! Can o-pen-er!”
Ever since that Friday I’ve known what silence is. Silence sets in when gulls veer away. Nothing can make more silence than a dredger at work when the wind carries away its iron noises. But it was Joachim Mahlke who made the greatest silence of all by not responding to my noise.
So then I rowed back. But before rowing back, I threw the can opener in the direction of the dredger, but didn’t hit it.
So then I threw away the can opener and rowed back, returned old man Kreft’s boat, had to pay an extra thirty pfennigs, and said: “Maybe I’ll be back again this evening. Maybe I’ll want the boat again.”
So then I threw away, rowed back, returned, paid extra, said I’d be, sat down in the streetcar and rode, as they say, home.
So then I didn’t go straight home after all, but rang the doorbell on Osterzeile, I asked no questions, just got them to give me the locomotive and frame, for hadn’t I said to Mahlke and to old man Kreft too for that matter: “Maybe I’ll be back again
this evening…”
So my mother had just finished making lunch when I came home with the photograph. One of the heads of the labor police at the railroad car factory was eating with us. There was no fish, and beside my plate there was a letter for me from the military district.
So then I read and read my draft notice. My mother began to cry, which embarrassed the company. “I won’t be leaving until Sunday night,” I said, and then, paying no attention to our visitor: “Do you know what’s become of Papa’s binoculars?”
So then, with binoculars and photograph, I rode out to Brösen on Saturday morning, and not that same evening as agreed—the fog would have spoiled the visibility, and it was raining again. I picked out the highest spot on the wooded dunes, in front of the Soldiers’ Monument. I stood on the top step of the platform—above me towered the obelisk crowned with its golden ball, sheenless in the rain—and for half if not three quarters of an hour I held the binoculars to my eyes. It was only when everything turned to a blur that I lowered the glasses and looked into the dog-rose bushes.
So nothing was moving on the barge. Two empty combat boots were clearly distinguishable. Gulls still hovered over the rust, then gulls settled like powder on deck and shoes. In the roadstead the same ships as the day before. But no Swede among them, no neutral ship of any kind. The dredger had scarcely moved. The weather seemed to be on the mend. Once again I rode, as they say, home. My mother helped me to pack my cardboard suitcase.
So then I packed: I had removed the photograph from the frame and, since you hadn’t claimed it, packed it at the bottom. On top of your father, on top of Fireman Labuda and your father’s locomotive that had no steam up, I piled my underwear, the usual rubbish, and the diary which was lost near Cottbus along with the photograph and my letters.
