by Günter Grass
Here’s how we see her: still girlish, though, with her thirty years, old enough to be a matron. Head slightly tilted over the imperial mushrooms. Her peat-brown hair, plaited into a kind of bird’s nest. Eyes close-set. Two vertical creases in her forehead underline her determination. An acute angle. Her nose. Her small mouth whistling kitchen songs. Now she cuts an imperial mushroom into slices from stem to cap. Not a one is discolored. How lovely they are. Silence in the kitchen. The whistling has stopped. Now she puts on her spectacles. Produces something from under the sorrel.
On September 26, when Sophie stuffed a boned calf’s head with mushrooms in such a way that it resumed its full-rounded form, the guests were the heroic French major Le Gros, a Saxon merchant by the name of Zetsche, and three Polish officers, one of them being a young uhlan, the son of General Wojczinski. The company was in high spirits and made a great fuss over Le Gros, whose cannoneers had repulsed a Russian attack on the star redoubt. The first course—in view of wartime shortages—was a simple sorrel soup with flour dumplings. Then Sophie served smoked Vistula salmon, which was always available because the midsummer floods had driven pike, salmon, and perch into the ditches and gutters of the besieged city. Then, emerging crisp from the oven, accompanied by the saffron rice with which the Neapolitan allies were constrained to supply the governor’s table, came the calf’s head, whose stuffing Sophie, by way of avenging the betrayed revolution, the years of tyranny, the insults to her virginal pride, and her imprisoned Fritz, had seasoned with four definitive arguments. (A small amount of fly-agaric juice may have been stirred into the sorrel soup as a stimulant.)
Actually she felt no loathing for Rapp. It would be more accurate to speak of indifference and vicarious hate. He wasn’t the worst of them. He kept the looting within limits. He punished the depredations of drunken soldiers severely. For a few months—while Rapp was in Russia with Napoleon—the citizens had longed for his return. At least—and here Pastor Blech agreed—Rapp kept order. That he, too, confiscated a fortune, that he had a hand in the general profiteering and traded through middlemen (among them the merchant Zetsche) in confiscated English contraband (mostly cloth), that before the siege he had kept mistresses on country estates in Langfuhr and Oliva and beset the wives of leading citizens with his spicy Alsatian wit—all this would not have sufficed to decide Sophie in favor of her sure-fire calf’s-head stuffing; something must have happened to release the catch.
Though he doesn’t mention it in his journals of the French period, Pastor Blech later expressed the belief that shortly before the siege, when the road to Graudenz was still open, Sophie had crawled into the governor’s bed in the hope of obtaining her Fritz’s freedom. But Rapp hadn’t been up to it. Couldn’t convert his frantic desire into action. Couldn’t bend nature to his will. The standard male calamity had struck. His private just wouldn’t stand at attention. Possibly it was Sophie’s innocence that disarmed this eminently virile man. In any case, so the story went, she left the governor’s couch still a virgin and doubly offended.
Rapp wouldn’t admit his defeat; he put all the blame on Sophie (her heroic coldness) and was quite unwilling to compensate with an act of chivalry for the bit of pleasure he had missed. So Fritz remained a prisoner of the French. And when Graudenz fell into Prussian hands, a royal decree lost no time in confirming his status as prisoner. The systems changed without a hitch. Petition after petition—Pastor Blech remained indefatigable—failed to set the poor fellow free.
But maybe there’s nothing in the whole story; probably Sophie never crawled into Rapp’s French bed; conceivably there wasn’t any male calamity, and what she did wasn’t for Fritz at all but for the sake of something much bigger, of freedom itself, for, Jacobin as this kitchenmaid may have been in her younger days, the lasting presence of the French turned her into the most German of patriots, and when she’d been cooking a while for Rapp, Sophie’s sans-culottish songs, after a brief period of Napoleonic enthusiasm, took on a fatherlandish tone. Maybe the four sure-fire mushrooms were dedicated to the variety of diffuse freedom that lasts only as long as a song in several stanzas supplies a cramped soul with air. In any event, the Flounder’s “personalist” interpretation was contradicted before the Women’s Tribunal. Sophie, as Associate Judge Griselde Dubertin, concurring with the prosecution, declared, acted not out of childish love, but for the sake of freedom. For reasons of principle.
After the soup the company was already in high spirits. Over the smoked salmon jokes passed around the table. The stuffed calf’s head was easily cut in slices. Rapp served his guests. All ate; only the general held back. Ah, how beautiful life was! The Polish uhlan praised the stuffing. The Westphalian colonel asked for a second helping. Le Gros gobbled and for the third time related his morning victory over the Russians. Dressed in English cloth from top to toe, Zetsche the Saxon merchant talked and talked with his mouth full. Rapp didn’t want to overtax his stomach at the evening meal; after the soup and salmon, only a spoonful of saffron rice and the barest morsel of the crispy calf’s muzzle. He encouraged his guests to eat their fill and join him in drinking to the emperor, to France, and to this bounteous mushroom year.
When Count Wojczinski pressed him to take a little something, he helped himself from the top of the dish to a calf’s eye, a traditional delicacy. Vivats and flowery phrases followed. Already voices were rising. Merchant Zetsche praised the Continental Blockade as if a shrewd Saxon had thought it up. The Westphalian had started talking more than he meant to. The Poles had begun to sing. Le Gros was quoting himself and other heroes.
And knowing the governor’s guests and their liking for riddles and charades, Sophie, before putting the stuffed calf’s head in the oven, had incised the date of the Revolution, the present date, and, in tiny letters, the initials of her friend Fritz in each of the fat cheeks, and tinted the incisions with saffron. Crisp-roasted skin announced the date at which the youth of Europe had conceived hope. Some of the gentlemen, who knew Sophie’s undiminished esteem for the heroes of the Revolution, joked, but within tactful limits. Young Count Wojczinski even delivered himself of an enthusiastic speech in praise of Mirabeau. Another of the Polish uhlans countered with sayings of Robespierre. Danton and Saint-Just were cited. Gironde and the Mountain, the Convention before and after the September murders, argued over minimum and maximum. And Marat proclaimed the despotism of freedom.
But while, stimulated by the fly agaric in the soup, they were still re-enacting the Revolution with argument, counterargument, and mimed reminiscences of the guillotine, at the same time trying to guess whom the initials F. B. incised in the calf’s head might stand for—Rapp, who had a strong suspicion, kept aloof from the conversation—muscarine, the mushroom poison specific to the sulfur tuft and the destroying angel, began to take effect. A slight twitching of the facial muscles. Dilated pupils. Outbreaks of sweat. Zetsche and the Westphalian had their eyes crossed. Fuddled hand movements. Glasses were knocked over. Le Gros’s heroic stutter. Then the panther cap induced quarrelsome agitation—in everyone except Rapp. At first the remarks about the relationship between the Committee of Public Safety and the guillotine had been rather good-natured, but now national antagonisms erupted. Poland accused France of betrayal. Saxony called the Rhenish Confederation a shame and a disgrace. Since words could no longer be uttered and weapons were absent from the table, the patriots brandished bottles and the carving knife. Chairs fell backward. No sooner had the Saxon contemptuously spat out the words “fat slob,” than the beefy Westphalian was at his throat. Aghast, Rapp moved out of the way but neglected to summon the watch. Nevertheless, he grabbed a heavy silver candlestick to defend himself with, for suddenly, after Le Gros had cut down one of the Polish uhlans with the carving knife, Count Wojczinski tore some ornamental cavalry sabers off the wall. The Westphalian released the strangled Zetsche and impaled himself on a saber Le Gros had picked up. Next the heroic colonel struck the second uhlan down. Then, staring into empty space, Le Gros and Wojczins
ki, their nervous systems shattered and their tongues paralyzed, dispatched each other—pierced and tattered, they lay clutching each other in a last convulsive embrace.
Only Rapp, with his candlestick, was still standing. The flames died down. Not the faintest stirring of life. The deadly amanita, which ordinarily takes effect the following day, would have no occasion to destroy any red blood corpuscles.
Then at last members of the house staff appeared, among them Sophie. The orderly officer summoned the watch. Rapp made a first report: six dead, including one civilian. By pure chance he himself had come off unharmed. What had started out as an innocent little quarrel among officers had ended tragically. Women, gambling debts, offended honor, especially the effrontery of the civilian, had lashed them—see for yourself—into a frenzy.
Then the governor tersely ordered a clean-up. The remains of the calf’s head and stuffing were removed. The bodies were lined up and covered with cloths. Rapp left it to the orderly to supply the watch with further details. When Sophie’s weeping threatened to look incriminating, he led his cook to the open terrace overlooking the garden and put his uniformed arm over her shoulder. She let him, possibly giving him some happiness.
A moonless night lay over the besieged city. The crackle of sporadic musket fire could be heard from the direction of Schellmühle. Just to annoy, the Prussian batteries were firing from Ohra, doing little damage. In the Old City, not far from Bucket Makers’ Court, two houses were burning, throwing a side light on the Church of Saint John. Wind in the lindens, wind in the maples. The first leaves were falling. The garden smelled of autumn. Now Rapp, too, was in tears. While they were standing on the garden terrace, the governor of the Republic of Danzig, whose name is still borne by an avenue in Paris, advised his cook to take a few weeks off. The terrible scene, all that young blood, the lifeless rigidity of the twisted corpses, Wojczinski hacked to pieces—all that must have been a shock to her. An investigation was inevitable, and he didn’t want her to be further tormented. Even if she, dear child, were innocent in a higher sense, they were likely to question her very severely. She could always count on his affection, even if she regarded him as an enemy and would not accept his love. Yes, he knew what had happened, and all things considered he was sorry he hadn’t tried the calf’s-head stuffing. A voice—Rapp wouldn’t say from where—had forewarned him. Ah, if only he were her Fritz, imprisoned in the fortress. He hoped she, Sophie, would forgive him. He was only human. “Go now. I shall miss you.”
And so it was that Sophie Rotzoll went underground. Pastor Blech knew a safe place for her. Soon the warehouses on Warehouse Island went up in flames. The blaze was believed to have been started not by enemy fire but by terrorist action. Rapp had few dinner guests after that.
Afraid
Shout, shout in the woods.
Mushrooms and fairy tales
are overtaking us.
Every bulb sprouts new terror.
Still under cover,
yet the funnels of fear round about
are already full up.
Someone has always been here.
Demolished bed—was it me?
My predecessor left nothing intact.
We distinguish tasty,
unpalatable, and poisonous mushrooms.
Many connoisseurs of mushrooms die young,
leaving well-filled notebooks behind them.
Milk caps morels destroying angels.
I gathered mushrooms with Sophie
before the emperor went to Russia.
I lost my spectacles
and used my thumb;
she kept finding and finding.
Three at table
No single one of them could ever hold me. I had dealings with them all, even with Helga Paasch when she was still selling the vegetables she raises in Britz from a stand at the Berlin weekly market, and for a whole season I got my rutabaga and carrots for practically nothing. My affair with Ruth Simoneit turned out badly, but it’s not true that she started swilling first cognac, then cheap vermouth, on my account. With Sieglinde Huntscha I can do it any time. It’s an old established habit, and I never dream about it. But one day when we were young and absent-minded, Bettina von Carnow and I almost got engaged, because of a damp, cold autumn mood. Hardly anything happened between Therese Osslieb and me, though I can well imagine a lingering fried-potato relationship. My esteem for Ms. Schönherr hasn’t diminished over the years, even if she doesn’t care to remember that night in Bielefeld (or was it Kassel?): “You must be mistaking me for someone else. Men with the collector’s instinct are always doing that.” Of course Ilsebill’s suspicions are exaggerated, but I admit I like it best with Ulla Witzlaff. She keeps me stable-warm. Nothing is missing. Everything is possible. Her laughter would make a stone calve. We’re happiest sitting in the kitchen. I must have been out of my mind the other day when I started something new—or, worse, warmed up something old.
We got to talking during a recess in the trial. Yes, yes, it’s the case of Sophie Rotzoll that brought us back together. We behaved as if there were a possibility of starting up again, as if it were not completely over and done with. A pharmacist by trade, she, too, is an associate judge at the Women’s Tribunal. Though a few years older than Ilsebill (who’s just a bit matronly), Griselde will be girlish for years to come. Two or three more wrinkles around the eyes, a touch of bitterness at the corners of the mouth; otherwise she has hardly changed.
We’ve known each other since the days before the Wall. (When I was still more or less going with Sibylle Miehlau.) Though she thought me too solid in a masculine kind of way and therefore insensitive, we got along nicely for a time. Her periodic speeches of dismissal ended with sound observations such as “You’ve always got to be protective, carry suitcases, light cigarettes, the fatherly act.” Unfortunately she’s drawn to weak, inhibited types. So she shook me off and heroically sacrificed herself for a punk who was only interested in her drugstore and bank account, and who dropped her soon afterward to study theology at government expense. Then my affair with Billy foundered. And something else, I forget what, went wrong at the same time. Anyway, the whole thing had receded into the dim past, all I remembered was a vague misunderstanding, and then suddenly, when the case of Sophie Rotzoll was taken up, something in me began to tick. And Ilsebill, who always had a good nose for these things—Witzlaff was the only one she failed to suspect—flew into a rage: “First Simoneit, then Huntscha, with me pregnant, and I mean pregnant! And now this! That’s why you’re always going away. Back and forth, back and forth. I want a talk with her. Right away. Woman to woman. To get things straight. See?”
Resistance was unthinkable. “All right. We’ll invite her. I’ll cook something. Big three-way discussion. If she’ll come. Ridiculous, this jealousy! When you know I’m always thinking of you …”
And so, because Ilsebill badgered me and wanted to get things straight “once and for all,” I invited Griselde Dubertin (a Huguenot family from way back) to join us in a jellied calf’s head: “Oh, come on. I’ll pay for the plane and the train, too. You’ll have to get acquainted some time.” While I was at it, I should have crowded the whole lot of them around our table, Osslieb and Helga Paasch and even Ms. Schönherr and—so Ilsebill could finally get everything straight—Ulla Witzlaff as well; the expense be damned. I said as much to Ilsebill: “Why just Dubertin? That’s water under the bridge. Why not Carnow and Paasch? All in the same dishwasher, Ilsebill! So you’ll finally get it all straight!”
But she wanted to keep it intimate. We were three at table. Griselde came over the weekend. Just that Friday she had pronounced the Flounder guilty as a traitor and counterrevolutionary. Whereupon he once again played dead and (belly up) forced an adjournment of the Tribunal. The Flounder Party protested and demanded affidavits concerning the admissibility of special mushrooms as political weapons in the struggle for emancipation.
I asked Griselde to come in mystic green, because Ilsebill could be expecte
d to wear fly-agaric red. I was looking forward to the discussion. And I was determined to make my jellied calf’s head “à la Sophie” something special. But to tell the truth, I’d rather have hidden away in the kitchen with Witzlaff, within earshot of her serenely clicking knitting needles (knit two, purl two). Or concealed myself behind her church organ and had a real good cry, while she cut loose at the keys: “Out of the depths to Thee I cry… .” Or her voice—Lord, what a voice she has!—might have carried me over the Jordan: “Bitter tears and sorrow’s breath, anguished yearning, fear and death …” For the business with Ruth Simoneit is still on my mind. Maybe she did start swilling vermouth on my account. And all I do with Griselde is talk and argue about the old days. And with Ilsebill, too, things are getting more and more difficult—these daily quarrels! The pleasure she takes in demolishing the man she loves. Her fury that redoubles after a brief pause, and all because she couldn’t manage to get pregnant by herself (without male help). And yet, as far as I’m concerned, now and forever, there’s no one but Ilsebill Ilsebill… .
And then we were three at table. (As a present for Ilsebill, Griselde brought a whole pile of women’s lib books: instructions for the new pecking order. For me she brought potholders: “For the cook!”)
Much as I’d been looking forward to it, I did not enjoy that meal. The two of them hit it off on sight. They harmonized in color and voice. Before I brought on the jellied calf’s head in its bowl and unmolded it unharmed onto a platter—how it shivered, how it shook!—the two of them had agreed that I never gave any more than a small fraction of myself. I could never fully make up my mind. I always had something else in view. “Subterfuges. His everlasting subterfuges! Right now, for instance! He’s at it again!” cried Ilsebill. “Just look at him, Griselde. That snotty look on his face! He’s not here at all. He’s miles away. He’s always got company in the back of his mind.”
