Gunter Grass - The Flounder

And true enough, we did all right without it. It was strictly private, and we were both affectionately distraits. (And I straightened out the business with Erika Nottke: "That's more of a paternal thing. She's been crying for entirely different reasons. Overworked and so forth. The Tribunal has also been a strain on her. She's just too young for it, I tell you, much too young.")

Afterward Sieglinde said, without poison in her fangs, "You probably want to, at that. Even now. You just force yourself to be rational. But then I don't always know what I want, either. Why don't you caress me? Go on! Quick! Caress me!"

Then (as usual) we took a cab out to Steglitz. She led me into the former movie house with her key. But this time she wanted to be present when I talked to the Flounder. He had no objection. He rose with animation from his sand bed and gave us a demonstration of fin play. He welcomed the change and paid Siggie old-fashioned compliments. Then we talked about my time-phase with Lena Stubbe. He reminded me of a few dismal love affairs that still set my teeth on edge. Then he mentioned what had only been hinted at in the court proceedings: my theft from the strike fund and Lena's nail-and-rope soup. I promised to write about all that. All of a sudden he said: "Oh yes, the book. Is it definitely going to be called 'The Flounder'? I insist. And you, too, Sieglinde — may I call you Sieglinde? — I want you to make sure he keeps this simple title, as the Women's Tribunal would wish. We are gradually approaching the great historical accounting. My son, it's time you drew up a balance sheet — take a special chapter for it. When you've finished with Lena Stubbe's death, have them all die again in their time-phases: Awa, Wigga, Mestwina, the High Gothic Dorothea, and, gruesomely, your Fat Gret. Agnes died horribly, Amanda peacefully, Sophie quietly and alone. . " Then he gave me literary advice. He told me to write at length about "Nail and Rope," then about "Bebel's Visit." "But don't forget, my son: no complications. Don't lose yourself in socialist theory. Even when writing about revisionism, always keep it simple. Like Lena Stubbe. She was no Clara Zetkin. She was a simple woman."

Sometimes late at night she goes to the station restaurant, which is still open, and eats a jellied cutlet. It's not yet certain whether Margaret, Amanda Woyke, or Lena steps through the revolving door. She doesn't want to be a cook any more, seasoning soups, rolling dumplings, sizzling herrings in skillets, head next to tail, always pondering what to put in last. She no longer wants to inspire praise and comparisons

in her guests — in rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief. She no longer wants to flatter any palate. Nor does she want ever again to force children to eat spinach. She wants to chastise her palate. Never again cook for any man, let the kitchen fire go out. She wants to take her distance from herself as she sits inside me or as, expressed by me, she becomes history. Her dated recipes: hasenpfeffer and Gdnseklein, codfish in dill sauce, beef hearts in dark beer, Amanda's potato soup, Lena's pork kidneys in mustard sauce. None of these are obtainable nowadays, they are obsolete; in a station restaurant that's open late at night she wants to apologize (as though palate-less) to a jellied cutlet with its chemical freshness.

Lena, Amanda, Fat Gret? There she sits in her skimpy coat and cuts herself piece after piece. Late trains are called out. (Rhenish, Hessian, Swabian voices.) In the station restaurant of Bielefeld, Cologne, Stuttgart, Kiel, or Frankfurt am Main, regardless, she motions to the waiter, who slowly, as though wishing to delay her century, appears between the empty tables and finally (it's me) gets there.

A second jellied cutlet without potato salad, bread, or beer. (Could it be Mother Rusch, cleverly disguised?) Questioned, I tell her the name of the preservative. She cuts, spears a piece with her fork, and shovels it in, as though driven to discharge a debt or fill up a hole or destroy someone (still Abbot Jeschke?) who has disguised himself as a jellied cutlet of the quality served in station restaurants that are open late at night.

I'm not sure whether I'm waiting on Amanda or Lena. The only one I would recognize (with dread) is Dorothea. Sometimes in serving I try to catch her with words like 'sweet Lord" or "nail and rope." But she doesn't hear me; she just goes on cutting her meat. When Lena or Amanda comes to our restaurant and gives her order, I get sensitive: I notice the draft that makes all food-serving waiting rooms wide open and timeless. There she sits alone. A simple woman who has seen plenty of trouble (including repeatedly me).

I bring Lena a third cutlet trembling in gelatin — there's no shortage — and zigzag between the empty, spotted tables, in order that she, entirely outside me, may have time to see me coming, each time by a different itinerary. (When we were

young and apples crunched under our bite. When without a word she let me march off with the Fifth Grenadiers. When they struck the Klawitter Shipyard. When she caught me in the kitchen with Lisbeth. When I beat her every Friday with my razor strop. When I hung from the nail and the rabbits were so scared that. .)

Before we have to close — because even station restaurants close some time — she'll want a fourth jellied cutlet without garnish, wrapped in a paper napkin to take out — where to? When she leaves in her skimpy coat — how round her back is— and vanishes into the revolving door, I wonder why she never gives me a tip. Can it be that Lena respects me in spite of everything that has happened and is yet to happen?

With Sophie,

so my poem begins,

I went gathering mushrooms.

When Awa gave me her third breast,

I learned to count.

When Amanda peeled potatoes,

I read the progress of my story

in the flow of her peelings.

Because Sibylle Miehlau wanted to celebrate Father's Day,

she came to a bad end.

Actually Mestwina wanted only to love

Saint Adalbert, just to love him forever.

While Abbess Rusch plucked Polish geese,

I mischievously blew downy feathers.

Agnes, who never slammed a door,

was always gentle and only half there.

The widow Lena attracted distress,

that's why her place smelled of cabbage and rutabaga.

Wigga, the haven I ran away from.

Beautiful as an icicle was Dorothea.

Maria is still alive, getting harder and harder.

But — said the Flounder — one is missing.

Yes — said I — beside me

Ilsebill is dreaming herself away.

I've eaten apples with all of them, on the garden bench, standing face to face at the kitchen table or under a tree, made tipsy by the fermenting windfalls — with Agnes before the plague carried me off, with Margret when Hegge came back from Wittenberg and tried to teach us religious fury, with Sophie when, still childlike, we played at revolution. We crunched the apples, exchanged significant looks as we bit, looked past each other (Dorothea and I on our pilgrimage to Aachen) in biting, or bit standing back to back, at which time Amanda, who was built like a guardsman, overtowered me by a head.

Sometimes we crunched our apples in adjoining rooms-Lena in the kitchen, I in the parlor. But wherever and however we were placed, in whatever century, a comparison always followed. By matching up our apples, bite against bite, we tested our love.

Other methods — dangerous ones — are known. Ours was harmless, and I can recommend it. By the imprints of our teeth we recognized how different, in spite of everything, we remained, what strangers to each other. I held the apple with the stem pointing heavenward and bit down toward the small end; Sibylle Miehlau (later called Billy) held the apple, before biting, by both ends. That way we blunted our teeth. That way we bore witness. That way cocooned feeling was made manifest. The surface: love; the inner lining: hate. Crosswise and lengthwise we bit, and heard ourselves biting.