Gunter Grass - The Flounder

"On the sideboard stand, over the sofa hang, the photographs of young men in dress uniform, some with an innocent smile, others with a look of earnest concentration, whose earnestness or smile never got beyond the stage of promise. In drawers and portfolios lie school diplomas, letters from the front, their last written words—'I am well and happy here'—and black-bordered newspaper clippings, which after the terse announcement once again list all medals and decorations. A millionfold inheritance without political consequences. Did the women voters say a massive 'no' when — the ruins were still there for all to see — rearmament was decreed? Not at all; they resigned themselves to the perpetuation of this male-ordained madness. And even when women have gained political influence or power, they have always—

from Madame Pompadour to Golda Meir and Indira Gandhi — conducted their politics in the Procrustean bed of the male historical consciousness, and that, as I have shown, means war. Can this be changed? Ever, soon, at all?

"The Womenal will have consequences. Our time-phase bears the imprint of the women's liberation movement. Women have been politicized. They have organized; they are fighting, refusing to be silenced. Already they have registered partial successes. But — I ask myself with misgiving — will women's striving for social equality end by shattering the male ethic? Or will equality between the sexes merely intensify the male striving for power?

"I am almost inclined to fear that womankind lacks counsel, sustained, reliable, or, to put it plainly, supernatural counsel. But as an embodiment of the guilty male and — as has been demonstrated — warlike principle, am I fit to advise the female cause, and henceforth the female cause alone?

"I want to. I could. I already know how. Let the Womenal judge."

Just as my Ilsebill always wants both at once, to freelance and to hold a regular job, to live in the country and to enjoy the scenario of city life, just as on the one hand she strives for the simple life (baking her own bread), but on the other hand requires certain conveniences (most recently an automatic clothes dryer), for which reason her wishes, violently as they conflict, are constrained by force of will to run along in pairs — so, after the Flounder's peroration, when a verdict was at last to be pronounced, was the Women's Tribunal (or Womenal) torn. Strictly speaking, death would have been fitting punishment, if his advice (as expiation) had not been needed.

Taken as a whole, the Tribunal wanted both; its parts wanted this or that. While the Flounder Party raised objections to the liquidation of the accused, opposed the death penalty on principle, and contemplated at the most a symbolic punishment, after which the Flounder would be taken on as a repentant adviser and restored to his element, the radical minority were determined to forgo his advice and expunge the Flounder.

Prosecutor Sieglinde Huntscha demanded death by elec-

trocution. Griselde Dubertin wanted to add daily-increased doses of mercury to his drinking water. Ruth Simoneit was for cooking him alive. And as for the court-appointed defense counsel, while on the one hand she demanded acquittal, on the other she pleaded for humane punishment, that is, confinement and psychiatric treatment.

No clear-cut verdict was arrived at. Since both the Revolutionary Advisory Council and the associate judges were divided, a majority could at most have been found for postponement of sentencing. Silent and deathly pale, as though he had decided to become an astral body, the Flounder waited.

And then, at the prompting of Associate Judge Ulla Witzlaff, Ms. Schonherr, the presiding judge, suggested a compromise for which my Ilsebill might have voted, since it promised to satisfy both wishes, the wish for harsh punishment and the wish for prolonged expiation. She proposed that in the Flounder's presence, under his obliquely set eyes, impossible for him to ignore, at a long table — which would make it necessary to remove three rows of seats from the former movie house — at which the associate judges, the Advisory Council, the prosecution, the defense, and a few representatives of the public would be seated, an ostentatious, memorable, ritual, solemn, and grandiose flounder dinner be held. Ms. Helga Paasch undertook, through her connections with the Berlin wholesale trade, to deliver the required number of flounders to the kitchen of Therese Osslieb's restaurant, where nine or, when Erika Nottke expressed concern that nine would not be sufficient, eleven good-sized specimens ranging from four-and-a-half to nine pounds each (at wholesale prices the bill came to 285 marks) were promptly saut^ed in tarragon butter, deglazed with white wine, covered with stock, simmered, seasoned with dill and capers, and finally, along with the roe and milt, which are well developed in June, placed in preheated serving dishes, covered with aluminum foil, and (along with boiled poatoes and cucumber salad) conveyed to Steglitz by cab.

In the onetime Stella Cinema the table, forming a horseshoe around the Flounder in his tank, had been festively set. Candles had been lit. Lemon slices had been bedded on lettuce leaves. Chilled Riesling stood in readiness. The steaming

dishes were brought in. The Womenal seated itself. After a short but, despite the solemn occasion, whimsical speech, Ms. Schonherr served first the court-appointed defense counsel, then the prosecutor. The flounder dinner began.

I had better explain how I came to have the honor of attending, although, so soon before her confinement, I should have stuck it out with my Ilsebill. The representatives of the public were chosen by lot. And when I drew one of the lucky lots, giving me the privilege of being the only man present among fifty-four women, Ilsebill had no objection. "Don't miss it on my account. I'll be all right. It's sure to be a couple of days more. I'll send you a wire if necessary or get someone to page you in your harem."

I sat between an old lady, a librarian by profession, and a young schoolteacher who refused to touch the milt though I called it a "delicacy." She said she abominated male organs but would like some of the female roe. I was glad Ulla Witz-laff was sitting across the table from us, with her head slightly tilted. (She took some of the milt.)

Far away, behind the convicted Flounder's tank but recognizable, sat Griselde Dubertin and Ruth Simoneit. Hage-dorn and Giillen were also provocatively present. I was so excited I made faces. (Let's hope they don't start fighting.) So be extra gentlemanly. Bridge gaps in the conversation. Help to carve and serve the flatfish. How easily the white flesh let itself be removed from the backbone. Deftly I served the ladies. "I recommend a few drops of lemon juice. The cheeks, I assure you, are delicious. Would you care for a slice of the tail piece, Ms. Nottke? Just a little more broth and some capers? How strikingly the dill enhances the taste. And don't forget to save the boiled white eyes. Flounder eyes bring luck and make all our wishes come true."

So I made myself useful to the ladies. I refilled wine glasses, filleted deftly, offered "Another potato?" and even called the girls of the Advisory Council by their first names. I joked with Ilona, smiled at Gabriele, had a kind word for the always gloomy Emma, and was almost of the same opinion as Alice. I livened up the conversation by dissecting a turbot head with anatomical acumen and cracking jokes, but always at the proper moment resumed the gravity required by the

solemn occasion. I praised the wise verdict, called the Flounder's peroration "artfully forthright," characterized the Wom-enal as an epoch-making institution, quoted from the well-known ancient Greek feminist play, spoke in passing of my Ilsebill's impending confinement—"She wants a boy so badly!" — but added at once that I, the father, would be equally overjoyed with a girl, distributed good-luck charms — fisheyes— raised my glass in a toast, and, when nothing remained of the flounders but eleven sets of ravaged heads, fins, skin, and bones, took the liberty, as the very onliest man present, of making a little speech.