by Günter Grass
She looked like a young girl with wrinkles, scrawny and flat-cheated. And the box, which hung on a strap, and which she used to …
Come on, Pat, you need to be more specific. Let’s get the facts straight first. The Agfa box came on the market in 1930 but it wasn’t the first box camera. Naturally, the Americans had one even before 1900, the Brownie, which Eastman Kodak sold en masse. But Agfa introduced the six-by-nine format that was later picked up by Zeiss-Ikon’s Tengor and Eho’s so-called People’s Camera. The Agfa box was the first camera bought by ordinary Germans, when its slogan Get more out of life with photography …
That’s what I was about to say. It was that very box, which Mariechen was given by an uncle or aunt when she was still a young thing and had just started, or maybe just finished, her apprenticeship back in Allenstein.
And that Agfa box came with two rolls of Isochrom and a beginner’s instruction booklet, all for sixteen reichsmarks—I looked it up.
And that was the same box she used later to snap pictures of you, Taddel, burying Jorsch’s Matchbox cars in the sandbox, and then of my guinea pig when she was …
But mostly the two of us, doing flips on the horizontal bar behind the house.
She also snapped pictures of our father on the bar, because when friends came over he always wanted to demonstrate that gymnastics-wise he could pull off an upward circle or sometimes even a full circle with the best of them.
But much later, when Mariechen took pictures of me, though sadly that didn’t happen often, she was completely unobtrusive. She would stand off to one side, looking somehow lost, skinny as she was. She seemed alone, not mournful, exactly, which theoretically would have been understandable, more like absent. I’m just a leftover, she told me when she came with my papa, my mother, and me to the Franco-German folk festival in Tegel, where we rode the flying swings, soaring through the air. Such a treat.
Exactly, Nana. She said the same thing about her Agfa box, which looked battered, its corners all dented: This is the only thing left over from all the stuff my Hans and I had, and that’s why it means so much to me.
When we asked her, What are you left over from? she would always bring up the war.
Not her Hans’s experiences in the war, only the things she considered important. My Hans, she told our father, didn’t get home often, except when he had leave or was travelling on assignment. He must have seen awful things at the front. In the east, I mean, and everywhere. Indescribable. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
Her studio must have been somewhere else at the time, still on the Kudamm, but more out towards Halensee.
Father got to hear a long story about that, and Pat and I eavesdropped: Towards the end there, we were bombed out. A good thing my Hans was off at the front and had the Leica and the Hasselblad with him. Not a thing left. The whole kit and caboodle burned to a crisp, while down in the cellar I …
Our entire collection of negatives just melted. Nothing left of the lights but scrap. Only the box survived, who knows why. Just singed a bit, especially the leather case it came in.
And then she added, My box takes pictures of things that aren’t there. And it sees things that weren’t there. Or shows things you’d never in your wildest dreams imagine. It’s all-seeing, my box. Must be a result of the fire. It’s acted crazy ever since.
Sometimes she’d say, That’s how it is, children, when you’re left over. You hang around with some screws loose.
We never knew just who or what had screws loose. She or the box, or both.
As for the Hasselblad and the Leica, father told me what happened to them—he’d heard the story several times: My Hans managed to get them through the war. Even though he was a soldier, he never had to fire a gun, just took pictures at the front. That’s what he came back with. He also had unused rolls of film, a whole knapsack full. Those were our capital after the war. That’s how we got started the minute we heard: Peace is here, finally.
In the beginning her Hans photographed only the occupation forces, mostly Amis, also an English colonel.
Then even a French general sought them out. He paid with a bottle of cognac.
And one time three Russkies made their way up the stairs. With vodka, of course.
The Amis brought cigarettes.
And the Tommies gave them tea and corned beef.
And Mariechen told us one time, No, no, children, we never used the box to snap pictures of the occupation soldiers. My Hans used only the Leica, and sometimes the Hasselblad. To him the box was a reminder of before, when the two of us still had fun together. Besides—but you know this—it has some screws loose, the box. Only when my brother—Jorsch, I mean—refused to let the subject drop …
Right, I wanted to know what the deal was …
… and asked, What does that mean, has some screws loose? she promised, One of these days I’ll show you boys what happens when you’re left over, have screws loose, and see things that aren’t there, or aren’t there yet. Besides, you two are still too little and too cheeky, and don’t believe the things my box spits out when it’s having a good day. It has seen things ahead of time, ever since it survived the fire.
When we went with father to visit her, the two would start whispering the minute she emerged from her darkroom.
She’d send us out on the balcony or give us empty film canisters to play with.
The two of them never told us what was going on, just dropped hints, acting all mysterious. Still, we could guess it always had something to do with that long book of father’s, with dogs and mechanical scarecrows. When it was finished, the cover had a hand forming a shadow that looked like a dog’s head.
But when we asked him about Mariechen’s photos, all father said was, You’re not old enough to understand. And to mother he said, It’s probably because she comes from Masuria. What our Mariechen sees is far more than we ordinary mortals can see.
And it wasn’t till then, but before he’d finished typing his Dog Years, that you came along, Lara.
On a Sunday, no less.
Now we finally get to hear about the guinea pig …
Hold on, Nana, we aren’t done yet.
Somehow our little sister wasn’t exactly what we’d expected.
Even before she learned to walk, Lara would only smile tentatively, as father put it.
That hasn’t changed.
And then, once she was walking, she’d always veer off to one side—right, Jorsch?
Or you trailed along behind us, never raced on ahead.
Whenever father or mother wanted to take you by the hand, when we went for a Sunday stroll from Roseneck to the Grunewald, you’d clasp your hands behind your back.
And you didn’t laugh properly till later, when you got a guinea pig, and then only when the guinea pig squeaked.
You could even imitate the squeaking.
I still can. Want to hear?
And because our Lara never smiled for the camera, good old Marie snapped picture after picture of her.
First on Karlsbader Strasse, then in Friedenau, on the swing at the back of the house, or at the table, with her empty dessert plate in front of her …
And again and again with her guinea pig.
Then one time you let her play with the neighbours’ guinea pigs, and one of them must have been a male, because before we knew it …
That was what I’d been longing for. See, when Taddel came along, and turned out to be a little devil, and there I was, stuck between three brothers, and all I heard was Taddel this and Taddel that, because you were so-o-o little and so-o-o darling, and no matter what got broken, it was never your fault—shut up, Taddel, my turn!—well, Mariechen took pity on me, and with that old-fashioned box of hers snapped pictures for me, pictures of my guinea pig as her belly got rounder and rounder. She’d shoot an entire roll, again and again. And I was the only one she showed the pictures to, not the rest of you. Now that made me laugh. But none of you—not you twins, and certainly not you, Taddel—would believe
me when I told you what was in those little pictures she conjured up in her darkroom. I’m not kidding: in each one you could plainly make out three adorable newborn guinea pigs. So sweet, nursing from their mother. The box could predict such things—that there’d be exactly three. And when they were born, it actually was a litter of three. One more adorable than the next. No, all equally adorable. But I hid those photos. Now I had four guinea pigs. That was too many, of course, so I had to give two of them away. By then I was secretly wishing for a puppy—because guinea pigs aren’t really that interesting. All they do is guinea pig stuff, eating and squeaking, which stops being fun after a while. But the rest of the family were against a puppy. A dog in the city, where it has no room to run free—what good is that? mama said. Our father didn’t really mind, but he delivered one of his pronouncements: There are already more than enough dogs in Berlin. Marie was the only one in favour. So one day, when all the others were busy in the house, she took pictures of me under the apple tree, muttering under her breath old-fashioned words like balsam and salve and emollient. Then she whispered, Make a wish, little Lara, wish for something nice! And when she showed me the pictures a few days later—there were eight—each picture had a tousled puppy in it, sitting on my left or my right, jumping on me, begging, licking, offering me its paw, or giving me a kiss. It had a curly little tail and was clearly a mutt, just like Joggi, when I got him a few years later. But this is our little darkroom secret, Marie said, and she kept all the photos, because, as she said, No bugger will ever believe us.
That’s not true—we all believed …
You, Taddel, were the only one who didn’t, in the beginning …
You thought we were off our rockers.
So did you, Jasper, at least at first …
… but then you had to believe it, when that business with you and your pal turned out to be true.
Do you have to bring that up, Paulchen?
But when Lena and I joined the family much later, we never doubted your Mariechen for a moment, because sometimes she could fulfil our secret wishes, just as she did for you—I mean, we both wished we could have our papa all to ourselves, not just now and then.
Okay, okay, but no one has any proof …
That’s how I see it, too, Jasper. And to this day I don’t understand how I could believe all that stuff as a child and be convinced I’d really seen it. But now that my own little daughter has her heart set on a puppy, just as I did, I’d love to have the kind of wishing box good old Marie had, a box that acts totally crazy when everything around it seems infuriatingly rational. But when my Joggi—first in the photos and then in reality …
… he wasn’t exactly pedigreed.
… more like your typical mutt.
… and ugly as sin …
… but still a very special little dog. Everyone acknowledged that, even you boys sometimes. When you weren’t quarrelling. And then there was you, Taddel. No wonder I got in the habit of whining, squeezed in between you boys. You called me Squeezebox. Supposedly father called me his Little Squeezebox one time, probably when I needed cheering up. But only my Joggi could really cheer me up. He was a smart little dog, and funny, too. It made me laugh when he tilted his head to one side and smiled. He was also perfectly housetrained, and always looked left and right to check whether cars were coming when he was crossing the street. I taught him that, so he’d know what to do in traffic. Joggi obeyed beautifully. Except that sometimes he’d disappear for hours at a time, gallivanting, you boys called it; that was a habit I couldn’t train him out of. Not every day, but about twice a week he’d take off. Sometimes on a Sunday. And no one knew where he was till Marie got on his case. We’ll figure it out, my little Lara, she would say. And when Joggi came back from one of his outings, tilted his head as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and smiled, she planted herself in front of him and snapped pictures with her box. Usually standing, sometimes kneeling. Click, click, in quick succession. Now I’m going to lock you in the darkroom! she exclaimed whenever she finished a roll. And sure enough, the very next day Marie brought me, and only me, the prints: eight little photos that showed my Joggi trotting along Niedstrasse, disappearing down the Underground steps on Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz, then sitting quietly on the platform between an old woman and some guy, then jumping into an open carriage, his curly tail waving. There he was, surrounded by total strangers, wagging his tail, offering his paw, letting people pet him, even smiling, I swear. Next you could see him leaving the train at Hansaplatz, running up one staircase and down another, then sitting calmly on the opposite platform, looking to the left till the train to Steglitz came along and he jumped on. In the last photo you could see Joggi back on Niedstrasse. He was in no hurry to get home. He dilly-dallied along fences, sniffed every tree, raised one hind leg. It goes without saying that I didn’t show those pictures to anyone, certainly not to you boys. But when our father or mother would ask, Where’s your Joggi? Off roaming again? I didn’t lie: Joggi likes to travel on the Underground. Recently he changed trains at Zoo station, on his way to Neukölln, no doubt. Maybe he has a crush on a female there. He’s been as far out as Tegel, too. He often goes all the way to the Südstern, changing trains along the way, to stroll along Hasenheide, because it’s an area with lots of dogs. Who knows what little adventures my Joggi has on his excursions. He’s a typical city dog. Last week he was in Kreuzberg, running along the Wall as if he were looking for a hole where he could slip into the East for a while … I’m just as curious as you are to know what he’s up to. He always finds his way home, though. But no one was willing to believe me, least of all you boys.
We’ve heard that story before.
Still sounds crazy to me.
Father told me at the time, Anything’s possible, considering the shock the box received during the war when it was the only thing left over, the only thing …
And when we rode the flying swings together, my papa would say, Just wait and see, Nana, everything will be fine some day, when we’re together.
Our father certainly knows how to spin a tale.
And afterwards you never know what’s really true.
Well, let’s let Paulchen explain what was going on with the box, and what was totally made up.
When you were in the darkroom with her, you must’ve witnessed all her tricks.
She told us you were her assistant.
Right up to the end, too.
Here’s all I know: whatever Marie caught with her Agfa showed up exactly in the prints. There was no hocus-pocus, however crazy it may have seemed.
That’s what I was saying, just like Paulchen: Joggi looked perfectly normal taking the Underground. He’d go pretty far afield, changing trains several times. Only once he got off at a station nearby, at Spichernstrasse, because he wanted to follow a female—a poodle, I think it was. But the poodle had other ideas …
And Joggi had more tricks, but enough of that for now. Once the father has crossed out a few words, toning down an expression here, making another more pointed there, further details occur to him in connection with Marie and her box. The way she often stood off to one side with a bleak expression. The way she would stare at something as if she were drilling holes in it. That was why she seemed alone even with other people around. Before she disappeared into her darkroom, you would hear her hissing under her breath: curt curses, lengthy invocations of her dead Hans, Masurian endearments.
And he sees a rapid succession of images, each one obliterating the one before it, of Marie standing, her feet close together, or snapping her long-ago shots, click, click, from a crouching position: childlike wishes, obsessive anxieties, but also postscripted and prefigured scenes from the parents’ marriage.
That is not what the daughters want to discuss, however, or the sons either; they were not allowed to see these things. It would have embarrassed them to view an entire roll of film showing their mother angrily smashing one wine glass after another while their father looked on in dismay; shard
s of glass behind the party tent, right after the dancing, because even then, just as many years later … That was how all-seeing the box was.
No Flash
THIS TIME THE father has staged a gathering that includes only the four firstborn. They have come together on the site of a former military base, now occupied by Greens, whose lifestyle can be characterized as more or less alternative. Here Pat has found a satisfactory refuge, and has made his siblings an offer: I’ll cook spaghetti for you, which is fast, with tomato sauce and grated cheese. I have some red wine on hand, or anything else you want to drink. There’s not much room here, but whatever.
His two children are with their mother, as they usually are on weekdays; Pat and his wife are separated. Jorsch had the shortest journey to Freiburg because he is working with a film crew nearby, shooting something along the lines of Black Forest ER—he is doing the sound. The same goes for Taddel, who is part of the same team as assistant director. From the labels of the bottles that Pat puts out on the table it is evident that the wine is from the region. Lara has managed to get away from her family for a few days. It’s a relief to be without children now and then.
They all praise the spaghetti. The table at which the siblings are seated has a piece of slate set into the middle for children to draw on. After his stint as an organic farmer, Pat completed an apprenticeship as a cabinetmaker, and he sawed, planed, fitted, and glued the table himself. Everyone admires the orderliness of his cosy apartment, which resembles a set of interlocking boxes. He has built a loft for his daughter and little son, and into the smallest box he has squeezed his study, which resembles a private archive. Cheek by jowl on the shelves are the diaries he has been keeping for years, filled with—well, everything that’s happened to me. The way I had to change time and again, make a fresh start …
Lara smiles tentatively. This time she plans to hold back. The director, steering the action by remote control, cannot help approving. In any case the twins will be intent on moving along the tale of their childhood.