by Günter Grass
A tape which records Erna Brakup’s babbling right after the toad calls evokes warmed-up memories. That was how my paternal Grampa and Grandma talked. That was how our neighbors talked, and the beer truck drivers, shipyard workers, Brösen fishermen, the women who worked in the Amada margarine factory, housemaids, marketwomen on Saturday, garbage collectors on Tuesday, they all yapped their words querulously, and even the schoolteachers yapped, though in a more refined way, and the postal and police officials, and on Sunday the pastor in the pulpit.
“It wasn’t just the government that tortured and badgered us …” After more than five decades of repression, the flow of Erna Brakup’s speech—few speakers of that dialect are still alive—contains rarities and peculiarities that are threatened with extinction: Who today knows what perlushken are? She spoke a dying language. “And that is why,” Reschke writes, “there was every reason to appoint her to the board of directors of the German-Polish Cemetery Association. She is close to ninety. When she goes to her grave, that pronunciation will be buried with her; one more reason for putting Erna Brakup on tape.”
I have more than half a dozen cassettes. But before I hasten to transcribe the first, we need a better understanding of this old woman, which calls for a brief detour to the world of high politics. No sooner had the negotiations for the founding of the Cemetery Association begun, than an official visit was announced, first in Warsaw, then in Gdańsk. The president of the West German Republic was coming to Poland in the hope of smoothing over, with a few well-formulated speeches, half a dozen blunders made by the chancellor, and of creating a favorable atmosphere for the day when these two peoples, who had so much to forgive each other, would be neighbors.
Erna Brakup was in the crowd when the distinguished guest, with retinue, coming down Long Street, appeared to listen to interpretations of past and current events, and cast knowing glances in all directions; he submitted to the inner and outer circles of security guards and photo journalists as a fact of life, was finally escorted up the stairs of the Right City Rathaus and, after waving down the stairs with reserved bonhomie, disappeared into the building. There treasures would be shown him, including some which, newly gilded by Alexandra Piątkowska years before, had recovered their former radiance. In the crowd of tourists and local curiosity seekers, who all stood still under the president’s gaze, Erna Brakup remained outside.
And this is what she said later on Reschke’s tape in her priceless dialect that cannot here be reproduced: “I’d have liked to talk with him. Now with the century coming to an end it would have given me pleasure. I hope to live to see the German Cemetery back where it used to be. And so does my younger sister, who high-tailed it across to the West right after the war and is now living in Bad Seeberg, Gorchfock Street No. 4. She will be able to come and lie here when it’s all over with her. I just wanted to say: many thanks, Herr Bundespräsident, for all your trouble in putting the German Cemetery through and satisfying the heartfelt wish of my sister Frieda. And I, too, I’d have told him, after being Polish for so long, hope, when our Father in Heaven calls me, to be in the German Cemetery and not with all the Polacks that put us through the wringer till there was nothing left. But there was such a crowd that I couldn’t catch him.”
Not only Erna Brakup but also Alexander and Alexandra were standing at the foot of the Rathaus steps flanked by stone candelabra. The tourists clapped when the statesman waved gently down at them, his silvery hair glittering in the sun. The citizens of the visited town were impressed by his grandeur but didn’t feel like clapping; even Reschke held back, though well aware that this official visit was propitious to the Cemetery of Reconciliation. The vice president of the National Bank, like Erna Brakup, was convinced that the visit of such a notable figure would be helpful. And Alexandra Piątkowska assured Jerzy Wróbel that her Aleksander had been instrumental in coordinating the president’s brief visit with the cemetery negotiations.
Later, long after the visitor has departed, I hear Piątkowska say on tape, against a background of rushes and over the calls of the toads: “What beautiful eyes, your president. Doesn’t need to wear dark glasses like ours. Good he came at right time. German Cemetery otherwise might have gone kaput.”
For obvious reasons and because he was fed up with the university anyway, Professor Reschke took a leave of absence. No sooner was he back in Bochum than he entrusted his praxis-oriented seminars to his assistants and canceled all his teaching activities for the following summer. This did not require him to tighten his belt. At the incorporation meeting, the board of directors of the Cemetery Association had voted the executive partners a flat salary; with that to fall back on, he had no qualms about leaving the university and his colleagues.
There were smirks of course, but Reschke didn’t let that bother him. His colleagues were now convinced that his carefully catalogued collection of hand-forged coffin nails, acquired over his long years of researching Baroque tombstones in North German cemeteries, was something more than a whim. The nails that gravediggers and sextons had brought him, crooked as well as straight, some corroded with rust, some with defective heads, and some that remained bright and sharp, most a good forefinger long and dating from the early Baroque to late Biedermeier, pointed to Reschke’s present enterprise. To Alexandra he wrote: “I never would have thought that this by-product of my doctoral thesis would take on importance …”
He set up an office in his bachelor’s apartment, which soon provided his university secretary with space and empty shelves. His collection of hand-forged coffin nails, along with his books, had to move into the living room.
Only then did Reschke check his wardrobe and, as the receipts bear witness, purchase a black worsted suit, black shoes, black socks, several gray-on-gray patterned ties, a black Borsalino, and a black umbrella to match an asphalt-gray raincoat, both made in Italy; for the Cemetery of Reconciliation was to be solemnly consecrated in the second half of June, with the first two burials taking place at the same time.
On his return to Gdańsk, his gift for her was a porcelain sink with accessories. While Reschke was taking care of everything, Piątkowska complemented his meticulous planning: while he and his office, for the time being on a half-day schedule only, were in communication with the visa division of the Polish Embassy, she, through the Orbis tourist bureau, reserved many single and double rooms for the mourners expected in the near future.
The bodies were to be shipped by a funeral company which had found a counterpart in Gdańsk and had already signed a contract with it. It had proved impossible to do business with the East German firm of the People-Owned Earth Furniture, whose coffins were at best adequate only for cremation. However, cremation, if desired, could take place close to the former home of the deceased. The restoration of the old crematorium on St. Michael’s Lane, whose furnaces had only recently been dismantled, was unthinkable at the moment.
Luckily Reschke entered all sorts of day-by-day trivia in his diary: “Now at last the leaky sink on Hundegasse can be replaced, and Alexandra is pleased that with all my other activities I did not forget her wish.”
Then the day came. Since the Bishop of Oliwa had accepted then suddenly saw fit to decline the invitation owing to a previous engagement, the Cemetery of Reconciliation was consecrated by Father Bieroński, the parish priest of St. Peter’s, and by consistory councilor Dr. (of philosophy) Karau, who together acted as an ecumenical doubles team. The presence of a Catholic and an Evangelical cleric reflected not only the denominational composition of the board of directors but also their determination not to segregate the burial ground by faith, as had been customary in the days of the United Cemeteries. The event was not widely publicized. Very little press, no television. Reschke did, however, commission a private film to tape—from a respectful distance—the consecration of the cemetery and the first burials. The materials in my possession include a videocassette with a running time of at least half an hour. After playing the tape several times—though admittedly it
has no soundtrack—I can say that I was almost there.
The consecration took place on the first day of summer, and was immediately followed by two burials in the far corner of the large area where the avenue leading to the main building of the Engineering School borders the Cemetery of Reconciliation. Despite fine weather—sunny to partly cloudy—only few curiosity seekers attended: some old women keeping shyly to one side, a few unemployed. In any case, the camera focused only on the mourners and Reschke, of course in his worsted suit, his Borsalino slightly tilted, and his rolled umbrella over his arm. Beside him, the gildress in mourning black, under a broad-rimmed hat, not without elegance. Then Frau Brakup, small, wizened, covered with a pot-shaped mushroom, her legs in rubber boots. And behind the couple, Jerzy Wróbel. Bald on top, but with long wavy hair on the sides, the picture of a perpetually bewildered artist. His windbreaker, which, Reschke never fails to point out, he wears on every occasion, has to suit every occasion.
Since on June 21, at the same time though elsewhere high politics was enacted, someone later said: The Reschke-Piątkowska team know how to link their interests to important dates; those two weren’t born yesterday. However, Reschke says in his diary that it was not intention but chance, pure chance, or providence if you will, in the choice of date for the first burials—a most gratifying providence: “The fact that on the same day, even at the same hour as the consecration of the Cemetery of Reconciliation, the Bundestag in Bonn and the Volkskammer in East Berlin officially recognized the western boundary of Poland, as established by international law, was extremely favorable to our enterprise. After August we were able to use the chapel of the former crematorium for funeral services. The White-Russian congregation had enriched the once boring emptiness of that starkly utilitarian room with Orthodox pomp.”
Then they were standing beside open graves. It was as if our couple had hand-picked the first two corpses: an elderly man of the Lutheran persuasion and an aged woman of the Catholic faith were buried so close together in time that both groups of mourners were able to attend both burials. In addition, the weather was such as to invite them to linger. The sunlight, filtered by shade trees, as the video bears witness, fell upon the mourners.
Returned to earth were: Egon Eggert, formerly of Danzig, Grosse Krämergasse 8, last residence Böblingen, age 82; and Auguste Koschnick, formerly of Nassenhuben, District of Danziger Niederung, last residence Peine, age 91. One coffin black, one walnut. Bieroński and the servers in white and violet. Karau in gown and bands.
According to Reschke’s report, not only relatives and friends of the deceased were present; several branches of the Homeland Association had sent observers; the League had sent Frau Johanna Dettlaff. Their purpose was to make sure that the German burials were conducted with dignity in Polish surroundings, to study the cemetery conditions, and report on the maintenance of the graves. Special interest was shown in double graves. Because Frau Martha Eggert, the widow of Egon Eggert, was present, she was able to secure a place by her husband’s side when the time came. All questions were asked in an undertone. And in a soft voice, always adjusted to fit the expression, Jerzy Wróbel answered like a dignitary.
Reschke’s diary entries still echo the emotion of the first burials. In the video I seem to see Piątkowska weeping under a broad-rimmed hat at both the first and the second memorial services. Touching, how the boyishly gawky priest of St. Peter’s apologized at the beginning of his brief funeral oration for his “very insufficient German.” Consistory councilor Karau’s sermon was rather too long, his sentences in constant search of metaphors, and terms such as “return” and “home soil” overemphasized. Frau Dettlaff, whom I believe I recognize in an imposing lady dressed in good quality mourning, after the consecration wished, in her capacity as the speaker of the League, to deliver a prepared speech, but Reschke managed to talk her out of it. Would she kindly deliver her contribution on another occasion less open to misunderstanding. He too had to restrain himself, for the occasion inspired many a pertinent thought. It all went very tactfully. On the whole, in the judgment of the press, the first burials in the Cemetery of Reconciliation were felt to be dignified and mercifully free of political static. While condolences were being expressed, the cameraman with slow panning shots captured the cruciform avenues of lindens, the large traffic circle, several clumps of trees, elms and chestnuts, the weeping willow and a copper beech, and finally he showed a certain Polish bias by including those who used the park, women with small children, pensioners, readers, a lone drinker, and a group of unemployed card players, none taking much notice of the burials. Then came the brick house like a witch’s cottage at the entrance to the park-cemetery, and with it the brass plate mounted on yellow brick, making it known in both German and Polish that in future the park would serve as a Cemetery of Reconciliation, a Cmentarz Pojednania.
Older mourners found it offensive that some of the younger mourners, among them the great-grandchildren of the deceased, had chosen to ride from the hotel to the cemetery and back in Chatterjee’s bicycle rickshaws, though Reschke notes that “nothing unseemly happened, for the rickshaws like the taxis covered the distance, which was the same, though the fare was much less, with crepe blowing on the side.”
What used to be called the funeral feast was held at the Hevelius. Both groups of mourners sat at long tables reserved for them at the restaurant. Reschke mentions in his notes that on this occasion Frau Johanna Dettlaff managed to make her moderate (all things considered) speech. Unfortunately I possess neither the text nor a recording. But when, in the course of that double feast, member of the board Erna Brakup came to life, the tape was running. Under and over the interference, I hear: “All right, I’ll take another slice of pork, our Heavenly Father gave me hands and no one has to press me … But I liked the burial, even if it wasn’t the same as it used to be, when it was called the United Cemeteries. It really made me hope to be lying there soon. Jessesmaria. Never mind, I can wait awhile …”
What can Reschke have been thinking when in his diary, describing the funeral feast, he compared the burial rites of the Mexicans and Chinese and ended by listing the advantages of cremation as practiced by the Hindus? He praises the minimizing of the corpses and has no qualms about speaking of “the need to save space.” Was he afraid that the Cemetery of Reconciliation might someday be full, in fact, overcrowded? Did he, one who expressly rejected mass graves—“Never again must that be allowed!”—have a vision of future mass funerals?
After escorting further burials in his new suit—with umbrella in rainy weather—joined by Piątkowska in expressing condolences but at the same time keeping a discreet eye on the orderly progress of the ceremonies, he broke off his stay in Gdańsk and busied himself at his headquarters in his Bochum apartment, providing the Cemetery of Reconciliation with a steady flow of material. In a short letter that seems to have been written in haste, we read: “It was right, my dearest, to set up the office so quickly, even if that makes my apartment too small for you and me. Frau von Denkwitz has proved helpful with the new work here. She has been my secretary for many years, and I can trust her implicitly. The bank balance is gratifying. Soon it will come to a round four million. The number of the burial-ready is mounting. Moreover, numerous small gifts, considerable amounts, including some from overseas, have been deposited in the bequest account that was opened early in June. Frau von Denkwitz is now working full time …”
The business was doing nicely, but my former classmate’s success was not unclouded: the mail brought a good many insulting letters. The newspapers were full of “malicious wit” and “cynical sallies.” So incensed was Reschke about such comments that I wonder whether my neighbor on the school bench could have been the same gangling, pimple-faced boy whom the slightest criticism reduced to tears. Better than average in almost all subjects, he let his friends copy from him, but wanted to be praised for it, above all praised. And when his crude drawing, with its prophetic vision of the city going up in flames under a
hail of bombs, brought him blame and only blame from all the students and teachers, he burst into tears—yet, come to think of it, he had foreseen correctly.
In any case Reschke thought it absurd that he of all people should be reviled as “an incorrigible revanchist,” as “profiteering at the expense of the dead.” One of the lampoons, headlined GERMAN CEMETERY PEACE ASSURED, accused him of aiming at “reconquest through corpses.” Reschke, an experienced writer of letters to the editor, replied, characterizing his organizational efforts as “the ultimate in international understanding.”
Obviously this Reschke can’t have been the lanky, pimple-faced boy so intent on praise. I see my former neighbor rather as a zealous troop leader who, in addition to organizing the potato bug campaigns, distinguished himself by setting up a collecting point where during the first or second winter of the Russian war woolens and other articles for the soldiers on the eastern front were collected and packed: sweaters, wristlets, long underwear, fur coats, ear muffs, and even skis. But that terrible drawing was also the work of troop leader Reschke, the Reschke who alone knew what the future would look like …
Anyway, the flood of supportive articles and enthusiastic letters outweighed the insults. Compatriots wrote even from America and Australia. Let a quotation from one letter stand for them all: “… and not so long ago, it gave me joyful satisfaction to read in our bulletin, which always arrives weeks late, that the United Cemeteries on Hindenburgallee have reopened. Congratulations! I am still hale and hearty; though going on seventy-five, I’m right in there at shearing time, but I’m thinking of accepting your generous offer. No! I don’t want to lie in foreign ground …” Soon bodies were arriving from overseas.