The Call of the Toad

by Günter Grass

  His business trip is dated between late September and early October. He calls appointments in Frankfurt, Düsseldorf, and Wuppertal urgent, but political events of those days are absent from his diary. Only in the letter of October 4, the day after the bells east and west proclaimed one fatherland, do I read: “Now we have unity on paper. It means little to the people of the Ruhr District, with whom admittedly I am far from intimate; at the most it is a pretext for the usual bellowing in sports stadiums. You may be right, Alexandra, we Germans don’t know how to celebrate …”

  Then he has more to say about the money of the burial-ready. That it has been entrusted to us; that it must be managed with loving care and foresight. Money that lies idle does not make money. Accordingly, he endeavors to increase its value in hidden ways. “Let politics call attention to itself by noisy demonstrations of being alive; we, dearest, will quietly continue to keep faith with our dead; removed at last from the vicissitudes of history, let them rest in peace.”

  So much for Reschke’s intentions, which he brought from Bochum along with new, different presents, among them a stylish floor lamp. And yet the couple on Hundegasse were not able to live entirely for themselves and their idea of earth-bound reconciliation. Though in November cemetery activity remained in the forefront, in December great events were on the agenda in Poland. The prime minister, whom Piątkowska liked to compare with the Spanish knight of the mournful countenance, did not win in the first two rounds of elections held for the highest office in the land; defeated, he ceded the field to two rivals who were strong on promises. About the victor Alexandra said: “Was good one time for workers’ strike. Now he thinks he is little Marszał Piłsudski. Makes me laugh …”

  I almost admire the way in which both of them, sustained by their idea, lived more and more aloof from their nations; from a great height they looked past them, beyond them, their heads tilted. From their endless nightly discussions I can filter out half a dozen judgments on the German and Polish peoples. Such as: Now that the rich have unity, they are unable to behave like a mature nation; the poor, on the other hand, who were sure of themselves as a nation even when they did not have a state, are only good for resistance and lack democratic maturity. As a result we have runaway immaturity on both sides. “There will be trouble,” said Reschke. “Trouble we have already!” cried Piątkowska.

  To tell you what I think of these gloomy judgments is not among the tasks imposed upon me by my former classmate. I’ll say only that I would have difficulty giving a passing grade to two students of equal immaturity. But pessimists tend to be right. To the credit of our German-Polish couple, however, it might be said that they demonstrated maturity in dealing with the daily problems of wintering in Alexandra’s three-room apartment. She forgave him his know-it-allness and never denounced it as “typical”; he put up with her Russophobia by qualifying it to the point where it became disillusioned love. Perhaps it was the world crisis, whose images poured into the apartment, that made the couple so peaceable. Be that as it may, Piątkowska was not bothered by his bedroom slippers, while Reschke gave up trying to put order into her higgledy-piggledy library. More than that: it wasn’t only him that she loved but also his camel’s-hair slippers. And he loved, along with her person, the confusion of her ramshackle bookshelves. She had no desire to make him stop shuffling, nor he to make her stop puffing cigarettes. The Pole and the German! I could fill a picture book with them: no quarrels, congenial in every way, too good to be true.

  There were few visitors. The priest of St. Peter’s is mentioned and his one subject of conversation: the missing arch in the still war-damaged central nave of his church. Erna Brakup and Jerzy Wróbel came to dinner twice. Alexandra seems to have tried her hand at a Martinmas goose stuffed with apples and mugwort. On a tape dated mid-November Erna Brakup is heard: “Haven’t had a goose like this with apple in a long time. But I remember one time when Danzig was a Free State …” And then Wróbel learned about the price in gulden of Kashubian geese, and about all the people who were sitting around the table when Frieda Formella, Erna Brakup’s youngest sister, and Otto Prill, a foreman at the Amada margarine factory, celebrated their wedding in the autumn of 1932.

  The year dawdled to its end. The autumn went on and on, and the winter promised to be so mild that the Cemetery of Reconciliation, with the ground frozen no deeper than the blade of a spade, would fill up with no effort at all: row upon row of graves, urnfield after urnfield. I could sum up by saying that nothing happened except burials, were it not for the following note: “While in other respects the cemetery was operating normally, a controversy erupted at the November 5 meeting of the board of directors. Trouble ever since …”

  The trouble started on All Souls’, which they had wanted to celebrate quietly at the Hagelsberg cemetery: “More visitors than expected, undeterred by the long trip. The scarcity of hotel rooms caused bottlenecks, because the Cemetery of Reconciliation drew a large crowd. True, Denkwitz had warned me by telephone and by fax, but this onslaught! No end of complaints. The measly selection of flowers outside St. Dominic’s Market must have been really upsetting. Nothing but asters and chrysanthemums. At exorbitant prices. I had to promise that we would do better next time, and listen to insulting remarks about ‘Polish slovenliness.’ It wasn’t until the afternoon, less than an hour before dark, that we found time for the grave of Alexandra’s parents. Wróbel came with us. Familiar with all the long-abandoned cemeteries between Oliwa and Ohra, he then led us to an adjoining tract of land, the former garrison cemetery, which is in very poor condition. There we saw some true rarities, which Jerzy with bashful finder’s pride uncovered for us as relics of gray antiquity. For instance: in the midst of tangled undergrowth, a cross of shells, obviously done by masons who knew their job, with an inscription commemorating the French prisoners of war who had died in camps in the years 1870 and 1871. The arms of the cross terminating in trefoils. In another place Wróbel knew of a tall limestone stele with a rusty ship’s anchor in front of it, all hidden in a clump of weeds. In this case the death of several sailors from the cruiser SMS Magdeburg, and of a single sailor from torpedo boat No. 26, dated back to the war year 1914. And our friend had still other treasures for us: a travertine plaque embedded in a freestanding brick wall; on it in high relief over oak leaves, a police helmet from Free State days, and below, damaged by blows, the inscription: TO OUR DEAD. Alexandra was puzzled by a dozen polished black granite stones, each engraved with the names and dates of Polonized Tatars, along with a crescent moon and a star. None earlier than 1957. ‘What are they doing in military cemetery!’ she exclaimed. Wróbel, who like Alexandra showed an occasional chauvinist streak, could think of no explanation; embarrassed, he stood in his windbreaker among the stones and tried to justify the Tatar graves as ‘illegal burials.’ Not far away were the horrifying wooden crosses on children’s graves, where a year ago we had deciphered the plague year 1946 under German and Polish names. I said, ‘Do you remember, Alexandra …’—‘How I not remember, Aleksander,’ she said. ‘I carried the string bag with the mushrooms …’—‘And at Papa and Mama’s grave we had wonderful idea …’ That was how we spent All Souls’. Time caught up with us. I searched in vain for formula that would sum all this up; but even Jerzy and Alexandra stood petrified when at the dilapidated fence that bordered on the community gardens we discovered, wantonly daubed with paint, a grave for Russian prisoners of war from the First World War. So much lethal history and barbarism! So many dead buried in foreign soil. So much ground for reconciliation. And all the while, leaves were falling from old and new trees. A free-falling leaf. All emblems paraphrasing death derive from nature, after all. Suddenly I saw Alexandra and myself looking for our graves on foreign ground. When in the gathering darkness Wróbel led us out of the desolate field, I suggested that we put the place in order, obviously at the expense of the Cemetery Association. Wróbel promised to bring the matter up at the next meeting of the board of directors. Alexandra laughed, I don�
�t know why.”

  The meeting started off satisfactorily—the vice president of the National Bank confirmed that the rents and fees had been transferred promptly—but then the German contingent, by the mere mention of wishes, sparked a debate based on principle. Time and again elderly mourners, after attending the burial of an equally elderly friend or relative, expressed the wish to spend the twilight of their lives if not in the immediate vicinity of the Cemetery of Reconciliation then at least in the friendly countryside nearby. And now Vielbrand, seconded by Frau Johanna Dettlaff, moved that comfortable retirement communities be installed among beach pines on the shores of the Baltic or the Kashubian lakes.

  While Frau Dettlaff was motivated largely by feeling, Vielbrand brought up arguments which he regarded as realistic. “Our elderly compatriots are prepared to move into trade-union vacation houses, formerly state-owned, even if empty or threatened by bankruptcy. Obviously after thorough renovation.” Then he proposed, “rationally looking ahead,” that plans be made at once for new buildings. More and more interest was being shown in retirement communities set in native surroundings. And family members were more than eager to comply with this wish of their parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents. The question of money was secondary. Insurance companies were prepared to participate in the financing. One could reasonably count on a demand for two or three thousand senior-citizen living units. A large nursing staff would be needed. Jobs would be created. This might well benefit small industries and therefore the middle class. “And what Poland needs,” cried Vielbrand, “is a healthy middle class!” But in case you are suspicious of the wishes of these old people—as he gathered from Father Bieroński’s remarks—and fear the possibility of uncontrolled reverse migration, and therefore think that we have to seal ourselves off, close the borders—in that case a “twilight of life in the homeland” program could be developed entirely within the framework of the German-Polish Cemetery Association, as essentially we would be installing death-houses, though of course we can’t call them that. The term used in the prospectus will be “retirement communities.”

  Frau Dettlaff quoted effectively from letters. Consistory councilor Dr. Karau called the twilight of life “a time of turning inward and therefore homeward.” Father Bieroński began suddenly and inappropriately to talk about the war-damaged arch in St. Peter’s. “To the point!” cried chairman Marczak. Whereupon town clerk Wróbel thought of the trade-union homes along the bay, where bathing was prohibited, also in Jastarnia, formerly Heisternest (magpie’s nest) on the Hela peninsula, where the Fregata trade-union house would be suitable; and Wróbel offered to show the assembled board of directors a few projects on Pelonker Weg, such as the castlelike summer home of the Schopenhauer family or the Pelonken manor, which had at one time been used as an old-people’s home. He spoke like an enthusiastic real estate agent with an unbeatable offer—annexes with many rooms, a colonnaded doorway, and a circle of ash trees in the inner court, not to mention a pond rich in carp at the foot of the Oliwa forest.

  As was to be expected, the National Bank in the person of its vice president showed interest; the offer was recommended and finally approved by the Polish authorities. An amendment was added to the contract of association, from which it could be inferred that for the German partners no financial sacrifice was too great.

  Projects were inspected, rejected or accepted, among them the Pelonken manor with its annexes and fish ponds, although this complex, after years of military billeting, was visibly run down.

  Alexander and Alexandra were present at the inspections. Reschke, who saw decay everywhere and doubtless wanted to see decay, spoke only of decay: “Absurd, this gutted trolleybus between the manor and the servants’ quarters. The only thing that works is the sundial. The Schopenhauer palace is even worse; the father’s summer home seems to confirm the son’s philosophy. And oh my God, the new buildings. As Alexandra says: ‘Are from Gomułka time …’ Ruins from start to finish. Our friend Wróbel would have done better to keep his deed-registry expertise to himself. Simply revolting, the way Vielbrand takes measurements wherever he goes, taps the plaster, inspects the flooring for dry rot. And Bieroński says nothing, because Karau has promised to finance ‘an authentically late-Gothic arch.’”

  Before the end of the year, the first leases were signed; painful for Reschke, because this “seed-money financing” made it necessary to deplete a few of his accounts, including his hidden reserves. Additional capital was supplied by private insurance companies, later by the Department of Public Welfare. In Bochum Denkwitz had to take on another office worker.

  Soon renovation work began on a dozen trade-union homes, some with a view of the sea. Along Pelonker Weg—today ul. Polanki—several large villas and so-called manors were leased and immediately surrounded with scaffolding. Trouble with present tenants was avoided; generously compensated, they found other quarters.

  All this was done with the approval of the Board. Only Erna Brakup’s lengthy comment was interpreted as an abstention: “But suppose I don’t want to spend the end of my life in my home country; what if I’d rather fritter away the few years I have left on an island that’s called in German Machorka?”

  The executive couple did not respond with a howl of resistance to the decisions of the Board. As far as I can see, both were satisfied, because the “former garrison cemetery” motion entered by Jerzy Wróbel was seconded and accepted without opposing votes. Money, plenty of deutschmarks, would put the place in order.

  Perhaps they found the retirement communities acceptable, or even desirable, as a complement to their own idea. Death-houses, in any case, were not discussed in their evening conversations on ul. Ogarna. The couple were of the opinion that at the end of their workday they were entitled to think of themselves, only of themselves. Couples who marry late have no time to lose. So much to make up for. And similar resolutions. In Reschke’s diary I read: “Alexandra rarely has a wish that concerns only herself. Everything has to be experienced with me, experienced together …”

  A little later, however, Piątkowska did have a wish that was her very own, something she had always dreamed of. “Someday I want to travel all way down Italian boot and see Naples.”

  “Why Naples?”

  “Because that’s what people say.”

  “What about Umbria, in the footsteps of the Etruscans …?”

  “And then Naples.”

  Since there must have been an atlas in Alexandra’s ramshackle bookcase among all the nautical reading matter, or under a pile of mysteries, I see the two of them bent over the Italian boot.

  “Assisi, of course. Orvieto too. And we can’t afford to miss Firenze.” She doesn’t want to travel the length of the boot alone, only with him. He knows so much. He has already seen everything several times: “You can show me.”

  I see the two of them contented. It makes me happy to see them that way. After roast pork and sauerkraut with caraway seeds, they wash the dishes together in the kitchen like a model couple. Wrapped in cloth, the frame of a mirror is waiting to be gilded. When the electronic chimes from the nearby Rathaus tower have once again died down, it will be time for a cigarette. Alexandra smokes with a holder now. The new stylish floor lamp has found its place. They are sitting on the couch without holding hands, both wearing glasses. The atlas, from the estate of the merchant marine officer, makes proposals. “And after I see Naples, I can right away die.” Then her laugh.

  Did the couple absolutely have to show themselves to their families? I’d much rather have confined this report to their beautiful idea and its ghastly incarnation.

  Were they equal to this trip? In my opinion, which I know doesn’t count, they should not have felt obliged to make, at their age, courtesy calls. The embarrassing situations, the awkward apologies.

  Wouldn’t photos identifying the couple as a couple—on the Vistula ferry for instance, or the snapshot taken with a time shutter showing them picnicking on the shore of a lake—have been proof en
ough of their late-blooming relationship? And if these family introductions had to be undertaken, did they absolutely have to be ticked off, station after station, between Christmas and New Year’s?

  Christmas Eve found them still in Bochum, though without a Christmas tree. He gave her a more subdued perfume, she gave him a louder tie. On the afternoon of Christmas Day they arrived, by car, in Bremen. For the 26th a double room had been reserved at Gerhard’s Hotel in Göttingen. Confirmation of a hotel room in Wiesbaden for the 28th is documented. On December 30 they were due in Limburg an der Lahn, where they planned to stay until New Year’s and visit the Old City. This didn’t happen. It was only from the autobahn overpass, at a distance, that Alexandra saw the cathedral. By themselves again back in Reschke’s living-room-cum-office, they toasted the New Year, both exhausted, depressed, and reverberating with hurt, but glad to have the effort behind them. “How good that Alexandra, just in case, had stuck three fir branches with candles in a vase.”

  Reschke’s account of the four visits reads like one continuous tale of woe. No rhapsodizing on this trip. Obviously the couple had a wretched time, though the degree of wretchedness varied from station to station. Not that Alexandra’s son Witold was grossly offensive to the man by his mother’s side; not that Alexander’s daughters Sophia, Dorothea, and Margaretha were insolent, disparaging, or rude to the woman by their father’s side. As a couple the couple were received with indifference. Only the three sons-in-law, writes Reschke, showed any interest in the German-Polish Cemetery Association: the first mockingly, the second patronizingly, and the third offering advice that was unmistakably cynical. No complaint about food and drink. No lack of Christmas presents for father and mother.