When Maria pulled us apart with the help of the widow Greff, I clutched the little bonbon victoriously in my left fist. Matzerath was glad to be rid of his badge. Maria was tending to the howling Kurt. The open pin was sticking into my palm. As usual, I just couldn't acquire a taste for the thing. But just as I was trying to pin Matzerath's bonbon on the back of his jacket—after all, what did I care about his Party—they were in the shop above us, and to judge by the screaming women, most likely in the adjoining cellars as well.
When they lifted the trapdoor, the open pin was still pricking me. What else could I do but crouch at Maria's trembling knees and watch ants as they crawled along an army trail leading diagonally from the winter potatoes across the concrete floor of the cellar to a sack of sugar. A mixed assortment of totally ordinary Russians, I judged, a half-dozen or so crowding down the cellar steps with big eyes above their tommy guns. In the midst of all the screaming, it was reassuring to see that the ants were unmoved by the arrival of the Russian Army. They were thinking only of potatoes and sugar, while those holding the tommy guns had other conquests in mind. It struck me as perfectly normal that the grownups raised their hands. I knew that from newsreels, and I'd seen a similar show of submissiveness following the defense of the Polish Post Office. But it wasn't at all clear to me why little Kurt aped the grownups. He should have taken his example from me, his father—or if not from his father, then from the ants. Since three of the boxy uniforms instantly warmed toward the widow Greff, a little life was introduced into the somewhat stiff company. Lina Greff, who was hardly expecting such a spirited throng after her long widowhood and the lean years that preceded it, let out a few screams of surprise at first, but soon reaccustomed herself to that almost forgotten position.
I had read in Rasputin that Russians love children. In our cellar I saw it firsthand. Maria, trembling needlessly, couldn't understand why the four men who weren't busy with the widow Greff allowed little Kurt to remain sitting on her lap instead of taking their own turns at it; on the contrary, they fondled little Kurt, said dadada to him, patted his cheek and Maria's too.
Someone picked me and my drum up off the concrete floor and thus prevented me from continuing my observation of the ants, comparing and gauging the march of events by their resolute diligence. My drum dangled at my belly, and the brawny fellow with large pores tapped out a few beats with his fingers, not at all badly for a grownup, to which we might have danced. Oskar would have been glad to reply in kind, would gladly have offered a few examples of his art on tin, but couldn't because Matzerath's Party pin was still sticking into his left palm.
Things grew almost calm and cozy in our cellar. La Greff lay with increasing composure beneath the three men taking turns, and when one of them had had enough, my talented drummer handed Oskar over to a sweaty, slightly slant-eyed fellow I assume was a Kalmuck. Holding me with his left hand, he buttoned his trousers with his right, and took no offense when his predecessor, my drummer, did the reverse. For Matzerath, however, nothing had changed. He was still standing in front of the shelf filled with tins of Leipzig Mixed Vegetables, his hands in the air, displaying his lined palms, which no one cared to read. The women, meanwhile, proved to be remarkably quick learners: Maria was picking up her first few words of Russian, her knees no longer trembled, she even laughed and would have played her harmonica, had it been at hand.
Oskar couldn't adjust that easily, however, and looking about for something to take the place of his ants, shifted his attention to several flat, grayish brown creatures strolling along the edge of my Kalmuck's collar. I wanted to catch one and examine it more closely, for I'd read a good deal about lice, not so much in Goethe, but relatively often in Rasputin. Since I was having a hard time catching the louse with one hand, I decided to get rid of the Party pin. And to explain my conduct, Oskar says: Since the Kalmuck already had several medals on his chest, I held out the bonbon that had been pricking me and keeping me from catching a louse to Matzerath, who was standing beside me, keeping my hand loosely closed all the while.
Now you might say I shouldn't have done that. But you might also say that Matzerath didn't have to reach out for it.
He reached out for it. I was rid of the bonbon. Matzerath grew more and more terrified as he felt the Party pin between his fingers. With my hands newly freed, I had no wish to witness what Matzerath did with it. Too distracted to pursue the louse, Oskar tried to concentrate again on the ants, but couldn't help seeing the quick movement of Matzerath's hand, and since he can no longer recall what he thought then, he says now: It would have been wiser to keep the colored button in his closed hand.
But he wanted to get rid of it, and in spite of his often-tested imagination as cook and grocery-store window dresser, could think of no other hiding place than his mouth.
How important such a trifling gesture can be! From hand to mouth, it was enough to startle the two Ivans who had been sitting quietly on either side of Maria and send them leaping up from the air-defense cot. They stood with their tommy guns thrust at Matzerath's belly and anyone could see that Matzerath was trying to swallow something.
If only he had at least closed the Party pin first with three fingers. Now he was choking on the sticky bonbon, turning red; his eyes bulged, he coughed, cried, laughed, and with all this turmoil of emotions, was no longer able to keep his hands in the air. But the Ivans would have none of that. They shouted at him to show them his palms. But Matzerath was directing his entire attention to his respiratory system. He could no longer even cough properly, breaking instead into a little dance and flinging his arms about, sweeping a few tin cans full of Leipzig Mixed Vegetables from the shelf, all of which provoked my Kalmuck, who had been watching calmly up till then through narrowed eyes, to set me down carefully, reach behind him, bring something into horizontal position, and fire from the hip, emptying the whole magazine, firing before Matzerath could choke to death.
The strange things one does when fate steps on the stage. Without thinking or noticing, while my presumptive father swallowed the Party and died, I crushed a louse I'd just picked off the Kalmuck between my fingers. Matzerath had fallen across the ant trail. The Ivans left the cellar by way of the stairs to the shop, taking along a few packets of synthetic honey. My Kalmuck was the last to leave, but took no honey, for he was busy inserting a new magazine into his tommy gun. The widow Greff hung exposed and twisted between crates of margarine. Maria hugged little Kurt to herself as if she wanted to smother him. A phrase ran through my mind, one I had read in Goethe. The ants found the situation altered but didn't mind making a detour, forming their new army trail around a doubled-up Matzerath, for the sugar that trickled from the burst sack during the occupation of Danzig by the army of Marshal Rokossovski had lost none of its sweetness.
Should I or Shouldn't I
First came the Rugii, then the Goths and Gepidae, then the Kashubes, from whom Oskar descends in a direct line. Soon thereafter the Poles sent Adalbert of Prague. He came with the Cross and was slain with the Ax by either Kashubes or Borussians. This happened in a fishing village, and the name of that village was Gyddanyzc. Gyddanyzc became Danczik, Danczik became Dantzig, later spelled Danzig, and now called Danzig-Gdańsk.
Before this spelling was settled upon, however, the Kashubes had been followed to Gyddanyzc by the dukes of Pomerelia. They had names like Subislaus, Sambor, Mestwin, and Swantopolk. The village became a small town. Then the savage Borussians came and wreaked a little havoc in the city. Then the Brandenburgers came from afar and wreaked a little havoc of their own. Boleslaw of Poland had a little havoc to wreak too, and the Teutonic Knights made sure with their knightly swords that the recently repaired damage showed forth clearly again.
For centuries now, the dukes of Pomerelia, the grandmasters of the Teutonic Knights, the kings and antikings of Poland, counts of Brandenburg, and bishops of Włocławek had been replacing each other as they played their little game of destruction and reconstruction. The master builders and demolitio
n experts were called Otto and Waldemar, Bogussa, Heinrich von Plotzke—and Dietrich von Altenberg, who built the fortress of the Teutonic Knights on the spot later named Heveliusplatz, where, in the twentieth century, the defense of the Polish Post Office took place.
The Hussites came, set a few fires here and there, and withdrew. Then the Teutonic Knights were thrown out of the city and their for tress demolished, because no one wanted a fortress in the city. The Polish took over and things didn't go too badly. The king who managed that was Kazimierz, called the Great, son of the first Władysław. Then came Louis of Hungary, and after Louis, Hedwig. She then married Jagiello of Lithuania, founder of the Jagiellon dynasty. A third Władysław followed Władysław the Second, then another Kazimierz, who wasn't all that enthusiastic about it but nevertheless spent thirteen long years squandering the good money of Danzig merchants waging war against the Teutonic Knights. Johann Albrecht, on the other hand, spent more time on the Turks. Sigismund the Elder, also called Zygmunt Stary, followed Alexander. Following the chapter on Sigismund August in history books comes the chapter on Stefan Bäthory, for whom the Poles like to name their ocean liners. He laid siege to the city and bombarded it over a long period of time—as one can read in books—but could never capture it. Then the Swedes came and did the same thing. They had such a good time laying siege to the city that they did so again on several occasions. And the Gulf of Danzig proved so attractive to the Dutch, Danes, and English during this period that several foreign ship captains became sea heroes merely crossing and recrossing the Danzig roadstead.
The Peace of Oliva. How pretty and peaceful it sounds. There the great powers noticed for the first time that the land of the Poles is admirably suited for partition. Sweden, Sweden, and again Sweden—Swedish earthworks, Swedish punch, Schwedensprung. Then the Russians and the Saxons came because poor King Stanislaw Leszczyński of Poland was hiding in the city. Eighteen hundred houses were destroyed because of this one king, and when poor Leszczyński fled to France because that's where his son-in-law Ludwig lived, the citizens of the city had to cough up a million.
Poland was then partitioned three times. The Prussians came uninvited and painted their own bird over the royal Polish eagle on every city gate. The schoolmaster Johannes Falk barely had time to write his Christmas carol "Oh du fröhliche..." before the French arrived. Napoleon's general was named Rapp, and after a long and terrible siege the Danzigers were forced to give a rap, to the tune of twenty million francs. There's no reason to doubt that the French occupation was horrific. But it only lasted seven years. Then the Russians and Prussians came and set Speicherinsel ablaze with their artillery. That put an end to the Free State that Napoleon had envisioned. The Prussians took the opportunity to repaint their bird on the city gates, and did so diligently, after first, in true Prussian fashion, establishing a garrison consisting of the 4th Regiment of Grenadiers, the 1st Artillery Brigade, the 1st Battalion of Engineers, and the 1st Regiment of Hussar Guards. The 30th Infantry Regiment, the 18th Infantry Regiment, the 3rd Regiment of Foot Guards, the 44th Infantry Regiment, and Fusilier Regiment No. 33 were only temporarily stationed in Danzig. The famous Infantry Regiment No. 128, on the other hand, didn't depart until nineteen-twenty. And for the sake of completeness it should be added that during the Prussian era the 1st Artillery Brigade was expanded to include the 1st Battalion of Fortress Artillery and the 2nd Infantry Division of East Prussian Artillery Regiment No. 1. They were joined by Pomeranian Artillery Regiment No. 2, which was later relieved by West Prussian Artillery Regiment No. 16. The 1st Regiment of Hussar Guards was followed by the 2nd Regiment of Hussar Guards. The 8th Regiment of Uhlans, on the other hand, remained within the city walls for only a short time. Outside the walls, however, West Prussian Quartermaster Battalion No. 17 was stationed in the suburb of Langfuhr. In the days of Burckhardt, Rauschning, and Greiser there were only green-clad Security Police in the Free State. Things changed in thirty-nine under Forster. The brick barracks were filled with happily laughing men in uniform, juggling all sorts of weapons. We could now go on to list all the units stationed in Danzig and environs from thirty-nine to forty-five, and those that shipped out from Danzig for the Arctic Front. But Oskar will skip that and simply say: Then, as we have seen, came Marshal Rokossovski. Seeing the undamaged city, he recalled his great international precursors and set the city ablaze with his artillery, so that those who came after him could work off their excess energy by rebuilding it.
This time, strangely enough, it wasn't Prussians, Swedes, Saxons, or Frenchmen who came after the Russians; it was the Poles who came.
With bag and baggage the Poles came, from Vilna, Białystok, and Lemberg, looking for housing. A gentleman called Fajngold came to us, single, but acting as if he were surrounded by a large family he had to take care of. Herr Fajngold took over the grocery store without further ado, showed his wife Luba, who remained invisible and unresponsive, the decimal scales, the kerosene tank, the brass rod to hang sausage on, the empty cash box, and, overjoyed, the provisions in the cellar. Maria, whom he immediately installed as salesgirl and introduced verbosely to his imaginary wife Luba, showed Herr Fajngold our Matzerath, who had been lying for three days under a piece of canvas in the cellar, since we didn't dare bury him, given all the Russians on the street trying out bicycles, sewing machines, and women.
When Herr Fajngold saw the corpse, which we had turned on its back, he clapped his hands to his head in the same expressive gesture Oskar had seen his toy merchant, Sigismund Markus, make years ago. He called his whole family, not just his wife Luba, into the cellar, and it was clear he saw them all coming, for he called each by name, Luba, Lev, Jakub, Berek, Leon, Mendel, and Zonja, explained to them all who it was lying there dead, then explained to us that everyone he'd called lay like that before they were put in the ovens at Treblinka, along with his sister-in-law and her other brother-in-law, who had five small children, and all of them lay there, except Herr Fajngold, who did not lie there because he had to spread lime.
Then he helped us carry Matzerath up to the shop, but had his family round him again, asked his wife Luba to help Maria wash the corpse. She didn't help, but that went unnoticed by Herr Fajngold, who was busy bringing up provisions from the cellar. Nor did Lina Greff, who had washed Mother Truczinski, lend us a hand this time, for she had a flat full of Russians; you could hear them singing.
Old man Heilandt, who had found work as a cobbler during the first days of the occupation, resoling Russian boots worn through during their advance on the city, didn't want to make us a coffin at first. But when Herr Fajngold drew him into a business deal, offering him Derby cigarettes from our shop in exchange for an electric motor from his shed, he laid his boots aside and picked up other tools, along with his crate boards.
At the time—until we were evicted and Herr Fajngold turned the cellar over to us—we were living in Mother Truczinski's flat, which had been stripped bare by neighbors and newly arrived Poles. Old man Heilandt took the door between the kitchen and the living room off its hinges, since the door from the living room to the bedroom had already been used for Mother Truczinski's coffin. Below in the courtyard he was smoking Derby cigarettes and assembling the box. We stayed up stairs, and I took the only chair that had been left in the room, pushed open the shattered window, and was annoyed to see the old man knocking together the box, taking no pains at all, and omitting the proper tapering.
Oskar didn't see Matzerath again, for when the coffin was lifted onto the widow Greff's flatbed cart, the Vitello Margarine slats had already been nailed down, though Matzerath not only refused to eat margarine during his lifetime but even despised its use in cooking.
Maria asked Herr Fajngold to come with us, since she was afraid of the Russian soldiers on the streets. Fajngold, who was sitting cross-legged on the shop counter spooning synthetic honey from a paper cup, had some misgivings at first, fearing his wife Luba might be suspicious, but then evidently received his wife's permission to go along, for
he slid down from the counter and handed me the synthetic honey, which I passed on to little Kurt, who cleaned up every drop, while Herr Fajngold had Maria help him into a long black coat with gray rabbit fur. Before he locked up the shop and told his wife not to open the door for anyone, he placed himself under a top hat too small for him, which Matzerath had formerly worn to various funerals and weddings.
Old man Heilandt refused to pull the cart clear to the city cemetery. He still had boots to sole, he said, and had to make it quick. At Max-Halbe-Platz, with smoke still rising from its ruins, he turned left onto Brösener Weg, and I sensed he was heading for Saspe. The Russians sat outside the houses in the feeble February sun, sorting wristwatches from pocket watches, polishing silver spoons with sand, trying bras on as earmuffs, practicing bicycle tricks on an obstacle course they'd erected with oil paintings, grandfather clocks, bathtubs, radio sets, and hat stands, peddling through them in figure eights, helixes, and spirals, carefully avoiding the baby carriages, chandeliers, and the like that were being thrown out of windows, and were applauded for their skill. When we passed by, the sport paused for a few seconds. A few men wearing women's lingerie over their uniforms helped us push, then grabbed for Maria too, but Herr Fajngold, who spoke Russian and carried an official pass, managed to keep them at bay. A soldier in a lady's hat gave us a birdcage with a live budgie on its perch. Little Kurt, who was hopping along beside the cart, immediately grabbed for the brightly colored feathers, ready to pull them out. Maria, who was afraid to turn down the gift, lifted the cage out of little Kurt's reach and handed it up to me on the cart. Oskar, who wasn't about to budge for a budgie, set the cage and bird on Matzerath's oversize margarine crate. I sat clear at the back with my legs dangling and looked into Herr Fajngold's face, which, furrowed and pensive to the point of moroseness, gave the impression of a man mentally rechecking a complicated bill that just wouldn't add up.