Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Günter Grass
Title Page
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Copyright
To compensate for his unusually large Adam’s apple – source of both discomfort and distress – fourteen year old Joachim Mahlke turns himself into athlete and ace diver. Soon he is known to his peers and his nation as ‘The Great Mahlke’. But to his enemies, he remains a target. He is different and doomed in a country scarred by the war.
Cat and Mouse was first published in 1961, two years after Günter Grass’ controversial and applauded masterpiece, The Tin Drum. Once again Grass turns his attention on Danzig. With a subtle blend of humour and power, Cat and Mouse ostensibly relates the rise of Mahlke from clown to hero. But Mahlke’s outlandish antics hide the darkness at the heart of a nation torn by Nazi violence, the war and its aftermath.
Günter Grass (1927–2015) was Germany’s most celebrated post-war writer. He was a creative artist of remarkable versatility: novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, graphic artist. Grass’s first novel, The Tin Drum, is widely regarded as one of the finest novels of the twentieth century, and he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1999.
The Tin Drum
Dog Years
The Plebeians Rehearse the Uprising
Four Plays
Speak Out!
Local Anaesthetic
Max: A Play
From the Diary of a Snail
Inmarypraise
In the Egg and Other Poems
The Flounder
The Call of the Toad
The Meeting at Telgte
Headbirths
Drawings and Words 1954–1977
On Writing and Politics 1967–1983
Etchings and Words 1972–1982
The Rat
Show Your Tongue
Two States – One Nation?
My Century
. . . AND ONE DAY, after Mahlke had learned to swim, we were lying in the grass, in the Schlagball field. I ought to have gone to the dentist, but they wouldn’t let me because I was hard to replace on the team. My tooth was howling. A cat sauntered diagonally across the field and no one threw anything at it. A few of the boys were chewing or plucking at blades of grass. The cat belonged to the caretaker and was black. Hotten Sonntag rubbed his bat with a woollen stocking. My tooth marked time. The tournament had been going on for two hours. We had lost hands down and were waiting for the return game. It was a young cat, but no kitten. In the stadium, handball goals were being made thick and fast on both sides. My tooth kept saying one word, over and over again. On the cinder track the sprinters were practising starts or limbering up. The cat meandered about. A tri-motored plane crept across the sky, slow and loud, but couldn’t drown out my tooth. Through the grass stalks the caretaker’s black cat showed a white bib. Mahlke was asleep. The wind was from the east, and the crematorium between the United Cemeteries and the Engineering School was operating. Mr. Mallenbrandt, the gym teacher, blew his whistle: Change sides. The cat practised. Mahlke was asleep or seemed to be. I was next to him with my toothache. Still practising, the cat came closer. Mahlke’s Adam’s apple attracted attention because it was large, always in motion, and threw a shadow. Between me and Mahlke the caretaker’s black cat tensed for a leap. We formed a triangle. My tooth was silent and stopped marking time: for Mahlke’s Adam’s apple had become the cat’s mouse. It was so young a cat, and Mahlke’s whatsis was so active—in any case the cat leapt at Mahlke’s throat; or one of us caught the cat and held it up to Mahlke’s neck; or I, with or without my toothache, seized the cat and showed it Mahlke’s mouse: and Joachim Mahlke let out a yell, but suffered only slight scratches.
And now it is up to me, who called your mouse to the attention of this cat and all cats, to write. Even if we were both invented, I should have to write. Over and over again the fellow who invented us because it’s his business to invent people obliges me to take your Adam’s apple in my hand and carry it to the spot that saw it win or lose. And so, to begin with, I make the mouse bob up and down above the screwdriver, I fling a multitude of replete seagulls into the fitful northeast wind, high over Mahlke’s head, call the weather summery and persistently fair, assume that the wreck was a former mine sweeper of the Czaika class, and give the Baltic the colour of thick-glass seltzer bottles. Now that the scene of action has been identified as a point southeast of the Neufahrwasser harbour buoy, I make Mahlke’s skin, from which water is still running in rivulets, take on a texture somewhere between fine and coarse-grained. It was not fear, however, that roughened Mahlke’s skin, but the shivers customary after long immersion in the sea that seized hold of Mahlke and took the smoothness from his skin.
And yet none of us, as we huddled lean and long armed between our upthrust knees on the remains of the bridge, had asked Mahlke to dive down again into the fo’c’sle of the sunken mine sweeper and the adjoining engine room amidships, and work something loose with his screwdriver, a screw, a little wheel, or something really special: a brass plate inscribed with the directions in Polish and English for operating some machine. We were sitting on the superstructure, or as much of it as remained above the water, of a former Polish mine sweeper of the Czaika class, built in Gydnia and launched in Modlin, which had been sunk the year before southeast of the harbour buoy, well outside the channel so that it did not interfere with shipping.
Since then gull droppings had dried on the rust. In all kinds of weather the gulls flew sleek and smooth, with eyes like glass beads on the sides of their heads, grazing the remains of the pilot house, then wildly up again, according to some indecipherable plan, squirting their slimy droppings in full flight—and they never fell into the soft sea but always on the rusty superstructure. Hard, dense, calcareous, the droppings clung fast, side by side in innumerable spots, or heaped up in mounds. And always when we sat on the barge, fingernails and toenails tried to chip off the droppings. That’s why our nails cracked and not because we bit our fingernails—except for Schilling who was always chewing at them and had nails like rivets. Only Mahlke had long nails, though they were yellow from all his diving, and he kept them long by neither biting them nor scratching at the gull droppings. And he was the only one who never ate the chips we broke loose—the rest of us, because it was there, chewed the stony, shell-like mess into a foaming slime, which we spat overboard. The stuff tasted like nothing at all or like plaster or like fish meal or like everything imaginable: happiness, girls, God in His heaven. “Do you realize,” said Winter, who sang very nicely, “that tenors eat gull droppings every day?” Often the gulls caught our calcareous spittle in full flight, apparently suspecting nothing.
When shortly after the outbreak of the war Joachim Mahlke turned fourteen, he could neither swim nor ride a bicycle; there was nothing striking about his appearance and he lacked the Adam’s apple which was later to lure the cat. He had been excused from gymnastics and swimming, because he had presented certificates showing him to be sickly. Even before he learned to ride a bicycle—a ludicrous figure with his deep red, protuberant ears and his knees thrust sideways as he pedalled—he reported for swimming in the winter season, at the Niederstadt pool, but at first he was admitted only to the “dry swimming” class for eight to ten year-olds. Nor did he make much progress the following summer. The swimming teacher at Brösen Beach, a typical swimming teacher with a torso like a life buoy and thin hairless legs, had to put Mahlke through his paces in the sand and then hold him up by a life-line. But after we had swum away from him several afternoons in a row and come back telling fantastic stories about the sunken mine sweeper, he was mightily inspired and in less than two weeks he was swimming.
Earnestly and conscientiously he swam back and forth between the pier, the big diving tower, and the bathing beach, and he had no doubt achieved a certain endurance by the time he began to practise diving off the little breakwater outside the pier, first bringing up some common Baltic mussels, then diving for a beer bottle filled with sand, which he threw out pretty far. My guess is that Mahlke soon succeeded in recovering the bottle quite regularly, for when he began to dive with us on the mine sweeper, he was no longer a beginner.
He pleaded with us to let him come along. Six or seven of us were getting ready for our daily swim, elaborately moistening our skins in the shallow water of the family pool, as a precaution against sudden chill. And there was Mahlke on the plank walk: “Please take me with you. I’m sure I can do it.”
A screwdriver hung round his neck, distracting attention from his Adam’s apple.
“OK!” And Mahlke came along. Between the first and second sandbank he passed us, and we didn’t bother to catch up with him. “Let him knock himself out.”
When Mahlke swam breaststroke, the screwdriver bobbed visibly up and down between his shoulder blades, for it had a wooden handle. When he swam on his back, the wooden handle danced about on his chest, but never entirely covered the horrid piece of cartilage between chin and collarbone, which cut through the water like a dorsal fin, leaving a wake behind it.
And then Mahlke showed us. He dived several times in quick succession with his screwdriver and brought up whatever he was able to unscrew: lids, pieces of sheathing, a part of the generator; he found a rope, and with the help of the broken-down winch hoisted up a genuine fire extinguisher from the fo’c’sle. The thing—made in Germany, I might add—still worked; Mahlke proved it, squirting streams of foam to show us how you extinguish with foam, extinguishing the glass-green sea—from the very first day he was an ace.
The flakes still lay in islands and long streaks on the flat even swell, attracting a few gulls which were soon repelled, settled and like a big mess of whipped cream turned sour, drifted off toward the beach. Then Mahlke called it a day and sat down in the shadow of the pilot house; and even before the stray tatters of foam on the bridge had time to lose their stiffness and start trembling in the breeze, his skin had taken on that shrivelled, coarse-grained look.
Mahlke shivered and his Adam’s apple jogged up and down; his screwdriver did dance steps over his quaking collarbones. His back, white in spots, burned lobster-red from the shoulders down, which was forever peeling with fresh sunburn on both sides of his prominent spinal column, was also covered with gooseflesh and shaken with fitful shudders. His yellowish lips, blue at the edges, bared his chattering teeth. But he tried to bring his body—and his teeth—under control by clasping his knees, which he had bruised on the barnacle-covered bulkheads, with his big waterlogged hands.
Hotten Sonntag—or was it I?—rubbed Mahlke down. “Lord, man, don’t go catching something. We’ve still got to get back.” The screwdriver began to calm down.
The way out took us twenty-five minutes from the breakwater, thirty-five from the beach. We needed a good three-quarters of an hour to get back. No matter how exhausted he was, he was always standing on the breakwater a good minute ahead of us. He never lost the lead he had taken the first day. Before we reached the barge—as we called the mine sweeper—Mahlke had already been under once, and as soon as we reached out our washerwoman’s hands, all of us pretty much at once, for the rust and gull droppings of the bridge or the jutting gun mounts, he silently exhibited a hinge or something or other that had come off easily, and already he was shivering, though after the second or third time he covered himself with a thick, extravagant coat of Nivea cream; for Mahlke had plenty of pocket money.
Mahlke was an only child.
Mahlke was half an orphan.
Mahlke’s father was dead.
Winter and summer Mahlke wore old-fashioned boots which he must have inherited from his father.
He carried the screwdriver round his neck on a shoelace for black boots.
It occurs to me only now that, in addition to the screwdriver, Mahlke, for certain reasons, wore something else round his neck; but the screwdriver was more conspicuous.
He wore a little silver chain, from which hung something silver and Catholic: the Blessed Virgin; most likely he had always worn it, but we had never noticed; he certainly had it on ever since the day when he started to swim in harness and to make figures in the sand while practising his kick.
Never, not even in gym class, did Mahlke remove the medal from his neck; for no sooner had he taken up dry swimming and swimming in harness in the winter swimming pool at Niederstadt than he turned up in our gymnasium, and never again did he produce any doctor’s certificates. Either the silver Virgin disappeared under his white gym shirt or lay just over the red stripe that ran around it at chest level.
Even the parallel bars held no horrors for Mahlke. Only three or four of the best members of the first squad were equal to the horse exercises, but Mahlke was right with them, leaping from the springboard, sailing over the long leather horse, and landing on the mat with Virgin awry, sending up clouds of dust. When he did knee-springs on the horizontal bar—his form was miserable, but later, he succeeded in doing two more that Hotten Sonntag, our gymnastics champion—well, when Mahlke ground out his thirty-seven knee-springs, the medal tugged out of his gym shirt, and hurtled thirty-seven times round the squeaking horizontal bar, always in advance of his medium-brown hair. But it never came free from his neck, for the wildly agitated chain was held in place not only by his jutting Adam’s apple, but also by his protuberant occiput with its thick growth of hair.
The screwdriver lay over the medal, and in places the shoelace covered the chain. However, the screwdriver did not outshine the medal, especially as the object with the wooden handle was not allowed in the gymnasium. Our gym teacher, a Mr. Mallenbrandt who was also assistant principal and was well known in sports circles because he had written a rule book to end all rule books for the game of Schlagball, forbade Mahlke to wear the screwdriver round his neck in gym class. Mallenbrandt never found any fault with the medal on Mahlke’s neck, because in addition to physical culture and geography, he taught religion, and up to the second year of the war guided the remnants of a Catholic workers’ gymnastic society over and under the horizontal and parallel bars.
And so the screwdriver had to wait in the dressing room, over his shirt on the hook, while the slightly worn, silver Virgin was privileged to hang from Mahlke’s neck and succour him amid gymnastic perils.
A common screwdriver it was, cheap and sturdy. Often Mahlke, in order to detach a small plaque no larger than the name plate beside an apartment door, had to dive five or six times, especially when the plate was affixed to metal and the screws were rusted. On the other hand, he sometimes managed, after only two dives, to bring up larger plaques with long texts inscribed on them by using his screwdriver as a jemmy and prying screws and all from the waterlogged wooden sheathing. He was no great collector; he gave many of his plaques to Winter and Jürgen Kupka, who fanatically collected everything removable, including street markers and the signs in public toilets; for himself he took only the few items that particularly struck his fancy.
Mahlke didn’t make things easy for himself; while we dozed on the barge, he worked under water. We scratched at the gull droppings and turned brown as cigars; those of us who had blond hair were transformed into tow-heads. Mahlke at most took on fresh lobster tones. While we followed the ships north of the beacon, he looked unswervingly downward: reddened, slightly inflamed lids with sparse lashes, I think; light-blue eyes which filled with curiosity only under water. Sometimes Mahlke came up without any plaques or other spoils, but with a broken or hopelessly bent screwdriver. That too he would exhibit and always got an effect. The gesture with which he tossed it over his shoulder into the water, exasperating the gulls, was commanded neither by resigned disappointment nor aimless rage. Never did Mahlke throw away a broken tool with indifference, real or affected. Even this act of tossing away signified: I’ll soon have something more to show you.
. . . and once—a hospital ship with two smokestacks had put into port, and after a brief discussion we had identified it as the Kaiser of the East Prussian Maritime Service—Joachim Mahlke went down into the fo’c’sle without a screwdriver, and holding his nose with two fingers, vanished in the open, slate-green, slightly submerged forward hatchway. He went in head first—his hair was plastered flat and parted from swimming and diving; he pulled in his back and hips, kicked once at the empty air, but then, bracing both feet against the edge of the hatch, pushed down into the dusky cool aquarium, flood-lit through open portholes: nervous sticklebacks, an immobile school of lampreys, swaying hammocks, still firmly attached at the ends, overgrown with seaweed, a playhouse for baby herring. Rarely a stray cod. Only rumours of eels. We never once saw a flounder.
We clasped our slightly trembling knees, chewed gull droppings into a sludge; half weary, half fascinated, we counted a formation of Navy cutters, followed the stacks of the hospital ship, whence smoke was still rising vertically, exchanged sidelong glances. He stayed down a long while—gulls circled, the swell gurgled over the bow, broke against the forward gun mountings—the gun itself had been removed. A splashing as the water flowed back between the ventilators behind the bridge, licking always at the same rivets; lime under fingernails; itching on dry skin, shimmering light, chugging of motors in the wind, private parts half-stiff, seventeen poplars between Brösen and Glettkau—and then he came shooting upward: bluish-red around the chin, yellowish over the cheekbones. His hair parted exactly in the middle, he rose like a fountain from the hatch, staggered over the bow through water up to his knees, reached for the jutting gun mounts, and fell watery-goggle-eyed to his knees; we had to pull him up on the bridge. But before the water had stopped flowing from his nose and the corner of his mouth, he showed us his find, a steel screwdriver in one piece. Made in England. Stamped on the metal: Sheffield. No scars, no rust, still coated with grease. The water formed into beads and rolled off.
Every day for over a year Mahlke wore this heavy, to all intents and purposes unbreakable screwdriver on a shoelace, even after we had stopped or almost stopped swimming out to the barge. Though he was a good Catholic, it became a kind of cult with him. Before gym class, for instance, he would give the thing to Mr. Mallenbrandt for safekeeping, he was dreadfully afraid it might be stolen, and even took it with him to St. Mary’s Chapel; for not only on Sunday, but also on week days, he went to early Mass on Marineweg, not far from the Neuschottland cooperative housing development.
He and his English screwdriver didn’t have far to go—out of Osterzeile and down Bärenweg. Quantities of two-storey houses, villas with gable roofs, porticos, and espaliered fruit trees. Then two rows of housing developments, plain drab walls ornamented only with water spots. To the right the streetcar line turned off and with it the overhead wires, mostly against a partly cloudy sky. To the left, the sandy, sorry looking kitchen gardens of the railroad workers: bowers and rabbit hutches built with the black and red boards of abandoned freight cars. Behind the gardens the signals of the railway leading to the Free Port. Silos, moveable and stationary cranes. The strange full-coloured superstructures of the freighters. The two grey battleships with their old-fashioned turrets were still there, the swimming dock, the Germania bread factory; and silvery sleek, at medium height, a few captive balloons, lurching and bobbing. In the right background, the Gudrun School (The Helen-Lange School of former years) blocking out the iron hodgepodge of the Schichau Dockyards as far as the big hammer crane. To this side of it, covered, well tended athletic fields, freshly painted goalposts, foul lines marked in lime on the short grass: next Sunday Blue-and-Yellow versus Schellmühl 98—no grandstand, but a modern, tall-windowed gymnasium painted in light ochre. The fresh red roof of this edifice, oddly enough, was topped with a tarred wooden cross; for St. Mary’s Chapel had formerly been a gymnasium belonging to the Neuschottland Sports Club. It had been found necessary to transform it into an emergency church, because the Church of the Sacred Heart was too far away; for years the people of Neuschottland, Schellmühl, and the housing development between Osterzeile and Westerzeile, mostly shipyard, railroad, or post-office workers, had sent petitions to the bishop in Oliva until, still during the Free State period, this gymnasium had been purchased, remodelled, and consecrated.
Despite the tortuous and colourful pictures and ornaments, some privately donated but for the most part deriving from the cellars and storerooms of just about every church in the diocese, there was no denying or concealing the gymnasium quality of this church—no amount of incense or wax candles could drown out the aroma of the chalk, leather and sweat of former years and former handball matches. And the chapel never lost a certain air of Protestant parsimony, the fanatical sobriety of a meeting house.
In the neo-Gothic Church of the Sacred Heart, built of bricks at the end of the nineteenth century, not far from the suburban railway station, Joachim Mahlke’s steel screwdriver would have seemed strange, ugly and sacrilegious. In St. Mary’s Chapel, on the other hand, he might perfectly well have worn it openly: the little chapel with its well-kept linoleum floor, its rectangular frosted glass window-panes starting just under the ceiling, the neat iron fixtures which had formerly served to hold the horizontal bar firmly in place, the planking in the coarse-grained concrete ceiling, and beneath it the iron (though whitewashed) cross-beams to which the rings, the trapeze and half a dozen climbing ropes had formerly been affixed, was so modern, so coldly functional a chapel, despite the painted and gilded plaster which bestowed blessing and consecration on all sides, that the steel screwdriver which Mahlke, in prayer and then in communion, felt it necessary to have dangling from his neck, would never have attracted the attention either of the few devotees of early Mass, or of Father Gusewski and his sleepy altar boy—who often enough was myself.
No, there I’m going too far. It would certainly not have escaped me. As often as I served at the altar, even during the gradual prayers, I did my best, for various reasons, to keep an eye on you. And you played safe; you kept your treasure under your shirt, and that was why your shirt had those grease spots vaguely indicating the shape of the screwdriver. Seen from the altar, he knelt in the second pew of the left hand row, aiming his prayer with open eyes—light grey they were, I think, and usually inflamed from all his swimming and diving—in the direction of the Virgin.
. . . and once—I don’t remember which summer it was was—was it during the first summer vacation on the barge, shortly after the row in France, or was it the following summer ?—one hot and misty day, enormous crowd on the family beach, sagging pennants, over-ripe flesh, big rush at the refreshments stands, on burning feet over the fibre runners, past locked cabins full of tittering, through a turbulent mob of children engaged in slobbering, tumbling, and cutting their feet; and in the midst of this spawn which would now be twenty-three years old, beneath the solicitous eyes of the grown-ups, a little brat, who must have been about three, pounded monotonously on a child’s tin drum, turning the afternoon into an infernal smithy—whereupon we took to the water and swam out to our barge; from the beach, in the lifeguard’s binoculars for instance, we were six diminishing heads in motion; one head in advance of the rest and first to reach the goal.