The com plex intertextual pattern o f Ein weites F eld delivers the reader into a literary w orld that is at the same time utterly grounded in a literal environm ent. This environm ent is Berlin 1989-91, history in the making, a period o f m om entous upheaval in the German consciousness. The tangible sense o f a city at a point o f change is vividly brought to us: the hustle and bustle o f x^osX-Wende K u ’damm, the contem plative calm o f the Tiergarten, the wall itself, quickly succum bing to the Spechte in their search for w hat is already literally a piece o f history. So far, I have principally been concerned to explore the processes o f a referential narrative mode, firstly in order to show how it conveys the sense o f this concrete city and the contem porary events it is witness to within a rigorously fictional dimension, and secondly to suggest how these textual strategies o f duplicity both represent and enable reflection on them atic concerns. It is my b elief that the intertext, intruding upon and problem atising the divide between the fictional world o f the text and the real world beyond (the world that the reader also inhabits), constitutes the principal structural aid to the reader’s occupation o f a critical perspective in relation to the contem porary events narrated. The imaginative dim ension lent by the broadly signifying intertext is o f fundamental importance to the way in w hich Grass builds up a sense o f time and space, and to the way that this expanse, the
weites F eld o f his text, is used to narrate the brief tim espan o f the W endezeit itself. It is, as we see immediately, a hugely historical field, and it is my intention now to look more precisely to the historical weight o f the text, the figurative and literal past brought into play by the intertextual devices I have already discussed, and analyse the part this plays in establishing a critical perspective on the present.
This sense o f the past is rendered in the form o f the antecedent texts brought to bear on the new text and in the reference to events and characters from G erm an history, the constant and critical point o f departure both for the main character and the narrative
voice. The text is marked by a weighty historical awareness that provides a concrete counterpoint to the extem porising narrative o f the present. History is not a backdrop to the text, but is embraced as a central component in its making, so that the narrative relies on the past as a mode, not just o f illuminating or contextualising, but actually o f relating the present. Just as Fonty cannot, literally, be conceived or conceived o f without his alter ego Fontane, so the narrative itself is only breathed into existence by way o f its com m itm ent to a historical perspective, in which processes o f m em ory and recollection are o f critical importance. In this sense nothing contem porary is new, but is apprehended retrospectively; persons, events and the city itself as a collection o f spaces and buildings have all, technically, been seen before. The present is a latecom er to its own age, and the reader can only gain access to it via the historicising voice o f the intertext. However, the past does not, ipso facto, constitute an explanation o f the present in the text. The use o f history enables the text to engage so polem ically with the present (as it indisputably does) precisely by not following a teleological pattern, but by invoking it in a - paradoxically - ahistorical form. G rass’s history is rendered as a historical intertext that is bound consequentially to the present w ithout however acting as its cause. Yet the past is also the source o f anxiety for the present, and contem porary Berlin is contextualised here above all within those dark elem ents o f G erm an history.^^ I f the present is so m ired in the past, as the textual conflation o f the two m anifestly suggests, how does this weighty and oppressive historical awareness correspond to the suspension o f linear tem porality presumed by the dom inant intertextual aesthetic? Is this
S ee M anfred M isch , ‘“ ...e in e F iille von Zitaten a u f A b r u f’: A n sp ielu n g en und Zitate in Giinter G rass’
E in w e ite s F e l d , in D e u tsc h sp ra c h ig e G e g e n w a rtslite ra tu r , ed. by H ans-Jorg K nob lau ch and H elm u t K oopm ann (T übingen: Stauffenburg, 1 997), pp. 153-66. M isch d iscu sses F on ty’s u se o f F on tan e’s ‘sab elrasseln d es G ed ich t “E in zu g” ’ and su g g ests that it allu des to ‘die m it der R eichsgrU ndung von 1871 sich b e sch leu n ig en d e V eranderung in bürgerlichen d eutsch en H abitus, in den in h oh em M aBe m ilitârisch e M o d e lle ein flo ssen , die den E n tzivilisieru n gssch u b in G ang setzten, der im dritten R eich seinen
H ohepunkt erreichte, aber auch in der jün geren G esch ich te der beiden deutsch en Staaten noch spürbar w ar und ist. Immer w ied er kom m t der R om an a u f das in den preuBischen E in igu n gsk riegen erfolgreich e,
1918 gesch eiterte, zw isch e n 1933 und 1945 w iederum e rfo lg lo s erprobte und trotz allem nicht au fg eg eb en e V erhaltensm uster der G ew alt zurück’ . (p. 157) H e also poin ts out that it is ‘vor allem die dunklen Punkte im Leben Fontanes, in denen W uttke sein e ig e n e s Schicksal b eg r eift.’ (p. 160)
poststructuralist account o f history, rendered literary and theoretical within the fictional modes o f the text, problematic in its textual levelling o f the historical field?
The metaphorical inscription of the eternal return
The retrospective analysis that the intertext perm its produces an uncomfortable confrontation with the past, on both an individual and a collective level. Yet the narrative does not exert any sense o f ongoing, progressive significance to the past. Rather, it sets up a cyclical version o f German history consistent with a Nietzschean eternal recurrence, which seems to cast doubt on the existence o f hum an m otivation to progress (and draw consequences) from one historical period to the next. The model is, o f course, structurally perfectly suited to a text that finds its them atic force precisely in this pattern o f recurrence occurring in the intertext. However, from an historical point o f view, its implications are serious, because it threatens the assum ption o f a positive will to change through historical awareness. How can guilt and responsibility, preoccupations o f the text throughout, retain any m eaning in the absence o f a presum ption o f history’s role in bringing ourselves to account over the past? Grass himself, challenged in an interview with Stern to explain the apparent view o f history expounded in the text as ‘nur die wechselnd kostiimierte W iederkehr des G leichen’, first distances him self from the text with the comment that it is ‘Fontanes G eschichtsbild’, then elucidates his own perspective:
Ich bin G eschichts-Skeptiker und schon in anderen Biichern polem isch gegen Hegels W eltgeist angetreten. D essen H ineininterpretieren von Sinn in die G eschichte liegt m ir genausow enig wie die V orstellung von der ewigen W iederkehr, m it der m an die vollige H offnungslosigkeit des G eschichtsprozesses versinnbildlicht. Ich glaube, daB die G eschichte ein absurder ProzeB ist, aus dem zu lernen schwerfallt.*^
Grass thus drives a clear wedge between his own view o f history and the ‘w eitgehend fatalistisches’ that he has earlier on in the interview attributed to Fontane. He also, in
Giinter G rass, ‘D er L eser verlangt nach Z um u tun gen !’, in terview w ith Joachim K ohler and Peter San dm eyer, S te m , 17 A u gu st 1995, reprinted in N e g t, ed ., pp. 4 1 1 -2 1 (p. 4 1 6 ).
referring to comments that the central character Fonty m akes in the text, aligns him with Fontane, hence implicating Fontane directly in the form ation o f the historical patterns at work in the text. Fonty, Grass implies, is, in being Fontane’s nam esake, also his voice beyond the grave, and so can com fortably assume a position that Grass him self rejects. W hilst it seems reasonable for Grass to defend his right neither to share nor to take responsibility for his protagonists’ views, we can rightly interrogate the text itself to establish whether, and if so how far, it sets up any sort o f alternative to Fontane’s - and F onty’s - fatalistic analysis o f history. In another interview, asked if his vision o f history is fatalistic, he replies that ‘mein Geschichtsverstandnis ist nicht resignativ, es ist skeptisch.’^^ So how does the text itself counter the deep sense o f resignation that is articulated through the dom inant Fontane intertext? How does Grass negotiate a path through this intertext, one which perm its a sceptical, rather than a fatalistic, voice to be heard by the reader? At what point does the narrative depart from the bleak assessment o f its protagonist that “ ‘[ejiniges [hat sich] verandert, doch nichts im Prinzip’” ? (599) These are questions that require careful consideration before we can come to an understanding o f the role o f the historical intertext in G rass’s critical assessm ent o f the present state o f Germany. I intend, therefore, to give an account first o f how Grass actually installs what he describes as Fontane’s G eschichtsbild into the text in the form o f a Nietzschean ‘ewige W iederkehr des G leichen’, and from there assess the extent to w hich the text perm its the reader to break out o f the circle and hence escape its fatalistic, and paralysing, implications.
Early on in the text, the m ost expressive symbol o f this eternal circle is introduced: Sogleich riickt ein Transportm ittel ins Blickfeld, das seit A nbeginn in Betrieb war. W ir stellen uns den A ktenboten Theo W uttke in einem nach vom e offenen A ufzug vor, der in zwei Fahrtrichtungen aus einer V ielzahl von K abinen gereiht ist und unablassig, das heibt über die W endepunkte im K eller- und DachgeschoB hinweg, a u f und ab fahrt, ohne Halt, leicht klappem d, nicht ohne verhaltenes Gestohne und Seufzen, aber doch zuverlassig, sagen wir ruhig “gebetsm iihlenhaft”; w eshalb man diesen altm odischen, inzw ischen -
Giinter G rass, ‘Ich sitz e nicht a u f der Bank der S ie g er ’, interview w ith H erm ann H ofer, L ü b e ck e r N a c h ric h te n , 2 4 Septem ber 1995, reprinted in N e g t, ed ., pp. 4 4 2 -4 (p. 4 4 3 ).
trotz aller w ohlm einenden Proteste - fast überall ausgem usterten Personenaufzug “Paternoster” genannt hat. (75-6)
The paternoster is the structural centrepiece o f the building in whose various employ Fonty has been throughout his working life (at this point early on in the text still the
H aus der M inisterien). It is an anarchic rem inder o f the past and at the same tim e a fam iliar and integral presence in the day-to-day business o f the staff w orking in the building. Its literal function serves as an expression also for the metaphorical architecture o f the narrative form, and its role in staging significant events depends on both these qualities. Its obvious advantage for the characters is the uninterrupted space that it affords, both in the sense o f tim e (because it is in constant motion, enabling conversations to be conducted at their own, leisurely pace), and o f privacy (because the cabins provide a safe environm ent for the exchange o f delicate subject matter). And as a symbolic property o f the text, its passage around the historical Wendepunkte to which it has borne witness sets up a determined challenge to their presum ed linearity and, indeed, to their singularity. The significance o f the apparatus is brought to the reader through the figure o f Fonty: introducing it, the narrative twice directly appeals to us to picture him in it, so that ‘[w]ir stellen uns [Fonty] in einem [...] Aufzug v or’ (75), and ‘so stellen wir uns Fontys Abgange vor’ (76), and there is a lengthy physical description o f his Journeys up, down and around the building in the antiquated lift, and the comical figure that he cuts as he appears and disappears again, bit by bit, on each level. (76) From the start, Fonty and the paternoster are bound together, displaying a natural physical familiarity established over his fifty years’ association with the building itself, and by the same token sharing a metaphorical affinity, a quality o f tim elessness supplied by the narrative which locates them together outside the linear process o f history. So not only does he display a surefootedness in entering and leaving the cabins w hich Hoftaller entirely lacks, so that his ‘sprungsicheres Vertrautsein [...] gab H oftaller ausreichend Sicherheit’ (78), but his very existence reflects those qualities for which the lift is noted.
Thus, ju st as the lift’s revolving journey is undertaken ‘nicht ohne verhaltenes Gestohne und Seufzen’, and inevitably recalls in its passage som ething ‘altm odisch’ and ‘ausgem ustert’ (76), so too Fonty’s subversive activities have sentenced him to an ‘anhaltende Gefangenschaft’ causing him sometimes ‘riickwarts wie gegenwartig zu stohnen’, whilst bearing it in the same restrained m anner ‘über alle W endezeiten hinw eg’. (79) The lift has been ‘seit Anbeginn in B etrieb’ (75), ju st as Fonty has been ‘von Anbeginn unter A ufsicht’ (78), and, still more, the ‘unablassig’ (76,78) m ovem ent o f the lift recalls the enactment o f ‘U nsterblichkeit’ in Fonty’s intertextual performance, a term that is also eagerly em braced by the narrators. The paternoster’s grinding and grum bling course around the building thus accords the text a visceral image o f the central notion o f endlessly recycled time, whilst also providing the narrative with a dram atic space within and through which to enact the mem ory o f the past and its considerable impact on the present.
In particular, the paternoster is conducive to discussion and private interchange, both political and personal in nature. In an environm ent where the Stasi is ju st the professional face o f a whole cultural regime structured around spies and informants, secrecy is at a premium, and the enclosed space o f the cabin is unusually intimate. As usual, though, it offers no bar to the prying narrators themselves, who are seem ingly om niscient in the sense that they have access to, if not understanding of, the most rem ote aspects o f Fonty’s life and thoughts. Fonty first sets eyes upon the then head o f the Treuhand as he passes in one o f the cabins o f the paternoster, and when they actually chance to share the same cabin, much later in the narrative, their surroundings initiate a conversation that is not only ‘unverm ittelt,’ but leaves them ‘nâher, als Vater und Sohn einander vertraut sein konnen.’ (612) The contents o f the conversation are only intimated by the narrative, not recorded, but it is enough to know that the environm ent o f the paternoster promotes ‘jenen zeitvergessenden Plauderton’ (612)
beloved o f Fonty, and that the conversation is only interrupted from the outside, with the forceful intervention o f impatient security guards. The paternoster seem s to engender, along with its unusual intimacy, another m ode o f being altogether, whose quality is not so much transitory as timeless. Not surprisingly, it is equally well-suited to ‘zw anglose’ (79) conversations, such as the one w hich results in Fonty’s falling in love with his wife-to-be, Emilie, at that time a young secretary in the then
Reichluftfahrtministerium . M issing her floor, she is persuaded by the young war reporter to travel up, around and down again, and again, and again; in this way, he extracts from her not only a promise to type up his reports, but, after the fifth lap, the first kiss. As such, the paternoster offers the same luxury o f privacy as the boat on the lake, long Fonty’s preferred m eans o f conducting his delicate political and emotional affairs in safety. The perm anent m ovem ent and enclosed environm ent o f the lift perform m uch the same function as the rocking rowing boat in the lake, thw arting the efforts o f potential eavesdroppers. This intimacy is o f course a double-edged sword, depending on the company. For Hoftaller, a ride in the paternoster or a row in the boat provides the perfect opportunity to exercise his brief, a quick look through Fonty’s files to see which m ight be ‘disappeared’, or a chance to confront Fonty with revelations about his past, a spot o f blackm ail in his usual style.
The boat, like the paternoster, is a leitm otif which cuts across time: Fonty’s initial m eeting with his illegitimate French granddaughter, on the lake in the Tiergarten,
revisits the circumstances in which he, in all probability, wooed her grandm other all those years ago as part o f his contribution towards resistance. The m o tif is not ju st