Günter Grass, the German novelist, social critic and Nobel Prize winner whom many called his country’s moral conscience but who stunned Europe when he revealed in 2006 that he had been a member of the Waffen-SS during World War II, died on Monday. He was 87.
Mr. Grass’s publisher, the Steidl Verlag, said the author died in a clinic in the northern city of Lübeck, which had been his home for decades. No cause of death was given.
Mr. Grass was hardly the only member of his generation who obscured the facts of his wartime life. But because he was a pre-eminent public intellectual who had pushed Germans to confront the ugly aspects of their history, his confession that he had falsified his own biography shocked readers and led some to view his life’s work in a wholly different light.
In 2012, Mr. Grass found himself the subject of further scrutiny after publishing a poem criticizing Israel for its hostile language toward Iran over its nuclear program. He expressed revulsion at the idea that Israel might be justified in attacking Iran over a perceived nuclear threat and said that it “endangers the already fragile world peace.”
The poem prompted an international controversy and a personal attack from Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Mr. Grass later said that he had meant to attack Israel’s government rather than the country as a whole.
The publication in 1959 of Mr. Grass’s wildly inventive masterpiece, “The Tin Drum,” propelled him to the forefront of postwar literature. Critics hailed the audacious sweep of his literary imagination. A severed horse’s head swarming with hungry eels, a criminal hiding beneath a peasant woman’s layered skirts, and a child who shatters windows with his high-pitched voice are among the memorable images that made “The Tin Drum” a worldwide triumph.
In awarding Mr. Grass the Nobel Prize in 1999, the Swedish Academy praised him for embracing “the enormous task of reviewing contemporary history by recalling the disavowed and the forgotten: the victims, losers and lies that people wanted to forget because they had once believed in them.” It described “The Tin Drum” as “one of the enduring literary works of the 20th century.”
Although Mr. Grass was a playwright, essayist, short-story writer, poet, sculptor and printmaker as well as a novelist, it was his role as a social critic that brought him the most notoriety.
For much of his career, he campaigned for disarmament and social change. By the end of the 20th century, however, his uncompromising anti-militarism and his warnings that a unified Germany might once again threaten world peace led some of his countrymen to criticize him as a pedantic moralist who had lost touch with real life.
The revelation of his Nazi past led to accusations of hypocrisy. He revealed it himself, days before a memoir, “Peeling the Onion,” was to be published. Mr. Grass had long said that he had been a “flakhelfer” during the war, one of many German youths pressed to serve in relatively innocent jobs like guarding antiaircraft batteries. But in an interview with the newspaper Frankfurter Allgemeine, he admitted that he had in fact been a member of the elite Waffen-SS, which perpetrated some of the Nazi regime’s most horrific crimes.
“It was a weight on me,” said Mr. Grass, then 78. “My silence over all these years is one of the reasons I wrote the book. It had to come out in the end.”
In his memoir, Mr. Grass reflected on the vagaries of conscience and memory. “What I had accepted with stupid pride of youth I wanted to conceal after the war out of a recurrent sense of shame,” he wrote. “But the burden remained, and no one could lighten it.”
Although he was conscripted into the SS in 1944, near the end of World War II, and was never accused of participating in atrocities, the fact that he had obscured this crucial fact of his background for decades while flagellating his fellow Germans for their cowardice set off cries of outrage.
“Moral suicide,” said the newspaper Welt am Sonntag. The playwright Rolf Hochhuth said it was “disgusting” to recall that Mr. Grass had denounced President Ronald Reagan and Chancellor Helmut Kohl for their 1985 visit to a cemetery in Bitburg where Waffen-SS soldiers were buried, while hiding the fact that he had been in the SS himself.
Mr. Grass’s defenders argued that his social and political influence had been highly positive for postwar Germany, forcing the country to face and atone for its Nazi past. He might not have been able to play that role, they said, if he had been forthright about his own background.
With his mane of black hair and drooping walrus mustache, bifocals slipping down his nose and smoke curling from his pipe, Mr. Grass was almost a caricature of the postwar European intellectual. His books were all but inseparable from his public persona, giving him a unique position in German public life that stretched over more than half a century.
“The Tin Drum” became one of the most widely read modern European novels. It also made Mr. Grass a leading spokesman for a generation barely old enough to have recalled or participated in Nazi crimes.
The book’s hero, Oskar Matzerath, wills himself at the age of 3 to stop growing, and thereafter expresses himself only by pounding drums. He was viewed as representing a German nation so morally stunted that it could not find the courage to prevent Nazism.
An intense anti-nationalist, Mr. Grass viewed his country with emotions that could flare into fear and hatred. Some critics said the artificially small and weak Oskar Matzerath symbolized what he wanted for Germany.
In the 1960s and ’70s, much of Mr. Grass’s work dealt with the German themes of disillusionment, the militaristic past and the challenges of building post-Nazi society. His greatest successes of the period were “Cat and Mouse” (1961), about a man whose unusually large Adam’s apple forever sets him apart from the rest of humanity, and the Joycean “Dog Years” (1963), which analyzes three decades of German history and suggests that the country has not progressed much. These two novels, together with “The Tin Drum,” make up what Mr. Grass called his “Danzig Trilogy.”
While he was writing these works, Mr. Grass also campaigned and wrote speeches for Willy Brandt, who was one of West Germany’s dominant politicians from 1957, when he was elected mayor of Berlin, to 1974, when he stepped down after five years as the country’s first Social Democratic chancellor.
Mr. Grass later demonstrated against the deployment of American nuclear missiles in Germany, denounced the German arms industry and quit the Social Democratic Party, the Berlin Academy of Arts and the Lutheran Church, which he had joined as a teenager after renouncing Roman Catholicism. He criticized both the Lutheran and the Catholic hierarchies as “moral accomplices” of Nazism.
Mr. Grass was a tireless defender of Fidel Castro’s regime in Cuba and embraced Nicaragua’s left-oriented Sandinista government in the 1980s. Yet he described himself as an opponent of revolution who viewed “humane socialism” as the ideal society. He denounced repression in Soviet-bloc countries and attacked regimes run by religious fundamentalists, but his criticism was often accompanied by scathing denunciations of Western and especially German capitalism. In opposing the first Persian Gulf war, for example, he focused his anger on his own country, accusing German companies of arming the Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein.
“Once again, it is Germans who are designing and producing poison gas factories,” he said in an interview. “This is where you really see the German danger. It isn’t nationalism, and it isn’t reawakened neo-Nazis. It is simply the unchecked lust for profit.”
Many of Mr. Grass’s books are phantasmagorical mixtures of fact and fantasy, some of them inviting comparison with the Latin American style known as magical realism. His own name for this style was “broadened reality.”
“Günter Grass’s books present surprising and extremely contradictory combinations of opposites,” the Russian-German writer Lev Kopelev wrote in an essay on the occasion of Mr. Grass’s 65th birthday. “Minutely detailed presentations of real things and scientifically precise descriptions of historical events are melted together with fairy tales, legends, myths, fables, poems and wild fantasies to produce his own special poetical world.”
Mr. Grass was renowned for his wide-ranging tastes. He was a gourmand who favored hearty peasant food, and his work exudes the aroma of home-cooked dishes like smoked goose breast and roast pork with sauerkraut and caraway seeds, the preparation and consumption of which he described in loving detail.
His fascination with animals was reflected in book titles like “The Flounder” and “From the Diary of a Snail.” He was a jazz lover, once worked as a jazz musician, and collaborated on “O Susanna,” an illustrated book on the subject published in 1959.
Some critics hoped Mr. Grass would produce a monumental novel encompassing all the great themes that have tormented Germany through its history, and felt betrayed when he did not. Many of his later works were met with both critical and popular indifference. The dominant German literary critic during most of his career, Marcel Reich-Ranicki, who died in 2013, called him “greatly overrated,” and once appeared on the cover of the magazine Der Spiegel ripping apart a copy of one Grass book he especially loathed, “Too Far Afield.”
After the Berlin Wall was breached in 1989, Mr. Grass argued against German unification on the ground that a people responsible for the Holocaust had forfeited the right to live together in one nation. He suggested that East and West Germany remain separate for a time and then join a loose confederation of German-speaking states.
“Auschwitz speaks against even a right to self-determination that is enjoyed by all other peoples, because one of the preconditions for the horror, besides other, older urges, was a strong and united Germany,” he said in a 1990 speech. “We cannot get by Auschwitz. We should not even try, as great as the temptation is, because Auschwitz belongs to us, is branded into our history, and — to our benefit! — has made possible an insight that could be summarized as, ‘Now we finally know ourselves.’ ”
Günter Wilhelm Grass came of age on a continent torn by hatred. He was born in Danzig on Oct. 16, 1927, to a German father and a mother who was a Kashubian, a Slavic ethnic group with its own language and traditions. Danzig, now the Polish city of Gdansk, was then a free city under the control of the League of Nations, but its population was mostly German and loyal to the Reich. It was the first territory seized by the Nazis at the outbreak of World War II.
“One of the world’s most frequently besieged and contested cities (as Mr. Grass loves to emphasize), Danzig during the 1930s was a symbol of Germany’s lost territories and a focus of Nazi agitation,” the author and critic Morris Dickstein wrote. “By the end of the war it was buried in rubble with all its German population driven out. It is a truism to say that except for Southerners like Faulkner, who inherited the consequences of the Civil War, American writers have a relatively undeveloped sense of history. But even among Europeans, Mr. Grass was well situated to learn how history buffets and battles local dreams and individual lives.”
Mr. Grass joined the Nazi children’s organization Jungvolk at the age of 10. Like many Germans of what came to be known as the “flakhelfer generation,” he claimed to have done no real service to the Nazi war effort.
Among them was Joseph Ratzinger, who went on to become Pope Benedict XVI. After the war ended, Mr. Grass and the future pope were prisoners together in an Allied camp at Bad Aibling. Mr. Grass later remembered Mr. Ratzinger as “extremely Catholic” and “a little uptight,” but “a nice guy.”
After returning to civilian life, Mr. Grass found himself drawn toward art and poetry. He joined a loose but highly influential circle of critical intellectuals known as Group 47. Encouraged by other members of the group, among them the writers Heinrich Böll and Uwe Johnson, he decided to abandon what some said was a promising career in sculpture and devote himself to literature.
Mr. Grass lived in Paris during the late 1950s and wrote “The Tin Drum” in a basement apartment there. It earned him worldwide acclaim, as well as accusations of blasphemy and pornography in Germany. It also was banned in Communist countries, including Poland, meaning that it could not legally be read in Gdansk, the city where it was set.
The book’s fame grew after the director Volker Schlöndorff made it into vivid movie that won the 1979 Academy Award for best foreign language film. None of the more than two dozen works Mr. Grass published over the next half-century approached its impact on the European consciousness.
Some critics found the increasingly apocalyptic books Mr. Grass published after the 1970s repetitive and self-righteous. Others complained that his relentless activism had overwhelmed his identity as a writer.
“Here is a novelist who has gone so public he can’t be bothered to write a novel,” John Updike wrote. “He just sends dispatches to his readers from the front line of his engagement.”
Mr. Grass’s marriage in 1954 to Anna Margareta Schwarz, a Swiss dancer, ended in divorce in 1978. He is survived by his second wife, Ute Grunert, an organist; four children from his first marriage, Laura, Bruno, Franz and Raoul; two stepsons from his second marriage, Malte and Hans; two other children, Helene and Nele, and 18 grandchildren.
After the revelations of his Nazi past, Mr. Grass found defenders among his American friends. One was the novelist John Irving, who assailed the “predictably sanctimonious dismantling” of Mr. Grass’s reputation “from the cowardly standpoint of hindsight.”
“You remain a hero to me, both as a writer and a moral compass,” Mr. Irving wrote. “Your courage, both as a writer and as a citizen of your country, is exemplary — a courage heightened, not lessened, by your most recent revelation.”
Mr. Grass described himself as “not a pessimist, but a skeptic.” He vigorously rejected the view that artists should devote themselves to creating rather than agitating. That view, he once said, leads to a self-censorship that delights “the powers of church and state.”
“Nothing is more pleasing or less threatening to them than that game of the self-satisfied artist called l’art pour l’art,” he said. “In the end, it is only about color, sound and language as ends in themselves. Nothing is called by its true name, and therefore no censorship is necessary.”
Yet he rued the many years in which he was unable to speak the full truth about himself. “The brief inscription meant for me reads: ‘I kept silent,’ ” Mr. Grass wrote in his memoir.
Why was he attracted to the SS as a teenager?
“It was the newsreels,” he concluded. “I was a pushover for the prettified black-and-white ‘truth’ they served up.”
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