Badenheim 1939; Katerina; The Story of a Life by Aharon Appelfeld: A Review

“God is in the sky,” the young Aharon Appelfeld’s grandfather told him, “and there is nothing to fear.” Appelfeld was born into a middle-class Jewish family in 1932 in what is now Ukraine. By 1938 “the ground was burning beneath our feet,” and he and his parents were later taken to a Nazi labor camp. He managed to escape in 1942 at the age of 10, never saw his parents again, and died in Israel in 2018.

These significant events deeply influenced Appelfeld’s writings. While he found it “annoying” to be labeled a “Holocaust writer,” the designation is supported by many of his books, including three reissued this week by Penguin Modern Classics. However, his approach to the subject is distanced and indirect.

His most famous novel, Badenheim 1939 (1980, translated by Dalya Bilu), serves as a powerful analogy of the Holocaust’s crushing effect in wartime Europe. Every line is steeped in bitter irony, starting with the first: “Spring returned to Badenheim.” For the Jewish population of this Austrian resort town, spring means preparing for an “invasion of vacationers,” and it seems natural to them that the sanitation department will become involved to ensure all is well.

However, soon Jews must register with the department to assist with their relocation. “We’ll be going to Poland soon,” one man tells his children. “Just imagine – Poland.” Through a series of short vignettes of the town’s inhabitants, terror subtly encroaches. “It seemed that some other time, from some other place, had invaded the town and was silently establishing itself.”

There is a well-judged uneasiness in Badenheim 1939. Irony might seem an odd choice for writing about the Holocaust, but Appelfeld perfectly captures the surreal, almost incomprehensible nature of the events.

Appelfeld’s time in the labor camp is ‘a pulsing darkness that will always be locked inside me’

Appelfeld’s 1989 novel, Katerina (translated by Jeffrey M Green), is even more peculiar than Badenheim 1939 but ultimately just as satisfying. It opens in a simple, fable-like style: “My name is Katerina, and I will soon be 80 years old,” as it tells the story of her life as a Ruthenian growing up in the 1880s. Taught to be suspicious of Jews, Katerina begins to question her prejudices when she is taken in by a Jewish family after becoming pregnant. Yet, as we know, antisemitism does not disappear quietly.

While Appelfeld’s restrained style suits the evasions of Badenheim, it initially feels less fitting for a novel like Katerina which is filled with horror and violence. However, as Katerina’s story progresses into the 20th century and shifts into a chilling allegory, it gains a satisfying force that overcomes the initial stylistic weakness.

There’s plenty to learn about Appelfeld’s approach to writing in his memoir, The Story of a Life (1999, translated by Aloma Halter). Appelfeld distinguishes between memory and imagination for a writer, suggesting they can be synthesized effectively. His early childhood, a time of plenty represented by overflowing bowls of strawberries and rooms choked with expensive furniture, was abruptly cut short. Still, we get no direct insight into his time in the labor camp. Instead, he refers to it as “a pulsing darkness that will always be locked inside me,” suggesting a visceral, rather than intellectual, imprint.

After escaping the camp, Appelfeld lived a nomadic life until he moved to Israel post-war. There, “oblivion found fertile ground” as the country often symbolized for many Jews the extinction of memory, a complete personal transformation, and total identification with the land. This sheds light on Appelfeld’s disdain for the “idealization” found in much Israeli literature and his reluctance to learn Hebrew (his family spoke German and Yiddish).

Appelfeld’s honesty and clarity offer a model for other writers to follow. Perhaps losing his mother tongue helped lock those camp years away in his memory. But Hebrew allowed him to write these compelling books – beautiful works filled with pain – and for that, we can be grateful.

Source: The Guardian