Keep Saying Their Names: A novel - Hardcover

Stranger, Simon

 
9780525657361: Keep Saying Their Names: A novel
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0525657363 ISBN 13: 9780525657361
Verlag: Knopf, 2020

Inhaltsangabe

An extraordinary work of fiction, inspired by historical events--an exquisitely crafted double portrait of a Nazi war criminal and a family savaged by World War II, conjoined by an actual house of horrors they both called home

On a street in modern-day Norway, a writer kneels with his son and tells him that according to Jewish tradition, a person dies twice: first when their heart stops beating, and then again the last time their name is read or thought or said. Before them is a stone engraved with the name Hirsch Komissar, the boy's great-great-grandfather who was murdered by Nazis.

The man who sent Komissar to his death was one of Norway's vilest traitors, Henry Oliver Rinnan, a Nazi double agent who set up headquarters in an unspectacular suburban house and transformed the cellar into a torture chamber for resisters, a place to be avoided and feared.

That is until Komissar's own son, Gerson, and his young wife, Ellen, take up residence in the house after the war. While their daughters spend a happy childhood playing in the same rooms where some of the most heinous acts of the occupation occurred, the weight of history threatens to pull the couple apart.

In Keep Saying Their Names, Simon Stranger uses this unusual twist of fate to probe five generations of intimate and global history, seamlessly melding fact and fiction, creating a brilliant lexicon of light and dark. The resulting novel reveals how evil is born in some and courage in others--and seeks to keep alive the names of those lost.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Born in 1976, SIMON STRANGER is the author of four previous novels and several books for children. His work has been translated into twelve languages, but Keep Saying Their Names is his first to be published in English. It was awarded the highly prestigious Norwegian Booksellers' Prize in 2018. He lives in Norway. Translated from Norwegian by Matt Bagguley.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

A

A for accusation.

A for arrest.

A for all that will disappear and slide into oblivion. All our memories and feelings. All our property and possessions. All that makes up the framework of a life. The chairs one used to sit in and the bed one used to sleep in will be carried out and placed in a new home. Our plates will be laid out on the table by new hands and the glasses raised to someone else’s lips, who will sip the water or the wine, before resuming their conversation. Items once loaded with history will lose all their meaning and be transformed to mere shapes, like a piano might appear to a deer or a beetle.

One day it will happen. One day will be the last for all of us, none of us knowing when, or how.
 
According to Jewish tradition everyone dies twice. The first time is when the heart stops beating and the synapses in the brain shut down, like a city during a blackout.

The second time is when the name of the deceased is mentioned, read, or thought of for the last time, fifty, or a hundred, or four hundred years later. Only then is that person really gone, erased from this world. This second death was what made the German artist Gunter Demnig start casting cobblestones in brass, engraving them with the names of Jews murdered by the Nazis during the Second World War, and embedding them in the pavement outside the houses where they once lived. He calls them Stolpersteine. They are an attempt to postpone the second death, by documenting the names of the deceased, so that passersby will look down in decades to come and read them, and in doing so, keep them alive, while ensuring that the memory of one of the worst chapters in Europe’s history is also kept alive—as visible scars on the face of the city. So far sixty-seven thousand Stolpersteine have been laid throughout Europe.

One of them is yours.

One of these stones has your name on it, and is planted in the pavement outside the apartment where you once lived, in the central Norwegian city of Trondheim. A few years ago my son knelt beside this Stolperstein, brushed away the pebbles and sand with his mitten, and read aloud.

“Here lived Hirsch Komissar.”

My son turned ten that year, and is one of your great-great- grandchildren. As is my daughter, who was only six years old that spring. My wife, Rikke, stood beside me. Also in this circle of people, was my mother-in-law, Grete, and her husband, Steinar, all of us gathered as though for the burial of an urn.

“Yes. He was my grandfather,” said Grete. “He lived right here, on the second floor,” she went on, turning to the building behind us, to the windows where you once stood looking out, in another age, when people other than ourselves were alive. I knelt down, and my daughter hung her arms round my neck, while my son continued reading the bare facts etched into the cobblestone.
 
HERE LIVED
HIRSH KOMISSAR
BORN 1887
ARRESTED 12.1.1942
FALSTAD
KILLED 7.10.42
 
Grete said something about the surprise invasion, recounting the story of how her father had seen the soldiers on the morning of April 9, 1940. Rikke stood up to join the conversation, and my daughter slid off my back and nestled up to her. Only my son and I continued looking down at the brass plate on the pavement. His finger stroked over the last line, then he looked up.
“Why was he killed, Dad?” he asked.

“Because he was Jewish,” I replied.

“Yes, but why?”

From the corner of my eye I noticed Rikke looking at me, following both conversations simultaneously.

“Well . . . The Nazis wanted to kill anyone who was different.” My son became quiet.


“Are we Jewish too?” he asked. His brown eyes were clear and concentrated.

I blinked a few times, trying to recall what he knew about the family’s history. What did my children know about being Jewish, and about our ancestry? We must have talked about how their great-great-grandparents on their mother’s side had emigrated from various parts of Russia more than a hundred years ago. I knew we had talked about the war, about their great-grandfather Gerson—whom they had both gotten to know before he died— and his escape to Sweden.

Rikke drew breath to say something, but then fell back into the conversation with Grete, and my eyes locked with my son’s.

“You’re Norwegian,” I replied, but I felt there was an element of deceit in my answer, and noticed Rikke looking at me again. “And a part of you is Jewish, but we’re not religious,” I said as I stood up, hoping that Rikke or Grete would say something too, that they would have a better answer than me, but their conversation had already leapt ahead, following the logic of association, and was now somewhere else entirely.

We went on our way, but my son’s question stuck with me. Why was he killed, Dad?

Shortly after, I started browsing through various archives, and before long some of the pieces became more visible. Soon I could picture the snow in the center of Trondheim, and the steam from people’s breath as they passed the small, crooked wooden houses. And soon I was able to see how the end of your life began, on a day like any other.
 

It is Monday, January 12, 1942. You are standing behind the counter of the fashion boutique that you and your wife own in Trondheim, surrounded by hats on stands, and mannequins wearing coats and dresses. You have just welcomed your first customer of the day, and told her about this week’s special offers, when you have to put down your cigarette and the order form to pick up the phone.

“Paris-Vienna, can I help you?” you say, automatically, as you have done thousands of times before.

“Guten Morgen,” says a man on the other end of the line, who continues, in German: “Am I talking to Komissar?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” you reply, also in German, thinking momentarily that it might be one of your suppliers from Hamburg calling, perhaps because of a problem at customs again. Maybe it is the summer dresses you ordered, but in that case it must be a new employee, because this voice does not sound familiar.

“Hirsch Komissar, married to Marie Komissar?”

“Yes? Who am I speaking to?”

“I am calling from the Gestapo’s security service.”

“OK?”

You glance up from the order form, aware that your customer can sense there is something going on. You place your cigarette on the edge of the ashtray again and turn your face toward the wall, while your heart pounds in your chest. The Gestapo?

“There is a matter we would like to discuss with you,” says the man in a low voice.

“Very well,” you reply apprehensively, and are just about to open your mouth to ask what that is when you are interrupted.

“Please come in for questioning at the Mission Hotel. Today, at two p.m.,” says the voice at the end of the line.

Mission Hotel? For questioning? Why on earth are you being called in for questioning, you think with your face still turned to the wall. Could it have something to do with Marie’s brother David and his communist views? The spike from a headless nail pokes out from the door frame. You hold your thumb against the metal, pressing the point into your skin while closing your eyes.

“Hello?” says the voice at the other end, in an impatient tone. “Are you there?”

“Yes, I am here . . . ,” you reply, lifting your thumb from the spike and looking at the white spot where the blood has been pressed away from the...

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Verlag
Knopf
Erscheinungsdatum
2020
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0525657363
ISBN 13 
9780525657361
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
304
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Verantwortliche Person
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