Some time ago I was talking about
fairytales with my friend Leslie Wilson, whose two books for teenagers are
realistic fiction set in Nazi Germany, and was struck when she
remarked, ‘There are fairytale motifs in my books, too, you know.’ Realising it
was true, I immediately asked if she would write a post about the fairytale elements in her YA novel, Last Train from Kummersdorf – which has been released in a new
edition today.
‘Last Train From Kummersdorf’ was shortlisted for the Guardian Fiction Prize, and much of the emotional truth of the narrative stems from the traumatic wartime experiences of Leslie's own mother. On the run from the advancing Russian army in 1945, two young people, Effi and Hanno, join forces on the road, teaming up to defend and help each other from the dangers they meet along the way. In this extract, Russian planes have strafed a column of refugees, killing the horses who’ve been pulling the wagons.
‘Last Train From Kummersdorf’ was shortlisted for the Guardian Fiction Prize, and much of the emotional truth of the narrative stems from the traumatic wartime experiences of Leslie's own mother. On the run from the advancing Russian army in 1945, two young people, Effi and Hanno, join forces on the road, teaming up to defend and help each other from the dangers they meet along the way. In this extract, Russian planes have strafed a column of refugees, killing the horses who’ve been pulling the wagons.
…Ida looked at the horses. They were both dead now, but for the life of her she couldn’t face chopping them up for meat. She scolded herself for weakness. Anyway, Magda was going to do it. But when Magda got to the horses she hesitated, wondering how to start. Then Herr Hungerland walked over to stand beside her, putting out his hand for the knife. ‘Let me,’ he said, ‘I have some knowledge of physiology. I am a doctor.’
That a doctor - whose skills are for healing - should find his main utility in this situation the ability to butcher a dead horse, makes a terrible and ironic point about the nature of war.
Here’s Leslie herself, talking about the fairytale analogue to ‘Last Train From Kummerdorf’:
THE BREMEN TOWN MUSICIANS
When my novel Last Train from Kummersdorf was
published, my brother read it and then said to me: ‘It’s not at all a
realistic novel, is it?’ And indeed, it isn’t, though I’m not sure how
many people have noticed.
It is a novel very much
in the German tradition: and at first glance it is close to other German
novels and short stories about the Second World War and ‘Die Flucht’ –
which means ‘The Flight’, meaning the escape from the advancing Russian
army. Most of these are realist. But as I wrote it I knew I was in the
German romantic/gothic tradition, like Storm’s Schimmelreiter (The Rider on the White Horse), or Gotthelf’s The Black Spider. Less unequivocally so, perhaps, than Grass’s Tin Drum. (A novel which made it hard, at first, to write Kummersdorf, because
Grass seemed to have said it all so brilliantly.) But then I began to
see that I had things to say that hadn’t already been said, and dared to
go forward.
That tradition is deeply
rooted in folklore, and so am I. I spent years of my childhood reading folktales from all over the world. But it
was when I was doing my degree in German that I read the whole way
through the three-volume 1900 jubilee edition of Grimm that I was lucky
enough to be given in childhood – and found my mind
going clicketty-clack, categorising the stories, seeing that certain
basic plots came up over and over again, with variations – and once a
motif from the Nibelungenlied, the medieval Lay of the Nibelungs, in The Two Brothers:
the sword put between a man masquerading as his twin brother and his
sister-in-law when they have to sleep together. Siegfried puts a sword
between himself and Brünhilde when he beds her in the guise of his
brother-in-law-to be, Gunther. Maybe the Nibelungenlied draws
from popular folklore, maybe the folk story has picked up part of the
epic. In any case, it was deeply important to me to read the collection
then, one of those things that one knows one has to do, even if one
doesn’t know why. What it taught me is what others have said before me:
there are only a limited amount of plots. The other realisation was also
important: that stories are interdependent and feed each other. When –
many years later - I started to write Kummersdorf, I quickly realised the influence, in my story, of The Bremen Town Musicians.
The
Brothers Grimm were undoubtedly motivated by a desire to establish an
authentic ‘German’ voice; a project rooted in the dubious one of German
unification by force, rather than through the liberal impulse of
revolution. That hope was dashed in 1948. As for the ‘authentic German
voice’, that was a stupid idea. Folktales are international; carried
along trade routes, they flit from country to country. Some of the Grimm
stories came from Perrault. Maybe nursemaids picked them up in the
houses of the francophile German aristocracy and middle class, and took
them back into their own humble homes to tell to their own children. At
that point other motifs infiltrated them, which is why Aschenputtel is different from Cendrillon. The
other thing that the Grimm brothers did was to edit the stories – but I
am quite certain that they still retain much of the authentic
vernacular voice.
I think the value of
myth and fairy stories is that they mitigate the dreadful things that
happen to human beings. Stories of heroes, of magical rescues, of the
world turned upside down, give us courage to face a harsh world. The
savagery of the revenge sometimes taken expresses people’s deep inner
anger; an anger too often bitten back in a world where injustice and
callous exploitation were – and still are - rife. The Bremen Town Musicians is
about old animals, worked-out, threatened with various brutal ends
because they’re no use to their masters any longer. They find a robbers’
house in the forest and frighten the robbers away from it and their
booty simply by making their various noises – music, according to them –
so then they are able to live at their ease for the rest of their
lives. I think the story reflects the reality of the lives of
story-telling grandparents, who were similarly regarded as useless –
except to keep the children quiet. It’s a story about Grey Power. Or
just about the powerless who manage – just for once – to turn the
tables. And, significantly, when the robber comes back to see if the
band can repossess their house, the voice that finally terrorises him is
that of the cockerel who he interprets as a judge’s voice, calling out:
‘Bring the rogue to me!’
Last Train from Kummersdorf is
about civilians, and civilians who end up facing the incoming army. As a
child, I always noticed the value that’s placed in wartime on soldiers’
lives over those of civilians. I resented it, because from an early age
I’d heard from my mother just what defeat means. When the soldiers are
dead, it’s the old people, the youngsters and children who are in the
front line. Many of the Russian soldiers entering Germany
in 1945 behaved the way conquering soldiers have always done. They
behaved that way even in the Slav countries they came to first, so it
wasn’t, as many people have said, just a revenge-taking for the dreadful
things the German soldiers had done in Russia. Members of the Red Army
raped, tortured, murdered and looted, with Stalin’s blessing. The
innocent suffered along with the guilty. ‘Deutsche Frau ist deutsche Frau,’ a
Russian soldier said when it was pointed out to him that the woman he
was about to rape was Jewish. ‘German woman is German woman.’ My mother
got away from a Russian by the skin of her teeth, ran away into the
forest and the mountains and almost died there. That, along with the
expulsion of many of her family from their homes in Silesia, is the ‘core narrative’ I was working with.
If you sleep rough, it
very quickly starts to do things to your perception of reality: dossers
and refugees live a different kind of reality from ours, in our houses,
where we can shut the door on danger. I think when you’re in constant
danger of your life, then some fundamental, mythic perceptions probably
kick in. My mother, wandering the mountains in April, was living out a
fundamental folkloric story of pursuit, only it was Russian soldiers,
rather than enraged witches, she was escaping from. Hanno and Effi, in Kummersdorf, are
trying to escape from the Russians too, but they have a Quest, too: to
get to the West, where the boy Hanno’s mother is, and where the girl
Effi is firmly convinced she’ll find her father. The teenagers pick up
other people, rag-tag refugees; it was at that point that I said to
myself: ‘This story is like The Bremen Town Musicians!’
But my refugees don’t
find the baddies in a house: the baddies are on the run, too, and the
kids pick some of them up and have to schlepp them along willy-nilly;
the old crazy doctor who’s murdered disabled children in the
‘euthanasia’ programme; the rabid Nazi police officer who nurses a
strange hatred for the boy Hanno. But there’s someone else: the little
man Sperling (which means sparrow) with his dog Cornelius and his magic
cart which he makes over to the kids after a Russian air attack kills
him. When the kids play a game with the railway tickets in the cart,
when Effi teases the adults with the fantasy they’ve cooked up – when
suddenly the other refugees start believing the alluring fantasy of a
train that can carry them out of danger – this is story taking people
over, altering their perceptions of reality. And the train itself, when
it half-magically appears, becomes a location where the truth comes out
about the refugees’ pasts. Though it’s no means of escape for them, so
the story doesn’t end there.
My novel, like so many fairy-tales, and especially the Musicians, takes place in the German ‘Wald’, the forest, the location where so many German folk tales play off. I knew the German forest from an early age, though not the Brandenburg forest of the novel. My grandfather had a house on the eastern shore of the Rhine. My brother and I used to go off into the Wald and
explore it, but it felt dangerous; full of wild boar for one thing, who
might attack us in the breeding season. Once, when I was a baby, my
mother was on her own in the house at night – my grandparents had gone
out together – and she heard a snuffling and thumping against the door, a
huge animal apparently trying to break in. She was terrified. In the
morning, there was blood on the grass outside, and the adults realised
it must have been a wounded boar. It wasn’t really a danger to us, of
course, but the story of that inchoate menace in the night coming out of
the Wald stayed with me. When the stags were rutting, the clash
of their antlers echoed and filled the valley in front of the house;
they were almost as loud as thunderclaps.
The road from Opa’s
house led to a little clearing in the woods where a flame flickered, day
and night. I was told that a child had been lost out there once, and
its desperate mother promised the Virgin Mary that if her child was
found, she’d set a flame there to burn to help other travellers who
might be lost. The flame marked the place where the child was safely
found. I don’t know if it’s still there. I can picture it now, at a
place where two paths met, in a part of the forest planted with
conifers; the dusty path scattered with needle-mess and resinous cones,
and the dimness among the trees. Mirkwood. The forest went on and on, it
seemed enormous. I knew the witches and wolves and robbers were
in there; you only had to go far enough. And so it became part of my
psyche and so I had to write about it.
