The Kommandant's Mistress
Page 27
Additions to the 20th Anniversary Edition
Before I published the first novel and actually did readings, I never realized that so many people would be interested in how I got my ideas; why I wrote the book the way I did; whether I wrote the book in chronological order, cut the scenes apart, threw them up in the air, then randomly put them together (yes, that was an actual question and one that's been asked several time, and, no, I wrote them as they came to me, which is the order in which they appear in the novel); whether I like writing poems, stories, or novels "better" (I like them all, but novels, because they involve the artistic psyche so completely for such an extended period of time, have become my "drug of choice"); why my name is different now, etc. I've tried to include all that information in this preface.
The Original Story & Poem "The Kommandant"
Also, at several readings in Cincinnati, where I'd earned my degrees, some people had actually taken the time to look up the original poem, "The Kommandant", which appeared in my dissertation Survivor: One Who Survives (1986), stored in the University of Cincinnati Library, and asked questions about it. At one reading, a creative writing student actually had a copy of it and several audience members asked to see it, so he passed it around. He wanted to talk about the changes between the poem and the novel, but since not everyone there had read both, we had to talk about it afterward. I included the poem because of the interest that many creative writers expressed about it.
That student asked about the original story "The Kommandant" as well. At the time, and for many years afterward, I didn't have a copy of the story, having destroyed it after I wrote what I considered a successful poem. He seemed sincerely disappointed at not being able to read that story.
It was only years after the novel was published (after my second novel was published, in fact) that one of my friends, Evelyn Schott, found her copy of the original story and sent it to me. Though it is absolutely dreadful — I'm not kidding about this — I've included it for anyone interested in the creative writing process itself, and as proof that even the worst writer can improve if s/he spends enough time on the craft, reads other good works constantly, and consciously attempts to become a better writer. (I hope the UC creative writing student who brought the poem to the reading and asked about the original story gets a copy of this; I also hope he doesn't laugh himself silly after reading the original story and regret ever asking to see it in the first place.)
Discussion Questions
Since so many book clubs, book groups, classes (eighth grade, high school, and college) have used the novel in all sorts of courses, from Holocaust Studies to Women's Studies, from Political Science to Creative Writing, I've often been asked for Discussion Questions for use by leaders, teachers, and students. I've long had them on my web-site, but have included those, as well as some additional ones, in the book for the first time (some of the new questions not on the site deal with sections of the book that people have always asked about most, such as the three different endings).
Chapter-by-Chapter Scene Index
Another addition came as a result of how the book is written. Since it imitates memory and how the mind works, it moves from scene to scene without warning, triggered by something in the previous scene. (People often ask if I wrote the novel in chronological order, cut the scenes apart, then threw them up in the air and picked them up randomly. No, this is how it came out. This is how my brain works. In fact, Part Three was one of the more challenging sections to write because I had to do it in chronological order, and apparently, the artist in me doesn't work well that way. The book as it appears is how the scenes came to me and how I wrote it.)
Once, during a commercial break in a radio interview, the host asked if I would read a scene from the book. I turned to the opening, being accustomed to reading from chapter one. The host then asked me to specifically read the scene where Max instructs the soldiers how to shoot [1:9:2].
"Where is it?" I said.
"What do you mean, 'where is it'?" the host said. "You're the one who wrote it."
"You've read the book; you know how it's written," I said. "I don't know where that scene is."
Fortunately, one of the assistants outside the booth had a copy of the book, and had read it as well. He volunteered to look for the scene while we continued our on-air discussion, saying I could read that scene after the next commercial break. He found it, I read it, and the radio station was immediately flooded with calls for the name of the book and author. "Max at work, from his perspective," as I've come to refer to that scene [1:9:2], has become a standard part of my readings & performances since then (always followed by "Max at work, from Rachel's perspective: the Wedding Game" [2:1:1].
After my University students begged me for four years to allow them to read my novel "for credit" in the senior level "The Novel course", to which I assigned a different theme every year, I realized that they wouldn't be able to either lead discussions themselves, which I required them to do, or adequately discuss the book and their interpretations of it if they were unable to find the scenes to which they wished to refer. I made a scene index for them, and they referred to it constantly. Many teachers and book groups, having heard that story, have requested that Chapter-by-Chapter Scene Index
for their own use, so I've included that index in this edition as well.
Revisions to the 20th Anniversary Edition
The HarperCollins editor didn't want anything in the book changed. However, after reading the book countless times over the years, I decided that I did want two major things (and a few minor ones) changed for the Revised, 20th Anniversary edition.
First of all, I didn't use any contractions when I wrote the novel (except in dialogue) because I thought I had to be "formal". Then, at bookstores, whenever I did readings or, later, performances, of the novel, I found that not using contractions felt unnatural, so I read them as contractions. Sometimes, members of the audience who'd already read the book and had it with them came up to me afterward and asked why I'd read it differently from the way it was written: I told them the truth. They were not pleased with me. They felt that I should've read it exactly the way I'd written it. In this revised version, I've put the contractions in, except in places where the character is intentionally not using a contraction for the purpose of emphasis, e.g., "I did not have sex with a Jew" or "I would never rape a woman". We think in contractions, and since the narration of Parts One and Two is imitating memory and how our minds work, I put the contractions in. It's more natural that way. If I'd read the entire book aloud when I was writing it, instead of just doing the dialogue aloud, I would've used contractions from the very start.
Besides the contractions, I changed a few minor things. I never liked the transition between [2:9:4] and [2:9:5], so I fixed that. In some of the dialogue, I deleted the repetitious direct address, especially if there were only two people in the scene. I corrected the couple of times the Bounty-Hunter addressed Max as "Commandant" rather than as "Commander"; I changed the Nazi Colonel's title to Oberstleutnant; I corrected any typos I missed when it was first accepted (the second edition was scanned from the first & I wasn't permitted to make the corrections, though I was allowed to insert the translations to Verdi's opera only because it didn't change the page numbers, and because I explained, very firmly, that audience members were always asking me which opera it was, and what the lines meant).
Besides using contractions, the second major change in this edition is the arrangement of the last two scenes in Chapter Two of Part One, Max's section. I'd originally written the final two scenes like this:
"I need those papers, Josef," I said. "They're private."
"What papers?" said my adjutant.
"My private papers."
My adjutant only looked at me.
"There were papers on my desk, Josef."
He glanced down at the cluttered desktop, covered with documents, files, and folders.
"What kind of papers, Kommandant?"
&nbs
p; "Personal papers."
"Personal papers?"
"Handwritten papers. On my personal stationery."
As I shuffled through the mound of documents on my desk, my adjutant glanced at the girl. She sat in her usual corner, arms wrapped around her legs, head against the wall, staring at nothing. Upstairs in the house, Hans was crying. Marta was in the garden, calling Ilse to lunch. I lifted some of the folders and papers on my desk, sifting through them. Hans continued crying. I dropped the papers I was holding back onto the desk. My adjutant blinked at me.
"Josef, where are those papers?"
"I'd be happy to help you find them, sir, if you'll tell me what I'm looking for."
"I am looking for my personal papers. They were right here on the desk."
"Perhaps you should lock up your personal papers, sir," he said, glancing again at the girl, "to keep them safe when you're not here."
"I put some papers for you in the safe," said the hotel clerk as I passed the desk on my way to the elevator.
"Papers?" I said. "What papers?"
The hotel clerk glanced around at the lobby; then he leaned toward me.
"Some letters came for you," said the clerk in a hushed voice. "The postmark made me think you'd like them..."
"Like them what?"
"Kept safe," he said. "Private. Just a moment. Let me get them for you."
One of the bellboys helped an elderly gentleman to the front doors. A young woman in a fur coat straightened the collar on the coat of her small son. Her husband stood near, scanning the train schedule. I looked at my watch. The clerk was taking a long time. I looked through some of the papers on the front desk.
"Herr Hoffmann? Herr Hoffmann?"
I released the papers. The clerk had returned. He had a small bundle: three letters, their stamps and postmarks foreign. He held them out to me, a hesitant smile on his face.
"Oh, yes," I said. "My letters."
"Did I do the right thing?" he said, his hands clutched together, his eyes blinking. "Putting them in the safe, was that all right?"
"Yes," I said, reaching into my pocket, then placing my hand, palm down, on the desk. "Thank you."
"Oh, thank you, sir," he said, smiling and swiping his hand over the money. "Thank you. Any time. I'll be happy to look out for you. Always happy to look out after one of our own. Always..."
The elevator doors slid shut. A young couple surreptitiously held hands, blushing and smiling. I closed my eyes, folding the letters. The couple whispered to each other. Giggled. The elevator opened. In my room, I tossed aside Marta's letters, and read the other.
Dear Daddy,
We miss you and
wish you were here.
Mommy cries and
Hans is a bad boy all the time.
He won't eat his vegetables and
he won't learn Spanish.
Why don't you come live with us
in our new house?
Can't Uncle Ricardo
get a new name for you, too?
One of my friends convinced me that I'd written those two scenes wrong, and that they should be rearranged into three scenes, like this (I've put the first scene in bold, and separated it from the other scene, to show you where my reader thought it should go, and where it, in fact, did go, in the first two print editions of the novel):
"I put some papers for you in the safe," said the hotel clerk as I passed the desk on my way to the elevator.
"Papers?" I said. "What papers?"
The hotel clerk glanced around at the lobby; then he leaned toward me.
"Some letters came for you," said the clerk in a hushed voice. "The postmark made me think you'd like them..."
"Like them what?"
"Kept safe," he said. "Private. Just a moment. Let me get them for you."
One of the bellboys helped an elderly gentleman to the front doors. A young woman in a fur coat straightened the collar on the coat of her small son. Her husband stood near, scanning the train schedule. I looked at my watch. The clerk was taking a long time. I looked through some of the papers on the front desk.
"I need those papers, Josef," I said. "They're private."
"What papers?" said my adjutant.
"My private papers."
My adjutant only looked at me.
"There were papers on my desk, Josef."
He glanced down at the cluttered desktop, covered with documents, files, and folders.
"What kind of papers, Kommandant?"
"Personal papers."
"Personal papers?"
"Handwritten papers. On my personal stationery."
As I shuffled through the mound of documents on my desk, my adjutant glanced at the girl. She sat in her usual corner, arms wrapped around her legs, head against the wall, staring at nothing. Upstairs in the house, Hans was crying. Marta was in the garden, calling Ilse to lunch. I lifted some of the folders and papers on my desk, sifting through them. Hans continued crying. I dropped the papers I was holding back onto the desk. My adjutant blinked at me.
"Josef, where are those papers?"
"I'd be happy to help you find them, sir, if you'll tell me what I'm looking for."
"I am looking for my personal papers. They were right here on the desk."
"Perhaps you should lock up your personal papers, sir," he said, glancing again at the girl, "to keep them safe when you're not here."
"Herr Hoffmann? Herr Hoffmann?"
I released the papers on the front desk. The clerk had returned. He had a small bundle: three letters, their stamps and postmarks foreign. He held them out to me, a hesitant smile on his face.
"Oh, yes," I said. "My letters."
"Did I do the right thing?" he said, his hands clutched together, his eyes blinking. "Putting them in the safe, was that all right?"
"Yes," I said, reaching into my pocket, then placing my hand, palm down, on the desk. "Thank you."
"Oh, thank you, sir," he said, smiling and swiping his hand over the money. "Thank you. Any time. I'll be happy to look out for you. Always happy to look out after one of our own. Always..."
The elevator doors slid shut. A young couple surreptitiously held hands, blushing and smiling. I closed my eyes, folding the letters. The couple whispered to each other. Giggled. The elevator opened. In my room, I tossed aside Marta's letters, and read the other.
Dear Daddy,
We miss you and
wish you were here.
Mommy cries and
Hans is a bad boy all the time.
He won't eat his vegetables and
he won't learn Spanish.
Why don't you come live with us
in our new house?
Can't Uncle Ricardo
get a new name for you, too?
In effect, the first scene was moved, interrupting the second scene and dividing the final scene into two parts. I don't know why my editor-friend was so insistent that the scenes be presented that way. Despite my misgivings, I re-arranged the scenes as my friend suggested. After all, she was a professional editor, a literature major herself, and was absolutely convinced that I'd written it wrong, putting the scenes in the incorrect order. It was my first novel, I'd never even done a book before…
In short, what did I know?
Yet, every time I've read the book since it was published, I've known that the arrangement was, quite simply, not "right". (For my friend, I'm sure that it was, but not for me.) It should've been done the way I'd originally had it. I have no explanation for this feeling: just a gut-reaction to those two scenes every time I've read the novel since it was published. An unwavering conviction that it should've remained the way I'd written it in the first place, and that it was, categorically and incontrovertibly, "wrong" in the published order that my friend had insisted upon and to which I, lacking confidence in my artistic intuition, had agreed.
In this version, I've restored the original order of the scenes. I feel much better about it now. You can decide which version you like b
est.
Other than the changes I've mentioned, the book remains as it was first published. I've resisted any stylistic changes which would've been the result of my maturation as a writer. (I used to throw away all early versions of my poems once I had a copy with which I was satisfied. When I told my therapist that, she was horrified. She patiently explained to me that I was robbing myself of the opportunity to see myself improve as a writer.)
James Joyce, whom I revere as an artist and (most of) whose work I respect, constantly revised his books throughout his life, always republishing it afterward so that the original versions were lost. I'm afraid that, except for the revisions noted here, I'm still relatively happy with The Kommandant's Mistress as I wrote it over two decades ago, and, in order not to "rob myself of the opportunity" to see how I've improved as a writer, have not made any substantive stylistic changes.
Happy, happy 20th anniversary, my dear Readers.
Back to Table of Contents
Original Story & Poem
"The Kommandant" for
The Kommandant's Mistress
Spoiler Alert:
If you read this before reading the novel,
please be aware that both the original story
& poem reveal plot elements
contained in the novel itself,
even if changed slightly since they were written.
I admit that, when I wrote it, I was very proud of the original poem, "The Kommandant", which formed the basis of this novel and is similar in structure & endings. It was rejected hundreds of times before being accepted by three different journals in the same week (all three eventually published it, with each waiting in turn according to their postmarked acceptance).