- (Read Danish version here.)
We were seated in vintage 1940s armchairs on a stage at the Skagen Literary Festival. Three authors from different generations, each of us had published a novel that year about World War II. The veteran was Klaus Rifbjerg, with Hovedløs, the middle voice was Hanne Richardt Bech, who wrote Om så det gælder, and then there was me, still wet behind the ears, with Havet i Theresienstadt.
Rifbjerg’s Method
We took turns reading aloud and discussing what it takes to write about such an extreme episode in world history. During a break in the four-hour-long event, we talked about our writing processes. I couldn’t help asking Rifbjerg how on earth he managed to publish up to two books a year when I needed at least three years per novel.
“Ah,” said Rifbjerg, “it’s not that mysterious. I sit at my desk after breakfast, around eight o’clock, and I write until seven in the evening. And I make sure not to spend too much time on research or planning the book—I want to be as curious as the reader to see what happens! And I only go through the text once. That’s it!”
Anal Retentiveness
I was impressed. And deeply envious. I wished I had Rifbjerg’s stamina. But I had to admit my working method is completely different. My approach to research is painstakingly meticulous. Everything must be checked and verified: if I mention a statue in a book, the reader should be able to go and see it.
This meticulousness was especially necessary for my two historical novels. Being a few years younger than Rifbjerg, my memories of the 1940s are admittedly fuzzy. So, I had to investigate every aspect of the era: the clothes people wore, the design of their cups, what it felt like to ride a tram back then, and even the material of the handle on an elevator speed regulator in 1900s New York.
Love in the Time of Extermination
While working on Havet i Theresienstadt, I read everything I could find about the camp and the deportation of Danish Jews. But I also needed to speak to survivors to capture the deeply personal experiences of life in the camp. I interviewed several survivors, both in Denmark and the Czech Republic.
My most significant source was the now-late author Ralph Oppenhejm, who had been sent to the camp as a high school student. I spent hours listening to his stories about his time there from 1943 to 1945. He told me something I would never have imagined but which became crucial to my novel: love flourished in the camp, and many people fell in love and even got married.
It had never occurred to me that this could happen under such inhumane conditions. But this revelation inspired me to let my protagonist, Dr. Daniel Faigel, meet the Czech Jewish woman Ludmilla. Strangely enough, shortly after the novel was published, I received an email from a doctor who told me I had inadvertently written his parents’ story. His father had been deported to Theresienstadt, fallen in love with a Czech Jew, married her, and brought her back to Denmark—where the email-writing doctor was later born.
Snowflakes in Theresienstadt
I traveled to Theresienstadt several times to study the streets and buildings. I stayed at a small guesthouse on the main square for a few days to feel what it was like to wake up and sleep in the camp, to absorb all the details—the light, the view of the mountains. One winter evening, I walked through the dark streets as snow fell. Tilting my head back, I watched the snowflakes tumbling down from the black sky. That experience became this sentence in the novel:
“The flakes fall slowly and heavily, soon covering my hair and shoulders. Underfoot, the snow crunches dryly. I stop, and there is silence. The city’s sounds sink into the snow. I lean my head back and watch the flakes tumble down slowly from the vast nothingness. When I squint, they look like tiny white birds whose hearts have suddenly stopped beating, now falling lifeless from the sky.”
The Pursuit of Perfect Sources
Writing William Sidis’ Perfect Life was even more challenging in terms of research. There were no surviving witnesses from his time. I had only written sources: his books and letters, his mother’s memoirs, letters from friends, and various articles. Yet, it was essential to me that everything in the book be historically accurate—a fiction, yes, but grounded in as much fact as possible.
For instance, I knew from sources that three-year-old William had memorized all the train schedules in New England and that his mother had him perform this knowledge for wealthy families. I wanted a scene where he recited a series of train times. Of course, I could have made up some station names and schedules—no reader would notice—but I insisted on precision. They had to be the actual train schedules from 1901, or I would drop the scene.
After extensive searching, I finally found a response pointing me to an obscure site for train timetable enthusiasts. Lo and behold, it had a complete schedule of all New York trains in 1901!
A Writer in New York
I traveled to New York to visit the places where Sidis had lived. I walked through Central Park and up West 105th Street, where the wealthy Straus family (owners of Macy’s, who perished on the Titanic) had their residence. A key scene in my novel takes place in their apartment.
I had already drafted the scene where Sarah, Sidis’ mother, pushes a stroller with young William up the prestigious street. I decided they should have the sun at their backs. But where exactly would the sun be at that time of day?
A Stroller on West 105th Street
Standing at the entrance to the Straus’ building, I looked up at the massive granite structure. Then I glanced down West 105th Street, where Sarah and William would have walked. To my astonishment, I saw a woman walking with a stroller, a boy seated inside. I felt euphoric at the sight. This was exactly how it must have been—right here, precisely 109 years ago.
*”Sarah feels the sun’s pressure against her back as she pushes the stroller down West 105th Street toward West End Avenue. She has taken off her coat. The light falls sharply from zenith, making the shadows cling tightly beneath the trees. She slows her pace to avoid sweating; she mustn’t sweat—not before the tea party at Ida Straus’s. She must move so slowly that no one would suspect she had walked the long way to save the cost of a cab.
William sleeps in the stroller; he has slept almost the entire way. But she shakes him awake. He mustn’t appear tired when they arrive.
‘Billy!’
William opens his eyes, only to close them immediately. The light stabs, and he longs to return to sleep.”*
