Welcome to the first of a new feature, PENPals, an e-mail conversation between writers and illustrators of Children’s and Young Adult books. The opening act is an extraordinary conversation between Markus Zusak, author of The Book Thief among other novels, and Susan Campbell Bartoletti, author of the non-fiction Hitler Youth and a sort of fictional sequel, The Boy Who Dared. Markus, an Australian, and Susan, an American, have much more than World War II and the Holocaust in common. Their conversation through more than a dozen messages in over a month ranged from children and dogs to research techniques to the crippling doubts that writers battle. Read Markus on “the magic act” of creating fiction that you come to believe is true and Susan on the writer’s job of finding and describing that place where “darkness and light…smack up against each other.” I found the amazing document that follows funny, wrenching and ultimately comforting and inspiring.

 PART II

February 20

Hi Susan, Those walnuts in the porridge, you're making me jealous!

I just came home from Taiwan and look forward to being much more reliable now. Thanks for the comment on the emotional quality of my writing, too.

I think I will start with a tangent as well—and I guess this is the whole point (or else, it is when we feel like justifying ourselves!). This tangent has to do with writing and description; I guess...I was reading Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union, constantly marveling at the inventiveness of the language, and the one-gem-per-page excitement that always made me love the prose of Sylvia Plath. There is always a moment on each page where I stop and say, 'What a great image'. My favorite so far is when two children climb into their parents' bed in the early hours of morning. They're described as 'performing a sort of kung-fu of slumber'. It's such a true, yet imaginative description, and it really is what I love most about writing—that one gem per page.

Speaking of images, some of the thoughts in your last message—especially the one about the Nuremburg Zeppelin Field—really caught my attention. It's strange because I thought, 'The Zeppelin Field...that could be a nice chapter heading in a book', but immediately, something creeps through the door with it. I think dealing with this part of history, there's a sort of story excitement that gets evened out by the thought of doing it correctly, and even, 'Can I do this at all...'

I was excited when I got home yesterday and found your book on the table. It arrived! But then you think, 'Is there something odd about celebrating the arrival of Hitler Youth?!' And I guess the answer is both yes and no. I guess we have to be drawn to the knowledge and the stories, even if we feel apprehension about the subject.

I was also sitting outside just now, thinking about a line of questioning I was given not long ago, on writing about the Holocaust. No personal attack was made by the interviewer, but I had spoken about the importance of writing on this subject with your heart in the right place and being respectful. When I spoke about finding beauty even in such a terrible time, I was asked if this was wise...It was almost a sense of, 'So that means this was all okay, does it? You are now projecting light onto something that should be tarred in darkness for ever,' or words to that effect.

What I think now is that part of the responsibility IS to bring the beauty out of the surrounding darkness—to find the humanity amongst the terror. Of course, it can never make us forget the darkness, but recognizing beauty even in that time should give us the thought that if people could do it then, we can do it now, and finding those people and GIVING THEM CREDIT gives us hope that there will be more of them in the future, to steer us away from the shadow falling again, as you aptly put it, in your last email.

I started ranting there a little—I'm sorry...but I guess more than anything, I'm thinking out loud. I won't end with a question this time. I liked the idea in your email about heading off where your mind takes you. If you'd like a question, let me know!

Have a great day—as our night here begins! All my best, Markus.


February 20

Good day, Markus! 

I haven't read Chabon's Yiddish Policeman's Union but I plan to. I know what you mean about gems on his pages, though. And Sylvia Plath's, too. I discovered Plath as a teenager, and loved her prose and poetry. I read and reread The Bell Jar so many times that it freaked out my mother. She couldn't understand what drew me to such a dark subject. But I know. It was, as you say, the paradox . . . the idea that two seemingly disparate images can exist at the same time—on the same page—and both be true. Darkness and light. Beauty and horror. Humanity and inhumanity. Joy and despair. We look at Sylvia Plath and say, how is it possible for someone of such genius, someone whose work was so important—is so important—not to think she has something to live for. 

[Quick, quick. Turn to page 106 in Hitler Youth and read what Arnold Blum said about standing among his fellow concentration camp prisoners during his first roll call.]

 When we project light on something. . . when we look for the paradox . . . are we being naive? Or are we doing the writer's job? After all, isn't that where story emerges? In that space where those two polarities merge, smack up against each other? Isn't it our job to feel that tension and tell its story?

I understand what that interviewer may have meant. But there's a difference between cowardly optimism and courageous optimism. One of the many things I admire about The Book Thief is that you never shy away from the darkness. It's full of courageous moments. How did you shore yourself up to enter the bleakest times? Were there scenes that you avoided writing? 

Susan


February 20

Hi Susan,

A fixation with The Bell Jar might be enough to slightly trouble any parent...

Thanks for alerting me to page 106 of Hitler Youth, from the concentration camp. And I will even quote it now: "As we stood at attention for the count, the horizon gradually reddened and the top of the sun's fireball slowly appeared...This beautiful, natural spectacle gave us hope and almost a sense of triumph. There was, after all, a force in this world far superior to our oppressors."

It's a great quote, and in my head, the scene is set so clearly. I see everything in grey except that fireball of light. Now I also see it in his eyes. I agree with your thought that our job is to address the tension, to smack the dark and light together. There is such tragedy in that quote from your book, but great triumph as well.

As for there being scenes that I may have avoided writing, well...probably the whole book! I sometimes see my job as a kind of writing evasion. There are tax evaders and then there's me, avoiding my story because I am filled with doubt, and afraid of facing the failure that will arrive that day. I constantly remind myself that all those failures are what bring whatever success comes my way. If I hadn't failed over and over again, The book Thief would never have evolved (I hope I'm not repeating myself here). As an example, Max may have been an older man (or not in the story at all). At first he just showed up in Molching, sheer chance. He was a professor. Then I took him out because it wasn't working. But then I put him in again, making him younger. He showed up with Mein Kampf as his ironic savior, but it was too contrived—him showing up with a book when there's a girl in that house discovering a love of books...so again, I had failed in that attempt, which led to Liesel stealing the book from a book burning and Hans seeing it and that moment giving him the idea of sending the book to Max...etc etc.

Of course, I understand you meant whether I was shying away from writing a scene due to the darkness, the awfulness of it all. There were moments like when the Jewish people were marched through town, and when Max was in that dark room, in hiding, or in the Hubermann's basement. The end, too, when all my favorite characters needed to meet their fate. This was all difficult to write and for the last 50 pages of the book, I was a complete mess in a small motel room in Melbourne. I just left the tears to dry on the table. They stayed there for the week I was there.

For me, though, especially when I'm asked 'Couldn't you have just let Rudy, or Hans, or Rosa live?' I say, 'It was so hard to write that part, but I can't regret it. I have to do what is right for the book, not what is right for one particular character.

As far as steeling myself to write those harrowing moments, the deadline did that for me. Before the last two nights of writing, I just went out for something to eat, a coffee and a walk in the crisp Melbourne air—a small mental preparation.

In the case of your non-fiction work, I think it must be even harder. There is no backing away from the truth of it. It must stare you in the face and you know you have to gather it together, put the magnifying glass in place and keep your hand from shaking. Can you tell me the process? And how did you prepare yourself?

Wow, sorry that's a bit long! Have a great day,

Markus


February 20

Oh, Markus. Sorry for this delay. I'm in the throes of researching and writing another dark nonfiction book. In this book, I'm exploring the Ku Klux Klan. I wasn't going to mention this book in our conversation because, well, it's a different book. But there's so much about this book that mirrors the inhumanity that the word saw during the Third Reich. All the conversations that were taking place in Germany during the Third Reich (who is a citizen? which race constitutes the superior race? which race should rule? what should be done with an "undesirable" population?) took place here in America.

And as the Nazis discussed sterilization of the mentally handicapped in order to prevent "undesirables" from having children, the same discussion was taking place here. 

A long time ago, I saw the movie "Rabbit Proof Fence" and was struck for the first time with the realization that England also had the same discussions. (I haven't researched into the background of that time period, and perhaps you know more than I on that subject and its discussion in Australia.)

It's so easy to point to the Third Reich and think that it's a time that is outside of us, that the Nazis are "other" and that thinking only took place then and there, when really, we can find so many parallels (we can debate the degree) within our own history. 

Ah, there I digressed from our last exchange. And I'm ranting. But I'm just so darn angry over this present research. I feel as though writing about Hitler Youth has prepared me, given me the strength I need to enter the material.  

But let me get back to your email. It strikes me that you've done that very smacking thing in your letter. You started with a line that made me laugh out loud—siding with my mother's concern over my fixation with The Bell Jar—and ended with one that moved me as I thought about the process of shoring up to write the hard parts. (And that brought me to my present book on the Klan.) 

I appreciate your honesty over your doubt. Why is it that many writers doubt that other writers ever feel doubt? That other writers practice avoidance the way we do? I'm always looking for ways to muscle the avoidance and the doubt. 

I look at The Book Thief, and feel its confident narration. I fall in love with its language and characters. How could its creator ever feel doubt? 

But that's part of the magic act, isn't it? 

I like what you say, about doing what's right for the book, not what's right for a character. When I drafted Hitler Youth, I had to approach the writing of the Holocaust chapter several times. I knew that chapter had to be included. It was the right thing, the moral thing. But for the first few drafts, my editor kept telling me that the point of view had shifted, that this is a book on Hitler Youth. I knew she was right about the POV shift—and if you read those first few drafts, you'd agree—and so for me, the challenge was how to enter the material and present it so that the chapter would fit the flow of the rest of the book and the emphasis on Hitler Youth. I was stuck. 

Through my research, I was able to connect the beginnings of mass murder to the euthanasia program. And then Karl Schnibbe told me about how German schoolchildren were taken on field trips to see handicapped children and adults, and how they were told that these people aren't living lives worth living. And then I realized that the young SS officers at the concentration camp had most likely been Hitler Youth. And there, the dots were connected. 

But how do I tell these true stories about people like Hans and Sophie Scholl and Helmuth Hübener, about Karl-Heinz Schnibbe? Arnold Blum and Bert Lewyn? 

It's hard. It's emotionally exhausting. 

But it's necessary. And when I find those gems—like Arnold Blum, Karl Heinz Schibbe, Bert Lewyn, Hans and Sophie Sholl—it feels empowering.

As a writer, I try to remember that it's their story, not mine. I must allow them to tell their story. It’s not my job to overwhelm the voices of the actors. And if I've done my job, it's their voices that shine, that tell their story, who get the applause. 

It must feel the same with your fictional characters, yes? That it's Liesel's book? 

It strikes me that both fiction and nonfiction are similar because both require the same sort of emotional honesty. We can't write with emotional honesty if we're writing about subjects in which we either have no interest or haven't experienced inwardly (such as feelings of injustice, loss, fear). 

Sorry this response is so long. I look forward to hearing from you! 

Susan


February 20

Dear Susan,

Oh my God!

I don't know how you're doing it—going from Hitler Youth to a book about the Ku Klux Klan.

I will break with tradition and ask my questions at the beginning:

I know you were reluctant to discuss it, but can you tell me a little more about this new project?  

And as well as thanking you for admitting to being a comrade in doubt (I'm actually suspicious of writers who claim to suffer no doubt), do you have any methods of dealing with it, even destroying it?!

From what you said, I can understand the idea of mental preparation for such a thing—to find the mental stamina and the will to dive into such a project. There must also be a need, I think. It clarified for me that these things need to be explored, and someone has to do it...

Once, I did a session with Morris Gleitzman (one of Australia's most loved children's writers). It was actually the session in which I basically broke down and made a mess of myself whilst doing the reading. He has written a beautiful book called Once, which is set in the Holocaust, and when we were asked about our next projects, he said he needed to write something completely farcical—to laugh again, to get a good dose of the light. I answered that I wouldn't start my new book until I'd gotten over this one, and when I knew the next book could even come close to meaning everything to me, the way The Book Thief does. And I'm still struggling! (I think Morris had the right idea, on one hand.)

Your mention of Rabbit Proof Fence was impeccably timed. Here, with our new government, big ideological changes have swept through parliament within months of the change-over. Prior to now, reconciliation was taken off the agenda like a kid forgetting his homework for twelve years straight. In that time, a serious question was asked to the government. Would you say sorry to the Stolen Generation (Aboriginal families left in turmoil and desolation when children were taken by force from their families as part of an assimilation policy in the 1950s and 60s)? Would they express sorrow for the terrible wrongs of governments past? (It's basically a symbolic gesture—to acknowledge that these people were grievously wronged). The previous government refused. One of the first things the new government has done is to make a public 'Sorry' announcement in parliament. It was a landmark day.

I mention it because of your comment about German kids being taken to see people with disabilities, told their lives were not worth living. In the case of assimilation in Australia, this idea that making Aboriginal people 'white' and that this was the best thing for them is absolutely ludicrous, and cruel. What it brings to mind as well, though, is another question. How would I have seen things if I was there? If I was in my early twenties, in that time, in that place? How would I have acted? What would I have believed? It also makes me wonder about now. How will we be judged fifty years from now?

On to the questions about ownership of the story, you're right about the book feeling like Liesel's. I never feel like the main character is in control, except in the sense that I feel a responsibility to do her justice, to get her right, and everything around her. In that way it is her book. These fictional people—the responsibilities they force upon us! (And again, the magic act comes in, because she's real. If I believe all that is happening to her while I'm making it happen, she is real at that moment.)

And lastly, your comment about fiction and non-fiction. Strange today, but panel sessions are at the top of my mind. I guess it shows the amount of speaking a writer seems to do these days (a glib question, given the general nature of our discussion, but do you enjoy that part of it?). I was on a panel called something like 'The Battle between fiction and non-fiction in history'. After struggling with the topic for a while, knowing that half of us wrote fiction and the other half non-fiction, I realized in the end that surely it was not a battle at all, but a collaboration. Like this discussion with you...We are so clearly on the same team. We just play different positions.

All my very best, with all projects!

Markus