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Summary
Summary
Once upon a time there was a king, and the king commissioned his favorite wizard to create a magic mirror. This mirror didn't show you your reflection. It showed you your soul--it showed you who you really were.
The wizard couldn't look at it without turning away. The king couldn't look at it. The courtiers couldn't look at it. A chestful of treasure was offered to anyone who could look at it for sixty seconds without turning away. And no one could.
The Zone of Interest is a love story with a violently unromantic setting. Can love survive the mirror? Can we even meet each other's eye, after we have seen who we really are?
Powered by both wit and compassion, and in characteristically vivid prose, Martin Amis's unforgettable new novel excavates the depths and contradictions of the human soul.
Reviews (6)
Publisher's Weekly Review
An absolute soul-crusher of a book, the brilliant latest from Amis (Lionel Asbo: State of England) is an astoundingly bleak love story, as it were, set in a German concentration camp, which Thomsen, one of the book's three narrators, refers to as Kat Zet. Thomsen, the nephew of Hitler's private secretary, Martin Bormann, has a vague role as a liaison at Buna Werke, where the Germans are attempting to synthesize oil for the war effort using slave labor. He sets his sights on Hannah Doll, wife of camp commandant Paul, who is the second of three narrators as well as a drunk whose position is under threat. As Thomsen gets closer with Hannah, both of them, horrified at what's going on, conspire to undermine Paul-Hannah at home and Thomsen around the camp. Paul, meanwhile, follows up his suspicions about his wife and Thomsen by involving Szmul, the book's third narrator and a Jew who disposes of the corpses in the gas chamber, in a revenge plot. Amis took on the Holocaust obliquely in Time's Arrow. Here he goes at it straight, and the result is devastating. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* How to write fiction about the Holocaust that reveals in new and significant ways its systematic horror and impossible legacy? Amis accomplished this feat in Time's Arrow (1991), and now this brainy, intrepid, worldly, and virtuosic writer does it again in his fourteenth novel by ushering us into the poisoned minds of characters trapped in the death-spiral of the Final Solution. Well-connected Thomsen looks like a quintessential Aryan, yet seduction, not terror, is his calling. But surely it's too risky, even for him, to woo Hannah, the statuesque wife of the repugnant concentration camp commandant with the ridiculous last name of Doll. Doll is slowly and inexorably going to pieces trying to manage the logistical nightmare of disposing of thousands of corpses. Szmul, a Jew, has been kept alive to work on this gruesome assembly line, a hell he endures by bearing witness and, occasionally, saving lives. These three men take turns narrating Amis' slyly sinister comedy of manners and romantic intrigue, a wily collision of content and form that neatly exposes the malignant madness at loose in the Third Reich. By focusing on the inner lives of reluctant perpetrators, Amis broaches the perpetual mystery of why people colluded in the monstrous efforts required for industrialized genocide. An audaciously satiric and brilliantly realized tale about personal angst and mass psychosis, and the immolation of self and soul. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Each of Amis' novels is a crowd-luring high-wire act, and following the success of Lionel Asbo (2012), this book will be much sought-after and dissected.--Seaman, Donna Copyright 2014 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
WHEN ELIE WIESEL approached the author François Mauriac in the 1950s with a draft of the memoir that would become "Night," Mauriac was skeptical - not of the book's quality, but of its necessity. What on earth could "this personal record, coming as it does after so many others and describing an abomination such as we might have thought no longer had any secrets for us," have to add to the already vast body of literature about the Holocaust? he wondered. One reads this now with an ironic chuckle. As we approach the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, the Holocaust, among all its other perverse distinctions, has become the most documented genocide in history. There are memoirs by both survivors and high-ranking Nazis; diaries of life under Nazi rule; collections of letters between SS officers and their families; specific investigations of the Nazi doctors, the last few months of the war and the structure of the SS; and multiple biographies of figures major and minor. And that list includes only the books Martin Amis mentions in the afterword to his new novel. An unintended consequence of this documentation glut is that it is harder now than it has ever been to write a novel about the Holocaust. Fiction grows out of hypotheticals - what would happen if ... - and when so much is known, what remains? In general, the most successful novels have grappled not with the war years but with their aftermath: W.G. Sebald's "Austerlitz," for instance, about a child who was brought to England by Kindertransport and grew up unaware of his true family history. But Amis has given himself the most difficult task of all: a novel set in Auschwitz, the killing machine that has become so gruesomely familiar - the transports, the selections, the gas chambers. In a writing career that now stretches to 14 novels, Amis has never allowed himself to coast. A linguistic chameleon, he remakes his style and form for every book. But the pressure to make it new seems to bear down on him even more stringently with regard to this subject. In his first treatment of the Holocaust, the 1991 novel "Time's Arrow," he told the life story of a Nazi in reverse, starting with his death and proceeding backward through his years in exile under a series of assumed identities, climaxing with Auschwitz. (The point of this chronological trickery originates with Primo Levi, who said that the concentration camp was "a world turned upside down," where doctors were murderers and crimes were rewarded.) Now, in "The Zone of Interest," he spins out a love story between a midlevel Nazi functionary and the camp commandant's wife, with a member of the Sonderkommando - the prisoners charged with cleaning out the gas chambers and disposing of the bodies - as onlooker. Alas, even the idea of love at Auschwitz is not new: The poet and political prisoner Tadeusz Borowski wrote love poems to his girlfriend set in the camp, and others have explored the network of sex-for-favors that existed there. But a bigger problem with this novel is that Amis, always a dedicated researcher - he read "several yards of books" about the Soviet Union before writing "Koba the Dread," his nonfictional but novelistic examination of Stalin's crimes - cannot transcend his documentation. "The Zone of Interest" is a Holocaust novel consciously of its moment, written for a 21st-century audience that will nod knowingly at the allusions to David Rousset, Paul Celan and Primo Levi. But it offers no new insights into questions that those writers have more thoughtfully examined. There are three strands here, each narrated by a different voice. Angelus (Golo) Thomsen is in charge of overseeing the construction of Auschwitz III, a labor subcamp also known as Buna or Monowitz-Buna, where prisoners produced synthetic rubber for the firm I. G. Farben. Thomsen seems to be disturbed by the way the Jews are treated, and at one point he counts himself among the "obstruktiv Mitlaufere," or uncooperative fellow-travelers: "We went along... doing all we could to drag our feet and scuff the carpets and scratch the parquet, but we went along." But his thoughts are mainly occupied by his sexual obsession with Hannah Doll, a sensitive woman tormented by her husband's work. Can he get away with seducing her, "here ... where everything was allowed"? Hannah's husband, Paul Doll, narrates the second strand. Amis has never been afraid to be ugly in order to make a point, and his Doll - loosely based on Rudolf Hess, it appears - is hideously convincing. He speaks in a kind of grotesque gibberish, his diction at once larded with clichés - "enough on my plate," "takes the cake" - and the convoluted, euphemistic constructions that characterized Nazi jargon. (He refers to prisoners, in a direct translation of the German, as "pieces" rather than human beings.) Somehow the sprinkling of German vocabulary heightens his vulgarity, especially with regard to Hannah: "She ground my face roughly and painfully into the brambles of her Busche, with such force that she split both my lips, then released me with a flourish of contempt. I opened my eyes, and saw the vertical beads of her Ruckgrat, the twin curves of her Taille, the great oscillating hemispheres of her Arsch." (No knowledge of German is required to decipher this.) Golo's language, too, is infected by the debased camp jargon, although somewhat less successfully. For some reason, in his sections Amis spells out KZ, his chosen term for Auschwitz and the abbreviation for the German Konzentrationslager, in English as Kat Zet, which approximates the correct pronunciation but is weirdly reminiscent of the Kit Kat Klub. Also unfortunate is the shortening of "crematorium" to "crema" (the Nazis used the term "Krema"), which looks like something you might put in your coffee. A more seriously questionable judgment is Amis's transformation of a line from Celan's famous poem "Death Fugue," in which a Nazi officer symbolically "plays with his vipers," into Doll "playing with his Viper" - that is, masturbating. Something more than taste is an issue in Amis's choice of the third narrator: Szmul, the leader of the Sonderkommando. This group, whose members were known in the camp as "crematorium ravens," has come to personify the nadir of degradation. Little is known about them, because almost none survived - they were replaced every few months, with each incoming group tasked with disposing of their predecessors - and with the exception of Levi, very few have written about them. Rather than drawing a portrait of depravity, Amis renders Szmul as morally exhausted, one of "the saddest men in the history of the world." But it's unclear what function Szmul serves in the novel, other than to demonstrate that Amis dares imaginatively to go places where almost no one else will venture. And while no subject should be off limits for fiction, one hesitates to see words put in the mouth of such a character - especially, as Amis does, in a sentimental parable comparing Auschwitz to a "magic mirror" that "showed you your soul." Amis is one of the most inventive users of language currently at work in English - his sentences cannot help crackling - as well as a uniquely talented satirist. But when it comes to the deeper problems of the Nazi pathology that gave rise to the jargon he so brilliantly parodies, he does not have much to offer. Is the brutal Paul Doll correct in his repeated insistence that he is "completely normal"? Is Golo Thomsen, as he claims, one of "hundreds of thousands ... maybe millions" of Nazis who passively tried to obstruct the regime? Was Auschwitz truly a mirror of the soul that reflected people as they really were? Such questions may be unanswerable. Still, a novel that raises them should at least make an attempt at grappling with them. In his latest book, Amis has given himself the most difficult task of all. RUTH FRANKLIN is the author of "A Thousand Darknesses: Lies and Truth in Holocaust Fiction." She is working on a biography of Shirley Jackson.
Guardian Review
In Martin Amis's England, a curious documentary broadcast earlier this year on BBC4 - essentially a not-particularly-dynamic interview padded out by lots of nostalgia-inducing stock footage of cricket matches, punks and toffs - the author found himself trying to sum up what it meant to him to be English. Amis's comments were characteristically revealing. Germany, Amis remarked, had made immense efforts to come to terms with its wartime past; France, by contrast, had not, bolstering its resistance myth to conceal the collaborationist reality. But either way, he continued, "it takes all my powers of imagination and empathy to imagine myself in a French skin or a German skin for that reason. How tremendously diminished I would be." But it is foreign skins - predominantly German, one Polish, with other nationalities, including French, merely glimpsed - into which Amis attempts to insert himself in his 14th novel. The Zone of Interest follows Lionel Asbo, subtitled "State of England"; but what could a work of fiction set in Auschwitz - here named Kat Zet, as in Amis's 1991 novel about the Holocaust and its perpetrators, Time's Arrow - be reasonably trying to establish the state of? We imagine, perhaps, that its subjects will include violence and psychopathy, racial hatred, systematised killing, suffering on an enormous scale and survival on a far smaller one. And this proves to be true, although they are joined by other, ostensibly more mundane themes: sexual rivalry and failure, the frequently shabby power struggles of hierarchical organisations, the sheer amount of manpower and materiel it took to attempt a genocide. And yet Amis's project comes with a serious caveat: in his Afterword, he describes his previous failed attempts to get anywhere with the Holocaust; despite reading yards of books and amassing plenty of knowledge, "I gained nothing at all in penetration." It was only when he came across a piece of writing by Primo Levi - a small-print addendum to a companion volume to If This Is a Man - in which Levi argued that we can and should place both the thoughts and the actions of the Nazis beyond comprehension, to mark them as "non-human" or even "counter-human", that Amis began to feel artistically liberated. As he told Ron Rosenbaum, author of Explaining Hitler, in a 2012 interview for the Smithsonian magazine, "as soon as the pressure to understand" left him, he was able to write. What, then, has Amis done with Levi's "sacred duty not to understand"? He has turned it, of course, into a brutish comedy, an occult tale of jealousy and revenge, a farce of thwarted will and missed cues. He has thrown in a gently painful love story of sorts and even more quietly underpinned the novel's manic top notes with the agonising testimony of Szmul, a concentration camp inmate forced to become one of its key workers. Szmul's story, framed in the language of fairytale or parable and yet brimming with grimly suggestive detail ("nearly all our work is done among the dead, with the heavy scissors, the pliers and mallets, the buckets of petrol refuse, the ladles, the grinders"), sits alongside a comedy of debauched manners, amid the tea dances, piano recitals and boozy dinners enjoyed by those marooned in the muddy Polish fields to execute the Final Solution. The focus in The Zone of Interest is the Nazi officers themselves, and their increasing difficulty in fulfilling the demands of the Chancellery. It is 1942, and they are beginning to find themselves hamstrung by their own strictures and actions; German women are not supposed to smoke, and yet tobacco fug comes in handy to disguise the stench of decaying bodies. A sergeant is killed in the line of duty but when his wife returns to Berlin to complete the paperwork, she is arrested on the grounds that she has Romany blood and sent back to the camp as a prisoner, thereby complicating matters for officers who would like to sleep with her. Those other, less distinguished prisoners, who arrive in consignments of hundreds in trains for which they are forced to pay their own one-way fare, are becoming harder to manage in the face of the evidence. As the war continues, thinks Camp Commandant Paul Doll, they begin to realise that "Nobody Has Ever Come Back"; "we have lost," he reflects ruefully, "the 'element of surprise'". The blustering Doll, drunken, puffed up, powered by ambition and grievance, endlessly self-pitying and self-justifying and yet utterly convinced of his greatness, is one of the novel's three narrators and a terrific comic creation. He is, essentially, off his head, and only becomes more so as matters worsen: he is the zealous middle-manager spouting jargon and euphemism, in love with his own creation myth - "in Dachau, where I launched my meteoric rise through the custodial hierarchy" - sexually incontinent and incompetent, loathed by his wife. The camp's struggle to process its victims ("How to make them burn, naked bodies, how to make them catch?") he regards as a personal torment, his struggle to keep head office at bay as just the latest in a series of bureaucratic headaches. More sane - though it is all relative - is Angelus "Golo" Thomsen, who delivers his take on concentration camp life from a rather privileged perspective; he is the blue-eyed, strong-jawed nephew of Hitler's private secretary, Martin Bormann, and consequently more or less untouchable, even when he falls in love with Doll's wife, Hannah. Employed in a shadowy liaison capacity that involves smoothing the wheels for the creation of IG Farben's synthetic rubber factory, much of his time is spent contemplating what to do with his body, with "the extensile penis, classically compact in repose (with pronounced prepuce), the thighs as solid as hewn masts, the kneecaps square, the calves Michelangelan", and getting drunk with his friend Boris, a pugnacious member of the Waffen-SS champing at the bit to go east for the fight. Until he does, he and Golo, as young men are wont to do, spend their time swapping anecdotes about their bosses and pondering what it all means. Here they are, mulling over whether the Nazis' hatred of the Jews has gone too far: I said, 'Would you agree that we couldn't treat them any worse?' 'Oh, come on. We don't eat them.' For a moment I thought about this. 'Yes, but they wouldn't mind being eaten. Unless we ate them alive.' 'No, what we do is make them eat each other. They mind that . . . Golo, who in Germany didn't think the Jews needed taking down a peg? But this is fucking ridiculous, this is.' It is the hackneyed complaint of clear-eyed corporate underlings everywhere - "this is fucking ridiculous, this is" - and with it Amis captures a world of frustration, jockeying for position and organisational strain. Here, the drive towards racial purity, the destruction of an entire people, the reconstitution of Europe's population, is seen as a boss-pleasing initiative gone wrong, a project badly handled. Even when Golo is caught in conversation with his uncle, towards the novel's end, the talk is all of party machinations, of the latest antics of "the Cripple" (Goebbels), "the Transvestite" (Goring), "the Quack" (Himmler). Elsewhere, the continuation of mass murder, sterilisation and abortion is figured as a self-perpetuating madness with quasi-supernatural overtones, in which "the appetite of death is truly Aztec. Saturnian." The question is this: has Amis created anything more than this bravura black comedy? Are his monsters more than cartoon grotesques? The answer is a definite yes, if what we mean is that he has created a fictional artifice that allows us to see the outline of that which is beyond words. The silence, as so often, is heard in the gaps between the laughter, in the realisation that we've been laughing at all. Both Doll and Golo's narratives, filled with striking incidents and opaque mysteries, bounce us happily and zestfully along. But it is Szmul, far less entertaining a narrator, who calls us to examine the inner life of a man forced to become an accessory after the fact in the murder of his own people. "I feel we are dealing with propositions and alternatives that have never been discussed before, have never needed to be discussed before,'" he tells us. "I feel that if you knew every day, every hour, every minute of human history, you would find no exemplum, no model, no precedent." How can these three stories possibly coexist in the same sphere, in the same zone of interest? How can we bear to read them, and what are the implications of our doing so, and of our laughter? If there is an answer, we cannot give voice to it. Szmul again: "I am choking, I am drowning. This pencil and these scraps of paper aren't enough. I need colours, sounds - oils and orchestras. I need something more than words." To order The Zone of Interest for pounds 14.79 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846 or go to guardianbookshop.co.uk. - Alex Clark The question is this: has [Martin Amis] created anything more than this bravura black comedy? Are his monsters more than cartoon grotesques? The answer is a definite yes, if what we mean is that he has created a fictional artifice that allows us to see the outline of that which is beyond words. The silence, as so often, is heard in the gaps between the laughter, in the realisation that we've been laughing at all. Both Doll and [Golo]'s narratives, filled with striking incidents and opaque mysteries, bounce us happily and zestfully along. But it is [Szmul], far less entertaining a narrator, who calls us to examine the inner life of a man forced to become an accessory after the fact in the murder of his own people. "I feel we are dealing with propositions and alternatives that have never been discussed before, have never needed to be discussed before,'" he tells us. "I feel that if you knew every day, every hour, every minute of human history, you would find no exemplum, no model, no precedent." How can these three stories possibly coexist in the same sphere, in the same zone of interest? How can we bear to read them, and what are the implications of our doing so, and of our laughter? If there is an answer, we cannot give voice to it. Szmul again: "I am choking, I am drowning. This pencil and these scraps of paper aren't enough. I need colours, sounds - oils and orchestras. I need something more than words." Yet Amis's project comes with a serious caveat: in his Afterword, he describes his previous failed attempts to get anywhere with the Holocaust; despite reading yards of books and amassing plenty of knowledge, "I gained nothing at all in penetration." It was only when he came across a piece of writing by Primo Levi - a small-print addendum to a companion volume to If This Is a Man - in which Levi argued that we can and should place both the thoughts and the actions of the Nazis beyond comprehension, to mark them as "non-human" or even "counter-human", that Amis began to feel artistically liberated. As he told Ron Rosenbaum, author of Explaining Hitler, in a 2012 interview for the Smithsonian magazine, "as soon as the pressure to understand" left him, he was able to write. - Alex Clark.
Kirkus Review
Can love survive against that most hellish of backdrops, the Nazi concentration camp? It's a question that Amis (Lionel Asbo, 2012, etc.) probes in his latest novel, an indelible and unsentimental exploration of the depths of the human soul.Opening in August 1942, the book's events are narrated from the viewpoints of three distinct characters. Arctic-eyed Golo Thomsen, a German officer, looks every bit the Aryan ideal, ensuring him a lusty welcome in beds across the Reich. He also happens to be the nephew of Martin Bormann, Hitler's private secretary, though his personal views regarding the Fuhrer's campaign are a good deal more opaque. Paul Doll is the queasily named camp commandant, a doltish yet wily drunkard whose cool wife, Hannah, has caught Thomsen's eye. As for Szmul, back in Poland he was a tender husband and father. In the camp, he is a member of the Sonderkommando, forced to herd fellow inmates into the gas chambers and dispose of their bodies. It's Szmul who recalls a fable about a king who commissioned a magic mirror that reflected one's soul. Nobody in the kingdom could look at it for 60 seconds without turning away. The camp, he says, is that mirror. Only you can't turn away. As Thomsen contrives to woo Hannah, word reaches the Officers' Club that German forces are surrounded at Stalingrad. Doll becomes increasingly paranoid and Szmul, a bearer of perilous Nazi secrets, strives to find a way to reclaim his life. With malice rampant, absurdity lurks in the shadows, drawn out by twisted details like bureaucratic euphemisms or the fact that Jews are made to pay for their own tickets aboard the trains bringing them to the camp. Brawny and urgent, it's unmistakably Amis, though without the gimmickry of Time's Arrow (1991). Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
Starred Review. As he did so inventively in Time's Arrow, Amis examines the horrors of the Holocaust from inside the hearts and minds of its perpetrators and their enablers. Taking place in the most notorious concentration camp, the book introduces a cast of characters that includes the officious Commandant, Paul Doll, an alcoholic tyrant thriving on petty vindictiveness; Golo Thomsen, the well-placed nephew of Martin Bormann, tasked with building a rubber production plant inside the camp; and the Jewish Szmul, a former teacher, victimized into collaborating with his tormentors. For these people, daily life consists of endless trains to unload, "welcome" addresses to deliver, and selections to be made. Life is also full of small annoyances (the ubiquitous smell from the crematoria) and major difficulties (the unimaginable scale of the task). Improbably, this is also a love story between Golo Thomsen and Hannah Doll, wife of the commandant. VERDICT A haunting indictment of the people who willingly bought the party line of racial purity and ethnic cleansing, this novel is as audacious as it is chilling. Essential reading. Barbara Love, formerly with Kingston Frontenac P.L., Ont. (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
