I’ve realized something in the re-publishing of my novel: I
don’t want to spend time in Nazi Germany. Well, does anyone? But when you write
a novel, you spend a whole lot of time in the world of your book. I had been reading about the period for
years. In those days, you had to do research from books and I had collected a
large library of histories, biographies and picture books on the subject. My bookcases were all red and black with
swastikas dotted around like nasty butterflies.
Of course, I had made up my story so what happened to my
characters was my doing. But, I remember sitting at my mammoth desk-top p.c.
doing the last of the edits recommended by my agents before they started
flogging it around. I remember how
relieved I was that I wouldn’t have to stay in the world much longer. I
actually visualized myself swimming up a long dark tunnel towards the light.
Of course, once the novel was sold to St. Martin’s, I worked
with their editor, but it was more technical. I could stay on the surface. I even did a couple of readings and that was
ok too, more like an acting exercise.
Then, oh, my, the house I was living in burned down in the
1991 Oakland Hills Firestorm. The fire
actually happened on the day before my official publication date. When my boyfriend at the time and I hurried
through the house choosing what to take or leave, I had looked at my
books. I took my yearbooks and a couple
of photo albums and my father’s Complete Works of Shakespeare. All the rest, scores of books, were turned
into ash.
Months later, an old friend wondered, half-joking,
half-serious, if I had considered that maybe the fire had been attracted to all
that nastiness caught between those red-and-black covers. And he wondered if it was something of a relief
to have lost all those books.
I just knew I was relieved I had given Sally a positive and
hopefully safe future, which she truly deserved and neither of us had to go
back to 1934.
