Leeway Cottage by Beth Gutcheon, HarperCollins , 2005, 416 pages,
$14.95
By Donald H. Harrison
If this novel, recently reissued in paperback, were merely another story about
several generations of self-absorbed WASPs sniping at each other through tight
smiles, it would be pointless to review it here. However, the novel also
contains a dramatic recapitulation of the mass escape of Jews from
Nazi-occupied Denmark to neutral Sweden plus a reconstruction of life and death
in Ravensbrük, a death camp for women and children.
I use terms like "also" and "plus" because the Holocaust
information seems more an add-on than an integral part of the story—as if
Gutcheon, whose skill as a novelist is undisputed, had done all this research on
the Danish rescue and then didn't know what to do with it. So, it appears,
she tacked a riveting historical story onto what I regarded as a tale about
rather tedious mothers and daughters who, under a thin veneer of civility, do
whatever they can to make each other's lives miserable.
There are differences between personality battles and real wars, and, to her
credit, Gutcheon shows herself to be quite good at portraying both. I have had
the opportunity in Copenhagen
to interview participants in the Danish rescue—among them members of Rabbi
Melchior's family and Ebba
Lund, the so-called girl in the red cap who directed many Jews to the boats
that carried them to safety.
Like Gutcheon, I have sadly reported that the wonderful tale of King
Christian X wearing a Jewish arm band was a myth unwittingly popularized by Exodus
author Leon Uris. Because of these experiences, I recognize in Gutcheon a
novelist who has done her homework as an historian. Her research is
impeccable, first-rate, and the chapters on Danish rescue and resistance are
well-worth reading.
However, the Danish story is maddeningly tangential to the
main plot about a dreary family that spends its summers being dysfunctional in a
proper sort of way in a fine old home overlooking the Maine coastline.
None of the main characters is directly involved in the Danish rescue; the
closest anyone comes is Laurus, the Danish immigrant husband, who is sent to
London to serve in a special unit encouraging resistance groups behind Nazi
lines. His sister, Nina, still in Denmark, is a heroine through whose actions
much of the heroic story of the Danes is retold. Nina is a fictional
character, but these chapters are also peopled with genuine heroes such as
physicist Niels Bohr who pleads successfully with the King of Sweden to grant
refuge to the Jews.
Nina eventually is caught by the Nazis and her harrowing experiences at
Ravensbrük—which Gutcheon chooses to tell almost as an after-word—render
her traumatized. We are left guessing why she can no longer connect
with the world, although we can intuit why she can have no meaningful
relationship with Laurus' wife, Sydney, who is the book's main
character.
In an interview reprinted in the back of the book, Gutcheon responds "of
course" when asked if Laurus and Sydney are metaphors for their
countries, or for the United States and Europe. Accordingly we can say of the
two characters that there is no real conflict between them, they don't clash,
they co-exist in a habitual relationship of affection. Sydney is too involved in
her little battles to inquire too deeply into the experiences that reshaped
Nina; for her part, Nina is far too psychologically knotted to untwist her
psyche, especially not in the company of someone as devoid of empathy as
Sydney. Laurus is content to leave well enough alone.
As readers, therefore, we are challenged to draw our own conclusions about the
depth of European suffering; and the shallowness resulting from Americans'
pampering. Frankly, I was disappointed; I'd have preferred for the author to
have staked out some conclusions for us—perhaps in a dramatic confrontation
between Nina and Sydney over what is important in life and what isn't. In not
insisting that there be some showdown in that Maine cottage, perhaps Gutcheon
gave too much leeway to her indecision over how to best mix history and fiction.
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