Reading as Bearing Witness

Sometimes when I see teenage girls come to the library, I get a little bit lonesome for that long-ago version of myself. They always come to the library in pairs, of course, and one of the pair is obviously the bookworm. I remember that—coming with a friend who liked to read (like nearly all of my friends did) but didn't love it like I did, didn't find solace in the library and know where the obscure volumes were on the shelves and which librarian was the nicest to check out with. I don't think any of my friends knew that the library was where I vanished sometimes, and having one of them with me there created a sort of tension: I wanted her there to know that I fit in somewhere, but it was my place, not hers. None of my friends defined themselves with books like I did: which is to say, books were the main things that kept me working, kept me going, kept me from dissolving into the puddle I wanted to dissolve into and in which, I imagine, most teenage girls sometimes want to dissolve. I simply wouldn't be myself without books, then and now, but then I had books in a way I might never have them again: I read all. the. time. I had the luxury of a busy mother who indulged my reading habits; I filled every spare second with books. "Let's go," Jen would say on the phone to me, and I would say "OK, come get me" but my heart was usually saying "leave me alone and let me read."

 

Now, when I accept a new friend request on Facebook or see someone from high school I haven't seen in awhile, the most common thing people say is "I'm not surprised you're a librarian." Seems they, too, couldn't separate my association with books from my very identity.

But here's a secret: I'm not the same as I was when I was 17. And that is the self who I miss when I see those pairs of teenage girls, one book worm, one along for the ride. I miss being in that place in my life when all I did was read, when reading was perhaps the only healthy way I kept myself together. I have other ways now, most of them healthier, and while I still read, while I will never stop reading, I miss that absolute dedication to a novel in my hand. Aside from that phone call from a friend, I never felt anything tugging me out of a book, no compunction or guilt or I should be doing ____________ instead.

I also miss it when I read a deliciously long personal saga. You know the kind of book that tells not just a story about an adventure or a mystery or an experience, but the entire breadth of a person's life? That kind of book makes me miss the freedom to read that only teenagers have. A book like The Invisible Bridge by Julie Orringer. It tells the story of Andras Levi, who travels at the beginning of the book in 1937 from his small town in Hungary to Paris, where he has won a scholarship to study architecture at the Ecole Speciale. He had to work especially hard for this scholarship, as not only is he poor, he is also Jewish, and there are new laws spreading throughout the continent about what Jews can do; there are limits to how many Jewish people can attend a school, or receive a scholarship.

Still, he settles in to his small apartment and his classes, learning about architecture, creating work that wins prizes. He writes letters often to his brothers Tibor (who wants to go to medical school but cannot yet, because of the restrictions against Jews) and Matyas (who wants to leave his schooling to become a dancer). Through a strange set of circumstances—a letter he mailed for another Hungarian, a job at a theater when his scholarship is taken away, a socially-contrived sort of blind date—he meets the lovely Clara Morgenstern, with whom he promptly falls in love despite their 15-year age difference.

Why this long book made me lonesome for my long-ago readerly self is just that: it is long. It is the sort of book that traces the arc of a life; not the entirety of Andras's life, but the most challenging parts: his relationship with Clara and his experiences at school; his abrupt (and forced) return to Hungary when Jews are no longer allowed to renew their student visas; his life in the Munkaszolgalat (the Hungarian military forced labor service) which is full of suffering, hunger, cruelty, and the constant threat of death; his attempts to sneak out of Hungary with his family; his eventual experiences at an Austrian work camp; his return to Budapest.

It took me the entire month of November to read.

I loved it, though. The WWII time period is endlessly, if horrifically, fascinating to me, if only because the are so many stories to be told. I didn't know, for example, that the Hungarian Jews were perhaps the luckiest in Europe. They had two leaders, Nagy and Kallay, who tried to fight against Hitler's anti-Semitic edicts in subtle ways that, though they kept them in the Munkaszolgalat, they kept them out (for the most part, until the end) of concentration camps. I also didn't know that the build up to the war happened so much earlier, in the 1930's, and just how effortlessly it could build based on the anti-Semitic policies that already existed in so many European countries.

Built on the author's family history, The Invisible Bridge tells one small story out of the millions possible. "One and a half million Jewish men and women and children: How was anyone to understand a number like that?" Andras wonders, "each of them with desires and fears, a mother and a father, a birthplace, a bed, a first love, a web of memories, a cache of secrets, a skin, a heart, an infinitely complicated brain—to imagine them that way, and then to imagine them dead, extinguished for all time—how could anyone begin to grasp it?" I think we start to grasp it by reading their stories, even though our silent and anachronic witness does nothing to save them, and we cannot save them, at least we can know more of what happened and so, in that way, keep something of them alive.

A library patron once told me that she doesn't read books about the Holocaust. "I feel sorry for what happened to those people," she explained, "but reading about it only makes me sad, and it's not like it changes any of what happened." I could only respond with a "hmmmmm," because my reading philosophy runs so differently from that idea. For me, reading about the Holocaust is something I do both as a way of revisiting the stories of the dead and as a way of learning. Of course it doesn't change history, a novel about the Holocaust. But it does change me a little bit. It forces me to think what would I do? and why did that happen and what small thing can I do to help it to never happen again? And it reminds me that my own heartaches, even the ones that go all the way back to that book-obsessed teenager, are so much smaller than the world's at large.

All of which is worth the time I parceled out to read this story. If you have the reading temperament for a long historical novel that is not only about the Holocaust but also marriage, family, personal history, ambition, love, and determination, I think you will like The Invisible Bridge.

 

Comments

[Vickie]

I find myself longing for those teenage reading days. For 40 years I have read on a schedule (determined by children, etc.). But as I read your post this morning, it occurred to me that I am an empty-nester (I'm trying to find positive things about that!) and now I can read whenever I want to!

[Lucy]

I didn't enjoy The Invisible Bridge as much as you did. I'm trying to remember why and I think it was the exact reason you gave for enjoying it. I felt like it tried to cover too much time. I really enjoyed the development in Paris and even the stress at the work camps but it was so many stories in one book. I often love epic novels but I think I didn't believe this one as much. Since it was written in his perspective, his brothers were hard for me to connect to because they were so perfect. Even Clara, from his eyes, wasn't as fleshed out as she could have been. I would have loved to know more about how she felt being older, professional, living with a false identity, having such a manipulative lover. Maybe I just wish the perspective had not been written in Andras's POV). Look at me -vomitting my opinion on your blog post. Rude! (Believe me, I do it with the utmost respect of your literary prowess. I have no doubt you could convince me how wrong I am in thinking so).

However, I do connect with this post about the nostalgia towards youthful and selfish reading. We just don't have that luxury anymore. I think I used to read most of the books I read in one sitting. That is still one of my favorite things to do but it is so, so rare. Maybe on an airplane or if I'm home and can rely on my parents to take care of whomever's need. I don't think I ever had the kind of reputation you did as most of my reading was done at home without friends as witnesses but I'm glad I had that time in my youth to discover how much I love to read.

[Ray]

"Selfish reading." I *love* that concept. When I was a freshman at college, I wandered through the bookstore on my way to lunch one day, and I saw a boxed set of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, with a price tag that I could afford. I started reading The Hobbit during lunch. I ended up skipping class (and most of life) for the next three days, while I read continuously, stopping only to eat and sleep (and even that, only a little bit).

When I came up for air 72 hours later, I knew that the world would never be the same for me.

Because of that experience, whenever I see my wife or kids curled up with a book, ignoring chores or dinner or other human beings, I make sure that they have adequate lighting and then I leave them alone. "Selfish reading" is an experience to be savored from the inside, and nurtured from the outside.

[Judy]

I, too, like your concept of "selfish reading" and I like what Ray had to say in response to your post. I was blessed with a best friend who loves books as much as I do, and one of my most cherished memories are the summers we spent biking to the local library every other week to gather new jewels to savor. We spurred each other on - shared ideas - and laughed over what SHE like and I didn't (and vice versa). I'd stack up my books up in "THAT ORDER", had to read them in "THAT ORDER", and spent hours in the afternoon sunshine lost in other worlds. Thank you for bringing this memory forward through your musings.

[Wendy]

Yesterday, I had the best experience. My 8 year old grabbed a book and joined me in bed (where I was, with my book) for almost an hour of reading together. He would stop me to share something funny (it was Capt. Underpants - not high literature, but entertaining for an 8 yr. old) and when I would laugh, he would ask what was funny. It was bliss!

I don't remember being as obsessive about books when I was a teen (I think my obsession was directed more to my instrument - practicing 6 to 8 hours a day), but I have angst about my obsession now. Am I wasting my time? Should I be doing something more productive? Is my family missing out because I'm obsessive about reading instead of being obsessive about cleaning or cooking, etc.? Is there innate value in reading and reviewing books? Should I become a librarian? Oh, so many questions swirling in my head!

[Wendy]

I do think, in the grand scheme of things, that my children will benefit more from my love of reading than say, if I loved a spot-less house. And, I believe it is important to chase the things you love (that is how I was hard-wired). I just wish, with you, that the chasing of reading wasn't scorned by others. My husband believes that I have an unhealthy obsession. If I were to say a spotless house is an unhealthy obsession, he would disagree. He is hard-wired for OCD about order, while I am hard-wired to compulsively read. Neither of us right or wrong, but still it leads to unwanted friction (both internally and relationally) for me.

Haven't pursued the librarian schooling, because I keep telling myself that I have to give the writing dream a chance this year. Not sure where this year will take me. But, do want to make my time count for something valuable. Somehow stuck in a battle with feelings of insignificance lately.