Elena S. Danielson 8-14-22
Some notes on Mein Leben by Marcel Reich-Ranicki
Munich: Deutsche Velags-Anstalt, 1999
It feels presumptuous and somewhat recursive to write a review of work by the most influential book reviewer in post-war Germany. Marcel Reich-Ranicki spent his life reading and reviewing German literature. He wrote about writing. And his own writing is intensely engaging and conversational, completely free of academic jargon. And when he writes about his improbable life, as in this autobiography, 565 pages go by very quickly.
He was born into an assimilated Jewish family in a provincial Polish town that only two years earlier had been part of the Russian empire. His first language was Polish, but his mother spoke high German, and the religious Jews in his town spoke Yiddish. Some kind of linguistic magic has been known to happen in these borderlands with a complex mix of German and Slavic groups. There are many examples, Rilke and Kafka writing in German in a sea of Czech speakers. Or Günter Grass in a German enclave surrounded by Polish speakers. Paul Celan also grew up in a multilingual world. We all know from history that the mix is politically volatile, but linguistically it can be a source of unexpected creativity.
Reich-Ranicki already heard the German language and quotations from fine literature from his mother in Poland. Then a financial crisis sent Reich-Ranicki’s family to Berlin for help from wealthier relatives. And in Germany, the boy quickly fell in love with the German language and its literature, classic and modern. And this love affair tragically began just as the National Socialists were starting to take control and make life miserable for the Jewish population.
He tells an anecdote about an encounter in his teens with a young Jewish woman in Berlin in the 1930s whose ambition was to become an actress. He told her his ambition, age 15 or so, was to become a literary critic, a theater and book reviewer for the newspapers. These were two seriously unrealistic Jewish kids on the edge of a precipice, hopeless dreamers with dangerously unrealistic notions. Their chances of survival were, as he says, “microscopic.” Both of their families were largely wiped out by the Nazis. Then after the war is over, R-R miraculously survived and went to the theater. The director of the play brings over the star to meet the critic writing up the show. Actress and critic recognize each other and simultaneously say “no introduction is necessary.” Mein Leben has a number of such intriguing before and after stories.
The description of his day-to-day life in the Warsaw ghetto, after being deported from Germany, is a valuable record of survival against horrendous odds. He would read poetry with a soulmate while people outside were being shot in the streets, rounded up for deportation to Treblinka, and then the total destruction of the city by the German army, followed by the Soviet army moving in. Reich-Ranicki says that reading poetry helped, especially Erich Kästner’s wry satirical verse. Novels, he says, were impossible to read under the pressure of the wartime conditions. I doubt many Jewish intellectuals found comfort in the German language. But Reich-Ranicki is exceptional on many levels. And he definitely found validation in talking with Kästner after the war.
Surviving the Warsaw Ghetto was just the first challenge. Then he had to survive the Soviet occupation of Poland. Both during and after the war he was miraculously resourceful in finding odd jobs to survive, translating was in demand, as was rolling cigarettes. He married his soulmate Tosia (Teofila) in the middle of it all. And their marriage is another kind of miracle. They initially got along with the Soviet occupiers, used their language skills to good advantage. Reich-Ranicki even was hired by the apparatus to go to London as part of an intelligence operation. This part of the story is understandably lacking in detail. But it was there in the relatively orderly British environment that the couple was able to have a child, a son who made his parents extremely proud. (It is quite touching how he never misses an opportunity to explain that his son became a professor of mathematics.) Working for the Soviet-controlled Polish authorities in a secret police organization could not have been easy, and there was the inevitable falling out. He landed on his feet once again and made a meager living using his German language skills and promoting cultural exchange with East Germany, the German Democratic Republic, not a very popular topic in Poland at the time.
In yet another miracle he manages to get to West Germany, the Federal Republic of Germany, and immediately begins writing and publishing book reviews. His course is set. The Germans are determined to rise from the ashes. And German culture is a source of great pride. Reich-Ranicki’s wide-ranging reading with an almost photographic memory for plots and quotations impresses the newspaper editors, and he gets published and paid, writing amid the ruins of Hamburg and Frankfurt for the very best emerging press, Die Welt, Die Zeit, and Die Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. As the details of the Holocaust became known, having a Jewish book reviewer help publicize the new German literature was no doubt welcome in intellectual circles. But R-R doesn’t address this possibility. There was still residual anti-Semitism to contend with. He did get on surprisingly well with the post-war authors, having a fish dinner with Günter Grass, and travels with Heinrich Böll.
A repeated motif that emerges from the vignettes in the book is his astonishment that writers are all so very self-absorbed. (And, of course, R-R was himself rather self-absorbed, as well.) And he is also surprised that even the best novelists didn’t seem to understand literature. He concluded that novelists know as much about literature as birds know about ornithology. And he is always offended that authors could be offended by critical reviews. He begins one review by saying he admires the author so much, he still admires him after reading his latest failure of a book. It is all part of his eccentric charm. The so-called “rubble” authors in postwar Germany needed him, as much as he needed them. And he was a key partner in Gruppe 47 that did usher in a phenomenal age of creative literature, something that has faded a bit over time with the ease of a prosperous life.
Not being a native German reader, and not being educated in German schools, I am certain I have missed a great deal in this story. I know just enough to appreciate the many witty allusions woven into the tale. Reich-Ranicki often paraphrases famous quotations in original ways. I am sure I only catch a small portion of the linguistic riches here. The final chapter is a short love-letter to his wife Tosia, whose family was also largely destroyed in the Holocaust. She is somewhat less of a Germanophile than her husband. But the marriage endured against great odds. So while he reads a German novel, she may be reading verse by Polish Jewish poet Julian Tuwim. He ends his autobiography with a tribute to Tosia and a quote from Hofmannsthal about their marriage as a miraculous dream:
Ist ein Traum, kann nicht wirklich sein,
Dass wir zwei beieinander sein.