A deeply sad book.
It begins with an enormously sympathetic portrait of Salinger during WWII. Though he was not an infantryman, he was attached to Fourth Division, which suffered some of the worst casualties in the war. He arrived on Utah Beach on D-Day, fought in the flooded hedgerows of Normandy, endured the strange hell of the Hurtgen Forest and survived the Battle of the Bulge. Salinger was an NCO in the Counter Intelligence Corps and not directly involved in combat. He had freedom to move around, gathering intel, makings arrests, interrogating prisoners and civilians. He wasn't on the firing line, but a fox hole is a fox hole. The worst thing he saw came at the very end of the war when he and his CIC cronies went into Kaufering Lager IV, a sub-camp of Dachau, where the sick from neighboring camps were interred. Before the Nazis fled the scene, they herded all the prisoners into barracks and torched them. Those that couldn't move on their own were butchered. Unimaginable horror. Salinger wasn't prepared for this. No one was.
"You walked through a beautiful, manicured German village, and at the end of the road was this camp that looked like hell piled with corpses. For a soldier like Salinger walking into a camp, these was a stillness to it and a craziness to it. You were caught off guard. You weren't psyched for battle. These weren't liberations in the sense of busting down the gates or anything like that. The war was over; you could let down your guard a little. These soldiers basically walked into these horrific situations. Unguarded and unsuspecting, they were walking into an open place. This was like opening up, and falling into, a graveyard."
Salinger wasn't some grunt who walked in and did what he was told and get the hell out. He was a CIC guy. His job was to understand what happened and why, and then pass that information along. He couldn't ignore the madness. He had to get to the bottom of it, and how the hell do you do that? How do you process the insanity of Kaufering IV? It's no wonder that he ended up having a breakdown shortly afterwards.
There's a part of me that feels that Salinger ought to get a pass for having enduring what he did in the service of his country. As a veteran of the military and the son of a combat veteran, I know that experiences like these change a person forever. They constitute a clear delineation in the arc of one's personal narrative: before one became intimate with death and after. Two different people. Salinger would confide more than once, "You never forget the smell of burning bodies." As far as I'm concerned, I understand Salinger’s desire to retreat to his redoubt in the woods of Cornish. Leave the man alone.
But Salinger didn't retreat. He didn't hole up and hide out. He simply moved his operations to a remote location and continued to engage the world with varying degrees of contempt and disdain. Over time his communication became broadcasts: the messages came out on his terms according to his schedule. In wartime, that's called propaganda. His most consistent message was, “No.” Unless you happened to be a very young girl of a certain type. Then the message was quite different. The message was “Come to me.” Some of the girls came. Some of the girls stayed, at least for a little while. When they left (or were asked to leave) Salinger would find a new girl. Even though Salinger kept getting older and the girls stayed the same age. In spite of his so-called renunciation of literary fame, there’s no question he used it to gain access to these young women. It’s creepy. It’s reprehensible. But most of all it’s sad.
Shields and Salerno offer lots of opinions about this that I won’t get into here. The biography is an oral history, a composite of hundreds of voices. It’s an interesting approach, and a very effective one. Life is long. Let the military people comment on Salinger’s wartime years, the publishing people speak about Salinger the writer, etc. Shields and Salerno craft the message they want by shaping and directing the conversation. It’s manipulative, but good art usually is. It makes sense that the book is paired with a documentary because the book reads like one. There’s a lot of overlap in the book, which is partly by design. What’s more compelling than two people making the same point, especially if its controversial? But the conclusions Shields and Salerno draw get repeated over and over again, and there comes a point where the repetitions weaken the case because they’re handled as a fact. My least favorite sections of the book are the two chapters where first Shields and then Salerno abandon the oral history format and explore their own theories. It’s like editing a story collection and putting your own novella in the middle.
The story of Salinger as an artist has no end. It’s been interrupted and an examination of his life helps us understand why that is so, but it doesn’t change the terms of that interruption. If Salinger’s decision not to publish is like a suicide, then Shields and Salerno’s massive biography is the note. A suicide note can illuminate, but it never explains. Until we get our hands on the material Salinger was working on all those years in his alpine enclave, the story is incomplete. But thanks to this book, when that day comes I’ll greet it with far less fanfare.