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Close to Jedenew
On this evening, on the last evening, it is Antonina who says softly: They’re coming.
This striking novella makes harrowing poetry of an actual historic incident: Terrified and hiding in the woods as if in a German fairy tale gone horribly awry, a group of children tell the tale of a small Polish village run amok. With no provocation from the still-distant Nazis, the farmers of tiny Jedenew unite to launch a murderous rampage against the local Jews who have long been their friends and neighbors, even their benefactors.
In the hands of young German sensation Kevin Vennemann, Close to Jedenew is a lyrical, stylish, and penetrating plunge into fatal mysteries. How can we explain such madness? Venneman’s deft and innovative prose, even his gripping and mysterious narrator, speaks timelessly to, and of, us all.
This striking novella makes harrowing poetry of an actual historic incident: Terrified and hiding in the woods as if in a German fairy tale gone horribly awry, a group of children tell the tale of a small Polish village run amok. With no provocation from the still-distant Nazis, the farmers of tiny Jedenew unite to launch a murderous rampage against the local Jews who have long been their friends and neighbors, even their benefactors.
In the hands of young German sensation Kevin Vennemann, Close to Jedenew is a lyrical, stylish, and penetrating plunge into fatal mysteries. How can we explain such madness? Venneman’s deft and innovative prose, even his gripping and mysterious narrator, speaks timelessly to, and of, us all.
130 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
2 people are currently reading
127 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 17 of 17 reviews
November 7, 2024
In 1941, the village of Jedenew, located in eastern Poland, stands on the brink of chaos. A group of children, hidden in a treehouse, recounts a chilling tale of betrayal and brutality. The arrival of German forces, following the hasty departure of the Russians, brings a dark cloud over the village. In this tense atmosphere, the local Polish population, once seemingly friendly with the Jewish community, turns viciously against them. On July 10, 1941, the villagers, in a horrifying display of barbarity, perpetrate a pogrom, resulting in the tragic deaths of the majority of the shtetl's Jewish inhabitants.
Vennemann's storytelling, marked by a lyrical and unsettling tone, explores the depths of human depravity, examining the inexplicable forces that drive ordinary individuals to commit unspeakable acts of violence. The fragmented narrative structure, akin to shattered pieces of a once-whole existence, mirrors the fractured lives of the characters, evoking a profound sense of disorientation and fear. This innovative approach, while demanding of the reader, ultimately fosters deep empathy and understanding of the novel's harrowing themes.
By focusing on the intimate experiences of the children, Vennemann avoids explicit depictions of violence, opting instead for a more subtle yet powerful approach. This allows the reader to fully grasp the insidious nature of the villagers' descent into brutality, as they turn against their Jewish neighbors in a chilling display of murderous ethnic cleansing.
Vennemann's storytelling, marked by a lyrical and unsettling tone, explores the depths of human depravity, examining the inexplicable forces that drive ordinary individuals to commit unspeakable acts of violence. The fragmented narrative structure, akin to shattered pieces of a once-whole existence, mirrors the fractured lives of the characters, evoking a profound sense of disorientation and fear. This innovative approach, while demanding of the reader, ultimately fosters deep empathy and understanding of the novel's harrowing themes.
By focusing on the intimate experiences of the children, Vennemann avoids explicit depictions of violence, opting instead for a more subtle yet powerful approach. This allows the reader to fully grasp the insidious nature of the villagers' descent into brutality, as they turn against their Jewish neighbors in a chilling display of murderous ethnic cleansing.
July 3, 2023
jedna z najdziwniejszych książek, jakie czytałam. przeszłe wydarzenia mieszają się z obecnymi, historie zmyślone z tymi niezmyślonymi, trzeba samemu się zorientować kto jest kim, kto z kim jest spokrewniony, co tak naprawdę się wydarzyło. i się układa to powoli w głowie, ale chyba jednak całość jest dla mnie zbyt mglista. myślę, że historia byłaby lepsza, gdyby było podane jednak trochę więcej konkretów. dziwne doświadczenie bardzo.
aj i masa powtórzeń - ale takich specjalnych, całe zdania, niemal całe strony się powtarzały. i to było bardzo ciekawe, ale myślę że dobrze, że ta książka ma nieco ponad 100 stron, bo na dłuższą metę byłoby to bardzo męczące.
nie wiem czy polecam.
chyba tak, ale tylko jeśli lubi się niestandardowy styl pisania.
aj i masa powtórzeń - ale takich specjalnych, całe zdania, niemal całe strony się powtarzały. i to było bardzo ciekawe, ale myślę że dobrze, że ta książka ma nieco ponad 100 stron, bo na dłuższą metę byłoby to bardzo męczące.
nie wiem czy polecam.
chyba tak, ale tylko jeśli lubi się niestandardowy styl pisania.
September 28, 2023
3.5?
Styl, który na pewno byłby męczący, gdyby książka miała więcej niż 100 stron, sprawia, że czyta się w ciągłym napięciu i skołowaniu. Jakby na wdechu, jednym tchem. Dla mnie ta opowieść przypomina gorączkowy sen, chaotyczny i niepokojący w niewytłumaczalny sposób. Albo całe życie, naraz i niepoukładane, przelatujące przed oczami w chwili grozy, w ostatnich minutach przed końcem.
Styl, który na pewno byłby męczący, gdyby książka miała więcej niż 100 stron, sprawia, że czyta się w ciągłym napięciu i skołowaniu. Jakby na wdechu, jednym tchem. Dla mnie ta opowieść przypomina gorączkowy sen, chaotyczny i niepokojący w niewytłumaczalny sposób. Albo całe życie, naraz i niepoukładane, przelatujące przed oczami w chwili grozy, w ostatnich minutach przed końcem.
February 2, 2019
Talants līst iz katras rindiņas. Izcili uzrakstīta grāmata, oriģināla gan saturiski, gan formā. Aizveda mani Jedenevas laukos, lika sapņot mājā kokā, ignorēt realitāti izpļautajā klajumā un klausīties Jedenevas zemnieku bļaurošanā un dīvaini melodiskajās dziesmās. Lieliska, lieliska literatūra.
November 2, 2024
As far as I have been able to find out, this book is based on the Jedwabne pogrom in Poland in 1941, when local Poles took it upon themselves to do in their Jewish neighbors. That pogrom resulted in hundreds of deaths, but this hallucinatory story focuses on a small group of Jewish children hiding in a treehouse.
I found the book horrifying mostly because the way it is told magnifies the horror of the situation, particularly because you know the outcome. You can struggle to understand what is happening, things are repeated frequently even within the same sentence, there are flashbacks and recurring episodes, and the story is told in a kind of stream of consciousness. When I wasn't reading it I was a little afraid of picking it up. It isn't necessarily difficult to follow but you have to get used to it. I did think it was a worthwhile read, very different.
I found the book horrifying mostly because the way it is told magnifies the horror of the situation, particularly because you know the outcome. You can struggle to understand what is happening, things are repeated frequently even within the same sentence, there are flashbacks and recurring episodes, and the story is told in a kind of stream of consciousness. When I wasn't reading it I was a little afraid of picking it up. It isn't necessarily difficult to follow but you have to get used to it. I did think it was a worthwhile read, very different.
November 14, 2021
It's interesting that there are so few written reviews of the book on Goodreads, but then it is perhaps inevitable given the slender sometimes inscrutable book I'm holding.
I won't regurgitate the book, but the main narrative is from the perspective of a shifty, melodious and unblinking eye that follows the surviving Jewish children hiding in a treehouse. The children's parents, relatives and home are gone, destroyed by their neighbors under the pretext that the Jews were working on behalf of the occupying garrison, a garrison soon to be replaced by Nazis.
Three or four observations follow that try not to reiterate what everyone else has said:
1.) The viewpoint is *not* from the children. At times it seems like it is, or might be, but if it's the voice of a child it's a very peculiar one -- perhaps one pulled from a Joy Williams' short story. This isn't a criticism. If there's a criticism here it's that the decision to have a timeless, ethereal "child" tone gives away the ending before the book really even gets going
2.) Interpolated through the narrative are other stories of the family's history. "Interpolated," here,
is doing a lot of work. The other stories take over mid paragraph, mid thought, and almost at times midsentence. There is a story of "Father's" foundation of the farm on a long sleigh ride in a blizzard. There is a story of their older brother getting married. There is a story of forging a passport. This book is for careful readers only, or for people like myself who shamelessly read the same page two or three times
3.) It's a book that's less complicated than it seems, and I can see how it might frustrate easy explanations and raised expectations. There's no moral here. There's no secret to unlock. I think the author tried in a very deliberate way to have children exist, then they don't. Go in with the right scope. The reader should feel free to accept they aren't going to understand *everything* in this book but simultaneously that they aren't "missing" anything
I won't regurgitate the book, but the main narrative is from the perspective of a shifty, melodious and unblinking eye that follows the surviving Jewish children hiding in a treehouse. The children's parents, relatives and home are gone, destroyed by their neighbors under the pretext that the Jews were working on behalf of the occupying garrison, a garrison soon to be replaced by Nazis.
Three or four observations follow that try not to reiterate what everyone else has said:
1.) The viewpoint is *not* from the children. At times it seems like it is, or might be, but if it's the voice of a child it's a very peculiar one -- perhaps one pulled from a Joy Williams' short story. This isn't a criticism. If there's a criticism here it's that the decision to have a timeless, ethereal "child" tone gives away the ending before the book really even gets going
2.) Interpolated through the narrative are other stories of the family's history. "Interpolated," here,
is doing a lot of work. The other stories take over mid paragraph, mid thought, and almost at times midsentence. There is a story of "Father's" foundation of the farm on a long sleigh ride in a blizzard. There is a story of their older brother getting married. There is a story of forging a passport. This book is for careful readers only, or for people like myself who shamelessly read the same page two or three times
3.) It's a book that's less complicated than it seems, and I can see how it might frustrate easy explanations and raised expectations. There's no moral here. There's no secret to unlock. I think the author tried in a very deliberate way to have children exist, then they don't. Go in with the right scope. The reader should feel free to accept they aren't going to understand *everything* in this book but simultaneously that they aren't "missing" anything
March 25, 2023
״אנחנו לא נושמות. המקום קרוב לידנב, אנחנו שומעות את איכרי ידנב שרים, צועקים, מנגנים בקלרנית, באקורדיון, שומעות את השירים שלהם כבר שעות, שירי-פרטיזנים ישנים, הם מנגנים ושרים וצועקים בצורה מלודית נפלאה. כבר שעות איכרי ידנב יושבים ביער מאחורי הבית ושותים וצוחקים ושרים ומנגנים, ורק אחרי שעות, סוף כל סוף, אנחנו שומעות אותם יוצאים מהיער וצועדים, שרים בקולי קולות, על התל אל תוך הגינה. בלילה החלונות משקשקים במטבח, ואז כל חלון וחלון משקשק בבית.״
ספר מהפנט, מכשף, מסתורי, שנקרא בנשימה אחת, ומסופר בגוף ראשון רבים בזמן הווה. מסוג הספרים שתופסים חזק בבטן. בכפר פולני דמיוני קטן ידנב, עם פרסום הידיעות על פלישת גרמניה לפולין, העניינים יוצאים מהר מאד משליטה. האחיות (תאומות) נמלטות מפוגרום ומוצאות מקום מסתור בבית שבנו יחד עם אחיהן מריאן על העץ, משם הם משקיפות על מעשי הזוועה של שכניהם הפולניים, ששורפים חוות של יהודים, ורוצחים את בני המשפחות. ״אנחנו לא נושמות״, חוזרת שוב ושוב המספרת, ״וזזות ועושות הכל הכי בשקט שרק אפשר״. הכל מתערבב אצלן בראש - הימים של שכנות טובה עם האיכרים הפולנים, ימים של עזרה הדדית, חגיגת החתונה, סיפורים משפחתיים שמסופרים שוב ושוב במשפחה, מתערבבים עם מעשי הזוועה שמתרחשים בהווה. כשמפלס האימה עולה, הן מספרות לעצמן ומשחזרות שוב ושוב את הסיפורים. הסיפורים מבולבלים, מקוטעים, חוזרים על עצמם, לא ברורים, וזה לגמרי חלק מהקסם של הספר. אין לי אוויר. גם אני לא נושמת יחד איתן.
״אנחנו שומעים את החדשות האחרונות על הפלישה, אנחנו שומעים את החדשות ואת הקול הגבוה, הנרגש של הקריין בתחנת רדיו אחת, ואת הקול הקודר, השלו לכאורה של אחד אחר התחנה אחרת, מקשיבים עד מאוחר בערב, יותר ויותר בשקט, בסוף בשתיקה, לחדשות האחרונות, בסופו של דבר רואים את איכרי ידנב מתאספים בדרך העפר. בערב הזה, בערב האחרון, אנטונינה היא שאומרת בשקט: הם באים.״
בנוסף לכך שזהו ספר מעולה, ייחודו של הספר בכך שהמחבר הוא סופר גרמני צעיר, ודמות הילדה המספרת היא ילדה יהודייה, אחת האחיות שמסתתרות בבית על העץ. זהו ניסיון מעניין לעסוק בהיסטוריה הטראומטית של עם אחר בגוף ראשון. בלעתי את הספר הזה, לא יכולתי להניח מהיד, אפילו חלמתי עליו בלילה. ״אני לא נושמת״.
ספר מהפנט, מכשף, מסתורי, שנקרא בנשימה אחת, ומסופר בגוף ראשון רבים בזמן הווה. מסוג הספרים שתופסים חזק בבטן. בכפר פולני דמיוני קטן ידנב, עם פרסום הידיעות על פלישת גרמניה לפולין, העניינים יוצאים מהר מאד משליטה. האחיות (תאומות) נמלטות מפוגרום ומוצאות מקום מסתור בבית שבנו יחד עם אחיהן מריאן על העץ, משם הם משקיפות על מעשי הזוועה של שכניהם הפולניים, ששורפים חוות של יהודים, ורוצחים את בני המשפחות. ״אנחנו לא נושמות״, חוזרת שוב ושוב המספרת, ״וזזות ועושות הכל הכי בשקט שרק אפשר״. הכל מתערבב אצלן בראש - הימים של שכנות טובה עם האיכרים הפולנים, ימים של עזרה הדדית, חגיגת החתונה, סיפורים משפחתיים שמסופרים שוב ושוב במשפחה, מתערבבים עם מעשי הזוועה שמתרחשים בהווה. כשמפלס האימה עולה, הן מספרות לעצמן ומשחזרות שוב ושוב את הסיפורים. הסיפורים מבולבלים, מקוטעים, חוזרים על עצמם, לא ברורים, וזה לגמרי חלק מהקסם של הספר. אין לי אוויר. גם אני לא נושמת יחד איתן.
״אנחנו שומעים את החדשות האחרונות על הפלישה, אנחנו שומעים את החדשות ואת הקול הגבוה, הנרגש של הקריין בתחנת רדיו אחת, ואת הקול הקודר, השלו לכאורה של אחד אחר התחנה אחרת, מקשיבים עד מאוחר בערב, יותר ויותר בשקט, בסוף בשתיקה, לחדשות האחרונות, בסופו של דבר רואים את איכרי ידנב מתאספים בדרך העפר. בערב הזה, בערב האחרון, אנטונינה היא שאומרת בשקט: הם באים.״
בנוסף לכך שזהו ספר מעולה, ייחודו של הספר בכך שהמחבר הוא סופר גרמני צעיר, ודמות הילדה המספרת היא ילדה יהודייה, אחת האחיות שמסתתרות בבית על העץ. זהו ניסיון מעניין לעסוק בהיסטוריה הטראומטית של עם אחר בגוף ראשון. בלעתי את הספר הזה, לא יכולתי להניח מהיד, אפילו חלמתי עליו בלילה. ״אני לא נושמת״.
January 21, 2024
Perhaps there are spoilers within:
“We do not breathe.”
So begins Kevin Vennemann’s CLOSE TO JEDENEW. The story of an event. A week in June, 1940. A moment between evening and night. Between “what was” and “nothing remaining”. A survivor’s tale – of movement from the “we” to the “I”. A story of loss - “in the evening we sit, nine in number, at night we are six” - until no one but the narrator remains.
Living just outside the small farming community of Jedenew in southwestern Poland, a Jewish family
“[sits] behind the house in the midsummer evening sun on the narrow wooden dock that leads out into the pond behind the house, [they] sit and lie and swim in the sun and sit together reading and drink the first and last summer punch of the year.”
The first and last summer punch. The last evening. The tale of a family’s personal Kristallnacht, and following holocaust, at the hands of longtime neighbors and friends –
“On this evening, this last evening, it is Antonina who says softly: They’re coming.” “For hours the Jedenew farmers sit in the woods behind the house and drink and laugh and sing and play, and only after hours go by do we finally hear them coming out of the woods, singing at the top of their voices and marching over the ridge into the garden”.
What happens in the twilight we are never told. Though at night,
“we hear the Jedenew farmers singing and playing clarinet, accordion, as if they were standing directly beside us, and see their shadows, nineteen altogether, cut up in the shattered glass all over the floor, slowly passing by the window, we do not breathe”.
As if struggling to recall, the narrator’s story of this event is interrupted by other stories, stories repeated so often as to be remembered clearly, but, which follows which is unknown, nor do we know how closely each follows each. Only the “we” and the “I”. Only the event, only Marek’s stories, only Father’s stories, only.
CLOSE TO JEDENEW is not an easy read - neither the narrator’s story nor Vennemann’s language in telling it.
CLOSE TO JEDENEW is a story, itself shattered, in the aftermath of a family’s murder by friends and neighbors caught up in fear and anger and jealousy. A story, the language of which is, if not equally, perhaps more important than the story itself. Fragmented - as the windows smashed out by friends and neighbors, “the blue-white moonlight scattered on the kitchen floor” – the words appear and reappear, reflected by and upon each other again and again. Vennemann tells and retells the same few stories of times past, of events that happened - today, yesterday, and years past - all contemporaneously, all in a single voice, a single point of view, only by way of that which the narrator has experienced. Only the things the narrator’s eyes have seen and the narrator’s ears have heard. When the “I” speaks it is someone else’s voice we hear, yet it is the narrator’s tongue that speaks – that speaks for the dead – that takes the then and makes it now. Deconstructed, reinvented, reimagined. The shards and fragments rearranged and retold, reflecting and repeating in kaleidoscopic manner the thoughts and deeds of a life recalled – a life ended with the narrator’s own “I”. With the last line of the story echoing the first - with the final “we” gone, the “I” stands alone – from the first “we do not breathe” to the final “I do not breathe” we see the disintegration of both family and language.
The use of the “I” to name the narrator only occurs after she recognizes there is no one left but herself - after she is irrevocably alone.
Vennemann leaves the narrator unnamed – a young jewish girl in her early-teens - and shapes the story of her family’s destruction from the multiplicity of voices through hers. The voice that Vennemann uses however is modern, the language modern, and situated not only in a worldview informed by modern language, but by modern social, philosophic and cinematic conventions. The story relatively simple and not unknown to us, yet Vennemann forces us to deal with a language far more complex and for more frustrating in its structure and syntax than perhaps the story warrants.
“Before she goes, we wait until the guard in the garden behind the house is alone and turns away from the ridge and from the woods, when she goes, Marek gazes silently after Antonina, gazes silently at the wall for a few minutes…”
The first “she” is Anna (sister to Marek and the Narrator), the second, Antonina (wife to Marek). The first moment of “waiting” is after Marek and Antonina are dead, the second moment of “gazing” is during the winter, six months prior.
“How he finds our farms close to Jedenew, three or four years ago Anna instead of Antonina now takes Zygmunt, scarcely one year old, on her arm every morning for weeks while we lie awake…”
The first section of the sentence is the last of the narrator’s father’s tale, the last sections are the beginning of a separate tale regarding Antonina’s mother’s death. In each instance Vennemann switches from one story to the next with no indication of the switch until the end of the sentence, and this continues throughout the novella as a device, perhaps more clever than justified.
As well, the language of the story seems inextricably linked to the German language itself. And in translation, I wonder - is the idiosyncratic syntax of the German appropriately, and effectively addressed? Is there not some shift in the manner of time and tense, which to subtly understand, in German, is not apparent in English? Are we missing something, some nuance of language, that rather than leading to understanding is complicating it?
The narrative sits some sixty to seventy years previously. I play with possibilities, and wonder then at the state of the narrator today who might be influenced by such a worldview, who would be over eighty years of age if telling the tale today, and I wonder if dementia influences the story told? If the confusion in syntax, the breathless urgency and the world that was contained has been shattered by the mind as well as the years?
Vennemann has written a story that is both compelling and strangely off-putting, that insists we pay attention to both story and language equally, yet where story and language do not always support each other. The ability to explore a work of such complexity is enhanced by its brevity – the novella allowing/requiring multiple readings, and yet, though Vennemann’s CLOSE TO JEDENEW asks for more readings it lays much in the path of such. Even after several readings, I am uncertain how I feel about this work. Vennemann strives for much, but I still do not know with a certainty that he has achieved that for which he has worked.
“We do not breathe.”
So begins Kevin Vennemann’s CLOSE TO JEDENEW. The story of an event. A week in June, 1940. A moment between evening and night. Between “what was” and “nothing remaining”. A survivor’s tale – of movement from the “we” to the “I”. A story of loss - “in the evening we sit, nine in number, at night we are six” - until no one but the narrator remains.
Living just outside the small farming community of Jedenew in southwestern Poland, a Jewish family
“[sits] behind the house in the midsummer evening sun on the narrow wooden dock that leads out into the pond behind the house, [they] sit and lie and swim in the sun and sit together reading and drink the first and last summer punch of the year.”
The first and last summer punch. The last evening. The tale of a family’s personal Kristallnacht, and following holocaust, at the hands of longtime neighbors and friends –
“On this evening, this last evening, it is Antonina who says softly: They’re coming.” “For hours the Jedenew farmers sit in the woods behind the house and drink and laugh and sing and play, and only after hours go by do we finally hear them coming out of the woods, singing at the top of their voices and marching over the ridge into the garden”.
What happens in the twilight we are never told. Though at night,
“we hear the Jedenew farmers singing and playing clarinet, accordion, as if they were standing directly beside us, and see their shadows, nineteen altogether, cut up in the shattered glass all over the floor, slowly passing by the window, we do not breathe”.
As if struggling to recall, the narrator’s story of this event is interrupted by other stories, stories repeated so often as to be remembered clearly, but, which follows which is unknown, nor do we know how closely each follows each. Only the “we” and the “I”. Only the event, only Marek’s stories, only Father’s stories, only.
CLOSE TO JEDENEW is not an easy read - neither the narrator’s story nor Vennemann’s language in telling it.
CLOSE TO JEDENEW is a story, itself shattered, in the aftermath of a family’s murder by friends and neighbors caught up in fear and anger and jealousy. A story, the language of which is, if not equally, perhaps more important than the story itself. Fragmented - as the windows smashed out by friends and neighbors, “the blue-white moonlight scattered on the kitchen floor” – the words appear and reappear, reflected by and upon each other again and again. Vennemann tells and retells the same few stories of times past, of events that happened - today, yesterday, and years past - all contemporaneously, all in a single voice, a single point of view, only by way of that which the narrator has experienced. Only the things the narrator’s eyes have seen and the narrator’s ears have heard. When the “I” speaks it is someone else’s voice we hear, yet it is the narrator’s tongue that speaks – that speaks for the dead – that takes the then and makes it now. Deconstructed, reinvented, reimagined. The shards and fragments rearranged and retold, reflecting and repeating in kaleidoscopic manner the thoughts and deeds of a life recalled – a life ended with the narrator’s own “I”. With the last line of the story echoing the first - with the final “we” gone, the “I” stands alone – from the first “we do not breathe” to the final “I do not breathe” we see the disintegration of both family and language.
The use of the “I” to name the narrator only occurs after she recognizes there is no one left but herself - after she is irrevocably alone.
Vennemann leaves the narrator unnamed – a young jewish girl in her early-teens - and shapes the story of her family’s destruction from the multiplicity of voices through hers. The voice that Vennemann uses however is modern, the language modern, and situated not only in a worldview informed by modern language, but by modern social, philosophic and cinematic conventions. The story relatively simple and not unknown to us, yet Vennemann forces us to deal with a language far more complex and for more frustrating in its structure and syntax than perhaps the story warrants.
“Before she goes, we wait until the guard in the garden behind the house is alone and turns away from the ridge and from the woods, when she goes, Marek gazes silently after Antonina, gazes silently at the wall for a few minutes…”
The first “she” is Anna (sister to Marek and the Narrator), the second, Antonina (wife to Marek). The first moment of “waiting” is after Marek and Antonina are dead, the second moment of “gazing” is during the winter, six months prior.
“How he finds our farms close to Jedenew, three or four years ago Anna instead of Antonina now takes Zygmunt, scarcely one year old, on her arm every morning for weeks while we lie awake…”
The first section of the sentence is the last of the narrator’s father’s tale, the last sections are the beginning of a separate tale regarding Antonina’s mother’s death. In each instance Vennemann switches from one story to the next with no indication of the switch until the end of the sentence, and this continues throughout the novella as a device, perhaps more clever than justified.
As well, the language of the story seems inextricably linked to the German language itself. And in translation, I wonder - is the idiosyncratic syntax of the German appropriately, and effectively addressed? Is there not some shift in the manner of time and tense, which to subtly understand, in German, is not apparent in English? Are we missing something, some nuance of language, that rather than leading to understanding is complicating it?
The narrative sits some sixty to seventy years previously. I play with possibilities, and wonder then at the state of the narrator today who might be influenced by such a worldview, who would be over eighty years of age if telling the tale today, and I wonder if dementia influences the story told? If the confusion in syntax, the breathless urgency and the world that was contained has been shattered by the mind as well as the years?
Vennemann has written a story that is both compelling and strangely off-putting, that insists we pay attention to both story and language equally, yet where story and language do not always support each other. The ability to explore a work of such complexity is enhanced by its brevity – the novella allowing/requiring multiple readings, and yet, though Vennemann’s CLOSE TO JEDENEW asks for more readings it lays much in the path of such. Even after several readings, I am uncertain how I feel about this work. Vennemann strives for much, but I still do not know with a certainty that he has achieved that for which he has worked.
October 24, 2019
Tiktiešām visskumjākais no skaistajiem stāstiem.
December 13, 2023
Jewish storytelling .. gotta love it
June 23, 2013
Sarebbe mezza stellina.
La storia suppergiù è la seguente: seconda guerra mondiale. Tutto scorre tranquillo e nella più normale armonia, vicino a Jedenew, Polonia. Una felice famiglia ebrea viene sconvolta dall'imminente arrivo delle truppe tedesche. Nel frattempo i contadini del villaggio compiono soprusi e razzie. Pian piano i membri della famiglia rimangono vittime di queste efferate violenze e si salveranno solamente due ragazzine che trovano un valido nascondiglio nella loro casetta sull'albero, dove rimarranno in silenzio, parlando a gesti, senza respirare. " Wir atmen nicht".
La casetta è simbolo della loro famiglia e della loro felicità scossa brutalmente dalla guerra e dalle barbarie dei contadini. Infatti quel nascondiglio è stato costruito da loro e dal fratello Marian durante l'estate. Quest'ultimo aveva promesso alle sorelle e al piccolo fratellino Zygmut che l'avrebbero finita non appena sarebbe tornato a Jedenew con la moglie e la neonata Julia, sua figlia. Tutto ciò rimarrà purtroppo solo una bella illusione, Marian viene catturato come gli altri parenti dai contadini.
E' da sopra un albero, dunque, che le ragazzine osservano cosa accade attorno: la loro casa viene occupata da alcuni soldati che accatastano tutto ciò che la famiglia possiede in giardino, la masseria dei vicini va a fuoco, intorno i contadini vagano. Durante la notte le ragazze riescono ad uscire e ad andare nei campi in cerca di verdure e il necessario per sopravvivere, fino a quando Anna, la forte e selvaggia Anna, trova il corpicino del piccolo Zygmut, nella radura dove solevano andare tutti assieme nei giorni estivi. E' il momento della fine.
La vita del narratore è alla fine completamente distrutta, la vita e la morte dei famigliari divengono tangibili.
Il racconto della vicenda è mescolato ai ricordi delle ragazze. Nella loro condizione non resta che rifugiarsi nel passato. Si passa bruscamente senza rendersene quasi conto dalle spedizioni notturne nei campi per trovare del cibo a quando d'estate la famiglia si riuniva sul pontile di legno sopra lo stagno a leggere, chiacchierare, prendere il sole, oppure quando il padre raccontava la loro storia preferita: come era arrivato a Jedenew. Da una parte questa mossa dell'autore permette al lettore di entrare più profondamente nella storia e di conoscere meglio la famiglia. Inoltre si comprende come l'intera vicenda, ricca di aneddoti non sia proprio veritiera: infatti sono le stesse ragazzine ad affermare che tutto ciò che accade è una storia che potrebbe esser inventata oppure no. Dunque il lettore non sa fin dove arriva la realtà.
Il problema è che in tutto questo mescolarsi di realtà, ricordi, presente e passato si perde il filo: chi è chi? Cosa è successo a chi? A che punto della storia siamo? A momenti sembra di essere dentro un labirinto. Sottolineo, poi, che il testo in sé è molto noioso: il linguaggio è quello confuso di una ragazzina, che va avanti con il racconto, poi si ferma, ripete le stesse cose 3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 volte, torna indietro, poi di nuovo ripete, poi prosegue....ma che cosa è? Un disco strisciato, la puntina del giradischi non si sposta e allo stesso modo nemmeno il lettore si sposta. La peculiarià del libro è proprio questa: non si va da nessuna parte, si parte e si arriva nello stesso punto "wir atmen nicht"
Leggerlo in tedesco è stato un vero peso proprio perché non è di facile lettura.
La storia suppergiù è la seguente: seconda guerra mondiale. Tutto scorre tranquillo e nella più normale armonia, vicino a Jedenew, Polonia. Una felice famiglia ebrea viene sconvolta dall'imminente arrivo delle truppe tedesche. Nel frattempo i contadini del villaggio compiono soprusi e razzie. Pian piano i membri della famiglia rimangono vittime di queste efferate violenze e si salveranno solamente due ragazzine che trovano un valido nascondiglio nella loro casetta sull'albero, dove rimarranno in silenzio, parlando a gesti, senza respirare. " Wir atmen nicht".
La casetta è simbolo della loro famiglia e della loro felicità scossa brutalmente dalla guerra e dalle barbarie dei contadini. Infatti quel nascondiglio è stato costruito da loro e dal fratello Marian durante l'estate. Quest'ultimo aveva promesso alle sorelle e al piccolo fratellino Zygmut che l'avrebbero finita non appena sarebbe tornato a Jedenew con la moglie e la neonata Julia, sua figlia. Tutto ciò rimarrà purtroppo solo una bella illusione, Marian viene catturato come gli altri parenti dai contadini.
E' da sopra un albero, dunque, che le ragazzine osservano cosa accade attorno: la loro casa viene occupata da alcuni soldati che accatastano tutto ciò che la famiglia possiede in giardino, la masseria dei vicini va a fuoco, intorno i contadini vagano. Durante la notte le ragazze riescono ad uscire e ad andare nei campi in cerca di verdure e il necessario per sopravvivere, fino a quando Anna, la forte e selvaggia Anna, trova il corpicino del piccolo Zygmut, nella radura dove solevano andare tutti assieme nei giorni estivi. E' il momento della fine.
La vita del narratore è alla fine completamente distrutta, la vita e la morte dei famigliari divengono tangibili.
Il racconto della vicenda è mescolato ai ricordi delle ragazze. Nella loro condizione non resta che rifugiarsi nel passato. Si passa bruscamente senza rendersene quasi conto dalle spedizioni notturne nei campi per trovare del cibo a quando d'estate la famiglia si riuniva sul pontile di legno sopra lo stagno a leggere, chiacchierare, prendere il sole, oppure quando il padre raccontava la loro storia preferita: come era arrivato a Jedenew. Da una parte questa mossa dell'autore permette al lettore di entrare più profondamente nella storia e di conoscere meglio la famiglia. Inoltre si comprende come l'intera vicenda, ricca di aneddoti non sia proprio veritiera: infatti sono le stesse ragazzine ad affermare che tutto ciò che accade è una storia che potrebbe esser inventata oppure no. Dunque il lettore non sa fin dove arriva la realtà.
Il problema è che in tutto questo mescolarsi di realtà, ricordi, presente e passato si perde il filo: chi è chi? Cosa è successo a chi? A che punto della storia siamo? A momenti sembra di essere dentro un labirinto. Sottolineo, poi, che il testo in sé è molto noioso: il linguaggio è quello confuso di una ragazzina, che va avanti con il racconto, poi si ferma, ripete le stesse cose 3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 volte, torna indietro, poi di nuovo ripete, poi prosegue....ma che cosa è? Un disco strisciato, la puntina del giradischi non si sposta e allo stesso modo nemmeno il lettore si sposta. La peculiarià del libro è proprio questa: non si va da nessuna parte, si parte e si arriva nello stesso punto "wir atmen nicht"
Leggerlo in tedesco è stato un vero peso proprio perché non è di facile lettura.
February 7, 2015
Close to Jedenew is only 130 pages long, but it is one of the more tedious books I have ever read. The narrator is a Jewish child hiding with family members from Polish neighbors intent on killing them during WWII. (Presumably, the story is based on the pogrom at Jedwabne in 1941.) This would seem to present great possibilities for an exploration of hatred and bloodthirstiness, but the author isn't interested in how or why these types of crimes happen. Instead, the author endlessly repeats and combines the exact same language for three stories (living in hiding from the bad guys, how the father of the children came to Jedenew, and how the narrator's brother got married), as if he had had a contract for a novel, but only came up with 20 pages and somehow had to fill out the rest of the book by cutting and pasting what he had originally written. As a stylistic technique, this would be excusable if there were the slightest thing interesting in the book, but there isn't.
April 2, 2010
Close to Jedenew is a stream of consciousness novella narrated by a young Jewish girl in a small town in Poland, whose Jewish population is slaughtered by local villagers during World War II. She and the younger members of the family remain in hiding while local farmers conduct their rampage against their former neighbors and friends. The story initially reads like a fairy tale, then jumps back and forth between present and past events, which made it difficult to follow until its ending. This was a curious and mysterious work, which requires close attention and possibly multiple readings to appreciate it fully.
July 2, 2016
Wyjątkowo cięzka i niestrawna forma, mimo krótkiej objętości czytanie tego jest katorgą. A treść - strumień świadomości żydowskiego dziecka oglądającego drugą wojnę światową z bliska - nie wnosi absolutnie nic. Szkoda czasu.
August 22, 2008
Impressionant història escrita amb un innovador i magistral estil. Imprescindible.
February 20, 2010
This is written really well.
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