Yankev Glatshteyn's Emil and Karl – published in Yiddish in 1940 while Vienna's streets still echoed with jackboots and broken glass – doesn't have the luxury of historical distance. This is no sepia-toned children's tale but a smoke-choked document written as history's abyss was still widening.
Its protagonists – Emil (Jewish, whose mother vanishes in a night raid) and Karl (non-Jewish, whose socialist parents meet similar fates) – navigate a city collapsing under ideological weight. From the moment Karl finds himself in a janitor's cellar, the narrative grips with merciless urgency. Their whispered conversations under candlelight – "Are they going to cremate my mother, too?" – and woodland fantasies of revolutionary justice carry the unprocessed terror of children confronting monstrous realities without adult filters.
There's a jarring, almost slapstick grotesquery to the antisemitic abuses that punctuate the novel. A man in a top hat is forced to scrub the pavement with his bare hands, over and over, and each time his hat falls off, guards make him put it back on, because dignity must be precisely arranged before it's destroyed. Another boy is punished by being forced to sing, not for any crime, but because he looks "too Jewish", and when he sings too well, they beat him anyway. Even the children develop survival taxonomies: "That one's a kicker," Emil mutters, "I can tell by the way he folds his sleeves."
The city's cruelty leaks into culinary absurdity: a butcher in a blood-smeared apron laughs maniacally while glass from a ransacked Jewish grocery crunches under his shoes, until he's randomly kicked to the ground by a Nazi officer for insufficient anti-Jewish zeal. The macabre bureaucratic efficiency of delivering Emil's father's ashes in a box treats human remains as a defective appliance being returned.
The novel's emotional trajectory moves with freight-train inevitability. A Nazi-sympathizing street performer named Hans transitions from circus-like "Heil!" somersaults to quiet reading, prompting Emil's observation: "That really is scary." Glatshteyn loads children's dialogue with eerie precision: "Your father was a Socialist... My father always said he was on the side of the poor workingman." These are innocents witnesses threaded through history's darkest seams.
Karl's teacher publicly denounces Emil as "an inferior being," only to privately confess, "You protected poor Emil with your own body, and I insulted him horribly." Every character wears two faces – one public, one private – reflecting a society fracturing under moral collapse. Even the trains carry double meanings: "Tra-ta-ta—Live!" chant the wheels, making "live" both imperative and accusation.
Glatshteyn, a modernist introspective Inzikhistn poet (a unique school of Yiddish poetry in the 20s and 30s), writes with a pen dipped in ash. His Yiddish mourns innocence and anatomizes its methodical destruction. Emil and Karl is like Waiting for Godot rewritten by children on the precipice of catastrophe. Vienna becomes a cracked diorama of Europe's moral implosion: the janitor's choral "Terrible! Terrible!", apartments "emptied" of humanity, the suffocating silence where neighbors once spoke.
This novel burns quietly but thoroughly, its embers still drifting through our contemporary politics with their curated hatreds. Glatshteyn pleads for justice and demands remembrance. The boys survive on tears, bread, and narrative will, left stranded in history's waiting room as the next train approaches.