Prudence Gamache unleashed upon the world in 1955.
As this excerpt illustrates, it is set during World War II and is so badly written that had Hitler survived the war, his punishers
would have consigned him to a Spandau cell with a copy of the thing and a jackbooted thug who had ways of making him read.
Subtitled
A Tale of Hope and Heroes,
it’s one of those ruthlessly sentimental books that make you feel as though your heartstrings are being plucked with a lug
wrench. On page after page it strives to achieve uplift and, in the case of my dinner, damn near succeeded.
The plot revolves around the double life of the book’s title character, Greta Schumman, a woman so virtuous she makes Maria
von Trapp look like a Kit Kat Klub girl. Greta keeps house for the brutal gestapo general Ernst Snelling and his handsome
son Heinrich. Heinrich, raised by Greta after his mom died in childbirth, is in the gestapo too but, thanks to Greta’s tender
influence, is a kinder, gentler Nazi. As Ms. Gamache puts it, “His twinkling eyes sparkled with a gentle light and in his
heart there burned a fragile flame of goodness that not even the brackish tide of evil washing over this once green and hopeful
land could drown or otherwise extinguish.”
Greta, who’s secretly Jewish, risks all by smuggling food to her sister, who’s hiding in the basement of a bombed-out bakery
along with her four children. The children, in ascending order of grisliness, are Lisabetta, a beautiful and spirited eighteen-year-old,
Rolf, a manly little fellow of ten, and the twins, Hilda and Heidi, two revolting moppets whose every lisping utterance is
crafted to extort tears. When they’re not pretend-phoning Daddy in heaven, they’re staging puppet shows about brighter tomorrows,
and after three chapters of this I was rooting for the snipers.
The general, his suspicions inflamed by a missing roast beef, orders Heinrich to follow Greta. He obeys and discovers her
double life. He denounces her treachery to the Reich and vows to turn her in to Dad but finds, in a dinner scene staggeringly
devoid of suspense, that he cannot bring himself to do so. Before you can say “Oskar Schindler,” he’s smuggling food along
with her and falling hard for pretty Lisabetta, who’s a feisty one and takes some wooing.
Little Hilda falls gravely ill and Heinrich, who by this point is practically sporting a yarmulke, frees a Jewish doctor from
a work camp. Hilda rallies briefly before dying in a deathbed scene so excruciatingly maudlin that only the promise of her
eventual demise kept me turning the pages.
“One down, one to go!” I thought, pouring myself an altogether necessary scotch from the minibar. But I soon found that in
the world of Prudence Gamache saintly tots do not quit the stage simply because they’ve expired. No, their dear little ghosts
linger on, watching over their families, snuffing out candles when danger looms, and generally pitching in. The nadir of this
gambit comes when Hilda’s ghost blows a kiss to two Jew-sniffing Dobermans who whimper contritely and lead their masters away.
By that point I’d just about had it and only skimmed the rest to get the gist of the story.
I could at least see what had attracted Bobby to the material. Amid the schmaltz there was no shortage of action and preposterous
heroics. My question vis-à-vis Bobby was not “Why
Greta?
” It was “Why us?” The answer clearly lay with Gilbert, and I resolved to track him down come morning and, if need be, throttle
it out of him.
I PHONED HIM THE next morning and left a message sternly demanding he call the moment he woke. I then tried Claire’s room and, getting no
answer, dressed and went downstairs, hoping to find her in the dining room. She was there, sitting at a corner table and looking
as morose as you’d expect a girl of her taste and discernment to look on finding she’s been hired to rewrite
The Diary of Anne
As this excerpt illustrates, it is set during World War II and is so badly written that had Hitler survived the war, his punishers
would have consigned him to a Spandau cell with a copy of the thing and a jackbooted thug who had ways of making him read.
Subtitled
A Tale of Hope and Heroes,
it’s one of those ruthlessly sentimental books that make you feel as though your heartstrings are being plucked with a lug
wrench. On page after page it strives to achieve uplift and, in the case of my dinner, damn near succeeded.
The plot revolves around the double life of the book’s title character, Greta Schumman, a woman so virtuous she makes Maria
von Trapp look like a Kit Kat Klub girl. Greta keeps house for the brutal gestapo general Ernst Snelling and his handsome
son Heinrich. Heinrich, raised by Greta after his mom died in childbirth, is in the gestapo too but, thanks to Greta’s tender
influence, is a kinder, gentler Nazi. As Ms. Gamache puts it, “His twinkling eyes sparkled with a gentle light and in his
heart there burned a fragile flame of goodness that not even the brackish tide of evil washing over this once green and hopeful
land could drown or otherwise extinguish.”
Greta, who’s secretly Jewish, risks all by smuggling food to her sister, who’s hiding in the basement of a bombed-out bakery
along with her four children. The children, in ascending order of grisliness, are Lisabetta, a beautiful and spirited eighteen-year-old,
Rolf, a manly little fellow of ten, and the twins, Hilda and Heidi, two revolting moppets whose every lisping utterance is
crafted to extort tears. When they’re not pretend-phoning Daddy in heaven, they’re staging puppet shows about brighter tomorrows,
and after three chapters of this I was rooting for the snipers.
The general, his suspicions inflamed by a missing roast beef, orders Heinrich to follow Greta. He obeys and discovers her
double life. He denounces her treachery to the Reich and vows to turn her in to Dad but finds, in a dinner scene staggeringly
devoid of suspense, that he cannot bring himself to do so. Before you can say “Oskar Schindler,” he’s smuggling food along
with her and falling hard for pretty Lisabetta, who’s a feisty one and takes some wooing.
Little Hilda falls gravely ill and Heinrich, who by this point is practically sporting a yarmulke, frees a Jewish doctor from
a work camp. Hilda rallies briefly before dying in a deathbed scene so excruciatingly maudlin that only the promise of her
eventual demise kept me turning the pages.
“One down, one to go!” I thought, pouring myself an altogether necessary scotch from the minibar. But I soon found that in
the world of Prudence Gamache saintly tots do not quit the stage simply because they’ve expired. No, their dear little ghosts
linger on, watching over their families, snuffing out candles when danger looms, and generally pitching in. The nadir of this
gambit comes when Hilda’s ghost blows a kiss to two Jew-sniffing Dobermans who whimper contritely and lead their masters away.
By that point I’d just about had it and only skimmed the rest to get the gist of the story.
I could at least see what had attracted Bobby to the material. Amid the schmaltz there was no shortage of action and preposterous
heroics. My question vis-à-vis Bobby was not “Why
Greta?
” It was “Why us?” The answer clearly lay with Gilbert, and I resolved to track him down come morning and, if need be, throttle
it out of him.
I PHONED HIM THE next morning and left a message sternly demanding he call the moment he woke. I then tried Claire’s room and, getting no
answer, dressed and went downstairs, hoping to find her in the dining room. She was there, sitting at a corner table and looking
as morose as you’d expect a girl of her taste and discernment to look on finding she’s been hired to rewrite
The Diary of Anne
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