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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




My sweet companion wept: the two young German officers who had acted as
bodyguards made a seat for me by crossing their hands, and so we went
nearly another mile. My companion could not walk any farther. I offered
her my place, but she refused it.

"Well then, let us wait here!" I said, and, quite at the end of our
strength, we rested against a little broken tree.

It was now night, and such a cold night!

Soubise and I huddled close together, trying to keep each other warm. I
began to fall asleep, seeing before my eyes the wounded men of
Chatillon, who had died seated against the little shrubs. I did not want
to move again, and the torpor seemed to me thoroughly delicious.

A cart passed by, however, on its way to Tergnier. One of the young men
hailed it, and when a price was agreed upon I felt myself picked up from
the ground, lifted into the vehicle, and carried along by the jerky,
rolling movement of two loose wheels, which climbed the hills, sank into
the mire, and jumped over the heaps of stones, whilst the driver whipped
up his beasts and urged them on with his voice. He had a "don't care,
let what will happen" way of driving, which was characteristic of those
days.

I was aware of all this in my semi-sleep, for I was not really asleep,
but I did not want to answer any questions. I gave myself up to this
prostration of my whole being with a certain amount of enjoyment.

A rough jerk, however, indicated that we had arrived at Tergnier. The
cart had drawn up at the hotel, and we had to get out. I pretended to be
still sleeping heavily. But it was no use, for I had to wake up. The two
young men helped me up to my room.

I asked Soubise to arrange about the payment of the cart before the
departure of our excellent young companions, who were sorry to leave us.
I signed for each of them a voucher, on a sheet of the hotel paper, for
a photograph. Only one of them ever claimed it. This was six years
later, and I sent it to him.

The Tergnier hotel could only give us one room. I let Soubise go to bed,
and I slept in an arm-chair, dressed as I was.

The following morning I asked about a train for Cateau, but was told
that there was no train.

We had to work marvels to procure a vehicle, but finally Dr. Meunier, or
Mesnier, agreed to lend us a two-wheeled conveyance. That was something,
but there was no horse. The poor doctor's horse had been requisitioned
by the enemy. A wheelwright for an exorbitant price let me have a colt
that had never been in the shafts, and which went wild when the harness
was put on. The poor little beast calmed down after being well lashed,
but his wildness then changed into stubbornness. He stood still on his
four legs, which were trembling furiously, and refused to move. With his
neck stretched towards the ground, his eye fixed, and his nostrils
dilating, he would not budge any more than a stake in the earth. Two men
then held the light carriage back; the halter was taken off the colt's
neck; he shook his head for an instant, and, thinking himself free and
without any impediments, began to advance. The men were scarcely holding
the vehicle. He gave two little kicks, and then began to trot. Oh, it
was only a very short trot. A boy then stopped him, some carrots were
given to him, his mane was stroked, and the halter was put on again. He
stopped suddenly, but the boy, jumping into the gig and holding the
reins lightly, spoke to him and encouraged him to move on. The colt, not
feeling any resistance, began to trot along for about a quarter of an
hour, and then came back to us at the door of the hotel. I had to leave
a deposit of four hundred francs with the notary of the place, in case
the colt should die.

Ah, what a journey that was with the boy, Soubise, and me sitting close
together in that little gig, the wheels of which creaked at every jolt!
The unhappy colt was steaming like a _pot-au-feu_ when the lid is
raised. We started at eleven in the morning, and when we had to stop,
because the poor beast could not go any farther, it was five in the
afternoon, and we had not gone five miles. Oh, that poor colt, he was
certainly to be pitied! We were not very heavy, all three of us
together, but we were too much for him. We were just a few yards away
from a sordid-looking house. I knocked, and an old woman, enormous in
size, opened the door.

"What do you want?" She asked.

"Hospitality for an hour and shelter for our horse."

She looked out on to the road and saw our turn-out.

"Hey, father!" She called out in a husky voice, "come and look here!"

A stout man, quite as stout as she was, but older, came hobbling heavily
along. She pointed to the gig, so oddly equipped, and he burst out
laughing and said to me in an insolent way:

"Well, what do you want?"

I repeated my phrase: "Hospitality for an hour," &c. &c.

"Perhaps we can do it, but it'll want paying for."

I showed him twenty francs. The old woman gave him a nudge.

"Oh, but in these times, you know, it's well worth forty francs."

"Very good," I said, "agreed; forty francs."

He then let me go inside the house with Mlle. Soubise, and sent his son
towards the boy, who was coming along holding the colt by his mane. He
had taken off the halter very considerately and thrown my rug over its
steaming sides. On reaching the house the poor beast was quickly
unharnessed and taken into a little enclosure, at the far end of which a
few badly-joined planks served as a stable for an old mule, which was
aroused by the fat woman with kicks and turned out into the enclosure.
The colt took its place, and when I asked for some oats for it she
replied:

"Perhaps we could get it some, but that isn't included in the forty
francs."

"Very well," I said, and I gave our boy five francs to fetch the oats,
but the old shrew took the money from him and handed it to her lad,
saying:

"You go; you know where to find them, and come back quick."

Our boy remained with the colt, drying it and rubbing it down as well as
he could. I went back to the house, where I found my charming Soubise
with her sleeves turned up and her delicate hands washing two glasses
and two plates for us. I asked if it would be possible to have some
eggs.

"Yes, but--"

I interrupted our monstrous hostess.

"Don't tire yourself, Madame, I beg," I said. "It is understood that the
forty francs are your tip, and that I am to pay for everything else."

She was confused for a moment, shaking her head and trying to find
words, but I asked her to give me the eggs. She brought me five eggs,
and I began to make an omelette, as my culinary glory is an omelette.

The water was nauseous, so we drank cider. I sent for the boy and made
them serve him something to eat in our presence, for I was afraid that
the ogress would give him too economical a meal.

When I paid the fabulous bill of seventy-five francs, inclusive of
course of the forty francs, the matron put on her spectacles, and taking
one of the gold pieces, looked at it on one side, then on the other,
made it ring on a plate and then on the ground. She did this with each
of the three gold pieces. I could not help laughing.

"Oh, there's nothing to laugh at," she grunted. "For the last six months
we've had nothing but thieves here."

"And you know something about theft!" I said.

She looked at me, trying to make out what I meant, but the laughing
expression in my eyes took away her suspicions. This was very fortunate,
as they were people capable of doing us harm. I had taken the
precaution, when sitting down to table, of putting my revolver near me.

"You know how to fire that?" asked the lame man.

"Oh yes, I shoot very well," I answered, though it was not true.

Our steed was then put in again in a few seconds, and we proceeded on
our way. The colt appeared to be quite joyful. He stamped, kicked a
little, and began to go at a pretty steady pace.

Our disagreeable hosts had indicated the way to St. Quentin, and we set
off, after our poor colt had made various attempts at standing still. I
was dead tired and fell asleep, but after about an hour the vehicle
stopped abruptly and the wretched beast began to snort and put his back
up, supporting himself on his four stiff, trembling legs.

It had been a gloomy day, and a lowering sky full of tears seemed to be
falling slowly over the earth. We had stopped in the middle of a field
which had been ploughed up all over by the heavy wheels of cannons. The
rest of the ground had been trampled by horses' feet and the cold had
hardened the little ridges of earth, leaving icicles here and there,
which glittered dismally in the thick atmosphere.

We got down from the vehicle, to try to discover what was making our
little animal tremble in this way. I gave a cry of horror, for, only
about five yards away, some dogs were pulling wildly at a dead body,
half of which was still underground. It was a soldier, and fortunately
one of the enemy. I took the whip from our young driver and lashed the
horrid animals as hard as I could. They moved away for a second, showing
their teeth, and then returned to their voracious and abominable work,
growling sullenly at us.

Our boy got down and led the snorting pony by the bridle. We went on
with some difficulty, trying to find the road in these devastated
plains.

Darkness came over us, and it was icy cold.

The moon feebly pushed aside her veils and shone over the landscape with
a wan, sad light. I was half dead with fright. It seemed to me that the
silence was broken by cries from underground, and every little mound of
earth appeared to me to be a head.

Mlle. Soubise was crying, with her face hidden in her hands. After going
along for half an hour, we saw in the distance a little group of people
coming along carrying lanterns. I went towards them, as I wanted to find
out which way to go. I was embarrassed on getting nearer to them, for I
could hear sobs. I saw a poor woman, who was very corpulent, being
helped along by a young priest. The whole of her body was shaken by her
fits of grief. She was followed by two sub-officers and by three other
persons. I let her pass by, and then questioned those who were following
her. I was told that she was looking for the bodies of her husband and
son, who had both been killed a few days before on the St. Quentin
plains. She came each day at dusk, in order to avoid general curiosity,
but she had not yet met with any success. It was hoped that she would
find them this time, as one of these sub-officers, who had just left the
hospital, was taking her to the spot where he had seen the poor woman's
husband fall, mortally wounded. He had fallen there himself, and had
been picked up by the ambulance people.

I thanked these persons, who showed me the sad road we must take, the
best one there was, through the cemetery, which was still warm under the
ice.

We could now distinguish groups of people searching about, and it was
all so horrible that it made me want to scream out.

Suddenly the boy who was driving us pulled my coat-sleeve.

"Oh, Madame," he said, "look at that scoundrel stealing."

I looked, and saw a man lying down full length, with a large bag near
him. He had a dark lantern, which he held towards the ground. He then
got up, looked round him, for his outline could be seen distinctly on
the horizon, and began his work again.

When he caught sight of us he put out his lamp and crouched down on the
ground. We walked on in silence straight towards him. I took the colt by
the bridle, on the other side, and the boy no doubt understood what I
intended to do, for he let me lead the way. I walked straight towards
the man, pretending not to know he was there. The colt backed, but we
pulled hard and made it advance. We were so near to the man that I
shuddered at the thought that the wretch would perhaps allow himself to
be trampled over by the animal and the light vehicle rather than reveal
his presence. Fortunately, I was mistaken. A stifled voice murmured,
"Take care there! I am wounded. You will run over me." I took the gig
lantern down. We had covered it with a jacket, as the moon lighted us
better, and I now turned it on the face of this wretch. I was stupefied
to see a man of from sixty-five to seventy years of age, with a
hollow-looking face, framed with long, dirty white whiskers. He had a
muffler round his neck, and was wearing a peasant's cloak of a dark
colour. Around him, shown up by the moon, were sword belts, brass
buttons, sword hilts, and other objects that the infamous old fellow had
torn from the poor dead.

"You are not wounded. You are a thief and a violator of tombs! I shall
call out and you will be killed. Do you hear that, you miserable
wretch?" I exclaimed, and I went so near to him that I could feel his
breath sully mine. He crouched down on his knees and, clasping his
criminal hands, implored me in a trembling, tearful voice.

"Leave your bag there, then," I said, "and all those things. Empty your
pockets; leave everything and go. Run, for as soon as you are out of
sight I shall call one of those soldiers who are making searches, and
give them your plunder. I know I am doing wrong, though, in letting you
go free."

He emptied his pockets, groaning all the time, and was just going away
when the lad whispered, "He's hiding some boots under his cloak." I was
furious with rage with this vile thief, and I pulled his big cloak off.

"Leave everything, you wretched man," I exclaimed, "or I will call the
soldiers."

Six pairs of boots, taken from the corpses, fell noisily on to the hard
ground. The man stooped down for his revolver, which he had taken out of
his pocket at the same time as the stolen objects.

"Will you leave that, and get away quickly?" I said. "My patience is at
an end."

"But if I am caught I shan't be able to defend myself," he exclaimed, in
a fit of desperate rage.

"It will be because God willed it so," I answered. "Go at once, or I
will call." The man then made off, abusing me as he went.

Our little driver then fetched a soldier, to whom I related the
adventure, showing him the objects.

"Which way did the rascal go?" asked a sergeant who had come with the
soldier.

"I can't say," I replied.

"Oh well, I don't care to run after him," he said; "there are enough
dead men here."

We continued our way until we came to a place where several roads met,
and it was then possible for us to take a route a little more suitable
for vehicles.

After going through Busigny and a wood, where there were bogs in which
we only just escaped being swallowed up, our painful journey came to an
end, and we arrived at Cateau in the night, half dead with fatigue,
fright, and despair.

I was obliged to take a day's rest there, for I was prostrate with
feverishness. We had two little rooms, roughly white-washed but quite
clean. The floor was of red, shiny bricks, and there was a polished wood
bed and white curtains.

I sent for a doctor for my charming little Soubise, who, it seemed to
me, was worse than I was. He thought we were both in a very bad state,
though. A nervous feverishness had taken all the use out of my limbs and
made my head burn. She could not keep still, but kept seeing spectres
and fires, hearing shouts and turning round quickly, imagining that some
one had touched her on the shoulder. The good man gave us a soothing
draught to overcome our fatigue, and the next day a very hot bath
brought back the suppleness to our limbs. It was then six days since we
had left Paris, and it would take about twenty more hours to reach
Homburg, for in those days trains went much less quickly than at
present. I took a train for Brussels, where I was counting on buying a
trunk and a few necessary things.

From Cateau to Brussels there was no hindrance to our journey, and we
were able to take the train again the same evening.

I had replenished our wardrobe, which certainly needed it, and we
continued our journey without much difficulty as far as Cologne. But on
arriving in that city we had a cruel disappointment. The train had only
just entered the station, when a railway official, passing quickly in
front of the carriages, shouted something in German which I did not
catch. Every one seemed to be in a hurry, and men and women pushed each
other without any courtesy.

I addressed another official and showed him our tickets. He took up my
bag, very obligingly, and hurried after the crowd. We followed, but I
did not understand the excitement until the man flung my bag into a
compartment and signed to me to get in as quickly as possible.

Soubise was already on the step when she was pushed aside violently by a
railway porter, who slammed the door, and before I was fully aware of
what had happened the train had disappeared. My bag had gone, and our
trunk also. The trunk had been placed in a luggage van that had been
unhooked from the train which had just arrived, and immediately fastened
on to the express now departing. I began to cry with rage. An official
took pity on us and led us to the station-master. He was a very superior
sort of man, who spoke French fairly well. I sank down in his great
leather arm-chair and told him my misadventure, sobbing nervously. He
looked kind and sympathetic. He immediately telegraphed for my bag and
trunk to be given into the care of the station-master at the first
station.

"You will have them again to-morrow, towards mid-day," he said.

"Then I cannot start this evening?" I asked.

"Oh no, that is impossible," he replied. "There is no train, for the
express that will take you to Homburg does not start before to-morrow
morning."

"Oh God, God!" I exclaimed, and I was seized with veritable despair,
which soon affected Mlle. Soubise too.

The poor station-master was rather embarrassed, and tried to soothe me.

"Do you know any one here?" he asked.

"No, no one. I do not know any one in Cologne."

"Well then, I will have you driven to the Hotel du Nord. My
sister-in-law has been there for two days, and she will look after you."

Half an hour later his carriage arrived, and he took us to the Hotel du
Nord, after driving a long way round to show us the city. But at that
epoch I did not admire anything belonging to the Germans.

On arriving at the Hotel du Nord, he introduced us to his sister-in-law,
a fair-haired young woman, pretty, but too tall and too big for my
taste. I must say, though, that she was very sweet and affable. She
engaged two bedrooms for us near her own rooms. She had a flat on the
ground floor, and she invited us to dinner, which was served in her
drawing-room. Her brother-in-law joined us in the evening. The charming
woman was very musical. She played to us from Berlioz, Gounod, and even
Auber. I thoroughly appreciated the delicacy of this woman in only
letting us hear French composers. I asked her to play us something from
Mozart and Wagner. At that name she turned to me and exclaimed, "Do you
like Wagner?"

"I like his music," I replied, "but I detest the man."

Mlle. Soubise whispered to me, "Ask her to play Liszt."

She overheard, and complied with infinite graciousness. I must admit
that I spent a delightful evening there.

At ten o'clock the station-master (whose name I have very stupidly
forgotten, and I cannot find it in any of my notes) told me that he
would call for us at eight the following morning, and he then took leave
of us. I fell asleep, lulled by Mozart, Gounod, &c.

At eight o'clock the next morning a servant came to tell me that the
carriage was waiting for us. There was a gentle knock at my door, and
our beautiful hostess of the previous evening said sweetly, "Come, you
must start!" I was really very much touched by the delicacy of the
pretty German woman.

It was such a fine day that I asked her if we should have time to walk
there, and on her reply in the affirmative we all three started for the
station, which is not far from the hotel. A special compartment had been
reserved for us, and we installed ourselves in it as comfortably as
possible. The brother and sister shook hands with us, and wished us a
pleasant journey.

When the train had started I discovered in one of the corners a bouquet
of forget-me-nots with the sister's card and a box of chocolates from
the station-master.

I was at last about to arrive at my goal, and was in a state of wild
excitement at the idea of seeing once more all my beloved ones. I should
have liked to have gone to sleep. My eyes, which had grown larger with
anxiety, travelled through space more rapidly than the train went. I
fumed each time it stopped, and envied the birds I saw flying along. I
laughed with delight as I thought of the surprised faces of those I was
going to see again, and then I began to tremble with anxiety. What had
happened to them, and should I find them all? I should if--ah, those
"ifs," those "becauses," and those "buts"! My mind became full of them,
they bristled with illnesses and accidents, and I began to weep. My poor
little travelling companion began to weep too.

Finally we came within sight of Homburg. Twenty more minutes of this
turning of wheels and we should enter the station. But just as though
all the sprites and devils from the infernal regions had concerted to
torture my patience, we stopped short. All heads were out of the
windows. "What is it?" "What's the matter?" "Why are we not going on?"
There was a train in front of us at a standstill, with a broken brake,
and the line had to be cleared. I fell back on my seat, clenching my
teeth and hands, and looking up in the air to distinguish the evil
spirits which were so bent on tormenting me, and then I resolutely
closed my eyes. I muttered some invectives against the invisible
sprites, and declared that, as I would not suffer any more, I was now
going to sleep. I then fell fast asleep, for the power of sleeping when
I wish is a precious gift which God has bestowed on me. In the most
frightful circumstances and the most cruel moments of life, when I have
felt that my reason was giving way under shocks that have been too great
or too painful, my will has laid hold of my reason, just as one holds a
bad-tempered little dog that wants to bite, and, subjugating it, my will
has said to my reason: "Enough. You can take up again to-morrow your
suffering and your plans, your anxiety, your sorrow and your anguish.
You have had enough for to-day. You would give way altogether under the
weight of so many troubles, and you would drag me along with you. I will
not have it! We will forget everything for so many hours and go to sleep
together!" And I have gone to sleep. This, I swear to.

Mlle. Soubise roused me as soon as the train entered the station. I was
refreshed and calmer. A minute later we were in a carriage and had given
the address, 7 Ober Strasse.

We were soon there, and I found all my adored ones, big and little, and
they were all very well. Oh, what happiness it was! The blood pulsed in
all my arteries. I had suffered so much that I burst out into delicious
laughter and sobs.

Who can ever describe the infinite pleasure of tears of joy! During the
next two days the maddest things occurred, which I will not relate, so
incredible would they sound. Among others, fire broke out in the house;
we had to escape in our night clothes and camp out for six hours in five
feet of snow, &c. &c.




XIX


MY RETURN TO PARIS--THE COMMUNE--AT ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE


Everybody being safe and sound, we set out for Paris, but on arriving at
St. Denis we found there were no more trains. It was four o'clock in the
morning. The Germans were masters of all the suburbs of Paris, and
trains only ran for their service. After an hour spent in running about,
in discussions and rebuffs, I met with an officer of higher rank, who
was better educated and more agreeable. He had a locomotive prepared to
take me to the Gare du Havre (Gare St. Lazare).

The journey was very amusing. My mother, my aunt, my sister Regina,
Mlle. Soubise, the two maids, the children, and I all squeezed into a
little square space, in which there was a very small, narrow bench,
which I think was the place for the signalman in those days. The engine
went very slowly, as the rails were frequently obstructed by carts or
railway carriages.

We left at five in the morning and arrived at seven. At a place which I
cannot locate our German conductors were exchanged for French
conductors. I questioned them, and learnt that revolutionary troubles
were beginning in Paris.

The stoker with whom I was talking was a very intelligent and very
advanced individual.

"You would do better to go somewhere else, and not to Paris," he said,
"for before long they will come to blows there."

We had arrived. But as no train was expected in at that hour, it was
impossible to find a carriage. I got down with my tribe from the
locomotive, to the great amazement of the station officials.

I was no longer very rich, but I offered twenty francs to one of the men
if he would see to our six bags. We were to send for my trunk and those
belonging to my family later on.

Fidel and Che: a revolutionary friendship

After last week's fairly open theme, I thought I'd go with something a bit more structured this time. As I type this, I'm listening to Steeleye Span and thinking about the great ballad traditions of Britain and Ireland. What is a ballad? I suppose the most inclusive definition would be that it's a singable narrative poem: that covers a multitude but will do for the moment.

Ballads in English stretch back to the middle ages, with fine examples to be found among the Scottish border ballads and the English Robin Hood poems. These early ballads are among the best-known poems and stories in the language, and form part of the common heritage of English speakers everywhere. They gave rise to a tradition of ballad-making that endures down to the present day.

In fact, most poets since have tried their hand at the ballad at one time or another, and the result has been to deny any definition more specific than the one I ventured in my first paragraph. If you look around the internet, you'll come up with a wide selection of poems that are called ballads but have little in common formally. Stanza length varies from two to 10 or more lines, and all sorts of metrical and rhyming patterns are used. A good number will be singable in only the loosest possible sense, and at times the narrative tends to get lost in a mesh of more-or-less successful verbal embroidery.

So, what should a ballad be? Well, "proper" ballad stanzas are quatrains in which the first and third lines have four stresses and the second and third have three. The lines will rhyme A-B-C-B or A-B-A-B. It's as simple, and as difficult, as that. Here's an example, from Robert Burns's extremely singable Comin Thro' the Rye:

Gin a body meet a body
          Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body –
          Need a body cry.

Burns wrote a good number of ballads, and his lead was followed by many 19th-century poets. Two examples that I particularly like are Robert Browning's Confessions and Christina Rossetti's Up-Hill, but you can find ballads by just about any Romantic or Victorian poet if you look for them.

There is a long, strong tradition of ballads and ballad singers in Ireland, too. It is hardly surprising, then, that the great appropriator of tradition, WB Yeats, tried his hand at the form. At least four of his poems have the word "ballad" in the title; the pick of the bunch, for my money, is The Ballad of Father Gilligan, which may have benefited from having been written with a specific tune in mind.

Ballads continued to be written in the 20th century; perhaps the most unexpected exponents were Ezra Pound, with his Ballad of the Goodly Fere, and WH Auden. In fact, the ballad The Quarry is probably my favourite Auden poem.

And so, this week I invite a chorus of balladeering. You may choose to go the whole hog and write in ballad stanzas or you might prefer to take a more liberal view of the formal requirements. Either way, sing up and – as they say at all the best Irish sessions when calling for a bit of hush for the singer – one voice please.

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Obituary: Donald Westlake

The disputed Holocaust memoir, written by Herman Rosenblat, which was dropped from Penguin Group's publication schedule at the end of December is now set to appear as a work of fiction.

Rosenblat's memoir - which Oprah Winfrey called "the single greatest love story" she had heard in two decades in television - recounted how as a teenage boy in a Nazi concentration camp, he was kept alive by the food which was thrown to him by a young girl, Roma Radzicky. Penguin's US imprint Berkley Books had planned to publish the story, which sees Rosenblat reunited with Radzicky on a blind date years later, as Angel at the Fence: the True Story of a Love That Survived, next month.

But a Holocaust historian said it would have been impossible to approach the fence in the Schlieben concentration camp to throw food over it, concluding that this part of the story was made-up. Berkley initially defended the book, saying it was a work of memory, but then decided to cancel its planned publication, and demanded the return of the advance it had made to Rosenblat. A $25m film based on the book, to be called The Flower of the Fence, is still going ahead, with production due to start this year.

Publisher York House Press based in White Plains, New York, has entered into a tentative agreement with the film production company to publish a novel based on the film script early this spring. It said the book would be "grounded in fact", and would rise "to the proper levels of artistic value, ethical conduct and social responsibility".

A spokesperson for York House Press condemned the attacks which were made on the 80-year-old Rosenblat after the veracity of his story was questioned, describing them as a "savage" response to what was otherwise "a credible, heart-wrenching, and verifiable account" of his time in the concentration camp.

"No deliberate untruth is permissible, but beneath any fabrication is motivation and intent. We believe Mr. Rosenblat's motivations were very human, understandable and forgivable," the spokesperson said. "It is beyond our expertise to know how Holocaust survivors cope with their trauma. Do they deny, try to forget, rationalise or fantasise and promote fiction along with truth? Perhaps the coping mechanisms are as individual as the survivors themselves."

The president of the company producing the film, Harris Salomon from Atlantic Overseas Productions, said the book, "regardless of its shortcomings", would "challenge, educate and enlighten" readers about the horrors of the Holocaust. "The documented fact, acknowledged by his critics, is that Herman is a survivor of concentration camps," he said.

But Rosenblat's agent, Andrea Hurst, said that neither she nor Rosenblat were involved with this version of his story. "Usually book rights from films come out after the movie is released," she told guardian.co.uk. "I think the timing on this is very insensitive."

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