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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




I did not know Eugene Bertrand, but I received him at once, for we had
mutual friends.

"What are you going to do when you come back from America?" he asked me,
after we had exchanged greetings.

"I really don't know. Nothing. I have not thought of anything."

"Well, I have thought of something for you. And if you like to make your
reappearance in Paris in a play of Victorien Sardou's, I will sign with
you at once for the Vaudeville."

"Ah!" I cried. "The Vaudeville! What are you thinking of? Raymond
Deslandes is the manager, and he hates me like poison because I ran away
from the Gymnase the day following the first performance of his play _Un
mari qui lance sa femme_. His play was ridiculous, and I was even more
ridiculous than his play in the part of a young Russian lady addicted to
dancing and eating sandwiches. That man will never engage me!"

He smiled. "My brother is the partner of Raymond Deslandes. My
brother--to put it plainly--is myself. All the money put in the affair
by us is mine. I am the sole master. What salary do you want?"

"But----I really don't know."

"Will fifteen hundred francs per performance suit you?"

I looked at him in stupefaction, not quite sure if he was in his right
mind.

"But, Monsieur, if I do not succeed you will lose money, and I cannot
agree to that."

"Do not be afraid," he said. "I can assure you it will be a success--a
colossal success. Will you sign? And I will also guarantee you fifty
performances!"

"Oh no, never! I will sign willingly, for I admire the talent of
Victorien Sardou, but I do not want any guarantee. Success will depend
on Victorien Sardou, and after him on me. So I sign, and thank you for
your confidence."

At my afternoon teas I showed the new contract to my friends, and they
were all of opinion that luck was on my side in the matter of my
resignation (from the Comedie Francaise).

I was to leave Paris in three days. My heart was sore at the idea of
leaving France, for many sorrowful reasons. But in these Memoirs I have
put on one side all that touches the inner part of my life. There is one
family "me" which lives another life, and whose sensations, sorrows,
joys, and griefs are born and die for a very small number of hearts.

But I felt the need of another atmosphere, of vaster space, of other
skies.

I left my little boy with my uncle, who had five boys of his own. His
wife was rather a strict Protestant, but kind, and my cousin Louise,
their eldest daughter, was witty and highly intelligent. She promised me
to be on the watch, and to let me know at once if there was anything I
ought to know.

Up to the last moment people in Paris did not believe that I would
really go. My health was so uncertain that it seemed folly to undertake
such a journey. But when it became absolutely certain that I was going,
there was a general concert of spiteful reproaches. The hue and cry of
my enemies was in full swing. I have now under my eyes these specimens
of insanity, calumnies, lies, and stupidities; burlesque portraits,
doleful pleasantries; good-byes to the Darling, the Idol, the Star, the
Zimm! boum! boum! &c. &c. It was all so absolutely idiotic that I was
confounded. I did not read the greater part of these articles, but my
secretary had orders to cut them out and paste them in little
note-books, whether favourable or unfavourable. It was my godfather who
had commenced doing this when I entered the Conservatoire, and after his
death I had it continued.

Happily, I find in these thousands of lines fine and noble words--words
written by J.J. Weiss, Zola, Emile de Girardin, Jules Valles, Jules
Lemaitre, &c.; and beautiful verses full of grace and justice, signed
Victor Hugo, Francois Coppee, Richepin, Haraucourt, Henri de Bornier,
Catulle Mendes, Parodi, and later Edmond Rostand.

I neither could nor would suffer unduly from the calumnies and lies, but
I confess that the kind appreciation and praises accorded me by the
superior minds afforded me infinite joy.




XXXII


EXPERIENCES AND REFLECTIONS ON BOARD SHIP FROM HAVRE TO NEW YORK


The ship which was to take me away to other hopes, other sensations, and
other successes was named _L'Amerique_. It was the unlucky boat, the
boat that was haunted by the gnome. All kinds of misfortunes, accidents,
and storms had been its lot. It had been blockaded for months with its
keel out of water. Its stern had been staved in by an Iceland boat, and
it had foundered on the shores of Newfoundland, I believe, and been set
afloat again. Another time fire had broken out on it right in the Havre
roadstead, but no great damage was done. The poor boat had had a
celebrated adventure which had made it ridiculous.

In 1876 or 1877 a new pumping system was adopted, and although this
system had been in use by the English for a long time, it was quite
unknown aboard French boats. The captain very wisely decided to have
these pumps worked by his crew, so that in case of any danger the men
should be ready to manipulate them easily.

The experiment had been going on for a few minutes when one of the men
came to inform the captain that the hold of the ship was filling with
water, and no one could discover the cause of it. "Go on pumping!"
shouted the captain. "Hurry up! Pump away!" The pumps were worked
frantically, and the result was that the hold filled entirely, and the
captain was obliged to abandon the ship after seeing the passengers
safely off in the boats. An English whaler met the ship two days after,
tried the pumps, which worked admirably, but in the contrary way to that
indicated by the French captain. This slight error cost the Compagnie
Transatlantique L48,000 salvage money, and when they wanted to run the
ship again and passengers refused to go by it, they offered my
_impresario_, Mr. Abbey, excellent terms. He accepted them, and very
intelligent he was, for, in spite of all prognostications, nothing
further happened to the boat.

I had hitherto travelled very little, and I was wild with delight.

On October 15, 1880, at six o'clock in the morning, I entered my cabin.
It was a large one, and was hung with light red repp embroidered with my
initials. What a profusion of the letters S.B.! Then there was a large
brass bedstead brightly polished, and flowers were everywhere. Adjoining
mine was a very comfortable cabin for _mon petit Dame_, and leading out
of that was one for my maid and her husband. All the other persons in my
service were at the other end of the ship.

The sky was misty, the sea grey, with no horizon. I was on my way over
there, beyond that mist which seemed to unite the sky and the water in a
mysterious rampart.

The clearing of the deck for the departure upset every one and
everything. The rumbling of the machinery, the boatswain's call, the
bell, the sobbing and the laughter, the creaking of the ropes, the
shrill shouting of the orders, the terror of those who were only just in
time to catch the boat, the "Halloa!" "Look out!" of the men who were
pitching the packages from the quay into the hold, the sound of the
laughing waves breaking on the side of the boat, all this mingled
together made the most frightful uproar, tiring the brain so that its
own sensations were all vague and bewildered. I was one of those who up
to the last moment enjoyed the good-byes, the hand-shakings, the plans
about the return, and the farewell kisses, and when it was all over
flung themselves sobbing on their beds.

For the next three days I was in utter despair, weeping bitter tears,
tears that scalded my cheeks. Then I began to get calm again; my
will-power triumphed over my grief. On the fourth day I dressed at seven
o'clock and went on deck to have some fresh air. It was icy cold, and as
I walked up and down I met a lady dressed in black with a sad resigned
face. The sea looked gloomy and colourless, and there were no waves.
Suddenly a wild billow dashed so violently against the ship that we were
both thrown down. I immediately clutched hold of the leg of one of the
benches, but the unfortunate lady was flung forward. Springing to my
feet with a bound, I was just in time to seize hold of the skirt of her
dress, and with the help of my maid and a sailor managed to prevent the
poor woman from falling head first down the staircase. Very much hurt
though she was, and a trifle confused, she thanked me in such a gentle
dreamy voice that my heart began to beat with emotion.

"You might have been killed, Madame," I said, "down that horrible
staircase."

"Yes," she answered, with a sigh of regret; "but it was not God's will."

"Are you not Madame Hessler?" she continued, looking earnestly at me.

"No, Madame," I answered; "my name is Sarah Bernhardt."

She stepped back and drawing herself up, her face very pale and her
brows knitted, she said in a mournful voice, a voice that was scarcely
audible, "I am the widow of President Lincoln."

I too stepped back, and a thrill of anguish ran through me, for I had
just done this unhappy woman the only service that I ought not to have
done her--I had saved her from death. Her husband had been assassinated
by an actor, Booth, and it was an actress who had now prevented her from
joining her beloved husband.

I went back again to my cabin and stayed there two days, for I had not
the courage to meet the woman for whom I felt such sympathy and to whom
I should never dare to speak again.

On the 22nd we were surprised by an abominable snowstorm. I was called
up hurriedly by Captain Jouclas. I threw on a long ermine cloak and went
on to the bridge. It was perfectly stupefying and at the same time
fairy-like. The heavy flakes met each other with a thud in their mad
waltzing provoked by the wind. The sky was suddenly veiled from us by
all this whiteness which fell round us in avalanches, completely hiding
the horizon. I was facing the sea, and as Captain Jouclas pointed out to
me, we could not see a hundred yards in front of us. I then turned round
and saw that the ship was as white as a sea-gull: the ropes, the
cordage, the nettings, the port-holes, the shrouds, the boats, the deck,
the sails, the ladders, the funnels, the ventilators, everything was
white. The sea was black and the sky black. The ship alone was white,
floating along in this immensity. There was a contest between the high
funnel, spluttering forth with difficulty its smoke through the wind
which was rushing wildly into its great mouth, and the prolonged shrieks
of the siren. The contrast was so extraordinary between the virgin
whiteness of this ship and the infernal uproar it made that it seemed to
me as if I had before me an angel in a fit of hysterics.

On the evening of that strange day the doctor came to tell me of the
birth of a child among the emigrants, in whom I was deeply interested. I
went at once to the mother, and did all I could for the poor little
creature who had just come into this world. Oh, the dismal moans in that
dismal night in the midst of all that misery! Oh, that first strident
cry of the child affirming its will to live in the midst of all these
sufferings, of all these hardships, and of all these hopes! Everything
was there mingled together in this human medley--men, women, children,
rags and preserves, oranges and basins, heads of hair and bald pates,
half open lips of young girls and tightly closed mouths of shrewish
women, white caps and red handkerchiefs, hands stretched out in hope and
fists clenched against adversity. I saw revolvers half concealed under
the rags, knives in the men's belts. A sudden roll of the boat showed us
the contents of a parcel that had fallen from the hands of a
rascally-looking fellow with a very determined expression on his face,
and a hatchet and a tomahawk fell to the ground. One of the sailors
immediately seized the two weapons to take them to the purser. I shall
never forget the scrutinising glance of the man; he had evidently made a
mental note of the features of the sailor, and I breathed a fervent
prayer that the two might never meet in a solitary place.

I remember now with remorse the horrible disgust that took possession of
me when the doctor handed the child over to me to wash. That dirty
little red, moving, sticky object was a human being. It had a soul, and
would have thoughts! I felt quite sick, and I could never again look at
that child, although I was afterwards its godmother, without living over
again that first impression. When the young mother had fallen asleep I
wanted to go back to my cabin. The doctor helped me, but the sea was so
rough that we could scarcely walk at all among the packages and
emigrants. Some of them who were crouching on the floor watched us
silently as we tottered and stumbled along like drunkards. I was annoyed
at being watched by those malevolent, mocking eyes. "I say, doctor," one
of the men called out, "the sea water gets in the head like wine. You
and your lady look as though you were coming back from a spree!" An old
woman clung to me as we passed: "Oh, Madame," she said, "shall we be
shipwrecked with the boat rolling like this? Oh God! Oh God!" A tall
fellow with red hair and beard came forward and laid the poor old woman
down again gently. "You can sleep in peace, mother," he said. "If we are
shipwrecked I swear there shall be more saved down here than up above."
He then came closer to me and continued in a defiant tone: "The rich
folks--first-class--into the sea! The emigrants and the second-class in
the boats!" As he uttered these words I heard a sly, stifled laugh from
everywhere, in front of me, behind, at the side, and even from under my
feet. It seemed to echo in the distance like the laughing behind the
scenes on the stage. I drew nearer to the doctor, and he saw that I was
uneasy.

"Nonsense," he said, laughing; "we should defend ourselves."

"But how many _could_ be saved," I asked, "in case we were really in
danger?"

"Two hundred--two hundred and fifty at the most, with all the boats out,
if all arrived safely."

"But the purser told me that there were seven hundred and sixty
emigrants," I insisted, "and there are only a hundred and twenty
passengers. How many do you reckon with the officers, the crew, and the
servants?"

"A hundred and seventy," the doctor answered.

"Then there are a thousand and fifty on board, and you can only save two
hundred and fifty?"

"Yes."

"Well then, I can understand the hatred of these emigrants, whom you
take on board like cattle and treat like negroes. They are absolutely
certain that in case of danger they would be sacrificed!"

"But we should save them when their turn came."

I glanced with horror at the man who was talking to me. He looked honest
and straightforward and he evidently meant what he said. And so all
these poor creatures who had been disappointed in life and badly treated
by society would have no right to life until after _we_ were saved--we,
the more favoured ones! Oh, how I understood now the rascally-looking
fellow, with his hatchet and tomahawk! How thoroughly I approved at that
moment of the revolvers and the knives hidden in the belts. Yes, he was
quite right, the tall, red-haired fellow. We want the first places,
always the first places. And so we should have the first places in the
water.

"Well, are you satisfied?" asked the captain, who was just coming out of
his cabin. "Has it gone off all right?"

"Yes, captain," I answered; "but I am horrified."

Jouclas stepped back in surprise.

"Good Heavens, what has horrified you?" he asked.

"The way in which you treat your passengers----"

He tried to put in a word, but I continued:

"Why--you expose us in case of a shipwreck----"

"We never have a shipwreck."

"Good. In case of a fire, then----"

"We never have a fire----"

"Good! In case of sinking----"

"I give in," he said, laughing. "To what do we expose you, though,
Madame?"

"To the very worst of deaths: to a blow on the head with an axe, to a
dagger thrust in our back, or merely to be flung into the water----"

He attempted to speak, but again I continued:

"There are seven hundred and fifty emigrants below, and there are
scarcely three hundred of us, counting first-class passengers and the
crew. You have boats which might save two hundred persons, and even that
is doubtful----"

"Well?"

"Well, what about the emigrants?"

"We should save them before the crew."

"But after us?"

"Yes, after you."

"And you fancy that they would let you do it?"

"We have guns with which to keep them in order."

"Guns--guns for women and children?"

"No; the women and children would take their turn first."

"But that is idiotic!" I exclaimed; "it is perfectly absurd! Why save
women and children if you are going to make widows and orphans of them?
And do you believe that all those young men would resign themselves to
their fate because of your guns? There are more of them than there are
of you, and they are armed. Life owes them their revenge, and they have
the same right that we have to defend themselves in such moments. They
have the courage of those who have nothing to lose and everything to
gain in the struggle. In my opinion it is iniquitous and infamous that
you should expose us to certain death and them to an obligatory and
perfectly justified crime."

The captain tried to speak, but again I persisted:

"Without going as far as a shipwreck, only fancy if we were to be tossed
about for months on a raging sea. This has happened, and might happen
again. You cannot possibly have food enough on board for a thousand
people during two or three months."

"No, certainly not," put in the purser dryly. He was a very amiable man,
but very touchy.

"Well then, what should you do?" I asked.

"What would _you_ do?" asked the captain, highly amused at the annoyed
expression on the purser's face.

"I--oh, I should have a ship for emigrants and a ship for passengers,
and I think that would be only just."

"Yes, but it would be ruinous."

"No; the one for wealthy people would be a steamer like this, and the
one for emigrants a sailing vessel."

"But that too would be unjust, Madame, for the steamer would go more
quickly than the sailing boat."

"That would not matter at all," I argued. "Wealthy people are always in
a hurry, and the poor never are. And then, considering what is awaiting
them in the land to which they are going----"

"It is the Promised Land."

"Oh, poor things! poor things! with their Promised Land! Dakota or
Colorado.... In the day-time they have the sun which makes their brains
boil, scorches the ground, dries up the springs, and brings forth
endless numbers of mosquitoes to sting their bodies and try their
patience. The Promised Land!... At night they have the terrible cold to
make their eyes smart, to stiffen their joints and ruin their lungs. The
Promised Land!

"It is just death in some out-of-the-world place after fruitless appeals
to the justice of their fellow countrymen. They will breathe their life
out in a sob or in a terrible curse of hatred. God will have mercy on
them though, for it is piteous to think that all these poor creatures
are delivered over, with their feet bound by suffering and their hands
bound by hope, to the slave-drivers who trade in white slaves. And when
I think that the money is in the purser's cash-box which the
slave-driver has paid for the transport of all these poor creatures!
Money that has been collected by rough hands or trembling fingers. Poor
money economised, copper by copper, tear by tear. When I think of all
this it makes me wish that we could be shipwrecked, that _we_ could be
all killed and all of them saved."

With these words I hurried away to my cabin to have a good cry, for I
was seized with a great love for humanity and intense grief that I could
do nothing, absolutely nothing!

The following morning I woke late, as I had not fallen asleep until very
late. My cabin was full of visitors, and they were all holding small
parcels half concealed. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, and could not quite
understand the meaning of this invasion.

"My dear Sarah," said Madame Guerard, coming to me and kissing me,
"don't imagine that this day, your _fete_ day, could be forgotten by
those who love you."

"Oh," I exclaimed, "is it the 23rd?"

"Yes, and here is the first of the remembrances from the absent ones."

My eyes filled with tears, and it was through a mist that I saw the
portrait of that young being more precious to me than anything else in
the world, with a few words in his own handwriting. Then there were some
presents from friends--pieces of work from humble admirers. My little
godson of the previous evening was brought to me in a basket, with
oranges, apples, and tangerines all round him. He had a golden star on
his forehead, a star cut out of some gold paper in which chocolate had
been wrapped. My maid Felicie, and Claude her husband, who were most
devoted to me, had prepared some very ingenious little surprises.
Presently there was a knock at my door, and on my calling out "Come in!"
I saw, to my surprise, three sailors carrying a superb bouquet, which
they presented to me in the name of the whole crew.

I was wild with admiration, and wanted to know how they had managed to
keep the flowers in such good condition.

It was an enormous bouquet, but when I took it in my hands I let it fall
to the ground in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. The flowers were all
cut out of vegetables, but so perfectly done that the illusion was
complete at a little distance. Magnificent roses were cut out of
carrots, camellias out of turnips, small radishes had furnished sprays
of rose-buds stuck on to long leeks dyed green, and all these relieved
by carrot leaves artistically arranged to imitate the grassy plants used
for elegant bouquets. The stalks were tied together with a bow of
tri-coloured ribbon. One of the sailors made a very touching little
speech on behalf of his comrades, who wished to thank me for a trifling
service rendered. I shook hands cordially and thanked them heartily, and
this was the signal for a little concert that had been organised in the
cabin of _mon petit Dame_. There had been a private rehearsal with two
violins and a flute, so that for the next hour I was lulled by the most
delightful music, which transported me to my own dear ones, to my home,
which seemed so distant from me at that moment.

This little _fete_, which was almost a domestic one, together with the
music, had evoked the tender and restful side of my life, and the tears
that all this called forth fell without grief, bitterness, or regret. I
wept simply because I was deeply moved, and I was tired, nervous, and
weary, and had a longing for rest and peace. I fell asleep in the midst
of my tears, sighs, and sobs.




XXXIII


ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK--AMERICAN REPORTERS--THE CUSTOM HOUSE--PERFORMANCES
IN NEW YORK--A VISIT TO EDISON AT MENLO PARK


Finally the ship arrived on October 27, at half-past six in the morning.
I was asleep, worn out by three days and nights of wild storms. My maid
had some difficulty in rousing me. I could not believe that we had
arrived, and I wanted to go on sleeping until the last minute. I had to
give in to the evidence, however, as the screw had stopped, and I heard
a sound of dull thuds echoing in the distance. I put my head out of my
port-hole, and saw some men endeavouring to make a passage for us
through the river. The Hudson was frozen hard, and the heavy vessel
could only advance with the aid of pick-axes cutting away the blocks of
ice.

This sudden arrival delighted me, and everything seemed to be
transformed in a minute. I forgot all my discomforts and the weariness
of the twelve days' crossing. The sun was rising, pale but rose-tinted,
dispersing the mists and shining over the ice, which, thanks to the
efforts of our pioneers, was splintered into a thousand luminous pieces.
I had entered the New World in the midst of a display of ice-fireworks.
It was fairy-like and somewhat crazy, but it seemed to me that it must
be a good omen.

I am so superstitious that if I had arrived when there was no sunshine I
should have been wretched and most anxious until after my first
performance. It is a perfect torture to be superstitious to this degree,
and, unfortunately for me, I am ten times more so now than I was in
those days, for besides the superstitions of my own country, I have,
thanks to my travels, added to my stock all the superstitions of the
other countries. I know them all now, and in any critical moment of my
life they all rise up in armed legions, for or against me. I cannot walk
a single step or make any movement or gesture, sit down, go out, look at
the sky or the ground, without finding some reason for hope or for
despair, until at last, exasperated by the trammels put upon my actions
by my thought, I defy all my superstitions and just act as I want to
act. Delighted, then, with what seemed to me to be a good omen, I began
to dress gleefully.

Mr. Jarrett had just knocked at my door.

"Do please be ready as soon as possible, Madame," he said, "for there
are several boats, with the French colours flying, that have come out to
meet you."

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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