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My Double Life by Sarah Bernhardt

S >> Sarah Bernhardt >> My Double Life




How I hate capital punishment! It is a relic of cowardly barbarism, and
it is a disgrace for civilised countries still to have their guillotines
and scaffolds. Every human being has a moment when his heart is easily
touched, when the tears of grief will flow; and those tears may
fecundate a generous thought which might lead to repentance.

I would not for the whole world be one of those who condemn a man to
death. And yet many of them are good, upright men, who when they return
to their families are affectionate to their wives, and reprove their
children for breaking a doll's head.

I have seen four executions, one in London, one in Spain, and two in
Paris.

In London the method is hanging, and this seems to me more hideous, more
repugnant, more weird than any other death. The victim was a young man
of about thirty, with a strong, self-willed looking face. I only saw him
a second, and he shrugged his shoulders as he glanced at me, his eyes
expressing his contempt for my curiosity. At that moment I felt that
individual's ideas were very much superior to mine, and the condemned
man seemed to me greater than all who were there. It was, perhaps,
because he was nearer than we all were to the great mystery. I can see
him now smile as they covered his face with the hood, while, as for me,
I rushed away completely upset.

In Madrid I saw a man garrotted, and the barbarity of this torture
terrified me for weeks after. He was accused of having killed his
mother, but no real proof seemed to have been brought forward against
the wretched man. And he cried out, when they were holding him down on
his seat before putting the garrotte on him, "Mother, I shall soon be
with you, and you will tell them all, in my presence, that they have
lied."

These words were uttered in Spanish, in a voice that vibrated with
earnestness. They were translated for me by an _attache_ to the British
Embassy, with whom I had gone to see the hideous sight. The wretched man
cried out in such a sincere, heart-rending tone of voice that it was
impossible for him not to have been innocent, and this was the opinion
of all those who were with me.

The two other executions which I witnessed were at the Place de la
Roquette, Paris. The first was that of a young medical student, who with
the help of one of his friends had killed an old woman who sold
newspapers. It was a stupid, odious crime, but the man was more mad than
criminal. He was more than ordinarily intelligent, and had passed his
examinations at an earlier age than is usual. He had worked too hard,
and it had affected his brain. He ought to have been allowed to rest, to
have been treated as an invalid, cured in mind and body, and then
returned to his scientific pursuits. He was a young man quite above the
average as regards intellect. I can see him now, pale and haggard, with
a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, an expression of infinite sadness.
I know, of course, that he had killed a poor, defenceless old woman.
That was certainly odious, but he was only twenty-three years old, and
his mind was disordered through study and overwork, too much ambition,
and the habit of cutting off arms and legs and dissecting the dead
bodies of women and children. All this does not excuse the man's
abominable deed, but it had all contributed to unhinge his moral sense,
which was perhaps already in a wavering state, thanks to study, poverty,
or atavism. I consider that a crime of high treason against humanity was
committed in taking the life of a man of intellect, who, when once he
had recovered his reason, might have rendered great service to science
and to humanity.

The last execution at which I was present was that of Vaillant, the
anarchist. He was an energetic man, and at the same time mild and
gentle, with very advanced ideas, but not much more advanced than those
of men who have since risen to power.

My theatre at that time was the Renaissance, and he often applied to me
for free seats, as he was too poor to pay for the luxuries of art. Ah,
poverty, what a sorry counsellor art thou, and how tolerant we ought to
be to those who have to endure misery!

One day Vaillant came to see me in my dressing-room at the theatre. I
was playing Lorenzaccio, and he said to me: "Ah, that Florentine was an
anarchist just as I am, but he killed the tyrant and not tyranny. That
is not the way I shall go to work."

A few days later he threw a bomb in a public building, the Chamber of
Deputies. The poor fellow was not as successful as the Florentine, whom
he seemed to despise, for he did not kill any one, and did no real harm
except to his own cause.

I said I should like to know when he was to be executed, and the night
before, a friend of mine came to the theatre and told me that the
execution was to take place the following day, Monday, at seven in the
morning.

I started after the performance, and went to the Rue Merlin, at the
corner of the Rue de la Roquette. The streets were still very animated,
as that Sunday was Dimanche Gras (Shrove Sunday). People were singing,
laughing, and dancing everywhere. I waited all night, and as I was not
allowed to enter the prison, I sat on the balcony of a first floor flat
which I had engaged. The cold darkness of the night in its immensity
seemed to enwrap me in sadness. I did not feel the cold, for my blood
was flowing rapidly through my veins. The hours passed slowly, the hours
which rang out in the distance, _L'heure est morte. Vive l'heure!_ I
heard a vague, muffled sound of footsteps, whispering, and of wood which
creaked heavily, but I did not know what these strange, mysterious
sounds were until day began to break. I saw that the scaffold was there.
A man came to extinguish the lamps on the Place de la Roquette, and an
anaemic-looking sky spread its pale light over us. The crowd began to
collect gradually, but remained in compact groups, and circulation in
the streets was interrupted. Every now and then a man, looking quite
indifferent, but evidently in a hurry, pushed aside the crowd, presented
a card to a policeman, and then disappeared under the porch of the
prison. I counted more than ten of these men: they were journalists.
Presently the military guard appeared suddenly on the spot, and took up
its position around the melancholy-looking pedestal. The usual number of
the guard had been doubled for this occasion, as some anarchist plot was
feared. On a given signal swords were drawn and the prison door opened.

Vaillant appeared, looking very pale, but energetic and brave. He cried
out in a manly voice, with perfect assurance, _"Vive l'anarchie!"_ There
was not a single cry in response to his. He was seized and thrown back
over the slab. The knife fell with a muffled sound. The body tottered,
and in a second the scaffold was taken away, the place swept; the crowds
were allowed to move. They rushed forward to the place of execution,
gazing down on the ground for a spot of blood which was not to be seen,
sniffing in the air for any odour of the drama which had just been
enacted.

There were women, children, old men, all joking there on the very spot
where a man had just expired in the most supreme agony. And that man had
made himself the apostle of this populace; that man had claimed for this
teeming crowd all kinds of liberties, all kinds of privileges and
rights.

I was thickly veiled so that I could not be recognised, and accompanied
by a friend as escort.

I mingled with the crowd, and it made me sick at heart and desperate.
There was not a word of gratitude to this man, not a murmur of vengeance
nor of revolt.

I felt inclined to cry out: "Brutes that you are! Kneel down and kiss
the stones that the blood of this poor madman has stained for your
sakes, for you, because he believed in you."

But before I had time for this a street urchin was calling out, "Buy the
last moments of Vaillant! Buy, buy!"

Oh, poor Vaillant! His headless body was then being taken to Clamart,
and the crowds for whom he had wept, worked, and died were now going
quietly away, indifferent and bored. Poor Vaillant! His ideas were
exaggerated ones, but they were generous.




XXXVII


NEW ORLEANS AND OTHER AMERICAN CITIES--A VISIT TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA

We arrived at Cincinnati safe and sound. We gave three performances
there, and set off once more for New Orleans.

Now, I thought, we shall have some sunshine and we shall be able to warm
our poor limbs, which were stiffened with three months of mortal cold.
We shall be able to open our windows and breathe fresh air instead of
the suffocating and anaemia-giving steam heat. I fell asleep, and dreams
of warmth and sweet scents lulled me in my slumber. A knock roused me
suddenly, and my dog with ears erect sniffed at the door, but as he did
not growl, I knew it was some one of our party. I opened the door, and
Jarrett, followed by Abbey, made signs to me not to speak. Jarrett came
in on tip-toe, and closed the door again.

"Well, what is it now?" I asked.

"Why," replied Jarrett, "the incessant rain during the last twelve days
has swollen the water to such a height that the bridge of boats across
the bay here is liable to give way under the terrible pressure of the
water. Do you hear the awful storm of wind that is now blowing? If we go
back by the other route it will require three or four days."

I was furious. Three or four days, and to go back to the snow again! Ah
no! I felt I must have sunshine.

"Why can we not pass? Oh, Heavens! what shall we do?" I exclaimed.

"Well, the engine-driver is here. He thinks that he might get across;
but he has only just married, and he will try the crossing on condition
that you give him two thousand five hundred dollars, which he will at
once send to Mobile, where his father and wife live. If we get safely to
the other side he will give you back this money, but if not it will
belong to his family."

I must confess that I was stupefied with admiration for this plucky man.
His daring excited me, and I exclaimed:

"Yes, certainly. Give him the money, and let us cross."

As I have said, I generally travelled by special train. This one was
made up of only three carriages and the engine. I never doubted for a
moment as to the success of this foolish and criminal attempt, and I did
not tell any one about it except my sister, my beloved Guerard, and my
faithful Felicie and her husband Claude. The comedian Angelo, who was
sleeping in Jarrett's berth on this journey, knew of it, but he was
courageous, and had faith in his star. The money was handed over to the
engine-driver, who sent it off to Mobile. It was only just as we were
actually starting that I had the vision of the responsibility I had
taken upon myself, for it was risking without their consent the lives of
thirty-two persons. It was too late then to do anything: the train had
started, and at a terrific speed it touched the bridge of boats. I had
taken my seat on the platform, and the bridge bent and swayed like a
hammock under the dizzy speed of our wild course. When we were half way
across it gave way so much that my sister grasped my arm and whispered,
"Ah, we are drowning!" She closed her eyes and clutched me nervously,
but was quite brave. I certainly imagined as she did that the supreme
moment had arrived; and abominable as it was, I never for a second
thought of all those who were full of confidence and life, whom I was
sacrificing, whom I was killing. My only thought was of a dear little
face which would soon be in mourning for me. And to think that we take
about within us our most terrible enemy, thought, and that it is
continually at variance with our deeds. It rises up at times, terrible,
perfidious, and we try to drive it away without success. We do not,
thanks to God, invariably obey it; but it pursues us, torments us, makes
us suffer. How often the most evil thoughts assail us, and what battles
we have to fight in order to drive away these children of our brain!
Anger, ambition, revenge give birth to the most detestable thoughts,
which make us blush with shame as we should at some horrible blemish.
And yet they are not ours, for we have not evoked them; but they defile
us nevertheless, and leave us in despair at not being masters of our own
heart, mind, and body.

My last minute was not inscribed, though, for that day in the book of
destiny. The train pulled itself together, and, half leaping and half
rolling along, we arrived on the other side of the water. Behind us we
heard a terrible noise, a column of water falling back like a huge
sheaf. The bridge had given way! For more than a week the trains from
the east and the north could not run over this route.

I left the money to our brave engine-driver, but my conscience was by no
means tranquil, and for a long time my sleep was disturbed by the most
frightful nightmares; and when any of the artistes spoke to me of their
child, their mother, or their husband, whom they longed to see once
more, I felt myself turn pale; a thrill of deep emotion went through me,
and I had the deepest pity for my own self.

When getting out of the train I was more dead than alive from
retrospective emotion. I had to submit to receiving a most friendly
though fatiguing deputation of my compatriots. Then, loaded with
flowers, I climbed into the carriage that was to take me to the hotel.
The roads were rivers, and we were on an elevated spot. The lower part
of the city, the coachman explained to us in French, with a strong
Marseilles accent, was inundated up to the tops of the houses. Hundreds
of negroes had been drowned. "Ah, _bagasse_!" he cried, as he whipped up
his horses.

At that period the hotels in New Orleans were squalid--dirty,
uncomfortable, black with cockroaches, and as soon as the candles were
lighted the bedrooms became filled with large mosquitoes that buzzed
round and fell on one's shoulder, sticking in one's hair. Oh, I shudder
still when I think of it!

At the same time as our company, there was at New Orleans an opera
company, the "star" of which was a charming woman, Emilie Ambre, who at
one time came very near being Queen of Holland. The country was poor,
like all the other American districts where the French were to be found
preponderating.

The opera did very poor business, and we did not do excellently either.
Six performances would have been ample in that city: we gave eight.

Nevertheless, my sojourn pleased me immensely.

An infinite charm was evolved from it. All these people, so different,
black and white, had smiling faces. All the women were graceful. The
shops were attractive from the cheerfulness of their windows. The
open-air traders under the arcades challenged one another with joyful
flashes of wit. The sun, however, did not show itself once. But these
people had the sun within themselves.

I could not understand why boats were not used. The horses had water up
to their hams, and it would have been impossible even to get into a
carriage if the pavements had not been a metre high and occasionally
more.

Floods being as frequent as the years, it would be of no use to think of
banking up the river or arm of the sea. But circulation was made easy by
the high pavements and small movable bridges. The dark children amused
themselves catching crayfish in the streams. (Where did they come from?)
And they sold them to passers-by.

Now and again we would see a whole family of water serpents speed by.
They swept along, with raised head and undulating body, like long starry
sapphires.

I went down towards the lower part of the town. The sight was
heartrending. All the cabins of the coloured inhabitants had fallen into
the muddy waters. They were there in hundreds, squatting upon these
moving wrecks, with eyes burning from fever. Their white teeth chattered
with hunger. Right and left, everywhere, were dead bodies with swollen
stomachs floating about, knocking up against the wooden piles. Many
ladies were distributing food, endeavouring to lead away these
unfortunate creatures. No. They would stay where they were. With a
blissful smile they would reply, "The water go away. House be found. Me
begin again." And the women would slowly nod their heads in token of
assent. Several alligators had shown themselves, brought up by the tide.
Two children had disappeared.

One child of fourteen years of age had just been carried off to the
hospital with his foot cut clean off at the ankle by one of these marine
monsters. His family were howling with fury. They wished to keep the
youngster with them. The negro quack doctor pretended that he could have
cured him in two days, and that the white "quacks" would leave him for a
month in bed.

I left this city with regret, for it resembled no other city I had
visited up to then. We were really surprised to find that none of our
party were missing--they had gone through, so they said, various
dangers. The hair-dresser alone, a man called Ibe, could not recover his
equilibrium, having become half mad from fear the second day of our
arrival. At the theatre he generally slept in the trunk in which he
stored his wigs. However strange it may seem, the fact is quite true.
The first night everything passed off as usual, but during the second
night he woke up the whole neighbourhood by his shrieks. The unfortunate
fellow had got off soundly to sleep, when he woke up with a feeling that
his mattress, which lay suspended over his collection of wigs, was being
raised by some inconceivable movements. He thought that some cat or dog
had got into the trunk, and he lifted up the feeble rampart. Two
serpents were either quarrelling or making love to each other--he could
not say which; two serpents of a size sufficient to terrify the people
whom the shouts of the poor Figaro had caused to gather round.

He was still very pale when I saw him embark on board the boat that was
to take us to our train. I called him, and begged he would relate to me
the Odyssey of his terrible night. As he told me the story he pointed to
his big leg: "They were as thick as that, Madame. Yes, like that----"
And he quaked with fear as he recalled the dreadful girth of the
reptiles. I thought that they were about one quarter as thick as his
leg, and that would have been enough to justify his fright, for the
serpents in question were not inoffensive water-snakes that bite out of
pure viciousness, but have no venom fangs.

We reached Mobile somewhat late in the day.

We had stopped at that city on our way to New Orleans, and I had had a
real attack of nerves caused by the "cheek" of the inhabitants, who, in
spite of the lateness of the hour, had got up a deputation to wait upon
me. I was dead with fatigue, and was dropping off to sleep in my bed in
the car. I therefore energetically declined to see anybody. But these
people knocked at my windows, sang round about my carriage, and finally
exasperated me. I quickly threw up one of the windows and emptied a jug
of water on their heads. Women and men, amongst whom were several
journalists, were inundated. Their fury was great.

I was returning to that city, preceded by the above story, embellished
in their favour by the drenched reporters. But on the other hand, there
were others who had been more courteous, and had refused to go and
disturb a lady at such an unearthly hour of the night. These latter were
in the majority, and took up my defence.

It was therefore in this warlike atmosphere that I appeared before the
public of Mobile. I wanted, however, to justify the good opinion of my
defenders and confound my detractors.

Yes, but a sprite who had decided otherwise was there.

Mobile was a city that was generally quite disdained by _impresarii_.
There was only one theatre. It had been let to the tragedian Barrett,
who was to appear six days after me. All that remained was a miserable
place, so small that I know of nothing that can be compared to it. We
were playing _La Dame aux Camelias_. When Marguerite Gautier orders
supper to be served, the servants who were to bring in the table ready
laid tried to get it in through the door. But this was impossible.
Nothing could be more comical than to see those unfortunate servants
adopt every expedient.

The public laughed. Among the laughter of the spectators was one that
became contagious. A negro of twelve or fifteen, who had got in somehow,
was standing on a chair, and with his two hands holding on to his knees,
his body bent, head forward, mouth open, he was laughing with such a
shrill and piercing tone, and with such even continuity, that I caught
it too. I had to go out while a portion of the back scenery was being
removed to allow the table to be brought in.

I returned somewhat composed, but still under the domination of
suppressed laughter. We were sitting round the table, and the supper was
drawing to a close as usual. But just as the servants were entering to
remove the table, one of them caught the scenery, which had been badly
adjusted by the scene-shifters in their haste, and the whole back scene
fell on our heads. As the scenery was nearly all made of paper in those
days, it did not fall on our heads and remain there, but round our
necks, and we had to remain in that position without being able to move.
Our heads having gone through the paper, our appearance was most comical
and ridiculous. The young nigger's laughter started again more piercing
than ever, and this time my suppressed laughter ended in a crisis that
left me without any strength.

The money paid for admission was returned to the public. It exceeded
fifteen thousand francs.

This city was an unlucky one for me, and came very near proving fatal
during the third visit I paid to it, as I will narrate in the second
volume of these Memoirs.

That very night we left Mobile for Atlanta, where, after playing _La
Dame aux Camelias_, we left again the same evening for Nashville.

We stayed an entire day at Memphis, and gave two performances there.

At one in the morning we left for Louisville. During the journey from
Memphis to Louisville we were awakened by the sound of a fight, by oaths
and cries. I opened the door of my railway carriage, and recognised the
voices. Jarrett came out at the same time. We went towards the spot
whence the noise came--to the small platform, where the two combatants
Captain Hayne and Marcus Mayer, were fighting with revolvers in their
hands. Marcus Mayer's eye was out of its orbit, and blood covered the
face of Captain Hayne. I threw myself without a moment's reflection
between the two madmen, who, with that brutal but delightful courtesy of
North Americans, stopped their fight.

We were beginning the dizzy round of the smaller towns, arriving at
three, four, and sometimes six o'clock in the evening, and leaving
immediately after the play. I only left my car to go to the theatre, and
returned as soon as the play was over to retire to my elegant but
diminutive bedroom. I sleep well on the railway. I felt an immense
pleasure travelling in that way at high speed, sitting outside on the
small platform, or rather reclining in a rocking-chair, gazing on the
ever-changing spectacle of American plains and forests that passed
before me. Without stopping we went through Louisville, Cincinnati for
the second time, Columbus, Dayton, Indianapolis, St. Joseph, where one
gets the best beer in the world, and where, when I was obliged to go to
an hotel on account of repairs to one of the wheels of the car, a
drunken dancer at a big ball given in the hotel seized me in the
corridor leading to my room. This brutal fellow caught hold of me just
as I was getting out of the elevator, and dragged me off with cries like
those of a wild animal finding its prey after five days of enforced
hunger. My dog, mad with excitement on hearing me scream, bit his legs
severely, and that aroused the drunken man to the point of fury. It was
with the greatest difficulty that I was delivered from the clutches of
this demoniac. Supper was served. What a supper! Fortunately the beer
was light both in colour and consistency, and enabled me to swallow the
dreadful things that were served up.

The ball lasted all night, accompanied by revolver shots.

We left for Leavenworth, Quincy, Springfield, but not the Springfield in
Massachusetts--the one in Illinois.

During the journey from Springfield to Chicago we were stopped by the
snow in the middle of the night.

The sharp and deep groanings of the locomotive had already awakened me.
I summoned my faithful Claude, and learned that we were to stop and wait
for help.

Aided by my Felicie, I dressed in haste and tried to descend, but it was
impossible. The snow was as high as the platform of the car. I remained
wrapped up in furs, contemplating the magnificent night. The sky was
hard, implacable, without a star, but all the same translucid. Lights
extended as far as the eye could see along the rails before me, for I
had taken refuge on the rear platform. These lights were to warn the
trains that followed. Four of these came up, and stopped when the first
fog-signals went off beneath their wheels, then crept slowly forward to
the first light, where a man who was stationed there explained the
incident. The same lights were lit immediately for the following train,
as far off as possible, and a man, proceeding beyond the lights, placed
detonators on the metals. Each train that arrived followed that course.

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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