Anne Michaels is, first and foremost, a poet of some renown. In this, her first published venture into prose, it shows.
There are few novels which merit the accolades given them, and fewer that manage to become popular and well-loved despite being saddled with the somewhat intimidating and pretentious label of "literature". Fugitive Pieces does both, in addition to being astonishingly eloquent, lyrical, and insightful.
Plotwise, it is neatly compartmentalised into two halves: the first is concerned with a young Polish Jew, Jakob Beer, who is rescued from certain death in the Holocaust by Greek scientist Athos Roussos. The two escape the mud and carnage of Nazi-occupied Poland and flee to Greece, where Athos begins to educate Jakob in the natural sciences; at war's end, the two emigrate to Toronto. Here is made apparent the magnitude of the loss of Jakob's family, murdered by Nazi soldiers, and the uncertain fate of his sister, Bella, who seemingly escaped the massacre. In coming to terms with his grief and finding happiness in relationships with two remarkable women, he discovers a passion for language and an innate talent for writing, and becomes a poet and translator.
The second half centres around Ben, a young professor and himself the child of two Holocaust survivors, who develops an interest in Jakob's work. He travels to the Greek island of Idhra, where Jakob lived and worked at the time of his deeply and bitterly ironic death, searching for unpublished work in the form of diaries kept by the poet. Less tangibly, he is also searching for closure to the tragedy experienced by his parents and through it reconciliation with the past.
I read it idly some summers ago, thumbing through in between Atwood and Richler, a summer of Canadian literature sat on the shelves in my father's study left over from university courses and random bookshop sale-table purchases. At the time I belittled it to an exercise in pretty words and moved on to other and presumably more worthwhile novelists more firmly established in the world of prose. Some novels need to be revisited so that their gravity has a chance to sink in; this is one.
Conveniently for the reader and for those who wish to tear the novel to pieces in the name of literary analysis, it is divided into sections and thereafter into subsections, each loosely bounded by the physical location in which it takes place. Coincidentally, Michaels' poet's flair for titling means that each subsection within the two Parts bears a intensely appropriate name; repetition is key here, as it allows the astute reader to pick up on the parallels which exist between the lives and characters of Jakob and Ben.
Michaels' writing is electric with imagery, both of nature and its study and of the atrocities of war. Often the juxtaposition between the two is unsettling; the swift about-face in tone from quietly reverent to bitter and disgusted heightens the effect of each, in retrospect.
I learned the power we give to stones to hold human time. The stone tablets of the Commandments. Cairns, the ruins of temples. Gravestones, standing stones, the Rosetta, Stonehenge, the Parthenon. (The blocks cut and carried by inmates in the limestone quarries at Golleschau. The tombstones smashed in Hebrew cemeteries and plundered for Polish sidewalks; today bored citizens, staring at their feet while waiting for a bus, can still read the inscriptions.) (32)
The distinction between memory and history is a crucial element of Fugitive Pieces. The assertion is made that "history is amoral: events occurred. But memory is moral..." (138). It's difficult to disagree with, especially when leafing through textbooks for material on the events of the Holocaust for background to the novel; historians seem to have a knack for removing implications of blame and reducing atrocities on a catastrophic scale to a series of rather innocuous numbers. Memory, on the other hand, is run through with biases borne of personal experience and upbringing; it places blame and demands accountability, and figures prominently in shaping the present and future of those possessed of it.
"Every moment is two moments." (161) The interplay between past and present is another theme; each character is haunted by their own history, somehow relating to the horrors of war, and must come to terms with it in order to move closer to fulfillment. Underlying motivation for many of their actions through the course of their novel is based in the idea that the past is present within the present; Jakob is haunted by the ghost of his memory of his sister, Ben by the thought of what his parents endured when they were imprisoned in a concentration camp. Jakob is able to overcome his past through his work as a poet and translator; Ben finds closure in studying the work of Jakob, and in his own research and work involving literature and meteorology.
A similar thematic element is that of the influence of the dead on the living, revealed here with respect to mass graves in concentration camps: "When the prisoners were forced to dig up the mass graves, the dead entered them through their pores and were carried through their bloodstreams to their brains and hearts. And through their blood into another generation." (52) The image is a gruesome one. It is effective, however, as it gets the point across that the dead can have profound and very real effects on those that survive them: "It's no metaphor to feel the influence of the dead in the world." (53)
Perhaps the most frequently-occurring images are those relating to Antarctica. While living with Athos in Greece, Jakob learns of Scott's expedition to the South Pole; he is able to sympathise with the team's plight as, exhausted and half-starved, they reach their goal only to find that it has been reached before them by a different expedition only days earlier. On the return journey, disappointed by their failure to reach their objective, the team froze to death in their tents only a short distance away from safety.
Michaels likens the danger and frustration experienced by Scott and his team with that experienced by Athos, harbouring a Jew during the Holocaust in Greece, with Nazi soldiers frighteningly close to hand. Rather than rely on the shock tactic of sensationalising tragedy, however, Michaels' approach is far more subtle; lyrical images of geological and meteorological occurrences hint at being objective correlatives to human experience, reference is made to hardships faced by others in seemingly impossible circumstances, and the reader is allowed to draw his or her own conclusions.
Alone, in space, I imagined the Antarctic auroras, billowing designs of celestial calligraphy.... Stretched out on a cotton mat, I thought of Wilson, lying on an ice-floe in the darkness of a polar winter.... I thought of Scott and his frozen men starving in the tent, knowing that an abundance of food waited, inaccessible, only eleven miles away. I imagined their last hours in that cramped space. (36-37)
After hundreds of pages of devastation, hurt, and loss, a final theme becomes evident in the novel's last line: Ben, returning from Greece to his wife in Toronto, realises a greater truth about the nature of love. To overcome one's past and be able to look with hope toward a future that seems impossible, one must give it freely without regard for reciprocation:
My mother stands behind my father and his head leans against her. As he eats, she strokes his hair. Like a miraculous circuit, each draws strength from the other.
I see that I must give what I most need. (294)
Source:
Michaels, Anne. Fugitive Pieces. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1996.
First published May 11, 1996. ISBN: 0771058837