'A Meal in Winter' by Hubert Mingarelli (Review - IFFP 2014, Number 15)

After a long and arduous trek, stretching from Germany to Japan, with stops in countries such as Spain and Iraq in between, we've finally reached the last stop of this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize journey.  We're in Poland today, but it's only a brief stay - it's rather cold outside...

*****
A Meal in Winter by Hugo Mingarelli - Portobello Books
(translated by Sam Taylor)
What's it all about?
We're in Poland during the Second World War, and three German soldiers are out bright and early on patrol in the countryside.  Sick of taking part in firing squads, the trio have volunteered to scour the surrounding area for Jews in hiding, mainly to avoid having to shoot the ones already captured:

"We went at dawn, before the first shootings.  That meant missing breakfast, but it also meant not having to face Graaf, who would be filled with hatred that we had gone over his head."
p.9 (Portobello Books, 2013)

While leaving early avoids a run-in with their superior, it also means that they don't have time to eat, a decision which will affect how their day unfolds.

After a few hours' walking in the freezing cold, they uncover a Jew hiding in a hole and start walking back towards their camp.  Hunger and cold, however, force them to stop off at an old abandoned house, where they decide to start a fire to cook the meagre rations they have brought with them.  The Jew obediently takes his place in a storage cupboard, and the soldiers get to work preparing the meal - when an unexpected, and unwelcome, visitor upsets the equilibrium...

A Meal in Winter is a very short work, its 138 pages exaggerating its size; I actually finished this in well under an hour.  It can barely be called a novella, more an extended short story, and in its focus on a very limited area and group of protagonists, it's actually more akin to a play.  The book is divided into short sections, and the language is fairly simple, more plain than elegant, but very effective.

The writer is effectively basing a story on a moral dilemma, setting up a situation where the soldiers have to make a choice about what to do with the prisoner they wish they hadn't found in the first place.  Initially driven by a desire to justify their escape from the camp, the soldiers begin to regret their discovery once they have time to reflect on it in comfort.

Mingarelli is careful to humanise his creations, with all three soldiers drawn out as real people caught up in a horrible situation.  Bauer is a petty thief, quick to anger, while Emmerich is more withdrawn, preoccupied with the issue of how to raise his son in absentia.  The unnamed narrator is equally realistic, haunted (like the others) by the memories of his daily duties:

"Because if you want to know what it is that tormented me, and that torments me to this day, it's seeing that kind of thing on the clothes of the Jews we're going to kill: a piece of embroidery, coloured buttons, a ribbon in the hair.  I was always pierced by those thoughtful maternal displays of tenderness." (p.81)

Despite their orders, and the racism instilled in the soldiers from birth, it's not hard to see that it would be tempting for them to let it slide, just this one time...

The unexpected visitor, a Pole who turns up with some alcohol, hoping to share in the meal, acts as a catalyst to the situation, his obvious loathing of the Jew bringing the soldiers' better nature to the fore.  As the warmth of the hut brings everyone closer together, the story runs towards its inevitable end where two questions will be answered?  Will everyone get something to eat?  And what will happen to the prisoner...

*****
Did it deserve to make the longlist?
No, I don't think so.  A Meal in Winter is almost painfully slight, and while it's carefully constructed, with a lot to like, it's nothing more than an interesting short story.  The figure of the Pole is a weak point, a cartoonish character designed to raise sympathy for the Jewish captive, and the writing, while clear, has nothing which raises it above the crowd.  For this to really be worthy of a spot on the shortlist, the writing would have to be excellent, and in my opinion it's just good :)

Why did it make the shortlist?
Not sure really, unless there's a secret clause 324 c (ii) in the IFFP regulations which states that a WW2-themed book must be on the shortlist every year.  It's a good book, worthy of the longlist, and it has grown on me since I finished it, but when you consider the books that were left off the shortlist (The Sorrow of Angels, Brief Loves that Live Forever, The Infatuations), you can't help but wonder whether the Wehrmacht connection got it over the line.

And if it takes out the whole thing, then I'm done with the IFFP.  Seriously.

*****
So, that's your lot, then.  Fifteen works of translated fiction, rated, slated and ready to be judged by posterity.  The prize will be handed out in two weeks' time, and the Shadow Panel will be announcing their verdict shortly before that (I'm fairly sure that - for the third year running - we'll be choosing a very different champion!).  I'll be back next week with a review of the journey and my prediction for what the 'real' judges will opt for - see you next time :)

IFFP Guest Post by Jacqui Patience - 'A Meal in Winter' by Hubert Mingarelli

After last week's look at A Man in Love, it's once again time to welcome Jacqui to the blog for one of her guest reviews on this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize contenders.  Today's choice is a book I haven't managed to read yet, so I'm very keen to hear what she has to say - take it away, Jacqui ;) 

***** 

Hubert Mingarelli's A Meal in Winter (from Portobello Books, translated by Sam Taylor) is a slim novella, yet it punches well above its weight. The setting is the heart of the Polish countryside at the time of the Second World War. The novella opens in a military camp as three German soldiers - Bauer, Emmerich and the unnamed narrator of the narrative - appeal to their camp commander by volunteering to look for any Jews who might be hiding in the surrounding area. By so doing, the soldiers hope to avoid the more harrowing task of executing captives, as they would ‘rather do the huntings than the shootings’. The commander grants the soldiers’ request, and they leave at the crack of dawn the following morning before the first shootings begin. This means missing breakfast, too, but it’s a price they’re willing to pay to avoid their immediate supervisor, the heartless Lieutenant Graaf.

As the soldiers spend a gruelling day combing the countryside in search of a Jew (‘one of them’), the bitter chill of winter and lack of nourishment begin to take their toll:

We came down from the hill where we had smoked. Bauer whined like a dog that he should never have sat down in the snow, that he felt cold all over now. Emmerich told him to stop, though he said it lightly, not really meaning it. Bauer yelled at us that he’d decided to whine until dark. We found another road and stayed on it for a while. It was a relief not to sink into snow at every step. On the whole, we preferred the frozen potholes, even if they were dangerous.

p.32 (Portobello Books, 2013)

I was beginning to feel hungry, but I didn’t dare bring the subject up yet. None of us had dared mention it since we left that morning. My stomach ached. Sometimes, when I turned my head too quickly, I felt dizzy. It must have been the same for Emmerich and Bauer. (p 32-33)

They find a young Jewish boy cleverly concealed in a hole in the forest, only given away by the heat and snow-melt surrounding the ground-level chimney of his dug-out. Relieved at having captured a prisoner, the soldiers head back to camp. Chilled to the bone, tired and ravenous, they chance upon a deserted hovel and decide to shelter awhile. In desperate need of warmth, the soldiers build a fire and begin to prepare a simple soup from a few meagre ingredients; meanwhile their captive sits quietly in the storeroom.

A Polish man arrives at the hovel; at first his intentions are unclear, but his actions soon show his vehemently anti-Semitic nature:

The pole took a step forward, almost touching us, then looked inside the storeroom, through the half-opened doorway. Because, up to this point, the Jew, though very close, had been invisible to him. The Pole stayed there now, motionless in front of us, staring with his black eyes at the squatting Jew, who stared sadly back. After a moment, the Pole turned his gaze on us, and the distinguished handsomeness of his face vanished. He opened his mouth and bared his gums in a kind of monstrous smile, like a dead fish without teeth. (p. 94)

As preparations for the meal unfold, questions arise: should the soldiers share their meal with the Pole in return for a slug of his potato alcohol? Can he be trusted? Will tensions flare and erupt? The mood oscillates, and small shifts in the dynamics unfold across the group as each soldier starts to question his choices and the moral implications of his mission… and shadows cast by earlier events are ever-present.

This is a stealthily gripping novella with a real sense of foreboding. The small cast of five key characters, coupled with the confined setting of the hovel, give the drama a theatrical feel, and I could almost see it working as a play. I love the way it quickly whips up an atmosphere and tangible sense of place from the first page. The prose style is fairly sparse and to the point (and hats off to Sam Taylor for some sterling work on the translation). There’s not a spare word on the page, and yet it manages to pack a great deal into 135 pages.

I read this novel on a relatively mild spring evening, yet Mingarelli’s vivid depiction of the frozen landscape and biting conditions left me craving the warmth of a bowl of Ribollita, my favourite soup.  And this feeling was only heightened by the soldiers’ anticipation of their meal:

The soup looked good and smelled good. The slices of salami floated on the surface, carried there by the cornmeal, now cooked. The melted lard was still boiling.

We turned away from the stove, and the heat caressed our backs. We watched steam rise from the soup. My head was spinning. We looked at the slices of bread. The soup was continuing to simmer. The edges of the bread were toasted, reminding us of things past. (p.115)

Dare I say this is another book I’d love to see on the IFFP shortlist? While Mingarelli has written many novels and short stories, this is his first to appear in English; I sincerely hope we’ll be able to read more of his novels and short stories in years to come.