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April in Paris Print E-mail
Monday, 21 January 2008
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By Michael Wallner
Translated from the German by John Cullen
John Murray 2007: 248p, softcover, Village Voice price €13,
Your French News Price €12


The inspiration for ‘April in Paris’, says the German actor and screenwriter Michael Wallner in his “afterword”, came to him one day when he was stuck in a storm battering the cliff he was attempting to climb in Normandy. No wonder, then, that, in the jargon of blurb writers, this first novel is a cliff-hanger. The story rests on a simple equation and is, notwithstanding the musical title and the dancing couple featured on the cover, as bleak as ‘Romeo and Juliet’ re-enacted in an SS interrogation centre. It is narrated by a young Wehrmacht corporal, whose fluent knowledge of French lands him the unenviable job of interpreter at the Gestapo headquarters on Rue de Saussaie in Paris.
A sensitive, bookish fellow, he hopes to retain his sanity after attending torture sessions by slipping into civilian clothes and taking long walks through the occupied city. One balmy April evening he catches sight of a young woman, the daughter of a bookseller whose shop he has just visited; and what is fated to happen from the first page of the novel, happens: he follows her, chats her up and falls in love with her – only to discover that she is in the Resistance. The corporal’s leisurely Left-Bank strolls soon face him with a nightmare choice of betraying his masters or his mistress. As the war turns against the Germans and the struggle between occupiers and occupied becomes increasingly murderous, he becomes a hunted creature with nowhere to turn and nothing to sustain him except an impossible love. The story has a level deeper than the fate of the two lovers. How, the author seems to ask on every page, can love survive in a time and place where ordinary, decent human feelings are at best a liability, at worst a fatal weakness? It’s a terse and powerful tale; and in this age when torture and terror are again facts of life, there is nothing rose-tinted or nostalgic about it.
 
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