Milkweed, by Jerry Spinelli, is another disappointing addition to recent Holocaust fiction which has made its way into classrooms, displacing more worthwhile and significant works of fiction and non-fiction. Perhaps that makes me resent it a little more than it deserves. The author means well. The author tried. Nonetheless, the author does not fulfill his responsibility to his chosen setting, what for many people is a history they live in their memories, in family’s memories, and in the memories that are missing, a history their family trees will never recover from. I gave the book 1.5 stars because it is better than The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, which set a low bar for Holocaust fiction. The two do share at least a few notable similarities. They won enough critical attention to become integrated into school curricula. The authors profess no personal connections to the Holocaust. And the protagonists of both books are young boys completely oblivious to their social contexts. Strangely enough, neither protagonist knows what a Jew is at the start of their story.
Milkweed, told from the perspective of a young orphan growing up on the streets in Warsaw and later in the Warsaw ghetto, has all the ingredients for a thought-provoking exploration of what would be challenging and important themes for readers for any age. It should be a story with great symbolism and significance. It should be tragic, moving, haunting. Indeed, the author loads the story with symbols - stone angels and milkweed pods being the most obvious - and does not sugarcoat the grimness of the setting. It is about a boy’s search for identity and belonging, about his introduction to human brutality, and about his hope and transcendence of suffering. It has potential. But the book is incredible in the most unfavorable sense of the term. Weighty symbolism and a tragic setting are not enough to carry a story.
The author is, to an extent, faithful to history. It was a brutal time and he does not shy away from the brutality. In fact, he shows us little else. Without outside knowledge, the reader would be ignorant that Warsaw was a vibrant center of Jewish life before the war. One might argue that the protagonist’s experiences did not extend that far, so it has no place in the narrative. But that reality is also a crucial element to understanding the Warsaw setting. Jews sprang into the protagonist’s consciousness only as the objects of self-hatred and societal derision, and the targets of violence from others and from each other. The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising barely earns a mention - it happens after the narrator escapes the city. The Jews in the ghetto come across as hardly more than doomed husks of humanity. But the narrator is different. He is not a Jew - that is one of the few things he knows about himself. He knows he is a Gypsy, though he has no concept of growing up as a member of a marginalized and stigmatized group. He also knows he is a thief - he calls himself Stopthief because that is what everyone else calls him. But he is not just any thief; he is a thief of Robin Hood-esque skill and bravado, gracing his starving Jewish friends in the ghetto with the fruits of his forays across the wall. His innate thieving skills give him the ability to smuggle food across the ghetto wall with an impunity that would have gotten anyone else killed. To whatever extent the author was successful in recreating the setting, he undermines it with the unbalanced view of Jewish life in Warsaw and with an unconvincing narrator.
The unrelenting parade of brutality against Jews that the narrator witnesses comes across as voyeuristic rather than educational. The protagonist’s unexplained cluelessness when it comes to these grotesque acts of violence and inhumanity seems like a disingenuous attempt to increase the shock value of the descriptions. Having lived on the streets for long enough to become a skilled thief, a survivor, the protagonist would be able to sense the difference between whatever activities normally took place on streets before the Nazi invasion and acts of violence targeted against Jews that followed the invasion. He must have developed some kind of interpretive framework to understand his world. Without any kind of explanation of the protagonist’s background, or any insight into how he might have lost his memories, the eyes of “innocence” through which he views Nazi violence are not believable.
I cannot help but ponder Spinelli’s use of a complete tabula rasa as his protagonist. He is not alone in this urge - the author of The Boy in the Striped Pajamas did the same. They both create a character who has grown up in a certain context but is, for unexplained reasons, completely oblivious to that context in their basic knowledge, beliefs and assumptions, and experiences. I would argue that if this is going to be one of the defining characteristics of a character, it should be interrogated and explored. How we become who we are is part of why we see things the way we do, and why we act as we do. There are compelling reasons why a character, regardless of age, might have no recollection of their past. Their past does not have to be explained or resolved, but it will filter into their present in meaningful ways. Their unknown past will influence the telling of the story. But when this blankness is used as the pretext for an otherwise inexplicable collection of traits, then it is lazy writing. How does Spinelli’s protagonist, who has no street sense, achieve his phenomenal acts of theft? As oblivious as he is, how did he even survive to the start of the story, let alone its end? Making the protagonist a blank slate is an easy way to disclaim responsibility to the historical setting. The author can, and does, avoid any real engagement with the issues he raises. And there are plenty of issues in this book worthy of deeper engagement - what it meant to be labeled a Jew or a Gypsy before or after the Nazi invasion; what it meant to be homeless or orphaned in urban Poland; what it means to have no memories of your own, no past, no sense of belonging; what impact witnessing pervasive violence has on growing up. Anything inaccurate or unbelievable can be explained away as a product of the protagonist’s lack of comprehension, or of their fragmented experience of their own life. The author frees himself from having to write a character who embodies the history, beliefs, and upbringing of their times. The character can thus serve as a stand-in for the author himself, a vehicle for whatever message or symbolism the author wants to express. That is not a responsible engagement with our past. Nor is it very good literature. All it can produce is a one-dimensional cut-and-paste version of history that uses real events like cheap props.
Milkweed has another characteristic which undermines the narrator’s effectiveness. The narrator interjects occasional bouts of omniscience with his obliviousness. The contrast undermines his portrayal as oblivious or innocent. By the end, it becomes clear that he is an old man looking back to his childhood. But throughout, it seemed that the author wanted to have it both ways - to write someone who is oblivious to everything except whatever facts the author felt he needed to advance the story. This unevenness in perspective does not do anything purposeful in a literary sense. If done right, a similar technique might destabilize our frames of reference to increase the effect of the protagonist’s dislocation in his violent and unpredictable environment. In this story, though, it only erases any potential of the narrator to be convincing or compelling.
The best I can say is that I found Milkweed to be an uninspiring foray into the horrors of history.