Dramaturgy

 

I'm writing a play about a Kommandant at Auschwitz who recognizes one of the Jewish prisoners as a famous poet, and as the Kommandant has poetic aspirations himself, he pulls the prisoner away from the work detail to receive poetry lessons from the celebrated Jewish writer. The bulk of the play is their discussions of poetry, which the poet is initially reluctant to have, the power differential being so stark, and though he flatters the Kommandant at first, when he begins to see his Nazi pupil's true devotion to the art, as well as his untrained and untapped talent, he goes to work in earnest, and at times they are both simply lovers of the German language, though the truth of their situation often interrupts. In the last act, the Kommandant is on trial for his crimes, and in the days before he is to be executed, he begs the poet to publish his work under his own name— the Nazi's writing under the Jew's name— because as a Nazi, he feels his own name is disgraced, but he believes so strongly in poetry that it matters more to him that his work survive than that anyone know it was his work. The play is pulled entirely from my imagination, a careful rereading of Simon Wiesenthal's The Sunflower, and the poetic ideas of Rilke and Goethe, with a smattering of Nietzsche. In readings of the play, the Kommandant has seemed more noble than I had intended—in many ways, more noble than the Jew, because the Jew is suffering by no fault of his own, while the Kommandant is tortured by conscience, and driven by a sense of poetic calling that separates him from the Germans around him. On the morning of the third workshop reading, I watched a video of two Russians on an ice-dancing reality show performing as Jews in Auschwitz. I was sickened, even though I couldn't follow the pantomimed action, and I wondered if I was producing Holocaust kitsch myself, if my work was as disgusting as theirs, though I knew if I asked any of my team, they would reassure me that I am doing important work that rises to the level of art. Last night, during a break in the workshop of the play, I told the story of how my grandmother, upon learning that her entire family had died in the camps, had burned the photo albums of everyone she had loved. I have told that story many, many times, without feeling much more than regret, or sympathy, but this time I broke down crying, and I couldn't stop. Everyone at the table came to comfort me, and I felt ridiculous, but the only thing I could say was, "It's time for us to go. This isn't a place we can live anymore." I left the studio embarrassed, and later that day, I resigned from the production. I don't think they believed that I was serious, and they'll expect me to show up at the next table reading. I won't. The play will go on though I can have nothing more to do with it. This morning, after taking a shirt off the hanger, I looked in the mirror and realized I hadn't put it on. Without thinking, I had started packing a bag.   --Jason Schneiderman