‘Where did they all come from, Jens? All those Nazis … ” So wonders 18-year-old Max Spiegelman to his best friend Jens Arnstein, as they prepare to leave Austria for Switzerland. It is 1938 and Nazi Germany has just annexed Austria into the German Reich. The two boys – both Jewish – are struggling to comprehend the actions of their fellow countrymen, seemingly so happy with the new order and the resulting persecution of the Jewish population. “Were they always like that? Did they always hate us? Even when they were smiling and giving us our change and wishing us a good evening?”
The Two Loves of Sophie Strom vividly and engagingly provides the answer in at least one case: that of Max himself. And it depends on little more than chance. One night, in 1933, as people whisper darkly about “those new laws in Germany”, and Brownshirts roam the streets outside, Max dreams of his house burning down with his parents inside. He wakes to smoke and flames, but manages to get himself and his parents out in time. In this moment, his life – and the narrative – splits in two: in one Max survives with his parents, flees to Paris, and joins the French Resistance, and in the other he is orphaned, changes his name to Hans, and joins the Nazi party.
Thus we are treated to two tales of what might have been. These proceed alternately, as the two boys and later young men witness their alter ego’s life in their dreams and see the effects of chance and choice bloom in different directions. This is an intriguing premise, and one that allows for a lively depiction of hypocrisy, falseness and self-preservation: the beautiful girl who spurns you in one life might pursue you in the other; the pompous professor who condescends might just as easily defer. All it takes is the perception of power. These side-by-side contrasts are sharp and often moving, especially in the early schoolyard scenes, but they do mean we are faced with two very similar (often mirror image) narratives; and thus a fair bit of repetition.
This being Vienna in the 1930s, the explanation for Max/Hans’s dreams lies in the psychoanalytic theories of Freud and Jung. Somewhat cursorily, the reader is informed of “Jung’s concept of individuation”, that “we cannot be fully human until that shadow, that inner darkness, is brought into the light of consciousness”. Max pores over Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams (“It was fascinating but its conclusions had left him perplexed”). He writes a letter to the great man; receives a dismissive reply. There is mention of “wish fulfilment” and “punishment dreams”, but these explanations are left dangling. The supposedly turbulent “shadow” life of Hans is sadly underexplored; he is little more than a useful narrative foil and sometime guardian angel.
In both versions, Max/Hans forms an early attachment to Sophie, a beautiful grey-eyed girl. They bond over music and literature. No matter what happens, their paths cross and recross. Nazi or not, they fall deeply in love. “‘Wow,’ Jens said sarcastically, ‘it’s like you two were fated to find each other or something. Star-crossed lovers!’” Indeed, they spend a lot of time on balconies, looking up at the stars, or “lying side by side in parks and talking about books”. There is a certain hokeyness in all this – and the prose certainly takes on a more starry-eyed quality at such moments – but there is also significant charm and energy. It is difficult not to exult as Max and Hans each woo their version of Sophie away from her insufferable collaborator husband.
It is a pity that, despite all the talk of dreams and the psychoanalytic trappings, we never descend much below the surface – the promise of insight implied in the premise is passed over in favour of plot. Hans remains a slightly opaque figure; not a committed Nazi but not too distressed by what he sees and does. He is little more than Max in a Nazi getup. If the two sides of Max Spiegelman, the two loves of Sophie Strom, are almost identical, why should we care where they came from?
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