Guided Tours of Hell: Novellas

Guided Tours of Hell: Novellas

by Francine Prose

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An “irresistibly readable” pair of novellas skewering Americans abroad—by the New York Times–bestselling author and National Book Award finalist(The New York Times Book Review).
“In a style that is bold, witty, richly detailed, and suffused with a wry subtlety,” Francine Prose offers penetrating portraits of Americans in Europe who have brought all their baggage—ego, ambition, sexual desire—with them (Elle).
Guided Tours of Hell
When the insecure (and rightfully so) playwright Landau travels from New York to Prague to read at the first annual Kafka conference, he’s certain this is his chance to prove himself—and his work. But he quickly finds himself upstaged by Jiri Krakauer, a charismatic Holocaust survivor whose claim to fame is a long-ago death-camp love affair with Kafka’s sister. On a group tour to the camp-turned-tourist-attraction, Landau sets out to prove that Krakauer is lying—with unexpected results.
Three Pigs in Five Days
Ambitious young journalist Nina has been stranded in Paris by her editor and sometimes boyfriend, Leo. When he finally shows up, playfully suggesting a romantic tour of the catacombs, prisons, and shadows of the City of Light, the bloom begins to come off the rose for the infatuated Nina—who must ask herself how much of herself she is willing to sacrifice for love.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781480445123
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 09/24/2013
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 224
Sales rank: 1,040,836
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Francine Prose is the author of sixteen novels, including A Changed Man, winner of the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and Blue Angel, a finalist for the National Book Award. Her most recent works of nonfiction include the highly acclaimed Anne Frank: The Book, the Life, the Afterlife, and the New York Times bestseller Reading Like a Writer. A former president of PEN American Center and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, as well as the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Prose is a highly regarded critic and essayist, and has taught literature and writing for more than twenty years at major universities. She is a distinguished writer in residence at Bard College, and she lives in New York City.


New York, New York

Date of Birth:

April 1, 1947

Place of Birth:

Brooklyn, New York


B.A., Radcliffe College, 1968

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

On the bus to the death camp, Landau searches for an image, some brilliant incisive metaphor for the fields of stunted brown sunflowers, their fat dwarfish heads drooping stupidly on their crackling stalks. These are not Van Gogh sunflowers, these are ... Anselm Kiefer, their dead round faces fatally kissed by a parching breeze from Chernobyl. These flowers that survived the gassing of the Jews are finally succumbing to the asphyxiation of the planet. Or: These flowers committed suicide to protest the death camp's reincarnation—landscaped, refurbished, a tourist attraction. Honey, look! The delousing chamber!

But the truth is: What the nodding sunflower heads really remind Landau of are human heads, specifically, the heads of last night's audience, dropping off to sleep, one by one, all through Landau's reading.

This has been Landau's problem ever since he got to Prague. Tiny nips of transcendence nibble at his line, but given even the gentlest tug, they slip back into the water, the oily shoals of boredom, ego and resentment, and, let's be honest, fury at Jiri Krakauer, that terrible poet and memoirist whose only claim to fame is that he survived two years in the camp, where he somehow conducted a love affair with Kafka's sister, Ottla.

In the four days—the endless four days—that the First International Kafka Congress has been in session here in Prague, Landau has heard Jiri tell a dozen versions of how he fell for Ottla Kafka, a spitfire and a saint, Jiri sculpts the air with his paws, Oof, the curves of a saint, how he was overcome by passion as he watched herbreeze through the camp with blankets, water, cups of tea, words of comfort and reassurance. When Jiri tells the elderly rabbi from Tel Aviv or the critic from Toronto, Ottla was kissing the shiny bald heads of the tiny ailing grandpas. But when he tells the feminist novelist from Croatia, the professor of Slavic languages from Vassar—the women hear how Jiri never saw Ottla without a baby in her arms and how he last saw her defiantly heading the children's transport to Auschwitz.

And what did Ottla see in Jiri? No one has to ask. That gangsterish mane of snowy hair, Mr. Larger-than-Life. Eventually everyone wants to know: What did Ottla say about Kafka? And Jiri has no problem repeating himself: Ottla always said how kind and gentle her brother was, how he cared about the workers whose disability claims he processed at the insurance firm, and how the Kafka family worried about his digestion and how boring it was to sit and watch him Fletcherize his food. Jiri imitates Kafka chewing every bite thirty times, and the professors show their slick pink gums and laugh their knowing laughs at this detail so irreverent they know it has to be true.

Well, better chew it a million times, the shit these people eat, no wonder Kafka was constipated, the man never saw a green vegetable. The fat stringy pork, the dimpled yellow pods clinging to the duck skin, the deep-fried cutlets oozing grease, every morsel daring Landau to push aside the most lethal delicious parts as Jiri Krakauer's handsome face wrinkles lightly with scorn. Kafka was permitted his stomach complaints. But Landau, apparently, isn't, so he is trying not to think about the low-grade nausea and diarrhea from which he has suffered since he arrived in Prague, probably thanks to the very same toxins that have turned the sunflowers such a crispy shade of dark brown.

Jiri is several rows back on the bus, but Landau can hear every word he bellows at his seatmate, Eva Kaprova, the Kafka Congress Director. Why shouldn't Jiri tell the whole bus: "This fucking country looked better when I was on my way to the camp!"

And all of Landau's metaphors are pulverized into rubble under the weight of experience that gives Jiri the right to say this. All of Landau's false metaphors: In fact the sunflower's problem isn't Chernobyl, their problem isn't the camps, but rather the summerlong heat wave that last week warped the train tracks so that the Kafka Congress had to change plans and hire a bus for the trip to the camp.

Outside, the greasy black landscape streams by, lumpy hills striped with stubble, powdery slag heaps, and compounds hidden behind high walls.

"Pigs!" Jiri announces. It takes Landau a moment to realize they're passing a pig farm.

"Ha, ha," says Landau pathetically, but Jiri isn't listening.

Landau wants Jiri to notice him, wants to ask him a million questions, Jiri is living history, an eyewitness to what Landau can't even bear to imagine. Unlike the Kafka scholars, those pussies and old maids, Landau would have the balls to ask: What was the camp like, exactly? What single true thing has Jiri left out of all his memoirs and stories and poems?

But it's neither Chernobyl nor the War that's poisoned the air between them. It's ego, Landau's ego, pettiness, resentment. Jiri is a star here, a celebrity based on nothing but bad luck, then good luck, endurance, nerve, resilience, no Survivor Guilt for this guy. Mr. Appetite-for-Life has a story to tell and they eat it up, these pathetic Kafka groupies, these idiots who dozed through Landau's reading of his play To Kafka from Felice.

Landau knew that the reading was strange. His drama in letters, his made-up lost half of that brilliant correspondence, was, after all, a one-woman play, to be read by a serious actress, as it was in the off-off-Broadway production that got such terrific reviews. Those female outcries of wounded pride and love were scored for a contralto with a sonorous vibrato for moments of hope and pain (Landau suspects that Felice's voice was a good deal shriller) and not for Landau's tenor, his dash of a Brooklyn accent. But that was no reason for Landau to look out over his audience and see vacant faces, half-shut eyes, the nodding tops of heads.

Only after Landau sat down did the etherized crowd regain consciousness, make a miraculous recovery, and instantly go hog-wild for Jiri's booming oration of his goopy narrative poem about the children's art class at the camp, about a little boy who keeps drawing people burning in a furnace, though that didn't happen at this camp but at Auschwitz, miles to the East, so there was no way the boy could have known, etc., etc. In tears, the audience listened as Jiri ended his poem with the art teacher bravely leading her students toward the transport to the East, hand in hand with the tiny artist who had already foreseen this. They rose to their feet to cheer Jiri's last line, "I was that little boy!"

Afterwards they'd mobbed Jiri, begging him to sign copies of his books in a dozen languages. No one came near Landau—that is, no one but Natalie Zigbaum, the Slavic languages professor from Vassar, who tried to engage Landau in an earnest discussion of Kafka and Felice, a conversation so screamingly dull that Landau found himself near tears, especially when he looked over Natalie's head at Jiri, accepting hugs and handshakes like a star athlete after a game.

Landau and Jiri have lots in common, even if no one but Landau knows it. Both are writers, obviously. Both do a little teaching: Landau as an occasional adjunct at Pace and Adelphi, and Jiri at Princeton, where he holds an endowed chair in modern European history. History! What does Jiri know? The history of Jiri Krakauer! Also, both Landau and Jiri know a thing or two about women who want to be good: Ottla Kafka, the saint of the camp, must have shared some personality traits with Landau's wife, Mimi, a therapist with the lowest fees on the Upper West Side, a woman who not only works long hours for practically no pay but volunteers at a shelter where she gives out her telephone number for battered mothers to call at all hours of the day and night. She spends so much time at the shelter that Landau often asks her to bring home the free-meal leftovers in a doggy bag for his dinner.

Oh, what is Landau thinking! He and Jiri have nothing in common. Mimi Landau, commiserating with her friends about their menopausal woes, Mimi who, to her credit, never directly accuses Landau of having sponged for—how long?—fifteen years off her hard work and low pay, though she does have one very particular mournful, maddening smile that tells the whole sad story of the years she's supported Landau's self-indulgent arty plays by listening, hour after hour, to New York's most self-indulgent—and cheap—neurotics. Mimi is nothing like Ottla Kafka: always young, always lovely, always heroic and tragic....

Among the letters in Landau's play is one that Landau wrote for Felice in reply to Kafka's nagging insistence that it would be good for her to work with refugee children at the Jewish People's Home. Felice (in Landau's letter) writes that she wants to be good but doesn't have the gift for it, she has no talent for goodness. What she wants is children of her own, she would be good to them, but she knows that Kafka doesn't want children, and she respects his wish, so maybe it will be good for her to work with someone else's children.

Landau knew how this should sound. Mimi had wanted children. He'd read the letter aloud to her, as he had most of the play. She'd gotten up and left the house and didn't return for five hours. Landau was surprised. He'd expected her to be moved by how well he'd listened and translated her pain into art. He'd felt wronged, undermined by Mimi. He went to make a cup of tea and couldn't at first find the tea bags and, until he came to his senses, thought she'd hidden them on purpose.

Three sharp blasts jolt the passengers: static from the bus driver's radio, then a blare of jazz, Eastern European Dixieland, Basin Street with a wailing Levantine gypsy edge. Landau turns to look at Jiri, whose memoirs describe the Ghetto Sultans, the jazz band in the camp, free concerts every Monday, until the drummer and the alto sax were sent to Birkenau by mistake.

But Jiri isn't looking to exchange a flash of recognition with Landau, a shared association on the subject of Dixieland jazz. Jiri is whispering into the ear of the Congress Director, Eva Kaprova, who inclines her head toward him like a gloomy attractive plant.

When Eva shakes the conferees' hands she stares deeply into their eyes, which Landau finds so magnetic that he feels himself tilting toward her. Landau knows she's married, but that is clearly not a concern for Mr. Devour-Life-with-Both-Hands, who was the first to figure out that Eva, fortyish and sexy in that sour Eastern European way, is the Congress's only viable female. Jiri jumped in and grabbed her, which she has evidently allowed, so Jiri's wife back home in Princeton must not be a problem, either.

Eva's speech at the plenary session affirmed the Congress's purpose: to foster peace and friendship between nations and ethnic communities. This, she said, was the true subject of the work of Franz Kafka, who in her opinion was a life-loving guy with a sense of humor and not the quivering neurotic wreck the world chooses to imagine: in other words, like Jiri, not at all like Landau. Eva said all this in the cigarette voice, the smoky tragic tones in which Landau's To Kafka from Felice should have been delivered.

Right in front of Landau and the other conferees, Eva and Jiri have begun to plan another conference for some time this winter, a private session just for Jiri, at which he will meet the donors and funders of the Kafka Foundation and work his rough magic on them and persuade them to fork over millions. None of the other conferees will be invited to this event, which Jiri and Eva contrive with the breathless urgency of lovers arranging a stolen weekend, a dream escape that may never occur, but still their faces shine as they find every reason to mention it in front of the women who look at Eva, the men who stare at Jiri to discern what secret quality can make a member of the opposite sex behave so shamelessly, abandoning everything, families, duties, decorum, on the sweet unlikely promise of February in Prague.

Now traffic stalls in a stagnant pool of exhaust that makes Landau's eyes burn. Outside the window, a roadside stand sells huge stuffed animals, plush neon-pink panthers with black button noses sucking up pollution. Landau nudges his seatmate, a depressed Albanian novelist. The Albanian glances over and nods and emits a tragic snort.

Even in the August heat, the Albanian wears a scratchy brown cardigan; a muffler of the same fabric bandages his throat. At the welcome cocktail party, the whole Congress overheard Jiri complimenting the Albanian's outfit, recalling how in the camps he'd worn every scrap of scrounged clothing. If you "slipped into something more comfortable," everything else you owned was stolen. The Albanian had made the same melancholy snort with which he's just responded to Landau. And what is Jiri wearing? An expensive pale blue silk shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing a freckled chest, thatched with white hair, and, even, Christ, a gold chain!

Landau hadn't wanted to go to the camp; he changed his mind ten times, erasing and rewriting his name until he dug a hole in the sign-up sheet. He hates to think of the Holocaust, or rather he feels it too deeply, unlike all those slobs who take dates to Schindler's List so they can provide a manly shoulder for their girls to burrow their faces in during the scene in which the naked female prisoners don't know if the shower will spray water or poison gas.

Isn't there something by definition obscene about guided tours of hell—except, of course, if you're Dante? Yet plenty of people visit the camp, for as many different reasons. At the last minute Landau decided to go, to shut up and take his medicine, maybe it would do him good, just as working with children was supposed to be good for Felice. And it isn't as if he's making a special effort, going out of his way to satisfy a ghoulish curiosity. The whole Kafka Congress is making the trip, so it must be perfectly normal. Landau will probably feel left out if he doesn't go. Also he'd hate to look like a coward who can't even visit the camp where Jiri spent three hellish years, which is another reason not to go: The camp is Jiri's kingdom.

They turn a corner, and there it is: a solid brick fortress, not unlike the state colleges built after the Vietnam War, after students like Landau ran around smashing windows. And there is the sign over the gate, Arbeit Macht Frei, Work Makes You Free. Oh, the fabulous ironies of the German sense of humor, and how amazing, how incredible that you can see it from a tour bus, which for the first time since they left Prague hits a reasonable speed and zips past the camp, then past parking lots crammed with dusty cars, campers, and fully loaded German-made RVs.

The passengers murmur anxiously. Could they have missed their stop? Wait, this bus was hired to take them where they are going! Eva Kaprova holds up a calming hand. The bus is just going to park—miles away from the camp. How will the frail Israeli rabbi manage the long hike back?

But first they must drive past another tourist attraction. Eva Kaprova points out the National Memorial Cemetery, the tidy straight rows of pale identical markers, over which the state has recently erected a monumental gleaming silver cross. The passengers fall silent and gaze dully at the cross.

Then something startling happens. Jiri lopes to the front of the bus. He turns to mug at his colleagues and, with broad clownish gestures, spreads his arms out wide, as if he is hanging on the cross. But he doesn't look like Jesus. Jiri's in much better shape, a condor about to flap its wings and fly up through the bus ceiling. The conferees gaze at him worshipfully. Why did Landau come here? He'd told himself it would be worth it for the free ticket to Prague, and—let's be honest—he was flattered that he'd been invited, that the news of his little play had somehow crossed the ocean.

The bus squeezes into a parking space; its passengers don't notice. They go on staring at Jiri until he collapses his arms and laughs. The moment's over, they too can laugh and be released to stand and gather their things and follow Jiri off the bus and up the road to the camp.

The Kafka Congress flocks around Eva Kaprova, who collects them on the drawbridge and invites them to look down at the moat that the Nazi engineers designed so they could flood it in an emergency with water from the nearby river.

Landau stares down into the weedy moat, which is dry, of course, and littered with paper, broken glass: Eastern European landscaping. The parching sun sears the back of his neck. He lifts his head too quickly, and tiny black spots swim before his eyes. Oh God, what if he faints here?

"Kafka's castle," says Eva, with a bitter actressy chuckle. But no one's paying attention. Once more they're watching Jiri, who has gone ahead of them and is heading into the camp.

What is it like for Jiri to walk up that cobblestone road and under that soot-blackened stone arch? Could this be the first-time since...? Landau can't help wondering. But Jiri's beyond cheap psychology or sentimental melodrama. He enters the camp like its owner, a hero or messenger storming the fortress with urgent news for the king.

The Kafka Congress ditches poor Eva and rushes ducklinglike up the path, scurrying after Mr. Pied-Piper. Even the elderly rabbi lifts his cuffs and hurries. Landau lingers, watching Eva's generous sullen mouth droop even lower as she shades her eyes with her hand and watches the others run away. Landau, her solace, her gallant knight, is drifting in her direction when he nearly falls over Natalie Zigbaum, the Slavic languages professor from Vassar.

It's like tripping over an armchair, an armchair in a brown dress blotched with cruelly girlish pink tea roses, an armchair with long canines, thick spectacles, a helmet of gray hair and a grimly determined smile for Landau, who all through the conference has noticed Natalie finding reasons to be near him, noticed Natalie eyeing him even as he eyes Eva Kaprova, who has been eyeing Jiri Krakauer. In other words, the usual daisy chain, even here in the death camp.

"Look at Mr. Full-of-Shit," Natalie says, jerking her head toward Jiri. She was the one who started it—making up names for Jiri—and now Landau can't help doing it; it's become a new habit, a tic.

"Mr. Resurrected-Saint," hisses Natalie. "Mr. God-the-Survivor. When the whole world knows how he survived, all those confessions—boasts, really—paraded in his memoirs, how he traded soggy matches and leaky shoes for extra rations of bread, how he hardened himself to shaft everyone else, and we're supposed to think: Bravo! Good for him! That's what I would have done! Well, maybe we would have given the bread to the dying boy who Jiri knew he had to refuse in that famous chapter from our hero's brilliant memoir—"

"Then you wouldn't have survived," Landau says. "Isn't that the point?"

Natalie's face implodes like a puffy doughnut, bitten into, leaving only her increasingly self-conscious and rigid smile.

"Is it?" she says. "Is that the point?"

"Sure it is," says Landau harshly. "The point is: We don't know what we'd do. Nobody knows what accident of fate or DNA or character will determine how we act when the shit hits the fan."

"I guess," agrees Natalie, retreating, and as she turns away, her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, film with gelid tears.

Landau feels awful! Terrible! How badly he has behaved, here where every cobblestone should be teaching him a lesson about cruelty and kindness. Oh, really? Is that the lesson? What is Landau thinking? The ethical lesson of these stones is that it's smart to withhold your stale crust of bread from a little boy dying of hunger.

What did Jiri do to survive? Landau would rather not know, though he suspects that Jiri's confessions in print are only the tip of the iceberg. There have been some moments since the start of the conference when Jiri has acted in ways that must have distressed even his acolytes and fawning devotees.

Yesterday they were on the tram, headed for yet another reception that would begin with yet another minor official conveying the apologies of a slightly less minor official who was scheduled to greet them but was called away at the last minute. On the tram—because the tour bus scheduled to convey them there had also been called away at the last minute, a scenario so familiar by now that Landau wonders if the Congress budget is lower than Eva will admit, so that she stages these charades in which they wait twenty minutes for a nonexistent bus and then give up and wait another twenty minutes (or more) for the tram. Everything requires waiting, punitively protracted, sometimes an hour for breakfast, though they all get the same plate of slimy flamingo-colored bologna, rubbery gherkins, and pewter-ringed slices of egg, so it's not as if the kitchen has to cook fifty separate orders. The budget must be rock-bottom, judging from the hotel, a grisly state socialist dump untouched by the cushiony strokings of the Velvet Revolution, staffed by a chilly sadistic crew unschooled in the decadent good manners bourgeois tourists expect, a dank prison to which the conferees are returned each night to bash their aching heads against granite pillows encased in cold damp linen, on beds no wider than coffins.

The grim hotel, the elusive officials, the buses that never come—Hey, welcome to the Kafka Congress (this is the sort of thing that Natalie Zigbaum sidles up to Landau to whisper along with the news that Jiri isn't staying at their hotel but at a five-star palace not far from Eva's apartment), where, fittingly, they've come to honor the spirit of a man who wrote the book on claustrophobic living quarters, on thuggish servants of the state refusing to show their faces, and on mysterious obstacles that make it hard to get from place to place.

During the long hot wait for the tram, several conferees suggested taking taxis, to which Eva replied that the Russian mob now controls the taxi business; last week a German tourist was stabbed for the gold fillings in his teeth. A rebellious ripple stirred the group, a disturbance that Jiri quieted with the observation that compared to a boxcar, the tram would do just fine. Besides, he said, what camp life taught you was the dangerous folly of simply waiting, of not living in the moment, an idea that Jiri has discussed with the Dalai Lama, who shares Jiri's opinion completely. Jiri name-drops constantly: Milos Forman. Vaclav Havel. Still, Landau couldn't believe that Jiri could name-drop the Dalai Lama, whom Landau has always wanted to meet. Oh, unfair! Unfair!

At last the tram arrived, packed full, so it was quickly arranged that half the Kafka conferees would board and the other half would wait another twenty minutes (or more) for another tram. Mr. Every-Man-for-Himself leaped onto the first tram while everyone else was still negotiating, and Eva boarded after Jiri, irresponsibly leaving the remaining conferees to find the right tram and the reception. Landau was swept onto the tram, along with Natalie Zigbaum. As it lurched forward, she fell against him and giggled and stepped away, readjusting her upholstery. Landau had thought—just as he thinks now, walking up the path to the camp—that he and Natalie (squat, bespectacled, American) are a parody couple, a cruel parody of tall, handsome, clear-eyed, European Jiri and Eva.

More people got on the tram at each stop. "Another boxcar!" boomed Jiri. Did none of the Czechs speak English? Everyone stared straight ahead. At the stop in front of the Prague Kmart, three Gypsy women got on, and the other passengers shifted as far as possible from that trio of cackling birds with their bright ruffled plumage. The Czechs emitted clucking noises and muted syllables of threat and warning, and mimed—for the benefit of the Kafka conferees, whom until then they hadn't acknowledged—the wary sensible safeguarding of wallets, pockets, and purses.

Then Jiri went to the front of the tram and spoke to the driver, who was unaware of the crisis. The driver came back and yelled at the Gypsies, who yelled at him, everyone yelled, then the Gypsies got off. The Czechs resumed their blank stares, as if nothing had happened, as did the Kafka conferees, though perhaps for different reasons.

"Did you see that?" Natalie had shouted into Landau's ear. "It took Jiri about five seconds to make the tram Gypsy free."

Landau's only answer was an irritated shrug, as if Natalie were a stinging bug that had gotten under his collar.

Natalie keeps on nipping at him, even now as they walk up the cobblestone road to the camp, and worse, she seems to have read Landau's mind, to know what he's been thinking. How else to explain it—it couldn't be coincidence—when she says, "Did you believe how Mr. Human-Rights treated those Gypsies on the tram!"

Again Landau shrugs, just one shoulder this time. "What were the choices?" he says. "Sit there grinning like liberal schmucks and get our passports stolen?" Why is he defending Jiri for doing something morally vile (although, to be perfectly frank, Landau had felt relieved). Because the people who disapprove of him are people like Landau and Natalie Zigbaum!

"The choices?" Natalie Zigbaum snarls. "Liberal schmucks ... or Nazis?"

Suddenly fearing that he's bullied Natalie to the point at which her fragile crush (or whatever) on him has been blasted out of existence, Landau feels bereft. Her attention is better than nothing. There is so little sexual buzz going around this conference, Natalie's choosing Landau must mean that he is its second most attractive man.

"Watch your step," warns Landau. "These cobblestones are murder." In fact they are like vicious stone eggs, pressing into Landau's tender arches. Natalie's shoes have thicker soles than his, but she smiles so gratefully, leans so pliantly against him that she could be clicking over the stones in the thinnest highest heels. Landau grasps her elbow and guides her up the path as they approach the dark looming archway in which Jiri stands with outstretched arms, welcoming them all.

What does the camp remind Landau of? A zoo without animals, maybe. A wide pebbled path lined with overgrown borders and inviting park benches, without the parklike promise of pleasure and relaxation, but rather the zoolike reminder that one is here on a mission, there is something to see here, a fixed route to be taken. And how could they go anywhere except where Jiri steers them? Jiri stands off to one side and bows, waving them on. The conferees smile and nod at him, a tiny bit nervous, but jolly....

As Landau and Natalie Zigbaum pass, Jiri whispers, "This way for the gas, ladies and gentlemen."

Landau stops, as does Natalie. The others squeeze timidly past them. Landau says, "What an amazing book! This Way for the Gas. Have you read Borowski?" he asks Natalie. "What an astonishing life! Borowski and his girlfriend were sent to Auschwitz for distributing anti-Nazi poetry and miraculously they both survive, are separated, reunited, they get married, and she gets pregnant, has a daughter, he visits them at the hospital and that night goes home and turns on the gas and kills himself."

Some instinct is kicking in here, Landau's showing off for a woman. So what if it's Natalie? She's the only one here to compete for. In one of the letters Landau wrote for Felice, she scolds Kafka for showing off the first time they met at Max Brod's, for bringing along the manuscript of his first book of stories and photos from a trip that he and Max made to Weimar, including pictures of a beautiful girl with whom Kafka had a flirtation. In Landau's letter, Felice scolds Kafka and then confesses that it made her happy; she knew he was showing off for her. But Landau has no plans for a long neurotic engagement to Natalie. Maybe it's Jiri he wants to impress....

"Lying shit," says Jiri. "Borowski was never at Auschwitz."

"He wasn't?" says Landau. But Jiri's gaze skims over their heads, and Natalie and Landau turn to see Eva rushing up the path. Eva is wearing high heels, and her stumbling run reminds Landau of postwar Italian films in which beautiful actresses spill out of their ripped flimsy dresses as they flee the smoldering ruins of villages ravaged by battle.

"Jiri," Eva says. "Where did you disappear to?" A thorn of panic snags Eva's throaty voice.

Jiri laughs. "I couldn't wait to get back to this place!" Then Mr. Joie-de-Vivre puts his arm around Eva and sweeps her along, while Landau and Natalie must dazedly pick themselves up and follow. The entire Kafka Congress straggles into the dusty sunbaked courtyard, yet Landau feels that he and Natalie are alone with Jiri and Eva: the homely couple, the beautiful couple, double-dating at the death camp.

"Achtung!" Natalie whispers to Landau as Jiri whisks them through a lot surrounded by faded brick walls pocked with dark low entrances without doors, like the holes in a birdhouse.

Tourists rouse themselves from their dreamy sight-seeing just long enough to observe the ragtag parade of Kafka Congress conferees. Then they resume popping in and out doorways like figures on a cuckoo clock, blinking and bent double.

Jiri points out the high spots.

"Brooks Brothers!" He waves and shouts.

"The clothing depot," translates Eva. "That's where the prisoners picked up their monthly changes of clothing."

"Bastards!" says Jiri. "Bastards!" They pass empty rooms with wooden chairs and desks. Offices? Interrogation rooms? Jiri isn't saying, and they're moving too fast for Landau to consult the map he grabbed as they rushed past the ticket booth. Mr. Live-for-Today had insisted on paying for the whole group, though Eva said, "Jiri, you mustn't do that!" Let the guy pay, thought Landau. Save the money for the Congress. Next time—if there is a next time—they could be put up in a halfway decent hotel and even hire a real bus and skip the charades with the trams.

They turn into a courtyard, a narrow alley lined on one side with cagelike cells and on the other with larger stalls crammed with wooden bunks. Landau thinks again of a zoo, of a decrepit roadside animal park with a pair of big cats pacing their boxes and a few starved monkeys shivering in the corners.

"Here you have your single rooms," Jiri declares. "And here you have your accommodations for five hundred skeletons rubbing together in fifty narrow beds."

"The guy drives me nuts!" says Natalie, clinging to Landau like one of those birds that peck the bugs off the backs of bison. "I will just throw up if I hear him tell one more time about Ottla Kafka leading the children's transport to Auschwitz."

Jiri raises both arms, Mr. Human-Candelabra, flicking one wrist, then the other at the tiny cages on one side, the large holding pens opposite. His face is crimson, streaked with sweat, and the glaring August sun turns his white hair incandescent.

Natalie whispers to Landau, "Eva's got her hands full with him. The guy's had two serious coronaries and a triple bypass. The woman's a wreck. Did you see her face when she came running up to us? She's afraid he'll die on her. Right here in Prague, at the camp! Fabulous for her career at the Kafka Foundation!"

Apparently, sexless Natalie Zigbaum has no idea that Eva's pre-occupation and strain is all about Eros, not Thanatos, about her affair with Jiri and not his imminent death! Natalie wouldn't know Eros if it crept up behind her and pinched her ass!

"Don't kid yourself," says Landau. "He's in better shape than we are!"

This time Natalie backs off, and it's just as well. Landau doesn't need her pecking at him as he peeks into the rooms, which he tries in vain to populate with jammed-together skeletal Jews, then peers into the cells on the other side, in which he tries to picture political prisoners in solitary confinement. What efficient cruelty to border one yard with two opposite tortures!

But the ghosts are hiding from Landau. All he sees are walls, scratched paint, bare bunks. No one's staring at him with raccoon eyes, and frankly, Landau's just as glad. The whole trip is filthy, filthy. What people will do for sensation!

Jiri nearly mows Landau down, hurrying out of the courtyard. The group rushes after Jiri, who is standing outside a weathered wooden shack.

"The KB," says Jiri. "The Krankenbauer. Everything in order! First they have to cure us so afterwards they can kill us. My home away from home!" Jiri has written about the ruses he came up with to get himself sent to the hospital, where he could rest and eat slightly thicker gruel before being sent back to work, duties which, as his readers and every literary prize committee know, included pulling wedding rings from the fingers of the dead.

The feminist from Zagreb, who has a gift for investing the most banal utterances with urgent meaning, pushes forward and grabs Jiri's arm. "Did the doctors ... experiment...?

Oh, please, thinks Landau, then notices Eva Kaprova watching. Is there a triangle forming? Jiri, Eva, the Croatian ...

Jiri glares at the twiglike novelist. How can she ask him this? Hasn't she read his work? He roars at her, he blows her away. "The whole camp was an experiment!"

And now, holding her proud head higher, Eva runs after Jiri, again leaving the rest of the group (how fitting that the Kafka Congress should spend so much time chasing blindly after each other) to inspect the hospital and catch up with her and Jiri.

The sick bay is the most decorated, the most elaborately furnished. A certain wax museum aesthetic prevails, Dr. Adolf's Chamber of Horrors, with charming period details, examining tables with real stirrups, leather straps, no sterile chrome imitations, a dental chair, and cabinets with many tiny drawers the perfect size for torture implements: toenail extractors neatly divided from testicle squeezers.

Landau can hardly endure it, but something compels him to look. He finds himself remembering the ophthalmologist he was taken to as a boy, the gloomy office, the shelves of reference books, graphic instructions for tortures involving the eye, the pool-table-green carpet, the leather couches permeated with a sugary alcohol smell, the clunking apparatus that held the prescriptive lenses, looming over you, pressing into your face.

LITTLE masters

By Damien Wilkins

Henry Holt and Company

Copyright © 1997 Damien Wilkins. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

  • Cover
  • Dedication
  • Guided Tours of Hell
  • Three Pigs in Five Days
    • 1
    • 2
    • 3
    • 4
    • 5
    • 6
    • 7
    • 8
    • 9
    • 10
    • 11
  • About the Author
  • Copyright

What People are Saying About This

David Lodge

Irresistably readable...wit, knowingness, and an infinite familiarity with guilt and anxiety -- Francine Prose has these qualities in abundance.


On Tuesday, May 27th, welcomed Francine Prose to discuss GUIDED TOURS OF HELL.

Moderator: Welcome, Ms. Prose! We're glad you could join us tonight to discuss GUIDED TOURS OF HELL and your life as a writer.

Francine Prose: Thanks. It's a real pleasure to be in the Auditorium, though it's a little strange to see an Auditorium that looks so much like an office....

Amanda from New York City: Why did you choose Europe as the setting for these stories? BTW, I loved your book!

Francine Prose: Actually, Europe sort of chose itself as a setting for the novellas, or rather, my characters chose it. Almost before I knew it, they were on the plane and gone.... The fact was, I'd been spending a lot of time in Europe, seeing how complicated and hard it was to be there for a lot of Americans, so I thought it would be natural to write about it.

Amelia from Boston, MA: Was your title, GUIDED TOURS OF HELL, inspired by Dante? Were any of your themes inspired by his trilogy?

Francine Prose: Yes, but it came out of the blue. The tourists I was writing about were in hellish situations, in fact they were guided hellish situations, and of course it's impossible to think about someone taking you around hell without thinking about Dante, so the title just sort of came by itself.

Amanda C. from Minnesota: Was there one character in your novellas with whom you identified more strongly than the others? Nina perhaps?

Francine Prose: I did identify with Nina. That is, I remember being Nina -- but only at a certain point in my life, decades ago. And I'm a little embarrassed to say that I also identify with Landau -- the smallness, the pettiness, the teensy little jealousies, all the negative and unpleasant emotions he feels throughout the book. They're all too familiar.

Melvin Tomlin from Las Vegas: Hi, Francine. Love your latest. Here's an off-the-wall one for you: If you could live in another era, which would it be?

Francine Prose: The Neanderthal.

Stacy from New York City: Hi, Francine. What are you working on now? Can you give us an on-sale date and/or title?

Francine Prose: I'm working, with the director Nancy Savoca, on a screenplay about the life of Janis Joplin.

Wendy: How do you choose the topics on which you write?

Francine Prose: I usually find myself writing about my obsessions, but I rarely know what my obsessions are until I start writing about them. Also, I like to pick subjects that scare me, that seem frightening and difficult to write about, or even think about.

Carlos from San Antonio, TX: Hi, Francine. Have you ever wanted to be a travel writer?

Francine Prose: Actually, I do a lot of travel writing, and a lot of things in "Three Pigs" came from that experience -- for example, the thing that Leo does, of always including some impossibly seedy dive in the list of places he recommends for his readers to visit.

Michael from Boston: Do you use the Internet? What do you think about its growing popularity?

Francine Prose: This is the first time I've ever used the Internet.

Mike from the Bronx: What's your image of the typical American abroad?

Francine Prose: Curious, vaguely anxious, a bit defensive, resilient, and good-humored.

Thomas P. from Kensington, Australia: Have you spent much time living abroad yourself? Were you in America or Europe when you wrote the novellas? Also, have you travelled to Oz yet?

Francine Prose: I've lived in India for a year and spent time in the former Yugoslavia, just before the beginning of the war. I've also traveled throughout the U.S., Europe, Asia, Mexico. As for Oz, the tornado hasn't hit Manhattan as yet....

Amy from New York City: You said in response to Wendy's question that you like to write about things that you don't like to think about. What does writing about these topics do to you mentally? Does writing an essay or a book about subjects that frighten you make the writing process exhausting, draining, exhilarating...what?

Francine Prose: Writing about things that seem frightening or difficult provides a sort of adrenaline rush. A little like riding the cyclone at an amusement park. So it is exhilarating....

Elke from Long Island: Hi, Francine. What's your opinion on the recent surge in memoir writing? Do you consider it fiction or fact? Also, do you have a favorite by another author?

Francine Prose: People say that the surge in memoirs signals the death of fiction, but as someone -- I think Richard Price -- said, the novel will still be around at our funerals. I think my favorite memoir is still Nadezdha Mandelshtam's HOPE AGAINST HOPE, an incredibly beautiful and brilliant and haunting account of life in Stalinist Russia.

Funman from Work: Do you have any suggestions for young writers trying to make it?

Francine Prose: Obviously, the wisest thing is to worry about the writing first -- to write as well as you can -- and worry about making it later. That will take care of itself if the work is good enough.

Lisa from Washington: How do you think you have inherited the Holocaust? Through memories, through reading? How is your personal experience reflected in your writing?

Francine Prose: I can't imagine how it's possible to live in the world today and not be at least partly obsessed by the Holocaust. When I was working on GUIDED TOURS, I was reading a lot of Primo Levi -- and being constantly astonished and inspired by the clarity of his mind, and his vision.

James from Berkeley: Kafka is clearly an important writer for you. What is it specifically about his writing that you are so inspired by?

Francine Prose: Part of what I love about Kafka is his humor and the extraordinary precision of his language and detail. And of course the roiling terror and anxiety churning underneath everything -- it all feels so entirely modern and familiar.

Lynne King from Charlotte, NC: Francine, how many hours a day do you write? Do you sometimes have to force yourself to sit down and do it, or is it always a pleasure, a release to write?

Francine Prose: I write as often and as much as I can, but I too often have all sorts of other commitments that keep me from writing. I'd rather write than do anything.

Candace Paterno from Westchester: How long did it take you to write GUIDED TOURS OF HELL? Do you go with the first draft, or do you have to rewrite several times?

Francine Prose: It took me about ten months to do first drafts of each of the novellas. Now that I work on the computer, I've of course lost track of how many drafts I do, but I'd say that a rough estimate would be two or three hundred drafts of each one. That is, I probably go over every sentence, word by word, two or three hundred times.

Grant from Gambier: How do you think the American perspective changes when one travels abroad? Does it really lose innocence?

Francine Prose: I think anyone's perspective changes when one travels -- not just Americans'. That is, things are really different in other places, and it's always a great revelation to realize that. On the other hand, there are travelers who seem only to be looking for the things that are just exactly like the things they've left behind at home ("Look, honey, there's the Burger King") I don't know how much their perspective is altered.

Steven from Butler University, IN: Hi, Ms. Prose. Do you let people read your work in progress, or do you trust your own instincts?

Francine Prose: I let my husband read my work, and a few friends. Then my editor often has a number of useful suggestions. I think it's very important to be careful about who you let read your work in early stages. The wrong reader -- disapproving, discouraging -- can do a great deal of damage.

Brian from Hoboken: What authors do you read? Are there authors that have inspired you?

Francine Prose: I still go back to the classics -- Chekhov, Tolstoy, Dickens, Kafka, Joyce, Wharton, Kleist, Henry James. Each time, I find new things I've never noticed before -- and they keep on inspiring me.

Emily from Oregon: How do you go about forming your characters? Do they take after actual people? Do you write outlines of each or let them evolve as you write?

Francine Prose: My characters are almost completely invented. On the other hand, they're pastiches -- I borrow little mannerisms, gestures, lines of dialogue, attitudes, physical characteristics from people I know or people I've observed. Of course, I hope -- I assume -- that people will never recognize themselves, and luckily, they rarely do. I never outline characters, never write lists of what they like to eat for breakfast, what music they listen to, etc. So the characters keep surprising me -- I never know quite what they're going to say until they open their mouths and start talking.

Aaron from Los Angeles: Do you travel a lot? Any recommendations on places to go?

Francine Prose: Sicily.

Tod from Seattle: What are your hobbies? What would you be doing if you were not a writer?

Francine Prose: I wish I had time to have a hobby. I wish I had time to write. I think if I hadn't been a writer I would have liked to have been a musician, except that I had no musical talent.

Wendy: Is there one certain book or essay that you've written that means the most to you?

Francine Prose: I like GUIDED TOURS OF HELL the best -- it's the newest, it's the baby, though of course a very weird little baby. I'm still very fond of HOUSEHOLD SAINTS, and I liked the movie that was made from it.

Bill from Salt Lake City: Have you ever attended a writer's conference? Did you get anything out of it?

Francine Prose: I've never attended a writer's conference as a student, but I've taught at a great number of them and have had some terrific students who have gone on to become published writers.

Elisa from New York City: Where did you get the ideas for GUIDED TOURS OF HELL?

Francine Prose: The first thing that happens in "Three Pigs in Five Days" -- the young woman in the French hotel room, watching TV, and every time she turns on the TV, she sees another pig being slaughtered in a documentary...that was real, I actually saw those pigs being killed on French TV. The novella started there. Beyond that, I was trying to write about that state that young women sometimes find themselves in -- letting their boyfriend of the moment dictate their most basic notion of reality. GUIDED TOURS OF HELL began with a trip I made to a former concentration camp outside Prague, and the surprise and dismay seeing tourists arriving in busloads, trooping merrily around the grounds of the former camp. I wanted to write about the ways in which the Holocaust had been turned into kitsch -- into something marketable and commercial -- over the last decades. And GUIDED TOURS developed from that.

Ryan from Boston: When you sit down to write, how do you go about it? With pen and paper, or word processor? How do your thoughts get onto paper?

Francine Prose: I use a word processor. I can't think anymore unless I'm sitting in front of the monitor.

Jeremy Kuhn from Freiburg: Ms. Prose, have you gotten any negative reaction on GUIDED TOURS OF HELL, particularly regarding the Holocaust?

Francine Prose: I expected, and I was very worried, that there would be a lot of outrage. That is, that people would misunderstand the book and think that I was making jokes about the Holocaust, instead of -- what I thought I was actually doing -- making a rather bitter comment on what's happened to the memory of the Holocaust. And I feel I've been lucky. People who've read the book -- and really, quite a number of Holocaust survivors among them -- have seemed to understand what I was trying to do, and I've been very pleased and grateful. One woman called a radio talk show I was on to say that I had no business writing the book, but then it turned out that she hadn't read it.

Jim from Kansas City, KS: You mentioned that you liked the movie that was made of HOUSEHOLD SAINTS. Were you nervous beforehand that your story would be somehow ruined by Hollywood? Is that something you ever worry about when Hollywood comes knocking?

Francine Prose: I knew the director, Nancy Savoca, for several years before she made the film -- before she got funding to make the film -- and I always had complete confidence that she got the book, that she would do a terrific job. More often, when Hollywood comes knocking you just hope that they option the book for real money, that the checks clear, and they never actually make the film.

Jason from Los Angeles: Are you a big news, current affairs junkie? What pop-culture "stuff" do you follow?

Francine Prose: Yes, I read the paper, watch the news compulsively. I also watch TV, though mostly those news magazines. I like "The Simpsons" a lot.

Amy from New York City: I just wanted to tell you I completely relate to your impressions of tourists tramping around the concentration camps...not really getting the meaning of where they were. I saw something similar at Dachau in 1992 when I was studying in Germany. There was a memorial that day organized by family members of Dachau victims. As they marched back to the death sites, several American tourists were standing in their way and actually telling them to hold still for pictures. I really got a lot out of GUIDED TOURS OF HELL. Thanks.

Francine Prose: Yes, what got to me was the people craning their necks, sticking their heads into the little cells. Thanks. I'm glad you liked the book.

Naomi Seles from Venice Beach: What kind of research did you do on the Holocaust before writing GUIDED TOURS OF HELL? Was it already an interest?

Francine Prose: I read a great deal of Primo Levi, as I've said. Also I read two extraordinary books by Gitta Sereny, INTO THAT DARKNESS and ALBERT SPEER

Francine Prose: HIS BATTLE WITH TRUTH. I think she's the best journalist who's written about the Holocaust. Finally, I watched tapes of the Nuremberg Trials, which were fascinating.

Moderator: Thanks for joining us tonight, Ms. Prose. Best of luck with all your endeavors. We're looking forward to your next work!

Francine Prose: Thanks. It's been fun. Goodnight.

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