Naturally, Shab'tai Z'vi converted to Islam on the spot - he was smart, but not stupid. The idea that came to me in the darkness was this: What if Shab'tai Z'wi had chosen the archers and their arrows had fallen harmlessly to the ground (because of a gust of wind; because of a miracle)? Then Sultan Mehmed IV would have had no choice but to give the Jews the three provinces of his empire in which the historic land of Israel was located. So there would have been a Jewish state for more than three hundred years, and it would have been founded in agreement with the Islamic world. After 1933 the Jews had a country of refuge. The Arabs would not have wasted their strength in wars against Israel.
Unimaginable! So I thought of it. A Middle East as rich – and as technologically advanced – as Shanghai, Seoul, Singapore. A high-speed railway connecting Jerusalem to Baghdad and Baghdad to Isfahan. A tolerant and self-confident Islam that knows no anti-Semitism. A messianic republic of Israel in which Sephardim – Spanish Jews – call the shots.
From the start I knew I had to write a spy novel. (Or a parody of a spy novel, which pretty much amounts to the same thing.) I immediately saw the heroine: Maya Goldschein, a Jew from Hamburg. She is commissioned to write the first biography of Shab'tai Z'wi that is not a saint's legend; For this purpose she is even allowed to conduct research in the Israeli state archives. Maya was smart and tough and beautiful. And neurotic. And curious. While I was writing, something happened to me that I had always thought was a pious literary legend: Maya Goldschein didn't follow my instructions. Near the end of the novel, she literally ran away. Maya had a mind of her own and gave me a punch line that amazed me too.
Not for sale because it's too Jewish?
The novel takes place mainly in the Gaza Strip, with a little bit in Jerusalem and Jaffa. As I wrote, the Israeli army was turning Gaza City into a desert wasteland - in my imagination I was rebuilding the city; just completely different. It had to be that way. In the 17th century, a crazy, ecstatic Kabbalist named Nathan lived there, whom his followers celebrated as a prophet. Nathan played the same role for Shab'tai Z'wi that John the Baptist played for Jesus: he publicly proclaimed him the Messiah in his synagogue. At the same time, he was something like Shab'tai Z'wis Apostle Paul - he proclaimed the glory of the Savior throughout the Mediterranean. So I imagined that three hundred years later there would be a “Prophet Nathan Library” in the Gaza Strip in which the holy writings of the Jews were collected. I also fantasized that Jews and Arabs in Gaza lived together without conflict. That no children burn there. That gays are not stoned.
Problem, I know.
People of my generation grew up with a breathtaking cinematic scene: Sean Connery aka secret agent 007 sleeping under palm trees. A woman's voice sings a hit, James Bond wakes up and reaches for his pistol. Cut: sandy beach, sea, attractive cumulus clouds. And then Ursula Andress emerges from the waves, a blonde goddess in a bikini. In my novel I provide the appropriate yin to this yang; So for me it is a blonde man who rises from the sea as a foam-born Apollo, while my heroine treats herself to a lustful look. This is how the story begins. It continues almost conventionally. But not entirely, because one of the conventions of the spy novel is the mysterious woman, where it remains hidden for a long time whether she is one of the good guys or the bad guys. (Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale, Phuong in The Quiet American.) I had a lot of fun reversing this age-old cliché. For me, the mysterious figure is a man: Philip von Halenstein, a German nobleman, and to make matters worse, bisexual. A patriot whose grandfather was murdered by Hitler. Maya falls head over heels for the guy.
The novel tumbled out of me; it actually wrote itself; my brain treated itself to a vacation. I let the manuscript rest for a few months, revised it with appropriate ruthlessness, and at the very end I put the magnifying glass in my eye and took out the file. When I felt like I was done, I sent the product to colleagues and friends and my agent. Enthusiastic Reactions: This novel would be a no-brainer. I thought, everyone thought. But then no one cast the line, no one grabbed it. Brilliant, they said, but too wild; great, but not for us. I was secretly told via several relay stations that the decree from a prominent publisher was: not for sale because it was too Jewish.
Maybe, I thought later, my novel falls into an ideological no-man's land. He can't please people who demonstrate for the destruction of Israel wearing Palestinian scarves. On the other hand, I do not portray Arabs as rampaging savages with drawn Islamic curved swords. I dream of peace, feel free to laugh. Maybe my daring dream wasn't the reason for the rejection? Maybe my friends and colleagues were wrong and my manuscript wasn't of much use? After six months, I resigned myself to the fact that this novel would remain in the dark on my hard drive forever. And yet my surrender was only half-hearted, as can be seen in the following circumstance: I printed out five manuscripts and sent them the old-fashioned way by post.
My friend Andreas Öhler in Berlin, who unfortunately no longer lives, received a copy. The writer Artur Becker, who is fortunately still alive, visited him. Artur discovered the manuscript on Andreas’ desk, put it under his armpit and drove back to his hometown. He read and recommended the book to a small, fine publishing house in Frankfurt. And now we will try out whether my novel is really too Jewish or whether it is just good enough for Germany.
Hannes Stein reports for WELT from New York. His novel “The Messiah Complex” is published by Edition Faust.
