Talking with Richard Zimler about 'Warsaw'

The novels of Richard Zimler shine compelling light on overlooked aspects of history -- and, along the way, they provide plenty of myth and lore to delight any student of esoterica. "The Last Kabbalist of Lisbon" (2000), for instance, describes the mystical practices of 16th century kabbalists as it explores the plight of Jews in Inquisition-era Spain.

In his most recent novel, "The Warsaw Anagrams" (Overlook Press, $25.95), Zimler tells a ghostly tale of murder set in the Warsaw Ghetto during the Nazi occupation of Poland. Zimler traveled recently to Poland to read and discuss his novel with readers there. Did he find audiences receptive or hostile to his novel, which examines a tragic period in their history? I caught up with him on his return.

When my grandparents emigrated from Poland to New York around 1905, they left behind nine brothers and sisters, as well as many other relatives. None of them survived the Holocaust. So I always suspected that I'd one day research what happened to them. Writing about the kinds of experiences they would have had in the Jewish ghettos was perfect for me because my passion is stimulated by exploring the lives of people who have been largely forgotten or whose voices have been systematically silenced.

I spent three days in Warsaw, two in Poznan and one in Lodz. I'm the first person in my family to go back to Poland since the Holocaust, so it was a very emotional journey for me. This is the fourth novel of mine to come out in Poland, and when my publisher discovered I had written a book set in Warsaw, he was keen on having me do a tour.

Most Jews I know regard Polish society as anti-Semitic to the core, so I was worried that I would encounter a lot of hostility. But all the readers I met and journalists who interviewed me were generous and enthusiastic. What I learned from my conversations with them was that educated Poles regard the Holocaust as a supremely solemn and fundamental event. That came as a very welcome surprise.

My idea for the first chapter was to write about an elderly Jewish psychiatrist, Erik Cohen, walking back to Warsaw after surviving a Nazi labor camp. But on the very first page of the book, while inside his head, I wrote, "I'm a dead man." I meant it figuratively -- that Erik had lost all his friends and relatives, and no longer had any reason to continue living. But those words gave me a whole new idea for the book. I realized that Erik was indeed dead! He was an "ibbur," a spirit that remains in this world to fulfill a duty or "mitzvah" that he failed to fulfill in life. But what was it?

I usually start a novel with an idea or image that obsesses me. In this case, I felt I had to write about daily life in the Warsaw Ghetto, in part because I knew so little about it. Were there hospitals and clinics? Were Christians allowed to visit their Jewish friends in the ghetto? How did the black market work? I ordered about 20 books about ghetto life and started reading and taking notes.

That image captivated me. It still does. To be confined to an island in the middle of a big city seemed to me a unique -- and terrible -- experience worth exploring. And I hoped that if I could bring readers there that they would be moved by the experience.