This story begins in a fever. It was the spring of 2021 and I’d contracted my first bout of Covid. Confined to bed, I turned to the pile of books that had been staring at me guiltily for weeks, if not months. The one I pulled out was a soon-to-be released noir-ish thriller called The Passenger. It was set in the Germany of the 1930s, following a man on the run from the Nazi authorities, hoping to make his escape by hopping on and off trains crisscrossing the country. As the Gestapo net around him tightens, he plunges into paranoia and breakdown. Perhaps the coronavirus intensified the experience, but I was gripped. I tweeted that it was part Franz Kafka, part John Buchan and completely riveting.
But there was a twist. This was not a new book, but one written nearly a century earlier. The author was Ulrich Alexander Boschwitz, just 23 years old when his novel was published in 1938 and a Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany. In 1935, he had made his way across Europe to reach Britain, where he was promptly classified as an “enemy alien” and interned in a camp on the Isle of Man. He was held with more than a thousand other émigrés, among them a remarkable number of artists, musicians, writers and intellectuals on what Simon Parkin has called the island of extraordinary captives.
