Address Unknown
Kressman Taylor
FOREWORD
IN THIS DRAMATIC SERIES OF LETTERS (between an American living in San Francisco and his former business partner who returned to Germany) American writing has been enriched by one of those rarities in the field of literature, a perfect short story. Further, it is one of those inevitable stories, so significantly conceived and so naturally expressed that both the average reader and the professional author are likely to experience a kindred shocked reaction: “Why, I could have written that. Why didn’t I think of that before!” In every work of genius, says Goethe reflectively, we recognize our own rejected thoughts.
Kressmann Taylor, the author, is a woman. She is a wife, and the mother of three children. Between 1926 and 1928 she was an advertising copy writer. Since then, except for times when she has had occasional satirical verses in periodicals, she has considered herself a “housewife” and not a writer.
Address Unknown springs out of a background, she says, of reality. It is based upon a few actual letters. And in discussion of these letters with her husband, Elliott Taylor, the idea of this story emerged, its finished form, she generously says, owing perhaps as much to her husband and his enthusiasm as to herself. Thus, from the first, it would seem, Address Unknown took on a kind of communal or social quality.
In a country of several hundred thousand short story writers, a country in which the short story is a popular and traditional, even a common and often extremely vulgar literary form, it is unusual for one short story by an unheard-of author to awaken the widespread interest of Address Unknown. Its publication in Story met with a public reaction rare in the eight-years’ history of that literary magazine, for within ten days the entire printing of that issue was sold out. The ensuing demand, which could not be fulfilled, saw the even more unusual phenomenon of some appreciative readers (this was in Hollywood) running off mimeographed copies of the story, at their own expense, for their friends. Walter Winchell described it as “the best piece of the month, something you shouldn’t miss,” and The Readers’ Digest printed a condensation for its more than three million readers.
Motion-picture producers began wiring east. It was ordered by English publishers and translation into foreign languages was begun. At about this point it seemed Address Unknown ought to have a good substantial binding on it and its own independent, and perhaps permanent, place on the country’s bookshelf. This is it. On a shelf of significance there seems no doubt it will hold a challenging place.
—WHIT BURNETT , editor of Story Magazine
Note to the electronic edition: Address Unknown first appeared in 1938 in the literary magazine Story. The foreword below appeared in its first separate book publication the following year. Curiously, although the story remains popular in French, German, and other languages, the original has largely been forgotten in the United States, as has the author, Kathrine Kressmann Taylor (1903-1997), who suppressed her first name when Address Unknown was first published in deference to the common prejudice against woman writers who chose “masculine” themes and genres. Although one can quibble with historical details, the story is surprisingly accurate for its time in its portrayal of the fate of Jews in the Third Reich.
Address Unknown
by
Kressmann Taylor
SCHULSE-EISENSTEIN GALLERIES
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A.
NOVEMBER 12, 1932
Herrn Martin Schulse Schloss Rantzenburg Munich, Germany
MY DEAR MARTIN :
Back in Germany! How I envy you! Although I have not seen it since my school days, the spell of Unter den Linden is still strong upon me — the breadth of intellectual freedom, the discussions, the music, the lighthearted comradeship. And now the old Junker spirit, the Prussian arrogance and militarism are gone. You go to a democratic Germany, a land with a deep culture and the beginnings of a fine political freedom. It will be a good life. Your new address is impressive and I rejoice that the crossing was so pleasant for Elsa and the young sprouts.
As for me, I am not so happy. Sunday morning finds me a lonely bachelor without aim. My Sunday home is now transported over the wide seas. The big old house on the hill — your welcome that said the day was not complete until we were together again! And our dear jolly Elsa, coming out beaming, grasping ray hand and shouting “Max, Max!” and hurrying indoors to open my favorite Schnaps. The fine boys, too, especially your handsome young Heinrich; he will be a grown man before I set eyes upon him again.
And dinner — shall I evermore hope to eat as I have eaten? Now Igo to a restaurant and over my lonely roast beef come visions of Gebackener Schinken steaming in its Burgundy sauce, of Spätzle, ah! of Spätzle and Spargel. No, I shall never again become reconciled to my American diet. And the wines, so carefully slipped ashore from the German boats, and the pledges we made as the glasses brimmed for the fourth and fifth and sixth times.
Of course you are right to go. You have never become American despite your success here, and now that the business is so well established you must take your sturdy German boys back to the homeland to be educated. Elsa too has missed her family through the long years and they will be glad to see you as well. The impecunious young artist has now become the family benefactor, and that too will give you a quiet little triumph.
The business continues to go well. Mrs. Levine has bought the small Picasso at our price, for which I congratulate myself, and I have old Mrs. Fleshman playing with the notion of the hideous Madonna. No one ever bothers to tell her that any particular piece of hers is bad, because they are all so bad. However I lack your fine touch in selling to the old Jewish matrons. I can persuade them of the excellence of the investment, but you alone had the fine spiritual approach to a piece of art that unarmed them. Besides they probably never entirely trust another Jew.
A delightful letter came yesterday from Griselle, She writes that she is about to make me proud of my little sister. She has the lead in a new play in Vienna and the notices are excellent — her discouraging years with the small companies are beginning to bear fruit. Poor child, it has not been easy for her, but she has never complained. She has a fine spirit, as well as beauty, and I hope the talent as well. She asked about you, Martin, in a very friendly way. There is no bitterness left there, for that passes quickly when one is young as she is. A few years and there is only a memory of the hurt, and of course neither of you was to be blamed. Those things are like quick storms, for a moment you are .drenched and blasted, and you are so wholly helpless before them. But then the sun comes, and although you have neither quite forgotten, there remains only gentleness and no sorrow. You would not have had it otherwise, nor would I. I have not written Griselle that you are in Europe but perhaps I shall if you think it wise, for she does not make friends easily and I know she would be glad to feel that friends are not far away.