This is as much a story about the children of those who survived the Second World War extermination camps as about the survivors themselves. The ‘nightfather’ of the title is seen through the eyes of his daughter, a child of about ten. She and her two brothers were born after the war (we are in the early 1960s) and they have grown up with a father traumatized by the concentration camp experiences.


Although the children realize their father is different from other fathers in their neighbourhood, to them this is just the way he is, and they accept it. He ‘has camp’, and it gives him nightmares, it makes his reactions unpredictable, it means he has to spend periods in the sanatorium. His wife gives him her unconditional, loving support. As the children grow up, the elder boy has moments of rebelliousness, venting his frustration at a father who never stops relating everything around him to the concentration camp.


Despite the father’s grim condition, the book paints a remarkably upbeat picture. The girl’s innocence and her matter-of-factness create an unsentimental perspective and leave much of the pain unspoken. Friedman’s uncluttered style adds considerably to the freshness and humour of the forty short, vignette-like chapters. Its immediacy renders the book’s progression unemphatic. But progression there is: the father’s stories not only cover a chronological sequence but contain an element of suspense which is not resolved until the end, when it becomes clear that in the final months of the war, as the factory where he was forced to work was being bombed by the Allies, he killed a German guard.


The concluding chapter has the father relating his homecoming to his Bette, the children’s mother but also the father’s sweetheart, then and now. She too remembers everything, and her eyes fill with tears as she relives the moment. As the book ends we realize that Nightfather is equally a celebration of her loyalty and devotion as of his survival. And since Nightfather has its basis in autobiography, it is also Carl Friedman’s homage to her parents.

He never mentions it by name. It might have been Trebibor or Mafkawitz, Soblinka or Birkenhausen. He talks about ‘the camp’, as if there had been just one.

‘After the war,’ he says, ‘I saw a film about the camp. With a prisoner frying an egg for breakfast.’ He slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘An egg!’ he says shrilly. ‘In the camp!’

So camp is somewhere where no one fries eggs.

Camp is not so much a place as a condition. ‘I’ve had camp,’ he says. That makes him different from us. We’ve had chicken pox and German measles. And after Simon fell out of a tree, he got a concussion and had to stay in bed for weeks.

But we’ve never had camp.

Most of the time he drops the past participle for convenience, Then he says ‘I have camp,’ as if the situation hadn’t changed. And it’s true, it hasn’t. He still has camp, especially in his face. Not so much in his nose or his ears, although they’re big enough, but in his eyes. (p. 1-2, tr. Arnold & Erica Pomerans)

This is as much a story about the children of those who survived the extermination camps as about the survivors themselves. The ’nightfather’ of the title is seen through the eyes of his daughter, a girl of about ten. She and her two brothers were born after the war (we are in the early 1960s) and they have grown up with a father traumatised by his concentration camp experiences.

Although they realise their father is different from other fathers in their neighbourhood, to them this is just the way he is, and they accept it. He ’has camp’, and it gives him nightmares, it makes his reactions unpredictable, it means he has to spend periods in the sanatorium. His wife gives him her unconditional, loving support. As the children grow up, the elder boy has moments of rebelliousness, venting his frustration at a father who never stops relating everything around him to the concentration camp.

Despite the father’s grim condition the book paints a remarkably upbeat picture. The girl’s innocence and her matter-of-factness create an unsentimental perspective and leave much of the pain unspoken. Friedman’s uncluttered style adds considerably to the freshness and humour of the forty short, vignette-like chapters. Its immediacy renders the book’s progression unemphatic. But progression there is: the father’s stories not only cover a chronological sequence but contain an element of suspense which is not resolved until the end, when it becomes clear that in the final months of the war, as the factory where he worked was bombed, he killed a German guard. The concluding chapter has the father relating his homecoming to his Bette, the children’s mother and the father’s sweetheart. She too remembers everything. As the book ends we realise that Nightfather is as much about her love as it is about his survival and readjustment. And since Nightfather has its basis in autobiography, it is also Carl Friedman’s homage to her parents.

’He never mentions it by name. It might have been Trebibor or Mafkawitz, Soblinka or Birkenhausen. He talks about; "the camp", as if there had been just one.

"After the war," he says, "I saw a film about the camp. With a prisoner frying an egg for breakfast." He slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand. "An egg!" he says shrilly. "In the camp!"

So camp is somewhere where no one fries eggs.

Camp is not so much a place as a condition. "I’ve had camp," he says. That makes him different from us. We’ve had chicken pox and German measles. And after Simon fell out of a tree, he got a concussion and had to stay in bed for weeks.

But we’ve never had camp.

Most of the time he drops the past participle for convenience, Then he says "I have camp," as if the situation hadn’t changed. And it’s true, it hasn’t. He still has camp, especially in his face. Not so much in his nose or his ears, although they’re big enough, but in his eyes.’ p1-2