Jerry Spinelli

Jerry Spinelli is one of the nation’s most beloved children’s authors. In 2001, at age 60, he set off on a new literary adventure that landed him in the Warsaw Ghetto during World War II. In his 2003 Milkweed, Spinelli weaves the story of Misha, an orphan who steals bread to survive. Despite the difficult subject, Spinelli portrays Nazi brutality while at the same time illuminating the power of human kindness. He shares with Moment editor Nadine Epstein his thoughts on the Holocaust, writing and the best way to take story ideas out to lunch.

Most of your books are about kids in Middle America. What inspired you to write a book about a boy in the Holocaust?
One of my earliest memories is looking at black and white pictures of the Holocaust, in particular of the victims of the concentration camps. I saw piles of bodies that I didn’t even recognize as bodies. I would turn the pictures this way and that because the moment/images didn’t make any sense. Those pictures planted a seed in me—an interest, a caring, a concern, an obsession to understand how the Holocaust could have possibly happened. As I grew older, I read many personalized accounts, Elie Wiesel’s Night being one. I was stunned that there were people who not only survived but retained the wits to write about what happened.

Why did it take you so long to write a book about the Holocaust?
It had occurred to me before, but I kept backing off. I’m a Presbyterian. I’m not Jewish. I didn’t know any of the victims personally. “Who am I to presume to write about the Holocaust?” I thought. Finally, I said to myself, “Well, wait a minute, maybe caring about it is all the credentials I need. Maybe I should go ahead and do this anyway no matter how unqualified I may be. Maybe it won’t be good, maybe it won’t get published, but at least I’d be writing what I care about.” That attitude dovetailed with a story I read about a man, who I believe was a pharmacist, in a ghetto who gave his son some sort of medication that made him appear to be dead. The idea was that the only way a Jew could get outside of the ghetto gate was in a coffin. The boy was taken out by guards and dumped in a human slagheap. He eventually awoke and made his way off. That story struck me as indicative of human resourcefulness. And so, the attitude, willingness and a little kernel of story came together. As often happens with initial ideas that you believe are the bricks of the building you are erecting, it turns out that they are only just scaffolding that enables you to reach the material. You tear down the scaffolding and find the story.

Is Misha Jewish?
It doesn’t matter that much, but in my mind he’s probably a gypsy. I drop a few hints that he might be Roma. He has a vague memory of horses and flames. I don’t know for sure why I didn’t make him Jewish. It had something to do with making the point that the Holocaust was a human tragedy. In my notes I jotted down a line that became my motto while I was writing the book: “It was not just one Holocaust for six million, it was six million holocausts of one.”

How did you manage to strike a tone that balanced the horror of the Holocaust with human optimism so that children and adults can love reading this book?
A lot of that has to do with a kind of feel for things as you go along. It’s hard to explain—it’s similar to why you chose one shirt and put the other four back on the rack. Even more important is the point of view that I chose—a kid effectively without a past. From his point of view, he simply appeared at age three next to a crumbling wall and that was his birth. He has no prior knowledge whatsoever because all he has been doing is stealing bread to stay alive. When you approach the Holocaust from that angle, you discover you have fallen heir to some interesting points of view. So that on a night when all the Jews in the ghetto are called out of their apartment houses to line up in the snow, the more mature people are terrified because they understand what is going on, but Misha is proud of himself because he manages to stay still so long and the snow is piling up on his shoulders. Life has to teach him what a Nazi is, what a gun is and what terror is.

What is the symbolism of milkweed?
When I was growing up, I used to blow milkweed pods when I was walking along the tracks near my home. They were maybe two to three inches long and would crack open in October and release this kind of starry wispy puffs of seeds. Milkweed represents something light and good that rises rather than sinks. In spite of everything, Misha remains sensitive to the good things. Even in the depths of the ghetto, he is attracted to the sight of milkweed flying in the air.

Is there a lesson in Milkweed that you hope readers will come away with?
I think about lessons but I sublimate that because I believe that the story is always paramount. If you write primarily with a lesson in mind, you are going to end up writing a sermon. As I see it, a lesson should arise up out of the story. What would that lesson be for Milkweed? I don’t know if I can be more original than the cliché: “Let us all be brothers.”

Did you write the book as an introduction to the Holocaust for middle school children?
I wrote it for myself because I cared. I wrote it for the ideas. When I have an idea for a story, I take it out to lunch at the diner. We are sitting there across the Formica table, and I start to ask my idea questions. I ask it: “How do you want me to write you? What makes you tick? Where are you going?” And when it starts to talk back to me, I know I am getting somewhere.

When you were a kid, did you know you were going to be a writer? Did you read a lot?
I do not have the usual writer’s profile. When I was a kid I wanted to be a baseball player. In 12th grade, I think I was asked in a college application to name three books…I could only think of two. One of my books is called Maniac Magee, and the main character carries a book with him everywhere he goes, something I think I wrote as a way to make up for what I wish I had done when I was his age.

What advice do you have for writers?
I tell writers to write about what you care about. Ultimately, writing is not about how tidy your margins are, it’s not about spelling. It’s about the ability of the story to reach out from the page and grab the reader by the neck. The best chance of doing that is if you pour your heart out onto the page. That caring, almost magically, has a way of seeping down into your writing and giving it something that no amount of grammar lessons can.