War and Turpentine

by Stefan Hertmans

Spanning multiple war-ridden decades of the 20th century, Hertmans’ lovingly layered reconstruction of his grandfather's life is an ambitious undertaking, flawlessly executed.

Urbain Martien, the hero of this book, is the author's grandfather. At some point in his long life (1891–1981) he sat down at a table and started writing down his memories. Memories of his difficult and impoverished childhood in Ghent. Of his decorated service in the Great War. Of his wife, and his wife before her—her sister, as it happens—whom he loved more than anything in the world. And of his father, a gifted church painter who struggled to make ends meet, and died early.

Shortly before his own death, Urbain handed these memories to his grandson, Stefan Hertmans. Decades later, Stefan mustered up the courage to dig through the notebooks he'd been given—hundreds of pages—and wrote a book recounting his grandfather's life. A novel. Or part novel, part memoir: a beautiful and lovingly layered reconstruction of his grandfather's life.

At the centre of the book is a chapter recounting Urbain's time in the Great War. At just twenty-three years old, he is sent to the front, where he grows into an intelligent, capable, and heroic soldier. The scenes in the chapter—which Hertmans describes from his grandfather's first-person perspective—are harrowing and superbly written.

He describes numerous battles, often lost before Urbain and his company have even had a chance to find their footing. Grenades tearing fellow soldiers apart, bullets whizzing past, not a clue from which way they arrived; crawling, unarmed, through hundreds of metres of mud and under the cover of darkness to scope out the enemy's position; getting ambushed in a village, outgunned and drunk of gin. Blisters forming upon blisters. Frostbite, gangrene—soldiers dressed in rags, their bodies unable to cope with the harshest of conditions. Rats scurrying about, spreading disease. The enemy deploying mustard gas.

Rarely have I read an account of war so lifelike and powerful.

Written in the bottom corner: “this is how Urbain arrived back home to mother, brothers and sisters, after the war 1914-1918"

Sent on bewildering, often suicidal missions, Urbain escapes a certain death time and again. Once, wounded and recovering from his injuries in Liverpool, he visits a church and—miraculously—finds one of his father's frescoes. Urbain, too, had drawn as a child; his sketches once brought his father to tears after he returned home from a long period away, spent painting. Painting serves as one of the book's important undercurrents, another way of preserving what might have otherwise been lost.

After the war, Urbain takes up painting himself. He produces skilled copies of masterpieces, alongside original works: portraits and self-portraits. He relishes the calm after the horrors of war.

And his wife—yes, Gabrielle. In the years following the war, Urbain is first engaged to be married to Maria Emelia, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, counting himself lucky. Then the Spanish flu takes her. Devastated but dutiful, Urbain marries Maria's older sister, Gabrielle. She wears a raincoat in bed and, through his recollections, comes across as one of the starkest, most prudish women ever put to paper. I could just imagine a painting of hers, her mouth a hard line, her eyes calm and unsmiling. A torturous marriage follows. Maria never leaves his mind.

Comprising Urbain’s efforts in war, in art, and in love, War and Turpentine is an astounding read. Longlisted for The Man Booker International Prize in 2017, it has all the makings of a classic, and had me in its grip almost as soon as I opened it. Hertmans unearths layers of his grandfather's life that might otherwise have remained undiscovered. And they would have remained so, had Urbain not handed him his notes. His luck in that regard, if I can call it that, had me mulling over my own inquisitiveness. I know more of another man's grandfather than I do of my own, and he left no notes.

What a life. What a testament.

Thank you to Iris, for gifting me this book.