The Invisible Wall by Harry Bernstein (2008: Ballantine. ISBN 978-345-49610-2)
When I began reading The Invisible Wall, given the time frame described in the book (pre-WWI), and given we are now nearly a century after the Great War, I was a bit confused. The book is billed as autobiographical but it wasn’t released until 2007. How could this be? The author would have to be, what, like nearly a hundred? Is this a faux memoir? A novel? A combination of the two? In the end, having read the book’s Afterword, I understand: This is an accurate depiction of the neighborhood in Manchester, England where Mr. Bernstein grew up. The title comes from the ethnic and religious line of demarcation that divided Bernstein’s side of the street (occupied by Jews) from the opposite side of the same street (occupied by Christians). Insofar as story and plot, think Angela’s Ashes but with a kosher twist. There’s a long suffering wife, an alcoholic abusive husband, and intelligent but under appreciated children, all living together in industrial squalor, all of which replicate the tone and setting of the Irish classic. But whereas Frank McCourt’s best book gives a long and very detailed depiction of the inner landscape of the author’s life in Ireland, Bernstein’s work is more externally directed, more focused on the circumstances and setting than the internal turmoil he experienced. Still, this is a fine piece of reporting which, though thinner gruel than McCourt’s character-driven effort, ultimately satisfies.
But what of my concerns regarding the timing of the book’s release? Was the basis of this book a diary, kept in secret by Mr. Bernstein, found by one of his children, and then published posthumously? Or could it indeed be a work compiled by a man nearly a century old?
It is the later which is the truth: Harry Bernstein began writing this memoir in his 90’s, after his wife of 67 years died and he needed a task to curb loneliness. It was released, after being rejected by all the American publishers Bernstein approached (his family moved to the U.S. in 1922) by a British publisher as the author turned the ripe young age of 97. I’ll write that out for the slower of my readers: ninety-seven. I’ll write it in caps so those who are of dim sight can appreciate the significance of the number: NINETY-SEVEN!
Though not as engaging as McCourt’s classic expose of an immigrant’s inner life, in the end, Bernstein’s descriptions of his religious and ethnic upbringing save the memoir from being branded a cheap knock-off. There are scenes that make you laugh; innumerable scenes that piss you off (most of your anger will be aimed at Harry’s father); and some truly gut wrenching scenes involving Harry and his siblings as they amble their way through the seamy Manchester landscape. There’s enough here to make both fiction and nonfiction readers happy. Not a masterpiece but a well-cobbled book which reminds us that not all authors start out as twenty-something whippersnappers with MFA’s. Other authors have found audiences late in life: Norman McLean (at age 74 for A River Runs Through It) and Sig Olsen (whose first book was published at age 57) come immediately to mind. But no other success story I am of aware of reaches the levels of “gee whiz” that Harry Bernstein’s does: He’s still working with two sequels to The Invisible Wall already in print and his pen still scribbling on paper at the age of 100. 4 stars out of 5.
