 Daughters of the Fatherland cover
In 2004, it was the 60th anniversary of WW II (1944), and, as a consequence, there was the usual abundance of WW II documentaries on TV. I sat on my lounge in the middle of the barracks at the Infantry Training Centre in Singleton, NSW, when a documentary aired about Marlene Dietrich and her war service years with the USO. Rather than performing in the safety of America or London, she chose to entertain the troops on European frontlines. As a major movie-goer/enthusiast, I marvelled at her and couldn’t believe that no one had ever made a film about her, especially her WW II exploits. The next show was a documentary about German propaganda, which included details about Leni Riefenstahl. I could not get over how these amazingly similar film-industry German women behaved as polar opposites. But, during this film, they off-handedly mentioned how Riefenstahl took Gypsy children from a nearby Gypsy Concentration Camp as she was filming a movie Tiefland, which was about a Gypsy Queen (after someone had pointed out that using blonde-haired, blue-eyed German children did not work). I was equally amazed, as the war’s noose tightened around Germany’s neck, that the Nazis were spending millions of Reichsmarks on making propaganda films. The seeds of Daughters of the Fatherland (DOF) had been implanted.
However, in 2004-05, I immediately encountered two problems: firstly, there wasn’t much information available in remote Australia, particularly about Gypsies (from far-off Europe). All military barracks had military libraries but didn’t cover USO entertainers or German propaganda directors. I found myself without anything to research. Secondly, although I studied screenwriting at university as an elective and earned my only High Distinction for a 10-minute screenplay inspired by an episode of the TV show Seinfeld, I realised I didn’t possess the necessary skills to write this project.
It required years of historical research and learning how to write a full-length movie script. I bought books whenever I came across them, books on writing, and, while books on Dietrich and Riefenstahl were helpful, I found books on other figures who dealt with these two women much more insightful. One such book was Erich Maria Remarque: The Last Romantic by Hilton Tims. The front cover had a photograph of the author of All Quiet on the Western Front sitting beside a stunning Marlene Dietrich. I knew I couldn’t write a novel, but felt I certainly could learn how to write a full-length movie script. Where were the best screenplays written? Hollywood. But, ultimately, I was drawn to New York over Los Angeles.
While in New York, which was a writer’s paradise, I studied Film and TV writing at NYFA (New York Film Academy) during the day. However, at night and on weekends, I attended book writing courses, festivals, and workshops such as Robert McKee’s Story seminars (three times), learning everything I could about novel writing, playwriting, children’s picture book writing, etc. NYFA advised me against this, claiming it would only confuse me. I knew they were right, but I also knew I had limited time in America. While writing a sitcom for NYFA, I decided I needed to enrol in comedy writing classes. Little did I know this meant doing stand-up comedy in New York comedy clubs. Here, I met a Jewish woman who performed a stand-up comedy about the Holocaust. Her name was Donna Cohen, and she was the CEO of the Holocaust and Human Rights Education Center in White Plains, NY. We quickly became friends. After meeting her Holocaust survivors, whom I spoke to and interviewed for my book research, I understood where her humour about the Holocaust stemmed from. These sweet, gentle women and men, who had endured the worst that humanity could dish out, were funny and caring. They served me more food than I’d ever been given at any army mess while sharing stories of starvation and, with humour darker than I had experienced in the army, joked about their horrific Holocaust experiences.
After my time in America ended, and I would have loved to head to England next on my writing journey; however, my student visa and funds had also run out. Fortunately, upon returning to Australia, I enrolled in “Write a Novel in Six Months” at the Faber Academy (coincidentally, a course brought over from England) held in Sydney and sponsored by Allen & Unwin, where, for the first time, I began writing DOF in earnest. After completing this course, I enrolled at the University of Queensland to study Writing, English, and History. Once again, I signed up for every available writing course, including screenwriting, short stories, playwriting, memoir/nonfiction, poetry, academic, business-writing, novels, and a few others I thought all writers should explore, such as Shakespeare, originally intended for English teachers, and Greek and Roman Plays, aimed at drama students. However, I ultimately learned how to conduct historical research by studying ancient history.
Historical fiction writers are passionate about history, and all this hard work called research is rather enjoyable. It’s like mining a ton of dirt to find an ounce of gold, but that gold is pure 24-carat. Shakespeare was known for his bowerbird mind, collecting bright and shiny details, which is a perfect example of the mindset of the historical fiction writer: you need to sift through all these interesting details and present only the most relevant for your story. Another painful aspect is when all writers have to ‘kill their darlings’ by cutting out scenes, chapters, or characters entirely. But with all the painstaking research that goes into each scene, chapter and character, it feels more like murdering your family—it’s ten times more painful compared to other forms of fiction writing. Additionally, the readers of historical fiction are often amateur historians, so there needs to be a balance between storytelling and historical accuracy. Even today, for films or novels made several years/decades ago, some fans go out of their way to point out all the ‘historical inaccuracies’ as if the writers or directors were unaware. Writers are aware, but the general reader isn’t aware of all the intricacies that go into storytelling, such as themes and motifs.
For storytelling, I adhere to the Iceberg Principle, where the visible 10% of the iceberg represents what we can see and hear, as well as what a character says, thinks, or does. The remaining 90% of the unseen iceberg consists of elements we don’t see but are crucial for storytelling, such as themes and sub-themes, plots and subplots, character arcs, symbols and motifs, setups and foreshadowing, payoffs and resolution, while maintaining story structure without sounding formulaic, along with twists, turns, reveals, pacing, and so on.
Non-fiction writers don’t need to focus on this; however, while non-fiction books can be fascinating and vital for a historical fiction writer, they often come across as quite dry. In contrast, a novel needs a narrative to ‘feel’ genuine, immersing the reader in the setting and context rather than simply listing facts and details, which won’t achieve this. You cannot add a detail simply because it is true. You must consider how it adds to your Hero’s Journey, to their arc, the plot at this point, and the story’s theme in general, etc.? And if you do add a detail, make sure it’s not inadvertently seen as Chekhov’s Gun, i.e. every element in a story is vitally relevant to the story. If you have a gun hanging on the wall in the first act, it must go off in the second or third act. Potentially, every detail can have a Chekhov’s Gun element to it, and, if not, it will either distract or disappoint the reader if it doesn’t lead/go anywhere. One thing that was continually drilled into me in America is that you, as the writer, must work ten or one hundred times harder so the reader doesn’t have to.
While I learned a lot about the variations and conventions of different genres and writing mediums, I ultimately realised I was a screenwriter masquerading as a novelist. If I couldn’t envision, see, or hear a scene as if I were watching a film, I couldn’t write it. I often listened to music from the era, like the Glenn Miller Band or songs by Marlene Dietrich. I frequently had WWII movies or documentaries playing while I wrote, which again featured era-specific music. I soon realised that the songs and music formed my soundtrack. The WW II films, from Saving Private Ryan (1998) to A Matter of Life and Death (1946), along with films made during WW II such as Casablanca (1942) or Marlene Dietrich films like Destry Rides Again (1939), significantly influenced my storytelling. They used era-specific words of the day that I wouldn’t think of, such as washboard, jerk, sad sack, and gams. Since children’s folk tales were central to this narrative, I read numerous children’s fables, such as Siegfried and the Dragon, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and Aesop’s Fables. I also enjoyed classic Disney films from the 1930s and ’40s, like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937), Dumbo (1941), Bambi (1942), and Peter Pan (1953, based on Barrie’s early works), as well as Peter and the Wolf (1946, based on the 1936 song). All these aspects are woven into my story, both overtly and covertly—like the influences of Bambi losing her mother and a lost Dumbo in war-torn Berlin or Peter and the Wolfgang or Rosa encountering her version of Captain Hook and the Lost Boys. Rosa, whose favourite story is Little Red Riding Hood, naturally has to battle her own wolf/wolves—literally, when she fights off a pack of hungry dogs and metaphorically when she defends herself from Klaus as he attacks her in the barn.
One of the major decisions is how to tell your story: film school focuses heavily on story structure. I soon realised that DOF, essentially a road movie, represents a quest narrative. Yet, this isn’t a fantasy quest like Tolkien’s The Hobbit (1937) or TheLord of the Rings (1954), nor is it futuristic or sci-fi like Suzanne Collins’s Hunger Games(2012) or George Lucas’s Star Wars (1977), which heavily embodies Joseph Campbell’s concept of The Hero’s Journey (1990) when Lucas crafted his script. Campbell discusses the various aspects and characters we encounter in quest narratives that have unfolded over thousands of years across the globe, such as the call to adventure, the refusal of the call, crossing the threshold, meeting both positive and negative mentor figures, facing tests and trials, finding allies, and approaching the inmost cave, the hero returning with a boon, among others. For me, the quest felt perfectly aligned with my Gypsy girl on her mission to save her family as the world-war monster swallowed up Nazi Germany.
Another thing that was drilled into me in American writing classes was that a ‘great story must be a good story well told’. You might think you have a good narrative, but how will you tell it? Will it be years later, with the story revealed through flashbacks (Amadeus 1984)? Is it a first-person narrative where the protagonist is present in every scene (Gandhi 1982, Forrest Gump 1994)? For instance, today, most books are written from a first-person perspective, yet that can be the most challenging point of view to execute effectively. One reason is that the author can simply ‘tell’ the reader what the main character is thinking. They can illuminate the character’s emotions, whether they feel attracted, repulsed, scared, or experience any number of feelings. Authors might devise ways for the character to ‘reveal’ their appearance or beliefs, but, considering that people often don’t reflect on their everyday appearance or core values as they are integral to their identity, they typically don’t stare into mirrors or reflections to describe themselves. They wouldn’t refer to their clothes as threadbare; they’re just wearing them, and if they’re poor and own only one set, that’s their reality. Sure, they might feel self-conscious about their attire when facing someone from a higher class; however, the challenge of showing rather than telling is typically greater.
In contrast, a close third-person perspective beautifully narrates a story like a film. It allows you to depict a person feeling uncomfortable about their status or clothing, showcasing their everyday life. Third-person compels you to show, not tell, especially how to illustrate how they are feeling at any given moment. Interestingly, there are numerous examples online of showing versus telling. However, they often use a first-person POV to illustrate telling, where the character ‘tells’ of their embarrassment, followed by a third-person perspective, ‘showing’ how to reveal a character’s embarrassment. Nonetheless, memoirs and first-person novels serve as the best storytelling mediums for exploring a character’s inner world. My upcoming novel, a contemporary drama, will adopt a first-person perspective, as I’ll impart valuable insight into my male protagonist, a writer who travels the globe. Writers should learn to expand their craft by broadening their toolkit through writing in various genres and perspectives. I didn’t become a writer because I had a story to tell; rather, I have several stories to share.
The second challenge, particularly in Australia, is the word count. This was never a problem in America, but reducing word count in Australian writing classes has consistently been a top priority. It’s emphasised that every printed page costs the publisher money, so keeping it concise is essential, especially for debut authors. In query letters, publishers want the title, genre, and word count in the opening sentence for a reason. The genre and title (especially a good title) signal the target audience, while the word count reflects costs. In Historical Fiction, this can be tricky for debut authors. With all that research, stories can become bloated, especially when authors feel that readers ‘need’ to know all the background information to understand the narrative. My first draft exceeded 120k words, then 107k, then 97k, and finally finished at 85k.
During this process, my teachers continually urged me to cut it down further while publishers rejected my query letters. I discovered that readers don’t require all that background information; they only care about the characters and the story. The key is to weave in details subtly or with finesse. Often, I felt that what you leave out is just as important because it allows the reader’s imagination to engage. Working with editors after all those writing classes felt like having a personal coach, marking the next step in a writer’s journey. They would constantly challenge me: how would a 10-year-old Gypsy girl know all of this? Editors help maintain your focus on the narrative, and new editors offer fresh perspectives, as you can become blind to your own story, especially if it takes years to write. Your first novel often takes the longest to complete. And then, when you do secure a publisher, you learn about the business side of things. For instance, all writers register as ‘entertainers’, even historical fiction authors. The final lesson you learn on your Writer’s Journey is what people think about your hard-earned story—from family and friends to complete strangers. This is your final report card on your journey as an emerging author.
However, the biggest challenge for me was definitely the lack of funds and the tyranny of distance, as Australia is quite far from Europe. Ideally, I would have loved to travel to Europe and Germany to visit the locations in my story or other places that could have informed my narrative, such as military and local museums, including Auschwitz. It’s one thing to read about events and watch documentaries, but another entirely to wander through the sights and breathe in and smell the air, whether it’s the Cologne Cathedral or the Slaughterhouse 5 in Dresden, both of which have survived the war. While in Europe, I would have tried to meet any Romani willing to share their stories or the tales their parents or grandparents told. This is one significant advantage for historical fiction writers: we can access the past, even if it’s just by walking on the ground where a battle was fought or where a village once stood. These limitations can also help inform your narrative and how you tell your story.
At film school, we were taught to “Give the ending the audience wants, but not the way they expect it.” This applies to the climax and denouement at the end of the story. However, writers learn that a good scene or chapter consists of a beginning, middle, and end. So, I tried to apply this principle to scenes and chapters, which is a great way to avoid being dull or predictable. Historical fiction requires a lot of research and planning because you don’t know much about the subject matter.; therefore, it suits the ‘plotter’ perfectly. Nonetheless, ‘pantsing’ is also a necessary element during research as you discover people or events that twist your story or provide a new path for your story. Hence, there needs to be a fluid element to your storytelling.
A degree in psychology and my military experience, particularly within the military psychology department, have significantly enhanced my writing. I understand personal and generational trauma. As Holocaust survivors recounted their stories, their children and grandchildren encouraged them to provide more details, clearly showing they didn’t keep their trauma hidden. This stands in stark contrast to many returning Australian veterans from conflicts like World War I, World War II, and the Vietnam War, who often chose silence about their experiences, perhaps to ‘protect’ their families. While studying writing and World War II, I also gained insights into living with trauma from both perspectives. I suddenly realised that I wasn’t a Gypsy or of Gypsy descent, so who was I to write this story? I asked the survivors if they were comfortable sharing their stories with a gentile from Australia as I recorded them. “Are you kidding? That’s why we go out and tell our stories in schools and high schools. One day, we will be gone, but our stories won’t be,” they replied. When I inquired if they would mind if I ever wrote about their war experiences, they all granted their permission. They wanted what happened to them to be remembered and were indifferent about who documented it. One of them even joked that he was a Schindler Jew who didn’t make the list: Schindler’s List. This joke reminded me that it was an Australian writer, Thomas Keneally, who initially trained to be a priest before converting to becoming an author, writing one of the most renowned stories about the Holocaust called Schindler’s Ark (1982), which Steven Spielberg adapted into Schindler’s List (1993). Sometimes, it benefits an outsider to tell a story.
Is my story the definitive account of the Romani Holocaust? Not at all. But I hope it informs those unaware of this aspect of World War II and, ideally, inspires others to share their narratives about the Porajmos or the struggles they faced post-war. Almost all the survivors and soldiers of World War II have now passed away, including all the Holocaust survivors I met in 2010/11. One way to ensure they are not forgotten is to convey their stories as faithfully as possible.
The most challenging research I undertook focused on the plight of the Gypsies during World War II, whom I discovered are referred to as Romani, Roma, and Sinti. Not only was there very little information available, but I also lacked the opportunity to speak with anyone, unlike the Holocaust survivors I had encountered in America. Another frustrating aspect was that the limited information I found was constantly shifting. For instance, the number of those killed fluctuated from a few hundred thousand to over a million and a half during the two decades I was investigating. However, I believe we will never truly know the exact figures. One reason is that countries did not record the numbers of Romani people before, during, and immediately after the war. As I learned, when borders and nations were being formed or reformed after World War I, Europe had no place for wanderers or vagabonds, meaning stateless individuals, groups, or communities. This limitation was again reflected in my novel, as I felt I couldn’t integrate or interrogate this aspect of the story as much as I would have liked to or had initially planned. The only movie I could find helpful was Korkoro (2009), which means ‘Freedom’ in Romani. Riefenstahl’s Tiefland (1954) was difficult to find but vital; however, knowing what happened to the children after filming was completed made it almost impossible to watch.
Ironically, after my book was published, one of the north Queensland veterans I had socialised with for the past four years told me, after reading DOF, that his mother was a Gypsy during WW II. She wore a brown triangle to signify her ethnicity while in the concentration camp, although he couldn’t recall which camp she was held in. After the war, she and her Ukrainian husband boarded a ship to Argentina. Their English was non-existent, but they were instructed to find a ship that started and ended with the letter ‘A’. A week later, they realised they were heading to Australia instead of Argentina. However, they were eternally grateful for their mistake, as they ended up living in Melbourne, especially considering the troubles faced in Argentina during the 1970s and 1980s. I mention this because he said he has often thought about sharing his Australian Gypsy story for a while now, even if it was just for his children/grandchildren. I urged him to do it and told him I would help however I could. In my own way, this is paving Rosa’s story forward and paying back all those who have helped me on my Hero-Writer’s Journey.
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Daughters of the Fatherland is available in paperback, eBook editions and as an audiobook from the IP or from our partner distributors. Listen to a sample chapter from the book. |
