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who was a threat to him. This made each of u wary about solidifying our
relationship by marrying. However, we were by no means incompatible. W
enjoyed arguing about books and analyzing what Eva Cater said in his
seminars. We had equally exalted notion as to what a really fine book
could accomplish. And w looked forward to jumping into bed. We were a
happy pair
the only visible difficulty on the horizon being that neithe
his parents nor mine would accept our living together. With a chain of
carefully calculated disclosures I ha 159
prepared mine for what they would consider 'the awful
truth,' the fact that I was living not in my own apartment but in his.
They I~ad not yet met Benno, and when they finally did they asked
bitterly: 'If he's so wonderful and has what you call a "God-given
talent," why don't you marry him?' and I replied: 'I'm fighting to
establish myself first.' And when Benno explained to his parents that a
girl named Shirley Marmelstein was sharing his apartment, his mother
said: 'That's a funny name to go with your fancy apartment. Sounds like a
sales clerk at Bloomingdale's.' He assured them that I was one of the
ablest young editors in New York and a genius. 'Good,' his mother said.
'So marry her and have genius children.' He promised that he would
think about that, but in the meantime he made no effort to introduce me to
his parents. it seemed that our idyllic love affair could be relied upon
to produce one tempestuous moment each month, such as the time when
Lukas Yoder's The Farm was totally ignored by the important journals of
opinion and given faint praise by the daily press. When Benno was callous
enough to say: 'I see your world-famous Dutchman has fallen flat on his
ass again,' I screamed: 'At least he has a finished book with which he
could fall on his ass.' A bitter row ensued, and for two days neither of
us spoke to the other. But in the morning of the third day I said:
'Darling, remember. When you ridicule Yoder's failure, you ridicule mei
too. It's my book as much as his, and I'm desolate that it's been
ignored.' I spoke with such feeling that he reached for me and kissed
my fingers: 'I was a shit, wasn't I?' And then he flashed that
million-dollar smile. As I descended in the elevator on my way to work I
thought: At least we care about books, and Benno sees things so clearly
he'll whip his problem. But it does drag on. 160 The
next three-year stint, 1971 through '73, saw me nail down my position at
Kinetic with a series of solid books that I had personally discovered and
nursed to success. Word circulated at Kinetic that 'Marmelstein has the
three essen- tials of a fine editor. She can spot the flashy novel that
people will want to read. She can pick current subjects for strong
nonfiction books and find the writers to do them. And best of all, she can
produce a book that people will still want to read fifteen years down the
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line.' One afternoon in 1972 Mr MacBain came out of his way to stop at my
desk: 'Miss Marmelstein, some of your books already show signs of
having legs. Steady sales are what keeps us going. Keep snooping in
comers.' It was this vote of confidence from the head of our company
that emboldened me to combat the entire editorial board when they wanted
Kinetic to drop Lukas Yoder because of his two failures. I ranted: 'The
successful books I've found and published prove I have a moderately keen
sense pf what a good book is. Trust me, my author is going to break
through one of these times because he does a solid job.' 'You mean
stolid.' 'Yes,' I agreed, forcing a smile. 'He is stolid, like Dreiser.
And one of these days he's going to write his American Tragedy.'
'Never in a hundred years.' Without rancor I pressed on and with such
knowledge of the trade that by sheer force of will I persuaded my
colleagues to give Yoder another chance, and another advance to
demonstrate their faith in him. I received grudging approval for only
eight hundred dollars and had to be content, but when I accepted I had to
make a little speech: 'One of these days we'll agree that this was the
best eight hundred dollars we ever invested.'
Since it was generally known throughout Kinetic that
16
was emotionally involved with Benno Rattner, my fellow
editors did not badger me about his nonperformance as a writer, nor did
they even ask whether he proposed handing back the small advance our
company had given him. But Sigurd Jeppson, who had served in Vietnam and
who closely followed events related to that war, had some thoughts
that were potentially helpful to Benno. Sigurd had been outraged by the
hideous events at Kent State, where young soldiers of the National Guard
had, in his impas- sioned words, 'murdered four innocent students in cold
blood' while they were protesting the war. During one editorial, meeting
he said: 'I believe the nation's ready for a hard-hitting expos~ of the
whole Vietnam fiasco. It could head in either of two directions: a
devastating assault on the horrors of field combat or a kind of Dos
Passos's 42nd Parallel, in which the author looks at the impact of the
shameful war on a selected chain of American towns, ending with four
villages in Vietnam itself.' When other editors said they would welcome
either of those two approaches, predicting success for whichever
author got to the market first, ieppson volunteered: 'I'd be interested,
Miss Marmelstein, in talking with your writer about either concept that
might catch his fancy.' Defensively, I replied: 'Mr Rattner does not wait
for things to "catch his fancy." He has a most vivid imagination - like
most good writers.' ieppson was not deflected by my dismissal; he had
served in Vietnam and knew the field and its ramifications: 'I thought
that if he was bogged down in one direction, a fresh start might break him
loose - set him free.' 'He's on a powerful track of his own devising,
from what I've seen recently of his progress.' 'Good. But if he ever
comes by the office, I'd be pleased to exchange notes with him,' and he
said this so generously and without animus that when I returned home I
told 162 Benno: 'You might want to hear what he has to say
Different view of your war.' But this simple suggestion s agitated him
that for the first time I saw a decidedly dar aspect of his personality,
almost frightening, for he growle combatively: 'I refuse to traipse
through Kinetic for you friends to commiserate with me over writer's
block. Invit him here.' I did, and only Jeppson's determination to be
helpfu prevented the evening from being a social disaster. Bu
philosophically it was a terrible disaster, for Jeppson, unlik Benno,
represented the new type of American vetera returning from an overseas
war: he was bitter about th contempt being shown tfie Vietnam veterans and
angry a the politicians who had allowed, or, as he said, 'encouraged
the debacle to occur. He made every accusation that th Vietnam veterans
would voice in the years ahead, and pleaded with Benno to write a novel
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