How Emil and the Detectives (1929) by Erich Kästner came to my attention is something I’ve long forgotten. I don’t remember anyone ever mentioning it, yet it seems to have constantly been in print while also being made into a movie and adapted for the stage. And I didn’t even know if it qualified as a detective novel for younger readers. So the only thing to do was to read it myself.
What I’ve learned is this: I can safely say that Emil and the Detectives has far and away the youngest possible target market of all the books I’ve read and reviewed as part of this Minor Felonies undertaking. This isn’t necessarily to its detriment, since there’s an earnestness to its proceedings which is very charming and recalls (for me, at least) other, better books in a manner that I found quite pleasing. Such a youthful audience does become something of a problem when you realise just how damn short it is and how little plot is in evidence in that brevity — the last 30 of these 206 pages is presumably where The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003) got the idea that quests must end with lots and lots and lots of scenes spelling out things which would have been better left unspelled, plus we get an early 10-page dream sequence that adds nothing to proceedings except some more words…to be honest, it would test the patience of any very young children encountering it, and so make it something of an odd experience.
It does, however, have a lot of charm, and charm goes a long way.
Young Emil Tischbein — we’re not told how young, but I reckon he’d be about 10 or 11 years old — is put on the strain to Berlin from provincial Neustadt to visit his grandmother and, when left alone in a carriage with a strange man, falls asleep (hence the dream sequence) and awakens to find that the money he was carrying has been stolen and the man has disappeared. Catching sight of the thief dismounting the train, Emil gives chase in the hope of reclaiming the money and, tracking his quarry to a cafe, is pondering his next move when he meets young Gustav. It’s with the appearance of Gustav the the plot proper kicks in, since Gustav is the vector of delivery for the Detectives of the title, and it’s when the ‘detectives’ are on the page that the most fun is to be had.
Our coterie of detectives, see, recall to me no less august a gathering than The Mob of Craig Rice’s Home Sweet Homicide (1944) in its depiction of a rowdy, enthusiastic, adventure-hungry, autonomous collective of young boys with time on their hands. The division of labour in Nicholas Square in chapter 9 had me grinning from ear to ear, especially as they cap off their super-secret organisation by shouting “Password Emil“…
…so loudly, it echoed round the square and made passers-by wonder what was going on.
Or see the later scene when, invited to help out with the surveillance of an hotel, too many children turn up only for the Professor to scold them for their lack of subtlety while the boys
…stood in a circle around him, listening kindly to the lecture but not looking in the least conscience-stricken.
Like the best juvenile fiction, this is hugely successful when is takes the time to makes its young protagonists feel like living, breathing young people, even if there is a necessary half-step away from strict realism. Like when our omniscient narrator assures us that Emil’s tears upon discovering the theft of his money are in no way related to him pricking his finger on a pin in his pocket:
He did not cry for such trifles. Why, a fortnight ago he ran into a lamppost so hard that he almost knocked it over. He still had the bruise on his forehead, and even that hadn’t made him cry.
Or see the casual, beautifully insightful and childlike reasoning in the following exchange:
“Well, it’s like this,” Emil explained. “Are your people well off?”
“I don’t really know. No one ever talks about money at home.”
“Then I expect you have plenty,” Emil said wisely.
The Professor thought for a moment, and then said, “I dare say you’re right.”
The Invisible Event 
I have to admit to having only heard the title and certainly never coming across a copy. I have yet to try and make too much of an effort to introduce my daughter to mystery fiction except for reading a few of the Miss Mallard stories (she is a ducktective but they are mostly thrillers) and a couple of others. I have found that the few mysteries published for the very young really are more adventures with a mysterious element or two which does lower my enthusiasm for them a bit. It is good to know this exists though in case she ever shows an interest in sleuthing in the next year or two.
LikeLike
Well, I mean, this is probably even less of an adventure than Miss Mallard — it’s a sort of juvenile jape, with a minimum amount of peril and the on good idea given away in a chapter title. That extended dream sequence is odd, too, since it drags things even more into the world of pure nonsense…but there really is very little here, so I guess if you take out that and the 30 pages of endings it’d be a very, very short book indeed.
I’m interested to see what the consensus on this is, of there is one, because it’s a book I can see being very influential on people if they encountered it at a certain age — though it would be interesting, too, if any of those people felt compelled to return to it with older eyes. I’m guessing few if any have…
LikeLike
Well, I do want to re-read it, but I don’t have a copy any more. Must search out a copy of it, and its sequel. I seem to remember that the sequel takes place in a seaside resort, but I could quite easily be misremembering.
LikeLike
Apparently Emil and the Three Twins does indeed take place by the sea. I can’t say I’m super eager to check it out any time soon, but in due course I might track it down and see how it compares to this one.
LikeLike
This was a very popular book when I grew up in England.
Probably my first gentle introduction to crime fiction.
I read it c 1964.
Surprised that the original was written so long ago.
LikeLike
I’m surprised at how much its been reprinted — and in more than one translation, too, so it’s not just publishers taking advantage of lapsed rights to get a cheap book out. You’d think more people would know it in that case, but it seems to be somewhat under-acknowledged…
LikeLike
Read this as a kid, almost certainly before you were born JJ! And thought it was great …
LikeLike
Young Me would have found a lot here to like — hell, Old Me has found a lot here to like. Did you read the sequel?
LikeLike
I think so but remember nothing of it sadly – it was in the school library and I wonder if both were in the same volume. This was sometime in the 1970s matey …
LikeLike
I’ll not criticise your faulty memory for failing to reach back 40+ years, Sergio — I’ve read books this month I remember nothing about, so the fact you vaguely remember the sequel in the first place already seems to me a Herculean act 🙂
LikeLike
Well, when you get as knackered as I am it’s all a bit of a bonus … 😉
LikeLike
Blame it on all the heavy lifting; gotta move a lot of stuff out of the way to reach back that far into the archives 🙂
LikeLike
I remember having this as a book I had to make a report on in elementary school. And when I say I remember, I mean it didn’t even occur to me until I noticed one of the covers looking familiar to the one the Croatian edition had. Beyond the premise, though, I remember nothing of it.
Oh, well. Guess it didn’t have any cool locked rooms.
LikeLike
Okay, so here’s an entire floor of ignorance I didn’t know I possessed (or not, I suppose): what’s the translation rate into Croatian like with classic detective fiction? I presume Christie made it across, and Sayers and Marsh — but did Crispin, and Innes, and Nicholas Blake? Are there any classic era English authors who haven’t yet been translated into Croatian? And are there any non-English authors we Anglophones would be jealous to learn have?
I know the Italians seem to have done well out of translated works, but I know actually nothing about the Croatian situation…
LikeLike
To be honest, I don’t know much of it, either, since I do most of my reading in English and in general stick to works well-known in English. Christie, we’ve definitely got in spades. Sayers and Marsh not so much, but there’s works of theirs translated. Crispin and Innes, I don’t think there’s anything of. I think there was a thing or two by Blake. Carr was the only one I actively sought out in Croatian, though, and the only one my library had was “The Emperor’s Snuff-Box.” Looking online, there’s also “The Green Capsule.” In general, I’d say that finding a Golden Age author translated into Croatian is more of an exception than the rule. Generally, discussion around crime novelsnowadays is geared more towards your more standard thriller than anything like the golden age.
Beyond that, I have to admit I’m pretty ignorant on the situation.
Your question’s gotten me into looking into the history of crime novels in Croatia. I just stumbled upon a thesis on the subject and will give a read when I have the time.
LikeLike
Huh; does this mean that, in the absence of much interest in GAD in your home country, you could market yourself as The Croatian Carr?
LikeLike
Oh, I’d say I’m pretty far from Carr — in both crimes and talent.
Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve managed to gather from the example of a certain self-proclaimed master of impossible crime, it’s that one shouldn’t self-proclaim himself to be anything but “a mystery writer.” And, in my case, even that can vary, depending on the circumstances.
LikeLike
Bah, a trifle, Watson. “The Carr of Croatia” has too nice a ring to it to worry about accuracy.
LikeLike
Later in his life Kastner the author wrote about the horrific bombing of his home city Dresden in WW2:
“Yes, Dresden was a wonderful city. You may take my word for it. And you have to take my word for it, because none of you, however rich your father may be, can go there to see if I am right. For the city of Dresden is no more. It has vanished, except for a few fragments. In one single night and with a single movement of its hand the Second World War wiped it off the map. It had taken centuries to create its incomparable beauty. A few hours sufficed to spirit it off the face of the earth. This happened on the night of February I3th, I945. Eight hundred planes rained down high explosive and incendiary bombs on it. When they had gone, nothing remained but a desert with a few giant ruins which looked like ocean liners heeling over.
Two years later I stood in the midst of that endless desert and could not make out where I was. Among the broken, dust-covered bricks lay the name-plate of a street – ‘Prager Strasse’, I deciphered with difficulty. Could it be that I was standing in the Prager Strasse, the world-famous Prager Strasse, the most magnificent street of my childhood? The street with the loveliest shop windows? The most wonderful street at Christmas-time? I was standing in a waste half a mile long by half a mile wide, a desert of broken bricks and rubble and utter desolation.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’ve just re-read this charming book having read it in primary school but having no recollection of any of the details. The quotes above between Emil and the Professor about money really stood out to me as well.
LikeLike