Translation of the Dutch text by Marjolein de Jong / Photo: Sanja Marusic / 12 November 2026

His novel Himmler in New York was published this week. In this book, the protagonist Thorsten Himmler, a great-nephew of Heinrich Himmler, is left to care for his young son after his Jewish wife is abducted by Hamas.

Even before the interview begins, Grunberg is the one asking the questions. At the Amsterdam hotel where we have arranged to meet, he quizzes the photographer at length about hitchhiking in the Balkans. He has done a great many things, but hitchhiking isn't one of them. How exactly does it work? The idea appeals to him, although he can see a practical problem: what if he spends an entire day standing by the motorway when he has a piece to write and a deadline to meet?

This academic year, you're returning to VU Amsterdam as Writer in Residence for the second time. During your first appointment, the pandemic limited what you could do in the role. What subjects are you hoping to address?
‘I want to talk about cultural boycotts: cutting cultural ties with a country, for example by excluding artists or institutions. It's something that's particularly relevant at the moment in the context of Ukraine and Russia, and Israel and Gaza. I know it's a painful subject for many universities, including VU Amsterdam. But I believe it's a writer's job to press on the wound, right where it hurts.’

'If someone says something you disagree with, you can say so’

How do you make sure students feel free to speak their minds during your lectures?
‘At the beginning of the first lecture, I told them they could say anything to me. And that I would appreciate it if we could speak to each other as openly and honestly as possible. With respect, of course, but without feeling that we have to walk on eggshells. If someone says something you disagree with, you can say so.’

How free did you feel to speak your mind at that age?
‘At Vossius Gymnasium, challenging teachers was practically a sport. I wanted to be just that little bit cleverer than the teacher and enjoyed making sharp remarks. I certainly wasn't afraid to do that. My shyness and anxiety were more of a problem in social situations. I got my first girlfriend because she had the courage to make the first move, and I simply let it happen. I would never have dared to do that myself. Eventually, after a confrontation with several teachers and a great deal of truancy, I was expelled from school and never obtained my secondary school diploma.’

What if your son, who is now five, wants to leave school early one day (or gets expelled)?
‘My God, that's quite a question. I hope I'll be able to handle it as wisely as my parents did at the time. They thought it was terrible, but they still let me go my own way. It would depend, though. If he said he wanted to leave school because he'd rather spend his time in bed, I'd be less pleased than if he wanted to pursue something he was passionate about.

When I left school myself, I wasn't thinking about the future, about money or how I was going to make a living. I'd like him to have that freedom too. I was on a train recently and overheard two young people talking about their pensions. That's hardly a cheerful prospect either.’

'As a writer, you can – perhaps even must – push boundaries' 

What do you hope students will take away from this year?
‘During the first session, I told them that I really only have one piece of advice: when you write, you have to forget all about self-censorship. You shouldn't be thinking: what will my mother, my uncle or my boyfriend think of this? What you should really be thinking is: they can think I'm a monster after reading this book, but this is what I want to say.

In everyday life, I'm polite and, I think, reasonably socially capable. Being well-behaved is understandable and desirable in daily life. But as a writer, you can – perhaps even must – push boundaries. A writer who always plays by the rules is surely a boring writer?

I recently spoke to an acquaintance about something he'd written and asked whether he didn't find it a bit boring himself. “Yes,” he replied, so I asked: “Then why are you writing it?” You are your own first reader. First and foremost, it has to be enjoyable for you.’

Can you forget what other people might think of your work while you're writing?
‘Yes. I feel freest when I'm writing. Sometimes it's also when I feel happiest. It's wonderful to experience that sense of concentration and freedom. Whether or not the work will be appreciated doesn't matter at that moment. You create something because you want to create it. Over time, though, I've become more cautious about describing people who might recognise themselves in my work.

When my mother was still alive, reviews were incredibly important to her. She took bad reviews very much to heart. Sometimes she'd be angry with me and say I should have tried harder. I'd tell her: “Mum, the reviewer simply didn't understand the book.”’

'I saw people who had been so deeply affected by what their fathers had done. I found that moving' 

Your latest novel was inspired by Katrin Himmler, a great-niece of Heinrich Himmler. What fascinated you about the stories of descendants of high-ranking Nazis?
‘As a descendant, you're not guilty, but you're still tied to that history. It's a peculiar kind of complicity, although perhaps it isn't complicity at all. I saw people who had been so deeply affected by what their fathers had done. I found that moving. Children are generally incredibly loyal to their parents. But how can you be loyal to someone who has committed war crimes? How does that love work?

I could also identify with them, with being trapped in the past. In a strange way, I also felt the need to comfort those people. At the same time, I find comfort complicated. There can be something condescending about it. I'm not easily comforted myself. I like it when people are kind to me, but comfort? Perhaps it's better if people are a little afraid of you, I think, rather than thinking: that's someone who needs comforting.’

What did Katrin think about being the inspiration for your novel?
‘I still need to tell her. We've lost touch, and I don't think this is something you should tell someone by email or text message. I felt I had every right to make this history my own. The last time I saw her, she was struggling so much with life that I thought: there's simply no room to tell her this. Perhaps that's terribly cowardly of me. If there's a German translation, I want to go and see her. I'll say: “I hope you can accept my book. But if you're angry, we'll find a way through that too.”’

'Of course, I knew the book might make people angry, or that people might misunderstand it'

The conflict between Palestine and Israel also plays a major role in the book. Did you ever hesitate over whether you could write certain things?
‘Not for a moment. It's a book that brings together many different things, both on a personal level and in relation to a conflict I've been studying for a very long time. Of course, I knew the book might make people angry, or that people might misunderstand it. That risk is always there, however well I write it. When I was young, I used to think: if I write a beautiful enough love letter, the person I'm writing to will fall in love with me. But it turned out that things didn't always work that way.’

For previous reports, you spent time alongside soldiers in Afghanistan and worked in a slaughterhouse. What draws you to exploring such worlds?
‘I want to find out what happens and write about it as honestly as possible. And also discover how it affects me. I had all sorts of prejudices about soldiers, but when you spend time with them, you see just how diverse that group is. Sometimes you come to understand points of view you previously felt differently about.

I can't imagine being a writer without having a genuine curiosity about other people. I'd find it boring and lonely to be concerned only with myself. Taking an interest in others is also a way out of loneliness. And stories are all around us; you just have to look and listen.’

'If you don't want to descend too far into misanthropy, loving people means loving those who go along with the crowd’

Is there anything you've changed your mind about recently?
‘Over the past few years, I've developed an increasing understanding of people who aren't heroes. People who simply went along with things, Germans who joined the NSDAP without being among the worst offenders. Not everything is a grey area, but I've become increasingly understanding of relatively innocent followers. In a way, I've even developed some sympathy for them. Because I think most people are ultimately followers. So if you don't want to descend too far into misanthropy, loving people means loving those who go along with the crowd.’

Which category would you put yourself in?
‘Certainly not among the heroes. I've sometimes described myself as an average sinner. In real life, I also avoid arguments and keep quiet. I was once on the subway in New York, and I think there was a dead homeless man lying near me in the carriage. He wasn't moving and he smelled. Everyone moved away, and the other carriages were packed. I still had two stops to go, so I stayed where I was. Then I thought: should I do something? But I also had an appointment I was rushing to get to. Someone else would have to take care of this dead homeless man. That's an example of the kind of calculation you make, isn't it?

But when I write, I'm fearless. When I started writing my novel Blue Mondays, I thought: what does it matter? I've already hit rock bottom anyway. I felt I couldn't sink any lower, so what people thought didn't matter. That's still how I want to write today.’

The Writer in Residence is supported annually by VUvereniging, which is offering five copies of Arnon Grunberg’s latest novel, Himmler in New York, in a special giveaway. To be entered into the draw, please email communicatie.durf@vu.nl by 1 December 2026. The winners will be notified individually.