North Korea: "Exit Emperor Kim Jong-Il" by John Cha

Kim Jong-Un, in the news earlier this year for having his uncle executed, is but a baby in Exit Emperor Kim Jong-Il, which details the current North Korean dictator's grandfather and father, in their rise to tyranny. John Cha wrote this work after interviews with a former North Korean adviser to the second Kim (Jong-il) who defected to the south after becoming disillusioned.

North Korea is small and its people impoverished yet it plays a very visible role in international politics because of its nuclear arsenal, its suppression of civil rights, ongoing and abysmal human rights abuses, Dennis Rodman's affection for the so called "emperor" and more.  The Christian Science Monitor reported earlier in 2014:

"The regime is repressive in a way unthinkable in the West. Loyalty to the Kim family is paramount. There is no exile movement, no dissent, no opposition newspaper. Access to South Korean media is outlawed, as is free travel. Famously repressive Cold War states like Albania and Romania were fabulous models of freedom compared to the North today." (R. Marquand, January 19, 2014)

Cha details the schooling in politics received by Kim Jong-Il from his father, Kim Il-Sung, who assumed power in 1948. (Literally, Il-Sung just assumed power, with backing of the Soviets, and began a personality cult by 1948, calling himself the "Great Leader.") Jong-Il's son, Jong-Un is but carrying on the family tradition of tyranny. From middle-class middle America, it is very difficult to see how the nearly 70-year repression of the people of this country could ever end.

Iceland: "Independent People" by Halldór Laxness and "The Greenhouse" by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir

Several friends and family recommended Independent People but when I realized it was first published in 1942, I supplemented it with a more recent work, The Greenhouse. My goal has been to read works of fiction published in my lifetime, and 1942 is a bit early.  I'm also always looking for works by women. So here is another pair, this time about the same country in the early 20th century and the early 21st.  While certainly times have changed, the essential Iceland seems very much the same.

Ms. Ólafsdóttir makes explicit allusions to the work of Nobel-prize winner Laxness. Among the ties are the names of children: Asta Sollilja, the name of a key character in People, means "beloved sun lily"; the narrator of The Greenhouse has an infant daughter named Flora Sol. In both works, a man seeks to express his deepest self through agriculture, although cultivating a rose garden in a southern European monastery garden (The Greenhouse) is a distinctly less arduous task than subsistence sheep farming on a volcanic island with a very short growing season. Each ends up responsible for a daughter he did not intentionally bring into the world. Lobbi is a father through what we now call a hook-up; Bjartur's wife enters the marriage already pregnant. Neither achieves what he thinks will occur in his life. Events -- as they do everywhere -- take over and each protagonist can only do his best in the circumstances he faces.

Even with these similarities, the books deal with different themes in different ways. Laxness's work is described as "epic," as in the Icelandic epics of yore. It is also overtly a cry for justice and economic equity between producers (the sheep farmers) and buyers (merchants). Ms. Ólafsdóttir's work is domestic, dealing with one person's thoughts and spiritual growth as he comes to grips with his life, the death of his mother, and his interactions with his child. Lobbi, the protagonist of Greenhouse, is temperamentally the opposite of Bjartur (who lives in a house he calls Summerhouse) in People. Lobbe worked closely with his now dead mother in their family greenhouse; he is indecisive and adrift and somewhat distant from his father and twin brother, due in part to that brother's developmental disabilities. Bjartur of People is a prideful, determined fellow who dominates all in his family. Lobbi allows things to happen to him; Bjartur tries to control everything. And in the end, each must cope day-to-day, and each comes to love a daughter whose arrival in his life seemed almost unbelievable.

Status after 11 months

After 11 months, I have read just over 50 titles (of 200 planned) and blogged about 30 or so. The blog takes way more time that I have to devote to it, so now I just read. I'm in the middle of four titles now: "Mexican Bolero", "Crabwalk" (Germany), "I the Supreme" (Paraguay), and "The Implacable Order of Things" (Portugal).

The books above, by the way, were all from the local public library, and I've read each and returned them on time :)

It is 20% off weekend at Half Price Books, so of course, I found more titles to add to the collection. Plus a stop at a bookstore near Purdue University, where one of my kids goes, added two (Malawi and Cameroon).

New purchases led to review of what I have accumulated but not yet read. The stack is quite tall. It is a good thing I skipped the idea of doing this in a year, despite being inspired by A Year of Reading the World. One strategy, of course, is to look for shorter works. Two collections of short stories will help, plus they give me access short works of fiction from Tanzania, Lithuania, Cyprus, Lichtenstein, and Macedonia.

I've started including memoirs, poetry, and nature or travel writing, as long as they are written by someone "of" the country either in childhood or now. Thus, I have Mark and Delia Owens's book "Secrets of the Savannah" for Zambia, at least until I find something else.

Writing from people living in countries with low literacy rates is hard to find in English or French: Current challenges include Central African Republic, Benin, and Bhutan. It is likely that the near 50/50 gender ratio that is currently on my list will tip toward male, as I find works from countries where far fewer women have basic human rights.

Iraq: "Absent" by Betool Khedairi

I read books in no particular order determined by what I find when. In my last trip to the library, this title, Absent, came home in the same batch as Dancing Arabs because the authors' names--Khedairi and Kashua--are near one another on the shelves. As a search strategy, looking in specific ranges of the alphabet has been very helpful. For diversification of themes, perhaps less so.

Absent is set largely after the Gulf War of 1991, when Hussein invaded Kuwait and the U.S. responded, and before the U.S.-led invasion that began in 2002. However, a portion of reminiscences occur during the Iran-Iraq War of 1980-1988. The author writes at the end that she wants to highlight the Iraqi culture, as it is part of the cradle of civilization and so much has been destroyed in the past three-plus decades.

The tale is narrated by Dalal, a young woman raised by her mother's sister after being orphaned at four months of age. The title means many things. Dalal opens by telling us her aunt's husband defies tradition and instead of being renamed for the first child in his family (her), he insists on being called Abu Ghayeb, "father of the absent one" for the child he and his wife cannot have together. Absent also refers to the many aspects of life that dissolved with Saddam Hussein's rise to power, especially noticeable when compared with the "time of plenty" that Dalal remembers from early childhood. It also refers to people who suddenly disappear from the neighborhood. And to feelings, beliefs and loyalties that disappear, too, under the rigors of a struggle for daily life.

The characters are nearly all residents of the same apartment building. At the top lives a fortune teller. Dalal's family is downstairs and further down is a blind widower. Dalal's close friend, a nurse, lives on the 2nd floor. Mid-way through the book, a new ground-floor tenant appears,  a hairdresser who insists on being called a coiffeur. The fortune teller's waiting room is a hotbed for gossip but she keeps people's secrets. The coiffeur hears much gossip and how he uses what he learns is a primary driver for the action.

Dalal's aunt, called Umm Ghayeb (mother of the absent one) is a seamstress, now that her husband's job as a state tourism promoter is gone with the end of the "time of plenty."  Abu Ghayeb sets up an apiary and does well, with Dalal's willing assistance, in this new agricultural work.

The novel is mostly dialogue with occasional observations from the first-person narrator. She writes of post-Hussein expectations:

"In our teenage years, we had to join the National Union of Students. There we were told that our aims were 'Unity, Freedom, and Socialism,' and that we had to strive for 'One unified Arab nation...with an eternal message. . . . We had to attend the meetings unfailingly, maintain secrecy, and learn the president's quotes by heart." (p. 51)

Mixed with reporting like this are Dalal's skeptical commentary about Umm Mazin's fortune telling business, which includes a line of herbal remedies and spells, made more solemn by quotations from the Qu'ran. Dalal also learns about photography from the blind man, who was once a photographer, but who says he see more clearly now. Abu Ghayeb is a former art student who now collects contemporary works by friends, and his lessons about seeing and looking also inform the text, along with his instructions about keeping bees, the exemplary social insect whose lessons would benefit mankind if only we could learn.

These many stories, as disparate as the threads of stories in our own lives, come together in the late 1990s. Dalal has a part-time job with Saad, the coiffeur, and through him, she meets Adel. She is later seduced by Adel. The neighborhood receives missile strikes that kill some and injure many. The bees "turn" and become aggressive, attacking their own. Before the end, we learn the true reasons for Saad's shop and its location in that particular building. Dalal is the only one "left standing" and is now the only source of income for herself and her aunt. She seems to accept this and the novel closes with her beginning to teach a young man to read -- nurturing a slim reed for the reestablishment of civilization, despite the great losses she and her country have experienced.

The mordant humor shows a different perspective about what many Americans see as justifiable actions. This is Abu Ghayeb about bombings in the 1991 Gulf War:

"...Yes, 'intelligent missiles.' They stop at a red light on their way to the explosion. . . Truly smart weapons. They destroyed communication centers, sewage plants, and electricity generators. And they remembered to wipe out the water purification units as well. With their intelligence, they deprived a whole nation of clean drinking water." (p. 65-66)

Here is Dalal, describing a portion of a walk she takes with her aunt:

"We walk past the house that burned down because its owners had been hoarding petrol. They were afraid it would get stolen, so they stored it under the ground; but it had leaked, and their garden exploded."  (p. 95) 

Here is a lesson from the bees, via Abu Ghayeb:

"Dalal, if only we could learn from the bees! . . . Greed is the main problem. Look at the way the bee behaves when it goes out to collect the nectar. The first thing the bees do is check the amount of sugar in the flower. They suck from it what they need and won't exceed their limit."  (p. 175)

If one of Ms. Khedairi's purposes was education about the culture of Iraq, I must confess I didn't learn much about historical aspects. Maybe I already read too many works about the Tigris and Euphrates; the Caliph of Baghdad, when that city was the center of Islam; and the modern-era destruction of antiquities, and related subjects.

For daily life under Hussein, this is an evocative work that seems accurate. It is consistent with the books I've read about life under Khomeini in Iran (Children of the Jacaranda Tree) and in Palestine (Dancing Arabs) with regard to Islam and consistent with other tales of surviving dictatorships by Anchee Min, Julia Alvarez, and Edwige Danticat.

Palestine: "Dancing Arabs" by Sayed Kashua

This project began with 193 countries recognized by the United Nations. To that group, I've added regions that would like to be separate countries. Palestine fits into that group. Other commentators describes Sayed Kashua's first novel, Dancing Arabs, as a coming-of-age story. It is that, but it takes the genre and inverts the premise. In this book, the narrator begins aware of the world and wise. As he matures, he becomes confused and uncaring. Forces driving that "maturation" process include the narrator's character, familial expectations, and cultural messages. He just cannot hold up under the strain as he grows up in the intifada and beyond.

Our anti-hero begins life in the Arab-Israeli town of Tira, living in a family household with grandmother, parents, and brothers. He hears stories of his grandfather's role in 1948, defending Palestine from the forces creating Israel, including England. His father took up the Free Palestine cause in his own student days and spent time in prison. The narrator, however, is an emotionally sensitive fellow, not a freedom fighter. His first choice, when confronted with hostility, is to leave quickly with tears falling.

He excels in school and places into an elite Jewish boarding school in Jerusalem. This, his family thinks, will be his future: A scholar who will bring renown on the family and his people. However he stays true to his nature, his preference for no confrontation, and learns to "pass" as Jew. By doing so he avoids anxieties such as those caused when Arabs are taken off an inter-city bus as it goes through the grounds of an airport. They are allowed to board again as the bus leaves this zone central to Israeli security. After the first experience with this practice he is "Jewish" enough to be allowed to remain on board.

He also remains in the boarding school in spite of his desire to quit. The narrator says,

"In twelfth grade I understood for the first time what '48 was. That it's called the War of Independence. In twelfth grade I understood that  a Zionist was what we called a Sahyuni, and it wasn't a swear word. I knew the word. That's how we used to curse one another...Suddenly I understood that Zionism is an ideology. In civics lessons and Jewish history classes, I started to understand that my aunt from Tulkarm is called a refugee, that the Arabs in Israel are called a minority. In twelfth grade I understood that the problem was serious. I understood what a national homeland was..." (p. 117)

The irony drips here. Most Arabs in Israel refer to '48 as "the catastrophe." The aunt, whose family lived on the land where she grew up for perhaps 2,000 years, is a refugee. Arabs in Israel are a minority -- now -- after 700,000 or so fled in '48 (and ultimately saw their lands confiscated by the new state).

The tension between Arabic ethnicity and Arabic as a maternal language and Israeli identity and education in Hebrew inform the narrator's story from here on. He marries an Arabic Muslim young woman, more or less in a shotgun wedding. He looks for a lover, with his wife's encouragement, as she has come to hate his weaknesses, and finds a modern, ethnically Jewish partner. He tends bar for a job and drinks as a form of recreation, too. During a power outage after shelling occurs in his neighborhood on the West Bank side of Jerusalem, he thinks,

"I'll sue my father too, for planting hope in my mind, for lying to me. For teaching me to sing: 'We'll march through the streets, for united we stand. Let us sing to our glorious nation, our land." ... I can never forgive him for giving us the idea that we'd defeat the enemy with tires and stones."  (p. 151)

As the war progresses,

"I go back to Tira more often, in search of an answer, trying to find out what others like me, people with a blue identity card, have decided to do, trying to see if there is any hope left." (p. 223)

[Note blue ID cards are for Israel citizens. Non-citizen residents of the West Bank and Gaza have orange or red cards issued to them.]

If complete resignation can be hopeful, then a little expectation of better times ahead pops in with the resolution of a family dispute about the name for the narrator's nephew, the first-born boy in the next generation.

"Eventually they opted for the name my younger brother Mahmoud suggested and called the baby Danny. Mahmoud said the name would save the kid a lot of problems. Maybe he'd be laughed at in Tira, but he'd have a much easier time of it in university and at work and on the bus and in Tel Aviv. Danny was better." (p. 226).

In the next breath, the narrator is discussing the secret he shares with his grandmother, the location of the shroud for her eventual funeral. The death of a separate Arabic culture in Israel appears to be accepted as inevitable.

Australia: "The Secret River" by Kate Grenville

Grenville's novel is a founding story for a continent with primarily one set of invaders from Europe, rather than eight (at least) in the U.S.*  In Australia as she tells it, English settlement had pretty much the same consequences that it did in the U.S.: The English took whatever they wanted and told the people who were there first, "be off!"

The story focuses on William Thornhill, former Thames boatman, and his family. It opens in London and we learn of his youth, apprenticeship, marriage, and eventual conviction for stealing wood from a shipment. He is sent, with his wife, to the penal colony in the antipodes. Grenville does a good job explaining how someone's sentence "for the rest of his natural life" could mean, in reality, four years of servitude, then liberty.

William is an unusual fellow. He is exceptionally strong and able to single-handedly manage a boat even through fierce tidal pull. Once in Australia, he is convinced he can grow food though he has no direct knowledge of how to do that. Later in the story, he won't ask his son, whom he realizes knows some Aboriginal language, to help communicate with people with whom they come into nearly daily contact. It is as if Grenville wrote anything needed to move the story along, regardless of whether it suited the character she created.

Thornhill does have moments of introspection and empathy. He is  apparently sensitive enough about other people that he can imagine what it might be like to live off the land, finding food all around. But for all that, he is still unable to imagine anything but his right to take land he likes. Never mind that plants that grow there are used as food by the first people. His friend Blackwood has told him that, but Thornhill persistently puts his corn crop just there. When the Aborigines come to their traditional area to gather food, instead of the tubers that are no longer there, they start to harvest "his" crop--an act that has consequences for them, him and others like him.

Image: Penleigh Boyd [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Hawkesbury River

When this intelligent, insightful man moved his wife and children to HIS selected spot, there is no indication he has prepared the place, despite plying an active boatman's trade all around it for several years. Here is how Grenville describes their landing, after an arduous passage hugging the shore eastward from Sydney then through the tide-swept mouth of the Hawkesbury, and finally upstream within the estuary. First, he has timed things so that the tide has just started going out as they near his goal. My uncle is a professional ocean-going fisherman, and no one working around the tide would do that. Then:

"When Thornhill jumped out over the bow, the mud gripped his feet. He tried to take a step and it sucked them in deeper.With a huge effort he dragged one foot and looked for a place to set it down between the spiky mangrove roots. Lurched forward into even deeper mud, pulled his other leg up with a squelch, feeling the foot stretch against the ankle, and floundered towards the bank. He put his head down and butted blindly through a screen of bushes, bursting out at last onto dry land." (p. 132).

That description is a summary of the rest of the book: Thornhill persists, feels stresses, gets pulled deeper into muck, flounders, and eventually reaches "dry land." But it costs him dearly in terms of his relationship with his wife Sal, whom he loves; with his son, who leaves them; with Blackwood, who is wounded body and soul; and with the Aborigines whom he approached with a live-and-let -live attitude, at least until the corn fire.

William Thornhill's blind butting forward also costs his soul. At the last, only one of the first people is still around, a former leader whom Thornhill's family named Jack. Observing Jack,

"Thornhill felt a pang. No man had worked harder than he had done, and he had been rewarded for his labor. He had about him near a thousand pounds in cash, he had three hundred acres and a piece of paper to prove it was all his...But there was an emptiness as he watch Jack's hand caressing the dirt. This was something he did hot have: a place that was part of his flesh and spirit. There was not part of the world that he would keep coming back to, the way Jack did, just to feel it under him."

We cannot undo the past. We can only move forward. My hope is that as we in this country move forward, and as those in others do, we all keep in mind that human rights matter, including culture, language, and more. It seems to be a lesson that people need to continue to hear. Too often I read of people who have impoverished, punished or even killed others deliberately to enrich themselves. Even today, I read that officials in Malawi are standing trial for defrauding their already desperately poor nation of up to $100 million. Why?  Why do people do things like that?




*  The eight I know about are Holland in New Amsterdam; Sweden along the Delaware River; Russia in the Pacific Northwest; Spain in the Southwest and California; Spain in Florida; France in the Midwest North; and the ones most often discussed--English Puritans in Massachusetts and English planters in Virginia and further south.

Dominican Republic: "In the Time of the Butterflies" by Julia Alvarez

This 1995 book presents the four Mirabal sisters, three of whom were nicknamed Mariposas (butterflies) in the early days of the revolution that ended Rafael Trujillo's dictatorship in 1961. Although In the Time of the Butterflies is a novel, one of Ms. Alvarez's declared purposes was to show us what life was like under Trujillo, who took power in 1930. This book is also another take on political protest, supplementing my earlier reading of Secret Son, Children of the Jacaranda Tree, Tree of Red Stars, and Krik? Krak!  Here, too, politics is personal. The women portrayed in this novel become involved because they and those they love endure "outrages and depredations" (a term from Secret River, my book for Australia).

The Dominican Republic, as you no doubt know, shares the island of Hispaniola with Haiti.  Ms. Alvarez begins in 1994, with the visit of a journalist who wants to interview the surviving Mirabal sister, Dedé. Through Dedé's recollections, we have the voices of her sisters Minerva, Patria, and Maria Teresa. Each sister sounds distinct and each segment of the book recounts fictional events from one character's point of view. We see them in youth on the family farm, during early romances and later in marriages. We see them caring for children and for their parents. We see them at worship and in school, at play with cousins at the beach, and hiding from the police.

Even in childhood, the family speaks of Trujillo or anything related to the government where they are certain they will not be overhead. They might whisper together in the farm truck or out in the groves or tobacco field. As far as the regime knows, the Mirabal family is on the right side. The family keeps El Jefe (the Chief's) photo on view, attends the many holidays declared in Trujillo's honor, and strives to avoid censure.

But then things change. The oldest, Minerva, catches the eye of Trujillo, who in true dictator fashion, tries to recruit her to his list of mistresses. She is revolted and with her father's help, leaves a party quickly. In retribution, Trujillo's generals arrest and imprison Señor Mirabal. He knows this is a likely consequence but he holds his daughter's honor dearer than El Jefe's power.

After lobbying for months to secure her father's release, Minerva has the opportunity to attend law school. There she meets and marries a fellow student active in the underground political movements. She participates and through her, two other sisters--Patria and Maria Teresa--and their husbands also begin to help transport and hide weapons and to be part of a network of cells planning a revolution. Thus is the fiction.

Now the fact: These three Mirabal women were involved in the resistance movement and were murdered, along with Rufino de la Cruz, their driver, by Trujillo's forces in 1960. The date of the assassination--November 25--is now the United Nations' International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women.

Trujillo's regime is described in many places. I am not sure anyone actually knows what motivated Minerva, Patria, and Maria Teresa and their husbands. We do know that Trujillo suspended civil liberties, transgressed human rights, permitted rampant corruption, and authorized or even commanded what one website I consulted called "extra-judicial killings." In addition, it is as if he attended something like a "Dictator School" for extra lessons in how create a personality cult, amass wealth, impoverish a country, and compel women to be his mistress. More recent students at this hypothetical school might include the Kim father, son and grandson in North Korea; two Duvaliers in Haiti; and possibly even Mao in China.

Dictators in Latin American countries since the 19th century have been so numerous that there is a genre of fiction called the Latin American Dictator Novel. Along with works by Garcia Marquez and books about Peron in Argentina, this genre includes Mario Vargas Llosa's The Feast of the Goat, about the last days of Trujillo. I am far less interested in Trujillo's end than in the motivations for the people who ended him -- he was assassinated in 1961. Fiction is one way to consider those and provides insights, but I suspect I'm ready for some biography or even autobiography.

Norway and Sweden: "Out Stealing Horses," Per Petterson and "Astrid & Veronika," Linda Olsson

Two countries, twinned on the same landmass. Two books, pendants in fact, to use a metaphor from the arts. One deals with a pair of men; the other with a pair of women. I didn't begin with the intent to treat them together, but the books fell out that way. Astrid & Veronika appeared on the clearance shelf at Half Price Books a few months ago; and Out Stealing Horses was the Per Petterson title available in our public library. Sometimes happenstance leads to neat discoveries. Each book evokes a sense of place extremely vividly and tells the age-old tale of adjusting to the difficult circumstances of life. Each leaves the reader with some sense, but not a complete sense, of closure.

Both of these works have a frame story. Petterson's 2007 work is a classic "coming of age" story set within the larger frame of a voyage/quest as an 67-year old man seeks peace in the forest he hasn't known since boyhood. I could argue that it is the better book because it is more complex. Linda Olsson's 2005 novel, her first, is a "coming to terms" story set within a larger frame of humankind's mutual inter-connectedness, even when we want to deny that we are, in fact, linked with other people. In this book, a woman near 80 reveals her life's secrets to her new, much younger neighbor, and each shares tales of tremendous loss.

In each book, one character moves to a new home intentionally isolated from others, except for one other person across the way or down the road. Each pair of houses--one an hour's drive or so from Oslo (Norway), the other outside of Stockholm (Sweden)--sits on the edge of a forest, near a lake, within a short drive of a village with a general store/gossip center.

Isolation is a plot necessity. Without it Trond, the narrator of Horses, would not have spoken with his nearest neighbor, Lars, and Astrid, the older woman, would not have checked on Veronkia after not seeing her for a few days. By connecting with the other, each unleashes the memories and stories that form a substantial portion of the books.

Each book uses a similar structure, alternating between past and present. Each tells stories from the past from different people's viewpoints. We hear Trond's boyhood neighbor Franz tell the 15-year old Trond some truths about his father. We hear what Veronika's father said to her when they last met. We infer from her words how Astrid coped with her father's mis-use of her when she was a girl. Even Lars, almost mute in Trond's life, has a short narrative about his existence from age 10 to 20, being responsible for the family farm in his older brother's absence.

Descriptions of forest, snow, light, and even the scent of the area abound in both works.

In Horses, which begins in November with Trond meeting his neighbor:

"There had been days and nights of rain and wind and incessant roaring in the pines and the spruce, but now there was absolute stillness in the forest, not a shadow moving, and we stood still, my neighbour and I, staring into the dark." (p. 8)

In A&V, which begins with Veronika's arrival in March, under dark skies:

"She lay still, watching the shade of the ceiling change, her ears alert. The sounds of darkness were faint but familiar. She could hear the snow adjusting to the slowly rising temperature, the wind preparing to pick up, the rustling of small bodies scuttling across the hard crust of snow that had thawed and frozen over again." (p. 11)

Then later that year, in Sweden:

"Summer arrived abruptly...The birch trees went from sheet pale purple through shy green to full summer exuberance in a few days, and the delicate bluebells covered the meadows with a quivering brush of purple. The bird cherry trees blossomed and filled the air with perfume over a few intense days, then the petals fell like snow." (p. 88)

In one of his memories, Trond recounts a horse camping trip he made with his father in the summer of 1948:

"...we made up branches and twigs into two soft beds under the cliff, and it smelled good and strong...We fetched our blankets and lit a bonfire...and sat on each side of the flames to eat...we turned the horses loose. From where we sat by the fire we could only just hear them moving around on the soft forest floor...but we could not see them clearly for it was August now and the evenings were darker." (p. 212-213)

In their own late summer in this century, Astrid and Veronika set off for lingon berries:

"The dark forest gradually thinned as they reached higher ground. Eventually it gave way to tall pines, seemingly nourished only the the white moss that covered their roots. The trunks stretched straight and branchless toward the sky and the air was filled with the smell of resin and pine needles. The moss was dotted with small red berries and they began to pick. The berries grew in clusters...Veronika focused on her task, the sun warm on her back now. (p. 215)

I learned from these books that if you don't live in a city, it is imperative to know how to cook food and possibly heat your home with a wood stove, how to chop the wood and stack it correctly, and how to read weather signs for rain or snow. Living in one's mind also seems important, as these characters face potential days and nights of isolation, and their lives are joyous, at least sometimes, because of their memories of their own lives and of the stories of others they carry with them.