historical fiction

Beholding Bee

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by Kimberly Newton Fusco
First sentence: “The way I got the diamond on my face happened like this.”
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Content: There’s some bullying, both by (insensitive and stupid) adults and mean girls. But there’s no language, and the language isn’t difficult at all. It sits quite happily in the middle grade (3-5th grade) section of the bookstore.

It’s in the middle of World War II, and things are tough for those who work at the carnival. Especially for Bee, who works the hot dog stand with her makeshift guardian, Pauline. It’s difficult for Bee not only because she’s an orphan and the carnival owner, Ellis, is a world-class creep, but because she’s got a birthmark in the shape of a diamond on her face that everyone (EVERYONE!) stares at and/or makes fun of.

So, when Ellis takes Pauline away from her and threatens to put her on display as a sideshow attraction, Bee decides to run away. She makes it to a town with a perfect house, and finds a couple of women whom she ends up calling “aunts” there. The catch? Only Bee can see her aunts.

Of course life in her new town isn’t easy: there are busybodies who want to know who Bee’s caregivers are. There are mean girls who are dealing with Issues themselves. But there’s also good people who reach out to Bee and make her feel at home.

In so many ways, this was just a plain, regular middle grade fiction book. And it’s a good one at that. Fusco writes lyrical, short chapters; ones that make you want to keep turning pages. There’s the backdrop of hardship with the war, there’s bullying, there’s Bee’s “disfigurement” and shyness that places her in the special-needs class. It really is quite a lovely little novel about Overcoming, finding family, and creating a home.

The question I had, though, while reading this book is this: why the ghosts? It was a great novel without them, and I didn’t feel that the ghosts added anything to the story. They felt, well, contrived. And I wished that Fusco had found another way to get Bee into the town and the house that didn’t involve the supernatural. That way the book would have had a broader appeal, more power, and been absolutely perfect.

But, I guess, you can’t win them all.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)

Audiobook: The Boneshaker

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by Kate Milford
Read by: Erin Moon
Content: some intense moments (the Devil’s pretty scary), some violence, some disturbing images (if it were a movie). Language is probably suitable for someone reading on a 5th grade level. Has the feel of an older Middle Grade book, so I’d probably put it in the YA section (grades 6-8) at the bookstore.
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It’s 1914, and 13-year-old Natalie Minks has a pretty good life. Her father is the local mechanic — bicycle, mostly, but he’ll tinker with cars — and her mother tells the most amazing stories about their town, Arcane. Natalie herself has a predisposition for both: she loves tinkering with her father as well as listening to her mother’s stories.

Then one day Dr. Jake Limberleg’s Nostrum Fair and Technological Medicine Show comes to town. It was a fluke — their front wheel came off at the crossroads, and they decided to set up shop while they waited for Mr. Minks to fix their wagon. And that’s when the Trouble starts. Natalie, for better or for worse, is tuned into it and with her frienemy Miranda (I think that’s what her name was; I can’t look it up in the book!) and her trusty Chesterlane Eidolon bicycle (a bone shaker of an old thing that would be the fastest in the world, if Natalie could ever ride it), she decides to take on Limberleg and solve the mystery, saving her town. If she can.

I don’t know how I can write about the way this captured my attention. Sure, I was on a long drive to Austin, and it had my full attention anyway, but I didn’t want to stop listening. Milford has taken the idea of a Faustian Bargain — you know: those stories where a character meets the Devil and then outsmarts Old Scratch? — and elevated it. Not only is there two elements to this bargain, but we get historical elements thrown in as well. The traveling medicine show (I loved the Paragons of Science, even though they were Evil), the bicycles, the references to the “war” (which took me a minute to realize they meant the Civil War): it all added Atmosphere, which made the fantasy element, the bargains with the Devil at the Crossroads, that much creepier.

(It also helped that I kept thinking about this song:)

In short: a winner of a book.

Rose Under Fire

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by Elizabeth Wein
First sentence: “I just got back from Celia Forester’s funeral.”
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Content: there were a lot of f-bombs (I didn’t count them) that came up once at the concentration camp (understandable) and other mild swearing throughout. Also a number of disturbing images and content (Nazi concentration camps don’t make for Light Reading). It is most definitely one I wouldn’t hand to a kid under the age of 13 or 14 (depending on their maturity handling Difficult Situation), whether or not they were on the reading level, so it’s shelved in my Teen section (grades 9-12) at the bookstore.

I don’t quite know where to start with this one. Once I discovered it was a Holocaust novel (as opposed to just a WWII novel), I put off reading it. I don’t like Holocaust novels, mostly because I don’t like being confronted with the evil things the Nazis did. But, because it was Elizabeth Wein, and because it’s a companion to Code Name Verity, I bravely gave it a shot.

And I found myself sucked into the world of women pilots, of strong, resilient women who know how to survive. It’s odd to say this about a Holocaust book, but I loved it.

Rose Justice is an American who has pulled strings to get enlisted as a transport pilot for the RAF. She’s doing her duty, blissfully unaware of the evils of the Nazis. Sure, they’re the Enemy, but the can’t be as horrible as they all say, right? Then, on a mission, she chases after a flying bomb (German pilotless planes loaded with bombs), gets lost over enemy territory, and ends up in Ravensbrück.

Even I, who actively avoids anything Holocaust, know about the horrors of Ravensbrück.

And yet, even though Wein captures the horrors, and the crimes, and the terribleness (I can’t seem to find a word strong enough) of Ravensbrück, it isn’t a hopeless, dark book. Even though Rose is changed permanently by her six months (only six measly months! How did people survive years there?), she retains her will to survive. And Wein has created a cohort of strong, amazing, wonderful (again, there is no word strong enough) women who do just that: survive. It’s amazing — and inspiring — to read.

I’m so glad I did.

All the Truth That’s in Me

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by Julie Berry
ages: 13+
First sentence: “We came here by ship, you and I.”
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Review copy pilfered off the ARC shelves at work.

Two girls go missing. One turns up dead, floating in the stream. Two years later, the other one returns to the small town, intact, but with her tongue cut out. The villagers — from the preacher to her own mother — call her cursed, and shun her.

I’ve tried to sum up what goes on in the rest of the book, but I’ve found that I don’t really want to give too much away. Because much of the pleasure I got from reading this (in one sitting!) was not knowing that much about it. I will tell you this: at first, I thought it was a fantasy setting, because I think that’s what I was expecting. It’s not. Even though it’s not explicitly stated, it’s a Puritan setting, somewhere on the east coast. And the religion and mores that those communities set out play a major role in the book. And, even though it’s a story about kidnapping and murder, and you fear the worst for Judith, I will tell you that, as the story unfolds, it’s not the worst. It’s bad, but it’s not as bad as it gets.

The meat of the story is Judith — she’s the girl that returns — and her road to healing. For, in spite of everything that the village (and her mother) heaps on her, she does need to heal. It’s this process that is the true story. How Judith salvages her life from her trauma and reclaims her own sense of self. How she finds friends in the face of all the opposition in the town. How she even finds love. It’s a testament to the power of truth, to the power of the human spirit.

Remarkable.

Code Name Verity

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by Elizabeth Wein
ages: 14+
First sentence: “I am a coward.”
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Things this book is:
A World War II book.
A book about friendship, between two young women, specficially.  Funny.
A book about torture.
A book about the Resistance.
A book about women pilots.
A book about things a person will do to save their skin.
An amazing example of voice. Seriously, the characters leap off the page.
Unputdownable. (Yeah, I know. Still, it fits.)
Freaking awesome.

Things this book is not:
Trite.
Another Holocaust book.
Boring.

In other words: if you haven’t yet read this story about Maddie and Verity, and been captivated by their story, you are missing out.

And yes, it really is just as good as “they” all say.

The Street of a Thousand Blossoms

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by Gail Tsukiyama
ages: adult
First sentence: “A white light seeped through the shoji windows and into the room, along with the morning chill.”
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The thing that kept coming to mind as I was reading this sweeping novel, was that this book is much like a picture album. The pictures go together because they’re of the same family, and because they tell a story of the passing years. But, each individual picture has a story. Sometimes those stories are interesting, sometimes they’re a little boring. Much like this book.

Tsukiyama tells the story of two brothers — Hiroshi and Kenji — over the course of nearly 30 years. When we first meet them, it’s 1939, and they are orphans living with their grandparents (their parents died in a freak boating accident). The book follows them as they grow up: through the horrors of the war years; Hiroshi’s rise as a sumotori and Kenji’s discovery and mastery of the art of theater mask making; as both brothers find (and lose) love. It’s more than a slice of life, it’s history.

But, even though it’s quite lyrical and beautifully written and incorporates Japanese incredibly seamlessly, I found myself going back and forth on this one. Some of the snapshots were fascinating. Some of the people I cared immensely about. But, sometimes I found myself unable to get into the language, or drifting off because the plot, such as it was, wasn’t grabbing me.

That said, one of the things that Tsukiyama does beautifully is give us a slice of Japan. More than the people, it was the way Tsukiyama described the land, the culture, and the people, as well as the push and pull between tradition and modernity. For that alone, the book is worth reading.

The Heretic’s Daughter

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by Kathleen Kent
ages: adult
First sentence: “The distance by wagon from Billerica to neighboring Andover is but nine miles.”
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This is a fascinating, harrowing tale about a time in American history that I know very little about: the Salem witch trials.

Our main character, Sarah Carrier, is growing up in Billerica (and later Andover), Massachusetts. She’s often at odds with her hard, logical, unsentimental mother, Martha. Then, the summer of 1691, Martha is arrested on suspicion of being a witch, and asks Sarah to do the unspeakable: to cry out against her own mother in order to save her life. That’s the basic plot in a nutshell, but the book is so much more than that. Rambling and long, it’s a look at how Puritan communities and families functioned and interacted. It’s an attempt to understand why the Salem witch trials happened — whether it was just misunderstanding, fear, or jealousy; though in that case, I’m not sure it succeeded. I was left with almost more questions, especially after the descriptions of Martha’s trial. It’s almost incomprehensible to the modern mind how exactly everyone could let these abuses of human rights could go on. It was a different time and place, and that feeling is something Kent captured quite well.

The ending, for me, was a bit off, though. After Martha’s trial (and eventual execution), the book goes on telling us the fate of Sarah. Sure, it’s called the heretic’s daughter, but I’m not sure I really cared that much about Sarah’s fate. Perhaps it was because I was more emotionally invested in the story of her mother, and their relationship. Or maybe it was because Kent leaps over years and years in the final 7 pages. At any rate, the final revelation, the final secret her mother was keeping came as a “Huh, what?!” moment, which lessened the impact of the rest of the book.

Which, to be sure, was fascinating.

The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg

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by Rodman Philbrick
ages: 9+
First sentence: “My name is Homer P. Figg, and these are my true adventures.”
Review copy provided by the publisher.
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Life is not good for Homer P. Figg. His father was felled by a tree. His Dear Mother passed away, leaving Homer and his other brother, Harold, in the care of their uncle, Squint, who — to write an enormous understatement — doesn’t treat them well. Now Squint has illegally sold Harold to the Union Army, and it’s up to Homer to find him and bring him home.

These are his adventures. (Mostly true, anyway.)

And, boy are they adventures.

From getting caught by a couple of slave hunters (in Maine, of all places), and rescued by a Quaker to becoming a part of a traveling circus, this is one a rip-roaring adventure. Sure, it’s a Civil War book; there’s the same old Civil War themes of slavery, fighting, traitors, and death. But it didn’t feel like a Civil War book; instead, it’s more of an adventure story with a Civil War backdrop. (Bonus plus: Joshua Chamberlin, my absolute favorite Civil War character, made an appearance!) But, more than the unusual take on the war, the best part of the book was Homer. He’s is not only a winning character, he’s a wonderful narrator, even if he is (admittedly) a bit of a liar. It’s not a lying book like, say, Justine Larbalestier’s Liar is: the lying is more for comic effect, something which adds to the unique charm of Homer’s character. But, it was that dash of comedy (and, yes, lying) that made the pages just fly by.

And it was Homer’s charm that completely won me over. The cadence of the sentences, the word choices all lend itself to the whole charming tale. I’m not often a visual reader, but while reading this I had a definite picture of Homer. And I could totally wrap him up — spite, spit, dirt and all — and stick him in my pocket.

Which means that this one is a keeper.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)

Year of the Bomb

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by Ronald Kidd
ages: 10+
First sentence: “There were Martians in the backyard.”
Review copy provided by the publisher.
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It’s 1955. It’s the middle of the Cold War. There are frightening things all around, from the threat of nuclear war, to McCarthy’s Communist hunting, to the monsters in the movies.

And in Sierra Madre, California, Paul and his friends — Arnie, Crank and Oz — are in the thick of it all. Especially when the filming of the greatest B movie of them all — Invasion of the Body Snatchers — comes to their hometown. Being movie buffs, they are drawn to the set, which, in turn, opens up a whole can of worms: espionage, scientists, blacklisting, movie magic. You name it, it’s probably in there.

This book is wild and fun. It feels like a B movie: a bit cheezy, a bit over-the-top, but in the end, quite lovable. Kidd’s writing style flows — even if sometimes the narrative time line gets a little bit fuzzy, flipping between movies, real time and flashbacks — and Paul is a winner of a character. He’s concerned about his friends, he wants everyone to get along, and yet he’s not willing to give in to all the conspiracy theories and fear that are all around him.

There’s nothing really deep or life-changing about the book. It’s mostly just fun times and monster movies. Which is really just fine.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)

Black Angels

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by Linda Beatrice Brown
ages: 10+
First sentence: “Luke took the key out of the sideboard drawer in the dining room, took a rifle and put the key back very carefully.”
Review copy provided by the publisher.
Support your local independent bookstore, buy it there!

Fiction about children during wartime is pretty overdone, in my humble opinion. Do we really need another book that illustrates the horrors of war, the trials that the children go through, the pain of separation? Probably not. But in this case, I’ll make an exception: Brown’s book takes the generic child-in-war story and moves it beyond the cliche to something else. Something more gripping, more lyrical, more — dare I say it? — poignant.

Luke is twelve years old. He hates his master, he hats the South, and he is running away to join the Union and fight to end slavery and free his people. Daylily is ten. She’s been freed by her master, but in the journey north with her Gramma and Buttercup (whom we never really find out much about), the two are brutally murdered. We’re never quite sure if they’re murdered by Union or Confederate soldiers, but the fact of their murder renders Daylily silent and bruised. She’s lucky to be left with her life, and she knows it. Caswell is seven, and he’s the son of a wealthy landowner who’s off fighting for the Confederacy. He’s lost in the woods, trying to find a neighbor’s house and his Mamadear who was carted away in the night because she was in labor.

The three manage to meet in the woods, going north, and make an unlikely trio. Yet dire circumstances make strange bedfellows. And when they meet Betty Strong Feet, things get even more unusual. The three children learn about survival, and working together, but most of all about love and friendship in the face of adversity.

The plot arc is huge: not only do we follow the children through the few months during their time in the woods and with Betty, but we follow their paths for the ten years after they got separated. This didn’t quite work for me: I felt that the book got preachy and too altruistic near the end; on the one hand, it was important to see how the children had changed because of their experiences together, but — on the other hand — perhaps it would have been nice to leave that to the imagination.

Minor quibble with the ending aside, the book was lyrical, descriptive and quite powerful. A fresh look at a overdone subject.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)