What I never say (Liz)

I was thinking recently about my Edith Bruck translation and all of the public readings I’d completed when suddenly I realized I'd only once said aloud something I'm constantly thinking, albeit in such a subtle, subliminal kind of way that it almost transforms thinking into unthinking:

I wish Liz were alive to hear about the translation and the readings.

It’s obvious and with people we know well, we never have to say the obvious. Everyone I know is aware she died two years ago on Sept. 6, 2023, at the age of 54, after a lifetime of illness.

But as wonderful as all of the readings have been and as meaningful as it’s been to meet friends and family throughout this mini book-tour, there’s still no denying that my librarian sister who lived for words and loved books even more than I do would have enjoyed the publication of my first book-length translation and the attendant promotional activities. And I would have enjoyed any pleasure she might have felt over the book (Where ‘enjoyed’ sounds so trite compared to how truly kaleidoscopically awesome it would have been for me to share this moment with her).

She would have asked me 1,000 questions by phone and text and in person -- the deadlines, the reviews, the details about the readings I'd scheduled, the questions posed by the audience. She would have fangirled it up when I told her Elena Ferrante’s translator (Ann Goldstein) attended the reading in New York.

She would have read the translation closely -- far closer than it would seem humanly possible (a reflection of HER dedication to literature, her intense curiosity about the written word -- not the merit of the translation). I like to think she would have appreciated, somewhat grimly, the title that I chose for the translation, which deviates from the original Italian: This Darkness Will Never End.

But wait, there’s more!

And I don’t just mean the profound sadness I feel over her death. I don’t even mean the gaping hole she left – my partner-in-crime for all things literary (and also wicked thoughts you shouldn't say aloud and anything that reflects the ongoing conversation siblings, if they're lucky, share over the course of their lives).

What I mean when I say there's more: if I, who write often and blog regularly and admit that I more or less still openly grieve the loss of my personal Holy Trinity (Mommy, Daddy, Liz) – if I do not say how much I miss my sister in this instance, how many other people are going around this world with a similar ache that's rarely revealed?

It’s like I'm taking a walk or having a conversation with a bee buzzing about my face. 

This bee’s persistent buzzing could be translated as, ‘I wish Liz were here,’ or, ‘I wish I could talk to Liz.' 

OR, ‘I wish Liz could have heard the question the man at Newtonville Books asked.’

Surely everyone is like this!

If love (or actually hope) is the thing with feathers, grief is the one with talons.

And it's no one's fault. We stay silent often because it's more convenient -- for us. There was a lot to say when I gave the readings in the Spring -- why say more?

Yet it’s like a song that gets lodged in your head after you hear it on the radio one day.

Visually it would be quite obvious: in a movie, they would show the character’s face, maybe close up, then there would be a closeup of the thought visualized. Maybe in my case, an image of Liz as she was attached to all the beeping buzzing bleating monitors in the hospital on Long Island before she died. Then my face again, outwardly impassive. Then another shot of Liz, pale, jaundiced, with a temperature of 93, days before the end. Then a shot, maybe, of my sisters and me surrounding Liz on her deathbed after the doctor said, “There’s no hope.” (This was after he’d let us hope in vain, but I digress).

As I write this, I am perfectly calm.

So’s everyone you know who carries around an ache of this kind (or another kind).

The guy I call a jerk during a traffic jam. The annoying father on the sidelines at a soccer game. The local official who makes a decision I disagree with (I don’t mean anyone specifically).

The inner landscape of each of these people could be exactly like my own.

Now I stand at the podium of the conference room at my public library.

Now I begin to say how wonderful it is to read at a library.

Now I say my sister was a librarian.

Now I say how much she would have enjoyed this talk with a smile on my face.

Now I continue with my remarks about the translation and appear perfectly happy to read from it because I am, despite being stuck on a channel of grief (because really and truly, how is it possible this translation was published only after its biggest supporter had died?)

Now I walk out of the library and talk with friends.

Now I go home and eat dinner.

And unless I am an aberration, everyone we know older than, say, 30 years of age, is the same way.

(The percentage of those older than 50 who might feel this way? 500 percent.)

The United States of Grief. The North Atlantic Treaty Organization of the Bereaved. The United Nations of Sorrow.

Or simply what I never say.

And maybe also what YOU never say. All of our dead, all of our regrets, all that's gone. Weighing on us like a millstone and all you can hear is silence.

-30-

Liz Bonner, Feb. 16, 1969 - Sept. 6, 2023

Eulogy for Liz. Sept. 9, 2023.

I’d like to first of all thank you for coming – by coming, you tell me that you cared about Liz, and I’d like to thank you for that, too.

I am speaking today on behalf of my mother, who is unfortunately not well enough to be here, and my sisters, Trish and Denise, and their families. I also speak, in a way, on behalf of my father who left us just shy of two years ago and who never lost hope for Liz.

We are heartbroken by this loss but soothed at least a bit knowing she is no longer suffering – after so many trying years.

I am the youngest in my family so growing up, Liz was very much my big sister. But at some point, any authority she lorded over me morphed into a friendship that was one of the deepest bonds I’ve had the privilege of knowing.

It was a bond marked by shared interests, including a love of books. Now we’re a family of big readers – beginning with my parents to my sister, Trish, and down to the rest of us, but I think she loved books the most. Good thing she was a librarian! A job she loved, and a job she excelled at. And even after she could no longer work at the library, she continued to practice library science with me and I suspect anyone she knew, recommending books and fiendishly listening to books on tape.

And I will also let you in on a secret I’ve been harboring. While she often said she found writing quite difficult and simply couldn’t do it, I think she would have been the better writer and it’s one of many facets of what could have been, had the hand dealt to Liz been a little different – or if the society she was born into had been a little different. One that wasn’t so punitive toward those with mental struggles.

As she put it to me one day, “I really wish I could write; then my eccentricities would be more acceptable.”

But about those books and other shared interests – like public radio and music and the New Yorker magazine – we corresponded about all of these things continuously for the past 25 years via emails, letters, phone calls and eventually text messages.

And after a while, I began squirreling away the best of these missives with a plan to write an essay about Liz. So on this day dedicated to her memory, I will draw on the correspondence to reflect a bit on Liz’s life and on her character, which was truly unparalleled, in all senses.

One of the most memorable of these communications – and perhaps my first inkling that the text message distilled her particular character to its essence – came on the morning of Nov. 9, 2016.

Do you remember that morning? I’ll give you a hint. It didn’t dawn sunny for Hillary Clinton.

Liz, who perhaps like many of us was still new to texting, sent me a two-word text in ALL CAPS:

“NOT GOOD”

Capital N, capital O, capital T, capital G, capital O, capital O, capital D

What more needed to be said?

My apologies if I am offending some in the room but anyone who knew her would know she didn’t support Trump.

It reminded me of some of the quirky things she did as a child. Like hiding her flute in the bushes because she didn’t want to practice it.

She often sent texts that I learned to recognize as quotes from the authors she loved.

Like the Somali poet Warsan Shire who wrote a poem excerpted in The New Yorker with a line Liz especially liked, and which she sent via text: “Daughter, be stronger than the loneliness this world is going to present to you.”

Through the writers and books she favored, one can trace the existential conflicts she’s always battled.

She loved the essays of David Sedaris, a humorist who nonetheless has often written about family tragedy including the suicide of his sister. Of an article about his father’s decline, Liz said:

“At first his honesty is jarring but on second thought brave and admirable in a way. It made me reflect on the darkness within my own soul. Maybe that is what good or honest writing can do: shine a light on the parts of ourselves that we keep hidden from the world and sometimes ourselves.”

She also loved music. Her bedroom in high school was plastered with posters of Prince and the Revolution. Her favorite Prince song was “Controversy,” which contains the line, “I wish there was no black and white, I wish there were no rules.” Not because Liz was rebellious – or not only -- but because the world often didn’t make ENOUGH space for someone like her.

One day a few years ago, she wrote in a text, “Just heard on the radio ‘Bring on the Night,’ so I think I have a reason to live.”

What else did Liz love?

*“The Brian Lehrer Show” on WNYC; it was often blaring in the background when I would call her. Terry Gross, too, because she unwittingly channeled Liz’s profound curiosity about other people through her questions.

*John Lennon – she always observed Dec. 8, the day he was gunned down in 1980, as if it were a national holiday….

*The British comedian Ricky Gervais, whose bold, unsentimental observations tickled her.

She also loved Steve Levinson, who was her boyfriend for many years before he succumbed to cancer.

And she was devoted to our mother, who is now in a nursing home in New Jersey. Whenever I visit her, I listen to her voicemails and there are invariably many, many voicemails from Liz, achingly intent on reaching my mother, on maintaining their connection.

She was devoted to Buddhism as well, which will be apparent today at this service honoring Liz.

I am of course mainly focusing on the positive even though I know very well her life was marked by so many negative moments, so many negative diagnoses, so many people who couldn’t help her adequately…

Which is of course tragic for many reasons but to offer one:

We in the family casually considered her the smartest of the four girls.

Unfortunately, the chemicals in her brain were forever unbalanced.

Liz spent a lot of her high school years in the hospital for treatment for anorexia nervosa and was forced to leave college to go to a psychiatric facility in New Jersey. They were unfortunately life-changing experiences that left an enduring mark.

As she wrote in an email, five years ago, “The food can only cover up a wound that refuses to heal.”

But food wasn’t her only medication – words were. And connections to people.

She never took words for granted. She wrote to me about a French novel she was reading in which, she wrote, “The narrator says that literature, of all the art forms, can most reveal a person's soul.” And she asked, “So is the writer bearing their soul because of some innate need to do it or are they operating on more altruistic motivation to touch another's soul and try to relieve their suffering through the power of connection?”

I probably don’t need to tell you that she herself was READING the work of writers in the hopes someone would touch her soul through words and relieve her suffering…

I’m not going to lie: there is no consolation in this death.

We sisters never lost currency with Liz, and she bombarded us with questions.

In addition, she was eternally interested in all of her nieces and nephews and always sought a closer bond with them. She was also curious to the point of noseyness arguably about her brothers-in-law, who, coming from other families with different traditions, struck her as particularly interesting and she longed to know them better.

The hole she leaves is immense. We worried about her health for 40 years but I, for one, did not actually prepare for this moment because it is truly unthinkable.

But I’d like to offer a palliative to our collective grief.

I have learned in recent years of a saying some people of the Jewish faith use when someone dies. It is an expression that almost magically converts grief into the pure joy of beloved memories:

“May her memory be a blessing.”

I will be leaning on this word-formed lifesaver in the days and weeks and months to come and I say to you:

May the memory of Liz be a blessing to all of you.

Remember her and be filled with the joy of having known her.

THANK YOU.

-30-  

Edith Bruck is alive and well!

During our trip to Italy, I was lucky to see many friends I'd known in Florence, but perhaps the most important meeting took place near the Spanish Steps in Rome.

It's the area where Edith Bruck lives -- "my author."

Indeed, Mike even arranged for us to stay near Piazza del Popolo during our visit to Rome so I would be able to to walk to Edith's apartment.

It was our third meeting; the first took place in 2018, shortly after I began translating, "Silvia," one of the signature stories in This Darkness Will Never End.

I spent three glorious hours with Edith this trip. Imagine if your 94-year-old grandmother was a famous writer. Over lunch, she reminisced, she complained, she repeated herself, she smoked! (those thin cigarettes -- the whole time). But she also told me about a story (novel?) she wants to write – but can’t because she’s lost most of her eyesight – and I wish she could write it. It’s called “La Caccia,” and it’s about two journalists who go looking for the last sopravvissuta.

Is that how she feels – like l’ultima sopravvissuta? The last survivor of the Holocaust?

(With only 220,000 survivors left worldwide, according to the Claims Conference, she may well feel that way).

She proudly told me she has a new book coming out this Fall! "L'Amica Tedesca."

She made some very interesting comments, including, “Quando scrivo in Italiano, una parola partorisce un’altra.”  That means: When I write in Italian, one word gives birth to another. She said it to explain that she can’t write now because she can’t see. And since she can’t see, she can’t put down one word and then see where it leads. She said she’s always done her writing by using yellow legal pads propped up on her tummy.

She and Olga (longtime assistant) were very kind and they both told stories about Papa Francesco in great detail. Truly one-of-a-kind to have a Jewish survivor of the Holocaust with such close knowledge of a Catholic Pope! Beautiful friendship. They showed me a special photo book from their visit to Casa Marta, where Pope Francis had lived, that the Vatican created for her (Editor's note: Pope Francis asked to meet Edith Bruck in 2021 to thank her for bearing witness to the Holocaust and to apologize for all the pain she'd suffered).

She told me she thinks about her parents every day -- 80 years after their brutal deaths in Auschwitz (mother) and Dachau (father). She even sang a lullaby in Hungarian that her father used to sing to her!

"Finché vivo, vivono loro ... nei miei libri, nel mio cuore."

As long as I'm alive, she told me, so are they -- in my books, in my heart.

And we spoke of the survivors who rarely if ever break their silence -- like her brother, who witnessed her father's death while they were in the concentration camp and told her what happened but tearfully begged her never to ask again. So she didn't. And she wonders, she told me, what were her father's last words? Was he asking about her? She'll never know.

If your grandmother was a famous writer ... I was spellbound! What a privilege it is to translate another person's words. I sat there combining all of my own identities -- journalist, translator, writer -- and grateful to have entered into a one-of-a-kind relationship with a writer like Edith.

Some of what I blogged about is so frivolous. My memento shrines! Whether the Crazy Drycleaner is still in business (in my old Florentine neighborhood). The barista who said 'Ri-buongiorno.' But this feels momentous.

Yes, there were happy moments, and sad moments during our visit. But mainly proud moments because we were celebrating the publication of "our" new book -- the translation of her first short story collection, This Darkness Will Never End, which has been a milestone for me, and a continuation of the flow of her works into English (three of which have now been published by Paul Dry Books in Philadelphia).

May it continue! I have translated most of her second short story collection, Two Empty Rooms, and even managed to publish an excerpt with Jewish Currents magazine.

My thanks to everyone who has supported this translation! (Including the National Endowment for the Arts). I've been touched by your gestures and interest -- a British colleague of mine at CNN Travel learned about the translation while we were chatting one day over Slack and ordered it from Amazon that day!

I'll continue to talk about the book in the Fall, including a visit to Otterbein College in Ohio where I'll be the guest speaker at a class on Holocaust literature. There will be some other stops, too, which I will detail on the blog and via social media.

The written word, the spoken word, the translated word -- a passport to a world of discovery, understanding and friendship.

-30-

Memento shrine (Italy) 2025

Christmas morning for me, if somehow instead of Santa Claus coming down the chimney it was Babbo Natale.

My memento shrine, the haul from two weeks of consuming everything I love from il Bel Paese and my ode to all of the little items I stud my daily life with, in a bid to retain a bit of Italy in my otherwise suburban American life.

It may seem like an odd habit, these memento shrines, especially since I don't shop much back here at home. And what an example of conspicuous consumption! One magazine wasn't enough -- I needed three, plus the Settimana Enigmistica, my favorite puzzle  (there are competing puzzle magazines, but this is the real McCoy, to be clear -- wink wink), and several editions of the newspaper I read in Italy, Il Corriere della Sera, (the copies are buried in the photo under the striped box containing coffee cups from Bialetti, which constitute a somewhat new obsession: buying sets of coffee cups with Italian expressions on them for our morning coffee. Once upon a time, we were arranging trysts in hotel rooms in Madrid -- true story! -- now I consider it some mark of our love that every morning our coffee cups "match" because they form a set). (These cups read "Amore mio" -- my love/my beloved -- and "Sole cose belle" -- only beautiful things).

And, of course, books. As I mentioned I was able to find a book by Edith Bruck that's out of print, a Natalia Ginzburg that I needed (because I have now accepted that I will read one or more of her books every year, not unlike the ritual re-reading of A Christmas Carol) and three books from Giuntina, which has published many books by Holocaust survivors, and which I bought directly from the publisher, a lovely turn of events for many reasons (this haul includes Tagebuch by Liana Millu, the author of Smoke Over Birkenau; this latest acquisition is the notebook she kept as she journeyed home from the concentration camps at war's end).

The photo above represents not only my own consumption but also Leo's: the pricey Ferrari shirt? It ain't mine! Ditto the pale green sweater and sweatpants from Benetton (on mega sale!).

Other items of interest:

*A baby bottle of Vin santo

*Every possible permutation of Florentine paper gifts -- wrapping paper, note cards, posters, note pads

*Cans of fancy tuna in olive oil for the chef

*Biscotti for our morning coffee (a new kind! Mike is obsessed with ones that are integrali because he thinks they are healthier)

It's actually less of a haul than in previous years. When I win the lottery -- as Mike often says -- I am going to Italy and buying everything the newsstand guy (il giornalaio) sells and every book I've ever wanted at Feltrinelli and all the biscotti in the world (which is to say at the Conad supermarket) and every kind of Florentine paper, including Florentine wallpaper if that exists. And since we're talking about the lottery, an apartment in Florence.

Curious about previous memento shrines? This one is coffee-themed:

https://ciambellina.blogspot.com/2017/06/italian-trip-2017-post-12-what-i-bought.html

And the more restrained Montreal edition:

https://ciambellina.blogspot.com/2019/09/montreal-memento-shrine.html

Wow, I've been at it a while:

https://ciambellina.blogspot.com/2011/04/christmas-in-april-il-nostro-inviato.html

Signed,

Your Italian memento scout

Tiny moments of exquisite beauty in Italy

The apartment in Florence where we stayed this month during our trip to Italy had a top-floor terrace that stares directly at the Torre di Arnolfo, which defines the Palazzo Vecchio and is arguably the symbol of Florence. In the early morning hours as Leo and Mike (and the rest of the city) slept, I had my coffee while staring back at it. One morning, the silence surrounding me was so profound that the flapping of a bird's wing overhead was singularly audible. 

(Fun fact: the apartment is on the top floor -- 75 steps up!)

Each trip contains certain touchstones -- I revisit my old apartments, I retrace my steps along treasured walking routes, I prowl beloved bookstores and newsstands for all of the written material that I feel as though I need to live. I observe the small moments of exquisite beauty, something I believe my mother would have done (a habit she almost certainly instilled in me by modeling it).  

But each trip is also different, and engenders a specific set of preoccupations. 

At one point during our travels, I developed an obsession with the Roma-Viterbo train line, which is separate from Trenitalia. It's not entirely odd: our apartment in Rome overlooked one of the stations on the line. And when I am in Italy, I am immersed in "my beat," which I define as the ordinary aspects of Italian life, the parts of Italian life that an average Italian contends with. 

It reminded me of the PATH trains that link lower Manhattan to New Jersey inasmuch as it's both local and separate. They are like an alt subway line, which is slightly odd. If you were a traveler to NYC, you could mistake them for the actual subway system, no?  

When I poked my head inside the station I could see from the window, it was as old-school as it comes. The tracks were visible from the entranceway (the long train tunnel simply deadends into the lobby of the station) and on them sat old tram-like trains. There was a bustling coffee bar attached, of course, and I had my breakfast there one day, knowing that while it appeared scruffy, the volume of customers and the people who frequented it (real Italians) guaranteed a fine cappuccino and a light, fluffy ciambellina. Yet still, I am both irked by this random, standalone train line and also by my obsession with it!

More from the Rome Journal: You can buy calendars where each month is a photo of a young Italian priest. Yes, I, too, am wondering how on Earth I left Rome without one of those calendars! I mean, dai, per l'amor di Dio ... you cannot top that. I tried to explain it to Leo by saying it was driven by the dearth of vocations and that the notion of a slew of new young priests would give older Catholics such joy....

There’s an article in the current L’Espresso that is so funny: Italian politicians who years after they’ve left office continue to enjoy la scorta (police escort/secret service-level protection), which is to say they still jump the line (in traffic, at the airport, etc) when it’s convenient. The article cites a two-century-old line of poetry:

Io so’ io

E voi non siete un cazzo

Not a poem I've ever read. (From Wikipedia: La celebre frase che il Marchese rivolge a un gruppo di popolani («Mi dispiace, ma io so' io e voi non siete un cazzo!») è ripresa dal sonetto Li soprani der Monno vecchio di Giuseppe Gioachino Belli, che comincia così: «C'era una vorta un Re cche ddar palazzo / mannò ffora a li popoli st'editto: / "Io sò io, e vvoi nun zete un cazzo"».)

ENGLISH SUMMARY: The gist of the line of poetry, spoken by a nobleman to commoners, is roughly: I'm important (or I'm someone) and you're a nobody (said more colorfully in the Italian: 'You're not jack squat,' or, 'You're a fuckin' nobody.')

I was walking through Piazza della Signoria one evening only to find a concert in the loggia behind the Uffizi – a gorgeous soprano and a small ensemble. Leo didn’t want to linger but luckily the singer’s voice lingered, following me out of the piazza (I walked extra slow).

New 'addresses' emerge on each trip, often connected with coffee bars or bakeries that serve good ciambelle/ciambelline (who would care? Yes, yes I know. There's a reason few people read this blog!). I stopped at Caffe Le Logge by the post office one morning for a cappuccino. I was out on my morning walk and needed to refuel before venturing across the river. When I returned later to buy some pastries (which were quite good), the barman said, "Ri-buongiorno." I believe that's the first time I've ever had someone say that to me. Good morning -- again. (Not that you would care if you weren't obsessed with Italian and why should you be?!)

And while we're on the topic ... The trip was especially fruitful in one delicious way: I ate some of the best ciambelle I've ever had (none would qualify as a ciambellina, where -ina indicates little). Soft, doughy, enormous, and of course covered in sugar.

Taking the pulse of Firenze -- and my own

Dante considered Florence a den of snakes, and I can see why, but he also lamented his exile from this bejeweled city and I can absolutely see why -- years into my own (voluntary?) exile from Florence.

It’s truly beguiling as cities go -- not one you can write off easily (though he and I have both tried!).

Beguiling describes its allures and also its current state, mired as it is in overtourism -- but can we blame anyone for wanting to visit this enchanting city I once called home?

(Not unlike the notion that Italy is familiar to me, I also revel in saying that Florence is a city I once called home. Maybe how native-born Manhattanites feel? Though that level of entitlement I could never approach). 

As I write, I’m sitting in a living room on Via della Vigna Vecchia – not #1 but rather #12, and outside, from a tiny terrace, there’s an up close-and-personal view of the tower in Palazzo Vecchio. At this moment, the churches are chiming out 7 o’clock and I feel compelled to go out on the terrace to hear the bells – like the world coming alive in surround sound.

We arrived on Monday, and as usual, I have professed my love for Florence -- and spent time getting reacquainted with her -- by walking her streets. That is the way for me to take the city’s pulse, and my own. Will you grow weary of reading that only when I have prowled the streets for hours each day do I feel as though I am truly visiting Florence? Speriamo no.

Denise posted on Facebook that she was at the Shore for her birthday, and I had a serious case of FOMO.

And yet, while she was at the beach, I was meeting with my one-time roommate, Irene, and her husband, and reveling in the joys of old friendships. We chose to meet up at this ridiculously cool bar by the Sant’Ambrogio market, where Mike and I found seats outside while we waited but when Irene arrived, she said, “Well, have you seen the internal courtyard?” I had not and let’s just say the nuns who once lived at the convent now converted into a bar had some nice green space (would they have enjoyed the glass of Bolgheri we had? Maybe).

Yesterday I found two books I’d been looking for at the Florence branch of Il Libraccio: Vita immaginaria by Ginzburg and Lettera da Francoforte by Edith Bruck (finally!). Who knows how many more books I’ll try to schlep home? The quantity I’d like to buy is probably a number in the low three figures.

I also shopped at my old market (in Italian, Il Mercato di Sant’Ambrogio) yesterday. Still authentic, still wonderful, still selling qualche etto di prosciutto (crudo, always crudo, for chrissakes) that I can’t resist.

State of the city: positively infested with tourists, and the main part of centro storico is now full of quickie snack stops for travelers (rather than residents), as I wrote during an earlier trip. If back then, there were 15 snack stops (panini shops, wine bars geared toward foreigners, convenience stores) in a half-mile, now there are 40. And they've displaced local shops that served residents.

State of Leonardo (as he is known here, not far from Vinci, home of the other Leonardo): Well, we saw my old friend, Chiara, last night for a walk through centro & then dinner, which was lovely until we said our goodbyes and Leo yelled at me, “Three hours of you talking in Italian!” But what was nice: I suggested we go to a bookstore (so Chiara could pick out a book for her upcoming vacation) but instead she said she wanted to find Andremo in città, (i.e., the book I translated) which they didn’t have (alas).

(Update: The state of Leonardo was quite good at the Ferrari store where we bought him a pricey shirt and also before in the mountains where he was surrounded by cats and dogs.) 

I spend my days taking an inventory of what was and what is, especially since Mike insisted we rent a place on our old street (which is also around the corner from my last apartment in Florence). My old tower of course is still there but now at the base, there’s yet another restaurant for tourists (meanwhile our bread bakery not far away is long gone; oh the focaccia you could get there!). At Vivoli, there’s a line out the door – not so surprising, as even at 8:30 a.m., gelato is yummy (apparently) – but they’ve also expanded and taken over the corner grocery Paola used to run. I guess no one needs gorgonzola anymore.

Morning coffee with biscotti: enjoyed on the tiny terrace while the Torre di Arnolfo looks on (see above). The only cool respite in a city baked by the August sun.

My church is open most days and more gorgeous than I remember (just a neighborhood church) plus the ‘Crazy Drycleaner’ (our nickname, not the name of his shop) is still there – but the macellaria (butcher) where we bought the Thanksgiving turkey one year is gone.

Italy? Still stunning

Of all the ways I've aged, perhaps the one I like best is how easily I am satisfied at times. (Or maybe I should say the only way I've aged that I like? Though fair enough, I'm not as dumb as I was yesterday, and that's also helpful).

I've written before in this space about the 24 hours I spent in Rome a few years back, and how utterly wonderful they were, no matter the scant time I had to enjoy the Eternal City. Now I come again to say almost any amount of time I spend in Italy is a cure for a life-threatening disease I didn't know I had.

If you read nothing else, let me also say this: We arrived in Italy a week ago and as usual it is both breathtaking and familiar! Oh how lucky can I be that Italy feels familiar? So very lucky indeed. Also: I don't consider myself one to have a bucket list but something that could top it for me?

Biking on the ancient Appian Way in Rome

Pinch me -- maybe my bike tire rolled over a cobblestone once tread on by Julius Caesar's chariot! (because yes, there are sections of the road with the original cobblestones). You can visit some interesting ruins and of course the catacombs.

That's one of the special things we did in Rome. We also visited (again) the Borghese Gardens and saw the Ara Pacis for the first time. Perhaps most importantly, for me, I visited with Edith Bruck and she is well, for a 94-year-old woman. I spent three glorious hours with her! She has a new book coming out in the Fall, I am pleased to say. She is not very mobile but as long as she is near a pack of cigarettes, she's OK! (She smoked those tiny thin cigarettes my entire visit).

Also, for the record: Seeing SPQR on every manhole cover in Rome is still cool!

Oh and you can buy a calendar that features the face of a fresh, young priest every month of the year!

We explored Piazza del Popolo and the area around it (including Via del Corso, site of the nightly passaggiata) quite a bit as we stayed on Via Flaminia, one block outside of the piazza (thus we had to pass through a gorgeous monumental gate each day to enter Piazza del Popolo). It was ground zero for all of the young people visiting Rome last week for the Jubilee youth summit owing to the fact one of the churches on the piazza is a pre-requisite for all pilgrims before heading to the Vatican.

Rome was hot, somewhat crowded and still the Eternal City.

Best food so far:

Extra large, extra doughy ciambella (Rome)

Crostini with rabbit ragu

Pinsa with mozzarella di bufala and pomodorini

Fiori di zucca fritti

Verdure fritte miste

My favorite chocolate bar: dark chocolate ('fondente') with whole hazelnuts

Best walks so far

-- Cross the bridge closest to Piazza del Popolo, walk along Tevere to the bridge by Piazza Navona, stumble into the piazza where the Pantheon is located, then Via della Scrofa, which becomes Via di Ripetta until you reach Piazza del Popolo (Rome)

-- Walk along Arno in the town of Onda (mountain town outside of Florence)

I’m in the mountains now – the mountains of Italy – and need I say, it is absolutely beautiful? We visited small, run-of-the-mill towns yesterday and my heart broke from the beauty. It was the Jeanne small town variety of beautiful – a rocky stream with multiple small waterfalls ran through the center of town and you could walk along the stream (the towns of Londa and Stia). You could stand on a bridge and look over at the stream, and ogle the buildings that line the stream (including, in Stia, a restaurant where we ate).

At one point, we walked through the town of Stia during lunch hour, and the sound of Italian radio filtered out of a door or a window, much to my delight!

We try to do something different each trip, and this trip we have chosen to stay a few nights at an agriturismo in the mountains east of Florence. Good decision! We have visited mountain towns before but I don’t recall our ever staying overnight at a farmhouse as we are now. So imagine you’re visiting Vermont but all the signage is in Italian, the picturesque tavern keeper speaks Italian, the tourists you find at the secret swimming hole are Italian (or German – but of course). Oh and it's somewhat hot.

And then there’s a certain extremity to the matter – the roads we travel to reach this farmhouse are so narrow, no American could possibly consider them fit for two-way traffic. I have visited Vermont many times and probably there are a few roads like this but are the locals going 90 mph around each turn?

While right now I am using my laptop and I have been texting with Italian friends, I am largely offline, content to read my Natalia Ginzburg book (Tutti i nostri ieri) (I've tried to read this novel before but it never appealed to me as much as her other books) and articles in the copy of L’Espresso I bought in Rome.

Right now, as I write: One of the barnyard cats is meowing outside our kitchen window. The silence is so complete, it is loud!

So far in Italy: I have walked – run – swum – biked.

What else? Leo (known as Leonardo here) has begun to tease me while I’m talking on the phone here to Italian friends:

I say: “Si,si.” And then he says, “Si,si.”

I say: “Certo.” And then he says, “Certo.”

My mind is not totally 'bifurcated' yet between English and Italian but getting there. 

So to sum up: Italy is still marvelous! And hearing Italian is still marvelous. Wish you were here! Especially some of you -- and you know who you are.

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Do you use Goodreads? Please 'shelve' This Darkness Will Never End!

Now that the book tour is over, I am turning my attention to other ways that I can get my translation into the hands of more readers (more on this in a moment).

What an incredible year it has been! I was able to share my love for Edith Bruck's work with readers, friends and family members in Philadelphia, Boston and New York. For more information, you can read my sum-up of the mini book tour here.

Thank you again all for your kind interest and support. And now I have one more request:

Please "shelve" my translation on Goodreads! 

You can even just put it under the "want to read" status.

OK, maybe two more requests...

If you bought the book on Amazon, please leave a review!

Consider suggesting the book to your book club. You can find a reading guide here.

And of course, you could give the translation as a gift!

I'm continuing to promote the book in ways big and small. For example, I've just published an excerpt of another Bruck title, Two Empty Rooms, which to my mind is a way to promote the book-length translation by dint of promoting the author. Read the excerpt here. Thanks to the editors at Jewish Currents magazine for their kind interest.

I'll be giving a virtual talk about the translation at the Museum of Jewish Heritage and also an-person talk at the Forbes Library in Northampton in the Fall. Details to follow. Thanks for your kind interest!

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'Two Empty Rooms' excerpted in Jewish Currents

Thanks to Jewish Currents magazine, another part of Edith Bruck's body of work has made the journey into English.

The web and print magazine has published an excerpt of Ms. Bruck's Two Empty Rooms (Due Stanze Vuote), which I have translated but which hasn't been published yet in English in its entirety. It complements This Darkness Will Never End.

Ms. Bruck has only published two short story collections but both are stunning and even though they both touch on the "absurd reality" of survival, they do so in different ways. Two Empty Rooms, which was published in 1974 and was a finalist for the prestigious Strega literary prize in Italy, is nothing short of a reckoning with the past. Specifically a Holocaust survivor's past -- which includes a village full of people who did little when she was deported to a Nazi concentration camp.

But as Judith says in the title story, Ms. Bruck isn't here to "accuse" anyone but rather to report, to probe. How is it that human beings can be this way?

The editors at Jewish Currents homed in on some of the most provocative lines in the novella, using them as pull quotes. Namely:

-- "When they took you away, I thought, Finally I won't see them suffering anymore."

-- "A real live Jewish woman! She used to live here."

My thanks to Nathan Goldman, one of the magazine's fine editors who worked closely with me to bring this work into the English-speaking world.

Now what publisher would like to publish the entire collection?

Please take a moment to read the excerpt here.

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'This Darkness Will Never End' at Wesleyan

When I visited Wesleyan in May for my reunion, I went to Olin because Olin is a gorgeous college library where I spent many hours possibly studying but definitely reveling in the joy of college life.

But secretly I was hoping to find a copy of my translation, This Darkness Will Never End.

Which is to say, on the shelf, because I had made a purchase request and Olin kindly consented.

Instead, since I am an alumna and occasional writing instructor, it was out for display.

Complete joy!

In the spot where I first dreamed of translating an Italian book, there I was, with an Italian book I had translated.

Don't count the years. I'm so thrilled to have this book out in the world that I didn't dwell on how long it took me.

I only dwelled on how good it felt to see the book on the display and know how hard I worked so that it could be there.

Thank you, Edith Bruck and Paul Dry!

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Mariateresa Di Lascia is on my mind with Strega season underway!

The Italian literary sphere is in the throes of choosing the best book of the year and that has me thinking of an unusual author (and parliamentarian!) who won the Strega award exactly 30 years ago: Mariateresa Di Lascia. 

The work -- Passaggio in ombra (Italian), "Into the Shadows" (English manuscript) -- presents something that I think is unusual: the perspective of a woman coming undone, told from the woman's point of view. Not a male narrator or author presenting this. 

Di Lascia regrettably died in 1994 after writing a few short stories and completing a lone novel -- this one.

I encountered her work when I was commissioned to write an article for the Literary Hub site about Italian novels that hadn't been translated into English yet -- but should be. 

The novel is a coming-of-age work that is one of many books to light the way for Elena Ferrante (both authors featuring women narrators bucking convention). As I've written before, Di Lascia’s novel analyzes and exalts the interior lives of a group of women buffeted by their limited choices, their unruly desire for freedom and the price they pay for these desires.

I love that the book features an unconventional female narrator. She's not perfect, she's not a devil, she's somewhere in between.

I won a grant from PEN America to jumpstart my translation work on the manuscript but it has yet to find a publisher. 

You can read an excerpt of my translation here.

A line that I love but which isn't in this excerpt is about the narrator's father:

"When he thought about how his life would turn out, what form it would take if indeed it would ever bend itself to a specific shape, he felt something inside of him rebel. As if it would be an unbearable imposition. In those days, he had one lone desire: to preserve for as long as he could -- maybe even forever -- the freedom to have no direction of any kind."

One of the aspects of the work that's so compelling is the array of portraits of women. It's something I wrote about for Ploughshares when I was in the thick of translating the first section of the novel.

https://pshares.org/blog/the-lives-of-women/

It gives us the story not only of the narrator but of the women in her life -- her mother, her aunt, her grandmother -- who navigated a rural, post-war Southern Italian society not ready for gender equity. Di Lascia zeroed in on the mother-daughter relationship, but also tells the tale of a beloved aunt forced to give up a child for adoption -- a decision she never fully accepts. Indeed, one of the most poignant and harrowing moments of the book comes when her aunt reunites with her child; initially, the reader thinks it might be a clandestine meeting with a lover, so intense are the aunt's emotions and so furtive her movements as she plans a reunion others would prefer to suppress.

For Italian literature buffs, the book has the uncanny privilege of mirroring Menzogna e sortilegio by Elsa Morante. Essentially, Di Lascia structured her book so it opens in the exact same way as Morante's masterpiece. 

There's also a volatile father-daughter relationship; indeed Di Lascia didn't stint on men -- they are just as interesting as the female characters. Nuanced, too, even if they are guilty of tormenting the women in their lives. 

I don't know how other translators choose projects but I find certain lines haunt me, and if the haunting doesn't let up, I need to do something about it. Here is one such line, a sentence that frames the beginning of the book, as the narrator begins to tell the tale of her life: 

(Italian): "In questa storia, che mi fu solo raccontata, cerco l'inizio di ogni inganno."

(English): “In this story, which was only told to me, I seek the genesis of all the deception.”

I put her work aside because I received an NEA translation grant to translate stories by Edith Bruck. And now that This Darkness Will Never End has been published, I plan to return to the Di Lascia manuscript and I hope to publish it. 

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'This Darkness Will Never End' reading guide for book clubs

I've written a reading guide for This Darkness Will Never End that I've posted to my professional website and which I'm also pasting here:

Synopsis:

The short story collection, This Darkness Will Never End by Edith Bruck, portrays in colorful detail the lives of poor Hungarian Jews before, during and after World War II, with the Holocaust alternately looming ahead as a fate that can’t be avoided or as the horror that can’t be outrun. The collection, published in English by Paul Dry Books, includes a story that is considered by film scholars to have inspired Robert Benigni's Oscar-winning movie "Life Is Beautiful." Bruck, who was born in Hungary in 1931, settled in Italy after the war and has been writing in Italian for more than a half-century. She is the author of two dozen novels, short story collections, books of poetry and works of nonfiction, many of which touch on her survival of the 20^th century’s worst atrocity. Through her work, Bruck supplies an answer to a critical question: What can women writers tell us about surviving the Holocaust era?

For more information about This Darkness Will Never End, visit Paul Dry Books:

https://www.pauldrybooks.com/products/this-darkness-will-never-end

This book is perfect for individuals and book clubs interested in these topics:

*Italian Literature

*World War II Literature

*Jewish Studies, especially Holocaust Studies

*Women’s Studies, including overlooked women authors

*World and Transnational Literature

*Postwar Literature

*Short Works of Fiction

*European History

What the critics said:

 

Invite me on your podcast to talk about This Darkness Will Never End

OK, now my mini book tour is over and I probably won't do any more readings until the Fall, but I always have time to talk about Edith Bruck and This Darkness Will Never End.

Do you have a literary podcast? Maybe even a podcast about history. Or a podcast about Italy, and Italian life. Do you?

This book would lend itself to discussions about:

*Italian fiction

*Holocaust literature

*World War II

*Short story collections

*Translation

*What the NEA has thankfully funded

*And more!

The photo here was taken on the steps of the state capitol in Atlanta, Georgia, where I worked as a statehouse reporter for Georgia Public Broadcasting.

It has nothing to do with translation or literary matters but for the podcasters out there, I have audio bona fides! 

Get in touch!

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Scenes from a mini-book tour -- THIS DARKNESS WILL NEVER END

I arranged a small book tour to support the publication of my translation, This Darkness Will Never End, but secretly it was a friends-and-family tour where beloved faces greeted me at every stop.

Philadelphia was the city of brotherly love if by brotherly you mean two of my oldest and dearest friends (Jeanette and Tina), and a cousin (Brendan).

In Boston, one of my best college friends (also my closest Jewish pal and hence a constant muse during the translation) hosted me for the first reading (while also propping up my ego!). Thank you, Michelle! Thanks also to those who attended, including Ellen, a Boston-area translator, and kind friends of Gabriela Block.

On my second go-round in Boston, my sister, Denise (in photo below), and my brother-in-law, Mike, attended, plus one of my dearest and oldest friends -- Beth -- hosted me in addition to attending the reading with her son. 

And in New Jersey not only did my (other) sister, my brother-in-law, and my aunt and uncle come to the reading but a cousin -- MARY KATE!!! -- drove up from D.C. Amazing!

New York reading: another of my oldest and dearest friends attended, plus two translation-world friends, (Jenny and Ann!).

Plus, in West Hartford, not only were Mike and Leo on hand (ready for the 'darkness' to end), but also many of my friends and neighbors! As if this weren't enough, my undergraduate thesis advisor was on hand for my reading in Middletown! Cecilia Miller advised my thesis on Machiavelli and has backed every other professional achievement I've had.

Two of the readings were actually conversations. In New Jersey, I was paired with a local rabbi whose father, like Edith Bruck, was a Hungarian Holocaust survivor! It was an engrossing discussion. And in New York, I invited Philip Balma from the University of Connecticut (above), a scholar of Bruck, to join me. It was wonderful because his knowledge about Edith and her work knows no limits!

In addition to this mighty slate of readings last month, I also attended a college reunion at Wesleyan where I found a copy of my translation on display in Olin Library. I had asked the library to purchase a copy -- you can do that as a faculty member, even an occasional one like me! And they may or may not buy the book. But no one told me it would be on display during my reunion and no one mentioned how humbling that would be (other adjectives: insanely cool, generous, thrilling. Maybe now I can get past ranking near the bottom of my class???).

I haven't even touched on the questions I received -- good ones! A man at Newtonville Books in Boston wanted to know about the evolution of perspectives on writing fiction about the Holocaust. In West Hartford, a member of the audience asked about the dictionaries I liked to use, which allowed me to drone on and on about the large, multi-volume dictionaries at the New York Public Library that not only provide entry upon entry of potential meanings but also instances of usage throughout the history of Italian literature. A word I was puzzling over was first used by Boccaccio in the 1300s, for example!

There were also questions about what aspects of the stories were inspired by Edith's actual experiences of deportation and survival -- in some cases, I didn't know the answer. And maybe I should. I hope to see her this summer -- do I dare ask if classmates yelled "Heil Hitler" outside her window as happens in "Come to the Window, It's Christmas"?

It was also fascinating to see (FEEL!) the reaction of people to a speech Edith wrote that I translated earlier this year and which I read in addition to an excerpt from This Darkness Will Never End.

It's called "My Alma Mater is Auschwitz," and it's as devastating as that title would suggest. It gives a good overview of her life but more importantly, the light that she managed to find in a place of profound darkness, which of course is a perennial theme in her work and yet another reason to admire her. And translate her work.

I don't know how many books I sold. And it matters! Not for my bank account but for the life of the book -- for the possibility of spreading the word about Edith Bruck.

But I think I sold a lot of people on the notion that we should keep gathering together to talk about books, and in particular, we should continue to read the work of Holocaust survivors. We still have so much to learn. Also, why not try a book by an author you don't know at all?

I have been invited to speak at the Museum of Jewish Heritage and the Forbes Library in Northampton, Massachusetts in the Fall, and the first invite is virtual so it's open to everyone. I'll post details here and also on social media.

My thanks to all of the venues that hosted me:

I AM Books

Philadelphia Free Library

Newtonville Books

RJ Julia

West Hartford Public Library

Montclair Public Library

Italian Cultural Institute (NYC)

*

My thanks also to everyone at Paul Dry Books -- two of my collaborators were at the reading in Philly!

I hope to be able to speak again about this translation to groups. It would be cool to appear on a podcast! Do I know anyone who hosts a literary podcast? Invite me on!

Fingers crossed there will also be more reviews of the translation. I am grateful for this review from the Jewish Book Council! And this one by Foreword Reviews.

To all who attended the readings, ETERNAL THANKS! You gave up a night or an afternoon, and gave me the thrill of a lifetime. And don't be shy about sharing your opinion or asking questions (either in the comments here or on social media or via email). I loved that question in Boston about the evolution of ideas on fiction about the Holocaust. So astute, and it gives us a chance to situate the work in context -- how it lives in conversation with other works.

The readings, after all, illuminated how we as humans live in conversation with one another about books and life and the history of the world that brings us to this moment in time.

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My Alma Mater Is Auschwitz

During events to present my translation, I decided to read a speech by Edith Bruck that I translated for World Literature Today.

It's called "My Alma Mater is Auschwitz."

And I think it was one of the most effective aspects of the book talks because now people are asking for the link.

Why not? When I first read it three or four years ago, I knew I had to translate it. Edith was deported at age 12 -- childhood effectively over. And then once liberated from the camps, she wandered Europe as a refugee. Her alma mater? Her alma mater is Auschwitz. 

In this speech, which Edith gave to university students in Rome on the occasion of receiving an honorary doctorate, she speaks about the woman "who learns to make herself invisible in order to gain another day of life." She writes about learning that she will never be like her persecutors.

"I, who graduated with honors from the University of Evil, I learned about goodness. From the cesspit, I extracted gold." 

What gold, you might ask? The golden joy of feeling grateful for even the smallest acts of kindness.

Here's the link again:

https://worldliteraturetoday.org/blog/essay/my-alma-mater-auschwitz-edith-bruck 

Thanks for the kind interest!

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Centro Primo Levi review of THIS DARKNESS WILL NEVER END

Printed Matter, a publication of the Centro Primo Levi, reviewed This Darkness Will Never End, and the reviewer made some wonderful observations about the translation, including one about the way the "absence" of the Holocaust -- the way the stories circle this inferno warily -- "defines the collection." Perceptive passages about the presence of hunger and the cancer of anti-Semitism abound.

In his review, Yuval Jonas also wrote:

"The stories mainly take place in the years before the war, in villages and homes where hunger is ever-present, where children sneak moments of joy, and where the menace of the future looms, still unknown, but closing in. These are stories of childhood—its innocence, inquisitiveness, disappointments—and of parents, overworked and exhausted, but giants in the eyes of their children. In reality, they are just as helpless against history." 

To read the rest of this thorough review, visit:

https://primolevicenter.org/printed-matter/in-the-shadow-of-the-holocaust-edith-brucks-short-stories

Thanks to Yuval and the Centro Primo Levi for reviewing the translation!

What women survivors can still teach us about the Holocaust

Edith Bruck says living with the memory of the Holocaust is akin to being eternally pregnant with a “demon-child conceived in Auschwitz.”

And during this year, when the world is marking both the 80^th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz and 80 years since the end of World War II, Bruck’s words and the words of other women who survived the Holocaust are especially worthy of our attention. 

Of the 245,000 survivors left worldwide, 61 percent are women, according to the Claims Conference, which administers German compensation for victims of the Nazis, and only by examining the testimony of women do we have a full picture of the Holocaust.

With such a milestone, much attention will be paid to the words of Primo Levi, Elie Wiesel and other men who after miraculously surviving the Holocaust told tales of their experiences. Understandably so; they were among the first to voice the horror of the concentration camps. 

But I'm thinking of women like Bruck because after I began translating her 1962 short story collection, This Darkness Will Never End, I also researched women survivors and found their perspectives weren’t well-known.

Born in Hungary in 1931, Bruck moved to Italy in the 1950s and began writing in Italian. She remains a vital literary voice in Italy and is a frequent critic of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, even as she shudders at what Hamas has said about Jews.

To a woman like me, her urgent words about the monster festering inside -- which appear in a book called Signora Auschwitz that hasn’t been translated into English -- viscerally convey the horror of the Holocaust in a way few other things have. 

In her book, Letter to My Mother, published in the US in 2006, Bruck describes arriving at Auschwitz at age 13, and being separated from her mother. Bruck painfully recalls that her mother let go of her hand and pushed her away from the line of people headed for immediate death. That last moment spent with her mother likely saved the author’s life – and it mirrors the fate of many women who were deported. They, rather than their husbands, were the ones shepherding children to the concentration camps and they were often forced to make difficult decisions like the one her mother made.

It made me wonder: What else can women survivors tell us?

A lot, as I learned during my research into Italian women survivors. They suffered the same persecution by the Nazis as the men who were deported -- and also pregnancies that had to be concealed and the fear of sexual assault. In fact, Levi believed women faced harsher conditions at Auschwitz than many men. 

Through the eyes of women, the events of the Holocaust can take on a different cast. For example, few Americans are aware of the notorious women’s prison, Ravensbrück, but it’s the focus of two books by Lidia Beccaria Rolfi, neither of which have been translated. She was a political prisoner so she was spared the brutal discrimination faced by Jews, but she did risk being raped during the long postwar journey home, when she and other liberated prisoners sheltered in an abandoned concentration camp. Escorted by American GIs, Rolfi couldn’t circulate freely for fear of predatory soldiers. As Rolfi wrote, any kind of woman would do for a quick conquest by some soldiers, “even the skeletal ones, even the little girls.”

Other books by women that have been published in the US have fallen out of print, unable to dislodge or even complement better-known testimony by men. Or in some cases, the ideas of women survivors have been overlooked altogether. 

Millions of American movie-goers, for example, are familiar with an idea from a story by Bruck where the barbaric reality of Nazi deportation is artfully concealed from a young boy. Prominent film historians (including Yale's Millicent Marcus) and Italian literature scholars believe that plot twist contributed to Roberto Benigni’s 1997 Oscar-winning film, “Life is Beautiful,” although it’s uncredited. 

Women’s experiences, according to scholar Joan Ringelheim, “are rarely central to the presentation of a ‘typical’ Holocaust story.” And yet, as she wrote in a 1999 anthology published by Yale University Press, Women in the Holocaust, “Jewish women carried the burdens of sexual victimization, pregnancy, abortion, childbirth, killing of newborn babies in the camps to save the mothers, care of children, and many decisions about separation from children.” 

Bruck’s story reminds me that new atrocities don’t supplant old ones. She doesn’t support what she called “an endless war against the Palestinians,” in an interview with the Italian online news site, Il Fatto Quotidiano. But nothing that happens today changes the fact that she was unnecessarily seized from her home in the Spring of 1944 and taken on a treacherous journey that ultimately left her parentless and without a homeland. 

And of course, I think often of Anne Frank, whose diary was certainly not written by a man. The young Dutch girl’s story is known the world over. Less known is that when Bruck’s first book appeared in Italy, five years after The Diary of Anne Frank had been published, Italian critics deemed Bruck the kind of writer Anne would have become had she survived. 

We’ll never know exactly what Anne endured before she died in a German concentration camp. And we already know what many men suffered at the hands of the Nazis. It’s time we listened to what women who survived have to say.

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Foreword review of THIS DARKNESS WILL NEVER END: 'Masterful'

Thanks to the Foreword Reviews for publishing a wonderful review of This Darkness Will Never End.

The reviewer calls the collection "masterful" and notes that the stories "are poignant and crafted with subtle humor, compassion, and unsparing observations."

Review Meg Nola goes on to say, “Written with a sense of anguished history and oppressed vitality, This Darkness Will Never End is a compelling short story collection.”

Foreword Reviews focuses on books published by indie presses. According to its website, FR is dedicated to the "art" of reviewing books. Amen!

This is at least the third review of the translation by a publication, including reviews by the Jewish Book Council and Printed Matter (from the Centro Primo Levi). I'm grateful for the attention!

Read the full review here:

https://www.forewordreviews.com/reviews/this-darkness-will-never-end/

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