Articles liés à Hanna's Daughters
L'édition de cet ISBN n'est malheureusement plus disponible.
Afficher les exemplaires de cette édition ISBN
Extrait :
ANNA
Her mind was as clear as a winter's day, a day as quiet and shadowless as if snow had just fallen. Harsh sounds penetrated, the clatter of dropped enamel bowls and cries. It frightened her. Like the weeping from the next bed slicing into the whiteness.
There were many who cried where she was.
She had lost her memory four years ago, then only a few months later her words had disappeared. She could see and hear, but could name neither objects nor people, so they lost all meaning.
That was when she came to this white country where time was nonexistent. She didn't know where her bed was or how old she was, but she had found a new way of being and appealed for compassion with humble smiles. Like a child. And like a child, she was wide open to emotions, everything vibrating between people without words.
She was aware she was going to die. That was knowledge, not an idea.
Her family were those who kept her going.
Her husband came every day. He also was wordless but for different reasons: He was over ninety, so he, too, was near the borderline, but he had no wish either to die or to know about it. Just as he had always controlled his life and hers, he put up a fierce struggle against the inevitable. He massaged her back, bent and stretched her knees, and read aloud to her from the daily paper. She had no means of opposing him. They had had a long and complicated relationship.
Most difficult of all was when their daughter, who lived in another town, came to visit. The old woman knew nothing of time or distance, and was always uneasy before she came, as if the moment she woke at dawn, she had already sensed the car making its way through the country, at the wheel the woman with all her unreasonable hopes.
Anna realized she was being as demanding as a child. That was no help, and as soon as she gave in, her thoughts slid away: just for once, perhaps, an answer to one of the questions I never had time to ask. After almost five hours of driving, as she turned into the nursing home parking lot, she had accepted that her mother would not recognize her this time, either.
Yet she would ask the questions.
I do it for my own sake, she thought. It makes no difference what I talk about to her.
She was wrong. Johanna did not understand the words, but she was aware of her daughter's torment and her own powerlessness. She did not remember it was her task to console the child who had always asked unreasonable questions. Still, the demand remained as well as the guilt over her inadequacy.
Her desire was to escape into silence, to close her eyes, but she couldn't, her heart thumping, the darkness behind her eyelids scarlet and painful. She started crying. Embarrassed, Anna tried to console her, there, there, wiping the old woman's cheeks.
When she was unable to halt Johanna's despair, Anna became frightened and rang for help. As usual, there was a delay, then the fair girl was standing in the doorway, a girl with young eyes but no depth in them. Anna saw contempt in those blue eyes, and for a moment Anna could see what the girl saw: an older woman, anxious and clumsy, by the side of the really old one.
"There, there," she said, too, but her voice was hard, as hard as the hand that ran over the old woman's head. And yet she succeeded. Johanna fell asleep so suddenly, it seemed unreal.
"We mustn't upset the patients," said the girl. "You must sit there quietly for a while. We'll come and change her and remake the bed in about ten minutes."
Anna slipped out to the terrace like a shamefaced dog, found her cigarettes, and drew the smoke deep down into her lungs. It calmed her and she could think. At first angry thoughts: damned bitch, hard as nails. Pretty, of course, and horribly young. Had Mother obeyed her out of fear? Was there a discipline here that the helpless old people sensed and gave in to?
Then came the self-reproach. The girl was only doing her job, everything she, Anna, ought to be doing, according to the laws of nature. But she couldn't, couldn't bring herself to, even if the time and place had existed.
Last of all came the astonishing realization that Mother had somehow been touched by the questions she'd asked.
She stubbed out her cigarette in the rusty tray at the far end of the table. God, how tired she was. Mother, she thought, dear wonderful Mother, why can't you show pity and die?
Frightened, she glanced out over the nursing home grounds where the Norway maples were in flower and smelling of honey. She drew in the scent with deep breaths, as if seeking consolation in the spring, but her senses were dulled. I'm as if dead, too, she thought as she turned on her heel and walked determinedly to the ward sister's door. She knocked and just had time to think, please let it be Märta.
It was Sister Märta, the only one she knew here. They greeted each other like old friends, then the daughter sat in the visitor's chair and was just about to start asking when she was overwhelmed by emotion.
"I don't want to start crying," she said, then did.
"It's not easy," said the sister, pushing the box of tissues across.
"I want to know how much she understands," said the daughter, adding her hope of being recognized and the questions she'd asked her mother, who didn't understand, yet did.
Sister Märta listened with no surprise.
"I think the old understand in a way we find difficult to grasp. Like newborn infants. You've had two babies yourself, so you know they take everything in, anxieties and joys. Well, you must remember?"
No, she didn't remember. She remembered nothing but her own overwhelming feeling of tenderness and inadequacy, though she knew what the nurse was talking about. She had learned a great deal from her grandchildren.
Then Sister Märta talked about the old woman's general condition in consoling terms. They had gotten rid of her bedsores, so she was in no physical pain.
"But she's rather uneasy at night," she said. "She seems to have nightmares. She wakes up screaming."
"She dreams?"
"But of course she dreams, everyone does. The pity is we can never find out what they're dreaming, our patients."
Anna thought about the cat they'd had at home, a lovely creature leaping up out of its sleep, hissing, its claws extended. Then she was ashamed of the thought. But Sister Märta didn't notice her embarrassment.
"Considering Johanna's poor condition, we prefer not to give her tranquilizers. I also think perhaps she needs her dreams."
"Needs?"
Sister Märta pretended to ignore the surprise in the other woman's voice.
"We're thinking of giving her a room of her own," she went on. "As things are, she's disturbing the others in the ward."
"A room of her own? Is that possible?"
"We're waiting out Emil in number seven," said the nurse, lowering her eyes.
Not until the daughter was backing the car out of the parking lot did she take in what had been said about Emil, the old priest whose hymns she'd heard over the years. She hadn't thought about it today, that there'd been no sound from his room. For years, she'd heard him singing about life in the valley of the shadow of death, and the Lord waiting with his terrible judgments.
Johanna's secret world followed the clock. It opened at three in the morning and closed again at dawn.
Her world contained a wealth of images, filled with colors, scents, and voices. Other sounds, too. The roar of the falls, the wind singing in the tops of the maples, and the forest rejoicing with birdsong.
On this night the pictures she sees tremble with excitement. It is summer and early morning, with slanting rays of the sun and long shadows.
"You must be mad,"shouts the voice she knows best, her father's. He's red in the face and frightening in his agitation. She's afraid and flings her arms around his leg. He lifts her up, runs his hand over her head.
"Don't you think, girl?"he says.
But her eldest brother is standing in the middle of the room, handsome, with shiny buttons and high boots, and he's shouting, too.
"To the cave, all of you, and today, too. They might already be here tomorrow."
Then another voice, resourceful.
"Listen now, lad. Would Axel and Ole come here from Moss and would Astrid's lad come here from Fredrikshald to shoot us?"
"Yes, Mother."
"I think you've gone mad," says the voice, but now it's uncertain. And her father looks at the soldier, eye meets eye, and the old man can't mistake the gravity in the young man's eyes.
"Then we'll do as you say."
Then the pictures change, start moving. Feet stomp, burdens are lifted. She sees the earth cellar and store emptied. The great barrel of salt pork is carried out, the herring barrel, the potato bin, the cloudberry jar, the butter in its wooden tub, the hard round slabs of crispbread, all out on the ground, then carried down toward the boat. Sacks filled with blankets and clothes, all the wool in the cottage going the same way, down the slope toward the lake. She sees the brothers rowing. It's heavy going toward the promontory, easier back.
"The oil lamps!" It's her mother calling out on her way indoors.
But the soldier stops her, calling, too, "No, Mother, we'll have to do without light."
The child is wide-eyed and anxious. But then a brimstone butterfly lands on her hand.
The picture changes again; the daylight is miserly, and she's perched on her father's back. As so often, she's being carried up the slopes to the mountain lakes, so secretive and introverted they are, quite different from the great lake with its light and blue glitter. But just above the mill, the largest of the dark lakes breaks the stillness and looks as if it would hurtle down the falls with all its strength were the dam not there.
Father checks the floodgate as always in the evenings.
"Norwegian water," he says, with weight in his voice. "Remember that, Johanna, that the water that gives us bread comes from Norway. Water," he says, "is much wiser than people, it doesn't give a damn about borders."
He's enraged. But she's not afraid as long as she's on his back.
Dusk is falling. Laboriously, heavily, he makes his way down the slopes, goes to the mill, feels the locks. The girl hears him muttering wicked curses before he goes on along the path down toward the boat. It's quiet in the cave. Her brothers have fallen asleep, but her mother is moving uneasily on her hard bed.
The girl is allowed to sleep curled inside her father's arm, as close as she can get. It's cold.
Later, new pictures. She's bigger, she can see that from her feet running toward the mouth of the cave, in clogs, for it's slippery on the slopes now.
"Father!" she calls. "Father!"
But he doesn't reply. It's autumn and it'll soon be dark. Then she sees the light in the cave and grows anxious. Someone's shouting in the cave, and Rudolf is there, the blacksmith she's afraid of. She sees them staggering about, he and Father.
"Get on home, brat!" he yells, and she runs, crying, running and falling, hurting herself, but the pain from her grazed knees is nothing to the hurt in her breast.
"Father!" she screams. "Father!"
Then the night sister is there, worried.
"There, there, Johanna. It was only a dream, sleep now, go to sleep."
She obeys, as she usually does, and is allowed to sleep for an hour or two before the voices of the day shift explode in her body and race like ice through her veins. She's shaking with cold but no one sees it. The windows are flung open, they change her, and she's no longer cold or feels any shame.
She's back in the white emptiness.
Anna had a night of difficult and clarifying thoughts. They started with the feeling that had come over her when Sister Märta had asked her about her own babies. Tenderness and inadequacy. It had always been like that for her; when her emotions were strong, her strength ebbed away.
She hadn't fallen asleep until three in the morning. She dreamed about Mother and the mill and the falls hurtling down into the bright lake. In her dream the great waters had been gleaming and still.
The dream had consoled her.
Oh, what stories Mother had told. About elves dancing over the lake in the moonlight, and the witch who was married to the blacksmith and could conjure the minds out of people and beasts. When Anna was older, the stories grew into long tales of life and death of the people in that magical border country. Then when she was eleven and more critical, she considered it all lies, that that amazing country existed only in her mother's imagination.
One day when she was grown up and had her driver's license, she put her mother into the car and drove her home to the falls by the long lake. It was only 150 miles. She could still remember how angry she was with her father when she measured the distance on the map. He had had a car for many years and could well have driven Johanna and the girl for those few hours, the girl who had heard so many stories about this country of her childhood. If the will had been there. And the understanding.
But when she and her mother reached their goal, that sunny summer's day thirty years ago, her anger had blown away. Solemnly and with surprise, she stood there and looked. Here it was, the land of fairy tales with the long lake at the bottom, the water falling twenty meters, and the still Norwegian lakes up in the mountains.
The mill had been pulled down and a power station built, disused now that nuclear power had taken over. But the lovely little red mill house was still there, long ago turned into a summer place for some unknown person.
The moment was too great for words, so they said little. Mother wept and apologized for doing so. "I'm so stupid." Not until they had taken the picnic basket out of the car and sat down with coffee and sandwiches on a smooth flat rock by the lake did Johanna begin to speak, and her words came just as they used to when Anna was small. She chose the story of the war that never happened.
"I was only three when the Union crisis came and we moved into the cave. Over there, behind the promontory. Perhaps I think I can remember because I'd been told the story so many times as I grew up. But I seem to have such a clear picture of it. Ragnar came home. He was so handsome as he stood there in his blue uniform with its shiny buttons and told us there was going to be a war. Between us and the Norwegians!"
The surprise was still there in her voice, a child's amazement when faced with what is incomprehensible. The three-year-old, like everyone in the borderlands, had relatives on the other side of the Norwegian lakes, where her mother's sister had married a fish merchant in Halden, which was called Fredrikshald in those days. The cousins had spent many summer weeks in the mill house, and Johanna had gone with her mother to spend a month or two in that town with its great fortress. She remembered how the fish merchant smelled and what he had said as they stood there looking at the walls of the fortress.
"We shot 'im there, the damned Swede."
"Who?"
"The Swedish king."
The girl had been afraid, but her aunt, a gentler person than her mother, had lifted her up and consoled her.
"That was long ago. And people in those days had no sense."
But perhaps there had been something in her uncle's voice that had stuck in her mind, for some time after her visit to Norway, Johanna asked her father about it. He laughed and said much what her aunt had said, that that was a long time ago when people let themselves be ruled by kings and mad of...
Revue de presse :
Her mind was as clear as a winter's day, a day as quiet and shadowless as if snow had just fallen. Harsh sounds penetrated, the clatter of dropped enamel bowls and cries. It frightened her. Like the weeping from the next bed slicing into the whiteness.
There were many who cried where she was.
She had lost her memory four years ago, then only a few months later her words had disappeared. She could see and hear, but could name neither objects nor people, so they lost all meaning.
That was when she came to this white country where time was nonexistent. She didn't know where her bed was or how old she was, but she had found a new way of being and appealed for compassion with humble smiles. Like a child. And like a child, she was wide open to emotions, everything vibrating between people without words.
She was aware she was going to die. That was knowledge, not an idea.
Her family were those who kept her going.
Her husband came every day. He also was wordless but for different reasons: He was over ninety, so he, too, was near the borderline, but he had no wish either to die or to know about it. Just as he had always controlled his life and hers, he put up a fierce struggle against the inevitable. He massaged her back, bent and stretched her knees, and read aloud to her from the daily paper. She had no means of opposing him. They had had a long and complicated relationship.
Most difficult of all was when their daughter, who lived in another town, came to visit. The old woman knew nothing of time or distance, and was always uneasy before she came, as if the moment she woke at dawn, she had already sensed the car making its way through the country, at the wheel the woman with all her unreasonable hopes.
Anna realized she was being as demanding as a child. That was no help, and as soon as she gave in, her thoughts slid away: just for once, perhaps, an answer to one of the questions I never had time to ask. After almost five hours of driving, as she turned into the nursing home parking lot, she had accepted that her mother would not recognize her this time, either.
Yet she would ask the questions.
I do it for my own sake, she thought. It makes no difference what I talk about to her.
She was wrong. Johanna did not understand the words, but she was aware of her daughter's torment and her own powerlessness. She did not remember it was her task to console the child who had always asked unreasonable questions. Still, the demand remained as well as the guilt over her inadequacy.
Her desire was to escape into silence, to close her eyes, but she couldn't, her heart thumping, the darkness behind her eyelids scarlet and painful. She started crying. Embarrassed, Anna tried to console her, there, there, wiping the old woman's cheeks.
When she was unable to halt Johanna's despair, Anna became frightened and rang for help. As usual, there was a delay, then the fair girl was standing in the doorway, a girl with young eyes but no depth in them. Anna saw contempt in those blue eyes, and for a moment Anna could see what the girl saw: an older woman, anxious and clumsy, by the side of the really old one.
"There, there," she said, too, but her voice was hard, as hard as the hand that ran over the old woman's head. And yet she succeeded. Johanna fell asleep so suddenly, it seemed unreal.
"We mustn't upset the patients," said the girl. "You must sit there quietly for a while. We'll come and change her and remake the bed in about ten minutes."
Anna slipped out to the terrace like a shamefaced dog, found her cigarettes, and drew the smoke deep down into her lungs. It calmed her and she could think. At first angry thoughts: damned bitch, hard as nails. Pretty, of course, and horribly young. Had Mother obeyed her out of fear? Was there a discipline here that the helpless old people sensed and gave in to?
Then came the self-reproach. The girl was only doing her job, everything she, Anna, ought to be doing, according to the laws of nature. But she couldn't, couldn't bring herself to, even if the time and place had existed.
Last of all came the astonishing realization that Mother had somehow been touched by the questions she'd asked.
She stubbed out her cigarette in the rusty tray at the far end of the table. God, how tired she was. Mother, she thought, dear wonderful Mother, why can't you show pity and die?
Frightened, she glanced out over the nursing home grounds where the Norway maples were in flower and smelling of honey. She drew in the scent with deep breaths, as if seeking consolation in the spring, but her senses were dulled. I'm as if dead, too, she thought as she turned on her heel and walked determinedly to the ward sister's door. She knocked and just had time to think, please let it be Märta.
It was Sister Märta, the only one she knew here. They greeted each other like old friends, then the daughter sat in the visitor's chair and was just about to start asking when she was overwhelmed by emotion.
"I don't want to start crying," she said, then did.
"It's not easy," said the sister, pushing the box of tissues across.
"I want to know how much she understands," said the daughter, adding her hope of being recognized and the questions she'd asked her mother, who didn't understand, yet did.
Sister Märta listened with no surprise.
"I think the old understand in a way we find difficult to grasp. Like newborn infants. You've had two babies yourself, so you know they take everything in, anxieties and joys. Well, you must remember?"
No, she didn't remember. She remembered nothing but her own overwhelming feeling of tenderness and inadequacy, though she knew what the nurse was talking about. She had learned a great deal from her grandchildren.
Then Sister Märta talked about the old woman's general condition in consoling terms. They had gotten rid of her bedsores, so she was in no physical pain.
"But she's rather uneasy at night," she said. "She seems to have nightmares. She wakes up screaming."
"She dreams?"
"But of course she dreams, everyone does. The pity is we can never find out what they're dreaming, our patients."
Anna thought about the cat they'd had at home, a lovely creature leaping up out of its sleep, hissing, its claws extended. Then she was ashamed of the thought. But Sister Märta didn't notice her embarrassment.
"Considering Johanna's poor condition, we prefer not to give her tranquilizers. I also think perhaps she needs her dreams."
"Needs?"
Sister Märta pretended to ignore the surprise in the other woman's voice.
"We're thinking of giving her a room of her own," she went on. "As things are, she's disturbing the others in the ward."
"A room of her own? Is that possible?"
"We're waiting out Emil in number seven," said the nurse, lowering her eyes.
Not until the daughter was backing the car out of the parking lot did she take in what had been said about Emil, the old priest whose hymns she'd heard over the years. She hadn't thought about it today, that there'd been no sound from his room. For years, she'd heard him singing about life in the valley of the shadow of death, and the Lord waiting with his terrible judgments.
Johanna's secret world followed the clock. It opened at three in the morning and closed again at dawn.
Her world contained a wealth of images, filled with colors, scents, and voices. Other sounds, too. The roar of the falls, the wind singing in the tops of the maples, and the forest rejoicing with birdsong.
On this night the pictures she sees tremble with excitement. It is summer and early morning, with slanting rays of the sun and long shadows.
"You must be mad,"shouts the voice she knows best, her father's. He's red in the face and frightening in his agitation. She's afraid and flings her arms around his leg. He lifts her up, runs his hand over her head.
"Don't you think, girl?"he says.
But her eldest brother is standing in the middle of the room, handsome, with shiny buttons and high boots, and he's shouting, too.
"To the cave, all of you, and today, too. They might already be here tomorrow."
Then another voice, resourceful.
"Listen now, lad. Would Axel and Ole come here from Moss and would Astrid's lad come here from Fredrikshald to shoot us?"
"Yes, Mother."
"I think you've gone mad," says the voice, but now it's uncertain. And her father looks at the soldier, eye meets eye, and the old man can't mistake the gravity in the young man's eyes.
"Then we'll do as you say."
Then the pictures change, start moving. Feet stomp, burdens are lifted. She sees the earth cellar and store emptied. The great barrel of salt pork is carried out, the herring barrel, the potato bin, the cloudberry jar, the butter in its wooden tub, the hard round slabs of crispbread, all out on the ground, then carried down toward the boat. Sacks filled with blankets and clothes, all the wool in the cottage going the same way, down the slope toward the lake. She sees the brothers rowing. It's heavy going toward the promontory, easier back.
"The oil lamps!" It's her mother calling out on her way indoors.
But the soldier stops her, calling, too, "No, Mother, we'll have to do without light."
The child is wide-eyed and anxious. But then a brimstone butterfly lands on her hand.
The picture changes again; the daylight is miserly, and she's perched on her father's back. As so often, she's being carried up the slopes to the mountain lakes, so secretive and introverted they are, quite different from the great lake with its light and blue glitter. But just above the mill, the largest of the dark lakes breaks the stillness and looks as if it would hurtle down the falls with all its strength were the dam not there.
Father checks the floodgate as always in the evenings.
"Norwegian water," he says, with weight in his voice. "Remember that, Johanna, that the water that gives us bread comes from Norway. Water," he says, "is much wiser than people, it doesn't give a damn about borders."
He's enraged. But she's not afraid as long as she's on his back.
Dusk is falling. Laboriously, heavily, he makes his way down the slopes, goes to the mill, feels the locks. The girl hears him muttering wicked curses before he goes on along the path down toward the boat. It's quiet in the cave. Her brothers have fallen asleep, but her mother is moving uneasily on her hard bed.
The girl is allowed to sleep curled inside her father's arm, as close as she can get. It's cold.
Later, new pictures. She's bigger, she can see that from her feet running toward the mouth of the cave, in clogs, for it's slippery on the slopes now.
"Father!" she calls. "Father!"
But he doesn't reply. It's autumn and it'll soon be dark. Then she sees the light in the cave and grows anxious. Someone's shouting in the cave, and Rudolf is there, the blacksmith she's afraid of. She sees them staggering about, he and Father.
"Get on home, brat!" he yells, and she runs, crying, running and falling, hurting herself, but the pain from her grazed knees is nothing to the hurt in her breast.
"Father!" she screams. "Father!"
Then the night sister is there, worried.
"There, there, Johanna. It was only a dream, sleep now, go to sleep."
She obeys, as she usually does, and is allowed to sleep for an hour or two before the voices of the day shift explode in her body and race like ice through her veins. She's shaking with cold but no one sees it. The windows are flung open, they change her, and she's no longer cold or feels any shame.
She's back in the white emptiness.
Anna had a night of difficult and clarifying thoughts. They started with the feeling that had come over her when Sister Märta had asked her about her own babies. Tenderness and inadequacy. It had always been like that for her; when her emotions were strong, her strength ebbed away.
She hadn't fallen asleep until three in the morning. She dreamed about Mother and the mill and the falls hurtling down into the bright lake. In her dream the great waters had been gleaming and still.
The dream had consoled her.
Oh, what stories Mother had told. About elves dancing over the lake in the moonlight, and the witch who was married to the blacksmith and could conjure the minds out of people and beasts. When Anna was older, the stories grew into long tales of life and death of the people in that magical border country. Then when she was eleven and more critical, she considered it all lies, that that amazing country existed only in her mother's imagination.
One day when she was grown up and had her driver's license, she put her mother into the car and drove her home to the falls by the long lake. It was only 150 miles. She could still remember how angry she was with her father when she measured the distance on the map. He had had a car for many years and could well have driven Johanna and the girl for those few hours, the girl who had heard so many stories about this country of her childhood. If the will had been there. And the understanding.
But when she and her mother reached their goal, that sunny summer's day thirty years ago, her anger had blown away. Solemnly and with surprise, she stood there and looked. Here it was, the land of fairy tales with the long lake at the bottom, the water falling twenty meters, and the still Norwegian lakes up in the mountains.
The mill had been pulled down and a power station built, disused now that nuclear power had taken over. But the lovely little red mill house was still there, long ago turned into a summer place for some unknown person.
The moment was too great for words, so they said little. Mother wept and apologized for doing so. "I'm so stupid." Not until they had taken the picnic basket out of the car and sat down with coffee and sandwiches on a smooth flat rock by the lake did Johanna begin to speak, and her words came just as they used to when Anna was small. She chose the story of the war that never happened.
"I was only three when the Union crisis came and we moved into the cave. Over there, behind the promontory. Perhaps I think I can remember because I'd been told the story so many times as I grew up. But I seem to have such a clear picture of it. Ragnar came home. He was so handsome as he stood there in his blue uniform with its shiny buttons and told us there was going to be a war. Between us and the Norwegians!"
The surprise was still there in her voice, a child's amazement when faced with what is incomprehensible. The three-year-old, like everyone in the borderlands, had relatives on the other side of the Norwegian lakes, where her mother's sister had married a fish merchant in Halden, which was called Fredrikshald in those days. The cousins had spent many summer weeks in the mill house, and Johanna had gone with her mother to spend a month or two in that town with its great fortress. She remembered how the fish merchant smelled and what he had said as they stood there looking at the walls of the fortress.
"We shot 'im there, the damned Swede."
"Who?"
"The Swedish king."
The girl had been afraid, but her aunt, a gentler person than her mother, had lifted her up and consoled her.
"That was long ago. And people in those days had no sense."
But perhaps there had been something in her uncle's voice that had stuck in her mind, for some time after her visit to Norway, Johanna asked her father about it. He laughed and said much what her aunt had said, that that was a long time ago when people let themselves be ruled by kings and mad of...
"Brilliant . . . Hanna's Daughters outlines the lives of three generations of women and their complicated relationships with one another."
--USA Today
"I LOVED HANNA'S DAUGHTERS FROM THE VERY FIRST PAGE, and I absolutely could not put it down. . . . Written with grace and wit, this novel deserves to be read, discussed, and cherished by future generations of mothers and daughters."
--JUDITH GUEST
Author of Ordinary People and Errands
"AN UPLIFTING FAMILY SAGA . . . Fredriksson provides a satisfyingly complex . . . chronicle of women and the burdens imposed by their family history, their gender and themselves. . . . Its message of reconciliation is transcendent."
--People
--USA Today
"I LOVED HANNA'S DAUGHTERS FROM THE VERY FIRST PAGE, and I absolutely could not put it down. . . . Written with grace and wit, this novel deserves to be read, discussed, and cherished by future generations of mothers and daughters."
--JUDITH GUEST
Author of Ordinary People and Errands
"AN UPLIFTING FAMILY SAGA . . . Fredriksson provides a satisfyingly complex . . . chronicle of women and the burdens imposed by their family history, their gender and themselves. . . . Its message of reconciliation is transcendent."
--People
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurOrion mass market paperback
- Date d'édition2002
- ISBN 10 0752849409
- ISBN 13 9780752849409
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages320
- Evaluation vendeur
Acheter neuf
En savoir plus sur cette édition
EUR 72,12
Frais de port :
EUR 3,79
Vers Etats-Unis
Autres éditions populaires du même titre
Meilleurs résultats de recherche sur AbeBooks
Image d'archives
HANNA'S DAUGHTERS
Edité par
Orion
(2002)
ISBN 10 : 0752849409
ISBN 13 : 9780752849409
Neuf
Couverture souple
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Etat : New. New. In shrink wrap. Looks like an interesting title! 0.62. N° de réf. du vendeur Q-0752849409
Acheter neuf
EUR 72,12
Autre devise