The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah book review

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah was awful.

I don't mean to say that the plot or the writing was bad, but it made me feel awful.

I cried, and cried. Which means she did her job well, I suppose, but it also means this book is not for everyone. I believe the reality that she portrays in the text is probably an accurate depiction of the world during WWII, even though it is fiction. The story weighs heavy on my heart.

WARNING: As always, there will be spoilers.

Before I get too into the heart-wrenching stuff, I'll start with some literary observations. Kristin Hannah does some interesting theological things in The Nightingale. In the beginning, the main character tells us that she believes, or at least wants to believe that those who've died are "...in a better place." but then the character tells us that she knows that's not true. This start to her character made me watch for other clues to her faith because I wondered, Did she have no faith, or did she believe that they were doomed to Hell?

She says that she wants the "hope of forgiveness" But, she knows better. This sounds like a faith that has been lost. It sets the tone for the rest of the story.

In chapter 23, the Jewish people of the community are being fired and arrested and deported, and she wonders how can these things take place just because "...they pray to a different God" Earlier in the story, we are told that she is Roman Catholic. This idea that they are praying to and worshiping a different god is a perspective I don't normally see.

But, it is confirmed later, when Vianne's daughters best friend dies, and she tries to comfort the girl by telling her that Sarah has gone to heaven and Sophie replies, "I'm not stupid." If she believes what she is hearing in church every Sunday, then she can not also believe that her Jewish friend is in heaven. This is a harsh reality for this young girl. And, the story for her family, only gets worse.

By Chapter 30 of The Nightingale, I was feeling sick, depressed... not one good thing had happened in the entire story.

Kristin Hannah plants an apple tree in the middle of this story, where our characters tie ribbons of fabric to a branch to remember the lost. By page 368, the tree that produces fresh, sweet apples for them in the beginning is dead and black, twisted and rotten... a literary parallel to the rest of the story.

I've kept reading thus far because I said I would, and because as sick as I feel about it, I do hope for an ending of redemption.

One page 380, Babineau tells Juliette "Some stories don't have happy endings."

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah is a book without a happy ending. You will not come away feeling better about anything.

In terms of writing quality, the story draws the reader in from the beginning, and with the exception of the time jumps (which seem to be a current fad in newer fiction, but annoy me personally), there were no blatant errors that stood out and made me remember that it's only fiction.

Now, for the part that wrenches at my heart...

The two main characters in this book are sisters, in Paris, in WWII. They both face challenges and wonder what to do. Both are faced with a situation where they feel they MUST do something, but what? One sister leaves home and seeks out that something, the other finds it in her own home.

They are not Jewish. They are not German. They are French Roman Catholics. They are bystanders, witnesses. But, they do not remain bystanders.

The emotional pulls of the characters in The Nightingale are sympathetic and make a reader wonder, "What would you do?"

It reminded me of a book we read last year. Elie Weisel Night. This autobiographical piece, translated by his wife Marion tells of Weisel's experience during the war, in the concentration camps and afterward. In one scene, he describes lines of people being marched up to the incinerator, the smell of burning bodies, and the German residents in their homes along the road. I remember picturing women hanging clothes on the line to the smell of burning flesh, young German girls flirting with the soldiers who passed by... I remember wondering then, what would I do? What could I do?

I remember my oldest daughter coming to me at fourteen and telling me that she had learned that one third of her generation had been killed by abortion.

ONE THIRD

What had I done while they were dying? Did I know about it? How could I not know? Was I complicit in it? Was I trying to stop it?

How can I stand in my yard, hanging up my laundry, while knowing that millions of children are being slaughtered alive?

This book. This story. These characters. They bring all of that emotion to the surface.

And, I weep.