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The Sandcastle Girls (Vintage Contemporaries) Paperback – Illustrated, April 16, 2013
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When Elizabeth Endicott arrives in Aleppo, Syria, she has a diploma from Mount Holyoke, a crash course in nursing, and only the most basic grasp of the Armenian language. It’s 1915, and Elizabeth has volunteered to help deliver food and medical aid to refugees of the Armenian Genocide during the First World War. There she meets Armen, a young Armenian engineer who has already lost his wife and infant daughter. After leaving Aleppo and traveling into Egypt to join the British Army, he begins to write Elizabeth letters, realizing that he has fallen in love with the wealthy young American.
Years later, their American granddaughter, Laura, embarks on a journey back through her family’s history, uncovering a story of love, loss—and a wrenching secret that has been buried for generations.
Look for Chris Bohjalian's new novel, The Lioness!
- Print length320 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherVintage
- Publication dateApril 16, 2013
- Dimensions5.17 x 0.7 x 7.98 inches
- ISBN-100307743918
- ISBN-13978-0307743916
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The Flight Attendant | Hour of the Witch | The Red Lotus | The Sandcastle Girls | The Lioness | Midwives | |
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Now an acclaimed HBO Max series starring Kaley Cuoco and Rosie Perez, a powerful story about the ways an entire life can change in one night: a flight attendant wakes up in the wrong hotel, in the wrong bed, with a dead man—and no idea what happened. | "NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A young Puritan woman—faithful, resourceful, but afraid of the demons that dog her soul—plots her escape from a violent marriage in this riveting and propulsive novel of historical suspense." | NATIONAL BESTSELLER • A twisting story of love and deceit: an American man vanishes on a rural road in Vietnam, and his girlfriend follows a path that leads her home to the very hospital where they met. | NATIONAL BESTSELLER • A sweeping historical love story that probes the depths of love, family, and secrets in Armenia during WWI. | A luxurious African safari turns deadly for a Hollywood starlet and her entourage in this riveting historical thriller. | This modern classic explores questions of human responsibility that are as fundamental to our society now as they were when the book was first published. A selection of Oprah's original Book Club that has sold more than two million copies. |
Editorial Reviews
Review
“Bohjalian deftly weaves the many threads of this story back and forth, from past to present, from abuse to humanity, from devastation to redemption. . . . Utterly riveting.” —The Washington Post
“Chris Bohjalian is at his very finest in this searing story of love and war. I was mesmerized from page one. Bravo!” —Paula McLain, author of The Paris Wife
“Bohjalian—the grandson of Armenian survivors—pours passion, pride, and sadness into his tale of ethnic destruction and endurance.” —Entertainment Weekly
“Dead-solid perfect. Bohjalian is a literary novelist unafraid to reference Proust's madeleine and expect readers to get it. But his books are also filled with artfully drawn characters and great, passionate storytelling. The Sandcastle Girls is all that, but different, more powerful.” —The Seattle Times
“In his latest novel, master storyteller Chris Bohjalian explores the ways in which our ancestral past informs our contemporary lives—in ways we understand and ways that remain mysteriously out of reach. The Sandcastle Girls is deft, layered, eye-opening, and riveting. I was deeply moved.” —Wally Lamb, author of The Hour I First Believed
“A searing, tightly woven tale of war and the legacy it leaves behind. . . . A nuanced, sophisticated portrayal of what it means not only to endure, but to insist on hope.” —Oprah.com
“It takes a talented novelist to combine fully ripened characters, an engrossing storyline, exquisite prose and set it against a horrific historical backdrop—in this case, the Armenian Genocide—and completely enchant readers. The prolific and captivating Chris Bohjalian has done it all with The Sandcastle Girls.” —Associated Press
“The scope of The Sandcastle Girls is almost epic. . . . While there are the rich personal stories that his readers connect to, what he has achieved is much larger. Bohjalian has written a compelling and powerful novel that will bring the history of the genocide to a wide audience. The Sandcastle Girls will remain ingrained in your consciousness.” —The Armenian Weekly
“[A] great read. . . . Affecting.” —People
"This book is a masterfully written story of war and love and is especially meaningful as we approach the centennial observance of the 1915 Armenian genocide." —Louisville Courier-Journal
“A compelling new novel that is part love story, part history lesson. . . . An eye-opening tale of longing and discovery. . . . A bittersweet reflection on hope even in the darkest circumstances. . . . [The Sandcastle Girls] is about the ways the past informs the present, about the pain but also the richness of heritage.” —The Miami Herald
“Bohjalian succeeds in depicting the horror, without sentimentalizing it. . . . He has fulfilled the duty of anyone seeking to document a genocide—he ensures that we don’t look away.” —The Boston Globe
“An unforgettable exposition of the still too-little-known facts of the Armenian genocide and its multigenerational consequences.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Touching and believable, adding a softer dimension to what is at times a brutal story.” —The Vancouver Sun
“Bohjalian powerfully narrates an intricately nuanced romance with a complicated historical event at the forefront. With the centennial of the Armenian genocide fast approaching, this is not to be missed. Simply astounding.” —Library Journal (starred review)
“A beautiful, frightening, and unforgettable read.” —Publishers Weekly
“[Bohjalian’s] characters are as real as our own relatives. The well-researched history that forms the background informs, intrigues, and enchants—even as recollections of horror mount.” —The Florida Times-Union
"A tender love story." —The Plain Dealer
“Remarkably supple. . . . Bohjalian keeps his eyes on the personal, the little moments that illuminate broader social movements. . . . Moment by moment, and passage by passage, the novel lights up a disturbing period of history.” —The Columbus Dispatch
“So poignant. . . . Passion comes through clearly in The Sandcastle Girls, with Bohjalian’s carefully chosen words, his flesh and blood characters, and his vivid descriptions. . . . It is a story of death and the triumph of life and quite possibly the best thing Bohjalian has written.” —The Salisbury Post
"I was completely mesmerized by The Sandcastle Girls. Bohjalian pulls his readers into this fictional yet historical setting by educating, entertaining and enthralling them with beautifully written prose. . . . Truly enchanting.” —The Times Record News
“Sober, elegiac, and respectful. It’s not for the Lauras to capture the agony of those who perished, but they can, in small ways, show how human dignity reasserted itself in the face of unthinkable breaches of the social contract. At the opening of the novel, Laura reflects that Americans could benefit from a book called The Armenian Genocide for Dummies. Indeed, many of us could—but a fiction like Bohjalian’s, with its power to reach legions of readers, may be far more valuable.” —Seven Days
“So filled is it with the suspense of life and death that The Sandcastle Girls is difficult to categorize. The story is fiction, but it is true. It’s history, but it’s also art.” —The Weekly Standard
“[A] moving multi-generational saga. . . . A sober, elegiac, and touching novel.” —Bookreporter
"A romance so beautiful and believable it hurts.” —The Free Lance-Star (Fredericksburg, VA)
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The young woman, twenty-one, walks gingerly down the dusty street between her father and the American consul here in Aleppo, an energetic fellow almost her father’s age named Ryan Donald Martin, and draws the scarf over her hair and her cheeks. The men are detouring around the square near the base of the citadel because they don’t yet want her to see the deportees who arrived here last night--there will be time for that soon enough--but she fears she is going to be sick anyway. The smell of rotting flesh, excrement, and the July heat are conspiring to churn her stomach far worse than even the trip across the Atlantic had weeks earlier. She feels clammy and weak-kneed and reaches out for her father’s elbow to steady herself. Her father, in turn, gently taps her fingers with his hand, his vague and abstracted attempt at a comforting gesture.
“Miss Endicott, do you need to rest? You look a little peaked,” the consul says, and she glances at him. His brown eyes are wide and a little crazed, and already there are thin rivulets of sweat running down both sides of his face. He is wearing a beige linen jacket, which she imagines to be infinitely more comfortable than her father’s gray woolen suit. She brings her free hand to her own face and feels the moisture there. She nods in response to his question; she does need to sit, though it embarrasses her to admit this. Still, it may be a nonissue. She can’t see where she might on this squalid street. But Ryan quickly takes her arm and guides her from her father, leading her to a stoop on the shady side of the thin road. He wipes off the squat step with his bare hand. There is a ramshackle wooden door behind the stoop, shut tight against the midmorning heat, but she presumes that whoever lives there won’t mind if she sits. And so there she rests and breathes in deeply and slowly through her mouth, watching the women in their headscarves and long, loose robes--some hide all but their eyes behind burqas--and the men in their ornate blazers, their voluminous, shapeless trousers, and their flowerpot-like fez hats. Some of the men glance at her sympathetically as they pass, others with a brazen want in their eyes. She has been warned.
“There’s a nice breeze today,” Ryan says cheerfully, and while she appreciates the slightly cooler air, wafting along with it is the stench from the square. “Before you arrived, the heat was just unbearable.”
She can’t imagine it being hotter. At the moment, she can’t imagine anywhere being hotter. And yet she found their apartment last night unexpectedly comfortable after the endless weeks aboard a ship, then a horse-drawn carriage, and finally two train cars that boasted only wooden seats. It was warm, but she had stood at her window for nearly half an hour in the middle of the night, gazing out at the row of statuesque cypress on the hill beyond the American compound and the bower of trees just inside the walls. She saw more stars than she ever saw in Boston, and the half moon seemed to dangle eerily, beautifully close to the earth.
Her father is surveying the rows of sand-colored two-story buildings that curl toward an alley, his arms folded across his chest, his face stern, and then she notes him arch his back suddenly and stand up a little straighter. Ryan sees what he sees and murmurs just loud enough for her to hear, “Oh, Jesus, no. Not more.” Both Ryan and her father glance down at her, but they realize there is absolutely nothing they can do; there is not a way in the world to shield her from what is coming. Besides, this is why she is here, isn’t it? Didn’t she volunteer to be a part of this aid mission? To chronicle what she sees for their organization, the Friends of Armenia, and to volunteer at the hospital--to do, in essence, whatever she could to help? Still, discomfort leaches from both men like perspiration, and she finds it interesting that they are as embarrassed as they are disgusted. If they had been here alone--if she had remained back at the American compound--her father and the American consul now would be experiencing only rage. And so she presses the palm of her hand against the wall of the house, the stone unexpectedly cool, and rises.
Approaching from down the street is a staggering column of old women, and she is surprised to observe they are African. She stares, transfixed. She thinks of the paintings and drawings she has seen of American slave markets in the South from the 1840s and 1850s, though weren’t those women and men always clothed--if only in rags? These women are completely naked, bare from their feet to the long drapes of matted black hair. And it is the hair, long and straight though filthy and impossibly tangled, that causes her to understand that these women are white--at least they were once--and they are, in fact, not old at all. Many might be her age or even a little younger. All are beyond modesty, beyond caring. Their skin has been seared black by the sun or stained by the soil in which they have slept or, in some cases, by great yawning scabs and wounds that are open and festering and, even at this distance, malodorous. The women look like dying wild animals as they lurch forward, some holding on to the walls of the stone houses to remain erect. She has never in her life seen people so thin and wonders how in the name of God their bony legs can support them. Their breasts are lost to their ribs. The bones of their hips protrude like baskets.
“Elizabeth, you don’t need to watch,” her father is saying, but she does. She does.
Herding the women forward through the town are half a dozen young men, two on horseback who look nearly as weak as the women, and four walking beside the group. All of them have rifles slung over their shoulders. They, too, don’t look any older than Elizabeth, and it crosses her mind that the pair nearest her can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen; their moustaches are wisps, a boy’s attempt to look like a man.
Just before the group reaches them, the gendarmes guide the women down the narrow street that will lead eventually to the square beneath the citadel, where they will be deposited with the deportees who arrived here yesterday. The men are short-tempered and tired. They strike the women when they move slowly or clumsily. They yank them back to their feet by their hair when they collapse. Elizabeth tries to count the women as they turn to the right and disappear into the alley, but reflexively she looks away whenever one of the skeletons meets her eye. Still, she guesses there are at least 125 of them. She verbalizes the number aloud without thinking.
“I assure you, Miss Endicott,” says Ryan, “when that group left Zeitun or Adana or wherever, there were at least a thousand of them.”
“Why did the Turks take their clothes?” she asks him.
He shakes his head. “They don’t usually--unless they’re planning to kill them. Sometimes they take the men’s clothes immediately before executing them; they worry the clothes of the dead are defiled. But I have no idea why they did in this case. Degrade the survivors, maybe. Perhaps increase the chances they’ll die on their own in the sun. But don’t look for reason in any of this.”
“And where are the men?”
He dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief. “It’s safe to assume they’re dead. Either they were--” He doesn’t finish because her father glares at the consul to be silent. To be still. Her father is hoping to introduce her to this world gradually. In increments. They discussed it little on either the ship or the train. Generalities of Ottoman history only.
Later this month, the two doctors in their party will arrive and they will start work. They--along with a returning missionary named Alicia Wells--telegrammed that their ship was going to be delayed leaving Boston, and might then take a more roundabout course to avoid U‑boats. But whether the physicians are delayed two weeks or three might make all the difference in the world for some of the survivors who are brought here. These women, she presumes, will be long gone by then, marched back into the desert to one of the resettlement camps to the southeast. So will the group that is already in the square, the women and children who staggered in from the desert yesterday.
In the meantime, Elizabeth can’t imagine what in the name of God she--what anyone--can do for them. Still, after catching her breath, she and her father and the American consul decide that instead of spending lunch discussing the conditions in Aleppo and planning for the arrival of the rest of their group, they will follow these woeful deportees down the alley and into the square, and there see what they can do to help.
Ryan Martin leaves to find rags for the women to wear, but by the time he returns with a wagon of tattered dresses and blouses--remnants from the dead who have passed through Aleppo that summer--the newly arrived deportees already have been clothed by the other refugees. In the meantime, Elizabeth and a nurse from the hospital pick at the vermin on the women and clean the gaping wounds on their legs and ankles and feet. They ration the little calamine lotion and olive oil they have for those women whose sunburns have not seared deep into their flesh, and gently wash the wounds of those whose skin--especially on their shoulders and backs--has peeled off like a snake’s. Within minutes they finish off the one large bottle of iodine the nurse has brought. Elizabeth gives the deportees water and bowls of thin bulgur soup to eat, because it is all they can scare up at the moment. There may be bread tomorrow. She feels helpless. When she was given her nursing training back in Boston, no one prepared her for dysentery. For gangrene. For feet with bones splintered from weeks of walking barefoot, the toes and heels swollen and mangled and deformed.
Most of the women are clustered underneath makeshift tents--canvas pulled tight on tottering wooden poles--but there are more women than there is room, so they spread out beyond the tent when the sun is no longer overhead and there are long stripes of comforting black shade. The children--among whom the only males in this new group can be found--remind her of dead sea horses she once saw on the beach at Cape Cod: The children, like the sea horses, are curled up on their sides and their bones seem as brittle and sharp as the shells of the dried pipefish. Perhaps a quarter mile away is a hospital, primitive by Boston standards, but a hospital nonetheless. It infuriates Elizabeth that there is, apparently, no room for these women there, and so far not a single doctor has emerged from the building and offered to help. Ryan has tried to mollify her by telling her that the vast majority of the beds there are filled with Armenian women and children, but this reality too has left her seething inside.
The number of deportees who speak either English or French surprises Elizabeth, though most are too tired right now to talk. Nevertheless, there is a woman who looks to be in her fifties but Elizabeth suspects is actually half that age, who murmurs “thank you” in English as she takes the bowl of soup and brings it to her lips.
“You’re welcome,” Elizabeth says. “I wish it were a more substantial meal.”
The woman shrugs. “You’re American,” she observes, a statement. She is wearing a man’s shirt and a skirt that balloons around her like a sack.
“Yes. My name is Elizabeth.”
“I’m Nevart,” the Armenian offers, and Elizabeth carefully rolls the name around in her mind. A small girl sleeps beside the woman, the child’s collarbone rising and falling ever so slightly with each breath. Elizabeth guesses that she is seven or eight. “Where in America?” Nevart asks.
“Boston,” Elizabeth answers. “It’s in the state of Massachusetts.” The woman’s nails are as brown as her skin. “Sip that soup slowly,” she adds.
Nevart nods and places the bowl in her lap. “I know where Boston is,” she says. “I heard you speaking Armenian a minute ago. How much do you know?”
“A little. Very little, actually. I know mostly vocabulary. I know words, not grammar.” Then Elizabeth asks the woman, “How did you learn English?”
“My husband went to college in London. He was a doctor.”
Elizabeth thinks about this, imagining this wraith of a woman living in England. As if Nevart can read her mind, the deportee continues, “I wasn’t with him most of the time. I have been to London, but only for a visit.” She sighs and looks into Elizabeth’s eyes. “I’m not going to die,” she murmurs, and she almost sounds disappointed.
“No, of course, you won’t. I know that.” Elizabeth hopes she sounds reassuring. She honestly isn’t sure whether this woman will live.
“You’re just saying that. But I know it because I was a doctor’s wife. I have survived dysentery. Starvation. Dehydration. They . . . never mind what they did to me. I am still alive.”
“Is that your little girl?” Elizabeth asks.
The woman shakes her head. “No,” she answers, gently massaging the child’s neck. “This is Hatoun. Like me, she is unkillable.”
Elizabeth wants to ask about the woman’s husband, but she doesn’t dare. The man is almost certainly dead. Likewise, she wonders if Nevart has lost her children as well, but again she knows no good can come from this inquiry. Wouldn’t the Armenian have said something about her own children if they were with her now--if they were alive?
Over the woman’s shoulder Elizabeth spies her father in the distance. He is ladling out the soup from a black cauldron and handing it to the women strong enough to stand and bring it to those who are collapsed under the tent. His sideburns and his beard, so much thicker and grayer than the thin whorls of cinnamon atop his scalp, look almost white in this light. They are expecting flour and sugar and tea in the next day or so--the first of two shipments they have arranged this month--though Ryan has warned her father and her that it is likely only a small fraction of what they have acquired will actually arrive in Aleppo.
“Where do we go next?” Nevart asks her. “They brought us here, but they won’t let us stay.”
Product details
- Publisher : Vintage; Reprint edition (April 16, 2013)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 320 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0307743918
- ISBN-13 : 978-0307743916
- Item Weight : 2.31 pounds
- Dimensions : 5.17 x 0.7 x 7.98 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #46,493 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #271 in Cultural Heritage Fiction
- #1,014 in Family Saga Fiction
- #3,782 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Chris Bohjalian is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of 23 books. His work has been translated into 35 languages and three times become movies.
His forthcoming novel, "The Lioness," arrives May 10, 2022.
His most recent novel, "Hour of the Witch," was published in May 2021 and was an instant New York Times, Publishers Weekly, USA Today and Indiebound bestseller. It's a novel of historical suspense set in 1662 Boston, a tale of the first divorce in North America for domestic violence -- and a subsequent witch trial. The Washington Post called "historical fiction at its best. The New York Times called it "harrowing."
His 2018 novel, “The Flight Attendant,” debuted as a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, Publishers Weekly, and National Indiebound Bestseller. It is now an an HBO Max series, starring Kaley Cuoco that has been nominated for numerous Emmy, SAG, and Golden Globe awards. It was recently renewed for a second season.
His 2020 novel, “The Red Lotus,” is now in paperback. It's a twisting story of love and deceit: an American man vanishes on a rural road in Vietnam and his girlfriend, an emergency room doctor trained to ask questions, follows a path that leads her home to the very hospital where they met. Publishers Weekly called it “a diabolical plot reminiscent of a Robin Cook thriller,” and Booklist described it as “masterful…a cerebral and dramatic dive into what happens when love turns to agony.”
He is also a playwright and screenwriter. He has adapted his novel, “Midwives,” for a play, which premiered in 2020 at the George Street Playhouse, and was directed by David Saint. Broadway World said of it, “The fine playwriting by Bohjalian, the directorial talents of the Playhouse’s Artistic Director, David Saint, and the show’s accomplished cast make this play unforgettable.”
His first play, “Grounded,” premiered at the 59 East 59th Theatres in New York City in the summer of 2018 and is now available as an audiobook and eBook, “Wingspan.”
His books have been chosen as Best Books of the Year by the Washington Post, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the Hartford Courant, the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Kirkus Reviews, Bookpage, and Salon.
His awards include the Walter Cerf Medal for Outstanding Achievement in the Arts; the ANCA Freedom Award for his work educating Americans about the Armenian Genocide; the ANCA Arts and Letters Award for The Sandcastle Girls, as well as the Saint Mesrob Mashdots Medal; the New England Society Book Award for The Night Strangers; the New England Book Award; Russia’s Soglasie (Concord) Award for The Sandcastle Girls; a Boston Public Library Literary Light; a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award for Trans-Sister Radio; a Best Lifestyle Column for “Idyll Banter” from the Vermont Press Association; and the Anahid Literary Award. His novel, Midwives,was a number one New York Times bestseller, a selection of Oprah’s Book Club, and a New England Booksellers Association Discovery pick. He is a Fellow of the Vermont Academy of Arts and Sciences.
He has written for a wide variety of magazines and newspapers, including The New York Times, The Washington Post, Cosmopolitan, Reader’s Digest, and The Boston Globe Sunday Magazine. He was a weekly columnist in Vermont for The Burlington Free Press from 1992 through 2015.
Chris graduated Phi Beta Kappa and Summa Cum Laude from Amherst College. He has been awarded Honorary Degrees as well from Amherst, Champlain College, and Castleton University.
He lives in Vermont with his wife, the photographer Victoria Blewer.
Their daughter, Grace Experience, is a young actor in New York City. Among the audiobooks she has narrated are Close Your Eyes, Hold Hands, The Guest Room, and Hour of the Witch.
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This is a book about a young American woman from Boston goes with her father to the Ottoman Empire to help assist the Armenians who were deported to Syria in the Ottoman Empire in an organization that helps and tries to save Armenians. They want to find out where the Armenians that were moved to their area by the Turkish soldiers were moved to. Where the Armenians were moved to is kind of obvious if you know about the Armenian Holocaust enough.
Elisabeth falls in love with an Armenian who escaped being murdered by the Turkish gov, who also lost his wife, and his child died. She makes all kinds of friends too, besides the organization director, she befriends an Armenian woman who is widowed but is also very smart! She befriends a little Armenian girl who lost her sister and mother to the Turks. She also has a Turkish doctor for a friend who helps her learn Turkish and teaches her the foundations of Islam of how it should be taught! She also befriends two Germans who photographed the Armenians in their area to hopefully show the world how horrible they were being treated by the Turks (possibly a satire off of Armin Wegner).
Flash-forwarded to the present, Laura an American woman who is of Armenian descent and Elisabeth's granddaughter looks into her almost forgotten and not talked about much past. It concerns mainly of how her grandparents met, how her relationship with a Turkish boy when she was a teenager affected her, and how she ended up becoming interested in the Armenian Holocaust.
It also has a good twist at the end!
Here are the conclusions I drawn from the book:
-This is a good book, it's a good example as to why the US shouldn't sweep what happened to the Armenians under the rug. In fact, what the author might have forgotten to mention was that Hitler knew about the Armenian Holocaust, and used it as a way to murder the Jews, Slavics and everyone else. The man who came up with the term genocide was not only a Jew, but he used the Armenian Genocide as a poster child of what a genocide was besides the Holocaust against the Jews. We just can't afford to sweep this genocide under the rug, too many Christians in Muslim ruled countries are still being targeted for extermination because they refuse to learn from this history!
-There is also war in this book, and while WW1 was almost 100 years ago, we can't sweep this under the rug either. It seems to me that WW1 is the war that nobody wants to talk about, you hear them talk about WW2 and the Jewish Holocaust a lot more in the media. To sweep what happened to our soldiers and others under the rug compared to WW2 just because less people died in WW1 than WW2, it's a form of disrespect for all the solders of WW1 who died and served all the countries they were serving when WW1 happened! You have to remember that this war at the time was serious because everyone thought that this war was going to end soon, but then a bunch of chain reactions turned it into a World War and the largest amount of casualties for the time made people want to forget about it and sweep it under the rug. We need to appreciate our WW1 solders around the world too!
-It's another example of how the humane principles of Islam were turned into a weapon for the Young Turks to persecute and murder their Christian population. We need to teach our children that putting Islam in a government is not the same as following the actual principles of Islam. This is a common thing that humans are capable of doing, if many Christian rulers could desecrate the humane foundations of Christianity then Muslims who put religion in the government aren't spared. In fact, nobody is spared.
Initially I was somewhat disoriented by the inter-weaving of the story of Bostonians Elizabeth Endicott and her father Silas (along with others bent on helping the victims of the Genocide) with the secondary story of their granddaughter Laura Petrosian who is researching information about her grandparents. This format seems to be very common in modern novels; two other historical fiction novels I've read most recently, Colum McCann's "Transatlantic" and Khaled Hosseini's "And the Mountains Echoed," both utilized this approach of alternating different characters in different time spaces.
The author does a masterful job of capturing the utter despair of this historical event . Yes, I understand why some reviewers have called it too depressing to read, but the juxtaposition between the unspeakable brutality and the enduring kindness and human perseverance demonstrated by the characters makes it overall a positive and memorable literary experience. The romance between Elizabeth and Armen was lovely but for me took a backseat to the tremendously rich historical content which provides the reader with not only a heart-wrenching story but also an important learning experience.
I was captivated by Mr. Bohjalian's book "The Midwives" and think "The Sandcastle Girls" is also a must-read for totally different reasons. An observer saw me reading it at a park here in Maine a few days ago and asked "Is that a beach book?" "No," I responded, "it is a story about the Armenian Genocide during WWI in which 1.5 Armenians died." Definitely not a light read for the beach !!
Top reviews from other countries
Absolutely marvelous.
it is fortunate they had the common sense to choose different voices, this helps to distinguish between the first person narration of Laura Petrosian And the historical description of the Armenian massacre that started in 1915together with other situations.
Laura is the grandaughter of an Armenian engineer who would later become a soldier with the British army and a Bostonian mother Elizabeth … she starts by describing her grandmother arrival in Aleppo in Syria where she starts witnessing the arrival of half dead Armenian refugees….
I do not want to spoil the rest of the book, I only say that the two met and fell in love. If you consider this a spoiler, look away now.
Perhaps it is only me but I would have given it five stars if it wasn’t for certain parts of Laura’s narration of her own life, in my opinion she is at times insufferable, for example in Chapter 11 (CD 6) her telling of her brother having his first erection while watching their aunt’s belly dancing is not only inappropriate and irrelevant to the story but is also one of the most vain and unnecessary digression especially in parallel with the tragedy of war. I would have expected discretion, a bit more tact and respect from her part …. Also towards the beginning of the novel when she describes her ‘relationship’ with her first Turkish boyfriend, there are some details that as a reader I can do better without, more precisely I would have enjoyed the story more if it wasn’t for certain details … for me the historical narration of one of the greatest human tragedies is irreconcilable with certain parts of Laura’s narration.
Please note that there are swearing words.
The audio version also contains an afterword and an interview with the author, again I do not want to spoil the content, I only say that I was left with the feeling that he could have said more … I would say the interview was only partially revealing ….