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Amandine [NOOK Book]


Marlena de Blasi, the acclaimed author of such delectable memoirs as A Thousand Days in Venice and That Summer in Sicily, now brings her luminous prose to the world of fiction with this remarkable debut novel. Set against the backdrop of Europe as it moves inexorably toward World War II, Amandine follows a young orphan’s journey in search of her heritage.

The story opens in Krakow in 1931, as a baby girl is conceived out of wedlock, the ...
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Marlena de Blasi, the acclaimed author of such delectable memoirs as A Thousand Days in Venice and That Summer in Sicily, now brings her luminous prose to the world of fiction with this remarkable debut novel. Set against the backdrop of Europe as it moves inexorably toward World War II, Amandine follows a young orphan’s journey in search of her heritage.

The story opens in Krakow in 1931, as a baby girl is conceived out of wedlock, the byproduct of a foolish heart and a tragic inheritance. The child’s grandmother, a countess, believes that she is protecting her daughter when she claims that the baby didn’t survive. In truth, however, she deposits the infant at a remote convent in the French countryside, leaving her with a great sum of money and in the care of a young governess named Solange.

Solange takes it upon herself to give the child a distinctive name, Amandine, and the two form a special bond. But even Solange’s unconditional love cannot protect her charge. Mistrusted by both the abbess and the convent girls, the unusually astute and curious Amandine finds her childhood filled with challenges and questions: Who is she? Where does she come from?
Eventually, Solange is forced to choose between the terrors of the convent and those of a global war looming outside its doors. Thus, with a purseful of worthless francs and a sack of provisions, the two flee north toward Solange’s childhood home. But what should have been a two-day journey by train becomes a perilous, years-long odyssey across Occupied France—and deeper into the treacheries of war.

Tracing the flight of Amandine and Solange while peering into the lives of the countess and her daughter, Amandine’s mother, who still mourns and dreams of the child she thinks she lost forever, Marlena de Blasi’s epic novel winds its way toward a dramatic and compelling conclusion, as mother and daughter draw ever nearer. Amandine is a sumptuous tale of identity and survival, persistent hope and unexpected love.

From the Hardcover edition.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
De Blasi, a bestselling memoirist (A Thousand Days in Venice) and food-writer, makes a solid fiction debut with this poignant tale of an orphan growing up in Europe as it descends into WWII. Amandine Gilberte Noiret de Crécy, an illegitimate child born into Polish royalty and ditched at five months by her grandmother at a convent in Montpellier, grows up surrounded by a loving governess, Solange Jouffroi, and adoring nuns and priests. Yet the bitter abbess, Mother Paul, who runs the convent, inexplicably loathes her. Aware of this hatred and longing to find her birth mother, Amandine becomes a serious child who believes there is something wrong with her. After a rash of scarlet fever breaks out at the convent, Solange decides to take Amandine to live with her family, and not long after they leave the convent grounds, they are confronted with the horror the war has brought to France, which has especially dire consequences for Solange. In de Blasi’s tale of unexpected turns taken during the search for understanding and identity, she balances heartbreak, loneliness, fear, and hope with aplomb. (May)
From the Publisher
"A classic, expertly wrought novel of love, loss, and tangled loyalties, de Blasi's Amandine is also a banquet of sumptuous imagery and delicious historical detail."—Chandra Prasad, author of On Borrowed Wings

“The story is captivating, the characters are alive, and readers will hunger for more as the novel ends.  Truly, de Blasi can be considered the Julia Child of fiction.  A wonderful read for both fans of historical fiction and women’s fiction and one that shouldn’t be missed.” Library Journal

Library Journal
The best-selling author of such culinary treasures as A Thousand Days in Tuscany and A Thousand Days in Venice makes her fiction debut with this historical novel set in World War II France. The story centers on Amandine, an aristocratic child raised as an orphan in a convent. We follow her as she survives the hardships and cruelty of both life in the convent and the war-torn world. As Amandine experiences loss after loss, her longing grows for the mother she never knew. Yet Amandine is able to embrace the beauty and love of those who care for her. VERDICT The sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of Amandine's journey through life are palpable, and the reader shares in the sensual nature of the food described. The story is captivating, the characters are alive, and readers will hunger for more as the novel ends. Truly, de Blasi can be considered the Julia Child of fiction. A wonderful read for both fans of historical fiction and women's fiction and one that shouldn't be missed. [Library marketing.]—Melody Ballard, Pima Cty. P.L., Tucson, AZ
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345521927
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/18/2010
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 181,075
  • File size: 4 MB

Meet the Author

Marlena de Blasi
Marlena de Blasi, who has worked as a chef and as a food and wine consultant, lives in Italy, where she plans and conducts gastronomic tours of its various regions. She is the author of four previous memoirs—That Summer in Sicily, A Thousand Days in Venice, A Thousand Days in Tuscany, and The Lady in the Palazzo—as well as three books on the foods of Italy.

From the Hardcover edition.

Good To Know

In our exclusive interview with de Blasi, she shared some fascinating insights about her background, her inspirations, and her life in Italy.

"Everything is inspiration to write. A writer never stops writing, even if it's in his head or on paper napkins. I've been desperate enough to scratch half phrases on my bedsheets, not finding paper and fearing to lose a thought should I get up to look for such."

"I don't think writers can be raised up in a creative writing class. I think it's a bold, bad lie to convince someone he should -- or can -- be taught to write. I think writers' groups can sometimes be helpful, but I'm mostly wary even of them. Writing is a private, solo, isolating, and very lonely job. But if you're a writer, it's all you ever want to do."

"[My first job] was as a radio voice and TV voice and face. My best contracts were with Peugeot -- (‘the best-kept automotive secret in America -- Peugeot') -- and Coty perfumes -- (‘if you want to capture someone's attention, whisper') and other sort of soft-sell products."

"I taught cooking on a PBS channel for a few years. I was very passionate about this opportunity and wanted the audience to not just learn formula, but to be inspired by the beauty and sensuality of the raw food itself. My first show was live. And not understanding my gaffe until the producer explained it to me, I opened by holding up a single, great, and splendid leek. Camera in for a close-up. I smiled my TV model smile and said: ‘First, you take a leek.' I know someone has since written a book with that title, but I can assure you my traffic with those words came long before it."

"Since I live in a 14th-century palazzo on the via del Duomo in an Umbrian hill town, there's not such a great deal from which to unwind. Our life is simple and full of rituals such as sidling up to the bar in our favorite caffè -- Montanucci -- at least four times a day for cappuccini, aperitivi, pastry, chocolate, and sympathy; I write very early in the morning for a few hours, and then at about nine we go to the morning markets, shop for lunch, sit in the caffè and talk to our friends, come home to cook and put our bread in the oven. We sit down to lunch at one, get up from the table at about two-thirty or three, nap for an hour. I write until about seven-thirty, when we take the passeggiata -- the evening stroll -- the moment when the whole town is out and about. We pick up a few things for supper, take an aperitivo with our friends, head back home, where we'll dine at about nine-thirty, or go out to dine at one of the typical, tiny osterie for which Orvieto is famous."

"How wonderful you ask about dislikes, though I'm not certain this sits in that category or in the one labeled ‘things that hurt.' But I find readers who judge style -- my style -- tiresome, presumptuous, often using the critical forum to air barely disguised ‘issues' of their own. And is there some glint of jealousy in their criticism? I'm not sure. That I see and feel life in a certain way and then write about it in my own voice, well, that belongs to me. Also I think it's that I find sarcasm, in all its tortured forms, to be simply naked insecurity. It's grand whenever a person states their sentiments. Better, if done so with a fine set of civil manners."

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    1. Hometown:
      Orvieto, a hilltown in Umbria
    1. Education:
      B.A., State University of New York at Albany; graduate studies in political science, New York University

Read an Excerpt

Part 1 1931-39

Chapter One

Old plane trees reach limb to limb over the wide avenue and, under the parasols of yellow September leaves, a wide black Packard glides. Stippled light, rose and bronze, falls here and there upon three passengers. Funereal in their silence, there are two women and a man. One of the two women holds an infant. A small wedge of light lies across the infant's face, makes blue-black gems of its eyes. The infant is not disturbed by the light, neither closes its eyes to it nor looks away but keeps its gaze, steady and thoughtful, upon the woman who sits on the tufted gray divan across from it, her head turned to face the window. Sullen, aloof, a black-liveried chauffeur drives more slowly than he might. The only sound is the pft, pft, pft of tires rolling over asphalt.

I wish she would keep the creature covered. Why has she taken off its bonnet? Undone all the swaddling when we're so close to the convent? We must be coming upon it. I won't ask Jean-Pierre another time how much longer? How much longer? My neck hurts from twisting it to look away from the creature for all these hours. I can't help but see now how she's grown. I've not really looked at her since the night she was born. What possessed me to ask the nurse to bring her to me then? I'd forbidden Andzelika to see her, and yet I called for her. Seeing her was like seeing Andzelika for the first time. I reached out for her just as I'd reached for my daughter. My arms ached for her as though she were mine. She is mine. I must think of her that way. She is mine and it is I who have chosen not to keep her. Andzelika is seventeen. An unripe seventeen who mourns the boy and cares nothing for the child. Her maternal impulse benumbed, it's as though she carried it and bore it only for him. A dubious gift for he who'd run so fast and far from her. Cunning. Like all his tribe. Of all the boys and men to whom Andzelika might have given herself, why to him? What is this viperous pull between his family and mine? Were not two deaths enough to extinguish it? If only I'd understood on that first evening who he was. Fierce black eyes, fine white hand raking the great shock of his glossy hair. A bolshevik's scorn in the depth of his bow. I can hear Stas saying, "Ciotka Valeska, Aunt Valeska, may I present my friend from the academy, Piotr Droutskoy." Yes, yes, welcome. Of course, be welcome. Your name means nothing, you mean nothing. Another knight-errant, are you? Or a blue-blooded cavalier of slender means? Yes, you'll round out the table nicely for a fortnight. I might have shot him right there in the courtyard in the fickle light of the torchières. Had I understood. Rather I welcomed him. Stas's chum. Yes, yes, please do stay. Adam scurried to take their things up to the third floor. And then he took Andzelika. The brother of Antoni's adored, whorish girl took my daughter. The brother of the enchanting baroness Urszula. Urszula. The wide Titian flanks of her twined about my husband even in death. How many nights had they slept like that? Antoni's hunting expeditions, his business in Prague, in Vienna. Visits to the farms, the villages. Always with her. Always with Urszula. Two bursts from a pistol so they could sleep like that forever. Will I never be free from the sight of her, of them?

Toussaint stood behind me as I looked from the doorway that morning, his hands iron grips upon my shoulders. What was it that he whispered then? "Even Rudolf and his baroness had the decency to cover themselves." Toussaint moved in front of me then, bent to retrieve Antoni's kontusz from the marble flags of the floor where it had been flung. How he'd loved that coat, symbol of his sympathy for the peasants. He'd push the split sleeves high above those of his shirt or his leather jacket and strut about, the breeze inflating the long fullness of it as he went. Toussaint covered them with the coat, the right shroud for a good szlachta and his beloved. I can still remember when I was his beloved.

Was it I who began the treachery? Would you have stayed faithful to me, Antoni, if I had not? Cuckolding the glorious count Czartoryski and so soon after our marriage, I was scandalous, arrogant. I would be the first between us to flash horns. Still, you were more clever than I, setting me up for it. You even put the Frenchman on your payroll for a bit, didn't you? Instructed him on approach, orchestrated the rendezvous, bought the gifts he gave to me. Yes, scandalous and arrogant, a perfect pigeon I was. Once I'd fallen you were freed for a married life of noble vendetta without noise from your soiled, wealthy wife. Who could blame you? Nimble as you were, easy as I was, the truth is that ours was nothing less than classic comportment among our kind, where the notion of fidelity has long been a fantastical diversion, a scherzo played in private and, at least as often, in public. Neither better nor worse than the others, we would have lived on that way, grown old that way, and passed on the tortured legacy of us to Andzelika as though it were a poem. That's how we would have ended. But you fell in love, Antoni.

Andzelika was two years old when you murdered your whore then put the pistol to your cheek, pulled the trigger inside your own beautiful mouth. Did you think of Andzelika, did you consider her? Your family did, yours and mine, as did kith and kin from the farthest edges of our lines. I found it strange how little mourning there was for you, how their grief was all for us, for Andzelika and me. "Poor angels," they called us. "We'll take care of you, stay close to you, protect you." Balm. And from that consolation came resolve. A double resolve. First, I would protect our daughter, my daughter. Yes, I would raise her in luxury, but I would not squander her then to the debauchery of our class. Second, I would become a better woman than I ever would have been had you lived. And that I did, Antoni. I am indeed finer without you. But in my tender mindfulness of Andzelika, in my, my-shall we call it vigilance-over her, I failed. When, only days after his arrival, she told me-in that same half-whispered whiskey voice with which she'd uttered even her first words, do you remember how we'd laugh that such a voice could come out of that tiny flower of a girl-that she had fallen in love with Droutskoy, I looked into the grave, weepy black plums of her eyes and I smiled, told her, as though her sentiments were an illness, that the feeling would pass. Did she recall her "love" for the violin master and then for the ravishing blond boy who'd worked in the kitchens last summer? I was insensible to the eloquence of her sixteen-year-old's delicate, coltish beauty, to its power to goad, to delight a boy who would be a man. Yes, insensible, too, to the violence, the wonder of passion. First passion. Hers, his. I held Andzelika to me, Antoni, and kissed her forehead, promised a week or two at Baden-Baden or would she prefer Merano? Yes, Merano and then a few days in Venice, how would Mummy's darling girl like that? Good night, darling girl. Good night, matka. He found his way to her bed or she to his. For all those weeks, or was it just once? I've never asked her. One morning he was gone. Not even Stas knew where.

Toussaint found him easily enough, his inquiries illuminating the boy's parentage. Hideous parentage. Did he know? Did the boy know who we were? Had he been sent by his family to vindicate the fleshly little wench who was his sister? Schadenfreude. Is that what brought him to us?

It's nearly over now. The boy is gone, Toussaint saw to that. And now with the creature soon to be gone, Andzelika will go on with her life. Andzelika and I will go on, uninjured. As though it never happened. As though they never happened, neither the boy nor the creature. No trace. No trace at all of this Droutskoy bastard. Andzelika will know nothing, nothing at all of what I have done, what I shall do today. From your hellish place, can you understand why?

 Still averting her gaze from the infant, the woman, exhausted by her reverie, rests her thin shoulders against the divan, head tilted back. In supplication? She closes her eyes, and they move under the nearly transparent lids as if she were dreaming. She feels the infant's gaze.

For what I have done, for what I shall do today, forgive me, Andzelika. How indifferent you have been to anything but news of the boy. I'd thought she would fight to see her child, to hold her child, yet she stays rapt in her besotted illusion. She waits for him. In these past five months since its birth, she has made no more than trifling demands about it. Once she asked (as though he were due on the evening train from Warsaw and we two were in the glad habit of speaking about the baby and about him), "Do you think Piotr will be pleased with her, Mother?" I looked down to finger the mass of dark red peonies lying in the basket hung over my arm.

 Andzelika trusts me to care for the child. When we left Krakow nearly two weeks ago, I told her I was taking it from the hospital where it was born and where it had remained-too weak to be moved, I'd said-to a clinic in Switzerland. To save it. Surgery for its imperfect heart. It's true about the infant's heart. The greater truth is that I have decided against surgery. Against saving it. Rather I shall save my daughter. In any case, its survival beyond its first year, even with intervention, is improbable, say the doctors. So be it. God's will be done. No credentialed orphanage would have it. Despite all Toussaint's gilded offers to see to the disposal of the creature through private and reputable adoption channels, there were no takers. And into unscrupulous hands I would never place her. I can hide her, deny her, leave her to the Fates but never to the blackguards.

 The woman abruptly opens her eyes, jerks her head forward.

 Ah, let me look at you, let me dare to look at you. How beautiful you are. My long fingers. Andzelika's long fingers. Her eyes. How you stare at me. Ah, a smile? Is that a smile for your babcia? Not even your smile will loosen my resolve. Such incubus would have been saved if only Andzelika had accepted the procedure. Swift, private. But I had to acquiesce. So fragile, Andzelika. But why, why have I gone to such trouble over this tiny damaged thing? The machinations, the endless signing of checks, the strangling doubts, a sea voyage, days of this fiendish hush among us in this automobile. I'll stare right back at you, you beautiful little beast. There, how do you like it? You see, there is no chink in my armor against you. No chink. A small chink. Too small. Do you think you know me? You shall never know me.

Chapter Two

 The thirteenth-century convent of st.-hilaire and its prestigious adjunct boarding school for les jeunes filles de la noblesse are situated above a small village in southwestern France, scant kilometers from the city of Montpellier on the river Lez. Though the convent offers no official asylum for orphans or abandoned children, more than once a swaddled infant has been left near its doors in a basket, in a wooden fruit crate with nearly legible notes pinned to its wrappings, a few francs folded in newsprint tucked inside. The good sisters would then set about to place the child. A few days, a few weeks it wanted, the baby barely interrupting the hushed strides of their anchoritic life of work, prayer, and meditation. Yet this afternoon an infant will be delivered to the care of the good sisters in a very different manner.

 The Packard moves through the great iron gates, stops under the portico of the front entrance to the convent. The chauffeur steps out quickly to open the door to a robust uniformed nurse, who holds the infant, its layers of white and rose-colored robes spilling richly onto the folds of her dark blue cape. From the auto then steps a tall, lean man, smoothing the breast of a long, velvet-collared coat, adjusting his homburg, running his gloved hands over his thin white mustaches. Finally, another woman descends from the auto. This one is perhaps forty, her egregious beauty still fresh save the darkness around her large, soft black eyes, eyes like those of a deer, and the triste clench of chastely rouged lips. She wears a short silver fox jacket over a gray faille suit, a cloche she's pulled low to her brow. She is Contessa Valeska Czartoryska.

 The countess takes the chauffeur's arm, and they proceed ahead of the others. The doors under the ivied portico open before the bell is pulled and by a shuffling hunchback priest in a soutane mutilated by greedily snuffed suppers the party is led quickly inside. The priest leads the nurse and her charge directly from the receiving room through double white-enameled doors, which he closes behind them without a sound.

 An old nun appears, the starched white wings of her headdress juddering as she walks, the wimple pressing into the flaccid flesh of her face. Saying nothing, she nods, leads the countess-who is still holding the arm of the chauffeur-into the temperate discomfort of the drawing room. The man in the homburg follows. The countess and the old nun sit across from one another. The man, homburg in one hand, the other pulling more violently at his white mustaches, sits somewhat distant from them. The chauffeur withdraws. There have been no introductions. Though the countess knows very well the status and character of the old nun, who is called Mater Paul, the nun knows nothing of the countess. Not her name, her title, her nationality.

 The countess begins to speak and, as she does, the man with the homburg translates her words into French-softly, and with great facility-for the benefit of the old nun.

"I won't take too much of your time, Mater Paul. I believe that you understand my exigency. And also what I'm willing to pay for that exigency to be carried out. I trust the curia has instructed you sufficiently."

 "I understand, madame. I understand very well."

The man translates for the countess, though she hardly waits for him to finish before she speaks again. As though she has no need of him, as though his service is a fool's errand. Still, they keep to the game.

From the Hardcover edition.
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Customer Reviews

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( 9 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 9 Customer Reviews
  • Posted May 1, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    excellent historical

    In 1931 in Krakow, Poland, an unmarried aristocrat gives birth to a female. To protect her foolish unwed daughter, her mother the Countess lies by telling the new mom that the baby died. The grandmother sends her newborn illegitimate granddaughter to a convent in Montpellier, France run by Abbess Mother Paul and raised by a governess Solange Jouffroi, who names the infant Amandine Gilberte Noiret de Crécy.

    Mother Paul detests Amandine while the other sisters are wary of her; only Solange loves her ward. Over the years Amandine wonders why her mom and grandma abandoned her and why the abbess overtly displays her loathing. When scarlet fever ravages the convent, Solange takes Amandine with her to stay with her family as the Nazis blitzkrieg of France turns the two day journey by train into a dangerous odyssey.

    This is a wonderful historical tale with a nod to Maslow's Hierarchy; as once the basic biological needs are met, Amandine seeks self actualization by wondering where she belongs. Except for Solange whom she loves as her mom, she fears something is wrong with her for so many to abandon her or loathe her. That sense of identity lost before it is even set make for a strong thriller further anchored in time and place during an era of Nazi atrocities as war engulfs Europe.

    Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 1, 2014

    Found this book enjoyable. I do recommend it.

    The combination of history and story was interesting to me. Well worth the read.

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  • Posted July 21, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Amandine is socially important because it commemorates the many civilians who sacraficed for and participated in the French Resistance during WWII.

    In the fall of 1916, Count Antoni Czaritoski shoots his mistress, the Baroness Urszula Droutzky, and then shoots himself. Fortuitously Andzelika, the Count's daughter and Pitor, the late Baroness' brother meet in 1920 and produce a little girl. When the Countess Valeska Czaritoski learns Pitor's true lineage she attempts to convince Andzelika to end the pregnancy. Unable to convince Andzelika the Countess arranges a guardian for the child and fakes the child's death. Likewise, the Countess purchases a new identity and board for both the baby and her guardian Solange at the St.Hilare covenant far away from her native Krakow. With his suicide, the Count unwittingly condemns his granddaughter's future to a life of solitude, cut off from her mother, her title, her heritage, and her inheritance.

    Amandine is a delicate depiction of the tragedy of war. It quietly celebrates the courage and honor of the underground soldiers of the French Resistance during WWII. In many ways, Amandine is a love story about a mother's love.

    In Mater Paul, Amandine presents the psychological manifestations of the loss and bitterness that a child develops when in the custody of an unaffectionate parent who, although present physically, has emotionally abandoned the child. Rendering the grown up child bitter and unable to nurture and love a child.

    Jossett personifies the self-appointed mother protector of the abused child, Annick, who grows up to become the obstinate, cold, bitter, and vengeful Mater Paul head nun of the St.Hilare convent.

    Solange exemplifies maternal love that is generous, kind, loyal, and caring as she accepts and carries out her duties as a guardian, while she herself is still a child.

    We follow Amandine's story as she longs to be reunited with her mother and our emotions are roused as we readers also yearn for justice for Amandine. Amandine's, Solange's, and Annick's plight will evoke compassion and empathy from the reader. Andzelika and Jossett earn the reader's pity. For the Countess Valeska the reader simply feels outrage at her duplicity and betrayal.

    Amandine is an emotional and informative work of historical fiction. The author provides the reader with an informal education on the realities of life during the war from the perspective of members of the Resistance. Readers may be inspired to learn more about the Resistance movement. Amandine will definitely find a home on the shelves of my classroom library.

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  • Posted July 3, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    Wonderful story that engages the heart and probes questions of relations, culture, personal histories and self-awareness through the reflections of a child quickly steeped in finding meaning all on her own.

    The previous review detailed the plot very nicely. The story tells of the young life of an out-of-wedlock baby placed by a controlling grandmother in the care of a convent. The baby, ostensibly completely abandoned at birth, is nevertheless extremely well provided for in both financial security and loving attention from a caring "governess." Amandine's upbringing involves a second abandonment as Mother Superior first isolates, and then ostracizes the young girl but this blow is balanced by loving attention from both the governess Solange and an elderly chaplain to the nuns. Amandine gradually comprehends life's conflicting currents as she slowly matures first believing she is the cause of her predicament and later slowly coming to realize her own worth. Meanwhile, the controlling grandmother who secretly abandoned her daughter's offspring can never quite erase her guilt. She is extremely self-indulgent in excusing her haughty character but always remains acutely aware of her major failing. Mother Superior, on the other hand, is likewise self-righteous but cannot come to feel guilt. The Bishop who rose through the clerical ranks on his affability, generally achieves a basic decency and feels some regret for his weakness in using other but stands as a symbol of the Church's care of its own rather than adequately shepherding its flock. During her harrowing flight through the Nazi war zone in France, Amandine becomes aware of many war-time sorrows experienced by others but leavened by courageous people who take her in. Throughout this time she continues to mature slowly trying to comprehend not loneliness but aloneness. Saying too much more would impinge on the reader's journey of understanding. The novel moves easily from story line to beautifully phrased dialogue to character development to beautifully written descriptions of seasons and countryside that give a wonderfully pervasive sense of place to the story. In simple language and an economy of words Ms. De Blasi weaves intricate tapestries as she tells her story. Amandine leaves me hoping for a sequel of the girl blossoming into woman.

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    Posted November 29, 2011

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    Posted July 6, 2011

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    Posted December 19, 2010

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    Posted June 26, 2011

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    Posted August 2, 2011

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