Hanna's Daughters

Hanna's Daughters

3.7 14
by Marianne Fredriksson
     
 

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Hanna. Johanna. Anna. Three women, three generations, one family.

A #1 international bestseller in Europe, this luminous, heartfelt novel spans more than a hundred years in the lives of three remarkable women—a daughter, mother, and grandmother—lives shaped by the epic sweep of history and linked through a century of great love and great loss.… See more details below

Overview

Hanna. Johanna. Anna. Three women, three generations, one family.

A #1 international bestseller in Europe, this luminous, heartfelt novel spans more than a hundred years in the lives of three remarkable women—a daughter, mother, and grandmother—lives shaped by the epic sweep of history and linked through a century of great love and great loss.

As Anna holds vigil at her mother's bedside, she longs for reconciliation—not just with her mother, Johanna, but with her grandmother, Hanna, a woman she never really knew. Determined to piece together the fragments of her past, Anna sifts through tattered letters, cracked diaries, and old photographs, as the vivid lives of Hanna and Johanna at last begin to unfold.

Through shades of memory and history, longing to join the ancient threads of the family tapestry, Anna begins searching for answers to questions that have haunted her for a lifetime. What was it like for her grandmother, Hanna, more than one hundred years ago, when she married a miller and raised an illegitimate child in a staunch, rural community? What drove Anna's own mother, Johanna, once a fiery revolutionary, to settle down and become a housewife? And why did the ties binding Anna to her mother and grandmother drive all three apart—only to bring them back together again?

Rich in insight, and resonating with truth and revelation, Hanna's Daughters is an unforgettable story, exploring the volatile ties of mothers and daughters. If you have ever wanted to connect with the past, or rediscover family, this novel will strike a chord in your heart. Marianne Fredriksson has created nothing short of a masterpiece.

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Editorial Reviews

Paula Chin
[A] satisfyingly complex. . .chronicle of women and the burdens imposed by their family history. . . —People Magazine
Nanci Hellmich
This novel follows three generations of Swedish women. The stories are told by Anna, a writer who is trying to sort out her feelings about her mother, Johanna, and her grandmother, Hanna. Fredrikson does a brilliant job capturing women's desire for emotional closeness.
USA Today
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
A chronicle of emotional and psychological exploration, this family saga, a bestseller in Fredriksson's native Sweden and in Germany, is an unerringly perceptive portrait of women in the flux of Scandinavian history. In this English translation, however, it gets off to a slow start, hobbled by spare prose and often stiff dialogue. But once the characters acquire identity, the novel begins to reverberate in the reader's mind. Set against the backdrop of the 1870s Swedish-Norwegian Union crisis and WWII, the plot skillfully interweaves the stories of three generations of women. Born in 1871, grandmother Hanna Broman is a woman of "sense and continuity," but her life is blighted when she is raped and impregnated by a cousin at the age of 12. Marriage to miller John Broman restores her honor and produces three additional children: Johanna andinterestingly, given the titletwo more sons. As she matures, atheist-socialist Johanna is contemptuous of her mother, whose life has been so deprived that she must learn about mirrors, indoor plumbing and electricity. Johanna's daughter, Anna, is a writer living in the concrete suburbs, hungering to understand her antecedents. Ultimately, Anna acknowledges that she cannot find "a way home" in her research about her family; instead, she discovers that everything about them is "full of contradictions." As a result, this is a book that benefits from two readings because its patterns often are built on characters with identical names or similar personalities, many events are captured in disconnected vignettes and chronologies jump and overlap. Yet the unsentimental depictions of women's inner lives, of the resentment and bitterness that undermine many family relationships and of the harsh truths that can never be spoken, create a portrait of the human need to connect and of the spiritual isolation that often occurs in the absence of such connection. Rights sold in 27 countries; simultaneous publication in fall 1998 in U.S., U.K., Australia, Greece, France, Poland, Iceland, Japan, Brazil, Israel, Korea, Czech Republic; film rights to Bavaria Film in Munich; major ad/promo. (Aug.)
Library Journal
This resonant story of three generations of Swedish women, a best seller in Europe, should also appeal to American readers with its universal truths about women's lives and the constraints of society, family, and love. Anna, a writer and grandmother probing her family history, brackets her own story around those of her grandmother Hanna and mother Johanna. At the age of 12, Hanna is sent into service on a farm, raped, and scorned as a whore until an older man marries her and takes her bastard son as his own. Johanna, Hanna's fifth child and only daughter, is the light of her father's life. But Johanna's father dies when she is eight, and she is sent into service with a city family, where she narrowly avoids sexual assault. Later she marries a fellow Social Democrat, suffering four miscarriages and bearing only Anna, a bright girl who resembles her grandmother. Grown and educated, Anna marries a womanizing journalist, only to divorce and remarry him and give birth to two healthy daughters and a son, whose death in infancy nearly drives her mad. An atmosphere of darkness, reminiscent of an Ingmar Bergman film, eases to a satisfying conclusion in this moving exploration of mothers and daughters and the ties that bind.--Michele Leber, Fairfax Cty P.L., Arlington, VA
School Library Journal
YA-This novel will make young people wonder about their own families. Shifting back and forth across time and generations, the story introduces three strong Swedish women: Hanna, her daughter Johanna, and Anna, her granddaughter. Born in 1871, Hanna was sent into service at a neighboring farm at age 12; there she was raped by her employer's son. She bore her first child at 13, and was shunned by the whole community. However, the local midwife found her a husband, an older man from a neighboring province, and the couple grew to care for one another and lived comfortably. Their last child was Johanna. She and her mother were always at odds, but she and her father were very close. After his death when Johanna was eight, Hanna moved her four children to the city, where Johanna spent much of her time with her sister-in-law, who eventually gave her work in her hat shop. She had a stormy marriage, and one child that survived, Anna. Her story also reveals a troubled marriage. Anna, the educated one, the writer, tells the story of her mother and grandmother and their relationships with men and with their children. Then she begins to tell her own story. YAs will identify with the mother-daughter relationships portrayed here; time, place, and history may vary, but love, jealousy, passion, kindness, and friendship remain the same.-Molly Connally, Kings Park Library, Fairfax County, VA
From the Publisher
"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

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780345426642
Publisher:
Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
08/11/1998
Pages:
345
Product dimensions:
6.45(w) x 9.57(h) x 1.25(d)
Age Range:
14 Years

Read an Excerpt

"Yes, that's right," he said gratefully, but the thread from Varberg soon became part of another story about a girl and a dance in the courtyard of the old fortress. He broke off in confusion in the middle of it, saying it was probably Kungälv fortress where he'd been dancing one light summer night and gotten involved in a fight with the girl's fiancé.

As he described his exceptional victory over the fiancé, he was quite clear and distinct, and the story lifted and glowed, only to collapse into a muddle of other memories of fighting and winning, stopping a bolting horse, and saving the life of a child who'd fallen into a harbor somewhere.

She took the cinnamon buns out of the oven, her despair unendurable. It was terrible, all this foolish boasting, a decayed mind blurting out jumbled memories.

Memories? Perhaps they were just tall tales that had simply become enlarged over the years.

I don't want to grow old, she thought. As she poured the coffee, she thought, how can I ever be truthful? But aloud, she said, "Your tablecloth's beginning to wear out. We must go and buy another tomorrow."

When he'd finished his coffee, the old man went over to the television, the blessed, loathsome television. There, in a sagging armchair, he fell asleep, as usual. She was able to prepare dinner and even managed a short walk through the oaks between the mountains and the house.

They plowed through dinner, beef burgers with cream sauce and cranberries.
"I only get food like this when you're here," he said. "The girls who keep coming don't have time to cook real food."

There was reproach in his words. When she didn't appear tounderstand, he emphasized it again.

"You could just as well do your writing here."

"I have a husband and children."

"They could come and see you," he said, and she thought, actually he was quite right. She could perfectly well finish her book up there in her old room. Truth, she thought, smiling in all her misery, how do I tell the truth? Suppose I said that I don't get a moment's peace in your house, Dad. I just don't know how I'll stand two more days without going mad.

"I wouldn't disturb you," he said.

There was an appeal in his words and she felt tears coming. But she started talking about the computers she needed for her work, machines that couldn't be moved.

Truth, she thought as she sat there, lying to her father's face. When he got up and thanked her for the meal, his voice was frosty. I don't like him, she thought. I'm afraid of him. I can't stand him. I loathe him. The difficulty is that I love him.

She did the dishes. A neighbor came in, a man she liked, an amiable man. He was cheerful as usual, stroked her cheek, and said, "It's not easy, I know." She felt an incomprehensible fear as her eyes met his, as if a shadow had flitted through the kitchen.

"You go on in to Dad," she said, hearing the unsteadiness in her voice, "and I'll fix a drink."

With fumbling hands, she laid a tray with the gin bottle she'd brought with her, tonic, a bowl of peanuts. Premonitions? No. I'm tired and an idiot. She said it several times half aloud, tired and idiotic. He's still young, healthy and happy, the kind of person who lives long. As she served the drinks, she said as if in passing, "And how are you, Birgir?"

He looked at her in surprise and said he was well, as always. She nodded but didn't dare meet his eyes all evening.

They went to bed early, at about nine, when the old man suddenly became tired. She helped him to bed, as gently and compliantly as she could. His dignity was vulnerable.

She took a cup of tea up to her room. That was part of it all. Her mother had insisted on it, a cup of tea with honey before they went to bed. As she drank the sweet liquid, her childhood came to life, memories in her senses. The smell of honey in tea, a blue flowery cup, and the shriek of gulls falling from the sky in insolent joie de vivre outside.

She flung open the window and watched the screaming flock as it headed out to sea, above Asper Island and Köpstad Island. The next moment she heard the blackbird singing from the oaks where the may was in bloom.

It was too much; a melancholy of that kind was unbearable. She determinedly took a sleeping pill.

The golden light woke her early. Perhaps not just the light, for in her dreams she'd heard birdsong from the garden, as lovely and strong as the spring itself. For a moment she lay still, trying to distinguish the voices, the chaffinch's joy, the cheerful signals of blue tits, and the whirr of swallows as they flew low in toward the eaves.

The swallows have arrived and are building their nests under the eaves, she thought, for a moment able to feel that everything was as it should be.

She slipped down to the kitchen, and as soundlessly as a ghost she got herself a cup of coffee, stole a cinnamon bun, and crept silently back upstairs, remembered that the sixth stair creaked and successfully stepped over it. The old man snored in the bedroom.

She meditated, the birdsong assisting her into her own silence and the knowledge that nothing is harmful even if all is suffering. For a while, she even succeeded in thinking things weren't too bad for her mother, that she had gone beyond pain. And that her father's memory was so short, he couldn't keep up his bitterness.

Then she took out the photograph of her grandmother and gazed at it for a long time.

Hanna Broman. Who are you? I knew you, oddly enough, almost only from hearsay. You were a legend, magnificent and questionable. So amazingly strong, Mother said.

I must have images of my own. You lived until I was an adult, a wife, and a mother. But the photograph bears no resemblance to my memories of you. That's understandable. The photo was taken when you were young, a women in her best years. I saw you only as old, a stranger, tremendously large, enveloped in huge pleated black dresses.

So this is what you looked like in the days of your strength, when you walked six miles with a fifty-kilo sack of flour from the mill to the village on the border. There you bartered with it for coffee, paraffin, salt, and other necessities.

Can it be true? You carried the heavy sack on your back, Mother said. But only in spring and autumn. In the summer you rowed, and in winter you pulled a sledge across the ice.

We were born into different worlds, you and I. But I can see now we are alike, the same forehead and the same jagged hairline. The same broad mouth and short nose. But you don't have my chin, no, yours is strong and obstinate. Your gaze is steady, your eyes keeping their distance. I remember they were brown.

Anna looked into Hanna's eyes for a long time. She thought, we're looking at each other for the first time ever.

Who were you? Why did we never get to know each other? Why were you so uninterested in me?

Suddenly Anna heard a question, the child who said, "Why isn't she a proper gran? Whose lap you can sit on and who tells stories?"

And her mother's voice. "She's old and tired, Anna. She's had enough of children. And there was never any time for stories in her life."

Was there bitterness in that voice?

I must go to what I myself remember.

When Anna was small and Grandmother was still able to walk the long way from the bus stop to the house by the sea where Anna's family lived, Grandmother sometimes came to see them in the mornings. She sat on the kitchen sofa in the aroma of cakes and newly baked bread, and the table was laid with a fine cloth and the best cups. She brought comfort with her, like a cat settling in the corner of a sofa and purring. She purred, too, Anna remembered, creaking like a corncrake at night. When she wasn't talking.

Even her talk brought pleasure, a strange language, half Norwegian, easygoing, sometimes incomprehensible.

"Us here," she said. "Indeed, that's it." She always succeeded in surprising herself and others because her words flew out of her mouth before she had time to think. Then she looked surprised and stopped abruptly, shamefaced or laughing.

What had they talked about?

Their neighbors in the block. About children it had gone badly for, about men who drank and women who were ill. But also about weddings and new children born and parties and food and however could people afford it.

For the child, Anna, it was like lifting the roof off a dollhouse and seeing crowds of people. Like a game. But for the two women, it was reality, and serious. They had a living interest in the Höglunds' delicate children, and Johansson the master painter's boozing. Not to mention Mrs. Niklasson's peculiar illness.

Gossip. Not malicious, nor kindly. For the first time, Anna thought now that the endless talk was an orgy of emotions. They wallowed in the misfortunes of others, tut-tutted and lived out their personal needs without ever becoming personal. Talking about yourself was impossible. Shameful.

Grandmother flushed easily.

"Don't you ever cry, Gran?"

"No. No point," she said, flushing scarlet.

Mother was also embarrassed and scolded the child. There was a lot you couldn't ask Grandmother, who probably thought impertinent children should be reprimanded and that Johanna's spoiled daughter had no manners.

"You were so damned practical," Anna said to the photograph.

Perhaps I'm wrong, she thought as she turned her eyes away from the photo to look beyond the window, past all those small houses where anonymous people lived wall to wall and scarcely even knew each other by name. Perhaps you both had a sorrowful longing back to the village you came from. And you were trying to restore the connection and the village feeling when you came to the big city.

Anna could hear her grandmother snorting at that explanation. She liked the city, the electric light and running water, the nearby shops, and the right to close your own door.

Grandmother would come for Sunday dinner. Dad fetched her in the car, and she wore long black jet necklaces and white ruffles at her throat. She said nothing at the table until addressed, and was always submissive to her son-in-law.

Anna suddenly remembered, a perfectly clear memory, she thought with surprise. All around the dinner table were amazed voices turning over and over the schoolmistress's words about Anna being gifted.

Gifted? That was an unusual word. The teacher had talked about high school. Grandmother flushed and snorted, finding the talk indecent. She took a long look at the girl and said, "What use'd that be? She ain't nothing but a girl. She'd get superior and it'd come to nothing."

Perhaps those were the words that settled Anna's future. "Nothing but a girl" had aroused her father's anger. He, who would otherwise never admit to his grief over his only child being a girl.

"Anna'll have to decide for herself," he said. "If she wants to go on at school, she's to do so."

How had I forgotten that Sunday, that conversation, Anna thought, going back to bed and looking at the photograph again. You were wrong, you old witch, she thought. I went on at school, I took exams, I was successful and moved in worlds you couldn't even dream of.

I became superior, too, just as you said, as everyone said. And as far as you're concerned, you became a fossil, a primitive leftover from a vanished time. I excluded you from my life. You were a painful reminder of origins I was ashamed of.

That's why I never got to know you and have no memory of you. But it's also why your photograph speaks so strongly to me. For it says quite clearly that you were a gifted girl, too.

Your prejudices were different from mine, that's true. But you were right sometimes, especially when you said that I wouldn't get away, either. For me, too, a woman's life awaited me.

I didn't carry sacks of flour from the mill to the village, Grandmother. And yet I did.

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What People are saying about this

Connie May Fowler
With uncommon wisdom, Marianne Fredriksson spins a generational tale about the inner lives of women and the ties that bind. This is story born of pain and perseverance, inspired by the dignity afforded to those who are courageous enough to retrace the steps of their foremothers in the arduous search for truth, communion, and self-discovery. Hanna's Daughters is a generous, consuming, and deeply satisfying novel. -- Autor of Before Women Had Wings
Judith Guest
I loved Hanna's Daughters from the very first page, and I absolutely could not put it down. The rich tapestry of interconnected lives is not only believable; it feels invevitable. Written with grace and wit, this novel deserves to be read, discussed, and cherished by future generations of mothers and daughters." -- Author of Ordinary People and Errands
Lorna Landvik
Hanna's Daughters takes you into the whole wide world of mothers and daughters and all the tragedy and triumph therein. Not only does this book entertain, but it teaches its readers big lessons about what matters most. You'll close its covers and think about your own life. -- Author of Patty Jane's House of Curl and Your Oasis on Flame Lake

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