Hostage

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Overview

From Elie Wiesel, Nobel laureate and author of Night, a charged, deeply moving novel about the legacy of the Holocaust in today’s troubled world and the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
            It’s 1975, and Shaltiel Feigenberg—professional storyteller, writer and beloved husband—has been taken hostage: abducted from his home in Brooklyn, blindfolded and tied to a chair in a dark basement. His captors, an Arab and an Italian, don’t ...
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Overview

From Elie Wiesel, Nobel laureate and author of Night, a charged, deeply moving novel about the legacy of the Holocaust in today’s troubled world and the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
            It’s 1975, and Shaltiel Feigenberg—professional storyteller, writer and beloved husband—has been taken hostage: abducted from his home in Brooklyn, blindfolded and tied to a chair in a dark basement. His captors, an Arab and an Italian, don’t explain why the innocent Shaltiel has been chosen, just that his life will be bartered for the freedom of three Palestinian prisoners. As his days of waiting commence, Shaltiel resorts to what he does best, telling stories—to himself and to the men who hold his fate in their hands.
            With beauty and sensitivity, Wiesel builds the world of Shaltiel’s memories, haunted by the Holocaust and a Europe in the midst of radical change. A Communist brother, a childhood spent hiding from the Nazis in a cellar, the kindness of liberating Russian soldiers, the unrest of the 1960s—these are the stories that unfold in Shaltiel’s captivity, as the outside world breathlessly follows his disappearance and the police move toward a final confrontation with his captors.
            Impassioned, provocative and insistently humane, Hostage is both a masterly thriller and a profoundly wise meditation on the power of memory to connect us to the past and our shared need for resolution.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
A provocative “what-if” premise propels Nobel laureate Wiesel’s (Night) latest novel. In 1975, an Orthodox Jewish man, Shaltiel Feigenberg, is kidnapped from a Brooklyn street and held hostage by two terrorists, an Arab and an Italian, who demand the release of Palestinians and threaten death if their demands aren’t met. Shaltiel, a kindly storyteller, ruminates on the blessings of Judaism and recalls the words of Jewish prophets, philosophers, and mystics with nostalgia. He also remembers the moral ambiguity of being hidden in his native Galicia by a Nazi officer while his family labored in Auschwitz. Wiesel deplores ideologies that mislead and betray, including the communism that lured Shaltiel’s brother in the 1930s. As Shaltiel’s Arab captor spews hatred and his Italian captor speaks for international terrorism, Shaltiel claims that the excesses of Israel’s treatment of Palestinians are unavoidable safety measures. While the clock ticks closer to the deadline, Wiesel’s narrative skills fail to create tension, and Shaltiel’s rescue is perfunctory. Instead of a literary thriller, we get a didactic defense of the Jewish state and its timeless vulnerability. Agent: Georges Borchardt. (Aug. 24)
From the Publisher

“Wiesel takes us on a journey through dream, memory, and especially storytelling in Hostage . . . He continues to remind us of the brilliant possibilities of the philosophical and political novel.”
                -Starred review, Kirkus
 
“[Wiesel’s] terse first-person, present-tense narrative will hold readers . . . With the intense contemporary action, the prisoner’s memories also bring close the sweep of Jewish history, including persecution and survival . . . Sure to spark discussion about Middle Eastern history and politics.”
                -Booklist
 
“Wiesel takes us into the heart of the [hostage’s] experience: How do we survive in a universe where all logic, all reason, has been stripped away and we are at the mercy of chaotic forces? What is the effect on our humanity?”
-David L. Ulin, Chicago Tribune
 
“The strength of Hostage is Wiesel’s exploration of the psychology of being a hostage, as well as the complex nature of memory and its role in our lives . . . Fans of Wiesel’s strong prose who are looking forward to a return to familiar themes will be gratified.”
-Library Journal
 

Library Journal
A Jewish storyteller and writer, Shaltiel Feigenberg, is abducted and held hostage by terrorists to bargain for the release of Palestinian prisoners in 1975. During his captivity and torture, Shaltiel tells stories from his past, intermixing scenes from German-occupied Europe with the horror of the narrator's current situation. The strength of Wiesel's most recent novel is his exploration of the psychology of being a hostage, as well as the complex nature of memory and its role in our lives. Perhaps his own near-abduction in 2007 was the seed of inspiration for this work. Regrettably, characters in the frame narrative are somewhat flat and one-dimensional, while Shaltiel's stories about his past are more nuanced. Wiesel is the author of more than 50 books, including the acclaimed Night, and he is the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, among other honors. VERDICT Readers expecting a literary thriller may be disappointed, but fans of Wiesel's strong prose who are looking forward to a return to familiar themes will be gratified by this work. [See Prepub Alert, 1/30/12.]—Gwen Vredevoogd, Marymount Univ., Arlington, VA
Kirkus Reviews
Wiesel takes us on a journey through dream, memory and especially storytelling in his latest novel, which concerns Shaltiel Feigenberg, who in 1975 is captured and imprisoned for 80 hours in a basement by two captors. Feigenberg is politically unimportant and practically unknown before his capture, but soon thereafter he becomes front-page news, though his plight is reported in wildly different ways by the world press. His captors represent divergent political realities. One, Luigi, is an Italian political revolutionary with no particular animus against Jews, while the second, Ahmed, is a passionate advocate for Palestine with an intense hatred for the "Zionist cause." Perhaps predictably, a "bad cop–good cop" dynamic develops as they tend to Feigenberg, Luigi gradually freeing him from restraints while Ahmed rails with fanatic fervor against all that Feigenberg represents to him. Luigi and Ahmed are motivated by "humanitarian" concerns--they demand that three Palestinian prisoners be freed in exchange for Feigenberg's freedom--rather than materialistic ones. Feigenberg is mystified by his captivity, for he's simply a professional storyteller with a special fondness for spinning his tales to children and the elderly. This forced period of darkness ironically provides him with an extended period of enlightenment, as he has time to reflect on his life--the death of his grandmother at Auschwitz, his frequently absent but observant father, his initial meeting with Blanca (the woman who eventually becomes his wife), and the growing Communist sympathies of his older brother. He begins to frame the narrative of his life in much the same way he frames the stories he makes up to entertain others. Even the Israeli government--a government that notoriously does not negotiate with terrorists--gets involved in trying to track down the elusive captive. Nobel Peace Prize winner Wiesel continues to remind us of the brilliant possibilities of the philosophical and political novel.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781611735840
  • Publisher: Center Point
  • Publication date: 11/28/2012
  • Edition description: Large Print Edition
  • Pages: 263
  • Product dimensions: 5.84 (w) x 8.60 (h) x 0.85 (d)

Meet the Author

ELIE WIESEL was fifteen years old when he was deported to Auschwitz. After the war he became a journalist and writer in Paris, and since then has written more than fifty books, both fiction and nonfiction. His masterwork, Night, was a major best seller when it was republished recently in a new translation. Wiesel has been awarded the United States Congressional Gold Medal, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the French Legion of Honor's Grand-Croix, an honorary knighthood of the British Empire, and, in 1986, the Nobel Peace Prize. Since 1976, he has been the Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities at Boston University.

Biography

"Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky." Since the publication of this passage in Night, Elie Wiesel has devoted his life to ensuring that the world never forgets the horrors of the Holocaust, and to fostering the hope that they never happen again.

Wiesel was 15 years old when the Nazis invaded his hometown of Sighet, Romania. He and his family were taken to Auschwitz, where his mother and the youngest of his three sisters died. He and his father were later transported to Buchenwald, where his father died shortly before Allied forces liberated the camp in 1945. After the war, Wiesel attended the Sorbonne in Paris and worked for a while as a journalist. He met the Nobel Prize-winning writer Francois Mauriac, who helped persuade Wiesel to break his private vow never to speak of his experiences in the death camps.

During a long recuperation from a car accident in New York City in 1956, Wiesel decided to make his home in the United States. His memoir Night, which appeared two years later (compressed from an earlier, longer work, And the World Remained Silent), was initially met with skepticism. "The Holocaust was not something people wanted to know about in those days," Wiesel later said in a Time magazine interview.

But eventually the book drew recognition and readers. "A slim volume of terrifying power" (The New York Times), Night remains one of the most widely read works on the Holocaust. It was followed by over 40 more books, including novels, essay collections and plays. Wiesel's writings often explore the paradoxes raised by his memories: he finds it impossible to speak about the Holocaust, yet impossible to remain silent; impossible to believe in God, yet impossible not to believe.

Wiesel has also worked to bring attention to the plight of oppressed people around the world. "When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant," he said in his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986. "Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must -- at that moment -- become the center of the universe."

Though lauded by many as a crusader for justice, Wiesel has also been criticized for his part in what some see as the commercialization of the Holocaust. In his 2000 memoir And the Sea Is Never Full, Wiesel shares some of his own qualms about fame and politics, but reiterates what he sees as his duty as a survivor and witness:

''The one among us who would survive would testify for all of us. He would speak and demand justice on our behalf; as our spokesman he would make certain that our memory would penetrate that of humanity. He would do nothing else.''

Good To Know

Use of the term "Holocaust" to describe the extermination of six million Jews and millions of other civilians by the Nazis is widely thought to have originated in Night.

Two of Wiesel's subsequent works , Dawn and The Accident, form a kind of trilogy with Night. "These stories live deeply in all that I have written and all that I am ever going to write," the author has said.

President Jimmy Carter appointed Wiesel to be chairman of the President's Commission on the Holocaust in 1978. In 1980, Wiesel became founding chairman of the United States Holocaust Memorial Council. He is also the founding president of the Paris-based Universal Academy of Cultures and cofounder of the Elie Wiesel Foundation for Humanity.

Since 1969, Marion Wiesel has translated her husband Elie's books from French into English. They live in New York City and have one son.

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    1. Also Known As:
      Eliezer Wiesel (full name)
    2. Hometown:
      New York, New York
    1. Date of Birth:
      September 30, 1928
    2. Place of Birth:
      Sighet, Romania
    1. Education:
      La Sorbonne

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

“Someone is missing,” Shaltiel murmurs, his head slightly tilted. No one has heard him.

Around the table, in the dining room, the guests are telling each other stories both related and unrelated to the circumstances uniting them that evening. The atmosphere is warm and joyous. How could it not be? ­Didn’t they come to celebrate the life of a man and the freedom of men?

Policemen and intelligence agents, Americans and Israelis, friends and members of Shaltiel’s family, they all feel they are entitled to it, to this privilege. They all suffered along with him, from close or from far away, often in secret; they all shared his anguish, or at least they were aware of it and it had left its mark.

“Le-­Hayim,” says a big, bespectacled man with delicate hands as he raises his glass: “To life.” And they all join in. Yes, to life. To the right to life. Everyone’s right. To the joy of being with someone who was going to lose his life for unacceptable, absurd reasons.

Shaltiel runs his eyes over his friends, new and old. He is grateful to them all.

But someone is missing.

That’s the way it is and I can’t do anything about it.

Though I was surely born in joy, I have always lived in anguish.

In the basement, his thoughts catapult him into the past. So is this what a man’s life is all about? Moving from one shelter to another, both opening out on brutality, remorse and nothingness?

It’s only a dream, Shaltiel says to himself. An idiotic, senseless dream. As all dreams are. Inevitable and useless. Sometimes, we dream because we are anxious, and because we don’t understand.

I am walking in the mountains. In the midst of a crowd. I am moving forward with slow steps. I don’t know anyone. I have no idea why a strange instinct urges me to flee. Could the enemy be everywhere? I ask one person, then another: “What are we doing here?” A bearded old man replies: “It’s you I’m looking for.” He vanishes. A sad, ­dark-­haired young woman replies: “It’s you who are waiting for me.” She vanishes too. A man with a gentle face says: “It’s you.” They all assert: “It’s you.” Behind ­them—­it’s ­odd—­a stranger with an intense gaze nods his head and flashes a knowing wink at me; I know he’s dead, but he’s walking with the others. And he says nothing. Suddenly my heart starts pounding madly: They’ve all vanished, except the dead person, and that’s me. I’m alone. And the mountains narrow in on me; they become me. And in my dream, I say to myself: It’s a dream. Is it mine? Not theirs? How am I to know?

Oh, to unravel the fabrics of dreams and fantasies that inhabit the prisoner, to disentangle the time and duration that engross philosophers, the conscience of the ascetic and the intuition of psychologists, the fire and anathema of moralists so they won’t turn into illusions and lies. Tell me, how is it done?

He is afraid: If he shuts his eyes, he plunges back into an unreal universe with people alive or dead. When he reopens them, the fear has not left him.

He remembers the ­pitch-­black darkness, with red glimmers bearing misfortune, the sadness vying with astonishment; and, in the dream, his eyes fill with tears.

Who will speak of the role of fear in the torment experienced by the hostage who, on the level of fate or the gods, exists only for his executioners?

This tragedy, the very first of its kind, took place in 1975. It caused a considerable stir in the media at the time, in Jewish communities and in ­so-­called diplomatic circles.

Shaltiel Feigenberg, a discreet man with no status or fortune, became famous all over the world.

But not for long.

Who remembers him today?

The buzzing in the ears.

The taste of ash.

The turmoil in my chest, the knot in my throat. The heartrending feelings and thoughts.

Like before? In a different way, possibly worse. Before, over there, the danger threatened us all. Here it feels like I’m the only target.

It’s the first day. Long, too long. Longer and longer. With few outside events. Where am I? In a large underground storage room? In a basement haunted by unspeakable villainies and curses? There are two bizarre individuals, their faces poorly concealed under hoods. Eventually they’ll remove them. Nowadays that would no longer be possible: Terrorists are determined to remain anonymous. In regaining consciousness, my first sensation was the pain in the nape of my neck. There was blood in my mouth. Few words were exchanged: name, address, telephone number. Surely they already knew the answers.

“Where am I?”

“Far away,” said a singsong voice.

“Who are you?”

“Your fate,” said the same voice.

Could this be some sort of prank, young students in search of thrills or the sensational? This is all unthinkable. Peaceful, innocent citizens aren’t supposed to be abducted.

They’re making a mistake, Shaltiel said to himself. They think I’m someone else. That’s the only possible explanation. They think I’m lying to them. That I’m not me but one of their enemies. Could a person’s identity be a mistake, an accident? A fatality? Freedom, a mental exercise? The life of a man, a sham? Sages compare it to a leaf trembling in the wind, a fleeting dream, the shadow of a bird or a cloud. Fine, as a moral warning that’s acceptable. But a cruel farce? Decided by whom? For what purpose?

What do they want from me? What have I done to them? Why are they bullying me so relentlessly?

“Whom do you know, among your Jewish friends, who’s rich and important? Talk, you fool, otherwise you’re dead! The Prophet’s sword is merciless! Names, give us names! Out with them! Jews, damn them, know influential people everywhere.”

Insults, curses, spit. But no blows, not yet.

The mental suffering, the violation of my inner world—­why so much suffering once again?

Who are they? Who am I to them?

I don’t understand, I don’t understand a thing.

He passes a seemingly endless night. Crouched on the floor, sleep escapes him. A few interruptions, a few starts, more dreams and phantasmagorical visions: He is in a glass coach, drawn by several white horses, singing and drifting in a fierce wind ­toward massive mountains. Suddenly he realizes that children with petrified eyes have replaced the majestic horses.

What does that mean?

And this imprisonment, this isolation, what could they possibly mean? It’s all a large, diabolical chessboard.

Hungry? Not at all. Thirsty, yes. Very thirsty. And so exhausted that thinking seems impossible.

No doubt it is daybreak somewhere, for the noises from the outside are becoming more ­audible—­the roar of cars, the calls of children.

So we’re close to a city. My guess is a suburb. As in the past? “Over there,” the danger came from outside, and no one would interfere. Here, who knows? Perhaps someone will notice something odd.

Oh yes, and the police. The police: the eyes and ears of any civilized community. Blanca must have told them.

Patience. Advice to my nerves: Be strong. To my heart: Calm down. And to my brain: Don’t panic. All of this will soon be solved. Tomorrow life will be beautiful.

Today starts off badly, though, with the first genuine cross-­ examination.

Shaltiel’s words are pitiful, mutilated, forced out pains­takingly and grudgingly. He already knows that it’s been hours—­long, sluggish ­hours—­that he ­hasn’t been free. He’s been made a prisoner by strangers. Once again he is the victim of barbarity, but for what reason?

Deadened, assailed, his temples ache. Soon blood is going to flow, and will not stop. Can one drown in one’s own blood?

“Don’t be stubborn. You can’t fight destiny. We’re stronger than you. You’ll come to a bad end.”

“Where am I?”

“Far away.”

“Who are you?”

“Your masters,” says a harsh voice. “Your life is in our hands.”

“Why?”

“Because it is,” says another voice, less harsh.

“When will you let me go?”

“When we win the war,” says the first voice, sniggering.

Restless children, elderly dreamers, the gods of love, his ungovernable demons, they are all swirling around in his throbbing head. Will he never again encounter them in freedom?

“But what do you want from me? Believe me! I swear on my own head, I don’t understand, I don’t . . .”

In the past, Shaltiel says to himself, a pious adolescent, I would have known what to do: I would have followed tradition and asked to establish a small Bet Din, a ­three-­man court. I would have told them about my bad dream and they would have exorcised it by repeating the ritual incantation three times, “The dream you had is good, is good,” wishing me peace, happiness, maybe forgetfulness and everything else.

That was the past. Here, I don’t know anyone, except the angel of horror; he wears the mask of the executioner.

Where are Shaltiel’s loyal friends?

As if to tear himself away from the present, he recalls Nathanael’s story. Why him? Why not. When a tale comes to mind, there is no dismissing it.

It’s like the story from his childhood, far away from here. The story he had been told: Once upon a time, in a small Romanian or Hungarian town, depending on the period, or the fantasy of the rulers, there was a little Jewish boy living alone for several weeks in a Christian family. It was during the war. He was still alive, he said to himself, thanks to Ibolya, a blond and mischievous little girl of about ten. She had discovered him in the fields, asleep, famished and lost. She ran to fetch her mother, Piroshka, a flamboyant redhead with sparkling eyes. Mother and daughter brought him home, to a house on the edge of the forest. The father was at the Russian front. They called the little refugee Sàndor, but his real name was Nathanael: gift of God. Later, Shaltiel was to see him in a Jewish school in Brooklyn.

A dream that brings on dreams?

Jewish memories. Each more painful and scalding than the next, bound together and tightened by the same fist that points the way to shadows, silent and distorted by anguish. Shaltiel relives them and shudders, a lump in his throat.

His head is full of images of a boy, still young, who has feelings of embarrassment, even remorse, about growing up; words, dreams, sobs, stories, more or less muddled. In Europe, he cultivated them. In New York too. His father, Haskel, a peddler of old books and ancient documents in Brooklyn, ­wasn’t always at home; he was too busy trying to sell his merchandise, which the rich ­didn’t want and the poor ­couldn’t afford. His stepmother worked in other people’s houses. As a ­ten-­year-­old, Shaltiel spent his days in school, but he ­didn’t get to sit at the table with the other schoolboys; he sat apart, because the teacher felt the new immigrant was too young to learn to read the Aramaic texts, much less assimilate them.

But he learned them. By heart. In a low voice, cautiously, he would repeat what the tutor said, singing to himself: what Rabbi Akiba said, what Rabbi Ishmael replied. Hillel’s disciples said one thing, Shammai’s, usually obstinate, said another. The chess player within him, even at so young an age, was of great assistance in remembering and foreseeing their thoughts.

When the students had their snack, Shaltiel made do with a bowl of milk given to him by the tutor’s wife. One day, I’ll have buttered bread, which I’ll share with everyone, the child said to himself. And my father will be happy. And he’ll no longer be exhausted. This thought was enough to buoy him up in his solitude.

The evenings, when he could spend them by his father’s side, were a time of joy. Shaltiel admired and loved his father. To calm his son’s hunger, the father gave him almost everything he received. Actually, he was never hungry when they were together.

The best time for Shaltiel was when his father and he played chess, their mood serious and attentive. Both were anxious not to make an irreparable mistake. Shaltiel also liked it when his father talked him to sleep at night. He talked about everything, even about Shaltiel’s dead mother. The father would listen to his son recite his bedtime prayer and watch him sleep. The child, though, only pretended to sleep. He liked to feel his father’s gentle gaze caress his face. He felt it to the edge of drowsiness, while in his head he went over the chess games that were yet to be resolved. Over there, far away, he sometimes wondered whether God, on high, ­wasn’t playing chess with someone too, but with whom? Now that’s the great question.

Some weeks Shaltiel saw him only on the Sabbath. Exhausted by his trips, Reb Haskel would run to the Mikveh for his ritual ablutions, purifying himself so as to welcome the sublime Sabbath Queen fittingly. He was no longer the same man. His whole being would glow with a secret, beneficial light.

Together, hand in hand, united by ties that seemed indestructible, father and son went to a Hasidic shrine for the service. Along the way, his father asked him his usual question: “What have you done with your days and evenings during this whole past week, my dearly beloved son?”

“I listened.”

“Whom did you listen to?”

“Reb ­Moshe-­Hayim the Melamed, the tutor.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that our Sages not only knew how to express themselves well, but also how to listen well.”

“What else?”

“He said that God also listens, but He alone understands.”

Proud and happy, the father stroked his son’s head and said: “Remember that’s the most important lesson you’ll have learned in life.”

“Why?”

“Because, with it, you’ll be able to build palaces in time and cultivate gardens in your mind.”

And, after a silence, “Do you know, my son, that God conceived and created the world with ­twenty-­two letters? And not just the visible world, but scores of others that aren’t visible. Later, you’ll learn about their power. Each one represents a superior and inflexible force. When you know how to assemble some of them, according to established but obscure rules, you’ll be powerful and victorious.”

Shaltiel kept his father’s words inside him. He knew they were true. With his father by his side, he feared and envied no one. Returning home on Friday nights, his father was radiant: He put aside his worries about health or money. The three candles on the table, one for each member of the family, the wine for the Kiddush, the two braided breads so skillfully and lovingly prepared by Malka, his ­stepmother—­Shaltiel lived all week long for these moments. It ­didn’t matter that the meal was meager; it brought the three of them together at the same table, sometimes with his cousin Arele, savoring the little they had, united by a love that made their hearts glow. What more could they want?

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Customer Reviews

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 20, 2013

    The snake

    Fang coiled around leaf. My name as a wolf is silver. Duskpack result one is the only wolf pack. I will take you there. She formed into a light silver wolf. She picked her up in her jaws. Say that i found you. She runs to duskpack result one.

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  • Posted July 2, 2013

    more from this reviewer

    Have you read the book Night by Elie Wiesel?  If not, you need t

    Have you read the book Night by Elie Wiesel?  If not, you need to.  It's a telling look into a personal Holocaust experience and a classic.  

    Recently I picked up another Elie Wiesel book called Hostage.  This book was so realistic, I had to do some research to make sure it wasn't nonfiction.  

    Shaltiel Feigenberg is a storyteller in Brooklyn, Jewish, and is kidnapped and held hostage until he is willing to renounce Israel and the Jewish connection to Israel.  Apparently his captors took him randomly, assuming wrongly that all Jews have rich and powerful connections.  

    As Shaltiel tries to explain that he's just a lowly storyteller, he's tortured.  

    To survive, he channels his memories.

    Hostage describes the torment that Shaltiel goes through (with very minimal details on the torture, so it's not gory), as well as many of the memories of his past, including how he and father survived the Holocaust.  

    Throughout the book, I kept hoping that Shaltiel would be strong enough to survive.  He made it through the Holocaust (although with less trauma than others experienced), I wanted him to make it through this scenario, too.  

    If you haven't read anything by Wiesel, Night is the place to start.  But Hostage was pretty good, too.  

    Have you read anything by Elie Wiesel? 

    Thanks for reading,

    Rebecca @ Love at First Book

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  • Posted April 25, 2013

    This book is a fictional novel based off of World War II and the

    This book is a fictional novel based off of World War II and the Jews back when Hitler was named Chancellor of Germany. You have the main character who is the author speaking as himself and other characters. You see drama, suspense, mystery, and tears. This book is worth the money. I am always a big fan of the Holocaust and learning about it over and over again and can bring these emotions out  and relate it to my own life. Even though I can't relate something as tragic as the Holocaust and the millions of lives of people who were forced into the concentration camps. 

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  • Posted January 12, 2013

    Excellent read- recommend

    I was a young child when this occurred, I grew up outside NYC. It was painful to read, but also very interesting and enthralling. His recollection of his childhood was almost unbelievable, but knowing what the Nazi's were capable of doing, it is not far-fetched.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 31, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted June 22, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

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