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As Elizabeth begins to fill in the gaps of Jenny's troubled memory, she stumbles upon a ...
As Elizabeth begins to fill in the gaps of Jenny's troubled memory, she stumbles upon a long-buried family secret. As she uncovers the details, she learns the true meaning of inheritance and how it shapes what we become.
In My Mother's House looks at the pain and cost of a family struggling to regain what took them generations to build. It's a poignant, expertly told novel that established Margaret McMullan as a novelist soon to join the ranks of writers such as Anita Shreve and Carol Shields.
"Spinning like a two-sided medal, this exquisite novel alternates the voices of two women, and ultimately opposites start to merge: past and present, mother and daughter, Christianity and Judaism, bitterness and reconciliation. I salute Margaret McMullan's elegantly crafted prose, her beautiful restraint, her emotional honesty, and her storytelling power." --Phillip Lopate, editor of Writing New York
"Compelling . . . McMullan's fascinating account of the complexity of survival will haunt and strengthen its readers. Understanding the traumas of earlier generations is the key to Elizabeth's own liberation in this transporting novel." --Sena Jeter Naslund, author of Ahab's Wife and Four Spirits
"A haunting and beautifully written novel about the great themes of memory and love. What a fine work this is. Margaret McMullan is a splendid new voice among us." --Robert Olen Butler, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain
"Margaret McMullan's ability to storytell is a music she resonates against the heart's hard wisdom. In My Mother's House is an heirloom--one of those novels you pass on to everyone." --Dale Ray Phillips, author of My People's Waltz
"Beautifully written, evocative, and shot through with the voice of authenticity. It not only shows with great honesty the relationship between mothers and daughters, but also how the ghosts of our ancestors--good and bad--shadow our lives." --Naomi Ragen, author of The Ghost of Hannah Mendes
"A type of archaeological dig performed within the dark pit of a family's loss, In My Mother's House is surprising in its power to quietly, gracefully, infect the reader with yearning for the places we once claimed but shall never have again." --Bob Shacochis, author of The Immaculate Invasion and the National Book Award-winning Easy in the Islands
"What an exquisite and elegant novel. This beautiful story of memory and identity, faith and family, proves that Margaret McMullan is the next gifted writer to watch." --Shirley Ann Grau, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Keepers of the House
"A lovely duet between mother and daughter, between past and future, between Europe and America, between memory and hope. McMullan's voice shines like old silver, polished rich and clear. It's a story of vision and blindness, speech and silence, and the healing that comes from time--it's a book about love." --Beth Lordan, author of And Both Shall Row
"In My Mother's House is like all the best fiction--inevitable, necessary, and finally, almost involuntarily, like music, precise and permanent in the soul. Hurrah for Ms. McMullan." --Barry Hannah, author of Airships
"A wonderful book-lush and dreamy and beautifully written." --William Harrison, author of Burton and Speke
"Graceful . . . It is the individual, private pain . . . that is skillfully given voice here by McMullan." - Boston Globe
"The two narrative threads blend into one harmonious story, proving that while we can leave a country, we can't escape our history." - Entertainment Weekly
Have you ever heard anyone play a viola d'amore? If you play it right-if you can play it the way Uncle Rudi sometimes could-you can feel the sounds echo in the back of your throat. I don't think I ever really told you about my uncle Rudi. He could make extraordinary music. You play the row of strings on top just as you would a violin, but the second row of strings underneath catches and resonates the sounds. The strings underneath are called sympathetic strings and they are tuned in unison with the playing strings. The viola d'amore used to be in great demand in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but now hardly anybody has ever heard of it. It makes a sweet, tender sound, and at night, that sound feels as old as loss. I have heard this little wooden thing fill up a whole hall. It is a beautiful instrument, even in disrepair, and I am glad you have given it to me while I can still see.
Before you, before your father, I had another life. Sometimes I feel as though I were another person altogether. You are right. You have a right to know about the viola d'amore, about my other world, because now I know that what had to do with me does have something to do with you.
In his Spiritual Exercises, St. Ignatius wants you to go through all the memories that helped shape you. His questions are a lot like yours-he pesters you about your past. I have told you there wasn't much to the life I left behind in Vienna. Still, you pressed me. You wanted the stories. You wanted my memories. I often thought that if I told you everything, I would somehow lose it all over again, and these scraps of memories are really all I have left of a place that is now gone. They are my inheritance and they are my own.
You know by now that I am going blind, and as my eyesight diminishes, I find my memory disappearing as well. I have heard it said that you need only close your eyes in order to remember, but I have always found it far more helpful to see. When I look at you, I can recall the yellow house where we once lived much more readily than if I shut my eyes and tried. That yellow house is a vision and a memory I do not look forward to losing.
My story of loss may be no good to hear about. I know a woman with a better story than mine. She stayed and hid people from the Nazis in her apartment. She saved lives. You would 0probably prefer her as a mother. Me? What have I ever accomplished? I can't say that I witnessed anything important, and I can't say that I forgive. You don't start by finding God in the ugly unless you're Anne Frank. I did not lose everything and everybody all at once, but bit by bit and one by one, as though I were being conditioned to live alone.
I am the only one left. It is freeing in a way. And if someone ever asks you what your mother's maiden name is, leave out the Engel. They all say the same thing anyway: "Engel. Isn't that Jewish?"
I want to be careful here. You are not Jewish. I am not Jewish, and, in his heart, your grandfather was not Jewish. To me, this is not denial. This is fact. You will see. You be the judge.
Your great-great-grandfather Joseph wrote his memoirs. I know because I saw them once on my father's desk in Vienna, and periodically, my father would tell me what was in them-how Joseph had gotten wealthy in less than forty years; taken his gardener from Pécs, Hungary, to Vienna, Austria; and camped out in the empty shell of the Hofzeile, claiming it for his own, which was at the time the Hungarian way of obtaining property. Joseph wrote it all down in Hungarian, beginning with his birth. He ended his story with the granting of our family's nobility in 1886, followed by the words: "I love life, don't fear death."
My father wrote the story of his life in German. But it wasn't really his life in that book. He told little about who he was or who we were. He wrote lists-how often he spoke with Sigmund Freud, how many times he met with Ezra Pound. I write my memories in English. We each claim a different language.
In Vienna, they called me Genevieve. You should hear the way they say it there-as though my name were a song. Here, in the United States, I am Jenny. This is not the story of my life. This is the story of my soul. This is who I came to be-your mother-the last of the Engel de Bazsis.
Copyright 2003 by Margaret McMullan
Posted February 12, 2004
I'm not a native speaker of English. But I'm really enjoying reading this novel whose content is very profound and serious relating to the war time family experience and the present quest of the family history. I've noticed the author's great insight and technique in writing. I cannot but believe that the author has calculated well that this style of hers is the best to tell her story. Hope this will be read internationally wide and let us think of the deep scars any war gives to any individual even years later.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 4, 2003
This book catches one's interest and keeps one turning the pages to learn how it comes out. It involves several mother-daughter relationships, told alternately through the mother who as a little girl escaped from Nazi Vienna and her daughter who was born in the U.S. and is searching for her roots. It begins in pre-World War II Vienna and moves through escape to the U.S. Each remembers or views events differently and is motivated by different reasons. Secrets are discovered. Lives are changed. None can go back, though some try to. The story sticks in one's mind and keeps echoing for awhile. Good read.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 7, 2003
Like the subtle rich romantic tones of the viola d'amore, In My Mother's House ebbs a daughter's obsession to learn about her mother's family history during the German annexation of Austria. Alternately told by the mother (Jenny) and her daughter (Elizabeth) the crux of the novel reveals a startling family secret. McMullan's descriptions of the Hochziele (the family home) in Vienna, emotionally takes the reader to a different era and place. A truly beautiful prosaic read and a wonderful book for mother daughter book discussions.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.