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This richly imagined novel, set in Hawai'i more than a century ago, is an extraordinary epic of a little-known time and place—-and a deeply moving testament to the resiliency of the human spirit.

Rachel Kalama, a spirited seven-year-old Hawaiian girl, dreams of visiting far-off lands like her father, a merchant seaman. Then one day a rose-colored mark appears on her skin, and those dreams are stolen from her. Taken from her home and family, Rachel is sent to Kalaupapa, the ...

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This richly imagined novel, set in Hawai'i more than a century ago, is an extraordinary epic of a little-known time and place—-and a deeply moving testament to the resiliency of the human spirit.

Rachel Kalama, a spirited seven-year-old Hawaiian girl, dreams of visiting far-off lands like her father, a merchant seaman. Then one day a rose-colored mark appears on her skin, and those dreams are stolen from her. Taken from her home and family, Rachel is sent to Kalaupapa, the quarantined leprosy settlement on the island of Moloka'i. Here her life is supposed to end—-but instead she discovers it is only just beginning.

With a vibrant cast of vividly realized characters, Moloka'i is the true-to-life chronicle of a people who embraced life in the face of death. Such is the warmth, humor, and compassion of this novel that "few readers will remain unchanged by Rachel's story" (

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"A dazzling historical novel."—The Washington Post

"Moloka'i is a haunting story of tragedy in a Pacific paradise."—Robert Morgan, author of Gap Creek

"Alan Brennert draws on historical accounts of Kalaupapa and weaves in traditional Hawaiian stories and customs.... Moloka'i is the story of people who had much taken from them but also gained an unexpected new family and community in the process."—Chicago Tribune

"[An] absorbing novel...Brennert evokes the evolution of—and hardships on—Moloka'i in engaging prose that conveys a strong sense of place."—National Geographic Traveler

"Moving and elegiac." —Honolulu Star-Bulletin

"Compellingly original...Brennert's compassion makes Rachel a memorable character, and his smooth storytelling vividly brings early twentieth-century Hawai'i to life." —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

Publishers Weekly
Compellingly original in its conceit, Brennert's sweeping debut novel tracks the grim struggle of a Hawaiian woman who contracts leprosy as a child in Honolulu during the 1890s and is deported to the island of Moloka'i, where she grows to adulthood at the quarantined settlement of Kalaupapa. Rachel Kalama is the plucky, seven-year-old heroine whose family is devastated when first her uncle Pono and then she develop leprous sores and are quarantined with the disease. While Rachel's symptoms remain mild during her youth, she watches others her age dying from the disease in near total isolation from family and friends. Rachel finds happiness when she meets Kenji Utagawa, a fellow leprosy victim whose illness brings shame on his Japanese family. After a tender courtship, Rachel and Kenji marry and have a daughter, but the birth of their healthy baby brings as much grief as joy, when they must give her up for adoption to prevent infection. The couple cope with the loss of their daughter and settle into a productive working life until Kenji tries to stop a quarantined U.S. soldier from beating up his girlfriend and is tragically killed in the subsequent fight. The poignant concluding chapters portray Rachel's final years after sulfa drugs are discovered as a cure, leaving her free to abandon Moloka'i and seek out her family and daughter. Brennert's compassion makes Rachel a memorable character, and his smooth storytelling vividly brings early 20th-century Hawaii to life. Leprosy may seem a macabre subject, but Brennert transforms the material into a touching, lovely account of a woman's journey as she rises above the limitations of a devastating illness. (Oct.) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A gritty story of love and survival in a Hawaiian leper colony: more a portrait of old Hawaii than a compelling narrative. The chronicle of leprosy-infected Rachel Kalama begins in 1891 in Honolulu and ends in the late 1960s on isolated Moloka’i, site of the Kalaupapa Leprosy settlement. As much a record of her life as of the changes in Hawaii itself over the years, screenwriter and fantasy author Brennert (Her Pilgrim Soul, 1990, etc.) vividly and graphically details both the landscape and the disease as he tells Rachel’s story. She’s five at the start, when her father, a sailor, comes back in time for Christmas with another doll for her collection and gifts for her older siblings Sarah, Ben, and Kimo. A few months later, Rachel is found to have leprosy, and the happy life the family has enjoyed ends. Considered dangerously contagious, Rachel is sent to the settlement on Molaka’i. There, in a hospital run by Catholic nuns, she lives with other young girls affected in varying degrees. As the years pass, Rachel’s friends die; she befriends Sister Catherine, whose affection will sustain her; but, with the exception of her father, she has no contact with her family. Poor Rachel is doomed not only to suffer horribly but also to bear witness to history: a history that includes the end of the monarchy, the US annexation, the arrival of movies and airplanes, the Depression, and Pearl Harbor. Brennert also details changes in the treatment of leprosy—herbal injections, surgery, and, finally, the cure in the 1940’s: sulfa derivatives. While Hawaii changes, Rachel grows up, falls in love, and marries Kenji, a fellow patient. She bears a daughter, but Ruth must immediately give the child up foradoption to avoid infection. Amid the heartbreak, Kenji is murdered and Rachel’s symptoms worsen (she loses the fingers of her right hand). Rachel, though, is a survivor, and unexpected reunions compensate as she returns to a much-changed Honolulu. Not a comfortable read, but certainly instructive. Agent: Molly Friedrich/Aaron Priest Literary Agency
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312304355
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 10/4/2004
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 416
  • Sales rank: 51,105
  • Product dimensions: 8.30 (w) x 5.50 (h) x 1.06 (d)

Meet the Author

Alan Brennert

Alan Brennert is a novelist (Time and Chance) as well as an Emmy Award-winning screenwriter (L.A. Law). He lives in Southern California, but his heart is in Hawai'i.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1


Later, when memory was all she had to sustain her, she would come to cherish it: Old Honolulu as it was then, as it would never be again. To a visitor it must have seemed a lush garden of fanciful hybrids: a Florentine-style palace shaded by banyan and monkeypod trees; wooden storefronts flourishing on dusty streets, cuttings from America's Old West; tall New England church steeples blooming above the palm and coconut groves. To a visitor it must have seemed at once exotic and familiar; to five-year-old Rachel it was a playground, and it was home.

Certain things stood out in memory, she couldn't say why: the weight and feel of a five-cent hapa'umi coin in her pocket; the taste of cold Tahiti lemonade on a hot day; palm fronds rustling like locusts high above, as she and her brothers played among the rice paddies and fishponds of Waikiki. She remembered taking a swim, much to her mother's dismay, in the broad canals of Kapi'olani Park; she could still feel the mossy bottom, the slippery stones beneath her feet. She remembered riding the trolley cars with her sister up King Street-the two of them squeezed in amidst passengers carrying everything from squid to pigs, chickens to Chinese laundry-mules and horses exuberantly defecating as they dragged the tram along in their wake. Rachel's eyes popped at the size of the turds, longer than her arm, and she giggled when the trolley's wheels squished them underneath.

But most of all, most clearly of all, she remembered Steamer Day-because that was when her father came home.

"Is today Steamer Day?"

"No." Rachel's mother handed her a freshly cooked taro root. "Here. Peel."

Rachel nimbly stripped off the soft purple skin, taking care not to bruise the stem itself, and looked hopefully at her mother. "Is tomorrow Steamer Day?"

Dorothy Kalama, stern-faced at the best of times, shot her daughter an exasperated look. "How do I know? I'm standing lookout on Koko Head, that's where you think I am?" With a stone pestle she pounded a slice of peeled taro into a smooth hard paste, then shrugged. "Could be another week, anyway, before he comes."

"Oh, no, Mama." They'd received a letter from Papa exactly five weeks ago, mailed in Samoa, informing them he'd be leaving for home in a month; and Rachel knew for a fact that the crossing took no more than a week. "Two thousand, two hundred and ninety miles from Samoa to Honolulu," she announced proudly.

Her mother regarded her skeptically. "You know how big is a mile?"

Rachel thought a moment, her round chubby face sober in reflection, then stretched her arms as wide as she could. Dorothy laughed, but before she could respond there was an explosion of boy-noise from outside.

"I hate you! Go 'way!"

"You go 'way!"

Rachel's brothers, Benjamin and James-Kimo to everyone but Mama, who disapproved of all but Christian names-roughhoused their way up the front steps and into the house. The sparsely furnished wood-frame home was nearly one large open room: living and dining areas on one side, stove, sink, and cupboards on the other; a tiny corridor led to a triad of tiny bedrooms. Pummeling each other with pulled punches, the boys skidded across a big mat woven from pandanus leaves, Kimo's legs briefly akimbo, like a wishbone in mid-wish.

"You're a big bully!" Ben accused Kimo.

"You're a big baby!" Kimo accused Ben.

Dorothy scooped up two wet handfuls of taro skin and lobbed them at her sons. In moments the boys were sputtering out damp strips of purple taro as Dorothy stood before them, hands on hips, brown eyes blazing righteously.

"What's wrong with you! Fighting on the Sabbath! Now clean your faces and get ready for church, or else!"

"Kimo started it!"

"God don't care who started it! All He cares about is that somebody's making trouble on His day!"

"But, Mama-"

Dorothy hefted another handful of taro skin, and as if by kahuna sorcery the boys vanished without another cross word into their shared bedroom.

"I'm done, Mama." Rachel handed the peeled taro to her mother, who eyed it approvingly.

"Well now," Dorothy said, face softening, "that's a good job you did." She cut the taro into smaller pieces, pounded them into paste, then added just the right amount of water to it. "You want to mix?" she asked Rachel, whose small hands dove eagerly into the smooth paste and kneaded it-with a little help from her mother-until, wondrously, it was no longer mere taro but delicious poi.

"Mama, these shoes are too tight!" Rachel's sister Sarah, two years older, thumped into the room in a white cotton dress with black stockings, affecting a hobble as she pointed at her black leather buttontop shoes. "I can't feel my toes." She saw Rachel's fingers sticky with poi and reflexively made a sour face. "That looks lumpy."

Dorothy gave her a scowl. "Your head's lumpy. Rachel did a fine job, didn't she?" She tousled Rachel's long black hair; Rachel beamed and shot Sarah a look that said ha! Dorothy turned back to Sarah. "No sandals in church. Guess your toes just gonna fall off. And go get your hat!" Her hobble miraculously healed, Sarah sprinted away, though not without a parting grimace at her sister, who was enthusiastically licking the poi off her fingers.

It was a half-mile's walk to Kaumakapili Church, made even longer by the necessity of shoes, and Dorothy did not fail to remind her children-she never failed to remind them-how fortunate they were to worship at such a beautiful new church, opened just three years before. Its twin wooden spires-"the better to find God," the king had declared upon their completion-towered like huge javelins above their nearest neighbors. The spires were mirrored in the waters of nearby Nu'uanu Stream, and to the devout it might appear as though they were pointing not just at heaven but, defiantly, at hell as well, as though challenging Satan in his own domain.

As Dorothy joined with the congregation in singing "Rock of Ages," her children sat, in varying degrees of piety, in Sabbath School. In her kindergarten class Rachel drew Bible scenes with colored crayons, then listened attentively to her teacher, Mr. MacReedy, a veteran of the American Civil War with silvered hair and a shuffle in his walk courtesy of a round of grapeshot to his right foot.

" 'And in the fourth watch of the night,' " Mr. MacReedy recited from the Book of Matthew, " 'Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea. And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they-' "

He saw that Rachel's hand was bobbing in the air. "Yes? Rachel?"

Soberly, Rachel asked, "Which sea?"

Her teacher blinked. "What?"

"Which sea did he walk on?"

"Ah . . . well . . ." He scanned the page, vexedly. "It don't say."

"Was it the Pacific?"

"No, I reckon it wasn't."

"The Atlantic?"

"It don't matter, child. What's important is that he was walking on the sea, not which particular sea it was."

"Oh." Rachel was disappointed. "I just wondered."

Mr. MacReedy continued, telling them of how Jesus bade Peter to walk onto the water with him; how He then went to a new land; and how, "when the men of that place had knowledge of him, they sent out into all that country round about, and brought unto him all that were diseased; And besought him that they might only touch the hem of his garment: and as many as touched were made whole.

" 'Then Jesus went thence, and departed into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon. And behold, a woman of Canaan came out of-' "

Rachel's hand shot up again.

Her teacher sighed. "Yes, Rachel," he said wearily.

"Where's Tyre? And-Sidon?"

Mr. MacReedy took off his reading glasses.

"They were cities. Someplace in the Holy Land. And before you ask, 'Canaan' was an old name for Palestine, or parts of it, anyway. That good enough for you, child?"

Rachel nodded. Her teacher replaced his glasses and continued chronicling Jesus' sojourn. " 'And Jesus departed thence, and came nigh unto the sea of Galilee . . . ' "

Mr. MacReedy paused, peered over his glasses at Rachel and said, "I would infer, if anyone's interested, that this is the selfsame sea the Lord walked on a bit earlier."

After church came Rachel's favorite part of the day, when Mama stopped at Love's Bakery on Nu'uanu Avenue to buy fresh milk bread, baked that morning. Love's was a cathedral of sugar, a holy place of sweets and starches: pound cake, seedcake, biscuits, Jenny Lind cake, soda crackers, cupcakes. Sometimes the owner, Fanny Love, was there to greet customers; sometimes it was her eldest son James, who with a wink and a smile would slip Rachel a cookie or a slice of nutcake and announce, "You're the twenty-eighth customer today; here's your prize!"

Sometimes Mama would buy day-old bread rather than fresh, or as now, try to haggle some leftover New Year's cake for a few pennies less. Even at her age Rachel understood money was often a problem in her family, and though she rarely wanted for anything of substance she knew Mama worked hard to stretch out the money Papa left her; particularly now, eight months after they last saw him.

That night, as every night, Mama stood by Rachel's bedside and made sure she said her prayers, and Rachel never failed to add one of her own: that God help Papa come safely across the sea, and soon.

Honolulu Harbor was a forest of ship's masts huddled within encircling coral reefs, a narrow channel threading through the reefs and out to open sea. Unlike picturesque Waikiki to the east-a bright crescent of sand in the lee of majestic Lé'ahi, or "Diamond Head" as the haoles, the white foreigners, had rechristened it-the harbor was an unglamorous collection of cattle wharves, trading companies, saloons, and the occasional brothel. On any given day there might be up to a hundred ships anchored here: barks, schooners, brigantines, cruisers, and more and more, steamers-their squat metal smokestacks proliferating among the wooden masts, an advance guard of the new century. Yet the arrival of a steamship was still exciting enough that whenever one was seen riding the horizon, closed signs sprang up in store windows across the city and men, women, and children thronged toward the harbor to greet the incoming ship.

Rachel, perched on her mother's shoulders, peered over the heads of the crowd surging around them and thrilled to the sight of the SS Mariposa steaming toward port. A pilot boat met the steamer and guided it through the channel; then as the ships drew closer to shore the Royal Hawaiian Band, which was gathered at pier's end, struck up the national anthem, "Hawai'i Pono''," composed by King Kalākaua himself.

As the Mariposa eased into its berth beside a mountain of black coal, Rachel caught sight of a sailor tossing a thick hawser off the deck and onto the dock. He was a stocky Hawaiian in his young thirties, his thick muscled arms tanned by the blistering sun of even lower latitudes.

"Papa!" she yelled, waving, but Papa was too busy helping tie up the ship to notice. It was only after all the passengers had disembarked and the cargo was on its way out of the ship's hold that Rachel at last saw her father walk down the gangway, a duffel bag in one hand, a big weathered suitcase in the other.

Henry Kalama, a happy grin on his broad friendly face, hefted his suitcase as though he were about to throw it. " 'Ey! Little girl! Catch!"

Rachel giggled. Henry ran up and Dorothy gave him a reproachful look: "Good-for-nothing rascal, where you been the last eight months?" And she kissed him with a ferocity that quite belied her words.

"Papa!" Rachel was jumping up and down, and now Henry scooped her up in his big arms. " 'Ey, there she is. There's my baby!" He kissed her on the cheek and Rachel wrapped her arms around his thick neck. "I missed you, little girl," he said in a tone so gentle it made Dorothy want to cry. Then he looked at his wife and added, with exaggerated afterthought, "Oh. You, too."

"Yeah, yeah, same to you, no-good." But she didn't object when Henry kissed her again, still holding Rachel in one arm, the five-year-old making an Eee-uu face. Dorothy lifted her husband's duffel bag with one hand, slipped the other around his waist, and the three of them started through the crowd, a winch's chain chattering above them as it yanked an enormous crate into the air.

"You sell the other keiki?" Henry asked, noting the absence of his older children.

"In school. Rachel oughtta be, but-"

"Where'd you go this time, Papa?"

"Oh, all over. One ship went to Japan and China, this one stopped in Australia, New Zealand, Samoa . . ."

"We got your letter from Samoa!"

On short notice Dorothy organized a feast to celebrate Henry's return. Dorothy's brother Will brought twenty pounds of fresh skipjack tuna he'd caught in his nets that morning; Henry's sister Florence made her best haupia pudding, rich with coconut cream; and Rachel helped her mother and Aunt Flo wrap ti leaves around the fresh beef and pork Papa bought at Tinker's Market, the first meat they had seen in weeks.

Friends and family crowded into the Kalama home that night, laughing and eating, singing and talking story. Rachel sat, as she often did at such gatherings, on the lap of her tall, rangy Uncle Pono-Papa's older brother, Kapono Kalama, a plantation worker in Waimānalo. " 'Ey, there's my favorite niece!" he would say, hoisting her into his arms. "You married yet?" Rachel soberly shook her head. "Why not?" Pono shot back. "Good-looking girl like you? You gonna be an old maid, you wait much longer!" When Rachel did her best not to laugh at his teasing, Pono resorted to tickling-and as she curled up like a snail in his lap, giggling uncontrollably, he'd say, "See, pretty funny after all, eh?"

Later, Henry's brood gathered round as he handed out the presents he never neglected to bring home from faraway ports. They were modest gifts, befitting a seaman's wages, but Papa had uncommonly good taste and always chose something to charm and delight them. Dorothy was presented with a pretty string necklace beaded with dozens of small, imperfectly shaped pearls, each plucked from the ocean floor by native divers in Rarotonga. Sarah was thrilled to receive a pair of silver earrings from New Zealand, though the silver in them probably wouldn't have filled a tooth. Kimo got a box of Chinese puzzles; Ben, a picture book from Tokyo, and another from Hong Kong.

Rachel knew what Papa had brought her, of course. What he always brought her: a doll from one of the countries he'd visited. Already she had a sakura-ningyš, a "cherry doll" from Japan; a pair of Mission Dolls from China; and a rag baby from America, purchased on Papa's last trip to San Francisco. What would it be this time? Rachel could hardly contain herself as Papa pulled the last gift box from his suitcase.

"And this one's for Rachel," he said, "from Japan."

Rachel was crestfallen. She already had a Japanese doll! Had Papa forgotten? Trying not to betray her disappointment, she tore the lid off the box, stripping away the tissue paper enfolding the doll. . . .

That is, assuming it was a doll. Rachel stared in confusion at the contents of the box, which appeared to be . . . an egg. A large wooden egg, no neck, a fat body, a bundled scarf and winter clothes painted on-Humpty Dumpty, but with a woman's face. Hilda Dumpty?

Rachel was surprised at how heavy it was, and entranced by its odd appearance. "What is it?" she asked.

Her father scolded, "But you're not done opening the present!" He pointed at the egg. "Hold the bottom with one hand, the head with the other. Then pull."

Rachel did as she was told-then jumped as the egg popped apart, and a second egg fell out! This smaller one resembled a man with a painted-on farmer's outfit; but when Rachel began examining it her father wagged a finger: "Still not finished!" Rachel pulled apart the second doll to discover yet a third one, a young girl-egg this time.

Everyone laughed at the expression on Rachel's face as she kept finding littler and littler dolls growing younger and younger, seven in all-the last an infant in painted-on swaddling, made of solid wood.

"They call 'em matryoshka," Papa explained. "Nesting dolls. From Russia."

"But you said they were from Japan."

"I got 'em in Japan. Japan's next door to Russia. You like?"

Rachel beamed. "They're beautiful, Papa."

That night Rachel carefully weighed where to place the nesting dolls on the coffee-crate shelf that held the rest of her collection. Farthest to the left was the cherry doll, a beautiful Kabuki dancer in a green silk kimono, holding a tiny fan. Next to her were the Chinese Mission dolls: a yellow-skinned amah, or nurse, carrying a little yellow baby on her back. And lastly, the rag doll from America, a cuddly infant with a sweet moonlike face, which Rachel sometimes took to bed with her. She remembered then what Papa had said about Japan being "next door" to Russia and she placed the matryoshka beside the Japanese cherry doll, then stepped back to admire her collection.

Behind her, she heard a familiar voice. "She fits right in, eh?"

Rachel turned. Papa was standing in the doorway. "Your Mama says you got to say your prayers and get your sneaky little hide into bed."

"Sarah's not in bed yet."

"She will be after her bath."

"Will you sing me a song first?" This, too, was old custom between them.

Papa smiled. "Prayers first."

Rachel hurried through her evening prayer, then eagerly jumped into bed. Papa closed the bedroom door, pulled up a chair beside her, and sat. "So, which one you want to hear?"

Rachel thought for a moment, then announced, " 'Whiskey Johnnie.' "

Her father glanced furtively toward the closed door, then back to Rachel. "How 'bout 'Blow the Man Down'?"

" 'Whiskey Johnnie'!" Rachel insisted.

Papa sighed in surrender. He leaned forward in his chair and in a deliberately low voice began to sing:

"Oh whiskey is the life of man

A Whiskey for my Johnnie.

Oh I'll drink whiskey whenever I can

Whiskey, Johnnie.

Bad whiskey gets me in the can-"

"A Whiskey for my Johnnie!" Rachel joined in. Together they sang two more stanzas, until Rachel burst out giggling and Papa, also laughing, patted her on the hand. "That's my chantey girl," he said with a grin. He kissed her on the forehead. "Now go to sleep."


Rachel's eyes drooped closed. Snug beneath her woolen blanket, she slept soundly that night-dreaming she was on a schooner plying the sea, bound for the Orient, destined for adventure.

Closer to home, Fort Street School was a big one-story house surrounded by a whitewashed picket fence, arbored by the leafy umbrellas of tall monkeypod trees, with a long porch and white wooden colonnade that would not have looked out of place in southern Virginia. The morning after Papa came home began as usual with the students reciting the Lord's Prayer, then in chorus singing "Good morning to you" to their teacher; after which they opened their Tower grammars and followed along with Miss Wallis as she recited the alphabet. But in what seemed like no time at all another teacher, a gray-haired Hawaiian woman, appeared in the classroom doorway.

"Miss Wallis? A moment, please?" Normally quite unflappable, today the older woman looked wan and shaken, almost as if she were about to cry. "Students, I have a . . . an announcement. It is with great sadness that I must tell you that our king"-her voice broke as she said it-"King Kalākaua . . . is dead."

She seemed about to elaborate-then, unable to go on, simply said, "Under the circumstances, Principal Scott has dismissed classes for the day." And she hurried on to the next classroom, the impact of her news rolling in wave after wave through each grade of the primary school.

Students slowly filtered out of the schoolhouse. Rain was falling in a gray mist, the skies seeming to weep along with the people Rachel encountered in the streets. Stunned and grieving, they gathered in small groups from which rose a spontaneous, collective wail unlike anything Rachel had ever heard before-a deep woeful cry that seemed to come from a hundred hearts at once. Its raw anguish frightened her, and she ran home to find both Mama and Papa in tears as well. Rachel, for whom death was still just a word, tried to comfort them, though not quite understanding why: "It's all right, Mama. Don't cry, Papa." Dorothy took her daughter in her arms and wept, and soon Rachel began to feel that she should be crying too, and so she did.

The king had left in November on a goodwill trip to the United States- Hawai'i's most important trading partner and the homeland of most its resident foreigners-and for weeks his subjects had been awaiting his return aboard the USS Charleston from San Francisco. But this morning the city's official lookout, "Diamond Head Charlie," spotted the Charleston steaming toward Honolulu with its yards acockbill, its flags at half-mast . . . which could mean only one thing. The news was telephoned from Diamond Head and quickly spread across the city like a 0 shadow across the sun; the festive banners and bunting put up in anticipation of Kalakaua's return were quickly torn down and replaced with solemn black crepe.

The king's body lay in state in 'Iolani Palace for the next fifteen days, during which time nearly every resident of Honolulu, and many from the neighbor islands, came to pay their respects. The Kalamas were six among thousands who queued up outside the palace for hours so that they might be able to briefly file past their monarch's casket.

The king had succumbed, it was now known, to a haole sickness called Bright's Disease. Old-timers in the crowd found this a melancholy echo of what had befallen Kamehameha II and his queen, both of whom had died after contracting measles on a trip to England. The first of the haole diseases had sailed into Hawai'i on the smiles and charm of Captain Cook's crew: syphilis and gonorrhea. Others soon followed: cholera, influenza, tuberculosis, mumps, diphtheria. One outbreak of smallpox alone took six thousand lives. Hawaiians, living in splendid isolation for five centuries, had no resistance to these new plagues that rode in on the backs of commerce and culture. Before Cook's arrival the native population of Hawai'i was more than a quarter of a million people; a hundred years later, it had plummeted to fewer than sixty thousand.

Kalakaua's people were mourning more than the passing of their king.

No one understood this better than Henry, who in his lifetime had now seen the deaths of four kings. As he and his family finally entered the palace they heard choirs chanting dirges, the ritual laments echoing throughout the vast ornate halls. But in the flower-decked throne room, a dignified silence prevailed. Flanking the coffin were twenty somber attendants holding royal staffs that looked to Rachel like spindly palm trees sprouting feathers instead of fronds. The casket, carved of native woods, was adorned with a silver crown and draped with a golden feather cloak, bright as sunlight. As the Kalamas approached it they now saw, behind thick plate glass, the familiar whiskered profile of David Kalākaua, his head pillowed, looking as if he were merely asleep.

Tears sprang suddenly to Henry's eyes. He thought of the prophecy-made over a century ago by the high priest Ka'opulupulu, who told the ruler of O'ahu that the line of kings would come to an end at Waikiki, and that the land would belong to a people from across the sea. O'ahu was soon conquered by armies from across that sea-Maui and, later, the island of Hawai'i-and now Henry wondered if he were seeing the other half of the prophecy coming true, if soon there would be an end to the line of kings.

As they passed by the casket Henry and Dorothy each grazed the tips of their fingers against the glass, until the grief of those behind them pushed them on, and out.

On the 15th of February, a somber Sunday, the king was finally laid to rest, beginning with a simple Anglican ceremony inside the throne room, as outside a long line of citizens, again including the Kalamas, stood coiled around the palace. At the conclusion of services a long procession of mourners left 'Iolani Palace on a solemn march to the Royal Mausoleum in Nu'uanu Valley. In years to come Rachel would remember only a few of these hundreds upon hundreds of marchers: the torch bearers representing the symbol of Kalākaua's reign, "the flaming torch at midday," now quenched; the king's black charger, saddled backward, the horse's head bent low as though it too understood grief; pallbearers carrying the king's catafalque, flanked by two columns of brightly plumed standard bearers; and the carriages bearing his widow, Queen Kapi'olani, and his sister Lili'uokalani, now Hawai'i's first reigning queen. The moment the king's casket left the palace grounds the air was shaken by the guns of the battleships Charleston and Mohican in the harbor, firing a cannonade in salute, along with a battery emplacement atop Punchbowl Hill. At the same instant, church bells all across the city tolled at once. Rachel clapped her hands to her ears; the noise was almost too much to bear, but she would never forget it, its violence and its majesty. And when the last official members of the cortege left the palace grounds, the procession was joined by those dearest to the late king- his subjects. Hundreds of ordinary Hawaiians who stood twined around the palace now took up the rear of the cortege, a human wreath slowly unfurling itself as the procession wended its way into the green hills above Honolulu.

Rachel understood only that death was a kind of going-away, as when her father went away to sea; but since her father always came back she could not imagine the king would not as well. And so as his casket receded into the distance she raised her hand and waved to him-as she did her father when he boarded his ship and it sailed out onto the open sea, disappearing over the edge of the world.

That moment came, as always, too soon. Papa was home only six weeks before he had to ship out again, this time for San Francisco and, after that, South America. But because he spent so much time away from his children, Henry always did his best to cram six months' worth of activity into the breathless space of one or two, taking them fishing for shrimp in Nu'uanu Stream or riding the waves at Waikiki. The latter had to be managed with stealth and discretion, since Mama had accepted the missionaries' proscription against surfing, seen as a worthless, godless activity; Papa would spirit the children away on some pretext, recover his big redwood surfboard from its exile at his friend Sammy's house, then, one child at a time, paddle out beyond the first shorebreak and instruct them in the ancient art of "wave sliding."

Another day Papa packed everyone up in their rickety old wagon and took off up a winding six-mile road to Mount Tantalus overlooking the city. The road meandered through bowers of stooped trees bent low over the dirt path, the foliage at times so thick it seemed they were driving through a tunnel of leaves, the air sweet and loamy. At a lookout high above the city they sat and ate a picnic supper; Rachel peered down at the green V of the valley, at the doll's houses of Honolulu spread out below that, and at the long sweep of coastline from Diamond Head to Kalihi Bay. Thrilled and amazed that she could see so much all at once, she gazed out at the thin line separating blue ocean from blue sky and realized that somewhere beyond that were the distant lands her father knew-the lands of cherry dolls and matryoshka, moonfaced rag dolls and little yellow amahs.

The day he left, the whole family accompanied Papa to the harbor-Rachel up front in Mama's lap, Ben, Kimo, and Sarah riding in the back of the lurching wagon. Papa tied up at the Esplanade, his children putting on a brave face as they escorted him back to the SS Mariposa, all of them quietly determined not to cry.

But almost as though someone were taking their secret thoughts, their hidden grief, and vocalizing it, there came-from the pier immediately ahead-a terrible, anguished wail. It was not one voice but many, a chorus of lament; and as the cry died away, another promptly began, rising and falling like the wind. It was, Henry and Dorothy both knew, not merely a wail, but a word: auwé, Hawaiian for "alas." Auwé! Auwwayy! (Alas! Alas!)

It sounded exactly like the cries of grief and loss that Rachel had heard the day the king had come home. "Mama," she said, fearfully, "is the Queen dead, too?"

"No, child, no," Dorothy said.

Moored off Pier 10 was a small, decrepit interisland steamer, the Mokoli'i. A distraught crowd huddled behind a wooden barricade, sighing their mournful dirge as a procession of others-young and old, men and women, predominantly Hawaiians and Chinese-were herded by police onto the old cattle boat. Now and then one of the people behind the barricade would reach out to touch someone boarding the ship: a man grasping for a woman, a child reaching for his mother, a friend clasping another's hand for the last time.

"Ma'i paké," Kimo said softly.

"What?" Rachel asked.

"They're lepers, you ninny," Sarah admonished. "Going to Moloka'i."

"What's a leper?"

Someone in the crowd threw a flower lei onto the water, but contrary to legend, it was not likely to ever bring any of these travelers back to Honolulu.

"They're sick, baby. Very sick," Mama explained. Rachel didn't understand. The people didn't look sick; they didn't look much different than anyone on the other side of the barricade.

"If they're sick," Rachel asked, "why isn't someone taking care of them?"

No one answered her; and as that word, leper, hung in the still humid air, Dorothy dug her fingers into Rachel's shoulders and turned her away from the Mokoli'i.

"Come on. Go! Alla you, go!" Henry and Dorothy shepherded their children away from the pier, away from the hapless procession marching onto the grimy little steamer, away from the crowd that mourned for them as though they were already dead; but they couldn't escape the crowd's lament, the sad chorale which followed them like some plaintive ghost, all the way to the Mariposa.

Auwé! Auwwaay! Alas, alas . . .

Copyright © 2003 by Alan Brennert

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Reading Group Guide



The first boatload of exiles to Moloka'i landed on January 6, 1866. Among the nine men and three women was one J. D. Kahauliko, who on February 1 wrote this beseeching letter (originally in Hawaiian) to T. C. Heuck of the Board of Health—one of the earliest written records we have from a patient at Kalawao:


Dear Sir,

An opportunity has been afforded me to inform you how we are getting along in Moloka'i. There is plenty of food on the land here, in Moloka'i. But there is one thing that we are in need of which we inform you of, and that is the want of a Kamaaina (old resident) . . . to show us where the mea ai [food] grows on the pali . . . We all (the lepers) desire to get some of the food that is on the pali. But as we are all strangers on the land we cannot therefore go and [find] it, what is growing on the pali. Therefore one of the Kamaainas came and said to me . . . that “if you desire me to go and get you something to eat then I can go, because we have been so instructed by the Board of Health.” He started to go and get something to eat for us, together with one of the lepers. But while the man was going up with one of the Lepers, our Luna [superintendent] L. Lepart rushed after the man, and with great anger brought him to our houses, and asked us, who ordered the man to go up mauka. . . . He told us all that we had no right to send any man (or Kamaaina) to go up and get anything to eat for us. If you want anything to eat, you must get it yourselves. . . .

(Signed) J. D. Kahauliko



Sometimes the most eloquent voices take the most prosaic form. Consider these excerpts from an official inventory—by schoolteacher and eventual luna Donald Walsh in 1867—cataloging conditions and contents of each household in the settlement:


No. 1 House

1 Pot. 1 Pint tin. 1 Water Can. 1 Lamp. 1 Knife. 1 Spoon.

Inmates [sic] Kameo [possessions] Makings of shirt. 1 good red blanket. No pants. Kila (child) 1 blanket 1 frock 1 old pants

Remarks - These are father & son the wife lives with them. The house seems pretty well provided with necessaries.


No. 4 House

1 Pot. No Water Cask/w can. 1 Lamp. 2 Dishes. 1 Knife. 2 Spoons.

Inmates - Kaahu. 1 Blanket 1 gown Napua. 1 Shirt

1 old pants 1 cloth pants Kepilina. 1 gray blanket

Remarks - Kaahu is in the last stage of leprosy.... This house is cold, filthy, and wretched. It leaks.


No. 38 House

1 pint tin. 1 Knife. 1 Spoon

Inmates - Kaiokalani/woman. 1 blanket. No clothes

Remarks - This is the most wretched of all the houses. I do not think she sleeps in it.



From Robert Louis Stevenson:


They were strangers to each other, collected by common calamity, disfigured, mortally sick, banished without sin from home and friends. Few would understand the principle on which they were thus forfeited in all that makes life dear; many must have conceived their ostracism to be grounded in malevolent caprice; all came with sorrow at heart, many with despair and rage. In the chronicle of man there is perhaps no more melancholy landing than this of the leper immigrants among the ruined houses and dead harvests of Moloka'i. But the spirit of our race is finely tempered and the business of life engrossing to the last. As a spider, when you have wrecked its web, begins immediately to spin fresh strands, so these exiles, widowed, orphaned, un-childed, legally dead and physically dying, struck root in their new place . . . fell to work with growing hope, repaired the houses, replanted the fields, and began to look about them with the pride of the proprietor. . . . And one thing is sure, the most disgraced of that unhappy crew may expect the consolations of love; love laughs at leprosy; and marriage is in use to the last stage of decay and the last gasp of life.


On May 10, 1873, a young Catholic priest arrived on Moloka'i, little realizing that one day his name, Father Damien de Veuster, would be irrevocably linked to the island:


I am sending this letter by way of the schooner Waniki to let you know that from now on there ought to be a permanent priest in this place. Boatloads of the sick are arriving, and many are dying. I sleep under a pu hala [tree] while I wait for the lumber to build a rectory such as you would judge appropriate. . . . You know my conviction; I wish to give myself unconditionally to the poor lepers. The harvest appears to be ripe here. Pray, and ask others to pray for me and for all here.




Already resident at Kalaupapa was royal-born Peter Kaeo, cousin to Queen Emma. He had the wherewithal to maintain a comfortable existence for himself, including two servants, but was not unaware of the poverty and desperation around him. From Peter Kaeo to Queen Emma, August 11, 1873:


Deaths occur quite frequently here, almost dayly. Napela [the luna] last week rode around the Beach to inspeck the Lepers and came on to one that had no Pai [taro] for a Week but manage to live on what he could find in his Hut, anything Chewable. His legs were so bad that he cannot walk, and few traverse the spot where His Hut stands, but fortunate enough for him that he had sufficient enough water to last him till aid came and that not too late, or else probably he must have died. 



In 1884 the Board of Health assigned a distinguished physician, Dr. J. H. Stallard, to review conditions at Kalaupapa. Part of his stinging indictment:


The excessive mortality rate alone condemns the management [of the settlement]. During the year 1883, there were no less than 150 deaths . . . more than ten times that of any ordinary community of an unhealthy type. The high mortality has not been caused by leprosy, but by dysentery, a disease not caused by any local insanitary conditions, but by gross neglect.



Father Damien himself succumbed to leprosy on April 15, 1889, but he lived to see the arrival of Mother Marianne Cope and the Sisters of St. Francis, who, would carry on his work. From the writings of Sister Mary Leopoldina Burns:


One could never imagine what a lonely barren place it was. Not a tree nor a shrub in the whole Settlement only in the churchyard there were a few poor little trees that were so bent and yellow by the continued sweep of the birning wind it would make one sad to look at them.



In 1889, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote about the children on the island:


The case of the children is by far the most sad; and yet, thanks to Damien and that great Hawaiian lady, the kind Mrs. Bishop, and to the kind sisters, their hardship has been minimized. Even the boys in the still rude boys’ home at Kalawao appeared cheerful and youthful; they interchange diversions in the boys’ way; are one week all for football, and the next the devotees of marbles or of kites; have fiddles, drums, guitars, and penny whistles; some can touch the organ, and all combine in concerts. As for the girls in the Bishop Home, of the many beautiful things I have been privileged to see in life, they, and what has been done for them, are not the least beautiful.



By the time writer Jack London visited in 1907, Kalaupapa, under new luna J. D. McVeigh and physician William Goodhue, was undergoing a remarkable transformation. From Jack London, The Cruise of the Snark:


When the Snark sailed along the windward coast of Moloka'i, on her way to Honolulu, I looked at the chart, then pointed to a low-lying peninsula backed by a tremendous cliff varying from two to four thousand feet in height, and said: “The pit of hell, the most cursed place on earth.” I should have been shocked, if, at that moment, I could have caught a vision of myself a month later, ashore in the most cursed place on earth, and having a disgracefully good time along with eight hundred of the lepers who were likewise having a good time [at the racetrack].… They were yelling, tossing their hats, and dancing around like fiends. So was I. . . . Major Lee, an American and long a marine engineer for the InterIsland Steamship Company, I met actively at work in the new steam laundry, where he was busy installing the machinery. I met him often, afterwards, and one day he said to me: “Give us a good breeze about how we live here. For heaven’s sake write us up straight. Put your foot down on this chamber-of-horrors rot and all the rest of it. We don’t like being misrepresented. We’ve got some feelings. Just tell the world how we really are in here.”




From Katherine Fullerton Gerould, Hawaii: Scenes and Impressions (1916):


White magic seems to be at work at Kalaupapa. I can record it as solemn fact that once you are on the promontory all panic, fear, or disgust drops utterly away. . . . I got at Kalaupapa—and got it before five minutes were sped—the highest impression of social decency I have ever had.



And yet, as humane and civilized as the settlement had by and large become, the exiles were still exiles, a fact that weighed on some of them more than others. From Store manager, Shizuo Harada to Ernie Pyle, 1938:


[S]ometimes I feel in good spirits and sometimes I get way down in the dumps. . . . It does something to you after a few years here. I can tell it has done something to me, but I fight against it. You lose the spirit of—I don’t know what you’d call it—the spirit of fraternity, I guess. That’s the reason I’ve tried to keep busy and keep little activities going among the others. In school I was active in athletics, and in organizing things. Here I’ve got several leagues going—handball and things like that. I can’t play myself any more, on account of my hands. But it’s hard to keep an organization going. There isn’t enough permanence about it. You get some good key men, and the first thing you know they’re gone. It takes the spirit out.




[Harada] said several times that if there was anything personal about the patients I could think to ask, he would try his best to give me the answer. But I ran out of questions, and then we talked about general things. He was interested in my job, and I told him of things I had seen in Alaska and other places. I shall always have a mental picture, to the end of my days, of us sitting there talking. Sitting in chairs, face to face, not three feet apart—one “clean” and one “unclean,” as Harada would put it. The truth would be: one lucky and one unlucky. But whatever our appearances, we talked and talked and talked. Thoughts are wonderful things, that they can bring two people, so far apart, into harmony and understanding for even a little while.

—Ernie Pyle, Home Country



According to the World Health Organization, more than 400,000 new cases of Hansen’s disease were recorded globally in 2004. Almost 300,000 of those were in Southeast Asia, with the remainder in Africa, the Americas, and elsewhere. But the incidence of new cases has been decreasing the last several years, and WHO still hopes to eventually eradicate the disease around the world. You can find more information at www://

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 473 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 476 Customer Reviews
  • Posted February 14, 2010

    I Also Recommend:


    This is a beautifully written, well-researched work of historical fiction. With its well-developed, rich characters, I found myself totally immersed in the story of Rachel and the life that she managed to endure and her valiant attempt at staying grounded. The narrative is quite descriptive and I found myself intrigued by the workings of the leper colony and its advancement over the years. This is a beautifully written story of the resilience of the human spirit and its will to triumph in even the most horrifying of circumstances. The setting is exotic, interesting, informative and exciting. There is an underlying message of hope, kindness and endurance that refreshes and inspires. A TRULY WORTHWHILE READ! I ENJOYED EVERY WORD!

    16 out of 17 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 28, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    A most read-worthy book!

    Molokai'i was suggested as a possible title for my small, online book club by my daughter, who had just returned from her honeymoon in Hawai'i. We all agreed that it was undoubtedly the best book we had read in the year that the club had existed. Most of the participants knew little more about the dread disease of leprosy than the fact that a leper colony existed somewhere in the Hawai'ian islands. It is our practice to have a leader for each book. Research online was shared, and we were given a briefing on the unfamiliar subject.<BR/><BR/>This novel, seen through the eyes of a young Hawai'ian girl, takes us through her life, from young childhood to adulthood, and eventually old age. Throughout her story, we meet many people and begin to get a keen picture as to the disgust, fear and loathing perpetrated on anyone even suspected of having the disease. Those diagnosed are subject to banishment, and the relinquishing of their normal lives to find a new one on Molokai'i. <BR/><BR/>This book is both touching and heart-rending. I found it hard to tear myself away from Rachel's story, but didn't want to read it too quickly, so it wouldn't end. Alan Brennert permits us to see life through Rachel's eyes; she deals with love, death, hate, self-loathing and a myriad of other emotions that he allows the character to share with us. We suffer with her in her sorrows, and we are elated for her when she finds joy, and eventually peace.<BR/><BR/>This book goes onto my list of best-loved books. My whole club felt the same way. Oftentimes, a book, well-enjoyed during the read, fades away from memory. Molokai'i is one of those books that so impacts the reader, that it makes other writing pale by comparison.

    11 out of 12 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 30, 2005


    I was told not to read this on the airplane. So much emotion, I was looking around to see if anyone saw the tears rolling down my face. By far the best book I have read this year. Lots of love, compassion and history. Couldn't put it down. The strength of this girl was overwhelming.

    11 out of 12 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Excellent story!

    This is another fine novel from Mr. Brennert. Extremely well researched this story brings you into the life of a leprosy exhile of that time. Initially I avoided this book thinking it would be too sad to read. On the contrary the sheer spirit of the main character, and most of those around her, kept the story interesting and engaging. I highly recommend this book to everyone, but particularly to those interested in Hawaii.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 17, 2008


    I did not want to put it down! I was drawn into this thought-provoking story from the first chapter. It's been many years since a book brought such an emotional response from me. The tears flowed freely, along with the laughter. Beautiful, expressive writing brought my trip to Hawaii back to mind, making me feel more a part of the story. The characters are well thoughtout and weave through the story well. My only regret is that too much of the story line was given away on the back cover (and in some reviews here). I almost didn't choose this book, thinking it would be totally depressing. But I'm so glad I overlooked that - what an adventure!

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 27, 2012

    The book that never ends!

    Although this book was interesting, it seemed to go on and on and on. There were several times I thought it would be a good time to end the book, but it just kept going. Usually I love to read long books, but this had way too many insignificant sub-stories that didn't contribute to the central plot. I learned a lot, however there are also aspects of the book that were not quite correct. I think the author researched a lot about leprosy to write this book, but forgot to research everything else.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 5, 2012

    Highly Recommend-A Great Read!

    Moloka'i was one of the most intriguing books that I have read in a long time. A work of fiction, it was intertwined with non fiction characters and real historical events, making it so believable. Moloka'i is a story about isolation, and friendships. This story spoke of so many relationships formed and destroyed by a hideous, deforming disease which brought shame to the families of its' victims. You witness the unselfish sacrifices that only a mothers' love could transcend.
    Well written, the author allowed you to feel personally involved with the characters. There are many great topics to provoke great discussions, for book clubs!

    3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 27, 2008

    Moloka'i-Lest We Forget

    A tragic tale embroidered with exquisite detail reflecting careful research, Moloka¿i sets the standard for historical fiction set in Hawai¿i. To take a subject like the isolation of people with Hansen¿s disease, as black a mark in American history as the internment of Japanese families during WWII, and make it an engaging, even romantic encounter is a unique literary accomplishment. We care about the young Hawaiian girl taken from her family and hidden away from prying eyes for almost her entire life. We chafe with her as her youth and beauty fades and the hideous disease progresses in her body. We recoil in horror when she has to give up her baby so her child will not become infected with the yet misunderstood disease. Our hearts break when her husband, the only happiness she has been allowed in this prison of isolation, dies. But, we are lifted high when she finally is freed and able to find her adult daughter. Alan Brennert does a masterful job imparting nuances of the Hawaiian culture and his descriptive powers capture the spell of the Islands. That the postcard perfect jutting green pali of Kalapaupapa on Moloka¿i served as a prison for hundreds of native Hawaiians is something that should not be forgotten. LindaBallou-Author Wai-nani, High Chiefess of Hawai¿i-Her Epic Journey

    3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 9, 2010

    one of my absolute favorite books by far

    This book has everything. memorable characters, life lessons, history, good story, happiness sadness. It is a beautiful book. One that should be made into a movie but for the fact that most of the characters are lepers. If you know anyone who is going to visit molokai they should read this book...... Like all great books it makes you see a whole new side to the world......

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 27, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:


    I thought this book was incredibly depressing... As it should be, considering it's about leprosy. However, Brennert decided while writing it to not make anything just happy. There is nothing uplifting about Moloka'i. My second complaint is how fast time moves in this book. It spans over 70 years in less than 400 pages. This means you hardly get to know any of the characters and you get only a sad overview of what is happening. It would have been much better if it focused on just a few years of Rachel's life. The books I recommended are amazing novels that are very depressing.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 16, 2009

    If you enjoy historical fiction, this is for you!

    The idea of reading about a leper colony wasn't overly appealing to me, but it came highly recommended. So I gave it a go and was so happy I did! The story is suprisingly uplifting and well written. If you enjoy historical fiction, I think you'll really like Moloka'i!

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 21, 2009


    I was very disappointed in this book. It came highly recommended. I believe the author researched it well and, from a historical viewpoint, it was interesting. But the story got bogged down and I realized after plodding through a couple of hundred pages that I didn't care about the characters. Kiss of death for me, so I didn't finish it.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 5, 2007

    Sweeping Saga.

    I have to admit that I often pick books because of their cover and this was one of those that has a highly attractive cover. I was also intrigued by a historical area I knew nothing about. I was not disappointed with this book. WOW! The story covers the life of a young Hawaiin girl spending her life out on the island of Moloka'i in a leper colony. The book was well researched bringing historical events/medicine/policy into the story. I recommended it to a friend for her bookclub and it received high reviews from everyone 'even from the gal that doesn't like anything.' I have a list of a few books that I always recommend to people and this book is definitely on the list.'

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 3, 2013


    I loved this book! I laughed I cried. Having been to Hawaii many times so in my mind I could see the things the author wrote about I could smell the flowers he talked about. I am not normally a person who picks up a book but this one called to me. I'm so glad I did.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 19, 2012

    Not my Cup of Tea

    I found the historical references to be interesting, however, I just did not get into this book.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 2, 2009

    All Time Favorite TOP TEN!!!

    This moving, memorable, historical book is one of the best I have ever read. You will be mesmorized. It is hard to believe this is how things were handled "back in the day" but Brennert will grab you early on and keep you fascinated 'til the end. Absolutely loved this book and have given it to many people. It was hard to find a few years ago and I always had to order it, but now B & N has it. Great!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 30, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    The message; Acceptance and Resilience

    Wonderful story. Very few books can truly pull emotions out of you. Comedy is easy, but the tragity, the unmistakable feelings of hope, and the let downs, as well as a sarcastic humor made this a very enjoyable book. I never felt that there was any dry laborious reading through out the book. The plot was nice although I felt that the climax came a little too early with the first positive snip after all the negatives (I know we are suppose to feel let down so that's why I don't think it's a bad thing). Like I said before it's about acceptance and resilience and to teach people that, life IS hard, but it's also what you make it.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 16, 2008

    A must read for fans of history that is artfully told

    Based on true history, and real events, Brennert skillfully weaves a tale of poignancy and heartbreak through the main character of spirited Rachel who contracts leprosy and is sent to the quarantined island of Moloka'i. Most people are sent to Moloka'i to die, but it is here that Rachel lives. She thrives in spite of the pain and suffering that she is dealt. It is in Moloka'i that her life gains true meaning. A beautiful and engrossing story.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 20, 2008

    A Must Read for Lovers of Historical Fiction

    I picked up this book on a trip to the beach, having just returned from a Hawaiian vacation in Maui. The title and genre intrigued me, and the book proved to be amazing. There is no denying the strong character of Rachel and how she grows and learns because of and in spite of her leprosy. A gem of a book that I will be recommending to everyone I know....

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 9, 2008

    One of the best books I have ever read

    I read this book in 3 days. I started reading this book on a plane while traveling. I couldn't stop traveling. I felt a deep connection with the characters. It was an amazing book. The author made the story come to life. It is truly a must read!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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