The Time in Betweenby Maria Duenas
The inspiring international bestseller of a seemingly ordinary woman who uses her talent and courage to transform herself first into a prestigious couturier and then into an undercover agent for the Allies during World War II
Between Youth and Adulthood . . .
At age twelve, Sira Quiroga sweeps the atelier floors where her single mother works as/b>/b>… See more details below
The inspiring international bestseller of a seemingly ordinary woman who uses her talent and courage to transform herself first into a prestigious couturier and then into an undercover agent for the Allies during World War II
Between Youth and Adulthood . . .
At age twelve, Sira Quiroga sweeps the atelier floors where her single mother works as a seamstress. At fourteen, she quietly begins her own apprenticeship. By her early twenties she has learned the ropes of the business and is engaged to a modest government clerk. But everything changes when two charismatic men burst unexpectedly into her neatly mapped-out life: an attractive salesman and the father she never knew.
Between War and Peace . . .
With the Spanish Civil War brewing in Madrid, Sira leaves her mother and her fiancé, impetuously following her handsome lover to Morocco. However, she soon finds herself abandoned, penniless, and heartbroken in an exotic land. Among the odd collection of European expatriates trapped there by the worsening political situation back on the Continent, Sira reinvents herself by turning to the one skill that can save her: her gift for creating beautiful clothes.
Between Love and Duty . . .
As England, Germany, and the other great powers launch into the dire conflict of World War II, Sira is persuaded to return to Madrid, where she takes on a new identity to embark upon the most dangerous undertaking of her career. As the preeminent couturier for an eager clientele of Nazi officers’ wives, Sira becomes embroiled in the half-lit world of espionage and political conspiracy rife with love, intrigue, and betrayal.
Already a runaway bestseller across Europe, The Time In Between is one of those rare, richly textured novels that enthrall down to the last page. María Dueñas reminds us how it feels to be swept away by a masterful storyteller.
- Atria Books
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- 6.34(w) x 9.24(h) x 1.64(d)
Read an Excerpt
A typewriter shattered my destiny. The culprit was a Hispano-
Olivetti, and for weeks, a store window kept it from me. Looking
back now, from the vantage point of the years gone by, it’s hard to
believe a simple mechanical object could have the power to divert the
course of an entire life in just four short days, to pulverize the intricate
plans on which it was built. And yet that is how it was, and there was
nothing I could have done to stop it.
It wasn’t really that I was treasuring any great plans in those days.
My ambitions remained close to home, almost domestic, consistent
with the coordinates of the place and time in which I happened to
live, plans for a future that could be within my grasp if I reached out
my fingertips. At that time my world revolved slowly around a few
presences that seemed to me firm and eternal. My mother had always
been the most solid of them all. She was a dressmaker, working in a
shop with a distinguished clientele. She was experienced and had good
judgment, but she was never any more than a salaried seamstress, a
working woman like so many others who for ten hours a day sacrificed
her nails and pupils cutting and sewing, checking and adjusting garments
destined for bodies that were not her own and gazes that would
rarely be aimed at her. I knew little about my father in those days.
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4 Ma r Í a Du eÑa s
Nothing, to be exact. He had never been around, nor did his absence
affect me. I never felt much curiosity about him until my mother, when
I was eight or nine, ventured to offer me a few crumbs of information.
That he had another family, that it was impossible for him to live with
us. I swallowed up those details with the same haste and scant appetite
with which I polished off the last spoonfuls of the Lenten broth before
me: the life of that alien being interested me considerably less than
racing down to play in the square.
I had been born in the summer of 1911, the same year that the
dancer Pastora Imperio married El Gallo, when the Mexican singer
Jorge Negrete came into the world. When the star of that age they called
the Belle Époque was fading. In the distance the drums of what would
be the first great war were beginning to be heard, while in Madrid cafés
people read El Debate and El Heraldo, and on the stage La Chelito fired
men’s passions as she moved her hips brazenly to the tempo of popular
songs. During those summer months King Alfonso XIII managed to
arrange that, between one lover and the next, his fifth legitimate child,
a daughter, was conceived. Meanwhile, at the helm of the government
was Canalejas the liberal, who couldn’t predict that just a year later an
eccentric anarchist would put an end to his life, firing three bullets to
his head while he was browsing in the San Martín bookshop.
I grew up in reasonably happy surroundings, with more constraints
than excesses but nonetheless with no great deprivations or frustrations.
I was raised in a narrow street in a fusty old neighborhood in
Madrid, right beside the Plaza de la Paja, just a couple of steps from the
Palacio Real. A stone’s throw from the ceaseless hubbub of the heart
of the city, a world of clothes hung out to dry, the smell of bleach, the
voices of neighboring women, and cats lying out in the sun. I attended
a makeshift school on the mezzanine of a nearby building: on its
benches, meant to be used by two people, we kids arranged ourselves in
fours, with no sense of order, pushing and shoving, shouting our renditions
of “The Pirate’s Song” or our times tables. It was there I learned to
read and write, to master the four functions of basic arithmetic as well
as the names of the rivers crisscrossing the yellowed map that hung from
the wall. At the age of twelve I completed my schooling and became
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The Time In Between 5
an apprentice in the workshop where my mother worked. My logical
The business of Doña Manuela Godina—the owner—had for years
produced fine garments, very skillfully cut and sewn, highly regarded
all over Madrid. Day dresses, cocktail dresses, coats, and cloaks that
would later be shown off by distinguished ladies as they walked along
La Castellana, around the Hippodrome, and the Puerta de Hierro
polo club, as they took their tea at Sakuska or entered the ostentatious
churches. Some time passed, however, before I began to find my way
into the secrets of sewing. At first I was the whole workshop’s girl: the
one who took the charcoal from the braziers and swept the cuttings
from the floor, who heated the irons in the fire and ran breathless to
buy thread and buttons from the Plaza de Pontejos. The one who was
in charge of getting the just-finished garments, wrapped in big brown
linen bags, to the exclusive residences: my favorite job, the greatest
joy of my budding career. That was how I came to know the porters
and chauffeurs from the best buildings, the maids, housekeepers,
and butlers of the wealthiest families. I watched—unseen—the most
refined of ladies, daughters, and husbands. And like a mute witness
I made my way into their bourgeois houses, into aristocratic mansions
and the sumptuous apartments of charming old buildings. Sometimes
I wouldn’t get past the servants’ area, and someone from the household
would accept delivery of the dress; at other times, I was directed to go to
the dressing room, so I would make my way down corridors and catch
glimpses of drawing rooms, where my eyes would feast on the carpets,
chandeliers, velvet curtains, and grand pianos that sometimes were
being played and sometimes not, thinking all the while how strange it
would be to live in such a universe.
My days shifted effortlessly between these two worlds, and I became
less and less aware of the incongruity that existed between them.
I would walk down those broad roads rutted with carriage tracks and
lined with large imposing doorways just as naturally as I would pass
through the crazy network of winding streets that formed my neighborhood,
streets filled with puddles, rubbish, the cries of vendors, and the
sharp barks of hungry dogs. Where everyone always went in a hurry,
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6 Ma r Í a Du eÑa s
and at the cry of “Agua va! ” you had better take cover to avoid being
splattered with urine. Craftsmen, minor businessmen, employees, and
newspaper vendors lately arrived in the capital filled the rental houses
and gave my neighborhood its villagey feel. Many of them only left its
bounds when obliged to; my mother and I, on the other hand, did so
early each morning, to get over to Calle Zurbano and quickly buckle
down to our day-to-day tasks in Doña Manuela’s workshop.
After my first two years as an apprentice, the two of them decided
that the time had come for me to learn how to sew. At fourteen,
I started with the simplest things: fasteners, overcasting, loose tacking.
Then came buttonholes, backstitches, and hems. We worked seated on
little rush chairs, hunched over wooden boards supported on our knees,
where we placed the fabric we were sewing. Doña Manuela dealt with
the customers, cutting, checking, and correcting. My mother took the
measurements and dealt with all the rest: she did the most delicate
needlework and assigned the remainder of the jobs, supervising their
execution and imposing rhythm and discipline on a small battalion
consisting of half a dozen older dressmakers, four or five young women,
and a number of chatterbox apprentice girls, always keener on laughing
and gossiping than on doing their work. Some of them ended up good
seamstresses, and the ones who couldn’t sew well ended up doing the
less desirable tasks. When one girl left, another would replace her in
that noisy room, so incongruous compared to the serene opulence of
the shop’s façade and the sobriety of its luminous front room to which
only the customers had access. The two of them—Doña Manuela and
my mother—were the only ones who could enjoy its saffron-colored
drapery, its mahogany furniture, its luminous oak floor, which we
younger girls were responsible for waxing with cotton rags. Only they,
from time to time, would receive the rays of sunlight that came in
through the four high balcony windows facing the street. The rest of
us remained always in the rear guard: in the gynaeceum, freezing in
winter and hellish in summer. That was our workshop, that grey space
around the back whose only openings were two little windows onto an
interior courtyard, where the hours passed like breaths of air between
the humming of ballads and the noise of scissors.
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The Time In Between 7
I learned fast. I had agile fingers that adapted quickly to the shape
of the needles and the touch of the fabrics. To measurements, draping,
and volumes. Neck, bust, outside leg. Under bust, full back, cuff. At
sixteen I learned to tell fabrics apart, at seventeen to appreciate their
qualities and calibrate their possibilities. Crêpe de chine, silk muslin,
georgette, Chantilly lace. Months passed as if turning on a Ferris
wheel: autumns spent making coats in fine fabrics and between-season
dresses, springs sewing flighty dresses destined for long, faraway Cantabrian
holidays, the beaches at La Concha or El Sardinero. I turned
eighteen, nineteen. Bit by bit I was initiated into handling the cutting
work and tailoring the more delicate components. I learned to attach
collars and lapels, to predict how things would end up. I liked my work,
actually enjoyed it. Doña Manuela and my mother sometimes asked
me for my opinion; they began to trust me. “The girl has a fine hand
and a fine eye, Dolores,” Doña Manuela used to say. “She’s good, and
she’ll get better if she stays on track. Better than you, you needn’t worry
about that.” And my mother would just carry on with what she was
doing, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. I didn’t look up from my working
board either. But secretly I watched her out the corner of my eye, and
in her mouth—studded with pins—saw the tiniest trace of a smile.
The years went by, life went by. Fashion changed, too, and at its
command the activities of the workshop adjusted. After the war in
Europe straight lines had arrived, corsets had been cast aside, and legs
began to be shown without so much as the slightest blush. When the
Roaring Twenties came to an end, however, the waistlines of dresses returned
to their natural place, skirts got longer, and modesty once again
imposed itself on sleeves, necklines, and desires. Then we launched
ourselves into a new decade and there were more changes. All of them
together, unforeseen, almost one on top of another. I turned twenty,
the Republic arrived in Spain, and I met Ignacio. It was one September
Sunday in Parque de la Bombilla, at a riotous dance that was crammed
full with workshop girls, bad students, and soldiers on leave. He asked
me to dance, he made me laugh. Two weeks later we began to sketch
out plans to marry.
Who was Ignacio, and what was he to me? The man of my life,
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8 Ma r Í a Du eÑa s
that’s what I thought then. The calm lad who I sensed would be a good
father to my children. I had already reached the age when girls like
me—girls with no professional expectations—had few options other
than marriage. The example of my mother, who had raised me alone
and in order to do so had worked from sunrise to sunset, had never
seemed to me a very appealing fate. In Ignacio I found someone with
whom to pass the rest of my adult life without having to wake up every
morning to the taste of loneliness. I was not stirred to the heights of
passion, but rather an intense affection and the certainty that my days
by his side would pass without sorrows or stridency, sweetly gentle as
Ignacio Montes, I thought, would come to be the owner of that arm
of mine that he would take on a thousand and one walks, the nearby
presence that would offer me security and shelter forever. Two years
older than I, thin, genial, as straightforward as he was tender. He was
tall, with a skinny build, good manners, and a heart whose capacity
to love me seemed to multiply with the hours. The son of a Castilian
widow who kept her well-counted money under the mattress, he lived
intermittently in insignificant boardinghouses and was an eager applicant
for bureaucratic jobs as well as a perpetual candidate for any
ministry that might offer him a salary for life—War, Governance,
the Treasury. The dream of nearly three thousand pesetas a year, two
hundred and forty-one a month—a salary that is set forever, never
to be changed, dedicating the rest of his days to the tame world of
offices and secretarial offices, of blotters, untrimmed
paper, seals, and inkwells. It was on this that we based our plans for the
future: on the back of a perfectly calm civil service that, one round of
exams after another, refused stubbornly to include my Ignacio on its list
of names. And he persisted, undiscouraged. In February he tried out for
Justice and in June for Agriculture, and then it started all over again.
In the meantime, unable to allow himself costly diversions, and
yet utterly devoted to making me happy, Ignacio feted me with the
humble possibilities that his extremely meager pocket would allow:
a cardboard box filled with silkworms and mulberry leaves, cones of
roasted chestnuts, and promises of eternal love on the grass under the
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The Time In Between 9
viaduct. Together we listened to the band from the pavilion in the
Parque del Oeste and rowed boats in El Retiro on Sunday mornings
when the weather was pleasant. There wasn’t a fair with swings and barrel
organ that we didn’t turn up at, nor any chotis that we didn’t dance
with watchlike precision. How many evenings we spent in the Vistillas
gardens, how many movies we saw in cheap local cinemas. Drinking a
Valencian horchata was a luxury to us, taking a taxi a dream. Ignacio’s
tenderness, while not overly bold, was nevertheless boundless. I was his
sky and his stars, the most beautiful, the best. My skin, my face, my
eyes. My hands, my mouth, my voice. Everything that was me made up
the unsurpassable for him, the source of his happiness. And I listened
to him, told him he was being silly, and let him love me.
Life in the workshop in those days, however, followed a different
rhythm. Things were becoming difficult, uncertain. The Second
Republic had instilled a sense of apprehension in the comfortable
surrounding our customers. Madrid was turbulent and
frantic, the political tension permeating every street corner. The good
families extended their northern summer holidays indefinitely, seeking
to remain on the fringes of the unsettled, rebellious capital where the
Mundo Obrero was declaimed loudly in the squares while the shirtless
proletariat from the outskirts made their way, without retreat, into the
Puerta del Sol. Big private motorcars began to be seen less and less on
the streets, opulent parties dwindled. Old ladies in mourning prayed
novenas for AzaÑa to fall soon, and the noise of bullets became routine
at the hour when the gas street lamps were lit. The anarchists set fire to
churches, the Falangists brandished pistols like bullies. With increasing
frequency the aristocrats and hautes bourgeoises covered their furniture
up with sheets, dismissed the staff, bolted the shutters, and set out hastily
for foreign parts, taking jewels galore, fears, and banknotes across
the borders, yearning for the exiled king and an obliging Spain, which
would still be some time in coming.
Fewer and fewer ladies visited Doña Manuela’s workshop, fewer
orders came in, and there was less and less to do. Drip by painful drip,
first the apprentice girls and then the rest of the seamstresses were dismissed,
till all that were left were the owner, my mother, and me. And
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10 Ma r Í a Du eÑa s
when we finished the last dress for the Marchioness of Entrelagos and
spent the next six days listening to the radio, twiddling our thumbs,
without a single soul appearing at the door, Doña Manuela announced,
sighing, that she had no choice but to shut up shop.
Amid the turbulence of those days in which the political fighting
made theater audiences quake and governments lasted three paternosters,
we barely had the chance to cry over what we’d lost. Three weeks
after the advent of our enforced inactivity, Ignacio appeared with a
bouquet of violets and the news that he had at last passed his civil
service exam. The plans for our little wedding stifled any feelings of uncertainty,
and on a little table we planned the event. Although the new
breezes that swept in with the Republic carried on them the fashion for
civil weddings, my mother—whose soul housed simultaneously, and
with no contradiction, her condition as single mother, an iron Catholic
spirit, and a nostalgic loyalty to the deposed monarchy—encouraged
us to celebrate a religious wedding in the neighboring church of San
Andrés. Ignacio and I agreed; how could we not, without toppling
that hierarchy of order in which he submitted to all my desires and
I deferred to my mother’s without argument. Nor did I have any good
reason to refuse: the dreams I had about celebrating that marriage
were modest ones, and it made no difference to me whether it was at
an altar with a priest and cassock or in a large room presided over by a
Republican tricolor flag.
So we prepared to set the date with the same parish priest who
twenty-four years earlier, on June eighth, as dictated by the calendar
of saints’ days, had given me the name Sira. Sabiniana, Victorina,
Gaudencia, Heraclia, and Fortunata had been other possibilities that
went with the saints of the day.
“Sira, Father, just put Sira—it’s short, at least.” That was my mother’s
decision, in her single motherhood. And so I was Sira.
We would celebrate the marriage with family and a few friends.
With my grandfather, who had neither his legs nor his wits, mutilated
in body and spirit during the war of the Philippines, a permanent
mute presence in his rocking chair next to our dining room balcony
windows. With Ignacio’s mother and sisters who’d come in from the
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The Time In Between 11
village. With our next-door socialist neighbors Engracia and Norberto
and their three sons, as dear to us as if the same blood flowed right
across the landing. With Doña Manuela, who took up the threads
again to give me the gift of her final piece of work, in the form of a
bridal dress. We would treat our guests to sugar-plum pastries, sweet
Málagan wine and vermouth. Perhaps we would be able to hire a musician
from the neighborhood to come up and play a paso doble, and
some street photographer would take a dry-plate picture for us, which
would adorn our home, something we did not yet have and for now
would be my mother’s.
It was then, amid this jumble of plans and preparations, that it
occurred to Ignacio to prepare me to take the test to make me a civil
servant like him. His brand-new post in administration had opened his
eyes to a new world: that of the administration of the Republic, an area
where there existed professional destinies for women that lay beyond
the stove, the wash house, and drudgery; through which the female sex
could beat a path, elbow to elbow with men, in the same conditions and
with their sights set on the same dreams. The first women were already
sitting as deputies in the parliament; the equality of the sexes in public
life was proclaimed. There had been recognition of our legal status,
our right to work, and universal suffrage. All the same, I would have
infinitely preferred to return to sewing, but it took Ignacio just three
evenings to convince me. The old world of fabrics and backstitches had
been toppled and a new universe was opening its doors to us: we had
to adapt to it. Ignacio himself could take charge of my preparation; he
had all the study topics and more than enough experience in the art of
putting himself forward and failing countless times without ever giving
in to despair. As for me, I would do my share to help the little platoon
that we two would make up with my mother, my grandfather, and the
progeny to come. And so I agreed. Once we were all set, there was only
one thing we lacked: a typewriter on which I could learn to type in
preparation for the unavoidable typing test. Ignacio had spent months
practicing on other people’s machines, passing through a via dolorosa
of sad academies smelling of grease, ink, and concentrated sweat. He
didn’t want me to have to go through the same unpleasantness, hence
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12 Ma r Í a Du eÑa s
his determination that we should obtain our own equipment. In the
weeks that followed we launched ourselves on our search, as though it
would turn our lives totally around.
We studied all the options and did endless calculations. I didn’t
understand about detailed performance features, but it seemed to me
that something small and light would be most suitable for us. Ignacio
was indifferent to the size, but he did take extraordinary care over
prices, installment payments, and terms. We located all the sellers in
Madrid, spent hours standing at their window displays, and learned to
pronounce exotic names that evoked distant geographies and movie
stars: Remington, Royal, Underwood. We could just as easily have
chosen one brand as another; we could just as well have ended up
buying from an American establishment as a German one, but our
choice settled finally on the Italian Hispano-Olivetti on Calle de Pi y
Margall. How could we have known that with that simple act, with the
mere fact of having taken two or three steps and crossed a threshold, we
were signing the death sentence on our time together and irreparably
twisting apart the strands of our future.
What People are saying about this
- Kathy Cano-Murillo, author of Waking Up in the Land of Glitter and Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing
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I am going to be honest. I said I would read this book because I think I need to read more women authors and more foreign writers, just to get out of my comfort zone. But when I finally got the book in my hands and read the synopsis I was scared because it was hitting a lot of things I tend to avoid. What will I have in common with a pre WWII seamstress as she deals with love and intrigue in Southern Europe. A dressmaker for goodness sake! But being the dutiful guy that I am I took it to work with me to read on break, to at least make a start. That was a mistake, a big mistake, because BLOODY HELL THIS BOOK ROCKED!! I was distracted at work for the rest of the day and immediately devoured this book as soon as I got home - all 600 pages of it. People like to talk about the skill of the writing as if that is what made a good book, but in reality it is voice (flow) and story and María Dueñas has this in spades. The story is so compelling and slowly grabs you that you do not notice how tightly it has you trapped. Think of flow as notes in a piano recital; bad flow jars you just like an off note. The time in between just flows beautiful y as the pages go by. Very smooth without any off notes at all. What really came alive for me was the society that the heroine had to operate in, pre WWII Spain (& Morocco). It was dedicated to seeing who was loyal to the cause, forcing people to choose sides in a no win situation. But as in all unrighteous dominion situations it rapidly degenerated to a he said/she said scenario. You begin to lose all trust in those around you, even those that are closest. When you can't trust anyone you have no family (in any sense of the word), and that is the beginning of death for any society. Our heroine survived because in even the worst of situations she was always able to find someone, one lifeline to normalcy, someone to trust. It was that connection that got her thorough and it is a good lesson for all of us. Do not hesitate to get this book as soon as it comes out (November 2011 - though currently available for the Kindle). It should appeal to everyone, from millions of Europeans where this book was originally released to mystery loving guys living in Minnesota. This book has it all and is at the top of my recommend to friends list.
This novel truly captures the atmosphere of the 1930's and 1940's. The main character, Sira, is young, capricious, and eager to find her future. Her mother, a dressmaker, teachers her to grow up like her. Sira's story would have ended when she became a dressmaker and lived out her days much like her mother if not for a chance encounter with a handsome man. Their connection is immediate and soon Sira is taking risks for him. Ramiro, Sira's lover, takes her to North Africa; he promptly abandons her and his unborn child. She suffers a mental breakdown, understandable given the circumstances. In order to pay back Ramiro's debts, Sira takes up sewing once again and finds that she enjoys the activity. She rubs shoulders with very influential politicians and officials in no time. Her dresses and clothing line become all the rage and she experiences sudden success. She is tapped by the British Secret Service to spy on the influential people she meets in everyday life. She learns to place the Morse code in her clothing. This novel was very well-written, smooth and the events flowed throughout the novel. Sira's breakdown was jarring as are some of the "spying" escapades, but other than that the reader will find him/herself immersed in a smooth, medium-paced novel. Sira herself is a likable character, she is a strong female character for her time period. To go from a mental breakdown to spying and paying off debts shows both her determination and strength. The secondary characters are all interesting to read about. The reader will find the plot intriguing. This book is recommended for young adults/adults who enjoy more historical novels concerning the 1930's/1940's time.
Every once in a while, a long novel takes me on an emotional roller coaster, and I enjoy every minute. The Time in Between by María Dueñas is one of those novels. On only page 142, the main character can summarize her life thus: "I'd stopped being a humble dressmaker and transformed myself successively into a whole heap of different women. A civil service candidate, heiress of a major industrialist, globe-trotting lover to a scoundrel, hopeful aspirant to run an Argentine company, frustrated mother of an unborn child, a woman suspected of fraud and theft in debt up to her eyebrows, and a gunrunner camouflaged as an innocent local woman." As I progressed through the years and extraordinary events in the main character Sira's timeline, I would blithely update anyone who would listen about what kind of mess or adventure she'd stumbled into now. Sira is an ordinary girl with whom the reader can sympathize strongly, but she comes of age in a turbulent time and place: Spain in the 1930's. From her humble perspective, her only talent is sewing. She is distracted from her calling by a man who unwittingly sets the stage for her to regain her financial security and self esteem by becoming the most fashionable seamstress in Tetouan in Spanish Morocco. There, she meets rich and posh clientele and becomes friends with the lover of the most important man in the Spanish Protectorate, Colonel Beigbeder. Through plausible vicissitudes, her friends rescue her mother from war-torn Madrid, only to send Sira back there in the guise of a Moroccan seamstress who encodes messages about her Nazi customers to British Secret Intelligence in her dress patterns. Surprise visits from her past launch her into her most dangerous mission yet, where she can prove her abilities as a spy. The mission reunites her with the Englishman she loves, but can't allow herself to trust with her secret life. Sira's naivete throughout most of the first part is not only accurate for her historical context, but also allowed Dueñas to insert just the right balance of that historical context for the reader without ever being dry or overbearing. Overall, it's a balanced, factual approach while still showing the way the events may have impacted the lives of real people. The one place it goes wrong is around Chapter 35, when the narrative gets away from Sira to detail the anguish of Beigbeder when he returns to a not-so-friendly Madrid. This could have been handled differently or taken out all together without taking away from information necessary to understand the story. I would have liked to read this in the original Spanish, but the translation is well done. Only occasionally did it seem a little too literal, and with so much going on, that sin was easy to overlook. The character Rosalinda Fox's multilingual mishmash presents a special challenge to the translator and Daniel Hahn does a decent job scrambling languages while making her dialogue intelligible to the reader. The original title, El tiempo entre costuras (literally, "The Time Between Stitches") is more relatable to the story. The reader in English doesn't find out what The Time in Between refers to until the very last line. While the end of the book is a relevant reflection of what has gone before, I can't help thinking there must be a more catchy title to go with this amazing journey.
Book Review by Regis Schilken Sira lives during an explosive time, The Time in Between, in world history. As a young woman under her mother's tutelage, Sira had become an expert seamstress creating the most admired and modern fashions of that time. Her skilled needled fingers created garments sought by those willing to pay for exotic dressware. At the same time, swept off her feet by a man who would sweep away huge sums and jewels she had just inherited from a father she'd never met, Sira moves with this lover to Tetuan across the Straight of Gibralter at a time when Hitler's henchmen are quickly infiltrating the Spanish government, planting seeds of unrest in favor of eventual complete Nazi occupation and dominion. Slowly, she realizes that the man she thought she admired and adored has unwittingly used her very own fortune to continue his high-living amidst Spanish nobility including any other high-lifers who immediately accept him, and his seemingly endless supply of funds, none of which are really his. They belong to Sira. The Time in Between reveals how Sira, fortified with her own ingenuity and with the help of her compassionate landlady and several female conspirators who damn Nazi occupation, she sets up her own chic seamstress workshop-Chez Cirah. In here, Nazi woman seek the latest clothing fashions in northern Africa and are willing to pay plentifully for them. At the same time, speech in Sira's seamstress shop runs freely, particularly among the proud Nazi wives and mistresses of moneyed high ranking Nazi military officials. At any second, betrayal looms. Yet sophisticated Sira remains faithful to her father in Spain who bestowed upon her, her misspent and/or stolen wealth. She begins to work for the English underground. Her shop is a prime location for overhearing and instigating Nazi women to talk of Hitler's intended plans for world domination. Filled with constant anxiety and extreme fear lest she be caught and murdered, Sira sews disclosed secret plans into the hems of her beautiful creations in theform of Morse Code. These garments, of course, reach England and are critically helpful in eliminating political conspiracies and obscure secret missions. What will happen to this brave woman who dares, in one sense, to play both sides against the middle? This tale of betrayal, honor, and unwaving courage I will leave to the reader of The Time in Between. Author Maria Duenas has done a remarkable job keeping her book focused, wandering only far enough away from its theme, to give readers information regarding times, places, and the deep emotions of those involved. I would recommend The Time in Between to all readers who love stories of spying, high intrigue, fear, dishonor, and ultimately-love. The book is 612 pages long, but the story moves quickly. I must confess that I found myself skipping some long paragraphs that seemed to provide just a bit too much detail to move the story along. All in all, The Time in Between by Maria Duenas will not disappoint. It will transport the reader back to an era between two world wars-a time of warfare that eventually plagued most of the civilized world. The story is clever because it shows the length and breath the spirit of Sira, always seeking love, was willing to chance in order to stop an age of tyranny.
After reading so many complimentary reviews I was excited to read this book. Maybe my expectations were too high, but I did not enjoy this book very much. I really liked the story line.about Sira's life. Then information about dress making was interesting. I also enjoyed the fact she was a strong woman who worked hard to overcome obsticles. I lost interest in all the political information that had nothing to do with Sira's life. Chapter 35 was especially long winded and did absolutely nothing to advance the storyline with Sira. I like to read historical fiction. I thought The Other Bolyn Girl was fabulous. This story on the other often bored me when I wasn't reading about Sira. At 600 pages, a good shot of editing would have helped this story.
While the story here was fantastic, a lot of the book is devoted to historical background. I sometimes felt that Sira disappeared for the sake of slotting in large chunks of history, halting the plot and my interest. Overall though, the novel is beautifully written, I cared about the characters, and the history is worth knowing.
This book was interesting because of all of the Spanish history. I am a quilter and loved all the talk about custom dress making.
This book has a good plot, is actually well written, but a bit long winded at times. There are several chapters where the author writes about political situations that are important to the story, to be sure, however should have been done in less amount of pages. It got a bit boring. When she actually writes about the plot it was an interesting read
What a wonderful novel full of intrigue, suspense, espionage. All under the cover of a poor seamstress that grew into a strong courageous woman of the world. Loved it. I can't wait for her next book.
Although this is a pager turner, I can't give it rave reviews. The plot is somewhat contrived with convenient coincidences occurring just in time to save our heroine from certain destruction. The brief historical passages are informative and provide a vivid setting for the events of the narrative. Notwithstanding my criticisms, this was a good read.
This was a great novel with so much history woven into the story. The author and her wonderful writing transported me to Madrid, Morocco, and Portugal in the 1930s & 1940s. I felt the struggles and pain of the Spanish during their civil war and after. I read about a whole other side of the WWII story. There were heart pounding moments where I found myself holding my breath and just when I thought I figured something out, the author would take the story down a different path and I would find out that I was wrong. Loved this book!
Great book, could not put it down.
As a librarian I see many books, but few as good as this one.
From the time I read the first page to the turning of the last, I could not put this book down. Its beautifully and intelligently written, a real gem that I will not be able to stay away from long before it calls me back to its engrossing pages once again.
Interesting, charming, implausible coming of age story of a young woman. Unfortunately, the ending was highly predictable.
There is something magical about great books that can be felt from the very first pages and this is one of them. At the beginning I thought Duenas had too much influence from Carmen Laforet, a well-known female Spanish writer from the 1940¿s; but when I allowed myself to listen the voice behind the narrator, I was completely caught by the pace of the original storyline that fluctuates between the detailed descriptions of everyday life to a subtle and yet powerful political discourse. Great book, highly recommended!
I read quite a bit. This book is well written and will pull you in.
Very well written historical novel, interesting characters. Don't be put off by the length of this book!
The psychological transformation of a young woman during terrifying times in a foreign country was fascinating, as was the historical context that is not well known to most of us. I thought this was one of the best books I have read in years, and I recommended it to many people. This book should interest people who enjoy suspense, historical fiction, and character development.
The mix of factual events and poetic license has created a book that captures the reader and doesn't let go. Thoroughly enjoyed reading this book and have looked to buy the telenovela.
This story has everything i look for in a book - love, history, adventure, and geographical locations that i know very little about.