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Suite Française (Hardcover)
by Irene Némirovsky
| Category:
World War II, French society during WWII, History of Europe, Fiction |
| Market price: ¥ 268.00
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¥ 248.00
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 Good for Gifts |
| MSL Pointer Review:
A remarkable piece of art and a captivating blend of fiction and fact, history and storytelling, this book is a WWII classic of chaos, fear and loss. |
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Author: Irene Némirovsky
Publisher: Knopf; Tra edition
Pub. in: April, 2006
ISBN: 1400044731
Pages: 416
Measurements: 9.4 x 6.6 x 1.5 inches
Origin of product: USA
Order code: BA00737
Other information: ISBN-13: 978-1400044733
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- Awards & Credential -
One of the Amazon.com Top 50 book bestsellers in 2006. It ranks #22 in books out of millions on Amazon.com as of February 25, 2007. |
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- MSL Picks -
Irene Nemirovsky's portrait of French society in the paroxysm of war and occupation is not judgmental, but it is devastating. Suite Française combines two novels, one dealing with the escape of Jews from Paris during the egression of 1940 and the second with the early period of Nazi occupation. Irene Nemirovsky was Jewish, but converted to Catholicism and wrote two anti-Semitic magazines in an attempt to hide the family's Jewish origins and protect her children from growing anti-Semitism. In 1940 - because of their Jewish ancestry - they were no longer allowed to work and sent their children to live with family in Burgundy while they stayed in Paris. Two years later, Irene Nemirovsky was arrested as a "stateless person of Jewish descent" by French police under the occupying German law, and transported to Auschwitz where, according to official papers, she died a month later of typhus. Her husband was sent to Auschwitz shortly thereafter, and was immediately put to death in the gas chambers.
Denise and Elisabeth - Irene Nemirovsky and Michel Epstein's daughters - were spared. For the rest of the war, they were cared for by a Catholic woman who moved them from one safe house to another. Keep their mother's journal in a suitcase for some fifty years, never reading the treasured transcripts. It wasn't until the late 70's that Miss Denise Epstein painstakingly read and transcribed her mother's cherished journal. "It made me angry to read it. Seeing my mother's wonderful lucidity just gave me a tremendous sensation of abandonment." said Miss Epstein. Suite Française by Irene Nemirovsky has been compared to War and Peace, but Irene Nemirovsky's wit and precipitous eye for the depravities of human nature are unmatched. With Europe crumbling around her, Némirovsky's dynamic characters fulminate with one another in terrible times and Storm in June becomes a bewildering tragic-comedy of manners. The English translation of this work misses nothing, not a flower, an animal nor an insect. Such acute details means that Nemirovsky's characters are full of life and diversity, as are the animals she so tellingly describes.
Target readers:
General readers, but especially good for people interested in WWII, the history of Europe, and great biographic fiction.
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Irène Némirovsky was born in Kiev in 1903 into a wealthy banking family and emigrated to France during the Russian Revolution. After attending the Sorbonne, she began to write and swiftly achieved success with her first novel, David Golder, which was followed by The Ball, The Flies of Autumn, Dogs and Wolves and The Courilof Affair. She died in 1942.
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From Publisher
By the early l940s, when Ukrainian-born Irène Némirovsky began working on what would become Suite Française - the first two parts of a planned five-part novel - she was already a highly successful writer living in Paris. But she was also a Jew, and in 1942 she was arrested and deported to Auschwitz: a month later she was dead at the age of thirty-nine. Two years earlier, living in a small village in central France - where she, her husband, and their two small daughters had fled in a vain attempt to elude the Nazis - she'd begun her novel, a luminous portrayal of a human drama in which she herself would become a victim. When she was arrested, she had completed two parts of the epic, the handwritten manuscripts of which were hidden in a suitcase that her daughters would take with them into hiding and eventually into freedom. Sixty-four years later, at long last, we can read Némirovsky’s literary masterpiece
The first part, "A Storm in June," opens in the chaos of the massive 1940 exodus from Paris on the eve of the Nazi invasion during which several families and individuals are thrown together under circumstances beyond their control. They share nothing but the harsh demands of survival - some trying to maintain lives of privilege, others struggling simply to preserve their lives - but soon, all together, they will be forced to face the awful exigencies of physical and emotional displacement, and the annihilation of the world they know. In the second part, "Dolce," we enter the increasingly complex life of a German-occupied provincial village. Coexisting uneasily with the soldiers billeted among them, the villagers - from aristocrats to shopkeepers to peasants - cope as best they can. Some choose resistance, others collaboration, and as their community is transformed by these acts, the lives of these these men and women reveal nothing less than the very essence of humanity.
Suite Française is a singularly piercing evocation - at once subtle and severe, deeply compassionate and fiercely ironic - of life and death in occupied France, and a brilliant, profoundly moving work of art.
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1
War
Hot, thought the Parisians. The warm air of spring. It was night, they were at war and there was an air raid. But dawn was near and the war far away. The first to hear the hum of the siren were those who couldn’t sleep - the ill and bedridden, mothers with sons at the front, women crying for the men they loved. To them it began as a long breath, like air being forced into a deep sigh. It wasn’t long before its wailing filled the sky. It came from afar, from beyond the horizon, slowly, almost lazily. Those still asleep dreamed of waves breaking over pebbles, a March storm whipping the woods, a herd of cows trampling the ground with their hooves, until finally sleep was shaken off and they struggled to open their eyes, murmuring, "Is it an air raid?"
The women, more anxious, more alert, were already up, although some of them, after closing the windows and shutters, went back to bed. The night before - Monday, 3 June - bombs had fallen on Paris for the first time since the beginning of the war. Yet everyone remained calm. Even though the reports were terrible, no one believed them. No more so than if victory had been announced. "We don’t understand what’s happening," people said.
They had to dress their children by torchlight. Mothers lifted small, warm, heavy bodies into their arms: "Come on, don’t be afraid, don't cry." An air raid. All the lights were out, but beneath the clear, golden June sky, every house, every street was visible. As for the Seine, the river seemed to absorb even the faintest glimmers of light and reflect them back a hundred times brighter, like some multifaceted mirror. Badly blacked-out windows, glistening rooftops, the metal hinges of doors all shone in the water. There were a few red lights that stayed on longer than the others, no one knew why, and the Seine drew them in, capturing them and bouncing them playfully on its waves. From above, it could be seen flowing along, as white as a river of milk. It guided the enemy planes, some people thought. Others said that couldn’t be so. In truth, no one really knew anything. “I’m staying in bed," sleepy voices murmured, “I’m not scared." "All the same, it just takes one... " the more sensible replied.
Through the windows that ran along the service stairs in new apartment blocks, little flashes of light could be seen descending: the people living on the sixth floor were fleeing the upper storeys; they held their torches in front of them, in spite of the regulations. “Do you think I want to fall on my face on the stairs! Are you coming, Emile?” Everyone instinctively lowered their voices as if the enemy’s eyes and ears were everywhere. One after another, doors slammed shut. In the poorer neighbourhoods there was always a crowd in the Métro, or the foul-smelling shelters. The wealthy simply went to sit with the concierge, straining to hear the shells bursting and the explosions that meant bombs were falling, their bodies as tense as frightened animals in dark woods as the hunter gets closer. Though the poor were just as afraid as the rich, and valued their lives just as much, they were more sheeplike: they needed one another, needed to link arms, to groan or laugh together.
Day was breaking. A silvery blue light slid over the cobblestones, over the parapets along the quayside, over the towers of Notre-Dame. Bags of sand were piled halfway up all the important monuments, encircling Carpeaux’s dancers on the façade of the Opera House, silencing the Marseillaise on the Arc de Triomphe.
Still at some distance, great guns were firing; they drew nearer, and every window shuddered in reply. In hot rooms with blacked-out windows, children were born, and their cries made the women forget the sound of sirens and war. To the dying, the barrage of gunfire seemed far away, without any meaning whatsoever, just one more element in that vague, menacing whisper that washes over those on the brink of death. Children slept peacefully, held tight against their mothers’ sides, their lips making sucking noises, like little lambs. Street sellers’ carts lay abandoned, full of fresh flowers.
The sun came up, fiery red, in a cloudless sky. A shell was fired, now so close to Paris that from the top of every monument birds rose into the sky. Great black birds, rarely seen at other times, stretched out their pink-tinged wings. Beautiful fat pigeons cooed; swallows wheeled; sparrows hopped peacefully in the deserted streets. Along the Seine each poplar tree held a cluster of little brown birds who sang as loudly as they could. From deep beneath the ground came the muffled noise everyone had been waiting for, a sort of three-tone fanfare. The air raid was over.
2
In the Péricand household they listened in shocked silence to the evening news on the radio, but no one passed comment on the latest developments. The Péricands were a cultivated family: their traditions, their way of thinking, their middle-class, Catholic background, their ties with the Church (their eldest son, Philippe Péricand, was a priest), all these things made them mistrustful of the government of France. On the other hand, Monsieur Péricand’s position as curator of one of the country’s national museums bound them to an administration that showered its faithful with honours and financial rewards.
A cat held a little piece of bony fish tentatively between its sharp teeth. He was afraid to swallow it, but he couldn’t bring himself to spit it out either.
Madame Péricand finally decided that only a male mind could explain with clarity such strange, serious events. Neither her husband nor her eldest son was at home: her husband was dining with friends, her son was not in Paris. Charlotte Péricand, who ruled the family's daily life with an iron hand (whether it was managing the household, her children’s education or her husband’s career), was not in the habit of seeking anyone’s opinion. But this was of a different order. She needed a voice of authority to tell her what to believe. Once pointed in the right direction, there would be no stopping her. Even if given absolute proof she was mistaken, she would reply with a cold, condescending smile, "My father said so... My husband is very well-informed." And she would make a dismissive little gesture with her gloved hand.
She took pride in her husband's position (she herself would have preferred a more domestic lifestyle, but following the example of our Dear Saviour, each of us has his cross to bear). She had come home between appointments to oversee her children’s studies, the baby’s bottles and the servants’ work, but she didn’t have time to take off her hat and coat. For as long as the Péricand children could remember, their mother was always ready to go out, armed with hat and white gloves. (Since she was thrifty, her mended gloves had the faint smell of stain remover, a reminder of their passage through the dry-cleaners.)
As soon as she had come in this evening, she had gone to stand in front of the radio in the drawing room. Her clothes were black, her hat a divine little creation in fashion that season, decorated with three flowers and topped with a silk pom-pom. Beneath it, her face was pale and anguished, emphasising the marks of age and fatigue. She was forty-seven years old and had five children. You would have thought, to look at her, that God had intended her to be a redhead. Her skin was extremely delicate, lined by the passing years. Freckles were dotted over her strong, majestic nose. The expression in her green eyes was as sharp as a cat’s. At the last minute, however, it seemed that Providence had wavered, or decided that a shock of red hair would not be appropriate, neither to Madame Péricand’s irreproachable morals nor to her social status, so she had been given mousy brown hair, which she was losing by the handful since she’d had her last child. Monsieur Péricand was a man of great discipline: his religious scruples prohibited a number of pleasures and his concern for his reputation kept him away from places of ill repute. The youngest Péricand child was only two, and between Father Philippe and the baby, there were three other children, not counting the ones Madame Péricand discreetly referred to as the “three accidents”: babies she had carried almost to term before losing them, so that three times their mother had been on the verge of death.
The drawing room, where the radio was now playing, was enormous and well-proportioned, with four windows overlooking the Boulevard Delessert. It was furnished in traditional style, with large armchairs and settees upholstered in golden yellow. Next to the balcony, the elder Monsieur Péricand sat in his wheelchair. He was an invalid whose advancing age meant that he sometimes lapsed back into childhood and only truly returned to his right mind when discussing his fortune, which was considerable (he was a Péricand-Maltête, heir of the Maltête family of Lyon). But the war, with its trials and tribulations, no longer affected him. He listened, indifferent, steadily nodding his beautiful silvery beard. The children stood in a semi-circle behind their mother, the youngest in his nanny’s arms. Nanny had three sons of her own at the front. She had brought the little boy downstairs to say goodnight to his family and took advantage of her brief entry into the drawing room to listen anxiously to what they were saying on the radio...
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Cathleen McGuigan (Newsweek) (MSL quote), USA
<2007-02-25 00:00>
Stories about World War II seem to occur in black and white, all grainy and bleak. That makes the stunning novel Suite Française, about the German occupation of France, all the more remarkable. As the book opens and the Nazis approach the outskirts of Paris, the June skies are gorgeously bright; later, the narrative is rich with evocations of blossoms and trees heavy with fruit, of fragrant air and the sounds of birds - as well as a scene where a cat claws a bird to death and stabs its tiny heart. Lush beauty is the backdrop to dark events, and so is natural cruelty. The characters who populate this sweeping saga of violence and survival - and who exhibit far more self-interest than virtue - are described with the same gleaming precision. The author of Suite Française is one of the most fascinating literary figures you’ve never heard of - and her own tragic story only deepens the impact of her book... The [book’s] first part, "Storm in June," depicts in brilliant detail the tumultuous exodus from Paris in the summer of 1940... There are harrowing scenes on the roads jammed with refugees... The second part, "Dolce," is quieter, if no less ominous. Set in an occupied village, it delineates the tangled emotions of the conquered and the conquerors... Suite Française - gripping, clear-eyed and lyrical–doesn’t seem incomplete. Yet as wonderful as it is, when you read Némirovsky’s notes, included in an appendix, you see the scope of her ambition and you mourn. She was planning a kind of War and Peace for the 20th century and, tragically, she never saw how her story could end.
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Publishers Weekly (MSL quote), USA
<2007-02-25 00:00>
Celebrated in pre-WWII France for her bestselling fiction, the Jewish Russian-born Némirovsky was shipped to Auschwitz in the summer of 1942, months after this long-lost masterwork was composed... In a workbook entry penned just weeks before her arrest, Némirovsky noted that her goal was to describe "daily life, the emotional life and especially the comedy it provides." This heroic work does just that, by focusing - with compassion and clarity - on individual human dramas.
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Booklist (MSL quote), USA
<2007-02-25 00:00>
A grandly symphonic, courageous, and scathing work... Suite Française is a magnificent novel of the insidious devastation of occupation, and Némirovsky is brilliant and heroic, summoning up profound empathy for all, including regretful German soldiers. Everything about this transcendent novel is miraculous.
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The New York Times Book Review (MSL quote), USA
<2007-02-25 00:00>
Stunning... A tour de force of narrative distillation, using a handful of people to represent a multitude. Némirovsky’s shifts in tone and pace, sensitively rendered in Sandra Smith’s graceful translation, are mesmerizing... She wrote what may be the first work of fiction about what we now call World War II. She also wrote, for all to read at last, some of the greatest, most humane and inclusive fiction that conflict has produced.
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