I was really looking forward to reading this book. The author, Irene Nemirovsky, was a Russian emigre to Paris who became a successful author in France in the late 1930's early 40's.
She'd begun a series of five novels outlining life in occupied France when she herself was taken to a concentration camp, where she eventually died. Only two of the novels were written, and those were secreted away before her arrest. Her daughters kept them after the war, and they were recently published.
The author's story is tragic, and I was expecting to see some of that tragedy in her stories. What I found instead was the interweaving stories of the capture of Paris and occupation of a small village. Lives intersect in the exodus from and return to Paris, and more lives intersect in the village. There are dozens of characters to keep track of.
The problem is, I didn't end up caring about any of them. The people in the novels seemed obnoxious and self-serving, and the French occupations seemed more of an inconvenience than a terror. I picked up more resentment than fear, and a lot of bombastic talk behind closed doors with capitulation in the face of the enemy. Most of the characters seemed glossed over, and I got no real sense of their feelings from any of them.
Perhaps Nemirovsky never got the chance to flesh them out. Perhaps she held a dim view of the French people. It's a shame that we'll never find out what else might have happened. If there were actual people behind the cardboard facades. Nimerovsky's fate is indescribably tragic, as much as that of any other victim of the Nazis. That doesn't make this a particularly good book.