Acclaim for Anne Michaelss
FUGITIVE PIECES
Winner of the
Lannan Literary Fiction Award
Guardian Fiction Award
Orange Prize
Trillium Award
Jewish Book Award
City of Toronto Book Award
A bold and beautiful novel. The richness and ambition of Michaelss work mark it as an important contribution to the literature of the Holocaust.
Washington Post Book World
Michaelss prose does not race; it hovers, insinuating itself in and around timeless mysteries.
Time
Michaels writes with exquisite sensitivity about the psyches of survivors an extraordinarily wise book.
Philadelphia Inquirer
Perhaps only a poet could venture the brutal beauty involved in setting up a dialogue between the extremes of horror and glory in Western civilization.
Los Angeles Times Book Review
Beautiful. Michaels is extraordinarily gifted. Fugitive Pieces is a novel eminently worth reading.
Hungry Mind Review
Sublime. This first novel at once seizes its place among the literature of the Holocaust.
The Baltimore Sun
A most remarkable first novel.
The Detroit Free Press
A story with considerable innate power. There is much to admire in Fugitive Pieces.
The Wall Street Journal
This extraordinarily beautiful novel is a world. It mends the hopeless and dances with loss. Trust it and read it.
John Berger
Anne Michaels has created a world of stunning, heartbreaking clarity where even the unspeakable is captured in the light-web of her words. She is a superb poet, a breath-stop ping storyteller.
Cristina Garcia
Utterly mesmerizing. It does what all great novels do: illumine through the lights of language and intelligence the heart of a hitherto hidden human landscape.
Chaim Potok
Searing the mind with stunning images while seducing with radiant prose this novel will make readers yearn to share it with others, to read sentences and entire passages out loud, to debate its message, to acknowledge its wisdom.
Publishers Weekly
A poetic masterpiece of loss and redemption.
The Forward
Elegiac and redemptive beautifully written and quietly forceful. It is above all a healing argument for the healing power of words.
Salon
All but a handful of contemporary novels are dwarfed by its reach, its compassion, its wisdom. This is a book to read many times. I simply cant imagine a better novel being pub lished this year.
Independent (London)
This novel is an extraordinary piece of work.
Guardian (London)
Anne Michaels
FUGITIVE PIECES
Anne Michaelss two collections of poetry are The Weight of Oranges, which won the Commonwealth Prize for the Americas, and Miners Pond, which received the Canadian Authors Association Award and was short-listed for the Governor Generals Award and the Trillium Award. Fugitive Pieces is her first novel. Anne Michaels teaches creative writing in Toronto.
Also by Anne Michaels
POETRY
Miners Pond
The Weight of Oranges
for J
D uring the Second World War, countless manuscriptsdiaries, memoirs, eyewitness accountswere lost or destroyed. Some of these narratives were deliberately hiddenburied in back gardens, tucked into walls and under floorsby those who did not live to retrieve them.
Other stories are concealed in memory, neither written nor spoken. Still others are recovered, by circumstance alone.
Poet Jakob Beer, who was also a translator of posthumous writing from the war, was struck and killed by a car in Athens in the spring of 1993, at age sixty. His wife had been standing with him on the sidewalk; she survived her husband by two days. They had no children.
Shortly before his death, Beer had begun to write his memoirs. A mans experience of war, he once wrote, never ends with the war. A mans work, like his life, is never completed.
I
THE DROWNED CITY
T ime is a blind guide.
Bog boy, I surfaced into the miry streets of the drowned city. For over a thousand years, only fish wandered Biskupins wooden sidewalks. Houses, built to face the sun, were flooded by the silly gloom of the Gasawka River. Gardens grew luxurious in subaqueous silence; lilies, rushes, stinkweed.
No one is born just once. If youre lucky, youll emerge again in someones arms; or unlucky, wake when the long tail of terror brushes the inside of your skull.
I squirmed from the marshy ground like Tollund Man, Grauballe Man, like the boy they uprooted in the middle of Franz Josef Street while they were repairing the road, six hundred cockleshell beads around his neck, a helmet of mud. Dripping with the prune-coloured juices of the peat-sweating bog. Afterbirth of earth.
I saw a man kneeling in the acid-steeped ground. He was digging. My sudden appearance unnerved him. For a moment he thought I was one of Biskupins lost souls, or perhaps the boy in the story, who digs a hole so deep he emerges on the other side of the world.
Biskupin had been carefully excavated for almost a decade. Archaeologists gently continued to remove Stone and Iron Age relics from soft brown pockets of peat. The pure oak causeway that once connected Biskupin to the mainland had been reconstructed, as well as the ingenious nail-less wooden houses, ramparts, and the high-towered city gates. Wooden streets, crowded twenty-five centuries before with traders and craftsmen, were being raised from the swampy lake bottom. When the soldiers arrived they examined the perfectly preserved clay bowls; they held the glass beads, the bronze and amber bracelets, before smashing them on the floor. With delighted strides, they roamed the magnificent timber city, once home to a hundred families. Then the soldiers buried Biskupin in sand.
My sister had long outgrown the hiding place. Bella was fifteen and even I admitted she was beautiful, with heavy brows and magnificent hair like black syrup, thick and luxurious, a muscle down her back. A work of art, our mother said, brushing it for her while Bella sat in a chair. I was still small enough to vanish behind the wallpaper in the cupboard, cramming my head sideways between choking plaster and beams, eyelashes scraping.
Since those minutes inside the wall, I'e imagined that the dead lose every sense except hearing.
The burst door. Wood ripped from hinges, cracking like ice under the shouts. Noises never heard before, torn from my fathers mouth. Then silence. My mother had been sewing a button on my shirt. She kept her buttons in a chipped saucer. I heard the rim of the saucer in circles on the floor. I heard the spray of buttons, little white teeth.
Blackness filled me, spread from the back of my head into my eyes as if my brain had been punctured. Spread from stomach to legs. I gulped and gulped, swallowing it whole. The wall filled with smoke. I struggled out and stared while the air caught fire.