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Hanna's Daughters: A Novel [Anglais] [Broché]

Marianne Fredriksson

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Extrait

ANNA

Her mind was as clear as a winter's day, a day as quiet and shadowless as if snow had just fallen. Harsh sounds penetrated, the clatter of dropped enamel bowls and cries. It frightened her. Like the weeping from the next bed slicing into the whiteness.

There were many who cried where she was.

She had lost her memory four years ago, then only a few months later her words had disappeared. She could see and hear, but could name neither objects nor people, so they lost all meaning.

That was when she came to this white country where time was nonexistent. She didn't know where her bed was or how old she was, but she had found a new way of being and appealed for compassion with humble smiles. Like a child. And like a child, she was wide open to emotions, everything vibrating between people without words.

She was aware she was going to die. That was knowledge, not an idea.
Her family were those who kept her going.

Her husband came every day. He also was wordless but for different reasons: He was over ninety, so he, too, was near the borderline, but he had no wish either to die or to know about it. Just as he had always controlled his life and hers, he put up a fierce struggle against the inevitable. He massaged her back, bent and stretched her knees, and read aloud to her from the daily paper. She had no means of opposing him. They had had a long and complicated relationship.

Most difficult of all was when their daughter, who lived in another town, came to visit. The old woman knew nothing of time or distance, and was always uneasy before she came, as if the moment she woke at dawn, she had already sensed the car making its way through the country, at the wheel the woman with all her unreasonable hopes.

Anna realized she was being as demanding as a child. That was no help, and as soon as she gave in, her thoughts slid away: just for once, perhaps, an answer to one of the questions I never had time to ask. After almost five hours of driving, as she turned into the nursing home parking lot, she had accepted that her mother would not recognize her this time, either.
Yet she would ask the questions.

I do it for my own sake, she thought. It makes no difference what I talk about to her.

She was wrong. Johanna did not understand the words, but she was aware of her daughter's torment and her own powerlessness. She did not remember it was her task to console the child who had always asked unreasonable questions. Still, the demand remained as well as the guilt over her inadequacy.

Her desire was to escape into silence, to close her eyes, but she couldn't, her heart thumping, the darkness behind her eyelids scarlet and painful. She started crying. Embarrassed, Anna tried to console her, there, there, wiping the old woman's cheeks.

When she was unable to halt Johanna's despair, Anna became frightened and rang for help. As usual, there was a delay, then the fair girl was standing in the doorway, a girl with young eyes but no depth in them. Anna saw contempt in those blue eyes, and for a moment Anna could see what the girl saw: an older woman, anxious and clumsy, by the side of the really old one.
"There, there," she said, too, but her voice was hard, as hard as the hand that ran over the old woman's head. And yet she succeeded. Johanna fell asleep so suddenly, it seemed unreal.

"We mustn't upset the patients," said the girl. "You must sit there quietly for a while. We'll come and change her and remake the bed in about ten minutes."

Anna slipped out to the terrace like a shamefaced dog, found her cigarettes, and drew the smoke deep down into her lungs. It calmed her and she could think. At first angry thoughts: damned bitch, hard as nails. Pretty, of course, and horribly young. Had Mother obeyed her out of fear? Was there a discipline here that the helpless old people sensed and gave in to?
Then came the self-reproach. The girl was only doing her job, everything she, Anna, ought to be doing, according to the laws of nature. But she couldn't, couldn't bring herself to, even if the time and place had existed.

Last of all came the astonishing realization that Mother had somehow been touched by the questions she'd asked.

She stubbed out her cigarette in the rusty tray at the far end of the table. God, how tired she was. Mother, she thought, dear wonderful Mother, why can't you show pity and die?

Frightened, she glanced out over the nursing home grounds where the Norway maples were in flower and smelling of honey. She drew in the scent with deep breaths, as if seeking consolation in the spring, but her senses were dulled. I'm as if dead, too, she thought as she turned on her heel and walked determinedly to the ward sister's door. She knocked and just had time to think, please let it be Märta.

It was Sister Märta, the only one she knew here. They greeted each other like old friends, then the daughter sat in the visitor's chair and was just about to start asking when she was overwhelmed by emotion.

"I don't want to start crying," she said, then did.

"It's not easy," said the sister, pushing the box of tissues across.

"I want to know how much she understands," said the daughter, adding her hope of being recognized and the questions she'd asked her mother, who didn't understand, yet did.
Sister Märta listened with no surprise.

"I think the old understand in a way we find difficult to grasp. Like newborn infants. You've had two babies yourself, so you know they take everything in, anxieties and joys. Well, you must remember?"

No, she didn't remember. She remembered nothing but her own overwhelming feeling of tenderness and inadequacy, though she knew what the nurse was talking about. She had learned a great deal from her grandchildren.

Then Sister Märta talked about the old woman's general condition in consoling terms. They had gotten rid of her bedsores, so she was in no physical pain.

"But she's rather uneasy at night," she said. "She seems to have nightmares. She wakes up screaming."

"She dreams?"

"But of course she dreams, everyone does. The pity is we can never find out what they're dreaming, our patients."

Anna thought about the cat they'd had at home, a lovely creature leaping up out of its sleep, hissing, its claws extended. Then she was ashamed of the thought. But Sister Märta didn't notice her embarrassment.

"Considering Johanna's poor condition, we prefer not to give her tranquilizers. I also think perhaps she needs her dreams."

"Needs?"

Sister Märta pretended to ignore the surprise in the other woman's voice.

"We're thinking of giving her a room of her own," she went on. "As things are, she's disturbing the others in the ward."

"A room of her own? Is that possible?"

"We're waiting out Emil in number seven," said the nurse, lowering her eyes.

Not until the daughter was backing the car out of the parking lot did she take in what had been said about Emil, the old priest whose hymns she'd heard over the years. She hadn't thought about it today, that there'd been no sound from his room. For years, she'd heard him singing about life in the valley of the shadow of death, and the Lord waiting with his terrible judgments.

Johanna's secret world followed the clock. It opened at three in the morning and closed again at dawn.

Her world contained a wealth of images, filled with colors, scents, and voices. Other sounds, too. The roar of the falls, the wind singing in the tops of the maples, and the forest rejoicing with birdsong.

On this night the pictures she sees tremble with excitement. It is summer and early morning, with slanting rays of the sun and long shadows.

"You must be mad,"shouts the voice she knows best, her father's. He's red in the face and frightening in his agitation. She's afraid and flings her arms around his leg. He lifts her up, runs his hand over her head.

"Don't you think, girl?"he says.

But her eldest brother is standing in the middle of the room, handsome, with shiny buttons and high boots, and he's shouting, too.

"To the cave, all of you, and today, too. They might already be here tomorrow."

Then another voice, resourceful.

"Listen now, lad. Would Axel and Ole come here from Moss and would Astrid's lad come here from Fredrikshald to shoot us?"

"Yes, Mother."

"I think you've gone mad," says the voice, but now it's uncertain. And her father looks at the soldier, eye meets eye, and the old man can't mistake the gravity in the young man's eyes.

"Then we'll do as you say."

Then the pictures change, start moving. Feet stomp, burdens are lifted. She sees the earth cellar and store emptied. The great barrel of salt pork is carried out, the herring barrel, the potato bin, the cloudberry jar, the butter in its wooden tub, the hard round slabs of crispbread, all out on the ground, then carried down toward the boat. Sacks filled with blankets and clothes, all the wool in the cottage going the same way, down the slope toward the lake. She sees the brothers rowing. It's heavy going toward the promontory, easier back.
"The oil lamps!" It's her mother calling out on her way indoors.

But the soldier stops her, calling, too, "No, Mother, we'll have to do without light."

The child is wide-eyed and anxious. But then a brimstone butterfly lands on her hand.

The picture changes again; the daylight is miserly, and she's perched on her father's back. As so often, she's being carried up the slopes to the mountain lakes, so secretive and introverted they are, quite different from the great lake with its light and blue glitter. But just above the mill, the largest of the dark lakes breaks the stillness and looks as if i...

Revue de presse

"Brilliant . . . Hanna's Daughters outlines the lives of three generations of women and their complicated relationships with one another."
--USA Today

"I LOVED HANNA'S DAUGHTERS FROM THE VERY FIRST PAGE, and I absolutely could not put it down. . . . Written with grace and wit, this novel deserves to be read, discussed, and cherished by future generations of mothers and daughters."
--JUDITH GUEST
     Author of Ordinary People and Errands

"AN UPLIFTING FAMILY SAGA . . . Fredriksson provides a satisfyingly complex . . . chronicle of women and the burdens imposed by their family history, their gender and themselves. . . . Its message of reconciliation is transcendent."
--People

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Amazon.com: 3.8 étoiles sur 5  70 commentaires
20 internautes sur 20 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Women's saga 21 mai 2001
Par Sharon Knutson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Hanna's Daughters is a tale spanning three generation's of a Swedish family. It is told by Anna, who in a last ditch effort to understand her mother, gathers letter, diaries, and journals to read about her mother and grandmother's life.
The story is told through a series of flashbacks with can be disconcerting until you catch the rhythm of the story. The life of the three women revolves around mother-daughter relationships and the path our lives take as a result of the decisions we make.
Each woman struggles with similar heartbreaks (although they don't always know what the other one is/has gone through) They struggle with marriage, children, death, and finding ones self worth in a sometimes harsh world.
While I enjoyed the story (possibly due to my Swedish heritage!) I still felt the story plodded in some sections so I only gave it a three star rating.
24 internautes sur 26 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Hey Stinky 13 janvier 2001
Par Stephanie Svanfeldt - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Funny how true the saying "Like mother like daughter" comes to life in this emotional and inspiring novel, Hanna's Daughters, by Marianne Fredriksson. Three generations of women are portrayed through family lives and a changing society. It is fascinating how the grandmother's lifestyle differed from the grandaughter's although still sharing a common thread. Love and loss, becoming strong though sacrifices, yielding to men and the hardships of running a household are constant themes.
The novel also focused on the many complexities facing the families. A few examples are abusive and alcoholic fathers and husbands and unfaithful fathers and husbands. I was impressed with the way the author structured the sequencing of stories around each of the women. She used past letters, dreams, and flashbacks to compare and to contrast the duaghter's lives. One that I enjoyed was about Broman and his love for his daughter, Johanna. I was able to parallel it back to Johanna's dream about going to the cave when she was a child. She was not cold because she was able to cuddle with her father. Such connections in the book made me eager to read on to uncover others.
Throughout the course of the book similarities between the women's lives began to appear. Hanna's mother, Hanna, Johanna, and her daughter Anna had the emotional bond of child loss. They experienced the heartbreak of children dying in famine, of suicide, abortion and infant death. Another commonality was the struggle of Hanna and Anna as single mothers after the divorce or death of their husbands.
Hanna's Daughters was an incredibly moving portrayal of the relationship between mothers and daughters, their love bond and the hardship that goes along with this love. There are the emotions of guilt and heartache that go hand in hand, even in a sometimes twisted and difficult bond that exists between mothers and daughters. Along with these heart wrenching experiences the author demonstrates how fulfilling a relationship between a mother and daughter can be.
20 internautes sur 22 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 A touching story about a woman's life without being kitsch 21 août 1998
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
This book has been sitting on my bookshelf for quite a time - I never had time to read, but one nicht I grabbed it and could not stop reading. For a few days and nights I lived with Hanna, Anna, and Johanna - all three of them remarkable women in their times. It is very much a "women's book", I cannot picture men liking it that much, because they don't know (and they CAN'T) anything about the sometimes difficult relationships between mothers and daughters. This book even taught me a lesson: talk to each other as long as there is time, don't put it off. It's a wonderful book that makes you laugh and cry! withought being KITSCH.
11 internautes sur 11 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Study in ancestral ties 10 janvier 2001
Par Suzanne Lombardo - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Many readers seemed to find Frederiksson's "feminism" heavy-handed, yet I've known many women who became trapped by motherhood and motherhood alone. I thought that Frederiksson handled the dilemma realistically. I also found the "out-of-body" tone of her characters quite in keeping with the events that shaped them. As time went on, Hanna's thoughts became more and more provincial and insignificant, which is precisely what was happening to her on the outside. I must say I found many poignant points in this story, chief among them the way threads between generations get broken and lost. How this family began in the craggy, lonely mountains and ended up very citified, losing all the "old ways" of doing things. Hanna personified this when, moved to the city, she realizes she is no longer "the miller's wife" or even "the whore." She is no one. I imagine that if we all look back over our ancestors, we'd find the same loss of connection to who we are and where we came from. I loved this book!
11 internautes sur 11 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Powerful story of three generations of Swedish women. 21 février 1999
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
The author claims this is not autobiographical, yet her insights into the depth of her characters might suggest otherwise. Not only the events of their lives and their families, but their feelings and thoughts at each moment along the way. While some of my book group did not like the interlacing of Anna's story into that of her mother's and grandmother's, I found this both a great literary device for this story(ies) and a way of keeping me from losing the continuity of the three lives and how the past repeats itself. The translation from Swedish resulted in rather terse and unembellished prose, but I liked this also. Being of Scandinavian heritage and knowing the story of my grandmother's hard life in Denmark and Minnesota, I could relate to the level of detachment women used as a defense mechanism and their stoic and silent way of bearing all things. The richness of the characters and story have stayed with me long after reading the last page. This is my test of a good novel.
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