Chapter 1

When I was young, I spent the summer holidays with my grandparents in Switzerland. My mother would take me to the station and put me on the train, and when I was lucky I could stay put and arrive six hours later at the platform where Grandfather would be waiting for me. When I was less lucky, I had to change trains at the border. Once I took the wrong train and sat there in tears until a friendly conductor dried them and after a few stations put me on another train, entrusting me to another conductor, who then in similar fashion passed me on to the next, so that I was transported to my goal by a whole relay of conductors.

I enjoyed those train trips: the vistas of passing towns and landscapes, the security of the compartment, the independence. I had ticket and passport, food and reading; I needed no one and had no one telling me what to do. In the Swiss trains I missed the compartments, but then every seat was either a window or aisle seat and I didn't need to fear being squeezed between two people. Besides, the bright wood of the Swiss seats was smarter than the red-brown German plastic, just as the gray of the coaches, the trilingual inscription "SBB--CFF--FFS," and the coat of arms with the white cross in the red field were nobler than the dirty green with the inscription "DB." I was proud to be half Swiss even though I was more at home with both the shabbiness of the German trains and the shabbiness of the city my mother and I lived in and the people we lived with.

The station of the city on the lake, the goal of my journey, was the end of the line. The moment I set foot on the platform I couldn't miss Grandfather: he was a tall, powerful man with dark eyes, a bushy white mustache, and a bald pate, wearing an off-white linen jacket and straw hat and carrying a walking stick. He radiated reliability. I thought of him as tall even after I outgrew him and powerful even after he had to lean on the walking stick. As late as my student days he would occasionally take my hand during our walks. It made me uncomfortable but did not embarrass me.

My grandparents lived a few towns away on the lake, and when the weather was fine Grandfather and I would take the boat there rather than the train. The boat I liked best was the big old paddle-steamer, the one that let you see the engine's glistening oil-coated bronze-and-steel rods and cages in the middle at work. It had many decks, covered and uncovered. We would stand on the open foredeck, breathe the wind in, and watch the small towns appear and disappear, the gulls circle the ship, the sailboats flaunt their billowing sails, and the water-skiers perform their tricks. Sometimes we could make out the Alps behind the hills, and Grandfather would identify the peaks by name. Each time I found it a miracle that the path of light cast by the sun on the water, glistening serenely in the middle and shattering into prancing slivers on the edges, followed along with the boat. I am sure that early on Grandfather laid out the optical explanation for it, but even today I think of it as a miracle. The path of light begins wherever I happen to be.



Chapter 2

In the summer of my eighth year my mother had no money for a ticket. She found a long-distance truck driver--I have no idea how--to take me to the border and hand me over to another driver, who would drop me off at my grandparents' house.

We were to meet at the freight depot. My mother was busy and could not stay. She deposited me and my suitcase at the entrance and ordered me not to budge from the spot. I stood there anxiously watching each passing truck, relieved and discouraged in turn as they passed. They were...

 

Listeners may need a few minutes to get past Bradshaw's pronounced twang. Once over this hurdle, one is captivated by his mission to heal the early hurts of wounded adults. He accomplishes this with a delivery that is genuine, sincere and confidence-building; his delivery varies from personal and comforting to expansive and comic. He provides moments for private meditation, as well as the feeling of a shared group experience. Except for one instance when a hokey angelic chorus enters, the choice of music is pleasant and unobtrusive. E.F.A. (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine

 

This story of a family with long-held animosities ends with a satisfying resolution. Until the very end, however, the plot and characters are contrived and dull. Nor does Lindsay Crouse's narration add any life to the book. Every phrase or sentence ends with her voice dropping suddenly into flatness. There's almost no attempt to distinguish among characters' voices, and at times the listener is unsure of who is speaking. Musical additions are inappropriate and jarring to the ear, as well. Another rendition might improve the listener's enjoyment of this novel, but it's doubtful, since the material seems as problematic as the production itself. J.J.F. (c) AudioFile 2000, Portland, Maine

 

In his quest to discover his family's history, protagonist Peter Debauer weaves a brilliant Proustian memoir evoking the small details of smells, taste, colors, and sounds of his last summer visit with his grandparents. Peter discovers a fragmented novel whose pseudonymous author seems familiar with aspects of Peter's own life in Germany after WWII, as well as the identity of his father. As secrets are revealed, moral issues relating to WWII come to the fore--a theme reminiscent of Schlink's earlier bestseller, THE READER. Paul Michael's subtle German accent and softened tones when speaking as a female lend the story credibility. Heim's graceful translation and dexterous use of English idioms keep characters and events clear as the novel spans the period from WWII to the fall of the Berlin Wall. A.W. (c) AudioFile 2008, Portland, Maine

 

"A formally beautiful, disturbing, and finally morally devastating novel. From the first page, The Reader ensnares both heart and mind."

 

"A masterly work... The reviewer's sole and privileged function is to say as loudly as he is able, 'Read this' and 'Read it again.'"

 

Homecoming by Bernhard Schlink
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