It was not the book itself that first intrigued me but rather its publisher: Persephone Books, with a shop in Bath, a feminist ethos (but not in the way you might expect) and a strikingly minimalist style. I happened to wander in, and ultimately this book in particular seized my interest for two reasons: firstly, it's set in pre-WW2 Germany, a period I was studying at the time, entrenched as I was in A-level history. Secondly, it had a preface by Eva Ibbotson, whose books I had adored as a child, and who turned out to be the daughter of the author, Anna Gmeyner. Safe to say, my interest was sealed by these two factors, but it was the former, my familiarity with the period in which the book was set, that became a principle advantage in reading this book: I had studied Weimar Germany recently enough to understand all of the book's references and context, but still retained curiosity about the period which was deeply gratified by this book’s reflection of the atmosphere at that time. I felt quite uniquely poised to make the most of this book, and hence my enjoyment of it was a lot greater. Gmeyner doesn’t explain certain German terms, or elaborate on historical elements – there is simply an expectation that the reader will understand the context, and hence I recommend any reader of Manja pre-emptively engages in at least a cursory investigation into German history – having the context, though not essential, really benefits the story.

To start with, though, very little of one’s contextual knowledge feels relevant. For modern readers, the introduction of Jewish characters provokes trepidation, but for now, at the beginning, the story is not about societal divisions, the dynamic political situation, or the future of Germany. It is about ordinary people. There is something very striking about the opening chapters, which depict the nights on which each of the five children were conceived. The introduction to each family setting feels intimate, deeply private; in many cases, the lives of these families are mundane, yet there is a brutal, poignant sense of the weight of real life. The choice to focus on the children’s families before the children themselves was, in my opinion, a fantastic one. From the beginning it establishes a sense of how environments, particularly familial environments, shape people. All of this is not to say a broader sociological element isn’t present in this story – Manja is certainly a fascinating documentation of life in the inter-war years, referencing the turbulence of hyperinflation, outrage over the Treaty of Versailles, and growing extremism, among other things. Many of our characters struggle with poverty, and Gmeyner doesn’t shy away from the strain that external pressures put on relationships. However the focus is fundamentally on internal, individual, human emotions and actions. For me, one of Manja's greatest strengths was that despite the weight of its setting, it manages to be an intensely personal story.

After the first five chapters, I was not expecting the focus on the parents to persist, but it was a choice that I liked very much. The full title is Manja: The Story of Five Children, but it is equally the story of the adults responsible for these children. What this book gets very right is the way it captures how people think.

If I were to tell you that in one chapter, Max Hartung, a greedy, manipulative banker, engages in an unplanned act of charity towards a woman he has never met before, at no material benefit to himself, you would wonder at this apparent contradiction. But through detailed inner monologues and emotional reactions, Gmeyner reveals the underlying consistency in apparently inconsistent behaviour: Hartung’s kindness occurs after a conversation where Hartung’s father called Max evil, and we see that his kindness is an attempt to reshape his own identity to escape this label.

The contextualisation of apparently uncharacteristic behaviour is a recurring theme in the novel, and becomes critical considering the environment the story is set in. Gmeyner powerfully illuminates how personal interest informs reactions to wider political events. While the notion that widespread suffering contributes to greater political extremism is not a new one, Gmeyner’s take felt nonetheless remarkably refreshing, as it was the first to really make me feel this idea. Characters’ reactions to political events are always grounded in the tangible – there are very few lofty philosophical ideas discussed explicitly, at least in the beginning of the novel – only the concrete wins and losses that occur, and how these change attitudes. Prior to their elevation by the support for Nazism, we see characters initially suffer, and empathise with their suffering,

for example in the character of Freida Meissner. It is not just that she has materially benefitted in some trivial way from Nazism, for her it is a kind of salvation.

Towards the end of the novel, broader philosophical ideas are confronted more directly, but beautifully explicit analogies still ground them in reality. The way Gmeyner explains ethical concepts is mesmerising, and she always stresses tangible actions and material consequences over idle philosophising. All of this is all the more impressive for the fact that this book was published in Germany in 1938; prior to the earth-shattering events of WW2 and the intense historical reassessment of the nature of extremism provoked by them.

However, while Gmeyner’s depiction of human nature is phenomenal, the sheer number of characters, introduced in short succession in the beginning, did make it rather hard to keep track of them. This was only compounded by the glorious interconnectedness that follows the first chapters, as characters’ lives intersect. I did have to flick back and take notes of the beginning chapters to remind myself of which families were connected. This was worth doing, and I hesitate to claim a fault in Gmeyner’s style: with all likelihood my difficulty can be attributed to me not having very strong visual impressions of characters in my mind. At the beginning, I fell into the trap of assuming certain characters were only minor and would not appear again, and therefore failed to take notice of them, only for them to become central later on. However, for me, this only really applied to the men, and lessened as the book went on. I will make a point of saying that the women, with just one major exception, are characterised incredibly well. I’d expect no less from a book from Persephone. In this time, while we ought to and do expect well-rounded female characters, ‘strong female characters’ is often a highly abused concept, admittedly more so in visual media nowadays than literature. Still, it was refreshing to have such strongly characterised women in Gmeyner’s novel. Seeing the mothers of the children in various, often desperate circumstances, was very evocative, but even more powerful was their sense of agency despite their lack of relative power. All of them have desires, frequently just the simple desire to survive, but all of them act on these desires in what ways they can. In all but one important case, the principle women of this story were not idealised nor degraded, but rather intensely humanised, and this was pleasant to see.

That brings us to the character of Manja.

In investigating this book and reactions to it online (terribly scarce, it’s scandalous how few people are discussing this book) I came across one review by Claire, The Captive Reader – (https://thecaptivereader.com/2011/05/03/manja-anna-gmeyner/) which states the following:

‘Though she lent her name to the title, Manja is not a particularly strong character here, nor are any of the mothers. This is really a book about the four boys growing up and of their four fathers coming to terms with their place in Hitler’s Germany.’

I agree with the second part of this statement. Indeed, the book centres around the growth of the four boys and their fathers. While Manja is the centre around which events are anchored -- she brings the boys together and what happens to her triggers the actions of many of the adults -- I hesitate to call her the protagonist. In any case, the most interesting aspects of this books for me were the different ways in which the boys and their parents responded to the changing political climate. Even without Manja, I feel these would be rather similar. Claire further describes Manja as ‘the vessel for male admiration, reverence and chivalry.’ This mirrors the impression I had while reading. Manja herself is the most idealised of any of the characters – in many ways the least realistic. She is the angel-child that everybody who is sympathetic adores, a symbol of perfect innocence, and what Manja represents to the boys is in many ways what she comes to represent also for the reader. But her lack of moral greyness leaves her feeling rather less nuanced than any of the other characters. I agree that the title of this book is somewhat misleading: readers picking up this book for the first time may be misled into thinking this book is Manja’s story. It is not exactly – rather it is about how everyone around her was impacted by their image of her. This almost certainly falls into Manic Pixie Dream Girl territory, something which Storygraph user 'emilysquest' articulated (much more eloquently than I ever could) in her own review of this novel (https://app.thestorygraph.com/reviews/5f7e7cc7-c83f-4ab8-bde3-2ed0c0bf9afc). However, I see this as somewhat less of a flaw than some readers may: Manja being a Manic Pixie Dream Girl is typically problematic because of this trope’s implicit denial of female subjectivity and internal complexity – but I think the rest of the book in certain ways compensates for this. To go back to the other half of Claire’s first statement: while I agree Manja is not a strong character in her own right, I strongly disagree that the mothers are equally weak. While it may feel the fathers have more ‘screentime’, as it were, the impressions left by Anna Muller, Frieda Meissner, Hanna Heidemann, Hilde Hartung and Lea are incredibly strong, largely because of their opening chapters. As already expressed, I feel the women are characterised very well. Their emotions move the story. Even when viewed predominantly through the eyes of men, as Hilde and Lea are in their first chapters, they are powerfully interesting presences, dynamic and heavily impactful on those around them, and I would argue that their development is a big factor in the story.

For example, Frieda’s elevation in society is given just as much weight as her husband’s.

At least, that was how it felt during my reading.

In addition to the women, the characterisation of the children (excluding Manja) is treated with immense respect. In this way, Manja reminds me of Marcus Zusak’s The Book Thief, a book which I loved (though admittedly I read it a long time ago, so make of this comparison what you will). While Zusak feels somewhat more melodramatic at times (and this is said with all affection for melodrama), Gmeyner feels somewhat less prone to elaborate figurative language and imagery. I would argue Manja is more subdued, yet it still manages to feel deeply evocative and carefully crafted. At times, Gmeyner certainly does reach Zusak’s level of imagery, particularly in the interactions between the children, but where we might say Zusak paints in bold primary colours, Gmeyner by contrast uses nuanced pastels. To illustrate this difference, I compare the notes I took from the two: I find many individually memorable lines from Zusak’s writing, but I take whole paragraphs from Gmeyner.

Hartung does not reply. He stands, with the mirror exaggerating the profile of someone angry and watchful, the lacklustre mien of a jealous man, Othello’s unquiet eyes. But how can one use a pillow to smother a woman who is sitting quietly in front of the mirror plaiting her hair? He is utterly helpless.

Perhaps I’m just easily won over by Shakespeare references, but I think the way in which the allusion starts as a way to express Hartung’s jealousy, but then shifts with the rhetorical question to reinforce Hartung’s new sense of helplessness is fascinating. Through the conflicting emotions present in this one extract – anger, jealousy and helplessness – Gmeyner shows us all the messiness of human emotion. Her language is musical and rhythmic, yet overwhelmingly clear. In my mind, it is this ability to capture emotion in this subtle way, not through single, impactful word choices necessarily, but through a carefully built-upon atmosphere, that defines Gmeyner as an author.

What further sets her apart from Zusak is her illustration of the complexity of motivations that interact. Not to doubt Zusak’s potent characterisation, but Gmeyner’s characters, though perhaps less individually distinctive and memorable than Zusak’s, feel certainly less idealised, more grounded in a gritty reality. Characters are not driven by one goal, but overlapping desires and needs. The characters in reduced circumstances whom she depicts and the sense of cause and effect reminds me of Zola’s naturalism, à la Thérèse Raquin or L'Assommoir. Yet Zola’s writing feels distinctly shadowy, darker in tone, while Gmeyner’s is a poignant mix of light and dark, crystallised by her eloquent prose.

In Gmeyner's work, characters’ feelings and motivations are communicated with extraordinary clarity. However, this clarity of the narrative voice is not echoed in the dialogue of the character. Indeed this is a prominent theme in the novel: characters consistently struggle to say what they really mean, even if they want to. The juxtaposition of the narrative voice and unspoken, almost script-style dialogue scenes, which tell us clearly how characters are feeling, with the actual spoken dialogue that communicates very little, filtered through the characters motivations, is striking. The theme of how poorly what we say can express our true feelings, and the many obstacles to genuine human connection, only becomes more prominent as the novel progresses, and the fleeting moments in which characters are connected through sheer conversation are like beacons of hope.

And boy does one need hope when reading Manja. This book is gut-wrenching.

The most horrific moment comes at the climax with Manja’s assault. What’s interesting is that this scene itself is ultimately just a paragraph long, yet it feels like it goes on for ages. Gmeyner skilfully builds the suspense across several chapters, tightening the noose of inevitability until it is unbearable. What’s even more striking, is that the event is given time to breathe. Most of the chapters that follow this deal specifically with the aftermath of this one event.

The fact that Gmeyner allows such significant, shocking events to have such an appropriately dominant grasp over the story means that the book is very often bleak and painful. But this often depressing tone means those fleeting moments of light are given even more power. The book, for all its pain and suffering, does not feel in any way cynical, the way many books can. Gmeyner is a master of hope. She balances suffering with relief: these in-between chapters came like a soft wave and these were consistently my favourite parts because they provide such a respite from the horrific tension. That’s not to say these parts are devoid of any conflict - in fact the opposite, these moments of light are full of complexity – but the conflict is only engaging. Gmeyner illustrates masterfully how happiness is often all the greater for the way it arises out of and often despite stress (take the very first chapter with the Heidemanns for example).

This book came at a critical time for me. Dealing with the stress of my own life, I had begun to feel overwhelmed when confronted with distressing content in literature. There was a temptation to simply avoid all depressing books, to turn reading into simple light escapism. Fortunately, Manja has steered me comfortably away from this notion. While the importance of reading distressing content was not a new revelation to me– I would likely have found my way back to this path regardless – it has undoubtedly consolidated my resolve. This is something this book did rather consistently – it does not necessarily introduce new concepts, much of its themes are things we already intuitively understand, but it makes one feel these concepts, and in doing so makes us truly believe them. You can go your whole life thinking that you believe an idea, but it's only when a story comes along that makes you feel it that you really internalise it. In this case, Manja has affirmed my decision not to shy away from depressing content, partly because it has illustrated to me that only with darkness does the light of hope shine brightest.

As such, I feel I owe this book something. For some reason, it seems to have been lost from history. This outstandingly modern book, written in 1938, despite its prescience and skill in capturing the atmosphere in the Weimar period, has been overlooked by mainstream media. I have seen it nowhere on Booktube and it has less than 40 reviews on goodreads at the time of writing this. It is a long book, and yet I found myself not wanting it to end, and for that reason I wholeheartedly recommend it. Certainly, if you enjoyed The Book Thief, you simply must try out Manja, but be prepared for a strikingly adult tale, with many dark themes.

The last benefit of this book is that it seems to inspire fantastically analytical discussion. Perhaps because ostensibly so few people have read this book, and even fewer are talking about it, at least in English, the reviews that are out there are rather insightful and fascinating. I have already mentioned Claire’s and emilysquests as some of my favourites. I look forward to hopefully more fascinating discussions, should this book ever get the attention it deserves.

Content Warnings