This is a terrific story, full of intrigue, memorable characters, terrific plot. Evil in the name of science, for the good of the Fatherland—France, in this case, not Germany. Disturbing but not implausible given the state of science at the time, and of geopolitics.
It was the Wild West of science, like the real westward expansion in America, where people worldwide flocked to California to grab a chance at discovering gold. The race was on for scientific discovery as well.
Meanwhile, the French government was worried about the alarming westward expansion by its neighbor Germany—at France’s expense. After the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-1871, Germany claimed Alsace—whose population was historically bilingual—as war reparations; part of Lorraine as well. France was justifiably concerned about losing more territory—and citizens—to its neighboring rival.
Atria, publisher of the English-language editions, did us a real disservice by giving this book such a vague, namby-pamby title, not the direct translation of the original title, which would be
Living Meat
. That blunt title is much more compelling, more horrific—and more truthful. And honestly? I suspect would also sell more books, not that that should matter. The more truthful title would also serve as fair warning to squeamish readers.
Women of this time period were legally still considered chattel, owned by husbands or fathers. So-called men of science believed women were ‘proven’ inferior by their smaller brain size. When even decent women were treated as Untermenschen, prostitutes were considered even more subhuman, as free bodies for the taking, dead or alive. What then was a little experimentation?
The intrepid Madeleine, dubbed ‘Mademoiselle Death’ by local reporter Christophe, finally won the right to study at the University of Varbourg. Not surprisingly, she is not welcomed with open arms. When the truth about Professor Althauser is finally revealed, she is glad to have achieved justice for the dead women, but it has come at a high cost: She lost her place at university. But then, she was never really welcomed for her mind, was she? Althauser was the only prof who admitted her to his class—but that was to scrutinize her as potential brood mare for his secret insemination project. She is the ideal candidate, he tells the biggest Pro Patria donor.
In the meantime, Althauser gets the police to haul in young, healthy, well-nourished streetwalkers—the same ones, again and again—on trumped-up charges of public indecency so he can artificially inseminate them. He even lets the police watch, even gets a photographer to photograph them to document his “progress”. The poor women are legally imprisoned for 1, 2, even 3 months, for supposed syphilus treatment. Althauser is a mad scientist, a Dr. Mengele running an involuntary baby production program akin to that in The Handmaid’s Tale.
Prostitutes at the time were nicknamed “etudiennes” (“female students”)—implying that any female who wants to study at university was considered a whore; the age-old Madonna-vs.-whore dichotomy. The only respectable woman was the one who knew her place, as wife and mother.
August’s grandmother wants to control Madeleine’s body, too. She will support them only if Maddie produces an heir in two years. Instead of being appalled that they have “anticipated” their marriage vows, she is thrilled. Maddie’s father who knows nothing about this latest development, already has a hard time accepting the informality between fiancé and fiancée.
Why am I rehashing the plot in a “review”? I think it’s more to remind myself what the book was about.
The deeper mystery didn’t occur to me until later: The seemingly unrelated flashbacks of a young boy named Adrian were the thoughts of Althauser as a boy. His real mother was a whore, which he discovered when he sneaked downstairs to peek into his father’s study. She was horribly disfigured (by syphilus) and reeked of decaying flesh. Macabre. That explains why his doctor father insisted on examining his son so thoroughly every week! To see if there were any signs of syphilus.
Does that explain the son’s late lapse into madness? Or was his behavior normal for a privileged man of his day? Entitled to do whatever he wished? That lack of feeling, of conscience, was what he drilled into his students, belittling the poor sap who dared to object about dissecting living creatures. Althauser TOLD them—ordered them—to become unfeeling. They were not allowed to be both men of science AND compassionate, at least not in his classroom. Maddie realizes how, in trying to fit in as the lone female, she was duped in this way. Fortunately she was strong enough morally to see that this inhumanity was a crime; and fortunate for the poor dead women, she exacted some measure of revenge on their behalf, by bringing Althauser’s crimes to light.
The scientist was killed by his servant, the woman previously willing to help him as he performed a crude Caesarean operation—outdoors—on a poor young woman only 4 months pregnant. One HE tortured by repeated, forced insemination. He actually wanted to throw the fetus away as if it were garbage, but his assistant felt she owed the dead mother. The infant did survive—and Maddie named her Catherine.
Kaaberbøl explains in the Author Notes that there really was a serial killer in France between 1894 and 1898, around the same time as “Jack the Ripper” in London. His name was Joseph Vacher, only 29 years old by the time he was finally caught and executed in 1898. He killed at least 20 young people, mostly young women and girls but some boys as well, between the ages of 13 and 21.
This book was originally published in 2013, the English translation in 2017. I hope there will be a follow-up to the series, because Madeleine Karno is a terrific character, more real—to me, anyway—than many other female characters in other popular historical fiction series. Lene Kaaberbøl is a fantastic author.
Equal praise goes to the translator, Elisabeth Dyssegaard. As a fellow translator, I know just how much time a (good) translator can, and often does, spend on choosing just the right word to capture the meaning but also the nuance of the original text. As even general readers are aware, different writers in a shared language do not write in the same way; each has a unique style. Translating is thus an art, not a science. No machine can ever do what a human can, which is to live a language, speak it with other native speakers, know idioms and slang, which is what a living language IS. A great translator, like a great writer, is also an avid reader—in both languages. Hours spent unpaid, for the pure enjoyment. If translating an author for the first time, it means preparing by reading all the writer’s works, or as many as possible, to get s sense of the suthor’s writing style.
There is basic translation, then there is literary translation. The latter is a skill developed over a lifetime, not one picked up overnight. A great literary translator must also be a skilled writer, able to make the English text flow as well; it must read/“sound” natural, not stilted.
Translators deserve to be recognized at the very least, which is why, as a volunteer “librarian” on Goodreads, I added Ms. Dyssegaard’s name to the records for the English-language editions.