This is an unsettling novel; on her 40th birthday Eve Flick gets a tattoo copied from a photo of a woman in Auschwitz in an effort to ensure that she is not forgotten, but Eve knows nothing about the woman. As a result, every time she asked about the tattoo she tells a different story, but each is a tale of women in Nazi Germany – Jews, doctors, Catholics and others – and in doing so she tells the tales of the camps, of the Euthanasia programme, of the demands for conformity, and of the anti-humanism of fascism. But it comes at the expense of her relationship and much of her sense of self.
Prager writes serious with a light touch and constructs both a chilling set of tales of women in the Nazi state and a powerful but not-obvious-in-the-way-it-seems AIDS metaphor without drawing parallels. One of the more unsettling elements of the story is that as she retreats into herself, she becomes more confident and open, more assertive about her place in the City and her house, and more willing to explore the bits of her Greenwich Village neighbourhood that had not seemed so obvious or to which she had become oblivious – all because of a desire to ‘remember’ a woman she knew nothing about.
It could have been mawkish, it could have been all wrong, and any tale of genocide could be, but instead it is fabulous (although part of me suspects I like the concept better than the book itself)!