My grandmother had this book in her library in Bosnia - when I visited to spend summers with her after the 90s war, I'd often run out of reading material and would pick something from her stash. (This is how I ended up reading Jane Eyre for the first time, which I loved and wasn't completely inappropriate for a thirteen year-old; and Thornbirds, which was definitely inappropriate for a thirteen year-old).
This book falls somewhere in-between on the scale of "even Eastern Europeans would give the person who let the child read this book a side-eye" and "not even American parents would object". Most of the politics wooshed over my head with the speed of light, despite my grandmother's noble efforts to enlighten me about World War II and the Cultural Revolution (my father was an only child born late in her life, she never did have a knack with kids - now, politics were a different matter). More than twenty years later, I don't remember much of the plot apart from the fact that I had a little crush on the surgeon, was often annoyed with Stephanie, and THAT ENDING. It crushed my tiny green feelings and made me swear to never read another novel from that bookcase again. Until I inevitably did, come next year.
I guess I was inspired to write this short note (a review it is not, I'm well aware) because I was sad to see the dearth of readers here, and it's one of the books that probably got me "into" reading in the first place. In any case, it made enough of an impact on my then-still-plastic brain for me to remember it after all this time, fondly, like those summers at my grandmother's house.