GRETEL AND THE GREAT WAR

A novel that is—to borrow an image from the book—a bomb hidden inside a child’s doll.

The scene is Vienna, immediately after World War I. A girl is found wandering, mute. Her puzzled neurologist theorizes that she’s feral, never exposed to language, and writes an article soliciting information. The only response comes from a distant alpine sanatorium, from a patient who purports to be her father. He says that on the contrary, the girl, whose name is Gretel, grew up surrounded by language, and he sends along 26 bedtime stories for her. What this seems to set up is a cracked and whimsical abecedarian, a chance for Sachs to show his (impressive) plumage as an inventor and a stylist, but as the book progresses (“the Duchess,” “the Immunologist,” “the Quarryman,” “the Understudy”), what emerges is far more intricate, unexpected, and delightful. What appears at first to be a lightly linked rondo of fairy tales keeps interconnecting in surprising ways, with recurring characters (a bereaved mother who one day a year massacres as many animals as she can on an arranged “hunt,” a bitter actress, a sheltered princess, and more) and tropes (dolls, flowerboxes, theatrical lighting). It ends up being not a collection of more-or-less independent tales but an ingeniously woven novel that offers a stylized portrait of interwar Vienna, a fanciful account of Gretel and her family, a reflection on storytelling and on sanity, and—in the end—a sense of how vertiginous and alienated and threatened it felt to be Jewish in central Europe in the years just before Nazism.

Playful, charming, and brilliant—a profundity made of toylike whimsies.