Hanna's Daughters

by Marianne Fredriksson

Overview

“An uplifting family saga . . . [Marianne] Fredriksson provides a satisfyingly complex . . . chronicle of women and the burdens imposed by their family history, their gender and themselves. . . . Its message of reconciliation is transcendent.”—People

Sweeping through one hundred years of Scandinavian history, this luminous story follows three generations of Swedish women—a grandmother, a mother, and a daughter—whose lives are linked through a century of great love and great loss. Resonating with truth and revelation, this moving novel deftly explores the often difficult but enduring ties between mothers and daughters, the sacrifices, compromises, and rewards in the relationships between men and women, and the patterns of emotion that repeat themselves through generations. If you have ever wanted to connect with the past, or rediscover family, Hanna's Daughters will strike a chord in your heart. . . .

Praise for Hanna's Daughters

“Brilliant . . . Hanna's Daughters outlines the lives of three generations of women and their complicated relationships with one another.”—USA Today

“I loved Hanna's Daughters from the very first page, and I absolutely could not put it down. . . . Written with grace and wit, this novel deserves to be read, discussed, and cherished by future generations of mothers and daughters.”—Judith Guest, author of Ordinary People and Errands

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780345433497
Publisher:	Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:	08/03/1999
Pages:	368
Sales rank:	725,254
Product dimensions:	5.45(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.77(d)

About the Author

Marianne Fredriksson’s novels have sold more than two million copies in her native Sweden. She is the bestselling author of Hanna’s Daughters, Simon’s Family, and Two Women. She died in 2007.

Read an Excerpt

ANNA

Her mind was as clear as a winter's day, a day as quiet and shadowless as if snow had just fallen. Harsh sounds penetrated, the clatter of dropped enamel bowls and cries. It frightened her. Like the weeping from the next bed slicing into the whiteness.

There were many who cried where she was.

She had lost her memory four years ago, then only a few months later her words had disappeared. She could see and hear, but could name neither objects nor people, so they lost all meaning.

That was when she came to this white country where time was nonexistent. She didn't know where her bed was or how old she was, but she had found a new way of being and appealed for compassion with humble smiles. Like a child. And like a child, she was wide open to emotions, everything vibrating between people without words.

She was aware she was going to die. That was knowledge, not an idea.
Her family were those who kept her going.

Her husband came every day. He also was wordless but for different reasons: He was over ninety, so he, too, was near the borderline, but he had no wish either to die or to know about it. Just as he had always controlled his life and hers, he put up a fierce struggle against the inevitable. He massaged her back, bent and stretched her knees, and read aloud to her from the daily paper. She had no means of opposing him. They had had a long and complicated relationship.

Most difficult of all was when their daughter, who lived in another town, came to visit. The old woman knew nothing of time or distance, and was always uneasy before she came, as if the moment she woke at dawn, she had already sensed the car making its way through the country, at the wheel the woman with all her unreasonable hopes.

Anna realized she was being as demanding as a child. That was no help, and as soon as she gave in, her thoughts slid away: just for once, perhaps, an answer to one of the questions I never had time to ask. After almost five hours of driving, as she turned into the nursing home parking lot, she had accepted that her mother would not recognize her this time, either.
Yet she would ask the questions.

I do it for my own sake, she thought. It makes no difference what I talk about to her.

She was wrong. Johanna did not understand the words, but she was aware of her daughter's torment and her own powerlessness. She did not remember it was her task to console the child who had always asked unreasonable questions. Still, the demand remained as well as the guilt over her inadequacy.

Her desire was to escape into silence, to close her eyes, but she couldn't, her heart thumping, the darkness behind her eyelids scarlet and painful. She started crying. Embarrassed, Anna tried to console her, there, there, wiping the old woman's cheeks.

When she was unable to halt Johanna's despair, Anna became frightened and rang for help. As usual, there was a delay, then the fair girl was standing in the doorway, a girl with young eyes but no depth in them. Anna saw contempt in those blue eyes, and for a moment Anna could see what the girl saw: an older woman, anxious and clumsy, by the side of the really old one.
"There, there," she said, too, but her voice was hard, as hard as the hand that ran over the old woman's head. And yet she succeeded. Johanna fell asleep so suddenly, it seemed unreal.

"We mustn't upset the patients," said the girl. "You must sit there quietly for a while. We'll come and change her and remake the bed in about ten minutes."

Anna slipped out to the terrace like a shamefaced dog, found her cigarettes, and drew the smoke deep down into her lungs. It calmed her and she could think. At first angry thoughts: damned bitch, hard as nails. Pretty, of course, and horribly young. Had Mother obeyed her out of fear? Was there a discipline here that the helpless old people sensed and gave in to?
Then came the self-reproach. The girl was only doing her job, everything she, Anna, ought to be doing, according to the laws of nature. But she couldn't, couldn't bring herself to, even if the time and place had existed.

Last of all came the astonishing realization that Mother had somehow been touched by the questions she'd asked.

She stubbed out her cigarette in the rusty tray at the far end of the table. God, how tired she was. Mother, she thought, dear wonderful Mother, why can't you show pity and die?

Frightened, she glanced out over the nursing home grounds where the Norway maples were in flower and smelling of honey. She drew in the scent with deep breaths, as if seeking consolation in the spring, but her senses were dulled. I'm as if dead, too, she thought as she turned on her heel and walked determinedly to the ward sister's door. She knocked and just had time to think, please let it be Märta.

It was Sister Märta, the only one she knew here. They greeted each other like old friends, then the daughter sat in the visitor's chair and was just about to start asking when she was overwhelmed by emotion.

"I don't want to start crying," she said, then did.

"It's not easy," said the sister, pushing the box of tissues across.

"I want to know how much she understands," said the daughter, adding her hope of being recognized and the questions she'd asked her mother, who didn't understand, yet did.
Sister Märta listened with no surprise.

"I think the old understand in a way we find difficult to grasp. Like newborn infants. You've had two babies yourself, so you know they take everything in, anxieties and joys. Well, you must remember?"

No, she didn't remember. She remembered nothing but her own overwhelming feeling of tenderness and inadequacy, though she knew what the nurse was talking about. She had learned a great deal from her grandchildren.

Then Sister Märta talked about the old woman's general condition in consoling terms. They had gotten rid of her bedsores, so she was in no physical pain.

"But she's rather uneasy at night," she said. "She seems to have nightmares. She wakes up screaming."

"She dreams?"

"But of course she dreams, everyone does. The pity is we can never find out what they're dreaming, our patients."

Anna thought about the cat they'd had at home, a lovely creature leaping up out of its sleep, hissing, its claws extended. Then she was ashamed of the thought. But Sister Märta didn't notice her embarrassment.

"Considering Johanna's poor condition, we prefer not to give her tranquilizers. I also think perhaps she needs her dreams."

"Needs?"

Sister Märta pretended to ignore the surprise in the other woman's voice.

"We're thinking of giving her a room of her own," she went on. "As things are, she's disturbing the others in the ward."

"A room of her own? Is that possible?"

"We're waiting out Emil in number seven," said the nurse, lowering her eyes.

Not until the daughter was backing the car out of the parking lot did she take in what had been said about Emil, the old priest whose hymns she'd heard over the years. She hadn't thought about it today, that there'd been no sound from his room. For years, she'd heard him singing about life in the valley of the shadow of death, and the Lord waiting with his terrible judgments.

Johanna's secret world followed the clock. It opened at three in the morning and closed again at dawn.

Her world contained a wealth of images, filled with colors, scents, and voices. Other sounds, too. The roar of the falls, the wind singing in the tops of the maples, and the forest rejoicing with birdsong.

On this night the pictures she sees tremble with excitement. It is summer and early morning, with slanting rays of the sun and long shadows.

"You must be mad,"shouts the voice she knows best, her father's. He's red in the face and frightening in his agitation. She's afraid and flings her arms around his leg. He lifts her up, runs his hand over her head.

"Don't you think, girl?"he says.

But her eldest brother is standing in the middle of the room, handsome, with shiny buttons and high boots, and he's shouting, too.

"To the cave, all of you, and today, too. They might already be here tomorrow."

Then another voice, resourceful.

"Listen now, lad. Would Axel and Ole come here from Moss and would Astrid's lad come here from Fredrikshald to shoot us?"

"Yes, Mother."

"I think you've gone mad," says the voice, but now it's uncertain. And her father looks at the soldier, eye meets eye, and the old man can't mistake the gravity in the young man's eyes.

"Then we'll do as you say."

Then the pictures change, start moving. Feet stomp, burdens are lifted. She sees the earth cellar and store emptied. The great barrel of salt pork is carried out, the herring barrel, the potato bin, the cloudberry jar, the butter in its wooden tub, the hard round slabs of crispbread, all out on the ground, then carried down toward the boat. Sacks filled with blankets and clothes, all the wool in the cottage going the same way, down the slope toward the lake. She sees the brothers rowing. It's heavy going toward the promontory, easier back.
"The oil lamps!" It's her mother calling out on her way indoors.

But the soldier stops her, calling, too, "No, Mother, we'll have to do without light."

The child is wide-eyed and anxious. But then a brimstone butterfly lands on her hand.

What People are Saying About This

Connie May Fowler

With uncommon wisdom, Marianne Fredriksson spins a generational tale about the inner lives of women and the ties that bind. This is story born of pain and perseverance, inspired by the dignity afforded to those who are courageous enough to retrace the steps of their foremothers in the arduous search for truth, communion, and self-discovery. Hanna's Daughters is a generous, consuming, and deeply satisfying novel. -- Autor of Before Women Had Wings

Judith Guest

I loved Hanna's Daughters from the very first page, and I absolutely could not put it down. The rich tapestry of interconnected lives is not only believable; it feels invevitable. Written with grace and wit, this novel deserves to be read, discussed, and cherished by future generations of mothers and daughters." -- Author of Ordinary People and Errands

Lorna Landvik

Hanna's Daughters takes you into the whole wide world of mothers and daughters and all the tragedy and triumph therein. Not only does this book entertain, but it teaches its readers big lessons about what matters most. You'll close its covers and think about your own life. -- Author of Patty Jane's House of Curl and Your Oasis on Flame Lake

Reading Group Guide

Reader's Guide copyright © 1999 by The Ballantine Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc.

1.         Regarding the notion of psychological inheritance, the author states in the foreword that "we inherit patterns, behavior, and ways of reacting to a much greater extent than we like to admit. It has not been easy to take this on; so much was 'forgotten,' disappearing into the subconscious when grandparents left farms and countryside where the family had lived for generations." In your opinion, and drawing from your own experiences, what is the "forgotten" that the author speaks about?

2.         What are some psychological patterns and behaviors that women of your generation have "inherited"? Are they at odds with your ambitions and desires? Why or why not?

3.         Which of the main female and male characters did you most easily identify with? Why?

4.         Have your ever traced your family history before, or had a friend or relative who has? Share the experience.

5.         John Broman describes Hanna as "heathen and witchlike." Do you think that her superstitious nature is just about her fears and insecurities, or does she, like her daughter and granddaughter, have a special sense of things? Is it possible that, because she wasn't educated, her intuitiveness just expresses itself in this way? In that vein, what kind of woman do you think Hanna would have become had she been a part of Johanna's or Anna's generation?

6.         Do you feel that any of the women achieved genuine fulfillment in their marriages? Why or why not?

7.         In Anna's cathartic letter to her mother, she writes that Hanna was the strongest of the three women, that she had "sense and continuity" and was a "realist," who "lived as she believed." Do you agree with Anna's assessment? In what respects was Hanna more of a realist than her daughters? If you were to write this kind of letter to your mother, what would you tell her?

8.         In the last line of this letter, Anna writes, "I've learned a great deal, though, and I'm damn well not going to do what you did, Mother, give up when the truth collapses into a thousand truths." What do you think Anna means by this? How has Johanna given up? What is the truth Anna speaks of?

9.         In Johanna's story, we learn that Hanna offered to help Johanna raise her daughter and assured her that she didn't need to marry Arne. Does this seem an uncharacteristically modern attitude for Hanna, especially for a woman who suffered firsthand the shame of having a child out of wedlock? Why do you think she so adamantly maintains that Johanna doesn't need a husband, despite her own experience?

10.         Anna believes that she is much stronger than her mother and has not "been bowed into total dependence." Has Anna really achieved emotional independence? Why or why not?

11.         Consider this passage at the end of the novel when Anna meets Sofie—the photographer working with Rickard.         Anna walked around the tables, and some time went by before they saw she had turned quite white and rigid.         Here's someone who knows, she thought. Who always focuses on the details, on the little things that could say everything.         "What's the matter, Anna?"         She didn't reply, but turned to Sofie.         "Have you always known?" she whispered.         "I think so."         "I've just learned to. For three weeks here on the shore, I've learned—about really seeing."         "Good, Anna. You won't lose it. You know, once seen . . ."         "I know." What does this exchange mean to you? Why did these two strangers have such an intense connection?

12.         Johanna mentions that the writer Selma Lagerlof had a huge impact on her and her girlfriends in the 1920s—that she dangerously shaped their expectations of love and happiness. Is there a particular book, movie, or figure that affected you—or your generation—in this way?

13.         Aside from the great influence of family, each of these women has been significantly shaped by the spirit of her time and generation. Which do you think shapes us more—our personal, family history or the generation to which we belong? Why?

Editorial Reviews

Brilliant . . . Hanna's Daughters outlines the lives of three generations of women and their complicated relationships with one another.”—USA Today

“I loved Hanna's Daughters from the very first page, and I absolutely could not put it down. . . . Written with grace and wit, this novel deserves to be read, discussed, and cherished by future generations of mothers and daughters.”—Judith Guest, author of Ordinary People and Errands

“An uplifting family saga . . . Fredriksson provides a satisfyingly complex . . . chronicle of women and the burdens imposed by their family history, their gender and themselves. . . . Its message of reconciliation is transcendent.”—People

From the Publisher

[A] satisfyingly complex. . .chronicle of women and the burdens imposed by their family history. . . —People Magazine

Paula Chin

This novel follows three generations of Swedish women. The stories are told by Anna, a writer who is trying to sort out her feelings about her mother, Johanna, and her grandmother, Hanna. Fredrikson does a brilliant job capturing women's desire for emotional closeness.
— USA Today

Nanci Hellmich

A chronicle of emotional and psychological exploration, this family saga, a bestseller in Fredriksson's native Sweden and in Germany, is an unerringly perceptive portrait of women in the flux of Scandinavian history. In this English translation, however, it gets off to a slow start, hobbled by spare prose and often stiff dialogue. But once the characters acquire identity, the novel begins to reverberate in the reader's mind. Set against the backdrop of the 1870s Swedish-Norwegian Union crisis and WWII, the plot skillfully interweaves the stories of three generations of women. Born in 1871, grandmother Hanna Broman is a woman of "sense and continuity," but her life is blighted when she is raped and impregnated by a cousin at the age of 12. Marriage to miller John Broman restores her honor and produces three additional children: Johanna andinterestingly, given the titletwo more sons. As she matures, atheist-socialist Johanna is contemptuous of her mother, whose life has been so deprived that she must learn about mirrors, indoor plumbing and electricity. Johanna's daughter, Anna, is a writer living in the concrete suburbs, hungering to understand her antecedents. Ultimately, Anna acknowledges that she cannot find "a way home" in her research about her family; instead, she discovers that everything about them is "full of contradictions." As a result, this is a book that benefits from two readings because its patterns often are built on characters with identical names or similar personalities, many events are captured in disconnected vignettes and chronologies jump and overlap. Yet the unsentimental depictions of women's inner lives, of the resentment and bitterness that undermine many family relationships and of the harsh truths that can never be spoken, create a portrait of the human need to connect and of the spiritual isolation that often occurs in the absence of such connection. Rights sold in 27 countries; simultaneous publication in fall 1998 in U.S., U.K., Australia, Greece, France, Poland, Iceland, Japan, Brazil, Israel, Korea, Czech Republic; film rights to Bavaria Film in Munich; major ad/promo. (Aug.)

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

This resonant story of three generations of Swedish women, a best seller in Europe, should also appeal to American readers with its universal truths about women's lives and the constraints of society, family, and love. Anna, a writer and grandmother probing her family history, brackets her own story around those of her grandmother Hanna and mother Johanna. At the age of 12, Hanna is sent into service on a farm, raped, and scorned as a whore until an older man marries her and takes her bastard son as his own. Johanna, Hanna's fifth child and only daughter, is the light of her father's life. But Johanna's father dies when she is eight, and she is sent into service with a city family, where she narrowly avoids sexual assault. Later she marries a fellow Social Democrat, suffering four miscarriages and bearing only Anna, a bright girl who resembles her grandmother. Grown and educated, Anna marries a womanizing journalist, only to divorce and remarry him and give birth to two healthy daughters and a son, whose death in infancy nearly drives her mad. An atmosphere of darkness, reminiscent of an Ingmar Bergman film, eases to a satisfying conclusion in this moving exploration of mothers and daughters and the ties that bind.--Michele Leber, Fairfax Cty P.L., Arlington, VA

Library Journal

YA-This novel will make young people wonder about their own families. Shifting back and forth across time and generations, the story introduces three strong Swedish women: Hanna, her daughter Johanna, and Anna, her granddaughter. Born in 1871, Hanna was sent into service at a neighboring farm at age 12; there she was raped by her employer's son. She bore her first child at 13, and was shunned by the whole community. However, the local midwife found her a husband, an older man from a neighboring province, and the couple grew to care for one another and lived comfortably. Their last child was Johanna. She and her mother were always at odds, but she and her father were very close. After his death when Johanna was eight, Hanna moved her four children to the city, where Johanna spent much of her time with her sister-in-law, who eventually gave her work in her hat shop. She had a stormy marriage, and one child that survived, Anna. Her story also reveals a troubled marriage. Anna, the educated one, the writer, tells the story of her mother and grandmother and their relationships with men and with their children. Then she begins to tell her own story. YAs will identify with the mother-daughter relationships portrayed here; time, place, and history may vary, but love, jealousy, passion, kindness, and friendship remain the same.-Molly Connally, Kings Park Library, Fairfax County, VA

School Library Journal