Occasionally, I comment on books which have impressed me. This one worked its way to the top of my pile of library books this week. After a few pages I thought I wouldn’t continue reading it (sometimes the inclination is to read less confronting books), but I got caught up in the story and finished it yesterday feeling more knowledgeable about Eastern Europe, specifically the Bosnian conflict, and utterly impressed by the writing, particularly the characterisation of the two protagonists, Sara and Lejla, one of whom (Sara) narrates the story. I had google maps open to follow their road trip from Mostar to Vienna.

Other books (such as Kamila Shamsie’s Best of Friends) are about women who have grown up in conflict zones, migrated and then assessed the past and their altered selves. There must be millions of women across the world with similar stories.

I think it’s the first translated book I’ve read which is translated by the author herself. She lives in Belgrade where, apparently, Serbian is the first language, but ‘everyone’ speaks English.

There are numbered chapters, but between them are square bracketed chapters which are flashbacks. Memories become increasingly significant as the story progresses and the reader pieces much of it together before the characters do, or before they admit the truth – although there’s that double thing, where the narrator as writer is fully aware. Towards the end it is evident that she is writing the story for her friend to read as a comfort or, perhaps, a cure for her torment – as well as for her own healing. The ending is a masterpiece in more ways than one, and I feel enriched for having persevered with this astounding and haunting book.