Julia

by Sandra Newman

The first bomb site was relatively new. Plaster dust still swirled in the air, and a family of ragpickers dug through the wreckage. Their prettiest daughter—a black-eyed waif of nine or ten in a velveteen frock twice her size—was stationed on a blanket at the side of the road to sell their meager finds to passersby: battered shoes, old nails and screws, a pair of scuffed eyeglasses.

The strength of this novel is its world-building. Here’s a good example.

The hostel’s two cats were curled beside her, Commissar grooming himself, while Tiger watched him intently as if waiting for him to make a mistake.

Cats will be cats. Am I right?

The lighting was harsh and bright, medicinal in its intensity, and his slight figure and stooped shoulders gave him the look of an invalid. His limp was more pronounced than before, and the effort of walking down the hallway seemed almost more than he could bear. His face was deeply lined. His very fair hair seemed almost white. There was a mix of the geriatric and the boyish in his struggling form.

Never mess with Big Brother, or you could end up like this.

Julia’s mother, Clara, said of such women that you could safely hit them in the face with a brick if you didn’t mind what happened to the brick.

I got a chuckle out of this line.