Books like The Skin

“I ask for freedom for my book.” This was the plea the Ukrainian-Jewish writer and war correspondent Vassily Grossman sent to Premier Nikita Khrushchev after the manuscript of his novel, Life and Fate, was confiscated by the KGB.

Set during the Battle of Stalingrad, Life and Fate (in the tradition of Tolstoy) follows an enormous cast of soldiers, scientists, prisoners, bureaucrats, mothers, and children whose lives intersect as Grossman moves seamlessly from freezing trenches and shattered apartment blocks to extermination camps, interrogation rooms, and laboratories haunted by political fear.

What made the book unforgivable to Soviet censors was Grossman’s daring choice to portray Stalinism and Nazism not as ideological opposites, but as terrifying reflections of one another. Both are regimes built upon fear, conformity, and the crushing of individual freedom. Few books convey so powerfully both the scale of historical horror and the stubborn endurance of human dignity.

Life… show more.

Laurent Binet’s debut novel of “metafiction” draws its title from the chilling Nazi saying, “Himmler’s brain is called Heydrich” (Himmlers Hirn heißt Heydrich), a reference to Reinhard Heydrich, an architect of the Holocaust and one of the most terrifying figures in the Third Reich.

Known as “The Blond Beast,” Heydrich governed occupied Prague through terror, executions, and mass repression. His assassination by Czech resistance fighters in 1942 forms the heart of the novel.

Binet approaches this story in an entirely original way. Rather than hiding behind an omniscient narrator, he constantly steps into the narrative himself, revealing his anxieties, obsessions, research struggles, and doubts about how we write historical fiction. The result is a daring blend of thriller, memoir, history, and philosophical inquiry. The novel is gripping, unsettling, and fiercely intelligent, not only exploring the past but also how we write about it.

Set on the island of Cephalonia during Italy’s occupation of Greece, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin explores the relationship between occupier and occupied and the enduring strength of the human spirit.

When Italy surrenders to the Allies, the Germans occupy the island, and the Italian forces must choose to fight or to resist. In the middle of these grand politics, an Italian captain, Corelli, has fallen in love with a Greek woman, Pelagia, the daughter of the local town doctor.

At its heart, the book is about the fundamental humanity of love and its power to transform people for good or ill. A subsequent film adaptation ignores the novel’s uglier episodes, brightening the story with the incandescent beauty of Penélope Cruz and a happy ending for the romantics in the audience that is far less poignant than the book’s denouement.

Few novels examine the resistance of ordinary, unarmed civilians against occupation. Robert Crichton’s The Secret of Santa Vittoria is one of those books.

After the fall of Mussolini in July 1943, German troops occupy the (fictional) village of Santa Vittoria, distinguished only for its wine. The Germans are there to steal it. In the face of losing their wine, their livelihood, and their dignity, the villagers—usually fractious and commonplace—discover unity and extraordinary courage to resist. Hiding the wine, they confront the Germans with a stalwart moral courage.

Crichton’s novel explores both the humor and horror of life at war and the potential of the human spirit. The result is both deeply entertaining and emotionally stirring. Its celebrated film adaptation starring Anthony Quinn helped preserve the story’s legacy, but the novel itself remains one of the great overlooked treasures of wartime fiction.

Angelo is a Catholic priest, and Eva is a Jew in Nazi-occupied Italy. It doesn’t get much more forbidden than a Catholic priest falling helplessly in love. So is the case in this beautifully written novel by Amy Harmon. Set in WWII Italy, it’s a gripping and at times brutal read about the persecution of Italian Jews by the Gestapo. This powerful setting gives rise to a butterflies-inducing romance between a young priest and his Jewish friend that he tries so desperately to protect. The scenes in which Eva and Angelo begin to succumb to their feelings will leave you breathless, and there is an “I can’t believe I’m kissing you” scene that you won’t want to end.

"Confession: I am nineteen years old, and I’ve been kissed many times. But I’ve never been kissed like that."

What would a world awash in mercenaries look like? Like medieval northern Italy, which was the Afghanistan of its day. Back then, mercenaries were how you fought wars, and anyone who could swipe a check could wage war no matter how absurd or petty. Aristocrats, city-states, and popes routinely hired mercenaries. When I wrote The New Rules of War, I spent three months digging through the archives in Florence, Bologna, and other city-states to understand how the dynamics of private warfare worked. For those who want a feel of the times, try this rare book by famed historian Mallett. It was his last book, finished by Shaw after he died.

It’s mid-20th century, Budapest, and the narrator, a Hungarian writer named Magda, interviews Emerence about cleaning her house. I fell in love with this book early on, when Emerence makes it clear that she, not Magda, will decide whether she’ll take the job. To this day, Emerence haunts me. She’s a peasant, illiterate, an anti-intellectual, tall, and powerfully built. And she’s a relentless gift giver, a caretaker of the sick, and a tireless worker, sweeping the snowy or leaf-stricken street for the 11 buildings on the block. The contradictions and inconsistencies pile up, which is why she continues to roam around in my brain. And there’s the lovely mystery, which only reveals itself toward the end, as to why she’s never allowed anyone into her house. 

Rather than examining Henry VIII’s wars as military engagements or part of international politics, this book looks at the impact war had on the English people. How were towns and villages affected by the need to provide men for the royal army? What was the impact of war on trade and agriculture? How were ordinary men persuaded to enact the violence required by war, and what was the physical and mental impact on them? How were wars justified and linked to a sense of Englishness? Originally given as a series of lectures, the chapters are connected but can be dipped into as stand-alone articles.

When I was researching my novel, I read many books on King Philip’s War, and Jill Lepore’s The Name of War is the best by far. Written in a readable prose style, and filled with detailed descriptions of events, the book riveted me from the first page. I also found myself returning to it time after time for clarification and specific information. I love the way it takes a deep dive into the origins and unfolding of the hostilities as well as looking at its long-lasting aftermath. It also includes a compelling account of Mary Rowlandson’s captivity and release as well as tracing James Printer’s activities.

In the forests of France near the Belgian border during World War II, a French soldier is stationed in a bunker with his squad members.

They are ordered not to leave their posts and to be on the lookout for German tanks. Nothing happens for months except a long, snowy winter. The protagonist experiences a sense of liberation in this rural isolation that he relishes. His environment appears timeless, forever suspended in a gray, benevolent limbo filled with snow, mist, and conifers. He wishes his post would never end.

I love this book because it describes an introvert’s ideal environment: ensconcement, privacy, silence, freedom from larger society, and nature. It contains some of the most unique descriptions of splendid aloneness in the woods I have ever read.