The Happiest Country, a Long Time Ago

Happy Times in Finland – written by Libushka Bartusek, illustrated by Warren Chappell
Alfred A. Knopf, 1941

Everyone knows that Finland is allegedly the happiest country in the world.  You certainly can’t take these simplistic measures too seriously, and comparing Finland to other countries with entirely different histories, economies, and demographics is useless.  I recently reread an unusual childhood favorite, which I had bought at a library used book sale. Its appeal to me at the time remains vague. I would read almost anything, and it had lovely pictures and promised to tell a story about a distant part of the world. Happy Times in Finland, by  Libushka Bartusek, was published in 1941. At that point, it was indisputably not happy at all.  Having been invaded by the Soviet Union, they eventually allied with Germany in that country’s war with its Russian enemy.  This was a bad choice, but it is not reflected in the book, which takes place in the idyllic time period before the war.

There is minimal plot and character development in the book, but a lot of folklore.  To summarize the improbable premise, Juhani Malmberg, a Chicago Boy Scout with Finnish immigrant parents, goes to visit his ancestral homeland.  He is able to take this expensive trip due to the generosity of his father’s employer at a furniture factory, Mr. Adams.  Finland is known for, besides an improbable level of happiness, abundant high-quality wood. A furniture manufacturer would be eager to see firsthand the source of his best supplies. Since Mr. Malmberg is such a loyal employee, his benevolent boss actually takes Juhani along, for free! He has the opportunity to see his beloved grandparents, as well as his aunt, uncle, and cousins.  In addition, Juhani becomes an ambassador from the American Scouts to their Finnish counterparts.  Aside from missing his parents, there’s a lot of happiness here.

Poetic language fulfills expectations about a land endowed with natural resources, and steeped in literature.  Approaching land, Juhani seems to be expecting a myth and he finds one: “Sure enough, there it was, just as his mother said it would be: an expanse of water, blue as sapphire, with green islands dotting it, as though some giant had scattered a mammoth handful of emeralds on a silver-streaked scarf.”  Not only the environment, but its people, are described with hyperbole. Oddly, almost everyone is blond.  Finland has a Swedish minority; the name “Malmberg” indicates that his father’s family is descended from this group. His cousins’ last name is Kallio, of Finnish origin.

Finnish is not a Scandinavian language, but is related most closely to Estonian and Hungarian. (A glossary of Finnish words is included at the end of the book.) Here is a description of Juhani’s aunt, a veritable Amazon of pale beauty: “She was tall and blond, so blond, in fact, that Juhani thought she was white-haired…she had great dignity…he felt as though he were at the feet of some exceedingly beautiful statue, all made of silver and bronze and pearl…her teeth gleamed like mother-of-pear.” There are even references to “Viking blood.”

The few realistic elements stand out because of their minimal role in the story.  Aunt Kallio, Aiti to her children, has favorites among her offspring.  Her older son, Jussi, will vicariously fulfill her own dream by becoming an architect, a career closed to women. Eero, the younger boy, is not academically oriented. Unlike his parents, he prefers manual labor. She keeps her disappointment to herself, only thinking how he lacks “initiative.” “Oh, me! she sighed, one could not be everything.”  This statuesque symbol of perfection is unable to tolerate individual differences.

Warren Chappell’s illustrations, some in color and others sepia, appear to be lithographs.  They are stylized images, whether portraying men in a sauna or women clothed in traditional costumes for festivals. There is a haunting image of a blind storyteller who recites Finnish epic poetry.  Mr. Adams recognizes that the Kalevala’s metrics had influenced Longfellow’s composition of Hiawatha. The Old World and the New touch one another in this tale of immigrant roots, written as the shadow of fascism descended on Europe. It’s blatantly out-of-date and also oddly appealing, just for that reason.

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

The Witching Hour – written by Jennifer Harris, illustrated by Adelina Lirius
Tundra Books, 2025

My mother used to refer to “the witching hour,” that time late in the day when babies, toddlers, and young children seem to act a bit possessed. Whether because they have managed their impulses as best as they can for many hours, or need limits and reassurance, or are just exhausted, this can be a difficult moment for parents. The “hour” may seem like multiple hours.  Jennifer Harris and Adelina Lirius (I reviewed another of her works here) have captured the phenomenon so perfectly in their new picture book that you and your children will be under their spell. Indeed, as Harris solemnly states, “Anything can happen in the witching hour.”

The two mothers in the book are paragons of patience, trying every inventive solution you might imagine, and then some.  First, the acknowledge that anything, “or even nothing at all,” can set the chaos in motion.  A baby overturns a cup of liquid on a table enclosed in a lovely tree trunk. Yes, we all recognize that scene.  An older child wearing an acorn cap looks on, clearly worried about the next phase.  The author is honest in calling it “chaos.” It takes both moms to extricate the screaming toddler from her highchair. An adult chair is overturned, a black cat arches its back, and the sibling covers her ears in terror.

One of the most frustrating features of the witching hour, when it happens, is escalation. “Coos can become cries.  Cries can become caterwauls. Caterwauls can become crescendos.”  Harris uses every figure of speech at her disposal: alliteration, onomatopoeia, literary allusions, rhythm.  Perhaps your child can be calmed by a favorite stuffed animal. The moms try a variety of real wildlife, finally settling on the owl. You know the feeling of relief: “Definitely the owl. Thank goodness for the owl.”

If you were hoping for fairies, you won’t be disappointed.  They arrive and join in the music and dancing, in a kinetic scene of joy mixed with desperation. Lirius’s fabulous pictures evoke an entire universe where the fantastic and the familiar are effortlessly blended. Earth colors predominate and the domestic interiors are as welcoming as those in Dutch still paintings. One mom holds the baby, who looks momentarily transfixed. The other mom is dancing upside down, her feet fixed to a magical broom.  Fairies usually command attention, but here they are a great audience. When the show ends (who could sustain that level of energy), the moms come down to earth. 

There are still many comforting possibilities to try: “this bottle, this banana, this bat.” The moms are creative and full of hope, waiting for the moon to signal that at least for today, it’s time to sleep. Suspension of disbelief sets in for this lovely family of nurturing witches. Tomorrow they we ready to start again, with all the resources at their disposal. For readers, this home of friendly spider webs, baskets of knitting yarn, and a quaint wood stove, seems uncannily real. For the duration of the story, you will be living among friends, and the supernatural is just, natural.

Lives Scaled Down

The Indian in the Cupboard – written by Lynn Reid Banks, illustrated by Brock Cole
Doubleday, 1980

Re-reading the classic The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks today involves a trip back in time. This is not to suggest that the starkly obvious prejudice embedded in the story of Omri, and his miniature plastic friend come to life, has disappeared, but its blatant presentation in a widely acclaimed middle grade novel would be far less likely. I interpreted it along two parallel tracks. One is as a simplistic story about civilization and barbarism, in which a British boy and his friend become enmeshed in managing a stubbornly independent American Indian. The other is as the fantasy of a boy trying to have control in his life, never possible in childhood, through the transparent vehicle of a miniature figurine. That is part of the obvious appeal in children’s books of dollhouses and toy soldiers, in children’s books like The Borrowers, The Doll People, Gemma and the Giant Girl, and so many others.

By 1980, when the book was published, the United States already had a well-organized and prominent American Indian Movement, and, among other landmarks, the searing revision of American history, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee had been available for ten years.  In Britain, although changing perceptions of Indigenous peoples in the Americas were discussed, they would not have attracted the same level of attention.   Nonetheless, Banks does show awareness of stereotypical misconceptions. When Omri meticulously creates a teepee for Little Bear, the Indian who is transformed by the turn of an old key in the door of a magical cupboard, he is deflated by Little Bear’s correction. As a member of the Iroquois, he lived in a longhouse.  There are intermittent references to other offensive caricatures, including the viewpoint of the standard Western television show which Omri and his friend, Patrick, have Little Bear watch.

Little Bear, by that point, is accompanied by another plastic figure, his apparent nemesis, Boone. This gun-toting cowboy is as crudely depicted as Little Bear. For that matter, the World War I medic figure who is briefly made real spouts phrases just as cinematic and silly as those of Boone and Little Bear. Still, Little Bear is at the center of the picture and his propensity to violence when he is contradicted perpetuates the worst and most malicious quality, one which allegedly justified European control of the first Americans.

There is quite a bit of violence in the novel. Even though the weapons are tiny in scale, they manage to hurt people, draw blood, and nearly kill Boone. As if trying to convey that stereotypes are not only hurtful, but misleading, the cowboy turns out to be a gifted artist. There is no such mitigating surprise in Little Bear’s character.

When “his” Indian, (Omri also uses the possessive in identifying the cowboy), requests a spouse, there is subplot involving a visit to the local shop where Little Bear will choose a woman from among the miniatures Indians.  The description of how Omri will place Little Bear and Bright Stars in the cupboard together is disturbingly adult, not to mention grossly sexist.  The female toy is, if possible, subjected to even greater objectification than her male counterpart.

Having catalogued all those demeaning features of the book, the parallel interpretation would see it as a typical metaphor for childhood. Omri fights with his two brothers, is disappointed in his best friend, and has the ill fortune of a school headmaster who, confronted with living, breathing, toys, suffers an emotional collapse.  There are no adults to help here, only childhood dreams and magic.

Color of Grief

All the Blues in the Sky – by Renée Watson
Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2024

Sage is a thirteen-year-old girl whose best friend is killed by a reckless driver. This terrible event happens on Sage’s birthday. The terms “losing” someone, or “passing away,” would be completely inadequate to describe the shock, numbness, and internalized rage that follow the accident.  Renée Watson’s verse novel gives Sage a voice in each chapter, narrated from the unaffected perspective of a person confronting emotions that would level a strong adult. With the same sensitivity to the process of growing up shown in her other works (which I have reviewed here and here and here), Watson creates characters who are vulnerable, but also strong.

In All the Blues in the Sky the experiences that test Sage are not the ordinary, but still difficult ones, of every adolescence, although those experiences, such as having divorced parents, are the framework for her growth.  Her parents are supportive, as is Aunt Ini, her surrogate grandmother.  She even has the benefit of a grief counseling group facilitated by Ms. Carver, who is nothing if not patient and professional. Mr. Dixon, Sage’s dedicated math teacher, offers slightly irritating, but totally sincere, life lessons: “Understanding angle relationships in math will help you understand your personal, real-life relationships…There are people –like transversal lines – that cross paths with you, only for a moment.”

There are other people in her life who are grieving.  Zay’s grandmother has died, and she admits relief at the end of her suffering. DD’s brother was killed by the police.  Ebony’s father had a heart attack. Sage is forced to constantly evaluate which types of death are hardest for survivors. No one has been able to answer this question.  Her friend’s death was abrupt and senseless. Sage never had a chance to say good-bye. Other survivors had to helplessly watch a long period of illness preceding a death.  Another troubling part of Sage’s role, which is only implicit in the novel, is her specific relationship to the person who died. She is not a sister, mother, or child, but a friend.  When a relationship is not formally recognized, the most profound sadness can seem somehow less important, although her friend’s family certainly honors Sage’s role in their loved one’s life.

For almost the entire book, Sage’s friend remains unnamed.  There could be many narrative, and psychological, reasons for this choice.  Articulating her name is too difficult, too final.  Nameless, she is both a real person and a tangible symbol for anyone who has grieved.  Words cannot capture the friend’s unique qualities, although Sage gives many examples of their closeness, and even of the tensions that leave her with unresolved guilt.  But specific, mundane, questions are more important than generalities: “What will her parents do with the posters on the wall?” Sage asks, “What will they do with her jean and T-shirts and sweaters/ and sneakers and sandals and socks and leggings and bracelets/ and earrings…”

Sage grieves, but she also falls in love, and begins to fulfill her dream of learning to fly.  More losses are in store, and Watson never minimizes their depth with platitudes. “If I live long enough to be an adult/and if I have children when I am an adult/I will tell them as much as I can about all the loss…” The phrase. “If I live long enough” from a girl of thirteen is terrible, but Sage’s resolve to tell her children the truth is something of a triumph.

Not Scary, Really

This Book is Dangerous! (A Narwhal and Jelly Picture Book #1) – written and illustrated by Ben Clanton
Tundra Books, 2025

What is the difference between Narwhal and Jelly, the sea creature duo from Ben Clanton, when they appear in a picture book or in their previous format, graphic novels (see here and here and here)? This is not a rhetorical question. While in This Book is Dangerous! they inhabit a larger format with a somewhat more intense narrative pace, they still have the same lovably sincere personalities.  There is a narrower range of characters and fewer digressions. Jelly is focused on his fears, given the title of his picture book debut.

Jelly is rendered in Clanton’ inimitable style, with a touch of Ed Emberley simplicity. His inverted eyebrows and down-turned mouth ask the reader what on earth, or in the sea, is going on: “UH…DID YOU READ THE TITLE OF THIS BOOK?!” The redundant punctuation tells you just how terrified he is.  Soon he is caught in a maze of signs urging caution, peril, and the need to stop. Jelly believes that the reader can help him to decode them and offer advice.

There are sea serpents with sharp teeth and a cannon which may or may not be non-functional. Jelly is actually transformed into a dark red cannonball, as Clanton extends the character’s legs, opens his eyes wide, and reverse the direction of the eyebrows.  Children relate to artwork that seems to contain elements of their own.

The drama settles down, and the book briefly returns to the idiosyncrasies of the graphic novels.  A page entitled “SOME NEARBY ITEMS” also reminded me The Everything in the Whole Wide World Museum: With Lovable Furry Old Grover, although the stakes are higher. Jelly needs support, but he may have some problems depending on “PRICKLY UNDERSEA PINEAPPLE,” or “RANDOM CACTUS.”

Jelly becomes angry, disappointed with the reader who, as in The Monster at the End of This Book, does not seem to understand the gravity of his problem. After all, someone who cannot help him extricate himself from danger is as dangerous as the book itself and all the horrors it contains. When Jelly finds some courage, along with ingenuity, and a bit of luck, he feels calmer, safer, and happy to meet his old friend Narwhal for a nostalgic ending.  His warning not to read the book over again is not to be taken literally.

The Olive Tree’s Story

The History of Jerusalem: An Illustrated Story of 4,000 Years – written by Vincent Lemire, illustrated by Christophe Gaultier, coloring by Marie Galopin, translated from the French by Amanda Axsom
Abrams ComicArts, 2024 (originally published in French, Les Arènes, 2022)

The narrative premise of this graphic history is that a 4,000 year-old olive tree is uniquely placed to teach readers about Jerusalem’s contested past. If that seems an unlikely approach, its success is only one of the many surprises in this unusual book.  Dense with facts, yet a at the same time utterly absorbing and swiftly paced, The History of Jerusalem is also both provocative and balanced.  The illustrations allude to classic comics, while subverting the idea that anyone involved has superpowers. Even great historical figures, and mythical ones, are viewed realistically, from different angles.  It would be impossible to interpret the history of this city without controversy; Lemire and Gaultier do not avoid that essential truth.  Instead, they maintain an appropriate level of respect and skepticism about both the past and the future. The book may be intended for adults, but it is equally appropriate for young adult readers, and would be an excellent complement to other, more ideological, resources.

The opening image of the tree, Zeitoun or Olivia, promises some divisiveness, or perhaps coexistence.  After all, the word bubbles proclaim “Hello!” “Shalom” and “Salam!” She lays out the vast panorama of the city, echoing the biblical tale of creation: “In the beginning, when this story started, there was nothing…” Then the nothingness fills with geography, history, religion, ethnic groups, famous and influential people who impacted Jerusalem’s move towards centrality. Vincent Lemire chooses each event with great care, allowing different perspectives to emerge. There are events so loaded with meaning that their inclusion may seem unnecessary.  The near sacrifice of Isaac, or Jesus at the Last Supper, command an immediate, probably pre-determined response. Yet they are equally weighted with panels dedicated to other hinge moments. The correspondence between former Arab mayor of Jerusalem, Yousef al-Khalidi and Zionist leader Theodore Herzl also reveals world-changing consequences.  Christophe Gaultier depicts the serious and careful intent of Khalidi, seated at his desk with inkwell and steaming cup of coffee. When he writes to Herzl, “The concept of Zionism in itself is beautiful…My God, historically it is indeed your land,” the future appears in one way. When he follows those words with “We Arabs and Turks view ourselves as guardians of Jerusalem’s holy places…in the name of God…leave Palestine alone!” that future veers in a different direction.

The presence of each group taking root is documented. Lemire emphasizes both biblical accounts whose literal veracity can be disputed, and abundant archeological evidence of an ongoing Jewish presence, including autonomous kingdoms.  Hellenistic, Roman, and Persian domination never erased a Jewish presence, nor did the western Christian Crusades, dedicated to brutally removing the Islamic control of the Holy Land. The rich Islamic civilization that developed from the mid 7th century C.E. eventually regained power and flourished under the Ottomans, until British victory in World War I brought it to an end. While there were continuing struggles for power throughout the centuries, Lemire seems to suggest a relatively equitable sharing of space by Jews, Christians, and Muslims, until the British Balfour Declaration promoted the idea of a Jewish homeland in Palestine. This assertion does not seem to be based as much in contempt for Jewish aspirations, as in an overly idyllic view of the region prior to the British mandate.

It is impossible to summarize the book’s depth, and sensitivity to the competing claims that inevitably threatened any permanent harmony. But at every point when I began to sense bias, the author provided counter examples.  The exclusion of refugees from the Holocaust, the refusal to accept partition by the U.N., and other obstructions to a successful resolution are mentioned; blame is apportioned among the British, the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, and extremist elements on all sides.  I felt uneasy at the faint implication that “Ashkenazi” Jews were somehow less indigenous to Jerusalem than Sephardim. The reference to Yasser Arafat’s “moving speech” at the U.N., in light of his extreme corruption, is, at best, ingenuous. Yet these are relatively minor exceptions to the tone of generosity and hope. A book with this range could not avoid controversy and still attempt complexity. Lemire and Gaultier construct a solid edifice built on fact, myths, and deeply held beliefs. They refrain from assigning unique blame to anyone, and also avoid judging the validity of Jewish conviction that the modern state of Israel represents self-determination.  The lonely olive tree holds out hopes for a reasonable solution, of “two independent but allied states” built on mutual respect. 

Writing Is Heroic

The Trouble with Heroes – by Kate Messner
Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2025

“I’m still sad and I’m still angry sometimes, because so much stuff isn’t fair and grief is totally on that list.” That sentence, from a letter to a dead woman whose gravestone he defaced in a moment of rage, is by Finn Connelly, a boy in middle school. His father, a New York City firefighter, survived 9/11/2001, only to succumb years later, during the Covid-19 pandemic. This novel in verse, by acclaimed author Kate Messner, is getting excellent reviews. Instead of just adding to them, I will make a few points about some questions that the book raises.

It seems counterintuitive that novels in verse should have become so popular. Reading poetry is not in the mainstream of middle-grade or young adult literature.  Having read many of these books, it has become obvious that the most attractive feature of this genre maybe its short length. Each chapter is a short poem, often, but not always, in a conversational or free verse form.  The Trouble with Heroes is not this kind of facile example, which relieves the author of the obligation to create a narrative with continuity between each part. Simply dividing sentences of prose into shorter lines does not add up to poetry.  Whenever I read an accomplished book in verse for young readers (I have, for example, reviewed other examples here and here and here), I am impressed that the author has thoughtfully crafted a distinctive voice for a range of characters, often using a variety of metric forms.

Middle-grade literature is full of angry kids. Childhood and adolescence provide many reasons to be angry, and Finn’s motives are severe enough to grant him a kind of instant empathy. Still, vandalizing someone’s grave is awful, and needs to be met with a strong response. Should that response be a punishment, an opportunity for growth, or perhaps a mere acknowledgement that being a victim does not excuse victimizing others?  Finn earns the reader’s respect, not because his life is unbearably sad, but by his honest, caustic, and introspective reactions to everything life has thrown in his path. We would still feel sympathy for what he has suffered, but that emotion alone does not make a character worth the reader’s attention for over 300 pages.

The adults in Finn’s life are imperfect, from his mother, worn down by her own burdens, to his supportive grandmother, to the teacher who expects him to turn in poems about heroes. One truth that emerges from Finn’s story is that each person is trapped in his own experience, which can never be fully shared. At the same time, Finn struggles, and learns how to accept the flawed, tarnished, human beings who care about him.  Whenever adults do their best to impart survival skills, learned from their own experiences, the author needs to weigh the validity of the child’s response.  Finn is not obligated to be fair, but Messner succeeds in creating a character whose contradictions are believable.

Finally, there are recipes in some of the poems.  I was relieved by that, because Finn enjoys food, and his family bakery plays a role in the plot.  I was afraid he was going to be thrown into mountain climbing in the Adirondacks because Edna, the woman whose grave he vandalized, had touched people’s lives through her commitment to hiking.  The outdoors are not necessarily the ideal setting for every single human being to undergo life-affirming epiphanies. How appropriate was the choice, by Edna’s daughter, to enforce hiking as an alternative to more punitive consequences? Readers may differ on the answer, but I appreciated the references to other areas of Finn’s life that did not involve potentially brutal geography, wild animals, and a mother’s totally realistic fears for her son.

Tune In

And There Was Music – written and illustrated by Marta Pantaleo, translated from the Italian by Debbie Bibo
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

Sometimes children’s books address a question that may seem obvious. How can you explain the meaning of music, the way that people use it to communicate regardless of whether they share a language or a culture? Marta Pantaleo’s And There Was Music offers an answer through spare, poetic language, and bright imagery.  Her answer is non-academic, not definitional. Instead, she approaches the subject through examples that are diverse enough to constitute a whole. Music is shared by everyone, arises from our senses, memories, and emotions, and utilizes different instruments, as well as our voices and bodies, to make itself heard.

The book’s text is pitch perfect.  It alternates statements and questions: “When you listen to music, your heart changes rhythm. Can you hear it?  Some of the statements may seem self-evident: “If you are sad, it can make you feel better.” Still, they need to be said.  The feelings evoked by listening to, or making, music, are largely involuntary: “You don’t decide all this. It just happens.” Some statements are broader, with social and political implications: “Music is a bridge that unites us.”

A book composed of generalities about music would be less useful than this one. Readers of. Pantaleo’s work will learn about several distinctive forms of music, which are briefly explained a section at the end of the book. There are bagpipes, acoustic guitars, drums, harmonicas, and brass band.  Musicians are from India, Bali, New Orleans, the American South, and Hawaii, and, of course, from your own community.  The illustrations are boldly colored, and influenced by traditional art.  (The also remind me of Maira Kalman’s work.) They also portray activity, but caught in a specific moment, as in a snapshot.  A girl moves her hands across a piano keyboard, her eyes closed in concentration. A gospel choir captures “hope,” with their voices and hands. A girl sings in the bathtub with a brush as her microphone.  Each image is its own performance.

The design of the book and the composition of each page are also key notes to its success. Four young people surround a campfire. Each one has equal weight in contributing to the whole. A boy strums the guitar. A girl plays a flute. Two others do not play instruments, but they look up towards the sky at shooting stars and the moon.  “Music is connection,” yet, at the same, time each individual in the scene experiences it differently.

The melody of words, the harmony of voices, the choreography of figures, all make And There Was Music instrumental in helping children to understand this form of language. After you share it with them you will both continue to hear the echoes.

Music is connection.

Yom HaShoah

Beyond Courage: The Untold Story of Jewish Resistance During the Holocaust – by Doreen Rappaport
Candlewick Press, 2012

Today is Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, on the Jewish calendar. It seems almost redundant to point out that high-quality educational materials for young readers about this tragedy are essential. Now, as fewer survivors are here to tell their stories, and as a political climate of hatred and repression escalates antisemitism, we are even more obligated to continue telling the truth about the genocide of Europe’s Jews. (I have written many reviews in this area; a few relevant interviews can be found here and here and here and here and here).

Doreen Rappaport is a distinguished author of non-fiction for children (see, for example, here and here). I recommend Beyond Courage for many reasons. It is meticulously researched, carefully and accessibly presented, and illustrated with photographs, maps, and other documents. The book does not presuppose previous knowledge, but is also written, like all her work, in an intelligent tone that never patronizes the reader. There are five sections, each one focused on the heroism of those who defied death in their acts of resistance. The chapter titles encompass different components of these acts, from motivation, “The Realization,” and “Saving the Future,” to locations, “In the Ghettos,” and “In the Camps,” to dramatic depictions of the ultimate results, “Partisan Warfare.”

The choice to write about resistance is a crucial one. First, it allows children ten and older to process one part of the Holocaust; graphic descriptions of mass murder may be inappropriate for readers this young. Most importantly, it refutes the lie that Jews went, as the expressions states, like sheep to the slaughter. Examples of the true meaning of courage are not abstractions, especially as we live in a time when alleged leaders have chosen to abdicate all responsibility to their countries and allow dictators to seize total power.

Rappaport ends the book with a poem. (There is also extensive backmatter with further information and additional resources. In the notorious concentration camp of Theresienstadt, which the Nazis designed as a “model camp” to deceive the world about the Final Solution, many inmates created paintings and literature. Franta Bass, who was eleven years old at the time, wrote:

I am a Jew and will be a Jew forever.
Even if I should die from hunger,
never will I submit.
I will always fight for my people,
on my honor.
I will never be ashamed of them,
I give my word.”

Picking Out Plants and Turning Bad Moods Around

Everyday Bean (Tiny Bean’s Big Adventures, Book #1) – written and illustrated by Stephanie Graegin
Tundra Books, 2025

There are many book series chronicling the adventures of best friends, some human and some animals. Frog and Toad, Ivy and Bean, Stella and Marigold, Mouse and Mole, Elephant and Piggie, are only some of the best-known and loved. The relationship between grandparents and their grandchildren also constitutes the core of picture and chapter books, as well as middle-grade novels (see a list of examples at the opening of this review). In Everyday Bean, Stephanie Graegin has given a little hedgehog and her grandma the same kind of symmetry as peer friendships, but simultaneously the unique empathy and protectiveness of a grandparent, and the loving trust of a grandchild. There is continuity with other books celebrating both friendship and family (such as the books by Lore Segal) but Graegin also offers a new verbal and visual picture of a unique connection.

A key element of Everyday Bean is balance. Each short chapter is an independent story, linking together in a thematic whole. Bean is tiny. Grandma is bigger, from Bean’s perspective, but still small from the viewpoint of the reader. We meet each one of them against a background of white space, emphasizing the scale of these personified animals. As they toast marshmallows together, Bean invents a story about “tiny ghosts,’ while Grandma prefers one about “giant marshmallows.” Bean reminisces about the blanket her grandmother had created for her when she was a baby. Somewhat mysteriously, the blanket kept shrinking, and ultimately became a bandana (another common kidlit theme). The reduction in size is not translated into reduced importance. While in Goldilocks and the Three Bears, each diminishing bowl of porridge, chair, or bed, is fraught with tension, the disparities in size between Bean and her grandma, blanket and bandana, all give a sense of security.

A visit to the plant nursery is one example of Graegin’s understated method. Mr. Green, the store owner, is a rabbit who is carefully attending his lush assortment of plants in the store window. The balcony of his brick shop is also densely filled with plants, in contrast to the following page, where white space allows Bean and Grandma to examine each possible plant without distraction. The exchange between the two is brief; they can intuit each other’s thoughts in this situation. The round, prickly cactus that Bean selects is perfect, because it embodies the qualities of both Bean and Grandma in each other’s eyes.

In “A Box for Bean,” Graegin revisits the cliché about a child preferring to play with an empty box to an elaborate toy. Grandma helps Bean construct a house out of the box, but then respects the child’s imagination, as Bean experiments with the box as a spaceship, pirate ship, and ice cream truck. There is a quiet image of parallel enjoyment, as Bean colors in the box while Grandma sits outside, in her own space, reading. This picture gives further evidence of the pair’s smallness, as flowers dwarf the box and Grandma’s teacup rests on a mushroom.

“Bean’s Bad Mood,” presents the difficult test of how a parent or grandparent responds to a child’s intense emotions. I was reminded of Little Bear, where the mother’s tenderness serves as a gentle test of reality, as in an imagined trip to the moon. Sophie’s patient grandma in Rosemary Wells’s Time Out for Sophie also came to mind. As Bean lies prone on the floor, enclosed in her “dramatic moping mood,” Grandma calmly assures her that bad moods are inevitable. In fact, she has anticipated this event: “I knew this would happen someday…Just be back by next Thursday. I’ll make you a sandwich.” Unhappiness cannot be avoided, but something simple to eat might mitigate its effects. Her well-stocked kitchen is neat and orderly. A portrait of Bean hangs on the wall. Grandmother and granddaughter wear matching boots, with only the older hedgehog using eyeglasses. Bean’s posture of mild defiance, with hand on hip, faces Grandma’s slight stoop, and her use of both hands to hold a cup. Each note in Everyday Bean resonates.