The Daughter's Tale: A Novel by Armando Lucas CorreaThe Daughter's Tale: A Novel by Armando Lucas Correa

The Daughter's Tale: A Novel

byArmando Lucas Correa

Paperback | May 7, 2019

Pricing and Purchase Info


Earn 125 plum® points

Prices and offers may vary in store


In stock online

Ships free on orders over $25

Available in stores



The Daughter’s Tale is immersive, both heartbreaking and redemptive, steeped in harrowing historical events and heroic acts of compassion that will have you reflecting on the best and worst the human heart has to offer. Fans of WWII history and book clubs will find depth and skillful storytelling here, but on a deeper level, searing questions about life, love, and the choices we make in the most impossible of circumstances.” —Lisa Wingate, New York Times bestselling author of Before We Were Yours

From the internationally bestselling author of The German Girl, an unforgettable family saga exploring a hidden piece of World War II history and the lengths a mother will go to protect her children—perfect for fans of Lilac Girls, We Were the Lucky Ones, and The Alice Network.

BERLIN, 1939. The dreams that Amanda Sternberg and her husband, Julius, had for their daughters are shattered when the Nazis descend on Berlin, burning down their beloved family bookshop and sending Julius to a concentration camp. Desperate to save her children, Amanda flees toward the south of France, where the widow of an old friend of her husband’s has agreed to take her in. Along the way, a refugee ship headed for Cuba offers another chance at escape and there, at the dock, Amanda is forced to make an impossible choice that will haunt her for the rest of her life. Once in Haute-Vienne, her brief respite is inter­rupted by the arrival of Nazi forces, and Amanda finds herself in a labor camp where she must once again make a heroic sacrifice.

NEW YORK, 2015. Eighty-year-old Elise Duval receives a call from a woman bearing messages from a time and country that she forced herself to forget. A French Catholic who arrived in New York after World War II, Elise is shocked to discover that the letters were from her mother, written in German during the war. Despite Elise’s best efforts to stave off her past, seven decades of secrets begin to unravel.

Based on true events, The Daughter’s Tale chronicles one of the most harrowing atrocities perpetrated by the Nazis during the war. Heart­breaking and immersive, it is a beautifully crafted family saga of love, survival, and redemption.
Armando Lucas Correa is an award winning journalist and Editor in Chief of PEOPLE EN ESPAÑOL. His first novel is The German Girl and it will be published in English and Spanish around October 2017.
Title:The Daughter's Tale: A NovelFormat:PaperbackProduct dimensions:320 pages, 9 × 6.12 × 0.9 inShipping dimensions:9 × 6.12 × 0.9 inPublished:May 7, 2019Publisher:Atria BooksLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:1982129948

ISBN - 13:9781982129941


Rated 5 out of 5 by from Vivid, stirring, and immersive! The Daughter’s Tale is a gripping, moving story set predominantly in Germany and France during WWII, as well as present-day New York City, that follows the lives of the Sternbergs, a young Jewish family who at a time of horrific persecution and extreme brutality are forced to make unimaginable choices and heartwrenching sacrifices to keep those they love safe. The prose is perceptive and descriptive. The characters are anguished, courageous, and resilient. And the plot using a past/present style unfolds chronologically into a tale of life, love, loss, family, friendship, injustice, guilt, self-identity, ancestry, war, bravery, and survival. Overall, The Daughter’s Tale is a hauntingly tragic, insightful, heartrending tale that highlights the inconceivable hardships, suffering, and horrors endured during a heinous time in history and reminds us of the incredible power of familial bonds.
Date published: 2019-05-07
Rated 4 out of 5 by from This is a great read and I recommend it to all the historical fiction lovers. The Daughter’s Tale by Armando Lucas Correa is a beautifully written book based on true events. Written in two timelines, the story follows the life of Elise just before her birth in 1935 to her golden years in 2015. Elise was born in Germany at the eve of WWII to Jewish parents. She has survived the war but it cost her almost everything. Now in her old age, she is visited by two strangers who deliver a bundle of old letters addressed to her sister Viera whom she has not seen or heard of since she was sent to by boat to Cuba in 1939. Meeting these strangers makes her face the painful memories of her survival and all her losses.
Date published: 2019-05-07
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Selfless Acts of Love A read that will pull you in and not let go, the ultimate sacrifice of a mother when she gives life to her daughters twice, and knowing that she will most likely never see them again. Knowing that a lot that is presented in this book is sadly true, and hoping while I was reading that history would change, but as you will see no. What begins with an old woman receiving letters, and then we are given the background from whence they came, but then end with the recipient. A book that does become a compelling page turner, and is filled with people that gave all they had for their fellow man, selfless acts of love, but also a read that we hope will never be repeated by mankind. I received this book through Net Galley and the Publisher Atria Books, and was not required to give a positive review.
Date published: 2019-05-07
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A moving story that will stick with you. I've just had the privilege of reading The Daughter's Tale by Armando Lucas Correa. It is due to be published on May 7th, 2019. Many thanks to #NetGalley and Atria Books for allowing me to read an advanced readers's copy in exchange for an honest review. I believe it is very important to read books that tell the stories of those who lived during the era of the rise of Fascism, the second World War, and the time afterwards. They have much to teach us and are still very applicable to our lives. Sometimes fiction is the best way to share a story and regardless of whether these are "real" characters or not, there were in fact many people who went through experiences like the ones shared in this novel and they no doubt served as an inspiration to the author. There has seemed to be a real explosion of books based on this particular era and many do it by telling the story both in the past as it was occurring and in a look back from the present day. Correa chose to do this too, but quite differently from most authors. He introduces us to Elise in the present day. She is an older woman whose health is poor and who only has a daughter and grand-daughter as family. She receives a phone call from a stranger who wishes to visit her and give her some letters that are written in German. Upon the arrival of her visitors, the shock is too much for Elise and she collapses, waking some time later to find herself in hospital close to death. She uses breathing techniques to calm herself down as she faces what she believes to be her final moments. The story then moves into the past and doesn't return to the present until almost the end of the book. The story itself is a heart-wrenching one.. Amanda Sternberg and her husband live in Berlin, deeply in love. He is a cardiologist. She runs a bookstore and they are expecting their first child - a daughter. Life is beginning to be very difficult for them. Amanda must turn over any books that are "suspect" to be burned and she can't bring herself to do it. She hides one under her pillow and means to sort through the rest, but leaves it too late. A mob comes in and burns all of her books. Life continues and after the birth of their daughter Viera, another daughter named Lina comes along. Her husbands cardiology practice which had been booming - including some patients who were Nazi officials - is suddenly reduced to nothing. and then he is arrested and sent to a concentration camp. One of his erstwhile clients informs Amanda of his death and the fact that he had been preparing to to move the family out of Germany to Cuba where Amanda's brother lives. She is told to take her daughters to where she can load them on a boat that is heading to Cuba. When the time comes to send them off, she has a difficult choice to make. One daughter goes and one remains. I don't want to spoil the story by telling everything that happens.. Life is not easy for those left behind. Initially they move to a small village in France where they feel at least some sense of safety, but nowhere in Europe is really safe and when France capitulates, the writing is on the wall. There are some twists and turns in the story. It is beautifully written and kept me hooked from start to finish. A big takeaway for me after reading the book is the fact that war brings out the best in some and the worst in others and in between are those with a mixture of both. Ultimately though, the survivors are touched in ways that will impact them throughout their lifetimes. We need to learn that and take it to heart I would highly recommend this book to anyone.with an interest in the Holocaust or World War 2. I feel it could also be of interest to a book club as there is lots of material worthy of discussion. I am very glad that I had a chance to read it. The story will definitely stay with me..
Date published: 2019-03-29

Read from the Book

ONE   The Visit New York, April 2015         1“Is this Ms. Duval? Elise Duval?” The voice on the phone repeated her name while she remained silent. “We were in Cuba recently. My daughter and I have some letters in German that belong to you.” Elise had always been able to foresee the future. But not today. Today, she could never have predicted. For an instant, she thought the call must be a mistake. After all, she was French, and had been living in New York for the last seventy years, ever since an uncle on her mother’s side had adopted her at the end of the war. Now, her only living relatives were her daughter, Adele, and her grandson, Etienne. They were her entire world, and everything that came before was shrouded in darkness. “Ms. Duval?” the woman’s voice said again, gentle but insistent. Fraught with terror, Elise groped for some support, afraid she might faint. “You can come see me this afternoon,” was all she managed to say before hanging up, neglecting to check first whether she had any appointments, or if she should consult her daughter. She heard the woman’s name, Ida Rosen, and her daughter’s, Anna, but her memory was a blank, closed to the past. She was certain only that she had no wish to verify the credentials of the stranger and her daughter. There was no need to give them her address, because they already had it. The call had not been a mistake. That much she knew. Elise spent the next few hours trying to imagine what might lie behind their brief conversation. Rosen, she repeated to herself as she searched among the dim shadows of those who had crossed the Atlantic with her after the war. Only a few hours had passed, and already the call was beginning to fade in her limited, selective memory. “There’s no time to remember,” she used to tell her husband, then her daughter, and now her grandson. She felt vaguely guilty at having agreed so readily to receive this stranger. She should have asked who had written the letters, why they had ended up in Cuba, what Mrs. Rosen and her daughter were doing there. Instead, she had said nothing. When the doorbell finally rang, her heart leapt out of her chest. She tried to shut her eyes and prepare herself, taking a deep breath and counting the heartbeats: one, two, three, four, five, six—a trick learned from childhood, one of her only clear memories. She had no idea how long she had spent in her bedroom, dressed in her navy blue suit, waiting. It was as if her senses had suddenly been heightened at the sound of the bell. Her hearing became sharper. Now, she could just make out the breathing of the two strangers outside the door waiting to see a weary old widow. But why? She paused with her hand on the lock, hoping against hope this visit was no more than an illusion, something she had dreamed, one of the many crazy notions brought on by the years. She closed her eyes and tried to visualize what would happen, but nothing came. It was becoming clear to Elise that this meeting wasn’t about the future. Instead, it signified the return of a past she could no longer keep out, a constant shadow ever since the day she had disembarked in the port of New York, when the hand of an uncle who was to become a father rescued her from her oblivion. But he could never bring back her memories, removed by necessity, for the sake of her survival. She opened the door resolutely. A shaft of light blinded her. The noise of the elevator, a neighbor going downstairs, a dog barking, and the wail of an ambulance siren distracted her for a second. The woman’s smile brought her back to reality. Elise motioned for them to come in. Without yet saying a word, she avoided making the slightest gesture that might betray her terror. The girl, Anna, who looked to be twelve years old, came over and hugged her round the waist. She had no idea how to respond. Maybe she should have let her hands drop onto the little girl’s shoulders, or stroked her hair the way she used to do when her own daughter was the same age. “You’ve got blue eyes,” she said timidly.What a ridiculous thing to say! I should have said she had beautiful eyes, thought Elise, trying not to notice that they were the same blue, almond-shaped, and hooded eyes as hers, that her profile . . . No, she told herself fearfully, because it was her own reflection she saw in the face of this strange little girl. Making an effort, Elise led the pair of them into the living room. Just as she was asking them to sit down, Anna handed her a small, lusterless, ebony box. Elise carefully opened the box. By the time she finished unfolding the first letter, written in faded ink on a page from a botanical album, her eyes were brimming with tears. “Does this belong to me?” she whispered, clasping the crucifix around her neck, a charm that had accompanied her ever since she could remember. “Your eyes,” she repeated, staring at Anna with anguish. Elise tried to stand up, but could feel her heart failing her. She was losing control over herself, over the life she had so carefully constructed. She could see her own face at a distance, staring at the scene from afar like another witness in the room. Her palms grew sweaty, the box fell from her grasp, the letters spilling out onto the carpet. A photograph of a family with two little girls with a frightened gaze lay buried among yellowing sheets of paper. Elise saw herself closing her eyes and a stabbing pain in her chest took away her balance. Collapsing onto the faded carpet, she knew it was happening, at last: the final act of forgetting. Silence, walls of silence all around her. She tried to recall how many times a heart could stop and then start beating again. One . . . silence. Two . . . another, even longer pause. Three . . . the void. The silence between one heartbeat and the next cut her off from the world. She wanted to hear one more. Four. And another. She breathed in as deeply as she could. Five . . . just one more and she would be safe. Silence. Six! “Elise!” The shout made her stir. “Elise!” That name, that name. Elise. It wasn’t her, for she was no one. She did not exist, she had never existed. She had lived a life that didn’t belong to her, had created a family she had deceived, spoke a language that wasn’t hers. All these years spent fleeing from who she truly was. To what end? She was a survivor, and that was not a mistake, nor a misunderstanding. By the time the paramedics lifted her onto the gurney, she had already forgotten the other woman and her blue-eyed daughter, forgotten the letters written in a strange language, the photograph. But in the space of forgetting, a memory emerged. Herself, as a little girl, trying to find her way through a thick forest, surrounded by enormous trees that prevented her from seeing the sky. How could she know where she was going, if she couldn’t see the stars? Blood on her cheek, hands, her dress, but not hers. A body lying lifeless on the ground in a gory mess. No helping hand to support her. She could feel the thick, damp air, hear her childish voice stammer: “Mama! Mama!” She was lost, abandoned in the darkness. In the fog of jumbled memories, she saw it all: the letters, the ebony box, the purple jewel case, a threadbare soccer ball, a wounded soldier. Withered flowers and blurred lines. It had taken this little girl, Anna, for Elise to discover who she really was, stripping off the mask she had been wearing for seven decades. The past was now rewarding her with this final, unexpected visit, with the image of handwriting on the pages of a familiar book, a book not important because of what it said, but for the hours she had spent tracing the letters and flowers that had been with her every day of her childhood. “Hydrocharismorsus-ranae,” she whispered. She felt herself floating freely like one of those aquatic plants, its flowers tinged with yellow. She was delirious, but if she could remember, that meant she was still alive. It was time to allow herself to die, but first she had to do something with the pages torn from the mutilated book. Yet the damage was done; she had no right to ask for forgiveness. She shut her eyes and counted her heartbeats. The silences between them helped drive away the fear. Who had taught her to do that? “Ready!” she heard. She felt a weight on her crushed chest. The first electric shock produced palpitations of a kind she had never experienced. She told herself she wasn’t going to let them revive her. She didn’t want to live. As a child, she had been put on an enormous ocean liner, and had never dared to look back. She wasn’t going to look back now. The second shock brought new warmth, forced her to open her eyes. Tears began to flow, beyond her control. She couldn’t tell if she was alive or not, and that made her weep. Someone took her by the hand and gently stroked her brow. “Mama!” She heard her daughter’s tearful voice. She was so close that Elise could not distinguish her features. Would she be able to find the words to explain to Adele, her only daughter, that she had brought her up with a lie? “Elise, how do you feel? I’m so sorry . . .” Ida was there as well, clearly distressed by the effect of her visit. Adele stood silent. She couldn’t understand what this stranger and her daughter were doing here in the hospital with her mother, a dying old woman. In a language she no longer recognized, Elise heard herself muttering a phrase that came from somewhere beyond: “Mama, verlass mich nicht.” Don’t leave me. One . . . silence, two . . . silence, three . . . silence, four, five . . . She took a deep breath, waiting for the next heartbeat.  Summer of 1939  My little Viera,  It’sonly been a few hours, but your mama misses you terribly. The hours are days, weeks, months to me, but I take comfort in knowing that you will still hear me at night, your nights, which for me are early mornings, when I sing in your ear and read you the pages of your favorite botanical album.Youare like those flowers that have to learn to survive on an island, in damp earth and with a scorching sun. You need light  to thrive, and there will be plenty of that over there. It will be piercing, but don’t be afraid of it, because I’m sure you will grow and become stronger all the time.Yoursistermissesyou.Whenwego to bed, she asks me to tell her stories about you and those happy days when we were a family. Be strong, stay in the sunshine and grow, so that when we meet again, because we will meet again, you can run to us and hug us, just like we did in the port at the foot of that enormous ship.My Viera, remember that your mother, although so far away, is watching over you. When you’re afraid, count your heartbeats to calm down, the way Papa taught you to do. Your sister is an expert at that as well now. Remember, at first they are rapid, but as soon as you start to number them, you’ll discover the silence between each one. Fear goes away as the space between them grows. Don’t forget that, little one.Every Friday, light two candles, close your eyes, and think of us. We are with you.  All my love,Mama           TWO    The Escape Berlin, 1933-1939 2  Amanda Sternberg had always been terrified that she’d meet her end by fire, so somehow it wasn’t all that surprising to her that her books would soon meet the same fate. The student union had already left her a warning pamphlet with their TwelveTheses at her small bookshop in Charlottenburg, and so she had to begin the cleanup, from the front window to the deepest recesses of the storage room. She was supposed to get rid of all books that could be considered offensive, unpatriotic, or not sufficiently German. This parody of Luther’s theses was intended to eliminate all Jewishness from the printed universe, and had reached every book owner in the country. Amanda was certain that only a small number of her volumes would survive. She had spent so many years among parchments, manuscripts, volumes with calfskin covers and hand-drawn illustrations, tales of duels, furtive lovers, diabolical pacts, deranged madmen. They constituted her own past and that of her family, her father’s love, the art of ancient scribes: all of it would now be reduced to ashes. A truly Wagnerian act ofpurification, she told herself.   She still clung to the desperate hope that a storefront with the sign garden of letters might escape notice. If she showed German purity in the window display, and hid the books she loved most in the back room, perhaps they would leave her in peace. The clouds too were on her side: several weeks of rain had slowed down the advance of the bonfires. Despite her shred of hope, she could not put her family at risk and so had decided finally to begin the cruel task. But first she lay down beside one of the bookcases, resting her head against the warm floorboards. Gazing up at the cobwebbed ceiling, she allowed her mind to drift among the cracks and damp patches above, each with its tale to tell, like the volumes of a book. Who had brought it, why they acquired it, how hard it had been for the shipment to be accepted in that city obsessed with judging every idea, every metaphor, every simile, and the need to find one culprit to toss into the fire in the middle of a plaza trembling with applause and cantatas. In the infinite bonfire she foresaw, not a single book would survive, because in even the most German, the most nationalist, the purest of them, countless ambiguities could be found. She knew well that no matter how the author fashions his characters, no matter which words he chooses, it is always the reader who holds the power of interpretation. “In the end, the scent of books, even of autumn, depends on our sense of smell,” she murmured to herself, trying to swim among possible solutions, none of which proved to be viable. She sighed and placed her hands on her abdomen, which would soon begin to swell. The tinkle of the door-chime roused her from her lethargy. Tilting her head backward, she recognized the silhouette: only Julius came into the bookshop at this time of day. The man knelt behind her resting head. His large, warm hands covered her ears as he kissed her first on the forehead, then on the tip of her nose, and finally on her warm lips. She was always overjoyed at the sight of Julius crossing the threshold of the store in his charcoal gray overcoat, cracked leather briefcase in hand. “How have my darlings been?” came Julius Sternberg’s deep gentle voice. “What were you dreaming of?”   Amanda wanted to tell him she was fantasizing about her shop swarming with customers eager to buy the latest books, about a city without soldiers, with only the distant rumble of automobiles and streetcars, but he spoke again before she could say anything. “We’re running out of time,” he said. “You have to get rid of the books.” His tone made her shudder, and she responded with pleading eyes. “Let’s go upstairs, now, darling. Your baby and I are hungry,” was all he said.   ---   Their living room was a kind of garden bordered by a wall of literature. Brocade curtains with floral patterns, tapestries showing bucolic scenes, carpets as thick as newly mown grass, and every spare surface occupied by books. Over dinner, Amanda made polite conversation so that Julius wouldn’t return to the most pressing topic. She told him she had sold an encyclopedia, that someone had ordered a collection of Greek classics, that Fräulein Hilde Krahmer, her favorite customer, had not been by the bookstore for a week now, whereas previously she would come after teaching her classes and spend hours browsing the shelves, without ever buying anything. “First thing tomorrow, clear out the shopwindow,” Julius demanded. When he saw how his stern voice made Amanda recoil, he went over and pulled her to him for an instant. He leaned his head against her chest and breathed in the perfume of his wife’s freshly washed hair. “Don’t you get tired of listening to hearts?” asked Amanda with a smile. Gesturing for her to be silent, Julius knelt down to put his ear to her stomach and replied,“I can hear hers too. We’ll have a daughter, I’m sure of it, with a heart as beautiful as her mother’s.” Since his schooldays in Leipzig, Julius had been fascinated by the heart—its irregular rhythms, its electrical impulses, its alternating beats and silences. “There’s nothing stronger,” he told her when they were newlyweds and he was still at the university, always adding the caveat: “The heart can resist all kinds of physical trauma, but sadness can destroy it in a second. So no sadness in this house!”   They waited until he had his practice established before having their first child. Amanda would go with him to his office to try out the electrocardiogram recently acquired during a trip to Paris. It was a great novelty in Charlottenburg, and looked to Amanda like a complicated version of the Singer sewing machine that she kept in the attic. That night in bed, buoyed by the thought of his daughter growing inside Amanda, Julius enthusiastically described to her the phases of the heartbeat. “A heart in diastole,” he explained to her as she lay in his arms, “is resting.” He went on, and bewildered by his terminology, Amanda soon fell asleep on the chest of the man who had been protecting her and her baby from the horror brewing among their neighbors, the city, the whole country, and apparently the entire continent. She knew he was taking good care of her heart, and that was enough to make her feel safe. --- She woke with a start in the middle of the night, and tiptoed out of the room without switching on the light so as not to rouse Julius. A strange feeling led her down to one of the shelves in the back room where the books not for sale were stored. The shelf was piled high with books by the Russian poet Mayakovsky, the favorite of her brother Abraham, who had left Germany several years earlier for a Caribbean island. There too, with their worn spines, were the storybooks her father had once read to her at bedtime. She paused to consider which she would choose if she could save only one. It didn’t take her long: she would protect the French botanical album with its hand-painted illustrations of exotic plants and flowers that her father had brought back from a work trip to the colonies. Picking up the volume whose unique scent reminded her of her father, she observed how the pages were yellowing and how the ink on some of the drawings was fading. She could still recall the exact names of the plants in both Latin and French, because before she fell asleep her father used to speak of them as if they were souls abandoned in distant lands. Opening a page at random, she paused to look at Chrysanthemum carinatum. She closed her eyes and could hear her father’s resonant voice describing that plant originally from Africa, tricolor, with yellow ligules at the base and flower heads so long they filled you with emotion. She took the book back up to her bedroom and placed it under her pillow. Only when she had done so was she able to sleep peacefully. The next morning, Julius woke her with a kiss on the cheek. The aroma of cedar and musk from his shaving cream brought back memories of their honeymoon in the Mediterranean. She hugged him to keep him with her, burying her head against his long, muscular neck, and whispering, “You were right. It’s going to be a girl. I dreamed it. And we’ll call her Viera.” “Welcome, Viera Sternberg,” Julius replied, wrapping Amanda in his powerful arms. A few minutes later, she ran to the window to wave goodbye and saw he was already at the street corner, surrounded by a gang of youngsters wearing swastika armbands. But Amanda wasn’t worried. She knew that nothing intimidated Julius. No blow or shout, much less an insult. He looked back before turning the corner, and smiled up at her. That was enough. Amanda was ready now to sift through the shelves, having already chosen the book she would save from the bonfire.