A Review of Soldier’s Girl by the Historical Fiction Company, not yet posted on their blog

soldier’s Girl Editorial Review

She jumped. Or rather, she let herself fall. Into the translucent night sky, silvery from the full moon’s glow, inky and endless, empty. Beneath, her the dark shadow of Earth. Above her, the Universe.

The Lysander curled away above her, the whirr of its propellers humming into night’s vast silence. She was alone in the moonlit sky. For a moment she tumbled downwards, towards earth, but then the soft silk of the parachute unfurled and she hovered there in the in-between state of consciousness that lay between one identity and the next, one life and the next.  

‘Sibyl Lake must cease to exist,’ Vera had said. And so she’d dropped not only from the plane but from all that had been before, that old self a mere discarded skin. Yet: here I am. Here, and now. She slid out of the crust called Me, that Sibyl-me, out of that persona with a name and a past. 

Starting in France on June 1, 1944, we are taken back in time and directly into a scene that pulls you deep into the story. But this is only the intro. For the real beginning of the story, we will go back even further, to September, 1929.  

Before delivering its most devastating blows, Soldier's Girl is the type of historical fiction that subtly disarms the reader. Sharon Maas's book, which takes place in the tense last year of World War II, is both a psychological analysis, a wartime thriller, and a very human love story that defies simple solutions.

What starts out as a resistance task quickly turns into a moral trial that has the reader and the heroine face the price of love, loyalty, and survival in a world split apart by fear and ideology.

Soldier's Girl is unique from the very beginning. The novel immerses us in its universe with immediacy and emotional clarity rather than easing us into it. The story is immediately grounded in place and tension because of Maas's assured and evocative style. The mission's physical peril as well as the emotional risks faced by English nurse Sibyl Lake - whose ties to Alsace go much beyond simple duty - are established in the first few chapters.

 One of the book's strongest points is this dual foundation, which combines personal reckoning with exterior conflict. Fundamentally, Soldier's Girl is about a woman who is asked to turn intimacy into a weapon. In addition to gathering intelligence, Sibyl's mission is to penetrate Major Wolfgang von Haagen, a German officer.

Maas approaches the intrinsically problematic issue with subtlety rather than sensationalism. This is a slow-burning investigation of moral complexity rather than a straightforward story of seduction or treachery. 

Tension develops naturally as the story progresses at a deliberate pace. Maas strikes a balance between the quieter, riskier realm of emotional commitment and the practicalities of espionage. As a result of her assignment, Sibyl finds herself torn between several worlds: her loyalty to the Resistance, her early links to Alsace, her unresolved love for Jacques, and her developing bond with Wolfgang, who defies both the reader's and Sibyl's expectations. The outcome is a compelling plot that is maintained by psychological pressure and ethical intricacy rather than dramatization.

The story's inability to simplify its problems into simple dichotomies is what makes it so captivating. In the book, good and evil are there, but they are filtered via personal decisions rather than impersonal classifications. Maas frequently reminds us that war is waged not just on battlefields but also in the personal realms of memory and conscience.

Sibyl Lake is a fully realized protagonist whose strength comes from her ability to ponder and doubt rather than from her invulnerability. Sibyl's courage feels earned rather than presumptive because Maas lets her experience fear, uncertainty, and struggle. Her development throughout the book is realistic and nuanced, molded by experience rather than epiphanies.

Equally well-drawn are the supporting characters. A different form of loyalty is shown by Jacques, the resistance commander and Sibyl's childhood friend, one that is based on shared sacrifice and history. His presence adds emotional weight to each decision Sibyl takes, making them more difficult to make without taking away from her agency.

Perhaps the most difficult character in the book is Major Wolfgang von Haagen, whom Maas deftly handles. He is neither an absolution nor a caricature. Rather, he is depicted as a man molded by his situation, capable of compassion and conviction but inextricably linked to the machinery of his profession. Maas asks us to comprehend how such men exist rather than to forgive him. This distinction is important and addressed carefully.

Soldier's Girl's sense of narrative and historical continuity is among its most remarkable features. Even as tensions rise, the narrative maintains clarity by moving fluidly between timelines and points of view. Instead of overpowering the narrative, Maas's mastery of historical knowledge enhances it.  

That harvest, the harvest of 1944 at the Château Laroche-Gauthier was the most glorious of them all.

For the locals, the Alsatians, there was, at last, hope. Yes: the war had finally reached the Alsace and soon there would be freedom. Margaux’s words—they will be swept away like ants with a broom—was repeated and passed on and improved upon: the Boche will be sucked up like ants by the American vacuum cleaner! They will be devoured by the American fire-breathing dragon! They will be crushed underfoot like under the boots of a giant!

And so the people rejoiced, and passed through the vines plucking and laughing and cracking jokes, bursting with hope as the grapes were bursting with juice and goodness; and Sibyl and Jacques worked together, laughed together, hoped together, planned together, unshackled by fear. It was just a matter of weeks. Alsace was on the brink of freedom. It would be French again. The Boche would slink off like a defeated beast with its tail between its legs.  

Especially well-represented is the Alsace setting. Alsace becomes more than just a backdrop as an area that rival nations have repeatedly claimed and recovered; it is a living representation of split identity.

Maas skillfully incorporates the political and cultural complexity of the area into the narrative so thatreaders can understand the stakes without needing to go into great detail. The plot is anchored in actual experience by everyday things like language, customs, and subtle acts of disobedience.

Maas's writing is tasteful without being elaborate. Her writing prioritizes emotional accuracy and clarity over excess, which is a good fit for the subject. While gentler times are given room to breathe, tense scenes are strictly regulated. Instead of just forwarding the plot, dialogue frequently has subtext that strengthens character connections and feels organic and deliberate. Identity, obligation, love, and moral responsibility are the novel's recurring themes. Maas resists the temptation to overexplain or moralize because she believes that her audience will interact with

complexity. Because of her self-assurance, the work transcends genre fiction and becomes something more timeless.

Soldier's Girl's conclusion is both inevitable and unexpected, a challenging balance that Maas expertly strikes. It offers a closure that feels true to the story's ethical and emotional terrain, but it does not deliver comfort in the traditional sense. The novel's complexity is demonstrated by the fact that readers’ moral compass will determine whether they find the conclusion tragic, bittersweet, or subtly hopeful.

Crucially, the conclusion acknowledges the seriousness of the topic. This has repercussions for both the characters and the concepts the book examines. Because Maas avoids sentimentality, the latter chapters continue to have an impact long after the last page is turned.

The refusal to simplify is what distinguishes Soldier's Girl from many other World War II novels. Although it has all the aspects readers might anticipate—danger, espionage, and resistance networks—it ultimately revolves around the initial question: what does it mean to kill, betray, or love when every option has an intolerable price?

This is not just a tale of conflict; it also explores the boundaries of ideology in the face of interpersonal relationships. The novel's enduring force comes from Maas's courage to inhabit that uncomfortable territory. It forces readers to reevaluate presumptions about bravery, loyalty, and the characteristics of both allies and adversaries.

Soldier's Girl is a painstakingly written piece of historical fiction that excels in every aspect it attempts to tackle. Its characters are well-developed, its historical backdrop is engrossing, its plot is gripping and emotionally nuanced, and its writing is confident. The novel's beginning captivates readers right away, its plot develops purposefully, and its conclusion lingers with subdued intensity.

It provides a profoundly contemplative alternative for readers of World War II fiction who are looking for more than just familiar stories - one that recognizes the cruelty of history while respecting the frail humanity that endures within it.

4.5 stars

Who Killed Dorothy King?

There were once several online articles about this case; they are now nowhere to be found. So I’m saving this one, before it, too is removed and Miss King, who once taught me dance at Bishops’, drifts into a memory hole.

Also, I’m now adapting her story into a novel, so there’s that!

The trusting Governor’s daughter

 Jan 15, 2012   Features / Columnists, Murder and Mystery

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By Michael Jordan

I recall almost two years ago to the day, when I went prowling around Quamina Street where she had once lived, not a single soul had anything bad to say about old Miss Dorothy King. She was kind, some said, she reached out to the less fortunate, others recalled.

But the cynics like to say that no good deed goes unpunished, and back in 1999, there was someone who had it in for 84-year-old Miss King.
A lot has changed in Quamina Street since then.

For one thing, the huge, sprawling colonial-style house which was Dorothy King’s last home has been torn down. Just a weed-infested lot remains.

An example of the kind of house Dorothy King lived in. 

That old house had a certain touch of grandeur about it; fitting, I guess, for someone of Dorothy King’s background.

Dorothy Rosabelle Napleton King was born on March 22, 1913, and was the daughter of the former Governor of Her Majesty’s Penal Settlement, Mazaruni (now the Mazaruni Prisons).

She spent most of her childhood there before heading for Georgetown, where she attended the Ursuline Convent School. The young Dorothy King then attended school in London, England, where she was trained in ballet.

Returning to Guyana, King opened her own ballet school at the sprawling Quamina Street residence.
In 1942, she joined the teaching profession, becoming the Drill Mistress at The Bishops’ High School.
King retired from the teaching profession in 1977, but continued to live an active life.

She had a keen interest in art and Guyanese history and ironically, it now seems, was also a member of the Guyana Human Rights Association. Like I said, the old house had a touch of grandeur.
But it was not the sort of house in which an elderly woman should have lived alone.

From reports, some of Miss King’s close friends had expressed concern about this situation, since that section of Quamina Street was crime-ridden then, as it still is today. But Miss King brushed off these fears.

It has been suggested that Dorothy King’s days at Mazaruni had given her confidence to deal with criminals. It was said that on many occasions, she had actually encountered criminals at her Quamina Street home.

According to these reports, she would patiently speak with them, and sometimes even offer them a meal before showing them to the door.
The retired schoolteacher had established a certain routine that some of her neighbours knew of.

At 17:30 hrs every day, she would always close two side windows at the eastern side of her house. But at 18:00 hrs on Wednesday, January 27, 1999, a neighbour observed that King’s windows were still open.
The neighbour called a guard who worked nearby. The guard went over to Dorothy King’s house and noticed that her front door was slightly ajar. He summoned a friend and neighbour of King’s. The friend arrived at 19:05 hrs and, on entering the premises, almost immediately realised that something was terribly wrong. Miss King’s broken spectacles lay on the floor a short distance from the door. There were also spots of blood on the floor.

Summoning another acquaintance, the friend went further inside, and observed marks on the floor that led to the kitchen. And that is where they found 84-year-old Dorothy King. She was lying face down on the floor, with her hands outstretched. Someone had bashed in her skull. A piece of wood about 18 inches long was resting on her back. An autopsy would later reveal that she was also strangled.

Robbery was clearly the motive, since the house was ransacked. A safe that had contained valuables was open, and the contents were missing.
There was no sign of forced entry and it was surmised that King had opened her door for someone she had known.

King reportedly would look through her window when anyone rapped and then open the door, but only for people she recognized. From the blood and the smashed spectacles near the door, it was believed that King was attacked as soon as she opened the door.

Detectives immediately began enquiring about any unusual movements around the murdered woman’s house. They learned that on the Wednesday evening that King was slain, a known sex worker was twice seen rapping at the elderly woman’s door.

The detectives deduced that King might have let the young woman in and that the woman, perhaps with an accomplice, may have murdered King. However, despite their best efforts, the investigators were never able to locate the ‘street walker’. Other sex workers reportedly went into temporary hiding for fear of being questioned.

There has never been an arrest warrant for Dorothy King’s murder.
I had visited the area almost thirteen years ago when she was slain.
I returned to the scene of Miss King’s murder in early 2009 because this was one of the cases that remains stuck in my memory. I was somewhat taken aback to discover that some people were still apprehensive about speaking about the unsolved murder. This is still the case.

One person hinted that the killer(s) might be from a neighbouring community. Pressed further, he said he had given a statement to the police back then and suggested that I check with them.
The killers were still around and he refused to say anything further, but gave the impression that he knew a lot.

Well, I guess I was hoping for too much. I guess that more than a decade is too long a time to find out who entered that old house on that fateful Wednesday evening and killed a Governor’s daughter…

If you have any further information on this case or any other, please contact us at our Lot 24 Saffon Street, Charlestown office or by telephone.
We can be reached on telephone numbers 22-58458, 22-58465, or 22-58491. You need not disclose your identity. You can also contact Michael Jordan at his email address mjdragon@hotmail.com.

The (True!) Story of Gita, Part Four: Birds in the Blender

 Yes, I know it sounds bad. But it's not what you're thinking.

One by one, the eggs in the blender began to hatch.

This is where we left off last time. If you haven't read that, here it is:

Part Three: A Bird in the Home

And here are Parts One and Two:

A Bird on the Wire: Part One

A Bird in the Hand: Part Two

 First two eggs...

The photos are gathered from my Facebook posts, with very short commentary. I'm writing this months after the fact. Just catching up!
Then three.

Mama patiently sat on the eggs. For hours on end, and all night long.




One by one, the eggs began to hatch.
Such cute babies!

Mum and Dad came to visit several times a day, bringing titbits for their babies. Here they  both parents are in attendance.

I'm starving!






Lunchtime!




I tried filming them. But she looked up, saw the camera, and freaked out. So I removed it and never tried again. Invasion of privacy! Look at that face! She's furious.






After a while, they began to explore. One by one, in order of birth.

The mother bird was extremely confident. I could go right up to the fridge and open it while she was 

on the nest. Dad bird wasn't so happy. If I was in the kitchen he'd chatter angrily and try to chase me away. He'd fly very close to my head. I could tell he wanted me to stay away. This photo is of my cleaning lady, Shanti, standing right up next to the fridge. Mama bird, on the blender, is unbothered by her presence.

One morning, I walked out of my bedroom door to find what looked like a little ball of fluff on the floor. I picked it up, and you guessed it: it was a baby bird! I put it back  in the nest, but predictably, it didn't stay there. 

Big drama followed. The biggest bird, predictably, hopped out of the nest and once again fell to the ground. My cleaner was here; she saw it, and called me. Chick was behind the gas bottle. One of the parents was on the fridge looking down and frantically chattering.

I tried to pick up the baby but it fluttered wildly and flapped away, and the parent got even more frantic and flew at me to stop my interferance. I was able to trap it under an anti-fly food cover and put it back on the fridge but it promplte fell down again.

Parent (couldn't tell if mum or dad) absolutely panicking, trying to protect it from me.

Eventually, put it in a basin and that's where it istayed, for the time being. It couldn't fly up as yet; so it was safe for the time being. T

This was just the beginning. One down, two to go...

Very soon, that little bird was hopping all around the place. But it soon found the window. And there it stayed. It could go no further; the window is closed in with rie mesh. Often, mama came and sat outside, as if to give encouragement.



In this image you can see the chick gazing out the window. Just above him, on another bar, is his mama. On the terrace  outside, sitting on a wire at the edge of the terrace -- that's papa. And beyond it all is Freedom.

This baby hopped freely about the apartement. Then one day, I saw him sitting on the threshold. The foor was open. Both parents were on the terrace, watching and chattering. He sat there for the longest time, just looking out.  And then, all of a sudden -- he flappped his wings, and was gone! The parents flew away with him. Over the treetops, and far away.

Gone.

Pretty soon, the middle bird was gone as well. I did not witness that one's escape. Now there was just one little chick left. The smallest and weakest one. I didn't want this one to get lost so I put him in quite a deep tub. However, it was too deep. The parents seemed afraid to fly down into it. I put the blender into it, with the nest, so that if it fell out, it was safe. But I had to figure out a different solution.

I bught  one of those plastic storage boxes. This one was almost transparent, and the parents approved; they would fly down into it to feed their baby. I put some straw at the bottom to make it a bit cosy. However, the baby was very weak. It seemed thin and hardly able to hop around. I put the blender in the box, and that helped. It hopped on to the cable, and hopped a but higher every day.

Mama and Papa came to feed it many times a day. The last I saw of it was this - both on the edge of the box, Mama with food in her beak.

The followig day - Poof. They were both gone.
And so the story comes to a happy end.
Thank you for reading.

The Story of Gita, Part Three: A Bird in the Home

 If you haven't read Parts One and Two, here are links:

A Bird on the Wire: Part One

A Bird in the Hand: Part Two

 After Gita and her mate abandoned the fan,  I really believed that was it. No more bird visitors.  I still
saw them, and heard them, and  they still came occasionally for mango snacks. But I knew there'd be  no baby chicks in the ceiling fan -- which, quite honestly, was a bit of a relief.

But once again, I was wrong.

The pause lasted about a week, and then they were back, flying around the place, inspecting everything.
They were looking for a new place to build a new nest.

They finally made a decision:  a blender!

It was an old blender that doesn't work, belonging to my landlady, which I had put on the fridge to be out  of the way. As ever, it started with increased visits, hopping around, and then bits of dry grass lying on the ground next to the fridge.

Mama bulbul was very busy building her nest, and this time I could watch her from not too far away. I could see her little head bobbing, tucking in the twigs, wrestling with particularly stiff bits of grass. 
(Sorry for the shakey camera -- put it down to excitement!)

The evidence was, of course, left on the floor for others to sweep up!

When she was absent, I climbed on a chair, and took a photo.      This is what I saw.

I was rather concerned. I'd forgotten there was machinery inside the blender. It looked very uncomfortable. But what did I know? She surely knew what she was doing. And she did.

The next morning, we had this. A perfectly round, beautifully crafted nest.
All done with only a beak.

Then began the most important time the laying of eggs
. She sat in her nest, hour after hour after hour. Every now and then, when she flew out to eat or stretch her wings, I had a peek.
First I saw this.

An egg!

And, the next day, just like the last time:

Two eggs!

But this time was different. Because, two days later, there was this:

Three eggs!

During all this time, Gita was completely unflustered by any activity in the kitchen. I'd come and go, open the frisge below her, clatter around on the countertop, wash dishes, and so did Shanti, my claeaning lady. Here's Shanti in the kitchen, with Gita quite happy in her nest.

Once she had laid the eggs, which took place over a period of three or four days, a new era started.

At the time of writing, that era is ongoing. We are on Day Six of her laying the last egg. 

Bulbul eggs take 12-14 days to  hatch. So we are all waiting.

She sits on th eggs almost all day, with several very short pauses. She returns for the night at around six pm, and sleeps on the eggs. She sleeps without moving all night long (I checked) and flies out between 5:45  and 6:30 am, returning very soon.

A few days ago, I had the idea to set up a mini camera to watch the process of hatching, and marvelling at the birth of three baby bulbuls. But I'd need help for this, so I bought a simple mini camera and sent out a call to the local community here and soon I had the perfect helper, Vinod. 

Vinod is an ecologist and has studied orthinology. He's as excited as I am, and is helping me set things up.

We've got the software in the camera, but there wasn't a suitable place to fix the camera so I've had a new idea, bought a new gadget, and when it comes tomorrow we should be all set for live-cam.

Watch this space!

Part Four is Here!

Birds in the Blender: Part Four

The Story of Gita, Part Two: A Bird in the Hand

 If you haven't yet, you might want to first read Part One.

Short recap: a bulbul couple laid two eggs in a bush on my terrace, which had hatched.

Shortly after they flew the nest, I saw them fluttering around among the leaves. So checked it out,   and found this:

They had completely destroyed the nest! Which I thought a bit sad. It was such a perfect, beautifully crafted nest. A work of art,  considering it was made entirely with a beak.

And that seemed the absolute end to the story. I didn't see much of the birds after that, though they still came at least once a day for a mango snack, sometimes perched on a window bar, sometimes checking out the layout.

A few weeks after the birth, I noticed increased activitiy.  They were flying back and forth around the flat - which is open plan, with two bedrooms, three doors leading to a terrace and two balconies, and two windows which I opened during the day, for them to fly in and out. It seemed at first sort of a game. 
They'd perch on the window bars... 

...but they particularly liked to perch on the ceiling  fans, where they'd often just sit and chill, or else fly from fan to fan, as if checking out sofas for comfort.

Then one day, I noticed this beneath theceiling fan in the kitchen.

Bits of dried grass. On the left, around 9 am one morning.  On the right, a few  hours later.

Typical tenants, making a mess and not cleaning up afterwards!

 However, looking up, it was unmistakeable what was going on.

They were building a nest!

While delighted that they'd chosen my home, again, to build a nest, I was not as happy as with the terrace nest. Not only that it would not be possible to monitor what was going on in there, but they'd eventually leave behind a mess and I don't have a ladder to get up  there and clean it up. Not to mention not being able to use the fan  for a few weeks -- which doesn't matter, as I have other fans.

But not to worry. This went on for a few days, but then nothing happened. No more  vists to the  fan. Instead, they began showing interest in a second fan, in a bedroom I don't use., flying up there and hopping around, in and out the window etc. Then they stopped that as well.

They still came for snacks. They still flew around outside, still perched on the wires outside the house.

But they seemed to have completely lost interest in the fans, and the nest they had carefully built up there. 

One day around this time, I heard some screeching and when I checked the living room, I saw a small bird trapped inside the window. The glass was closed (it's often open) and the bird was flinging itself opelessly against it. I reaslied that it was a baby bird. And right outside, on the wire in the photo you see above, were both parents, clearly panicking, as they could not help the baby.

I managed to slide back the glass and the chick escaped on to the balcony beyond. However, the balcony has a glass balustrade, and it kept fluttering wildly, trying to fly out through the glass, bumping into it, and falling back onto the floor. It couldn't figure out how to fly up and over the top. 

Meanwhile, the poor parents were frantic, not knowing how to help, and probably more distraught at seeing me there, so close to their pracious little one. They were screeching and flying around, hopping about  in desperation. All three were clearly terrified.

Inside, looking out forlornly.

'Mama! Papa! I'm trapped! Help!'

'There's a monster lady and she's going to eat me up! Help!'

Eventually I decided on tough love. I picked up the bird and lifted it up above the balustrade, and it flew away to join the parents.

For a few seconds, I held her in my hand!

 Then they were all gone.

The interesting thing about this episode is that this baby bird seemed too big  to be  one of the ones which has hatched about two weeks previously. They grow so quickly -- quadrupled in size from birth to a week later. This one was bigger, but not nearly full size. Was it one of the two? If so, where was the other one? Mum and dad were clearly still in charge.

That bird in my hand, was it the original Gita, or Gita's son/daughter, or a new Gita altogether?

This young bird came to my home on July 3rd.

Gita's hatchlings flew the nest on June 14th. This little bird looks older than two weeks, to my very amateur eyes - based only on the growth rate I had noted in Part One.
Those chicks had both obviously flown away, unaided, that day. Surely by now they would know how to fly up more steeply, to cross over the balciony balustrade?

It's a mystery. If you know the answer, please leave a comment below.

I'll have to ask Vinod when I see him next. I'll introduce Vinod in the next episode.
Because the story might seem to have come to its natural end -- but it hasn't.

Part Three: A Bird in the Home