This book is something of a publishing sensation in France, where I read it. Perhaps I expected too much, but I am a little disappointed. This is a short story imagined by an American woman writer living in California in 1938. One can certainly excuse her for not being completely accurate about Germany, writing in San Francisco in the Thirties: for the period, she makes her point beautifully and tersely. But now, 60 years later, I am amazed that so many people take this book as literal truth. Nazism was no nicer than what is shown here, but I don't think it expressed itself exactly in the way it is written here. (To get a much more accurate feel, I recommend the haunting "Reunion" by Fred Uhlman, or "Wartime Lies" by Louis Begley, two Jewish writers who were there.) Almost at every page, I was jarred by small inaccuracies: using images of Berlin in writing to a man settling in Bavaria, for instance; the theatrical way in which Max's sister escapes to Martin's newly-bought Schloss, which as straight out of Boy's Own adventures; the unselfconscious, didactic way in which Martin's letters show him won over to Nazism (read by contrast Albert Speer's "Inside the Third Reich" to understand how a brilliant intellectual can be seduced by Hitler). Martin's letter explaining how he abandoned Max's sister stretches credulity -- no-one remotely intelligent would have confessed to such behaviour, even to a former friend he was trying to persuade to stop writing. Max's revenge is nicely plotted: it's a clever idea, and intellectually I can see how it would work, for instance in a stage play; but I don't really believe it would have worked out that way (it could be argued convincingly that it was a Jewish plot.) My problem is that at no time do I really believe in the characters. (Max is not a convincing art dealer; the passages in his and Martin's letters about the sales he makes don't sound true; Martin refers to Max's judaism with admiration in his first letter, so that his later about-turn is unbelievable: a man that cultured ought to be a lot more ideological when he recants; Martin has lived abroad; he can't have the reactions of an unsophisticated German burgher.) As a period short story, this is a nice if slight, work. But it would be a mistake to see it as historic evidence of how Jews and Germans fared in the Thirties. It's well-meaning but inaccurate.