THE TREE AND THE VINE

In pre–World War II Holland, a young woman struggles to understand her sexual identity.

Not long after they meet, Erica and Bea move in together. Erica, a young journalist, is impetuous, outgoing, even wild, while Bea, who narrates this novel, craves stability and security. She works as a secretary. War is overtaking much of Europe; soon, Germany will invade the Netherlands, where Bea and Erica live. A sense of threat pervades this short book that is partly attributable to the politics of the time—while Erica’s father is Jewish, her mother seems to have fascist sympathies (her parents are separated). For the most part, though, de Jong’s focus is narrower: As Bea acquires a male suitor with whom she carries on a lackluster relationship, it quickly becomes clear that there’s more between her and Erica than just friendship. It’s Bea’s inability to face, let alone name, her true sexual desires that drives this spare, elegant, and ultimately haunting novel. De Jong’s book was first published in Dutch in 1954, when it was considered radical for its choice of subject matter. Gehrman’s beautiful new translation returns the book to the spotlight where it belongs. Erica has romantic relationships with women that she is more and more open about, but Bea finds herself entangled in feelings of jealousy, obsession, anxiety, and—while she’s still dragging her boyfriend along—utter boredom. (The couple's treatment of each other is itself a marvel as they oscillate helplessly between kindness and cruelty.) The tension between what can be said and what must remain unsaid is pulled exquisitely taut: This is a high-wire act no one but de Jong could pull off.

There’s nothing simple about this deceptively spare novel—a jewel hidden in plain sight.