I had heard lots about Daša Drndić, but I had never actually read anything by her. On hearing about her death last year, I decided to read something by her, but it took me more than a year to get around to sitting down with ‘Trieste’. I am not sure how to categorize it - part fiction, it starts with Haya Tedeschi, an old Jewish lady sitting in her rocking chair waiting and hoping for her son’s return; a son who was snatched away from her during the war, and part history, covering what seems like the whole twentieth century of that part of Europe. It pulls so many strands together, family history, philosophy, poetry, literature, and an indictment of the crimes committed before, during, and after the second world war. It is such an unconventional approach to the whole concept of the novel, being willing to stop the story to add chapters of those who died in the ovens, or transcripts of testimonies at war crimes tribunals, and lists of perpetrators of those crimes. As I write this I realize that if I had been the reader of this review, I would probably have never opened this book. That would have been a mistake. It was an unforgettable even if somewhat draining experience.