My Father's House: From the Sunday Times bestselling author of Star of the Sea (The Rome Escape Line, 1)

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How effective did you find the different voices that O’Connor uses to tell his story, and the different types of writing, e.g. newspaper interviews, letters, diaries, etc. What was the benefit of this? What was the cost? For cost savings, you can change your plan at any time online in the “Settings & Account” section. If you’d like to retain your premium access and save 20%, you can opt to pay annually at the end of the trial. You may also opt to downgrade to Standard Digital, a robust journalistic offering that fulfils many user’s needs. Compare Standard and Premium Digital here. Above all, it is a book that resonates because it retells a true story of courage, compassion, and defiance in dark days. (Readers who enjoy the story will find an excellent bibliography at the end of the novel to find out more about O’Flaherty.)

Will anyone care? I doubt it. Readers will be too caught up in the stylishness of O’Connor’s writing, the delight in watching a plan come together, the tension of wondering whether it will succeed. I was reminded of the novels of John Boyne, Kate Atkinson, and most unusually, Andrew O’Hagan’s wonderful novel on fame, Personality, which has a similarly dazzling way with voice and historical period detail. A tasty, if not always tasteful, tale of supernatural mayhem that fans of King and Crichton alike will enjoy.

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Any writer worth their salt can do the research and present the facts. Where My Father’s House really shines is in O’Connor’s assembly of the material and his ventriloquistic way with voice. From the map of Rome and the Vatican at the beginning that locates the action, to the classical three-act structure, to a central narrative that moves forward in time over one momentous day, there is a clear sense of authority, a composer at work. In the hands of a less experienced writer, the many metafictional devices – unpublished memoirs, letters, transcripts from BBC interviews, among others – could confuse or detract from the story. O’Connor keeps an admirable command of the various strains and voices, some fictional, others, such as the British diplomat Sir D’Arcy Osborne, drawn from reality. Hauptmann embodies something of the terrible paradoxes in the heart of Germany in the 1930s — cultured and brutal, urbane and ruthless. He brings his family with him, living a troubling double life as a dealer of arbitrary death and a father. At times, you have to stop to think hard about what is happening, because it is so awful and yet, in the story, mundane. The narrative moves on, but someone’s torture is beginning, or their life ends. Towards the end of the book, that gap shuts horribly as, casually and meaninglessly, Hauptmann executes someone whom we thought he liked.

Those that run the Escape Line — an initiative Hauptmann is determined to stamp out — are gathered together in what becomes known as the Choir, under the tutelage of Monsignor O’Flaherty.

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O’Connor achieves this balance partly through characterisation and voices strong enough that we eagerly follow them through uncertainty, mundanity and disappointment as well as high-stakes jeopardy. The novel is built out of the present-tense close third-person narrative of the priest, Hugh O’Flaherty, the technique historical fiction owes to Hilary Mantel, interspersed with fictional interviews conducted for a radio programme in 1963 with the seven people running the escape line under Hugh’s direction. All have distinctive and often very funny voices: they are Irish, English, Italian, aristocrats and shopkeepers. The Irish writer Claire Keegan grew up on a farm in Wexford before going on to study English and political science at Loyola University, New Orleans, at the age of 17. Her debut collection of short stories, Antarctica, won the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature and the William Trevor Prize. Her novella Foster is now included as a text for the Irish Leaving Certificate and was described by The Times as one of the top 50 works of fiction to be published in the 21st century. Her novel Small Things Like These was shortlisted for the 2022 Booker prize. Her award-winning stories have been translated into 30 languages.

I was reminded of the novels of John Boyne, Kate Atkinson, and most unusually, Andrew O’Hagan’s wonderful novel on fame, Personality, which has a similarly dazzling way with voice and historical period detailDesperate to assert control, Berlin sends a new Gestapo Head to break O’Flaherty’s network and terrify the city into obedience. He is Paul Hauptmann. They include a widowed Italian countess, a flamboyant British diplomat to the Vatican and a Jewish Londoner jazz musician-turned-inspired scrounger, and they do actually sing at music rehearsals, conducted by the Monsignor. But all the while, he is distributing detailed instructions to each for what to do on the next Rendimento, the mission to help save thousands of Allied men. The cover of the book says “Occupied Rome. One man takes a stand.” Is this a book about one man or a book about a group of friends? Or something else? Claire Keegan’s short novel Small Things Like These is set in a small Irish town in the mid-1980s. At the centre of the story is Bill Furlong, a coal merchant, who, in the busy weeks leading up to Christmas, works hard to ensure that he can provide for his five daughters. While delivering coal to the local convent, he encounters a girl in distress. This unsettling encounter causes him to question both his and the town’s ability to screen out the uncomfortable truths about the Madgalene laundries. The moral dilemma that then consumes him provides the novel with its dramatic tension. The author’s sparing prose reflects the monotony of the coal merchant’s life, while capturing place and emotion to great effect. A powerful novel with an emotional punch.

This is a love letter to Rome, Italy, and Ireland, by turns heart-rending, comedic and awe-inspiring. O’Connor has a glorious way with words: he writes of Cahersiveen in County Kerry as a place “where a bottle of tomato ketchup would be considered exotic and possession of a clove of garlic would have you burned as a witch”. And as each chapter heading steers the reader to the countdown before the frighteningly risky next Rendimento, we become utterly invested in the safety and the ultimate fate of “our” Monsignor and the motley members of the Choir.

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There is a guest appearance by an outraged Pope, furious at O’Flaherty’s “insubordination” when it comes to visiting prisoners of war in Rome, fascinating in the light of what was later learned about the behaviour of the wartime pontiff in relation to the Nazi regime.