31 Hours

By Masha Hamilton

A woman in New York awakens knowing, as deeply as a mother’s blood can know, that her grown son is in danger. She has not heard from him in weeks. His name is Jonas. His girlfriend, Vic, doesn’t know what she has done wrong, but Jonas won’t answer his cell phone. We soon learn that Jonas is isolated in a safe-house apartment in New York City, pondering his conversion to Islam and his experiences training in Pakistan, preparing for the violent action he has been instructed to take in 31 hours. Jonas’s absence from the lives of those who love him causes a cascade of events, and as the novel moves through the streets and subways of New York we come to know intimately the lives of its characters. We also learn to feel deeply the connections and disconnections that occur between young people and their parents not only in this country but in the Middle East as well.

Carried by Hamilton’s highly-lauded prose, this story about the helplessness of those who cannot contact a beloved young man who is on a devastatingly confused path is compelling on the most human level. In our world, when a family loses track of an idealistic son an entire city could be in danger. From the author of The Distance Between Us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Unbridled Books
• Release date: Oct 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781936071067

Book preview

NEW YORK: 1:44 A.M.

MECCA: 9:44 A.M.

A wolf’s howl. But more shrill, more prolonged. Carol sat fully upright, an inhale caught in her chest, before she realized there was, of course, no rabid wolf dodging Manhattan traffic. It was only winter’s wind slicing past her eleventh-floor apartment window with enough ferocity to rouse her. Then she grasped, in quick succession, that she’d been half-awake before the noise began, that her stomach hurt, and that her mind was filled with Jonas. Her son. Her wild-haired precious. When he was tiny, on a frenzied night like this, he would have snuggled with her in this very bed, bare toes pressing against her leg. Now he extended over six feet, and though he hugged, he didn’t snuggle. God, where had those days gone?

More important: Where was he now?

She lay back down, reached to pull a pillow close, and smoothed her forehead with a hand as if wiping dust from a table. She wondered if she could will herself back to sleep but doubted it. Her most successful years of slumber stretched from Jonas’s birth through his toddlerhood, when the basics felt simple and pure and her arms had been full of husband and baby, potter’s clay and homemade bread. Through the remaining, darker days of marriage, divorce, and the occasional lover, erratic sleep became the status quo. Still, whenever she awakened in the wee hours, she wanted nothing more than to breathe in time with another human body—a desire that pointed to a primitive quality in her, she thought, one not suited to this modern life. At age forty-eight, she still wasn’t used to sleeping alone.

When Jake was already gone and Jonas still a boy, she would sometimes crawl into her young son’s bed, rest a hand on his tummy, and match her breath to his. Often, if her presence woke him—she hadn’t thought of this in years—he would lull himself back to sleep by twirling her hair with his fingers, as if they were joined. He was so small then that air passed through his body at a pace more urgent than soothing. But the rise and fall of his stomach connected her to nothing less than the universe itself. Jonas saved her from facing her own mortality during those long nights. Next to him, imagining herself a kite finally cut free of its string, she slept.

That perfect boy with his drowsy warm scent and hair falling on the pillow like a piece of art. Why hadn’t he returned her calls?

But why should that be such a big deal? At twenty-one, separating from parents and establishing one’s individuality was a desired, even critical, stage. Differentiation was the term, wasn’t it? She had to give him space, trust him. That’s what it meant to be the parent of a grown child.

Well, screw differentiation. Screw psychobabble that blurred the particularities of Carol and her son and her mother-intuition. He’d always been so sensitive, before. He would never have wanted her to feel this scared, and if he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—pick up the phone to ease her anxiety now, that only proved it. Something was wrong.

She massaged her scalp for a moment and then squeezed her eyes closed, trying to picture Jonas in his Greenwich Village apartment. She failed. She tried to envision him in a lecture hall at NYU. That didn’t work, either. A hospital bed in Midtown? Sunk to the bottom of the East River?

Oh, God. Night-fed fears; she knew all about them. Keep this up, and shadows would become serial killers hiding beneath the bed. She was as unreasonable as a child awakened from a nightmare, she told herself, but that thought, though reassuring, felt unconvincing. This must be what it meant to worry oneself sick—although this emotion seemed closer to premonition, which made it even more alarming. Simple worry she could dismiss as wisps of weariness-fueled nonsense. Portent was born of concrete facts not yet processed by the conscious mind.

She threw her arm over her face. Be rational, she instructed herself. Put it into words: I am worried because . . .

Because Jonas recently had seemed so troubled. Too vulnerable, too raw, even for him. Too prone to anger that would rise like a wind gust and then die as swiftly. Too distant—perhaps that most of all. The heaviness she’d been feeling in her limbs for days could be dismissed as some delayed empty-nest response. But what if it was caused by something larger? What if her past with her baby, her boy, hadn’t simply evolved as it was supposed to with one’s grown children? What if, somehow, all those moments and memories laid in place like bricks used to build a house had vanished entirely, become dust while she’d been looking the other way?

A pipe moaned in the walls, while out in the hallway the elevator lumbered to life. On the icy streets below, on a night like this, cars careened with vulnerability, bakers lingered close to their ovens, and subways grumbled on their tracks as they rushed young partygoers and workers just off night shifts to their homes. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her nose and mouth in the pillow until she had to turn her cheek to the side to breathe. Breathe, she told herself. Rest, and soften the shoulders, and stop the mind’s seesawing, at least until dawn. Yes, dawn. And then, young adult or not, she would track him down. She would touch his cheek and hug him tight—mother him until he shrugged her off—so the next time night fell, she could hold assurance close to her like a childhood blanket and rest with the vigor of the innocent and the blessed.

NEW YORK: 1:49 A.M.

MECCA: 9:49 A.M.

Tile.

Cool, powder-blue tile, chipped in places and hard against his bare feet.

And a razor with an orange handle. A package of them, actually. Ten in all.

Bathroom tile and drugstore razors.

Bathroom tile and drugstore razors.

Bathroom tile and drugstore razors.

It was a prayer.

That wasn’t such a preposterous idea—anything could be a prayer. Should be, in fact. Every step Jonas took, every idle thought that eased through his head: a holy, ongoing dialogue with God. Or perhaps a plea, because at this moment, he shouldn’t be chatting with God as though they were dinner partners. He needed to be a supplicant. Please. Please give me the brains to remember what I’ve been taught and, please, the speed to do it quickly. And the calm, so that I can avoid undue attention and accomplish what I need to accomplish. Mercy, too. Have mercy, please, oh God, on my soul.

Allah, rather. Allah, for God’s sake. Allah. Get with the program.

Unexpectedly amused by his own private stumblings over his Creator’s proper name—or name in proper context—and pleased that he still had the capacity to be amused, Jonas smiled faintly at himself in the mirror. His skin looked even paler than usual under the fluorescent light, smoky-white and artificial, and it merged seamlessly into the ash-blond hair that stood out on his head in waves of thick curls. Ridiculous hair, really. Locks that little boys have but then outgrow, only he never did. Women loved his Jewfro. Always had. When he was twelve, that friend of his mother’s poked her fingers into his tangle of hair and he’d seen her eyes go foggy and he’d realized even then that she was fantasizing—perhaps not about him, exactly, not about her friend’s little boy, not that—but still some fantasy that was loose and sensual, arising from the way his long hair twisted out from his head and the way her fingers felt, vanished among the silky strands. It had surprised him, scared him, really, and later angered him. He sensed something predatory in it, something that failed to take him into account at all. And when he mentioned it to his mother—his bohemian, touchy-feely, let’stalk-about-it mother—she’d pulled away as if he’d slapped her and said he was wrong; her friend had known him since he was in diapers, since he made doodies (that was the way she talked) and she’d had to wipe him clean.

And that was enough, more than enough, to end that conversation forever. As she’d no doubt intended.

Jonas sat on the toilet and stretched his long legs, already stripped of their jeans. He hadn’t been able to sleep, had been sleeping poorly for months, in fact. So he might as well begin the process now. He knew the drill, this part of it, anyway. He had to purify himself. That was step one. Purify by removing all hair except for the curls on his head; they’d told him to leave those for later. Then pray toward Mecca. Then eat if he wanted, or fast if he chose, either option permissible, Masoud had said. Then pray and purify even more. Later, Masoud would bring the clean clothes and the Qur’an, which Jonas would place in his right-hand pocket. How did it go? Something old, something new. Something borrowed . . .

He twisted his torso to pick up his digital camera from the top of the toilet tank. He intended to document each step along the way so the pictures could be there for someone to look at later, and maybe understand. He had an idea, loosely formed, that he would want to be understood, if there was any wanting left on the other side. He hoped candid shots of him preparing might illustrate his foresight as well as his determination, because the news reports would surely flatten him to a two-dimensional zealot. He’d be seen as naive—mad, maybe. Someone might accuse him of being a crackhead, though he never used drugs and rarely drank. Others would be perplexed, especially people who were able to overlook evil and lose themselves in their own narrow lives. They’d find it hard to figure out why he couldn’t just ignore, too. Those who could identify with his anguish over the way things were would probably be unwilling to admit it aloud for fear of being seen as sympathizing with a nut-job. Deirdre might be the only person who would really understand, though he’d lost touch with her long ago. How long?

Jonas snapped a photograph and glanced at his wristwatch. Seven minutes to 2. In seven more minutes, it would be—he used his fingers—thirty-one hours until.

Thirty-one.

The maximum number of days in a month, the length between menstrual cycles. Al-Khabir, the All-Aware, the thirty-first name of Allah. Thirty-one verses in Genesis, Chapter 1. The thirty-first verse: God saw all that he had made, and behold, it was very good. It was evening and it was morning, the sixth day. Thirty-one hours which, given the elasticity of time, could shrink to thirty-one seconds or expand to thirty-one years. Who knew what the next thirty-one hours would feel like to him? And then he snapped a picture of his legs, hairy, with knotty apple-knees. Men’s legs, in general, aren’t very attractive, though they are functional and it’s more important to be useful than attractive.

There it was: another prayer.

More important to be useful than attractive, oh Allah.

Jewish dad, atheist mom, raised faithless, Jonas had, despite that, grown adept at spotting prayers.

He perched on the ledge of the bathtub, swinging his legs around and in as he picked up the can of mint-scented gel. He shook it, and sprayed some on his right ankle, spreading it upward until his leg turned white—almost gleaming under the insistent lighting—and he wondered how it would feel to be made of snow, and to reflect brightness, and to fear nothing except the sun. Then he carefully removed the cover from the first razor. He felt a bit clumsy, taking that initial swipe on the right side of his calf near his ankle. Was it uncontrolled nervousness or simply unfamiliarity? He had the advantage of being pretty hairless to start with. In fact, he shaved his stubble only twice a week. He’d always hated how his smooth cheeks made him look younger than he was.

Jonas turned on the water so he could rinse the razor as he went. The tub’s enamel was chipped, and a streak of rust reached out from the drain like an orange cobweb. In another time and another part of Manhattan, he used to put dirty dishes in his apartment’s bathtub if he knew his mother was dropping by. He would pile them up and close the shower curtain. Later he would have to move the dishes back to the kitchen and, eventually, wash them. So if you thought about it, it was really more work in the end, but still he enjoyed it, fooling his mom. Or so he thought until the day she called to say she’d be stopping by that afternoon and added, a lilt in her voice, and I’ll be wanting to take a bath.

He put the blade to his calf and let the sharp metal graze the surface, felling coarse hair as it went, leaving behind naked flesh. Despite his intense concentration, he noticed the subway passing nearby, causing the bathroom wall to vibrate. It was the J, or maybe the M. He wasn’t that familiar with the City Hall district. Jonas had grown up on the Upper West Side and had attended an artsy high school in Midtown and then NYU. He felt surprisingly like a foreigner over here, where the bridges stretched longingly toward Brooklyn and he could buy a pack of disposable razors in a store called Confucius Pharmacy. Say it again? he’d asked when Masoud had told him that the studio apartment where he would stay was right off the Avenue of the Finest. A street praising the diligence of New York City cops. He’d never heard of it. He felt sure Masoud was joking. And although the street did exist, it was a joke of sorts. A creepy, haunting joke the media might pick up on, afterward. But they’d be busy with other distractions, so maybe they wouldn’t, and that didn’t matter because by then it would have taken on all the intimacy of a private joke for the benefit of Masoud.

And Jonas felt fine with that. He did.

After a few swipes, he angled the razor under the running water and shaved more and then more, dulling two razors before the right calf felt smooth to his touch, a girl’s leg. Next he spread shaving cream on his shin, where the bone strained against the skin. This part, he knew, was a bit trickier; this was where women often nicked themselves. He knew this because Vic had told him. About a month ago, he’d asked her what was the worst thing about shaving and she’d laughed one of her short, husky laughs that made him ache with longing and said, You ask the damnedest questions, Jonas.

But just tell me, he insisted. Like, the first time you ever shaved. What was the worst part? He was already thinking about today.

So she’d told him. She’d sprawled on her couch, flung a leg on his lap. My shinbone, she’d said; this part here, and she’d taken his fingers and placed them at her ankle and then drawn them slowly up her dancer’s leg, over that bone so intimate with her cool, smooth flesh, and then beyond her knee, directly toward her heart, and she’d stopped midthigh, her smile wicked, her tone challenging, and teased: Is your curiosity satisfied, boy?

God, he would miss her. If missing is possible, afterward. What he felt was so intense, even more intense than with Deirdre. He thought now of changing his mind, running away somewhere to hide until he could figure out how to tell them it was off. That would be the way of a coward, though. That would be throwing everything out: the training, the commitment. He’d already made baty al-ridwan, a pledge not to waver. Besides, though Vic had heightened his joy, she’d also increased his suffering. She’d stopped calling, and it wasn’t a surprise. He was a loner; he’d always been a loner; that was the way life had gone for him. He’d known from the start that someone as solid and wonderful as Vic would eventually weary of his intensity and mood swings and move on, forgetting him.

This way, he would never be forgotten.

The bathroom suddenly felt airless. What would Masoud advise? Don’t think of her would be his counsel. This kind of personal attachment is not indicated for us, Jonas imagined him saying. Remember the lessons that must be taught, the sins that must be atoned for. Seek refuge from hypocrisy, and from the love of this world. Remember your good fortune in having been chosen. That was always his mantra, one Jonas did still believe. He knew what had to be reversed, and why and how. He recognized a will and wisdom greater than his own. The personal wasn’t paramount. He was acting out of an obligation larger than himself.

Jonas thought of a line from the Qur’an. O Prophet! Strive hard against the Unbelievers and the Hypocrites, and be firm against them, their abode is Hell—an evil refuge indeed. Sura 9:73. He chanted the line a few times, then added a little extra shaving gel to his leg and, holding his breath, carefully began to draw the razor up against the delicate shinbone. After the first sweep, he exhaled. So far, so good. No blood. No blood yet. No blood and—he tested with a pointed finger—slick as a whale. Why had he thought of a whale? He didn’t know, except that he remembered being told that story countless times in childhood, about Jonas in the belly of the whale. Besides, a whale was strong and vigorous, and that was what he wanted to be: slick, and strong, and headed for purity.

NEW YORK: 4:13 A.M.

MECCA: 12:13 P.M.

Hey, Hirt. Wake up, Sonny, c’mon. The cop rapped his nightstick on the base of the subway seat, and Sonny Hirt, slouched on his right side with the graffiti-etched window for a pillow, squinted open one reluctant brown eye.

Officer, he said in a phlegmy voice, then cleared his throat. How you be?

You know the drill, Hirt. No vagrants sleeping on the subway. Move it.

Vagrant? What you mean, officer? Sonny Hirt allowed for an indignant tone as he sat up, stifling a yawn. And I ain’t sleeping. Wouldn’t be safe, sleep here.

Uh-huh.

That’s right. I just takin’ a little commercial break before game time.

Sure.

Or a chat at the water cooler, you could be calling it. Man who works on Sundays be entitled to a little breather. By the way, Sonny rubbed one stubbly cheek, can you spare any? Even half-conscious, he slipped into his shtick so easily; he was a master, a preacher with purpose, if he did say so himself. "If you ain’t got it, I understand, ’cause I ain’t got it. But if you have

Reviews for 31 Hours

[jnyrose_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Astonishing

[busymombookclub · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed reading this book and didnt want it to end

[bookappeal · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A beautifully written story about a disillusioned young American man, drawn to the moral righteousness of Islam as introduced to him by a terrorist organizer. As Jonas secretly prepares for the terrorist act he has committed to taking in 31 hours, a vivid picture of New York City emerges in alternating chapters about Jonas's mother, his best friend and her sister, and a homeless man who works the subway and observes its unique "life". Hamilton's portrayal of a home-grown but very human terrorist is thought-provoking and troubling. One plot line seems superfluous and the ending will spur much debate among readers, but the novel is hard to put down and the overall effect is haunting.

[librarycin · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

3.25 stars21-year old Jonas has been missing for a few days and his mother, Carol, is getting worried. Little does she know that Jonas has retreated from everyone he knows and loves because he has something planned in 31 hours. That's the main plot in the book. We meet other characters as we go: Jonas's girlfriend, Vic and her family - her younger sister, Mara, and their parents, who have recently gotten divorced. Sonny is a homeless man, who spends all his time on the New York subway. He has a sister, though, who he visit on occasion, and has a shower while he's there. It wasn't nearly as suspenseful as I thought it would be... as I thought it should be, given that you knew something big was going to happen in 31 hours. The first half of the book was set-up and introduction of the characters. It got better in the second half, though, and there was more suspense at the very end.

[pidgeon92_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A fascinating look into the motivations of a domestic terrorist. I would love for the author to write a sequel.

[jenni7202 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This review was originally posted on my review blog : Falling Off The Shelf.When I first read the synopsis of this book, I was immediately interested, and just knew that I had to know what was going to happen in this novel. Within reading the first few pages I was already intrigued, and had a hard time putting the book down. I was also confused, to think that a person as young as Jonas could let such thoughts flow through his brain. I was, and am still angry with the character of Jonas for thinking that one act of violence can change the way of the world, and the people in it.In my honest opinion, violence will never change anything, except the amount of people that still stand after the final boom. War and fighting will only cause pain and destruction, and those that think otherwise baffle me. I wanted to wring Jonas's neck with his constant philosophy on life. How much does he think he is supposed to know at the age of 21? He is nothing more than a child just coming into his adulthood, and your not supposed to know everything at this point in your life.Here is a quote from 31 Hours that I think we should all take a second to think about : "We're all terrorists," he'd told her a few weeks ago in what had been their last real conversation. "Every single one of us. The only difference is, some of us recognize it and others don't."I honestly don't understand how Jonas can say this. I personally am not a terrorist, and I think that people who think this way need to seek immediate attention. Hurting others will not make the world a better place, it will just cause more danger for the children of our future.I didn't really like Jonas's mother either. Her name was Carol, and her life depended on whether Jonas or some other person was paying close attention to her. I understand that she is a mother, and that she loves her son, but to go crazy with worry because of not hearing from him for a little over a week, is a little over the top. In the case with this novel, she was right to worry, but other than that she seemed like a very selfish character. She needed the comfort of her son in order to be happy. There was one quote from the book that really had me thinking though, and although I am not a mother, this is exactly how I feel a love between a mother and child should be.This is the way mother-love works. There's no controlling it, and there's nothing like it, not the way a cleri loves his God or a soldier loves his country or a man his wife. This baby emerges, and that's it--you're sucked into a maelstrom so profound you never get out, and so you worry, you overreact sometimes, all you want is to protect you baby. Even if he's shaving now.The one character that I liked the most was young Mara. She's only a child, yet all she wants in the world is for her mother to be happy. She's not selfish, and doesn't put her emotions out there for the world to see. She's the tough one, the mortar, the one holding it all together. For a child, she knew too much, things only an adult should have to go through, and for this I respected her as a character.I can say that I liked this novel, but didn't love it. I will more than certainly be reading more by Masha Hamilton in the future, because this novel really touched me at an emotional level. There was a lot packed intot his novel, at 229 pages. I'd like to thank Caitlin Hamilton Summie from Unbridled Books for allowing me to read and review this book, it's been a pleasure.

[sruszala · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Riveting but makes for a rushed reading experience that is a bit of a let-down at the end, and leaves the reader likely to miss much of the beautiful writing of Masha Hamilton. I wanted to know: WHAT WILL JONAS DO? Watching his internal struggle and the parallel movements of his parents and girlfriend only added to my anxiety. But knowing (and I won't spoil the end) left me wanting more. What happens next? It's not often that I say this, but this book could easily have been100 pages longer. Readers might want to try "We Need to Talk about Kevin" for the day-after perspective.

[imbookingit · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'd expected 31 Hours to be high on the action. The action wasn't physical, it was all inside the character's heads. I found it to be highly compelling reading. I was amazed at how real all of the characters were. I felt like I got to know all of them. This isn't to say I never got confused by the book. I'd frequently have to pause at the beginning of a chapter to orient myself as to who I was dealing with-- each chapter featured a different character, out of a very large cast.As I jumped from character to character, I understood how they were feeling.This is really a big deal. Certainly, understanding the worried mother, the confused girlfriend, her unhappy younger sister are people I'd expect to understand. Even the subway panhandler is someone I could imagine getting to know in another book.I felt I understood the feelings Jonas had as he was preparing to become a terrorist. I didn't agree, of course. However, I think that we will be far more successful in stopping acts like this if we understand why the individuals involved make the choices they do. Not the organizations, but the individuals.A great read, and very much worth thinking about.

[literaryfeline · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In 2006, I read and reviewed The Attack by Yasmina Khadra, a book that came to mind after I finished reading Masha Hamilton's 31 Hours. That particular book is about the aftermath of a suicide bombing, a doctor discovering he had not known his troubled wife as well as he thought he had only after her death. He goes on a mission to find out why she became a suicide bomber. Masha Hamilton offers a similar perspective in 31 Hours, only she captures the hours when a young man, 21 year old Jonas, is contemplating his own act of violence, before his scheduled detonation.The novel is told from several different perspectives, opening with a mother awakened in the wee hours of the morning with a feeling that something is terribly wrong. She has not heard from her son, Jonas, in several days and is worried about him. He has become more withdrawn with increased mood swings. Jonas, for his part, is consumed by his passion and anger over the immoralities of the world and is determined to make a statement. He believes that only a violent act will precipitate change for the better. Jonas is not a monster. He is a human being with fears and vulnerabilities like each of us. While he is opposed to the injustices in the world, he is so focused on the ideals he is supporting that I am not sure he really considered the people who might be hurt by his actions. He claims to have clarity, but in reality is confused, lost even, seeking something missing from his life but of which he isn't sure what it is.The author also introduces readers to Jonas' friend, Vic, who has been so busy rehearsing for an upcoming state performance that she has not had much time for her friend or family. Her young sister, Mara, feels the weight of the family's burdens on her shoulder, caring for a grief stricken mother after Mara and Vic's father walked out. I couldn't help but think of Mara as a young Jonas, with their similar backgrounds at such a young age and with their strong desire to set things right, or, at least, what they perceive as right. Jonas himself identifies with Mara on some level.The subway system in New York is its own character, the location of where the terrorist act is supposed to take place. As a result, the reader gets to know a few of the regulars who spend much of their time underground, in particular Sonny Hirt, a homeless man who makes his living pan handling. It is through him, that the subway itself feels alive, pulsing with people from all walks of life going or coming from somewhere. A myriad of emotion and experience fills the subway at any hour. It made the story all the more powerful, knowing the impact a terrorist attack on the subway would cause.What was most powerful for me was seeing Jonas through his mother's eyes. Jonas is everything to Carol and her pain and concern is palpable. I ached for her and for Jonas' father. I also felt for Vic, who had just found love and so suddenly could lose it. It is through their eyes, their memories of him and their love for him, that I came to care for Jonas, as misguided as he was, and even in spite of not agreeing with his logic or choice of resolution.31 Hours is an intense and beautifully written novel. The countdown continues with every new chapter. And with each narrative by the various characters, the tension grows. The fate of all the characters hangs in the balance as the author weaves their stories together. Masha Hamilton succeeds at putting the reader into the minds and hearts of the characters, making this all too frightening story all the more real.

[daniellnic · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When Carol Meitzner wakes up in the middle of the night she is as sure as anything that her son, Jonas, is in danger. Even though she tries to keep calm and give her 21-year old a healthy amount of space in which to live his life and make his own decisions, in the back of her mind she knows that it’s not like him to be out of touch with her. She just knows that she has to get to him. Carol does the best she can to keep her fear in check and to make discrete inquiries into Jonas’ possible whereabouts, but what she doesn’t know is that she only has 31 hours to find him. Or else…

Jonas has always been reserved and sensitive; even as a child he was observant and deeply affected by his interactions with the world. Now, in some undisclosed location in New York City, Jonas is preparing to make a statement in a manner that he believes is the only way to make a difference in a world that is too callous, cruel and hypocritical to meet the needs of its citizens.

There is really something to be said for opening up a book when you are able to give it your full attention. When I first cracked this one open I was in a hotel room in Washington, DC for the National Book Festival, whooping it up with roomies Trish and Amy and definitely not in the frame of mind for a book that would require my full attention. Unfocused, I read the first few pages and saw wolves howling and Manhattan traffic and thought, “Huh? Don’t know if I will like this.” Boy was I wrong.

I picked this book back up once I had returned to NYC and could concentrate, started again from the beginning and I could not put this one down! I would try to move on to something else but somehow just a short time later I would find myself with book in hand. It’s a little novel that through snapshot portrayals examines 31 hours in the lives of not only Jonas and his mother, but also those most likely to be affected by his final acts- his girlfriend Vic, and her sister Mara among them. The novel powerfully moves right into the heart of each character in the present moment and reveals their dreams, aspirations and fears, all the while giving a glimpse into the history they have with each other and how it is has shaped their lives.

The characterizations are some of the strongest I have seen, and for this particular novel they were heart wrenching. Hamilton does an excellent job of portraying Jonas’s parents- one struggling between what might be irrational fear or intuition, and the other believing that their son is growing into a man and just needs his space. The book does an excellent job of exploring different issues facing the characters without being judgmental or preachy. Troubled marriages and questions of faith and religion are put forth to be examined, but are not framed as indictments so much as they are presented as the facts of each family’s situation. I loved seeing the nuances and complexities in all their situations. The character of Sonny Hirt in particular opened me up to a different perspective on freedom and the incredible assumptions that we make about the way all of us should live and function. It was very interesting to see another way.

31 Hours, by Masha Hamilton is a wonderfully written book examining the possibilities behind some of the unknowable facets which drive human behavior and how much we can truly know about one another and the actions of which we are capable. Ultimately it is a haunting reminder of how much each moment and hour of the act of living is an act of trust, and how the fragility of our existence is so quickly and easily unraveled.

[phebj · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I’d describe this book as an understated thriller which is more focused on the characters' internal thoughts than on their actions. As the title suggests, it takes place over 31 hours in New York City as the parents and close friends of 21 year old Jonas Meitzner realize that Jonas is missing and while they weren’t paying attention, his life was taking an ominous turn. Suspense builds as you wonder if they’ll be able to find him in time to stop him from going ahead with his plans. The interesting thing about the book is that his plans are never explicitly described and the ending leaves the reader with more questions than answers. The book and the ending, in particular, are both thought provoking and anxiety inducing. "31 Hours" is a relatively quick read at 229 pages and I might have liked it better if it was a little longer. There are six different narrators and I was left wishing I had heard more from them. Hamilton is a good writer and I’ll look for more of her books but there was something about this one that I can’t quite put my finger on that prevents me from giving it more than 3 ½ stars.

[suballa · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Carol Meitzner wakes with a feeling of dread. She knows in her heart that her 21 year old son, Jonas, is in trouble. She doesn’t know what kind of trouble or how much, but he has not been returning her calls. Carol soon learns that his girlfriend, Vic, has not seen or heard from him recently, either. Jonas’s father doesn’t think they should be so worried. Wrong. In 31 hours, their son Jonas and 6 others are planning to walk into key terminals of the NYC subway system and detonate explosive vests strapped to their bodies. Blond haired, white, and from a privileged background, Jonas is set to become the new face of terrorism. Jonas’s radical mentor has disabled his phone to keep him completely isolated from the people who care about him the most. Throughout this gripping novel we meet some of the potential victims of this terrifying act, many of whom Jonas knows and loves. As we watch Jonas prepare for his martyrdom, without the fanaticism one would expect, it becomes clear that this could really happen. This possibility makes 31 Hours all the more chilling.

[bermudaonion_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Twenty-one year old Jonas is a college student living away from home. He can’t seem to find his place in the world and his search for answers has led him to explore different religions.Ever since his parents divorced, Jonas has been pretty close to his mother, Carol, and usually keeps in touch with her. Carol awakens in the middle of the night with a sense of dread, and realizes she hasn’t heard from him in a while. She realized that lately"Jonas had seemed so trouble. Too vulnerable, too raw, even for him. Too prone to anger that would rise like a wind gust and then die swiftly. Too distant – perhaps that most of all."Carol can’t get hold of Jonas – he’s not returning her phone calls and he doesn’t answer his door – so she eventually turns to his girlfriend, his father and then the police.It’s hard to say too much about this book without giving anything away, but 31 HOURS by Masha Hamilton takes place over the course of 31 hours. It is thought provoking and scary and will leave you breathless. I could relate to much of the book since my own son is close to Jonas’s age. Not that my son has done what Jonas did, but I know how little they communicate at that age and how much parents worry. I thought the depiction of Carol and Jake, Jonas’s parents was exactly right – they behaved in much the same way Carl and I do – I worry and he tells me I’m blowing things out of proportion. This book will leave you with as many questions as answers. 31 HOURS is a real page-turner and I highly recommend it!