The Red Address Book: A Novel

By Sofia Lundberg

The global fiction sensation—published in thirty-two countries. “A warm and tender story about life, memories, and the power of love and friendship.” —Katarina Bivald, New York Times–bestselling author

Meet Doris, a ninety-six-year-old woman living alone in her Stockholm apartment. She has few visitors, but her weekly Skype calls with Jenny—her American grandniece, and her only relative—give her great joy and remind her of her own youth.

When Doris was a girl, she was given an address book by her father, and ever since she has carefully documented everyone she met and loved throughout the years. Looking through the little book now, Doris sees the many crossed-out names of people long gone and is struck by the urge to put pen to paper. In writing down the stories of her colorful past—working as a maid in Sweden, modelling in Paris during the ’30s, fleeing to Manhattan at the dawn of the Second World War—can she help Jenny, haunted by a difficult childhood, unlock the secrets of their family and finally look to the future? And whatever became of Allan, the love of Doris’s life?

A charming novel that prompts reflection on the stories we all should carry to the next generation, and the surprises in life that can await even the oldest among us, The Red Address Book introduces Sofia Lundberg as a wise—and irresistible—storyteller.

“Written with love, told with joy. Very easy to enjoy.” —Fredrik Backman, #1 New York Times–bestselling author of A Man Called Ove

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781328473516

Book preview

1

The saltshaker. The pillbox. The bowl of lozenges. The blood-pressure monitor in its oval plastic case. The magnifying glass and its red bobbin-lace strap, taken from a Christmas curtain, tied in three fat knots. The phone with the extra-large numbers. The old red-leather address book, its bent corners revealing the yellowed paper within. She arranges everything carefully, in the middle of the kitchen table. They have to be lined up just so. No creases on the neatly ironed baby-blue linen tablecloth.

A moment of calm as she looks out at the street and the dreary weather. People rushing by, with and without umbrellas. The bare trees. The gravelly slush on the asphalt, water trickling through it.

A squirrel darts along a branch, and a flash of happiness twinkles in her eyes. She leans forward, following the blurry little creature’s movements carefully. Its bushy tail swings from side to side as it moves lithely between branches. Then it jumps down to the road and quickly disappears, heading off to new adventures.

It must almost be time to eat, she thinks, stroking her stomach. She picks up the magnifying glass and with a shaking hand raises it to her gold wristwatch. The numbers are still too small, and she has no choice but to give up. She clasps her hands calmly in her lap and closes her eyes for a moment, awaiting the familiar sound at the front door.

Did you nod off, Doris?

An excessively loud voice abruptly wakes her. She feels a hand on her shoulder, and sleepily tries to smile and nod at the young caregiver who is bending over her.

I must have. The words stick, and she clears her throat.

Here, have some water. The caregiver is quick to hold out a glass, and Doris takes a few sips.

Thank you . . . Sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name. It’s a new girl again. The old one left; she was going back to her studies.

It’s me, Doris. Ulrika. How are you today? she asks, but she doesn’t stop to listen to the answer.

Not that Doris gives one.

She quietly watches Ulrika’s hurried movements in the kitchen. Sees her take out the pepper and put the saltshaker back in the pantry. In her wake she leaves creases in the tablecloth.

No extra salt, I’ve told you, Ulrika says, with the tub of food in her hand. She gives Doris a stern look. Doris nods and sighs as Ulrika peels back the plastic wrap. Sauce, potatoes, fish, and peas, all mixed together, are tipped out onto a brown ceramic plate. Ulrika puts the plate in the microwave and turns the dial to two minutes. The machine starts up with a faint whirr, and the scent of fish slowly begins to drift through the apartment. While she waits, Ulrika starts to move Doris’s things: she stacks the newspapers and mail in a messy pile, takes the dishes out of the dishwasher.

Is it cold out? Doris turns back to the heavy drizzle. She can’t remember when she last set foot outside her door. It was summer. Or maybe spring.

Yeah, ugh, winter’ll soon be here. The raindrops almost felt like tiny lumps of ice today. I’m glad I’ve got the car so I don’t have to walk. I found a space on your street, right outside the door. The parking’s actually much better in the suburbs, where I live. It’s hopeless here in town, but sometimes you get lucky. The words stream from Ulrika’s mouth, then her voice becomes a faint hum. A pop song; Doris recognizes it from the radio. Ulrika whirls away. Dusts the bedroom. Doris can hear her clattering around and hopes she doesn’t knock over the vase, the hand-painted one she’s so fond of.

When Ulrika returns, she is carrying a dress over one arm. It’s burgundy, wool, the one with bobbled arms and a thread hanging from the hem. Doris had tried to pull it loose the last time she wore the dress, but the pain in her back made it impossible to reach below her knees. She holds out a hand to catch it now, but grasps at thin air when Ulrika suddenly turns and drapes the dress over a chair. The caregiver comes back and starts to loosen Doris’s dressing gown. She gently pulls the arms free and Doris whimpers quietly, her bad back sending a wave of pain into her shoulders. It’s always there, day and night. A reminder of her age.

I need you to stand up now. I’ll lift you on the count of three, OK? Ulrika places an arm around her, helps her to her feet, and pulls the dressing gown away. Doris is left standing there, in the kitchen, in the cold light of day, naked but for her underwear. That needs changing too. She covers herself with one arm as her bra is unhooked. Her breasts fall loosely toward her stomach.

Oh, you poor thing, you’re freezing! Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom.

Ulrika takes her hand and Doris follows her with cautious, hesitant steps. She feels her breasts swing, clasps one arm tight against them. The bathroom is warmer, thanks to the under-floor heating beneath the tiles, and she kicks off her slippers and enjoys the warmth beneath the soles of her feet.

Right, let’s get this dress on you. Lift your arms.

She does as she is told, but she can raise her arms only to chest height. Ulrika struggles with the fabric and manages to pull the dress over Doris’s head. When Doris glances up at her, Ulrika smiles.

Peekaboo! What a nice color, it suits you. Would you like some lipstick as well? Maybe a bit of blusher on your cheeks?

The makeup is set out on a little table by the sink. Ulrika holds up the lipstick, but Doris shakes her head and turns away.

How long will the food be? she asks on her way back to the kitchen.

The food! Ah! What an idiot I am, I forgot all about it. I’ll have to heat it up again.

Ulrika hurries to the microwave, opens the door and slams it shut again, turns the dial to one minute, and presses start. She pours some lingonberry juice into a glass and places the plate on the table. Doris wrinkles her nose when she sees the sludge, but hunger makes her lift the fork to her mouth.

Ulrika sits down across from her, with a cup in her hand. The hand-painted one, with the pink roses. The one Doris herself never uses, for fear of breaking it.

Coffee, it’s liquid gold, it is, Ulrika remarks. Right?

Doris nods, her eyes fixed on the cup.

Don’t drop it.

Are you full? Ulrika asks after they have been sitting in silence for some time. Doris nods and Ulrika gets up to clear away the plate. She comes back with steaming coffee in yet another cup. A dark blue one, from Höganäs.

There you go. Now we can catch our breath for a moment, hmm?

Ulrika smiles and sits down again.

This weather, nothing but rain, rain, rain. It feels like it’s never ending.

Doris is just about to reply, but Ulrika continues:

I wonder if I sent any extra socks to the nursery. The little ones will probably get soaked today. Oh well, there must be spares they can borrow. Otherwise I’ll be picking up a grumpy sockless kid. Always this worrying about the kids. But I suppose you know what it’s like. How many children do you have?

Doris shakes her head.

Oh, none at all? You poor thing, so you never get any visitors? Have you never been married?

The caregiver’s pushiness surprises Doris. These young women don’t usually ask this kind of question, at least not so bluntly, anyway.

But you must have friends? Who come over occasionally? That looks thick enough, anyway. She points to the address book on the table.

Doris doesn’t answer. She glances at the photo of Jenny. It’s in the hallway, but the caregiver has never even noticed it. Jenny, who is so far away and yet always so close in her thoughts.

Well, listen, Ulrika continues. I’ve got to rush off. We can talk more next time.

Ulrika loads the cups into the dishwasher, even the hand-painted one. Then she turns the machine on, gives the counter one last wipe with the dishcloth, and before Doris knows it, she’s out the door. Through the window, she watches Ulrika pull on her coat as she walks, and then climb into a little red car with the agency’s logo on the door. With shuffling steps, Doris makes her way to the dishwasher and pauses the wash. She pulls out the hand-painted cup, carefully rinses it, and then hides it at the very back of the cupboard, behind the deep dessert bowls. She checks from every angle. It’s no longer visible. Pleased, she sits back down at the kitchen table and smooths the tablecloth with her hands. Arranges everything carefully. The pillbox, the lozenges, the plastic case, the magnifying glass, and the phone are all back in their rightful places. When she reaches for the address book, her hand pauses, and she allows it to rest there. She hasn’t opened it in a long time, but now she lifts the cover and is met by a list of names on the first page. Most have been crossed out. In the margin, she has written it several times. One word. Dead.

The Red Address Book

A. ALM, ERIC

So many names pass by us in a lifetime. Have you ever thought about that, Jenny? All the names that come and go. That rip our hearts to pieces and make us shed tears. That become lovers or enemies. I leaf through my address book sometimes. It has become something like a map of my life, and I want to tell you a bit about it. So that you, who’ll be the only one who remembers me, will also remember my life. A kind of testament. I’ll give you my memories. They’re the most beautiful thing I have.

It was 1928. It was my birthday, and I had just turned ten. The minute I saw the parcel, I knew it contained something special. I could tell from the twinkle in Pappa’s eyes. Those dark eyes of his, usually so preoccupied, were eagerly awaiting my reaction. The present was wrapped in thin, beautiful tissue paper. I followed its texture with my fingertips. The delicate surface, the fibers coming together in a jumble of patterns. And then the ribbon: a thick red-silk ribbon. It was the most beautiful parcel I had ever seen.

Open, open! Agnes, my two-year-old sister, leaned eagerly over the dining table with both arms on the tablecloth, and received a mild scolding from our mother.

Yes, open it now! Even my father seemed impatient.

I stroked the ribbon with my thumb before pulling both ends and untying the bow. Inside was an address book, bound in shiny red leather, which smelled sharply of dye.

You can collect all your friends in it. Pappa smiled. Everyone you meet during your life. In all the exciting places you’ll visit. So you don’t forget.

He took the book from my hand and opened it. Beneath A, he had already written his own name. Eric Alm. Plus the address and phone number for his workshop. The number, which had recently been connected, the one he was so proud of. We still didn’t have a telephone at home.

He was a big man, my father. I don’t mean physically. Not at all. But at home there never seemed to be enough room for his thoughts. He seemed to be constantly floating out over the wider world, to unknown places. I often had the feeling that he didn’t really want to be at home with us. He didn’t enjoy the little things of everyday life. He was thirsty for knowledge, and he filled our home with books. I don’t remember him talking much, not even with my mother. He just sat there with his books. Sometimes I would crawl into his lap in the armchair. He never protested, just pushed me to the side so I didn’t get in the way of the letters and images that had caught his interest. He smelled sweet, like wood, and his hair was always covered with a thin layer of sawdust, which made it look gray. His hands were rough and cracked. Every night, he would smear them with Vaseline and wear thin cotton gloves as he slept.

My hands. I held them around his neck in a cautious embrace. We sat there in our own little world. I followed his mental journey as he turned the page. He read about different countries and cultures, stuck pins into a huge map of the world that he had nailed on the wall. As though they were places he had visited. One day, he said, one day he would head out into the world. And then he added numbers to the pins. Ones, twos, and threes. He was ordering the various locations, prioritizing them. Maybe he was suited to life as an explorer?

If it hadn’t been for his father’s workshop. An inheritance to look after. A duty to fulfill. He obediently went to the workshop every morning, even after Farfar died, to stand next to an apprentice in that drab space, with stacks of boards along each wall, surrounded by the sharp scent of turpentine and mineral spirits. My sister and I were usually allowed to watch only from the doorway. Outside, white roses climbed the dark-brown wooden walls. As their petals fell to the ground, we and the neighborhood children would collect them and place them in bowls of water; we made our own perfume to splash on our necks.

I remember stacks of half-finished tables and chairs, sawdust and wood chippings everywhere. Tools on hooks on the wall; chisels, jigsaws, carpentry knives, hammers. Everything had its rightful place. And from his position behind the woodworking bench, my father, with a pencil tucked behind one ear and a thick apron of cracked brown leather, had a view over it all. He always worked until dark, whether it was summer or winter. Then he came home. Home to his armchair.

Pappa. His soul is still here, inside me, beside me. Beneath the pile of newspapers on the chair he made, with the rush seat my mother wove. All he wanted was to venture out into the world. And all he did was leave an impression within the four walls of his home. The highly crafted statuettes, the rocking chair he made for Mamma, with its elegantly ornate details. The wooden decorations he painstakingly carved by hand. The bookshelf where some of his books still stand. My father.

2

Even the smallest movements require mental and physical exertion. She moves her legs forward a few millimeters and then pauses. Places her hands on the armrests. One at a time. Pause. She digs in her heels. Grips the armrest with one hand and places the other on the dining table. Sways her upper body back and forth to get some momentum. Her chair has a high, soft back support, and the legs rest in plastic cups, which raise it a few centimeters. Still, it takes her a long time to get to her feet. On the third attempt she manages it. After that, she has to stand still for another second or two, with her head bowed and both hands on the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Her daily exercise. The stroll around her small apartment. Down the hallway from the kitchen, around the sofa in the living room, pausing to pick any withered leaves from the red begonia in the window. Then on to her bedroom, and her writing corner. To the laptop computer, which has become so important to her. She gingerly sits down, in yet another chair resting on plastic supports. They make the chair so high, she can barely fit her thighs beneath the desk. She lifts the lid of the computer and hears the faint, familiar whirr of the hard drive waking up. She clicks the Internet Explorer icon on the desktop, and the online version of her newspaper greets her. Every day, she is amazed by the fact that the entire world exists inside this tiny little computer. That she, a lonely woman in Stockholm, could keep in touch with people all over the world, if she wanted to. Technology fills her days. It makes waiting for death a little more bearable. She sits here every afternoon, occasionally even in the early morning or late at night, when sleep refuses to cooperate. It was her last caregiver, Maria, who taught her how it all worked. Skype, Facebook, email. Maria had said that no one was too old to learn something new. Doris agreed, and said that no one was too old to realize her dreams. Shortly after that, Maria handed in her notice so that she could resume her studies.

Ulrika doesn’t seem so interested. She has never mentioned the computer or asked what Doris is up to. She just dusts it in passing as she sweeps through the room, ticking off task after task on her to-do list. Maybe she’s on Facebook, though? Most people seem to be. Even Doris has an account, the one Maria set up for her. She also has three friends. Maria is one. Then there’s her great-niece, Jenny, in San Francisco, plus Jenny’s older son, Jack. Doris checks in with their lives every now and then, follows images and events from another world. Sometimes she even studies their friends’ lives. Those with a public profile.

Her fingers still work. They’re a little slower than they used to be, and sometimes they start to ache, forcing her to rest. She writes to gather her memories. To get an overview of the life she has lived. She hopes it will be Jenny who finds everything later, once Doris herself is dead. That it will be Jenny who reads and smiles at the pictures. Who inherits all of her beautiful things: the furniture, the paintings, the hand-painted cup. They won’t just be thrown out, will they? She shudders at the thought, brings her fingers to the keys, and starts to write, in order to clear her thoughts. Outside, white roses climbed the dark-brown wooden walls, she writes today. One sentence. Then a sense of calm as she navigates through a sea of memories.

The Red Address Book

A. ALM, ERIC DEAD

Have you ever heard a real roar of despair, Jenny? A cry born of desperation? A scream from the very bottom of the heart, which digs its way into every last atom, which leaves no one untouched? I have heard several, but each has reminded me of the very first, and most terrible.

It came from the inner yard. There he stood. Pappa. His cry echoed from the stone walls, and blood pulsed from his hand, staining red the layer of frost covering the grass. There had been an accident in his workshop, and a piece of metal was wedged in his wrist. His cry ebbed, and he sank to the ground. We ran down the steps and into the yard, toward him; there were many of us. Mamma tied her apron around his wrist and held his arm in the air. Her cry was as loud as his when she shouted for help. Pappa’s face was worryingly pale, his lips a shade of bluish-purple. Everything that happened next is a haze. The men carrying him to the street. The car that picked him up and drove him away. The solitary dry white rose growing on the bush by the wall, and the frost embracing it. Once everyone had gone, I stayed where I was in the yard and stared at it. That rose was a survivor. I prayed to God that my pappa would find the same strength.

Weeks of anxious waiting followed. Every day, we would see Mamma pack up the remains of breakfast—the porridge, milk, and bread—and head off to the hospital. She would often come home with the food parcel unopened.

One day, she came home with Pappa’s clothes draped over the basket, which was still full of food. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying. As red as Pappa’s poisoned blood.

Everything stopped. Life came to an end. Not just for Pappa, but for all of us. His desperate cry that frosty November morning was a brutal end to my childhood.

The Red Address Book

S. SERAFIN, DOMINIQUE

The tears at night weren’t mine, but they were so constant that sometimes I would wake and think they were. Mamma started sitting in the rocking chair in the kitchen once Agnes and I had gone to bed, and I got used to falling asleep to the accompaniment of her sobs. She sewed and she cried; the sound came in waves, through the room, across the ceiling, to us children. She thought we were sleeping. We weren’t. I could hear her sniffing and swallowing, trying to clear her nose. I felt her despair at having been left alone, no longer able to live securely in Pappa’s shadow.

I missed him too. He would never sit in his armchair again, deeply absorbed in a book. I would never be able to crawl into his lap and follow him out into the world. The only hugs I remember from my childhood are the ones Pappa gave me.

Those were difficult months. The porridge we ate for breakfast and dinner became more and more watery. The berries, which we had picked in the forest and then dried, started to run out. One day, Mamma shot a pigeon with Pappa’s gun. It was enough for a stew, and it was the first time since he had died that we were all full, the first time the food had made our cheeks flush, the first time we had laughed. But that laughter would soon die out.

You’re the oldest, you’ll have to look after yourself now, she said, pressing a scrap of paper into my hand. I saw the tears brimming in her green eyes before she turned away and, with a wet cloth, began frantically rubbing at the plates we had just eaten from. The kitchen we stood in at the time, so long ago, has become a kind of museum of childhood memory for me. I remember everything in detail. The skirt she was busy sewing, the blue one, draped over the stool. The potato stew and the foam that had run over during cooking, drying down the side of the pot. The lone candle, which bathed the room in a dim glow. My mother’s movements between the sink and the table. Her dress, which swung between her legs when she moved.

What do you mean? I managed to ask.

She paused but didn’t turn to look at me.

I continued. Are you kicking me out?

No reply.

Say something! Are you kicking me out?

She looked down at the sink.

You’re a big girl now, Doris. You have to understand. It’s a good job I’ve found for you. And as you can see, the address isn’t too far away. We’ll still be able to see each other.

But what about school?

Mamma looked up and stared straight ahead.

Reviews for The Red Address Book

[kakadoo202 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Quick read. Some a characters a bit flat. Corny ending. But sweet story.

[tjsjohanna_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Doris is old and dying but she’s got things to share before she does. The frame story follows Doris’ last days but those days are interspersed with Doris’ memories of her life. It’s a lovely tale of hardships and love and unconventional family.

[macygma · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

THE RED ADDRESS BOOKSofie LundbergI just finished the most amazing book! The Red Address Book by Sofia Lundberg takes place in pre-WWII Sweden and Paris and America and also post WWII in England and SwedenDoris received the red leather address book from her father on her 10th birthday. Her life completely changed not long after that. Sent to be a maid for a wealthy woman, Doris learns to keep quiet, do as she’s told and don’t question. When she is followed home on night by a man; the woman she is working for tells her she must go with him. Again, major changes in Doris’ life. Still she keeps up her address book and as she begins to age; she writes stories of all the folks entered. She has no one in Sweden now, just a niece in California that she Skypes with once a week. Doris’ health begins to fail when finally she falls and breaks a hip. This book is so lovingly written! I was Jenny (the niece)m Doris, Allan (Doris’ only love) and so many more characters. The descriptions of Paris were wonderful also those of her friends.You need to read this book! Keep tissues handy, but please read it!

[linda.marsheells · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Loved it. An elderly woman lives alone with her memories. Memories kick-started by entries in her address book, slowly but surely crossed out and marked DEAD over time. No one is left from her past. New York, Paris, Sweden.... WW2.......This is a love story based in Stockhom, where wires are crossed and time passes.....years pass. Yet Doris lives her independent life, at this point with interchangeable caretakers and her weekly skype with her grand-daughter. A fall lands her in the hospital...All i will say here is to have a tissue at hand, it's a sad....happy ending

[bookconcierge · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

2.5** From the book jacket: Meet Doris, a 96-year-old woman living alone in her Stockholm apartment. She has few visitors, but her weekly Skype calls with Jenny – her American grandniece, and her only relative – give her great joy and remind her of her own youth. When Doris was a girl, she was given an address book by her father, and ever since she has carefully documented everyone she met and loved throughout the years. Looking through the little book now, Doris sees the many crossed-out names of people long gone and is struck by the urge to put pen to paper. My reactions: I am so over the dual time-line device in historical fiction! Just tell the story. This seemed very disjointed, what with the drama occurring in present day – both Doris and Jenny have some serious problems – and the drama of her great lost love in the past, I just never felt connected to these characters or to the story. I wanted more of Gosta, the artist that Doris befriended and who came through for her when she most needed him. I felt that the love affair with Allan was rushed and not really fleshed out. Yes, I remember the passion of a youthful love affair, the way your emotions wipe everything else out of your consciousness; but this just seemed underdeveloped to me. I also thought the relationship with Jenny’s mother (Doris’s niece) was lacking depth. So, while I enjoyed reading about the modeling career in 1930s Paris, and the pluck and drive which took Doris across the ocean (twice), I was decidedly “meh” about the whole.

[dmturner · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A very sweet book that kept me interested all the way through.

[baystatera · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Good book club discussion!

[ml923 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A feel-good story that is a wonderful read!

[adonisguilfoyle · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This novel shares a similar theme with another book I'm reading - Miss Austen by Gill Hornby - but I found Sofia Lundberg's story easier to get through. Sappy, yes, and also very soapy, but great characters. Doris Alm, based on the author's aunt but solely by name and relation, I should imagine, is 96 years old and waiting to die alone in Stockholm. Her niece Jenny lives in America and they talk regularly by Skype, but Doris wants to pass on her memories and starts writing her memoirs for Jenny, based on the red address book of the title. Each chapter is headed by the name of a relative, friend or lover in Doris' life, amended with 'DEAD' when that person has passed on.I found the premise intriguing, but the narrative soon descended into Hallmark movie territory. Doris loses her father at a young age, her mother hands her over to a rich socialite to earn her way as a maid, the socialite moves her to Paris where Doris' incredible beauty wins over a famous artist and she then becomes a 'living mannequin', before meeting the love of her life, a wealthy American. who abandons her just as war breaks out, so Doris and her younger sister flee to the States to try and locate her lover after he sends her a letter - but too late! And the drama only steps up a notch when Doris decides she wants to head home to Europe. I kept reading, but my credulity was stretched to the limit, even for romantic fiction.On the other hand, Doris' relationship with her young niece Jenny - and even she has a traumatic story, with a drug-addled mother and a grandmother who died in childbirth - is heartwarming and comparatively realistic. I love that Jenny drops everything to fly to Stockholm and be with Doris in her last days, lugging a complacent toddler with her. And yes, I did well up at one point!A quick, light read that could have done with dialling back on the dramatic cliches slightly.

[kglattstein · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As I have been surrounding myself with organizing and archiving my family and my husband's family history I appreciate and enjoy stories like these. Filled with all the moments and connections that life presents us, how they impact us, how we move on, how we love, and how we survive. Sofia Lundberg does a wonderful job of walking us through the story of a woman, Doris, who has a strong, independent spirit. Doris reminisces about her life story through the people in her address book. As the story unfolds she connects with a niece and we find she wants to leave her niece with a sense of the value of life and love, no matter what the circumstances or regrets. Such a lovely reminder for all of us as we rarely take the time to reminisce because we are too busy with the Instagram or FB message about our current lives.

I give this book 4 stars because it engaged me until the end, Doris was a lovable character, the story-telling through "address entries" either alive or dead was intriguing and her connection with her niece was refreshing and real. I almost gave it 3 stars because some of the relationships and journeys she took sometimes seem unreal - but isn't that sometimes the ride we take with a good fiction book?

[whitreidtan · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

To this day my family laughs about my paternal grandmother's address book. It was a baffling document for anyone but her. She didn't list people alphabetically by last name. Well, she did for some. She didn't alphabetize them by first name. Although, again, she did for some. She listed them under whatever letter of the alphabet made sense to her. So her brother was listed under B for brother. Her sister was under S for sister. My father was listed under R for Ronnie with all of our myriad of addresses crossed out and rewritten over the years. Her haphazard system, one that only she understood, made telling the important people in her life that she had passed away a big challenge. We were so busy marveling at the way she filed everything that we didn't stop to consider who the people we didn't recognize might be, and we especially didn't wonder at the crossed out people. Who they were and who they were to her would probably have been an interesting and different perspective on her life. Sofia Lundberg's novel, The Red Address Book, is a book based on that premise, that entries in an address book can tell the story of the owner's life.Doris is 96 years old and living alone in Stockholm. Care workers come in to help her periodically but they treat her as if she has regressed to childhood and have no interest in who she was in the past. She tolerates the workers but she lives for her weekly calls with her American great-niece Jenny, with whom she has never shared her past either. Jenny's life is busy and she can't find the time to visit her Aunt Doris until Doris falls and ends up in the hospital, slowly sinking. As Jenny faces her great-aunt's mortality, she finds it important to ask Doris about her past, to find out as much as she can about her beloved relative before she's gone and also about the things from Jenny's own past that she has never understood or known. In this she is aided by the red address book with so many of its entries crossed out and marked "DEAD."Woven through Doris' current day story and triggered by the entries in the beloved red address book her father gave her as a young girl is the story of her complicated past. From her early childhood and work as a maid to working as a model, from the disappeared love of her life to the tragedy of their family, from what the war took from her to what it eventually gave back, and the choice she made to return to Stockholm in her later life, the entries of the address book span it all. It is both the story of her life and the people in it as well as a visual representation of what it looks like to have lost so many important people as she comes to the end of her life. While the premise is wonderful and the story of Doris' past is interesting enough, it is a little too simplistic and the current day story has stilted dialogue and unrealistic, predictable outcomes. This should have been incredibly heartwarming but there was something about it that missed the mark, not evoking the emotions it clearly meant to. It is unclear whether this is a translation problem or if it's a story problem. In the end, I wanted to feel more, to connect more, to like this so much more than I did, after all, I already appreciate the personal value of an address book.

[fastforward-46127 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm a sucker for these books that feature an elderly character who decides to reflect back on their life. This one had a unique premise as a woman's address book was used to help tell the story. While this book had a bit of charm it also packed an emotional punch in ways I wasn't expecting.Ninety-six year old Doris doesn't have much contact with the outside world and therefore looks forward to her weekly Skype sessions with her grandniece, Jenny. Doris's father gave her an address book when she was a child and she decides to take a look at it while she writes down some of the moments that shaped her life. The story went in some directions I didn't see coming but it makes sense given just about everyone has hard moments in life. It felt like there was better focus in the first half or so of the book than the later chapters when in some ways it felt like the story shifted gears and turned into something else. I'm not saying I didn't like it, but I do wish there would have been more of a smooth transition. Overall though, you do end up falling in love with Doris as she is an easy character to feel emotionally invested in and I would definitely recommend this as a good read.I received a free arc of this book from BookishFirst and the publisher. I was under no obligation to post a review here and all views expressed are my honest opinion.

[dawnlovesbooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Red Address Book by Sofia Lundberg. Doris is a 96 year old woman who is writing down all her memories about the people meant a great deal to her in life. She is going through her red address book where she has crossed out almost everyone’s name because they have died. Doris spends her days in her lonely, quiet and dark Sweden apartment sorting through her memories. “There are certain memories you just can’t forget. They linger and fester, occasionally bursting like a boil and causing pain, such terrible pain.”Doris suffers a fall that lands her in the hospital where she continues to decline. She doesn’t see the point in living when everyone else has died already. Her one saving grace is her niece, Jenny, who she practically raised. Jenny and Doris have a very special bond. They were brought together when Jenny’s mother couldn’t take care of her because of a drug problem. Doris came to the rescue, finding out just how much she and Jenny needed each other. Jenny gave Doris a chance to make up for mistakes in her past and she became everything to Doris. Jenny comes to the hospital to stay with Doris until she dies. Jenny reads everything that Doris has written down for her and they discuss the things she hasn’t had a chance to write about yet. From the time in her life when Doris was a live mannequin in Paris, to the time she met the love of her life, and through the years of her lifetime friendship with a gay artist named Gosta. Doris says of her friendship with Gosta: “We had something very special. A link between our hearts, a glittering rainbow that brightened and dimmed over the years. But it was always there.”I did find the ending a little too sappy, but this book did have a lot of profound insights about life:“We never know what we have until it’s gone. That’s when we miss it.” “Being separated from a person you hold dear always feels like a wound to the soul.”“Everyone experiences setbacks in life. They change us. Sometimes we notice’ other times they happen without our knowledge. But the pain, that’s there the whole time, piled high in our hearts, like clenched fists ready to break free.”Doris’s final words to Jenny are the final words her own mother gave her: “I wish you enough. Enough sun to light up your days, enough rain that you appreciate the sun. Enough joy to strengthen you soul, enough pain that you can appreciate life’s small moments of happiness. And enough friends that you can manage a farewell now and then.”

[slevyr26 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

You know when you finish a book and you’re sitting there with teary eyes and you just hold the book in your hands... What a lovely story. I’m sad it had to end, but of course it did. A really enjoyable, lovable story of a Swedish nonagenarian whose passion throughout her life was writing and recording her memories. It was a treat to be able to go through her life all over the world with her. Expect tears and the happy kind of endings that also make you a little sad and cry.Thank you to the publishers for a chance to read this in advance.

[carole888fort · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Red Address Book by Sofia Lundberg was first published in Sweden in 2017. The book has since been translated to English by Alice Menzies and is available as of January 2019. This novel documents the sentimental journey of Doris, a 96-year-old woman living alone in Stockholm. Her only living relative is Jenny, her grandniece who lives in the US with her young family. The two women skype once a week and have a close and loving relationship. Doris was given a red address book by her father when she was a child. Throughout her long life, she wrote in many names of people who were part of her journey. In her old age, she started to write the story of each person in her book so that Jenny would know the history of Doris and herself. In failing health, Doris cannot forget one man who passed in and out of her life. Whatever happened to him? This small novel is a beautiful story of one woman's life. It is a little gem. Highly recommended. Thank you to Houghton Mifflin Harcourt and NetGalley for the e-ARC in exchange for an honest review.

[mzonderm · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Doris Alm has lived a long and eventful life, from a poor childhood in Sweden, to modeling in Paris, to being a maid and companion to a frustrated artist. Doris has loved, and lost, and would probably agree with Tennyson that that's better than the alternative. But now she is concerned that when she dies, everything that has made up her life will die with her. So she determines to write about the people she knew and the things she did. She uses the red address book that her father gave her as a young girl as a prompt, as she looks through the pages and sees that nearly all of the names are crossed out and have the notation, "dead" written beside them. The story alternates between these reflections and her current life, home-bound, with her only connection to the outside world being the aides who come in to help her each day and her weekly Skype sessions with her only family, her great-niece Jenny who lives in San Francisco.This story is lovely, heartbreaking, tragic, and hopeful, all at the same time. The writing is evocative, both the past and present sections, and beautifully translated by Alice Menzies. Although it's slow to get into, Doris's story will sweep the reader along after the first few (short) sections.

[lauriebrown54 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Doris, 96, still lives on her own in Sweden, with the assistance of delivered meals and daily helper calls that clean and help her bathe. She visits with her only relative, her American grand-niece Jenny, via Skype. One day she decides that she’d like Jenny to know more about her past. Flipping through her address book, she finds most of the people in there crossed out with “dead” written beside them. How did she outlast them all? She begins to write her memoirs, meaning for Jenny to find them after she is gone.But Doris has a fall, lands in a hospital, and Jenny flies to her side, bringing her baby with her. She finds Doris’s memoirs- losing her father at a young age, being sent to work as a maid at 13 by her addict mother, being taken to Paris by her employer, becoming a high fashion model, falling in love, losing her love, fleeing to America, and finding her way back to Stockholm- and is deeply touched. She’s most touched by the love of Doris’s life- what ever happened to him? It’s the biggest loose end in Doris’s adventurous life. I liked the book; Doris’s life was very interesting although I did wonder at a couple of things, such as, why did she continue to leave her kid sister with their unstable mother, once she’d started earning good money? The end was lovely, but kind of predictable in a Hallmark Channel sort of way. The message in the story is live your life well; in the end, all you have are memories, good or bad. Four stars.

[jnhk-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Red Address Book by Sofia Lundberg is beautifully written, unique, joyous and heartbreaking... you won’t be able to put it down—guaranteed! Doris is a 96-year-old woman living in Stockholm. She has only one living relative—her great niece, Jenny, who lives in the the United States. This novel is part fictional memoir, part historical fiction, part romance and and one hundred percent amazing! The reader learns about and falls in love with Doris as she reminisces through her red address book which contains the names of all the people she has met thoughout her very eventful life. Most of the names are crossed out with DEAD written next to them. So her memories do not die with her, Doris records her life on paper for Jenny to read. This is a most charming book that I very much enjoyed! Bravo!

[nancyadair-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Red Notebook by Sofia Lundberg is a charmer of a novel that will capture the hearts of readers.At 96, Doris is frail and bears the marks of her age, the wrinkles and the thinning pure white hair. But Doris knows she still has something to offer--her story--and with the aid of the red address book her father gave her as a child, Doris writers her recollections on her laptop, a gift of love to her grandniece Jenny.Hearing that Doris is hospitalized, Jenny leaves behind her husband and two children to manage on their own in America, taking their baby with her to Sweden. Jenny won't let the woman who saved her die alone.Doris writes about the early death of her beloved father, her time in service, her life as a mannequin in 1920s Paris. She tells about her loves and losses, the devastation of WWII, her struggles to survive in America and eventual return to Sweden. Her story is rife with losses and hardships that show #metoo is born out of a timeless and universal concern.The secondary plot line of Jenny's life, born to an addict mother and her struggle with feelings of being unloved, brings to the novel another relatable layer for contemporary readers.The Red Address Book has been an international best-seller and I expect it will meet with huge success among American readers. I would recommend it to book clubs as an easy to read book with likable characters, interesting historical settings, an engaging plot line, and as a heartbreaking romance story. I received an ARC through BookishFirst in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

[grumpydan · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Doris is a lonely 96-year old woman whom, before she dies wants to share her life’s experiences with her grandniece Jenny before she dies. Doris lives in Stockholm and Jenn lives in the US. Their only contact is through a weekly Skype session. When Doris falls down and ends up in the hospital, Jenny leaves her husband and sons to be by the side of her only living relative. Here she finds the pages Doris has written for her.Doris goes through her address book which helps her remember those from her past, most of which have already passed on. But before she passes on herself she needs to share her secrets.This is both a pleasant and sad story. I enjoyed the narratives from Doris’ past. They were descriptive and heart-warming (and heart-breaking). Overall, a good story but a somewhat predictable ending. I still liked it and did shed a tear or two.

[m.belljackson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

After reading just the first twenty pages, I went back and read the thoughtful, beautiful words again. What a gentle and welcome lead-in to a unique tale of recreating a woman's memories through a well worn Red Address book given to her by her beloved father. As the descriptions evolve of Doris shuffling, shaking, getting dizzy and eventually falling, readers are drawn in to her present personality as she transfers her Address Book memories into print for her distant niece. Doris' reactions to her own coming death and her unhappy stay in the hospital alternate with her joy and her regrets from her past in Paris and with her good friend, Gosta. Unresolved are why she never sent money which she could well afford to spare to him when she knew he was trading paintings for milk and bread or to her sister and mother. Also, how could she just leave baby Elise with an aging woman as she went off to seek the inconstant man who claimed he loved her? Too many coincidences occur, making the story more magical than the reality it had been.

[susan0316 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When my mom was downsizing to go into a nursing home, she asked all of us what we wanted. One of my main requests was her address book. She not only had address of friends and family but birthdates and dates for marriages and years that their children were born - a small history of her friends and family. Her connection with address book is what first made me want to read The Red Address Book and I was thrilled when I won a copy from Bookish Firsts. I definitely enjoyed the novel. Yes, it was sad throughout but I also found it full of love and the acceptance that a well lived life that was coming to an end.Doris is 96 years old and has a red address book that her father gave to her as a child. She crosses out each entry when the person dies and at her age there are more people crossed out than not. She uses the address book to remind herself of her earlier life and adventures and is then writing those down for her niece Jenny. Jenny lives in San Francisco and Doris in Stockholm so Doris doesn't know if they'll see each other again and she wants Jenny to know about her life. I thought that the story of Doris's life was lovely and full of fantastic memories. She traveled from Sweden to Paris to American and then back to Sweden and her life was full of adventures. I find her life quite exciting.Overall, this is a wonderful but sad book about the memories of an elderly woman as her days on earth are coming to an end. I highly recommend it.

[miss.mesmerized · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Il ne reste plus beaucoup de temps à Doris ; à 96 ans, elle vit seule à Stockholm et la seule personne de sa famille est sa nièce Jenny qui vit à San Francisco. C’est grâce à Skype qu’elles se parlent régulièrement. Mais Doris a peur que le temps ne suffisse pas à tout lui raconter et confier, alors elle prend des notes dans un petit carnet rouge dans lequel elle parle des gens qui étaient importantes dans sa vie, qu’elle a rencontrées et aimées. La vie de Doris touche à sa fin, Jenny vole à Stockholm avec sa fille cadette pour être là pour sa tante tant aimée et pour dire adieu.Sofia Lundberg est journaliste et vit à Stockholm, « Un petit carnet rouge » est son premier roman qui a connu un grand succès en Suède. C’est une histoire d’une vie pleine d’aventures, de dangers, de succès et de défaites. Mais avant tout, c’est un roman sur l’amour, un amour qui a existé et qui a survécu, mais seulement à distance.Ce qui m’a plus beaucoup, c’est l’alternance des deux histoires, d’un côté, d’accompagner Doris pendant ses derniers jours et d’autre, de connaître sa vie, peu à peu, dès son enfance. C’était une vie turbulente qui n’était jamais facile mais qui a fait de Doris la personne qu’elle est à la fin de sa vie : une grande dame avec un grand cœur qui a tout vécu et qui peut tant donner.J’ai vraiment adoré le roman, les personnages sont tellement touchants et aimables qu’on ne veut pas les quitter à la fin. C’est un vrai bijou qu’il ne fallait pas du tout rater et il y a un vœu que la mère de Doris exprime quand elle est encore une petite fille qui montre très bien ce qui rend le roman tellement émouvant : elle lui souhaite« Assez de soleil pour illuminer tes jours, assez de pluie pour apprécier le soleil, assez de joie pour nourrir ton âme, assez de peine pour savoir profiter des petits plaisirs et assez de rencontres pour savoir dire adieu. »

[cburnett5 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

3.5 starsThe Red Address Book is a charming, but very sad tale about Doris, a lonely 96-year-old woman who lives in Stockholm. She reminisces about her life and those individuals she encountered as she pages through an old address book she received from her father when she was young. Few of her friends and acquaintances remain, and Doris leads a solitary life except for her weekly Skype with her American niece Jenny. While I enjoyed some aspects of Doris’s long and eventful life, the story is so sad. I received this book to read and review. All opinions are my own.