Elleander Morning: A Romance in Time

This is published and shelved as science fiction, but in fact it's a rather old-fashioned kind of fantasy. The English lady named in the title is dying of cancer at the age of 87, and recalls others long dead: a husband in a car crash, two close friends on the Titanic, and her only son in the D-Day landings. The main element of fantasy lies in her ability to transport, in her dying moments, not only her memory but also some physical belongings back in time from 1970 to 1907, giving her the opportunity to relive most of her adult life. She uses this opportunity to change her life in a variety of ways, but decides to make her major impact on history by going to Vienna in 1913 to shoot the young Adolf Hitler.

Around this simple outline are woven the details of many personal relationships (some existing in two alternate versions) and the involvement of Elleander's granddaughter Lesley, who in 1983 belatedly starts to unravel her grandmother's unusual story — and eventually finds that she has a part to play in its sequel. The chapters of the novel flicker with increasing frenzy across the 70-year gap between Lesley's world (in which Adolf Hitler was an obscure murder victim and the Second World War never happened) and Elleander's two alternative worlds.

The book is fluently written and uses a plentiful variety of characters and locations, quite well drawn. The author doesn't seem influenced by sf, lacking both the attitudes and the sometimes inbred style of the genre. On the whole, this is probably an advantage, although as a long-time sf reader I'm uneasy about some minor details that seem wrongly thought out, such as the two skeletons of the same person. In fantasy anything goes: one needn't explain strange phenomena, they merely occur. In sf there's an obligation on the author to make his readers believe that he's obeying a consistent set of laws of nature—even if they may be different from the ones we're familiar with.

Playboy magazine apparently described this book as “brilliant”—make of that what you will. I wouldn't go so far myself, but the book might appeal to readers of sf and of popular modern novelists (Richard Condon springs to mind). Less recommendable to readers of historical novels, who might find it too modern or too American in its approach; and to Germans, who might be irritated by some of the author's suppositions.

(Review originally written in 1985)