Do we really know who we are?
Set against the backdrop of a turbulent continent, Patches tells a vibrant story of several generations of women, striving to reshape their lives within the constraints, traditions, and injustices of their cultural backgrounds in an unknown Romania. From a swampy plain to wartime newsrooms, from river rafts to labor camps, six women carry generations of pain and resilience, revealing how history lives within us.
Though separated by time and place, they share common struggles: exile, loss, silence, and the heavy burden of inherited memory. All of them try to protect their children. All of them hide their suffering. Whether facing forced marriage, political exile, betrayal, or maternal silence, each of them has to decide if she’ll pass down her pain, or break the chain.
The novel follows fragments of lives stitched like quilt patches—among them, a young Slovakian girl, a good-looking Turkish warrior, a wise Jewish innkeeper, an Austrian diplomat, a Roma twin, a German teacher, and a zealous far-right Romanian journalist.
Patches raises a delicate question: Does modern tolerance overcome past prejudices, or are we just reshaping old injustices?
Do we really know who we are?
Set against the backdrop of a turbulent continent, Patches tells a vibrant story of several generations of women, striving to reshape their lives within the constraints, traditions, and injustices of their cultural backgrounds in an unknown Romania. From a swampy plain to wartime newsrooms, from river rafts to labor camps, six women carry generations of pain and resilience, revealing how history lives within us.
Though separated by time and place, they share common struggles: exile, loss, silence, and the heavy burden of inherited memory. All of them try to protect their children. All of them hide their suffering. Whether facing forced marriage, political exile, betrayal, or maternal silence, each of them has to decide if she’ll pass down her pain, or break the chain.
The novel follows fragments of lives stitched like quilt patches—among them, a young Slovakian girl, a good-looking Turkish warrior, a wise Jewish innkeeper, an Austrian diplomat, a Roma twin, a German teacher, and a zealous far-right Romanian journalist.
Patches raises a delicate question: Does modern tolerance overcome past prejudices, or are we just reshaping old injustices?
She leaves on Sunday. She is made up her mind when she saw the blue apron could not be enlarged anymore. Little by little, she undid its stitches until there were none remaining. If Sonjia is right, she is running out of time.
Katarina Milman feels no remorse about leaving. She’s only sad that no one will care for the four small graves in the village’s new cemetery. Their crosses, huddled next to mother’s, are all that remains of her siblings.
None of her brothers lived longer than a few months, not enough for father to record their names on the Bible’s inner cover. His handwriting does not appear there. She is the last one in a long line written in carpentry pencil, but it wasn’t her father who wrote her birthdate—it was her grandfather, as the Bible belonged to him.
When they left the Tatra mountains, grandfather gave them the Bible. He packed up his most treasured possession and sent it along with them to the deceptive plain of Dolna. It was an unforeseen, surprising gesture—especially from a man seething with anger after hearing of their departure.
Upon receiving the decree, father didn’t hesitate. He quickly signed the papers, fearing he would miss the opportunity. Father and aunt Nina, along with their families, had dared to leave the old village. Had they stayed, the gróf would have expelled them, anyway. The village had grown too large, and poverty was devouring them all.
That haste made grandfather angry. He might still be, even after all this time - ten years have gone by without hearing from him.
Dawn is breaking. From the dark folds of the autumn night, reddish lights gradually appear. Katarina blows out the small lamp, slips on her clogs, and steps out into the yard. Above her, doves flutter through the air, making her look upward with a smile. These winged creatures are her guardian angels: they pay their taxes, feed the family, and ease her loneliness.
They arrived with only five pairs, confined in iron cages—just as her grandfather gave them when they left the mountains. All the birds survived the journey and soon filled their dovecote. None attempted to return to the mountains; they adapted faster to Tót life than the humans did. Evening after evening, they faithfully return from the marshy plains. When one has all the freedom in the world, there's no reason to run away from home, Katarina thinks often.
The loud barking of Sonjia’s grumpy dog accompanies her as she carries the bucket toward the well behind the house. Katarina must hurry, as it's almost time for her father's morning tea. She struggles to see in the dim pre-dawn light. Each day the sun rises later and the bucket grows heavier. Her wooden clogs make her steps wobbly. She strikes her foot against a wagon wheel, and tears fill her eyes.
Until a few weeks ago, Katarina managed everything well enough, but now every chore exhausts her, and she barely sleeps. Nights have become an ordeal; instead of resting, she tosses and turns under her duvet, desperately searching for another solution.
But there isn’t. There’s nothing more to be done. She’s leaving on Sunday—that’s already been decided.
She sighs, smooths the faded blue dress that fits tightly at the wrists, tucks her red hair back under her headscarf, and carries the bucket into the kitchen. By the time she puts the kettle on, her father is already gone on to work. The steam rises and dampens her cheeks.
"And when I think about the promise I made to mother on her deathbed," Katarina whispers.
She had cared for the sick woman through her long illness—tuberculosis. At seventeen, Katarina has already endured her share of hardships. By the time her mother died two summers ago, Katarina already knew that without her, she was just an empty shadow.
The shards of grief still tear at her soul.
She knows father will remarry someday, the neighbors keep telling him to remarry—he needs someone to help. In this colonist village, work means everything. They call themselves tăuți.
Katarina shakes her head, as if to push the thought away, lifts the bucket of pigeon feed, and moves on.
"I tol’ you it’d be like this!"
Startled, Katarina drops the bucket, scattering grain across the hard-packed earth. Sonjia has crept up quietly behind her.
"What are you doing here? She’ll beat you again," Katarina sharply scolds.
Sonjia shrugs as she continues: "I hearrd ’em las’ night. I eavesdropp’ when they started talkin."
Katarina studies Sonjia's lips intently as she spoke, not wanting to miss a word.
"Your faher drank with ’em — the deal’s done. I think Modder’s upshet she can’t sell me too,” Sonjia whispers hurriedly, her words stumbling over one another. She runs her tongue over her cleft lip. Katarina is among the few who comprehend her jumbled speech.
She remains silent, staring at Sonjia, fighting back tears. If she starts crying, she won't be able to stop.
"Do you wan’ do know how mush he baid? For you?" Sonjia eagerly continues, excited by what she overheard last night.
Katarina feels a strong, painful nausea, so she retches near the yard fence. She brings a bucket of water, but Sonjia doesn’t let go of her: "A twenny-yellows necklace. I’s somethin’, innit? He clearly don’ know yet, Katarina—else he wouldn’ pay so much! I tol’ you thish’d happen! He wanna pick you up next Sunday, af’er church." Her words come out rapidly and blurred, an incomprehensible babble.
"Next Sunday? You’re sure not this Sunday, right?"
"Thish Sunday? They wanted to, but Modder said it couldn’ be done sho fas’. The pastor hasn’ given you communion yet, an’ he’sh shupposed to shay da betrothal prayersh. Sho it’s gotta wait ’til next Sunday."
The tears keep coming, Katarina can’t stop them. Neither her father nor the pastor deserves such shame.
"I can’t do this to father, Sonjia! They'll imprison him for fraud!"
"Nothin’ gonna happen if he don’ know. An’ you’ll be long gone ’til you sholve the problem."
The problem is Katarina’s, but the plan is entirely Sonjia’s. From the start, it was her friend’s idea. Despite the severity of her situation, Katarina can’t yet accept this as her only solution.
"I can’t do it. I thought about it all night. What do I know about the world beyond this yard, my pigeons, and my father’s rules? And what if they catch me?"
Sonjia signals her to be quiet. She’s listening, as if someone might be approaching.
“The dog’s not barking — mean’sh no one’s coming. You’re leaving on Sunday, jush’ like we planned."
Everything is ready. All Katarina has to do is run. Sonjia took care of the rest.
"I have to go to the cemetery. I can’t leave without visiting them one more time," Katarina whispers, and Sonjia nods in understanding.
Katarina likes to go there and talk to her mother and siblings—now that she’s lonely in the world, with only her father left. They all lie there, sharing a single candle lit once a year at Easter by her father. On that day alone, he visits their mother's grave, never even glancing at the four small crosses clustered beside it.
"And watch out for those bloody wild lilac shoots! They’ll take over the children’s graves if you’re not careful," Katarina continues.
"Gwo today, Katarina—dere’s no time to wayste. But watch dose shongs of yours. Modder shays de neighbors dink you’re a loonatic. You know they doesn’t appwove of shinging in da shemetery!"
Sonjia is right. Katarina loves to sing for them. Standing among the graves, she lets her voice rise freely, humming all the songs she remembers from their old life in the mountains.
These are the songs they brought with them when they moved here.
Katarina barely remembers their old village—she was just a child when they left. She has never seen the old cemetery in the mountains, but she knows every cross in this new one. Everyone buried here was once someone she knew.
While Sonjia keeps talking, Katarina drifts deep into thought. If only father knew why I am going to the cemetery! It’s the only place in the whole village where I can find any relief from the guilt of having disobeyed him!
She only snaps back when Sonjia lifts the hem of her too-short blue dress and shouts, "I’m runnin’ back home! If my mom catchesh me, she’ll yank my hair ou’ again. Wai’ for me tonight, af’er da bell ringsh. I’ll come back den, t’ talk!"
After all this time, Sonjia’s bravery still amazes Katarina. She openly defies her mother, risking severe punishment if caught outside after the evening bell. They've known each other since childhood. Up in the mountains, they weren't neighbors, but here their plots adjoin, and they've grown close.
Left alone, Katarina stands frozen, heartbroken. She deeply loves this humble yard—it’s all she knows. Even though she wasn’t born here, her remembrances of the old home are now faint. Her clearer memories start with the harsh journey down from the mountains, riding a rickety wagon packed with belongings from her grandfather's home.
The troubles began when they left. Aunt Nina fell ill along the way, unable to endure the cold and humidity. By the time they reached Košice she had a severe fever. With no money for treatment, they continued onward. They briefly stopped at a gypsy healer, who told them nothing could be done. Aunt Nina became the first burial in their new cemetery.
Grandfather, left behind in the old village, refused to understand their departure. His anger ran so deep that he wished them nothing but a poor plot of land.
And that is exactly what they got. A plain ravaged by the Turks, half dry, half swampy, a mosquito-infested dead-end plagued by illness, where displaced Slovaks slowly built their settlement.
I am sure grandfather had heard about aunt Nina’s death. His curse was the reason for what happened to us.
Katarina pulls herself out of those painful thoughts and returns to her chores. Toward evening, she quickly clears the yard of chicken scraps, then checks on the pigeon her father left to drain overnight. She plucks its feathers, cuts the meat into pieces, and lightly fries it with onions, adding a sauce thickened with a few spoonfuls of flour.
Yesterday was a fasting day, but today they’re allowed to eat meat. In their community, only Saturdays and Sundays include meat; the rest of the week is for bread, milk, and cheese. Katarina never steps out of line.
It couldn't be any other way. Father doesn’t tolerate any deviation from their traditions. He’s a stern man, and his rules are stricter than the Bible’s commandments.
The sweet, greasy smell of frying meat turns her stomach, but she keeps cooking, knowing her father’s clogs will be soon heard.
She hopes uncle Pekar won’t bring her father another rabbit caught in a trap. With no one to cook, father will be angry tomorrow. Katarina doesn’t eat rabbit, but she still cooks it for her father and uncle.
Her father is gone all day, working either in the fields or at the workshop he shares with a blacksmith. Sometimes, after work, he sees uncle Pekar, aunt Nina’s widower. Both men have lost their wives, yet life is better for them here than it was in the mountains.
Please, God, let father come home and tell me what has been decided!
Her father returns later that day, Katarina waits nervously, expecting him to talk about the arranged engagement. But he says nothing—no mention of selling her, the gold necklace, or the pastor’s betrothal blessing. They eat in silence, and he retires to bed without a single word.
Katarina prays, hoping desperately for guidance. Help me, mother, help me, I beg you! I prayed to the good God, but he doesn’t want to hear me! How can I, mother, obey my father’s command?
No answer comes. With troubled thoughts, she is restless, uncomfortable and cannot get the thought out of her mind. She’ll cause her father pain. She lies awake all night, staring at the wooden walls. Sonjia forgets to come.
In the morning, Katarina dresses again, covering her red hair with her mother's scarf, and follows her father to church. She knows the entire village is staring at her. She feels like the plump pigeon that watches calmly as the dovecot door opens, knowing it’s next to be slaughtered.
Written by author Dana Manoli, Patches is a cross-generational novel set in Romania spanning circa several hundred years. Following the lives of six women, the novel is comprised of six short stories (or "books") which follows the plights of its female protagonists as each fight's to reshape their destiny against a backdrop of cultural resistance. From Katarina, who is running away from a forced marriage to Dafina, a teacher treading a fine line with administering education in a multicultural school, the stories aim to challenge readers on any assumption that society has become more liberal over time. As Manoli notions, "does modern tolerance overcome past prejudices, or are we just reshaping old injustices?"
Patches is a pleasant read, with a nice use of mediums to influence the style and personality of each. Dafina's story makes use of back-and-forth letters and Ada's is entirely told through diary entries. This helps prevent the tales from feeling repetitive or undistinguishable. There are some great turns of phrase to be discovered in this collection of short stories, including a personal favourite, "Dafina’s voice is dry as her mother’s medicinal herbs." The six short stories are broken up into chapters (meaning that no story is ever more than about fifty pages in length). For Eilna (number three), the story opens with "chapter nine". Given each story is standalone, it might have made more sense to start each "book" with chapter one. For the most part all the stories are set in the present tense (more on this point to follow).
Where this book holds itself back is in its grammar. Patches is the first book this Romanian author has written in the English language which, outside of this book review, needs to be acknowledged. Manoli's ability to write something of this standard in a second language is a challenge that few native English speakers would attempt to take on. That said, it would be wrong to consider this in isolation when it ultimately this a book aimed at an English-reading audience, battling alongside other historical novels of its type. With this in mind, the grammar is off in places, with the tenses slipping into past, incorrect use of semicolons and turns of phrase that do not quite make sense (yet might do for Romanian readers). The best way to rectify these would be to employ the use of a professional copy/line editor who is a native English speaker.
Patches is a solid book with layered meaning and merit to its strong cast of female characters. A good starting point for any future publications penned in English, a personal recommendation would be to locate beta readers or a proficient editor. This has the potential to be a five star read, yet ultimately is only hampered by the number of small grammatical errors which add friction to the reading journey.
AEB Reviews