Until recently, Scandinavian literature—and cinema—were Terra incognita for me. I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps post-Soviet markets didn’t actively acquire distribution rights or publishing deals for Scandinavian works, or maybe the authors themselves weren’t interested in promoting their books here. However, with the expansion of the internet, I first discovered Scandinavian cinema. The Swedish adaptation of Stieg Larsson’s *Millennium* trilogy, especially the first film *The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo*, left a lasting impression. A few years later, Hollywood remade it with the fashionable Daniel Craig and Rooney Mara—an unconventional choice for Hollywood—and even nominated it for a couple of prestigious awards. But the American version doesn’t hold a candle to the Swedish original. The same goes for the Danish-Swedish series *The Bridge*: the French, British, and Americans all remade it, yet none came close to the original’s brilliance. That said, this review isn’t about film—it’s about a book by Swedish writer, journalist, and sociologist Majgull Axelsson, titled *April Witch*. This is the second of her books I’ve read; the first was *I, Who Wasn’t There*. Both are written in an initially unusual style, where the narrative unfolds through disjointed fragments that only begin to weave together into a cohesive whole by the middle of the book. The result is captivating, immersive, and doesn’t let go even after the last page.
The story centers on four women who became sisters not by blood, but by fate. The first is Désirée, whose storyline is steeped in mysticism—so much so that the novel is sometimes categorized as fantasy. Désirée was born with severe disabilities; she cannot speak or walk, yet her mind is sharp, and she possesses the ability to leave her body and inhabit the bodies of other creatures.
The second is Kristina, a respected doctor, wife, and mother in the present, but whose past includes being tied to her crib by a psychopathic mother who tried to burn her alive.
The third is Margareta, a physicist who was found as a newborn in a laundry room. She doesn’t know who she is or where she came from—and never will.
The fourth is Birgitta, a drug addict, alcoholic, and sex worker. She’s been a troublemaker since childhood, and nothing has changed.
There’s one more key figure in the book: Aunt Ellen, or Old Ellen, as the girls call her. Her story runs parallel to theirs but ultimately binds their lives together. As a child of war, Ellen endured hunger, cold, and illness. She married a man twice her age and gave birth to Désirée, whom she abandoned in a hospital because, the doctors claimed, a baby with such severe injuries wouldn’t survive. But Désirée did survive—spending nearly her entire life, except for a brief period when she lived in her own apartment with caregivers, in hospitals and state-run shelters. Meanwhile, Ellen took in three other girls—Margareta, Kristina, and Birgitta—and did her best to love and care for them, something their own mothers never did.
This book revealed two things to me that I found eye-opening. First, I learned that in Sweden—long considered a country with one of the highest levels of social welfare—children with disabilities were forcibly isolated in special clinics as recently as the 1960s and 1970s. They weren’t even taught because they were deemed hopeless as full members of society. Parents could visit if they wished, but there was virtually no path back to a normal life. It wasn’t until the 1970s, after widespread strikes and protests, that reforms were enacted, paving the way for Sweden’s current social protections.
The second revelation was about love. For some reason, it’s often emphasized that only parental love is unconditional—that a mother loves her child unconditionally simply because it’s hers. But even in the case of loving parents (not all parents love their children, after all), their love is often laced with expectations and projections. They expect their child to be exactly as they imagined, not as they truly are. Their love is shaped by what they *think* is best, not what the child *needs*. Because of these expectations and projections, there are conditions—and thus, no such thing as unconditional parental love. Children, however, love unconditionally. They don’t have expectations of their parents because they don’t yet understand what expectations even are. The character of Birgitta, for most of the book, evoked nothing but disgust. She hated her "sisters," hated Old Ellen, hated the world—even her own son, whom she later lost custody of for mistreating him. Yet there was one person she loved with absolute, dogged devotion: her mother, Gertrud. Even though she wasn’t allowed to call her "Mom," Birgitta loved her sincerely and faithfully. Gertrud didn’t care for her, didn’t love her, and often left her unwashed, unfed, and unclothed. Once, Birgitta arrived at school in her nightgown because she had nothing else to wear. Gertrud drank, brought men home, and Birgitta cleaned up after them, changed ashtrays, often slept on a pile of rags in the hallway when the only room was occupied, made sandwiches, and endured her mother’s vomit, tantrums, and illnesses. Even after Birgitta was taken to a clean, cozy home with the kind woman Ellen, she kept running back to her old apartment, hoping Gertrud would return and they’d go back to "the way things were." This wretched, broken woman—Birgitta, the addict and alcoholic—suddenly becomes relatable, even sympathetic, because of her hopeless but fiercely loyal love for her mother.
The book ends abruptly, just as it began. There’s no happy ending or even a clear conclusion. The paths of the four women crossed briefly, only to diverge again. We never learn how their stories truly end—unless the author decides to write a sequel. I personally love ellipses; they leave room for hope, offer choices, and stoke the flames of reflection. If you feel the same, this book is for you.
