A National Book Award finalist connecting COVID-19 isolation with Ukraine's hidden genocide. Katherine Marsh's dual-timeline masterpiece has conquered 28 state reading lists while illuminating propaganda's dangers across generations. What forgotten history might your own family harbor?
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In the spring of 2020, as the world grappled with the unprecedented isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic, Katherine Marsh's "The Lost Year" emerged as a powerful testament to human resilience across generations. This haunting historical novel weaves together the stories of three young people-Matthew in 2020 New Jersey, and Helen and Mila in 1933 Brooklyn and Soviet Ukraine-connected by family ties and the weight of untold histories. The book quickly became a New York Times bestseller, praised for its unflinching portrayal of the Ukrainian Holodomor (death by hunger) that killed nearly four million people under Stalin's regime. Oprah Winfrey called it "a masterclass in how the past shapes our present," while the novel has become required reading in many high schools for its exploration of historical truth and personal identity. As we follow thirteen-year-old Matthew's discovery of his great-grandmother's secret past during lockdown, we're confronted with timeless questions: How far would you go to survive? What sacrifices would you make? And what happens when the truth you've buried for decades finally demands to be told?
Matthew's pandemic-era existence in Leonia, New Jersey, revolves around escaping into video games-specifically The Legend of Zelda, where he controls Link on quests to defeat Dark Beast Ganon. This digital refuge becomes his sanctuary from the claustrophobic reality of lockdown with his mother and 100-year-old great-grandmother (GG), who's moved in from her nursing home. When an impulsive moment with a bow and arrow results in his Nintendo Switch being confiscated, Matthew faces his worst nightmare: helping GG sort through dusty boxes of her past. "It's the caring part that makes you a writer-not being 'good' at it," Matthew's father later tells him, and this sentiment perfectly captures Matthew's journey. Initially resistant to engaging with history, Matthew gradually transforms from a reluctant helper into a passionate chronicler of GG's story. His discovery that GG was once a bowling champion called "The Knockouts" in 1958 marks his first genuine connection with her past. But it's his accidental finding of a mysterious photograph labeled "Nadiya and Helen" that truly ignites his curiosity. What makes Matthew's narrative so compelling is how his personal growth mirrors his historical awakening. As he uncovers GG's secrets, he simultaneously navigates his own pandemic-era challenges-missing his father in Paris, fighting with his mother, and longing for normalcy. When Matthew learns his summer trip to visit his father has been canceled, his devastation feels visceral: "I felt betrayed that he'd let me keep planning the trip knowing it wouldn't happen." This moment of personal loss creates a bridge of empathy between Matthew and the historical figures whose much greater losses he's uncovering. The pandemic setting isn't merely backdrop but serves as a powerful parallel to the historical isolation experienced during the Holodomor. Matthew's observations-"The pandemic had made life so unimaginably crazy"-echo across time to the disbelief of those witnessing Stalin's manufactured famine. Both eras feature invisible threats, government misinformation, and the struggle to maintain human connection against overwhelming odds.
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In 1933 Brooklyn, twelve-year-old Helen Lomachenko emerges as one of the novel's most compelling figures-a girl discovering her voice in a world determined to silence the truth. Helen's journey begins with a small act of rebellion against her father, speaking English instead of Russian after an argument over wasted food. This seemingly minor moment takes on tragic significance when her father suffers a heart attack that same day, leaving Helen consumed with guilt. When Helen discovers her father has been receiving letters from starving relatives in Ukraine, she secretly sends her father's gold Orthodox cross hidden in her nightgown to help them buy food. This act of compassion reveals Helen's emerging moral compass and sets in motion her transformation from a quiet schoolgirl to an outspoken advocate. What makes Helen's story particularly powerful is her growing awareness of the gap between truth and public narrative. When her teacher Mrs. Weber dismisses reports of Ukrainian starvation as "anti-Soviet propaganda," Helen finds herself caught between respecting authority and honoring what she knows to be true. Her friendship with Ruth, a Jewish classmate who understands discrimination, provides Helen with both emotional support and intellectual challenge. Ruth's insistence that "people's stories matter" becomes Helen's guiding principle. Helen's efforts to expose Walter Duranty's false reporting for The New York Times about the Ukrainian famine showcase both her determination and the formidable obstacles facing truth-tellers. When her letter to the editor is dismissed as merely "secondhand" accounts, Helen doesn't surrender but instead resolves to find eyewitnesses. This persistence in the face of institutional rejection demonstrates remarkable courage for a young girl in the 1930s. Perhaps most moving is Helen's evolution from personal grief to public advocacy. Initially concerned only with helping her own relatives, she gradually embraces a larger mission of documenting all survivors' stories. When she learns that her cousin Nadiya has been located in a Kyiv orphanage and can be brought to America, Helen's joy is palpable. Yet even this personal victory becomes part of her broader commitment to truth-telling, as she hopes Nadiya will provide the eyewitness testimony needed to convince The New York Times.
In 1932 Soviet Ukraine, twelve-year-old Mila represents the tragic journey from ideological certainty to devastating disillusionment. As the daughter of a high-ranking Communist Party official, Mila begins her story fully indoctrinated in Soviet propaganda. When lice carrying typhus are deliberately placed under her door, Mila's father explains they're an attack from kulaks (wealthy peasants), reinforcing her belief in class enemies. Mila's world begins to fracture when her father's niece Nadiya arrives at their door, skeletal from starvation. Despite Mila's pleas, her father violently rejects the girl, allowing her only a single piece of bread before sending her away. This moment of cruelty creates the first serious crack in Mila's faith: "I wonder if I can truly trust my father as I worry about Nadiya trudging through snowy Kyiv alone." What makes Mila's narrative so compelling is how her political awakening intertwines with her moral development. When she secretly helps Nadiya by taking her to her piano teacher Anna Mikhailovna, Mila enters a dangerous double life-maintaining the facade of the perfect Communist daughter while increasingly questioning everything she's been taught. Her discovery that her father has hidden his kulak origins-the very class background he's taught her to despise-delivers a devastating blow to her worldview. Mila's relationship with Nadiya evolves from reluctant helper to devoted sister-figure. When both girls end up in the Collector (orphanage) after Mila's father is arrested, they protect each other by claiming to be sisters. This pretense becomes emotionally true as they share a cot for warmth and Nadiya cares for Mila when she contracts typhus. The tragic irony emerges when Nadiya, weakened by years of malnutrition, catches typhus from Mila and dies. The most profound aspect of Mila's story is her ultimate decision to assume Nadiya's identity when Uncle Vanya comes to bring "Nadiya" to America. This act of survival-becoming someone else to escape certain death-carries immense psychological weight. As she leaves the USSR, Mila must say goodbye not just to her homeland but to herself: "The hardest goodbye is whispered only in my mind: 'Goodbye, Mila.'"
At the heart of "The Lost Year" lies a profound exploration of how secrets - both kept and revealed - shape individual lives and family histories across generations. GG's monumental decision to hide her true identity as Mila for nearly ninety years creates ripples that profoundly affect her daughter, granddaughter, and great-grandson. When Matthew finally uncovers that GG is actually Mila (not Nadiya), he comprehends the deeper significance of why she named her daughter Anna after Anna Mikhailovna, the woman who saved her life, though she never shared this crucial piece of family history. The psychological burden of GG's secret manifests in multiple ways throughout her life - in her emotional distance, her carefully constructed barriers, and her steadfast reluctance to discuss anything related to her past. Her characteristic response of pushing people away when upset - a behavior Matthew disturbingly recognizes in himself - illuminates how unprocessed trauma silently transmits across generations, creating patterns of emotional withdrawal and self-protection. These inherited trauma responses appear in subtle ways: Matthew's difficulty with emotional intimacy, his grandmother's persistent anxiety about food security, and his mother's intense need to document and preserve family history. When GG finally breaks down and confesses her long-carried guilt - "I didn't save her" - about Nadiya's death, Matthew offers the compassion she's never been able to give herself: "You were just children. Neither you nor Helen could have saved Nadiya." This moment represents a crucial turning point in both their relationship and GG's relationship with her past, demonstrating how sharing long-buried truths can lead to healing across generations. The novel presents a nuanced and complex view of truth-telling, acknowledging both its healing power and potential for harm. Helen's determined efforts to document the Ukrainian famine represents truth as a form of justice and historical preservation, while GG's decades-long silence embodies truth as a source of danger and vulnerability. When Matthew asks permission to write GG's true story, her initial resistance - "Tell Nadiya's story, not mine" - reveals how deeply she's internalized the need for self-protection, even decades after the immediate threat has passed. The most poignant aspect of this theme emerges in the epilogue, when Matthew visits GG's grave bearing both names: "LYUDMILA LOMACHENKO JOHNSON, 'Our Beloved GG', November 13, 1920-May 18, 2020" and "In Memory of Nadiya Lomachenko, January 3, 1920-June 5, 1933." This dual inscription symbolizes more than just the integration of GG's fractured identity - it represents the healing of generational trauma, the power of truth-telling, and the complex ways in which survival guilt can shape a life. The grave marker stands as a testament to both the girl who survived and the friend she lost, finally allowing both stories to exist side by side in the light of day.
Marsh masterfully draws parallels between historical propaganda and contemporary misinformation, creating resonance between 1933 Ukraine and 2020 America. Walter Duranty's false reporting about the Ukrainian famine for The New York Times - "there is no actual starvation" - mirrors the pandemic-era challenges of determining truth amid conflicting narratives. The novel illustrates how both eras grappled with competing information sources, official denials, and the manipulation of public perception through controlled messaging. When Matthew researches the Holodomor, he discovers how brave journalists like Rhea Clyman and Gareth Jones risked everything to document the truth while others parroted Soviet propaganda. His conversation with his father about why people didn't believe these reporters bridges past and present: "Those few reporters reporting the truth about the famine had to be really brave. History proved them right, but it took time and enough people speaking up." The parallel to modern whistleblowers and independent journalists challenging official narratives becomes increasingly apparent throughout the narrative. The novel examines how propaganda works through both commission and omission - a sophisticated dual approach to controlling information. Stalin's government actively denied the famine while simultaneously preventing journalists from visiting affected areas. Local officials were instructed to report bumper crops while concealing mass starvation. Similarly, Mila's father fills her head with glorious stories about Soviet achievements like the Maxim Gorky airplane and the successes of collectivization while remaining silent about the suffering visible on Kyiv's streets. The novel shows how this selective storytelling creates a distorted worldview that becomes increasingly difficult to maintain. Most compelling is how the novel portrays the personal cost of confronting propaganda. Helen faces dismissal from authority figures and risks her father's fragile health by pursuing the truth, while her classmates ostracize her for questioning accepted narratives. Mila's awakening to her father's lies leaves her unmoored from everything she once believed, forcing her to rebuild her understanding of both history and family. Matthew must reconcile his great-grandmother's decades of deception with his love for her, understanding that people can simultaneously be victims and perpetrators of misinformation. The novel suggests that truth requires both personal courage and community support - a collective resistance to manufactured reality. Helen finds allies in Ruth and Mr. Oleynik, who provide both emotional support and practical assistance in her investigation. Mila receives help from Anna Mikhailovna and Dr. Zima, who risk their own safety to share forbidden knowledge. Matthew gains understanding from his father's journalistic perspective and his mother's family history. These networks of truth-tellers stand in contrast to the isolation propaganda creates by making people doubt their own perceptions and fear speaking out. The story emphasizes that challenging false narratives requires not just individual bravery but also the strength of supportive communities willing to stand behind truth-tellers. Through these interwoven narratives, Marsh demonstrates how propaganda's power lies not just in its ability to spread falsehood, but in its capacity to isolate and silence those who would speak truth. The novel's parallel storylines reveal how patterns of deception and resistance repeat across generations, making its message particularly relevant in our current era of information warfare and competing truths.
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"The Lost Year" offers a profound meditation on identity-how it's formed, threatened, and sometimes deliberately transformed. GG's decision to become Nadiya represents the most dramatic identity shift, but all three protagonists undergo significant transformations in how they understand themselves. For Mila, identity initially derives from her father's position and Communist ideology. She defines herself as Papa's "little fox" and a loyal Pioneer. When these foundations crumble, she faces an existential crisis: "I longed for the days before Nadiya's arrival when Papa and I felt united in purpose. Doubt was a much lonelier place to be." Her ultimate assumption of Nadiya's identity isn't merely practical survival but represents a complete psychological rebirth-the death of the Communist true believer and the birth of someone who understands suffering. Helen's identity transformation is more gradual but equally profound. She begins as "the quiet girl in the back of the room" but evolves into someone Ruth identifies as a "leader." Her Ukrainian heritage, initially something she minimizes by speaking English, becomes central to her sense of purpose as she collects survivors' stories. When her mother calls her "My American daughter," it acknowledges how Helen has integrated her dual identity in a way that honors both cultures. Matthew's identity development centers on his role as witness and chronicler. From passive consumer of video game narratives, he becomes an active creator of "The Legend of GG"-videos documenting his great-grandmother's story. His mother's recognition of him as "the keeper of GG's story" marks his transition from child to someone with adult responsibility for preserving family history. The novel suggests that identity is both fragile and resilient-it can be shattered by trauma but also deliberately reconstructed. GG's decades-long maintenance of her assumed identity demonstrates extraordinary psychological fortitude, yet the toll it takes appears in her emotional distance and reluctance to form close bonds. The grave marker bearing both names symbolizes that integration of fractured identity is possible, even if it comes only at life's end.
"The Lost Year" ultimately celebrates the act of bearing witness-recording stories that powerful forces would prefer to erase. Ruth's insistence that "people's stories matter" becomes the novel's central thesis, demonstrated through Helen's collection of famine accounts, GG's preserved diaries and photographs, and Matthew's video project. Helen's determination to document Ukrainian suffering represents bearing witness as resistance against official denial. When The New York Times rejects her letter, she doesn't abandon her mission but instead seeks more compelling evidence. The 1988 newspaper clipping Matthew discovers about Helen Marchuk's decades of collecting oral histories shows how this commitment became her life's work, eventually contributing to a congressional report on the Ukraine Famine. GG's preservation of her diaries, letters, and photographs-despite her reluctance to discuss them-reveals a complex relationship with her past. Though she couldn't bring herself to speak her truth, she couldn't destroy the evidence either. This tension between silence and preservation suggests that bearing witness sometimes happens in stages, with full revelation coming only when safety is assured or when the witness approaches life's end. Matthew's "Legend of GG" videos represent bearing witness across generations. By combining historical documents with his own journal entries, he creates a multilayered testimony that honors both past and present perspectives. GG's final recorded words-"My name is Mila Lomachenko"-gain power precisely because they come after nearly ninety years of silence. The novel suggests that bearing witness serves multiple purposes: it honors those who suffered, provides catharsis for survivors, educates future generations, and prevents similar atrocities. When Matthew arranges for GG's story to be shared with historical archives, he ensures that both Mila and Nadiya will be remembered, not as statistics in the millions who died, but as individuals with specific experiences worthy of documentation.
Despite its unflinching portrayal of historical atrocities and personal tragedies, "The Lost Year" ultimately affirms the resilience of the human spirit. Small acts of kindness and courage illuminate the darkest moments: Anna Mikhailovna risking arrest to shelter Nadiya; Dr. Zima creating false medical records to facilitate Mila's escape; Helen sending her cross to unknown cousins; and Matthew patiently earning GG's trust. Music serves as a particularly powerful symbol of enduring humanity. When Matthew plays a Russian composer's piano concerto, GG becomes "completely absorbed, humming along with her eyes shut tight, hands clasped." This moment of connection through art transcends language barriers and generational differences. Similarly, when Mila plays Tchaikovsky's "Sweet Dreams" for Nadiya in the orphanage, it creates a bridge between their different worlds. Food also carries symbolic weight throughout the novel. The contrast between Matthew's pandemic-era abundance (tacos, ice cream, Halloween candy) and the starvation in 1933 Ukraine highlights how quickly circumstances can change. GG's lifelong chocolate obsession-particularly for 3 Musketeers bars-takes on poignant significance when we learn of Mila giving Nadiya her pound of Bumble Bears chocolate shortly before their separation. The novel's most hopeful message emerges in its exploration of how trauma can be transformed through storytelling. When Matthew helps GG integrate her fractured narrative, he doesn't just preserve history-he facilitates healing. The ray of sunlight illuminating GG's gravestone in the final scene suggests that reconciliation with the past, however painful, brings its own form of peace. As Matthew tells his mother, "Whether her name was Nadiya or Mila doesn't change that she loved you and you loved her." This affirmation that love transcends identity speaks to the novel's ultimate faith in human connection as the antidote to history's darkest chapters.
"The Lost Year" concludes with a powerful meditation on what we inherit from those who came before us - not just genetic traits or material possessions, but profound lessons in resilience and moral courage. When Mom tells Matthew that he's strong enough to survive even if something terrible happened, she's passing on wisdom GG once shared with her during their private conversations about survival. This intergenerational transmission of strength creates a vital continuity across time, connecting Matthew to both his mother and great-grandmother through an invisible thread of shared experience and wisdom. The novel masterfully illustrates how strength manifests differently across generations, adapting to the unique challenges of each era. For Mila, strength meant the brutal calculus of survival in Nazi-occupied territory - assuming another's identity to escape certain death, leaving behind everything familiar, and carrying the weight of impossible choices. For Helen, strength appeared as moral courage in the face of institutional resistance - speaking truth about medical negligence despite threats to her career and reputation, standing firm when others would have compromised. For Matthew, strength emerges as emotional intelligence in the digital age - helping GG process her long-buried trauma while managing his own pandemic-era anxieties and isolation, learning to navigate both historical trauma and contemporary crisis. Most poignantly, the novel demonstrates how acknowledging vulnerability paradoxically creates greater strength - a modern understanding that breaks from traditional stoicism. When Matthew confesses his deep-seated fear that Dad might get COVID and die, he and Mom forge a deeper connection through their shared worry and mutual support. When GG finally admits her decades-old guilt about Nadiya's death, she achieves a measure of peace that had eluded her for over seventy years. These moments of honest vulnerability stand in stark contrast to the forced stoicism of earlier generations, who often buried their pain beneath layers of silence and duty. The final image of Matthew at GG's grave, carefully arranging 3 Musketeers candies - her favorite treat that became a symbol of their bond - resonates with profound meaning. As he feels "certain that GG, Nadiya, and Helen are all there, thanking me," the novel suggests that strength ultimately lies in integration - bringing together the fragmented parts of history and identity into a coherent whole. By accepting his role as "the keeper of GG's story," Matthew inherits not just the burden of the past but its wisdom and resilience. Through his commitment to remembering and understanding, he ensures that the hard-won lessons of previous generations continue to illuminate the future, creating a legacy that transcends death and time. This inheritance of strength becomes particularly relevant in the context of modern challenges, showing how historical resilience can inform contemporary courage. Matthew's generation faces different battles - mental health struggles, global pandemics, digital isolation - but draws upon the same well of human resilience that helped his ancestors survive their own trials. The novel thus presents inheritance not as a passive reception of traits, but as an active process of understanding, adapting, and applying ancestral wisdom to present-day challenges.
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