I typically write these reviews a couple of days after I’ve read the book (there are exceptions to this, mostly due to laziness). But with Her First American, I’ve deliberately held back. I wanted to let the book stew in my brain before I put any thoughts down, and I think I’ve stewed enough. 

The short version is that I did enjoy this book. It’s very funny (a caustic sort of humour), thoughtful and provocative—all the things I love in fiction. And yet, I never felt fully in tune with the novel. In reflecting on why, I think my issue is one of structure, but before I get to that, let me tell you what it’s about. 

The title is also the plot. The “Her” is Ilka Weissnix, a Viennese Jew who has arrived in America (New York, of course) following the Second World War. Her father is presumed dead; her mother is missing (though she will later turn up in a Kibbutz in the newly formed State of Israel). Ilka is staying with one of her American cousins (who is only ever referred to by her eye-popping surname: Fishgoppel). The “First American” is Carter Bayoux, literally, the first American, who isn’t Fishgoppel, that Ilka meets. He’s a much older black man, an academic, a journalist, but also an alcoholic who, when he’s in New York, rents a room in a hotel. The novel charts their unconventional love affair. 

First, the positives, of which there are many. The dialogue is magnificent. Every conversation between Ilka and Carter and everyone Ilka meets pops. It’s not just the wit; it’s how what’s said enlivens and fleshes out each character (even the secondary cast, like the wonderful Ebony). Carter is a remarkable creation. I say this knowing that cultural appropriation is a thing and that people of colour have been mistreated in literature for generations. But Carter is not a stereotype. He is intelligent. He is a drinker. He is obnoxious. He is generous. He is hated by some and loved by others. Demons beset him. He cannot be reduced to a single sentence or even a paragraph. That he’s the product of a European Jew’s imagination is, in my view, astounding. Ilka is also terrific, although Segal is on familiar ground here. Her life story doesn’t entirely match her protagonists (for one, her family left Vienna on the eve of War and ultimately interned on the Isle of Man), but she’s still a wonderful, vibrant, always curious and passionate person. The chemistry between her and Carter fizzes with an energy that’s bright and intense but also unstable.

As much as I loved the characters, I could never get into the flow of the novel. The book’s first third is very bitty, with each chapter treated like a set piece. It’s not until we get to the section called “Summer” about halfway through the novel, where Ilka holidays with Carter and his friends in Connecticut, that the book starts to cohere, that I began to fall into the story. The last third, though, is much like the first. Short chapters, skipping between set-pieces, some more powerful than others, like the shortish section where Ilka goes to Vienna with her mother.

Here’s the thing: I know if I reread the novel, I would love it; I would find the bittiness a strength, not a flaw. This is one book where I wished I had more time to do a second read (I’m always astounded by those who do second reads straight after the first, especially critics). I hope I get that chance.