The Parkiets—mother Rikla, father Joseph, and two sons, Sevek and Henek—emigrated from Warsaw to Paris in 1931. Binem, aka Bernard, the narrator, was born in 1933 after the move. They’re poor but hardworking and close-knit. Joseph was a furnisher finisher by trade. They found a place in an ancient apartment building that surrounded a large courtyard. Life was good, and most of their French neighbors got along fine with Jews. Then came the Germans and 24/7 terror. Joseph was taken to a detention center outside the city. Miraculously, because he became really sick, humane doctors saw to his release. Soon after, a neighbor offered a warehouse space adjoining his furniture shop as a hiding spot, putting himself in considerable danger; that one room was the Parkiets’ refuge (and their prison) for the next two years. Clandestinely, the neighbors saw to their needs, and Binem was their link to the outside, running necessary errands. There were some terrifying close calls, but the Parkiets were never betrayed—this was a whole community’s effort, and they could have been killed if found out. The memoir, co-authored by Ben Parket, formerly Binem Parkiet (during immigration, family members changed their names), and his daughter-in-law, Alexa Morris, also follows the fortunes of the family after the war. They moved to Israel in 1949 and grew up with the new nation. Binem went to America, met his future wife, Orah, and found success as an architect, so it’s also an upward mobility story, and it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving clan. Sadly, for contrast, we learn that all the family left in Poland died in the concentration camps. The writing is clever and impressive: “[Henri] was drawn toward the provocative in the way a car in need of alignment pulls toward one side of the road,” and at a pro forma conference, there is cigarette “smoke swirling, scribbling nonsense” in the air. The book includes illustrations and family photos.

It’s the start of summer, and Jill’s family has decided to celebrate by going on their annual boating trip to Lake Koda. The day starts with laughter as the kids soak in the sun, water ski, and build sandcastles. All seems perfect, and after lunch at their favorite cove, the group splits up for a last bit of fun. However, a thunderstorm soon rolls in, bringing unexpected lightning and violent waves. As things worsen, they realize the importance of moving off the water to safety, but Jill’s motherly instincts kick in as she thinks of her two younger sons likely freezing in the cove with their grandmother. She urges her father to turn back into the roaring waters, and they soon pull the boys to safety. Yet, just as Jill feels relief, her father guns the gas into an oncoming wave, flipping the boat and throwing the passengers into the churning water. In the horrific accident’s aftermath, each family member deals with their trauma separately, locking up their pain and laying blame where it shouldn’t be; however, at the point when they feel they’ve hit rock bottom, they find new strength. Shaeffer’s use of multiple third-person perspectives creates a well-paced, engaging plot that will hook readers in. Also, the character development throughout feels realistic; for example, when Jill collapses after terrible news of a death, her loving, strong, and supportive spouse, Matt, “held her up when she crumpled into him”—but he reveals later how much he, too, is struggling. The various points of view, including that of Jill’s teenage son, show how unique and individual the effects of grief can be, and they bring a sense of community to what could easily be portrayed as a lonely process.

Arriving as the pink clouds replace the stars, the deer enter through openings in the hedges and stone wall: “Nibble and nudge / and startle and dash / away off into the pines.” The text follows similar patterns as other creatures emerge from cracks and crevices to play or eat within the farm’s enclosure. Rabbits “tumble and twitch.” Doves “flurry and flap.” Howes’ lilting rhythm and rhymes flow effortlessly—a worthy accompaniment to Krommes’ signature scratchboard and watercolor compositions, filled with texture and teeming with details not mentioned in the text: flitting bees and butterflies, nesting birds, and a busy, light-skinned family of three doing chores (and, in the case of the child, sometimes imitating the animals). As the sky darkens again and bats appear, listeners are invited into the youngster’s room: “And this is the curtain that nighttime drew / between two days—the old and new.” The rich language and striking images encourage multiple readings, while the soothing, cumulative cadence creates a lovely bedtime experience. Sensitive children will soon absorb the alliterative text, possibly repeating it in real-life moments.

Scheele, a professor of social anthropology in Paris, points out that ancient Greeks and Romans and medieval Arab conquerors settled the temperate strip along the Mediterranean but considered the vast region to the south a wasteland dotted with savage tribes. European imperialists arrived in the 19th century and, under the mistaken impression that the desert had bloomed in Roman times, took a dim view of local pastoralists. Chasing off the herds (and their manure) and digging deep for water, they produced a short bloom of intensive agriculture that the region could not support, a disappointment that persuaded western experts that their lands were deteriorating and gave rise to massive “anti-desertification” programs that have soaked up billions of aid dollars to little effect. Scheele bumps over desert roads in rough company to deliver a vivid portrait of wildly disparate people and nations. The discovery of oil in Algeria and Libya in the 1950s gave their nations first-world wealth while autocrats, civil wars, and terrorism have produced a string of struggling states (Chad, Mali, Niger), among the world’s poorest. The author holds a low opinion of traditional European-oriented history, which ignores ancient African cultures, but does not lean over backward to proclaim their wonders. Slavery remains common throughout the region and, while different from the old American version, is no less deplorable. The exhilarating uprisings of a decade ago that overturned autocracies across the continent have failed. Misgovernment may be the rule, but it has a short reach; tribalism, religion, and commerce dominate day-to-day life and may outlive it.

In her new work, Crispin’s tools of critique are the erotic thrillers in which Michael Douglas starred in the 1980s and ’90s. The characters he played during this time, the author suggests, all reflect a “new masculinity” trying to find purchase in the wake of not only feminism’s second and third waves, but also shifts to America’s global position at the end of the Cold War. Women had achieved, even if imperfectly, new freedoms and had built resourceful networks of community and advocacy to propel themselves from patriarchy’s grip. Men, however, floundered in the face of perceived disempowerment. Failing to discern a new model of masculinity in their changing world, they become narrowly—even dangerously—reactive, shaping manliness into something marked by paranoid outrage, monetary greed, and cruel individualism. This is a niche period, both for Michael Douglas as a celebrity—his work after the turn of the century is only barely covered in the text, with some films not mentioned at all—and for the creation of a post-patriarchal society. The Douglas films offer examples as touchpoints for the author to discuss stereotypes like midlife crisis and nostalgic nationalism, as well as upheavals like no-fault divorce and the savings and loan banking crisis, all of which give way to the confusion, denial, and ultimately defensiveness and grievance that fuel a widespread conversation about how “men are failing to thrive” today. The author’s preoccupation with Douglas’ portrayals often distracts from rather than reinforces her argument, which can itself be winding and overgeneralized. Nevertheless, Crispin’s adept cultural synthesis is delivered with amusing snark and an undertone of increasing anxiety, pontifical concern, and moral urgency designed to confront the current moment.