German journalist and author Wittstock tells an irresistible story. He begins in the summer of 1940. Most of his subjects had fled Germany in the 1930s, then fled again, to Vichy France, unoccupied but submissive. Jews and intellectuals knew that their days were numbered. Although shocked by France’s collapse, most Americans opposed helping refugees. Running for reelection in November, Franklin D. Roosevelt knew that supporting immigration was a sure loser at the polls. Some readers will recognize Wittstock’s hero, Varian Fry, a young New York journalist: He is at the heart of Julie Orringer’s 2019 novel The Flight Portfolio, which inspired the Netflix series Transatlantic. Together with a few activists, Fry raised money and founded the Emergency Rescue Committee. Carrying a list of names, including 200 German-language authors provided by Thomas Mann, he traveled to Marseille in August 1940, assigned to spend a few weeks organizing an office to aid refugees. He remained for more than a year. On arriving, Fry realized that thousands needed help to survive as well as navigate absurd procedures for obtaining paperwork to live, travel, and leave France. Fiercely idealistic, he did what had to be done, much of which was illegal and expensive; this offended the ERC, which demanded his return, and the State Department, which refused to renew his passport and denounced him to the Vichy government. Fry finally returned in the fall of 1941; declared persona non grata, he received little thanks. Wittstock detours regularly for accounts of refugees. Readers may recognize names like Max Ernst, Hannah Arendt, Marc Chagall, and Heinrich Mann, but most will be as unfamiliar as they were to Fry, who rescued more than 1,000 people, a lifesaving feat because, of course, death in concentration camps awaited many who were left behind.

A group of hunter-gatherers is endangered by murderous timbermen in the Brazilian rainforest. Above the Arctic Circle, an old Inuit woman takes her skeptical, indolent “grandson” to a remote old village (from which oil companies uprooted them) to enact an obscure ritual. Both use ancestral memories to summon help from an advanced extraterrestrial civilization of color-shifting, somewhat reptilian humanoids of about 8 feet in stature who call themselves the Indigo. Eons ago, interstellar Indigo explorers were awestruck by Earth’s unparalleled biodiversity and beauty and left such safeguards behind to protect the planet. The two distress signals prompt the aliens’ return in massive ships that intimidate even the Earth’s superpowers. Meeting with a few chosen human representatives (including the U.S. president), the Indigo are horrified at the state of Earth, now beset by pollution, species extinctions, unsustainable economic development, war, and other existential threats. The Indigo give humanity one year to reverse the failing state of the world; meanwhile, they will remain as noninterfering “Observers.” Some Indigo opinion-leaders grow quite fond of humanity’s arts and music; others harbor no affection for the predatory apes and begin a grim judgment process. A radical-environmentalist spin on Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End (1953), Nebra’s narrative will find favor with those who have fantasies of captains of industry and world leaders being brought to account by a galactic Greenpeace for crimes against nature: “Dolphins in terror, surrounded by humans with an enclosing net and frantically writhing and rolling in a red sea, the blood of their family. A Hawksbill turtle, grotesquely deformed by the plastic ring slowly choking it. The hillside shorn of its trees, the fertile soil pointlessly pouring away in streams with every rain.” The polemical material is balanced by fairly nuanced characterizations (including developing nation indigenes, too often idealized by sympathetic writers as unspoiled, cardboard Edenic angels), good pacing, and a final act that is fairly unputdownable.

When it comes to getting involved with men, independent Quinn, a gorgeous, green-eyed, 6-foot-tall redhead, has one unshakeable rule: They have to be unhappily married, with no kids. (After all, she’s no homewrecker.) Having sworn off marriage after two failures, only hot sex and romance with no expectations on either side does it for Quinn. (The fact that she’ll eventually have to pay for her cavalier disregard for the wives of her short-term lovers hardly comes as a surprise, but the author’s audacious twist on the inevitable comeuppance does, thankfully leaving her hero’s spiky, bright spirit undimmed.) Quinn’s eventual realization that her determined, no-strings approach to relationships has consequences begins when Marcus, “the one whose mere presence zaps my appetite, flushes my cheeks and makes me want to giggle like a schoolgirl mooning over her first crush,” walks into the upscale restaurant where Quinn is the wine- and food-savvy sommelier. “I love the magic that happens when a great glass of wine pairs perfectly with a dish,” she says. “It’s lusty and romantic…. It’s akin to the ideal relationship, fleeting but swoon-worthy.” Perfect though he seems, if Marcus isn’t married, Quinn will have to go with her second choice, a handsome, married, infidelity newbie. The author’s lavish descriptions of clothes, gourmet meals, and wine—some chapters open with a description of enticing menu offerings—and the characters’ nearly exclusive focus on hormone-charged relationships make for an engaging rom-com Sex and the City vibe. When she can no longer ignore the messy realities of her affairs, it takes time for Quinn to get past her defensive reaction and face a difficult decision: “I don’t feel guilty. I didn’t make any vows,” she says. The author doesn’t let her off the hook, but the off-the-wall result satisfies, and humor and a light touch are ever-present (Quinn’s blind date with a picky vegetarian at her Italian mother’s bountiful, nonvegetarian dinner table is a kick).

Between trips to the buffet at an Indian restaurant where they’ve gone on a date without their two young children, the narrator’s husband drops this bombshell: “I’m having an affair.” Days later, the narrator is diagnosed with breast cancer. If this feels like the lead-up to a tragedy, you wouldn’t be wrong, and yet what follows is a spry novel that leapfrogs from hopeful to painful to poignant to silly to tender moments in the narrator’s life: telling her children the same bedtime stories based on Chinese myths that her mother told her; making lists of things she hates about doctors’ offices; doing internet research on her husband’s new love, Maggie; drafting a user’s manual for Sam, her soon-to-be ex-husband, with the intention of presenting it to his new girlfriend. (“He hates when his socks don’t match. Also: he loves whimsical socks, but not whimsical ties.”) “I think if enough bad things pile up, they inevitably cross over into comedy,” the narrator reflects. This is true, though the comedy here is never dark or desperate or manic. Instead, the narrator’s dignity and strength make this a novel that crackles with heartfelt intelligence and wit. Having named her tumor Maggie, the narrator decides not to tell Sam about it: a vengeful act wrapped in kindness. It’s one of many steps she takes to affirm her sense of self—quirky, playful, more comfortable with logistics than feelings—and move on with her life.

Grizelda the Green loathes the trick-or-treaters who knock on her door each year, scaring her spiders, her pet dragon, and her cauldron. So she cooks up a plan to take the joy out of the holiday. As she casts spells, pumpkins explode and streetlights shatter. Undeterred, the children persist; after all, they have flashlights! The kids aren’t bothered even when Grizelda makes their candy horribly unappetizing (worms and slime, anyone?). Instead, they’re thrilled at the prospect of meeting a real live witch. “Your magic gave us the best Halloween ever!” a young girl declares. Grizelda is moved; turns out, even witches love helping others and being appreciated in return. The rhyming text results in an ideal preschool read-aloud, with the bouncing stanzas keeping a snappy pace. The children’s unflagging optimism in the face of setbacks is an excellent lesson in making lemonade out of lemons, while Grizelda’s change of heart emphasizes the rewards of generosity. Longhi’s cheery cartoonish illustrations complement the storytelling; a palette of deep aquas with accents of purple, gold, and orange reflects the night sky and sets an appropriately spooky tone. The kids are racially diverse; Grizelda has gray-tinged skin and ombré green hair.