Hits you like fine china in a gunfight!
Feature image credit: Simon & Schuster
Alright, mate, buckle up because The Porcelain Maker ain’t just another WWII romance or one of those two-timeline snoozefests you’ve read a dozen times before. This thing grabs you by the collar and drags you from the raucous art circles of Weimar Germany straight into the belly of Dachau’s porcelain factory. In this place, beauty survives, even while humanity’s circling the drain. It’s a story where love and survival fight dirty, and a porcelain Viking holds more secrets than a suburban Adelaide family reunion.
We kick off in Berlin right before the Nazis come stomping through. Max, a Jewish architect, and Bettina, a painter who runs with the avant-garde crowd, are swept up in a love affair that’s all wine, brushes, and bold dreams. It’s Bauhaus brilliance on borrowed time because when the brownshirts start calling the shots, “degenerate art” gets kicked to the curb, and artists are either silenced or destroyed. Max and Bettina’s relationship is like a candle in a storm — burning bright but one gust away from being snuffed out.
Then the hammer drops, and Max is arrested and shipped off to Dachau. His only shot at staying alive? Making porcelain figurines for the Allach factory, a twisted little operation run by the SS. Think about it: One half of the camp making dainty porcelain for Nazi bigwigs while the other half gets marched to their deaths. The contrast is so sharp it could slice you open.
But wait, the story doesn’t just hang around the grim days of WWII — it blasts forward to 1993, Cincinnati, where Bettina’s daughter, Clara, picks up the thread. Clara’s mother never told her who her father was, but a porcelain Viking figurine might hold the answer. Clara tracks it like a detective on a cold case, following its trail back through time, straight into the Nazi nightmare that swallowed up her parents’ story.
The narrative jumps between these two timelines — Berlin on the brink of collapse and 1990s America — with every chapter pulling you deeper into betrayal, obsession, and survival. It’s like watching two fuse lines burn toward the same explosion. And believe me, when they collide, it’s not just sparks — it’s a bloody firestorm.
Max and Bettina’s love isn’t your Hollywood fairy tale; it’s rough, raw, and real. Every kiss, every brushstroke, every plan to run away is an act of defiance. Two people clinging to each other while the world burns around them. Freethy doesn’t sugarcoat a thing. This relationship isn’t about hearts and flowers; it’s about hanging on for dear life.
But let’s talk about Clara for a second. She’s chasing answers like a greyhound after a rabbit, but as a character, she feels more like a tool for filling in the gaps than someone with real flesh and blood. And the ending? It rushes through like the last tram out of Glenelg, leaving you panting at the station, wondering what just happened.
Still, these are minor gripes in an otherwise cracking read. Freethy’s prose is sharp enough to cut glass, and the historical detail is spot on. You’ll walk away from this book with your head buzzing, thinking about how art can outlast atrocity and how love can survive when everything else falls apart. The Allach porcelain factory becomes a character in its own right: beautiful, brutal, and unforgettable. If you’ve never heard of it before, trust me, it’s not something you’ll shake off quickly.
If you’re into historical fiction that packs an emotional punch, The Porcelain Maker is for you. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest corners of history, art and love can still find a way to survive, like flowers blooming through cracks in concrete.
Reviewed by Max Martin
X: @AussieMaxMarten
Distributed by: Simon and Schuster
Released: January 2024
RRP: $32.99
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