The Wolf Princess by Cathryn Constable
When I first saw this book
by Cathryn Constable, I couldn’t help but snatch it up. The word “Russia” in
its summary made my heart skip a beat. I am far from just a fan of the country—I
am Russian. I grew up speaking the
language and enjoying its food and dealing with my babushkas (meaning
“grandmothers” for those who might not know) have not yet read the book and
experienced its delightfully flawed Russian-English glossary). While that made
it appealing, I also had to keep in mind that it could be slightly
disappointing. And to be honest, at first, it was.
 |
| HarperTeen |
As I started reading The Wolf Princess I had vague flashbacks
of Anastasia, the Twentieth Century
Fox movie that centers around and romanticizes the last Grand Duchess. I tried
to push these inklings of nostalgia away, but as I read on, I couldn’t help but
see more similarities: royals and riches lost to the ravages of Communism, the
male character named Dmitri, a motif of yearning for family running throughout.
While these details did grate on my nerves slightly in the beginning, I came to
find that, even while some elements of the plot may not have been entirely that
original, the story was creative and rather well written. The characters are
kind-hearted and relatable, and young adults will find themselves fascinated by
the world of this book. Truly, towards the end, I could not put the book down
because I was trapped in the plot and so attached to the characters. However, this
attachment also led to frustration, since the author continually refused to
divulge a piece of information foreshadowed from the novel’s first words. The
fact that it took so long (almost two-hundred and fifty pages) for that one
obvious discovery was rather ridiculous—and those who have read, or read the
book in the future, will probably feel as I did.
Ultimately, the novel did
remind me of the stories and songs my babushka used to lull me to sleep with:
of volki (wolves) who would snap at
your back, of snegurochki (snow
maidens) who helped dedushka moroz
(grandfather frost) deliver gifts to children. As I read, I could picture
myself a small girl lost in the wilderness of Russia: scared as I looked up at
the looming trees, but exhilarated, excited, as I breathed the cold air and
trudged through the piled, powdery snow.
By: Rebecca Rozenberg
