This book isn't so much about the depression as it is the problems Jews faced in Depression-era Toronto. I feel like she's talking about the same thing over and over, and she talks so much about her cousin that it may as well be his diary.
It's just not interesting. I appreciate that the author used the experiences of his parents to write a book, but it was not enough to make a good story.
The Christmas short story for this is actually better than the book itself, because they lay off the talk about Hitler and riots and "stick with your own kind" for a change.
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