Keeper of Lost Children
I have never liked reading historical fiction.
Although the genre can be educational, I have often found it emotionally burdensome, particularly when it centers traumatic Black histories. Too frequently, such narratives leave me feeling helpless and overwhelmed by injustice that cannot be undone.
Keeper of Lost Children by Sadeqa Johnson fundamentally altered my understanding of what historical fiction can be. Her novel is a striking departure from the pattern I typically see in the genre. In January, I accepted an advanced copy of it from Simon & Schuster with some hesitation. A World War II- era narrative initially suggested another painful excavation of the past. Instead, Johnson’s novel delivers a layered, character-driven novel that uncovers a lost story in history without reducing it to despair.
Keeper of Lost Children alternates between three voices: Sophia, Ozzie, and Ethel. Their stories begin in different years and in different cities, but all coincide with mid-twentieth-century America and postwar Germany. After only the prologue, I was hooked. I can now say that Keeper of Lost Children is the best book I’ve read in 2026.
She Dwells is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
SOPHIA
Sophia’s story begins in 1965, on a farm in Prince Frederick, Maryland. She’s a tenth-grader who hardly has time to focus on anything beyond Ma Deary’s rigid authority. Sophia’s life is consumed by farm labor until her stellar grades earn her a full scholarship to West Oak Forest Academy, an elite boarding school.
Sophia’s story struck me because of the risk she takes in pursuit of an education. Despite being called worthless her entire life by her mother, Sophia knows deep within herself that she is meant for more. She decides to go behind her mother’s back and get to the academy, no matter the cost. Little does she know how much more awaits her there.
As a Black girl who went to boarding school, I am always disappointed by the lack of novels that explore the Black female experience at a boarding school. Johnson does a superb job of showing that it is not only the loud, dramatic episodes of racism that shape one’s experience, but also the cumulative weight of daily microaggressions, social isolation, and persistent feelings of inadequacy. Sophia’s attempts to assimilate mirrored my own: dyeing her hair, borrowing clothes, and trying to remain unnoticed.
Though Sophia’s transition was difficult, she ultimately finds her rhythm. She finishes her first year with genuine friendships, mentorship (the scenes with Miz Peaches were my favorite), and even a first love. Most importantly, she discovers that the inner voice assuring her of a brighter future was connected to memories from her past. Sophia learns that her story began long before the farm.
OZZIE
When it comes to complex characters, Ozzie is a prime example. With every chapter, I couldn’t decide if I loved or hated him. His decisions are often reckless and inconsiderate, but Johnson’s writing quietly reminds us of the constraints shaping his choices.
Ozzie goes to Germany for two reasons: to prove the capacity of Black men in the military, and to experience a form of freedom that America does not provide. Once abroad, Ozzie steps into himself. He flourishes in the new degree of social freedom available to him in Germany, and his newfound confidence manifests in a relationship with a German woman named Jelka. The unexpected birth of their daughter puts Ozzie in a difficult position: does he try to build a life for himself with Jelka and Katja in Germany, or return home to America?
Ozzie’s decision to return home is fueled by the American promise that his veteran status will open doors. That promise quickly proves hollow, and the bliss that comes from reuniting with his first love, Rita, only sustains him briefly. Ozzie spends the latter half of the novel lost, drinking, gambling, and lying. Though he attempts to contact Jelka, and spends time admiring the one photo he has of Katja, his efforts are unimpressive and ineffective.
Yet Johnson’s purpose in constructing Ozzie is not to invite criticism, but to expose a reality. Ozzie is not an exception. Hundreds of African American servicemen in Germany entered into relationships with German women, fathered children, and returned to the US without maintaining those connections. But their abandonment isn’t as simple as a lack of care. Ozzie’s story also points fingers at systemic constraints and social isolation. Through him, we see both the possibilities and limitations imposed on Black men during that time. Ozzie doesn’t get a happy ending, but he does get a second wind and a second chance to be better.
ETHEL
Ethel’s character is grounded in the life and legacy of Mabel Grammer, an African American journalist who, while accompanying her husband in post-war Germany, encountered an orphanage populated by mixed-race children. Unable to have biological children of her own, Grammer was moved to found the “Brown Baby Plan,” an initiative that facilitated the adoption of mixed-race children in Germany. Grammer completed 500 adoptions and personally raised 12 children.
I recently attended an in-person event with Sadeqa Johnson where she spoke about how the stories she writes choose her. It was while she was writing House of Eve that she came across Mabel Grammer’s story and felt a calling to write it.
What I admired about Johnson’s retelling is that she doesn’t portray Ethel as a saint with no flaws. Though Ethel’s dedication to helping the orphans is incredible, Johnson brings attention to oversight and imperfection. Ethel is successful with most of the adoptions, but we learn that some of the children were not placed in healthy homes. Through Ethel’s admission that Sophia’s adoptive parents didn’t feel quite right, we are forced to ask if relocation was actually beneficial. Would Sophia’s life have been easier in Germany?
This question haunts the novel’s end. Ethel’s “failure” doesn’t negate her impact, but complicates it. This ending also prompted me to consider the novel’s broader historical implications: what were the lived experiences of the 500 real adopted children? Were their lives more similar to Sophia’s or to Max’s? Johnson intentionally leaves these questions unresolved, perhaps reminding readers that while her narrative is fictional, the history is not.
SOPHIA OZZIE ETHEL
Keeper of Lost Children is an incredible accomplishment that demonstrates that historical fiction doesn’t have to result in immobilizing grief, but critical reflection. Johnson does not romanticize one woman’s remarkable accomplishment, but also illuminates the fault lines within well-intentioned human action. Good intentions cannot guarantee good outcomes. Sophia is born out of love, and Ethel acts out of love, yet Sophia becomes lost. Still, the novel closes with her finding her way, both independently and with a new support system.
After reading Keeper of Lost Children, I can truly say that I am changed for the better. Despite her imperfections, Mabel Grammer/Ethel Gathers stand as a testament to what one determined woman can accomplish. Without her, those 500 children likely would’ve remained orphans. And without Johnson, many of us would never have known their story. I am grateful for both.