The Safekeep

Living alone in her late mother’s house in Zwolle, Isabel is a quiet and fiercely guarded woman. An uncle bequeathed the house to the family with the understanding that whenever Isabel’s brother Louis married, he would inherit it. Isabel resides there now under a type of suspended claim—that of a caretaker, but not owner. Louis disturbs her meticulous isolation when he asks her to host Eva, his lover, for the summer while he is away. Isabel grudgingly agrees. Eva arrives there with a laid-back sense of belonging that perturbs Isabel from the beginning.

There is not an instantaneous connection here. There is instead conflict—social, emotional, territorial. Gradually, their relationship evolves. Their tense cohabitation gains an edge of intimacy, one that stays murky as the story progresses. What starts out as apprehension gradually becomes fascination, then something even more charged and more devastating. Their dynamic is never entirely mutual, never safe, and never free of the past.

Van der Wouden writes tension with elegant precision—sexual, definitely, but also psychological and historical. The past exerts a real pressure here, acting as more than just a backdrop. The book takes place in a nation that is still writing its postwar history, conveniently forgetting collaboration but remembering gallantry. The Safekeep questions what people choose to live with in the aftermath.

With a consistent smouldering tone, the language is restrained and lyrical. Van der Wouden does not over-explain. Isabel keeps her cards close to her chest, and some readers may find her emotional opacity difficult at first: she’s not particularly likeable, but she feels real and understandable. This book calls on its readers to sit with discomfort and observe what isn’t said aloud. This narrative is one about silence as a means of survival—and complicity.

Though Isabel and Eva reject any neat categories, their relationship is crucial. Their closeness is spun with unresolved anguish, cold secrets, and a distinct disparity in power. It is not a conventional romance, but it does explore the intersection of fear and desire. Van der Wouden lets ambiguity handle the heavy work; nothing is simple and nobody is innocent.

Late in the book, there is a revelation of the sort that I treasure. It corrodes, rather than explodes. It clarifies the characters and their decisions, thereby enhancing the enormity of what the book has been developing all along. Van der Wouden seems far more fascinated with consequences than in drama for its own sake.

Readers sensitive to issues of complicity, betrayal, or the silent violences we sometimes inherit—emotional, familial, or historical—may want to proceed carefully. This book explores how long the plainly visible can remain unseen, as well as how often comfort can be preserved only at someone else’s expense.

The Safekeep‘s lack of tidy resolution is one of its most remarkable aspects. It asks a lot: tolerance of uncertainty, patience, and attention. It honours those things with a narrative that sticks with you. It’s about memory, power, desire, and the stories we tell ourselves to cope with what we can’t face.

This will probably appeal if you want something slow, suspenseful, psychologically personal, and morally complicated. If you want lovable characters or closure, this may not be the best option. The Safekeep offers fiction that dares to challenge.

Originally written for The Lesbrary: https://lesbrary.com/the-safekeep-by-yael-van-der-wouden-review/

There was so much I liked about The Safekeep, but believability is such a huge thing to me, and ultimately, that is where I found myself distancing myself from this novel. Setting up a story in a world that is the same as the one I live in, without any explanations for deviations, means I expect certain things. And I know this is my own flaw. When I was an MFA student, workshopping my own fiction, there was a scene I wrote that several of my fellow students got stuck on: This would never happen, they said. It's not believable. But that scene was semi-autobiographical, and what they were saying could never happen had actually happened exactly like that. Of course, in that setting, I wasn't allowed to correct them or tell them differently. Perhaps that is the same kind of scenario at play here; nevertheless, I find myself in disbelief.

There was much that I especially enjoyed. The atmosphere is great. It's easy to get lost in this place and to see these scenes play out before your eyes. The suspense is really good, however, those looking for SUSPENSE will be disappointed. This is a subtle, literary story that creates an air of tension. There is not going to be a huge unexpected twist that involves the clone in the attic. And lastly, the writing was sharp and the characters were really well drawn (though to be clear, I found their actions to be sometimes unbelievable).

I won't go into much detail about what I found unbelievable as I think it has the potential to spoil the story for some. And it's not so much that the characters got to the places they did, but the fact that it happened in a single sentence. Does that kind of flash development happen in real life? Yes. Does it happen under the conditions that the story presents (considering the history of those involved, mental health, personalities, present circumstances, etc.)? I really, truly doubt it. So much so that I found myself angry and frustrated with the absurdity of it. I admit, I could myself be that student now, saying “this would never happen” while the author says nothing. Thirteen years from now I imagine she may shake her head, remembering my comment, thinking how truly ignorant other people can be.