When the past is buried, sometimes it’s not buried deep enough (literally). In Vicente Luis Mora's new novel, Centroeuropa (Bellvue Literary Press; 192 pages; translated by Rahul Bery), a Viennese immigrant arrives in a small Prussian town with a mysterious past and a problem loitering under his new land.

Told from the first-person point of view, and constructed as a written journal, Redo Haupshammer arrives in Szonden, Prussia, with three possessions: his wife Odra's body in a casket, a dubious deed to farmland on the edge of the Oder River, and a secret. The deed, signed over to Redo and his wife by a scoundrel named Duisdorf in Vienna, is validated by the local Mayor, and Redo becomes the first free cropper in Szonden. Cool. He can finally bury his wife and start a new life while he mourns. Or not. When Redo attempts to dig a grave on his new land, he uncovers a dead body, "Male, Prussian, hussar soldier, frozen." An oddity, but considering it a one-off, Redo tries again. In a new spot, the unearths two twin brothers wearing Napoleonic uniforms. With subsequent digs, the discoveries grow exponentially: four soldiers of possibly Polish descent, eight frozen warriors from the early Roman Empire, and finally the most confusing of all: sixteen dead Nazis from the future. Redo must figure out what to do with the bodies while ingratiating himself into Szonden society and maintaining his secret.

While it takes a suspension of disbelief to uncover dead, frozen bodies from the past, the book introduces a supernatural element that extends to other aspects of the story. Redo encounters an albino witch, Ilsa, who tells him that if he tries to dig again—the most recent discovery uncovered 16 bodies—he is certain to unearth 32 more. She professes the ability to predict both the past and the future. Redo also crosses paths with a giant in town named Udo, and though there is some initial ambiguity about whether he means a tall person or an actual giant, it is quickly dispelled by Ilsa, who says the giant is habitually studied in Berlin and grows or shrinks each year. While the plot relies on the supernatural to function, it also complicates the novel’s central themes and threatens to undermine its allegorical power. The introduction of the giant, for instance, feels whimsical rather than symbolic and distracts from the otherwise sharp focus on the dangerous cycles of history. Here, a bit of temperance would help tighten the plot and ensure that the supernatural helps rather than hinders the novel’s more serious themes.

Aside from the obvious question of why the soldiers are buried in Redo's dirt, there are several mysteries threaded through the novel, some of which are not solved until the very end. Or earlier, if we pick up on the clues. Redo deliberately lets us know he's omitting details about his backstory and identity, the same way that he withheld information from the people of Szonden, including his friends: "There was no room for error, ever; I had to remain forever alert while communicating, and I remain on guard now, though there may no longer be any need for it." But he occasionally drops subtle hints. He's the only one in the area who sports a beard, and he is averse to physical contact with other people. There is also the minor question of how Redo, an outsider who knows nothing about farming, obtained the deed to the first piece of free land in Szonden. Little details are sprinkled in to help us solve these mysteries, with Redo's narration occasionally dipping into scenes from his upbringing in a brothel in Vienna and the early days with his wife.

Redo also reminds us that he's writing this narrative as a recollection from a distant future, reflecting on the most significant time in his life. The journal format plays a crucial role in shaping how the reader engages with Redo’s story as we try to put everything together; it invites us into his private thoughts but also forces us to rely on his selective memory and occasional evasions. As the record-keeper of his own history, Redo decides what to include and what to leave out, making the act of reading his journal an exercise in both trust and skepticism.

The mysteries and the narration come together when Redo concludes his story with 32 numbered points that he deems "necessary to record a number of things." (The number, of course, nods to Ilse telling him that he will eventually uncover 32 more bodies.) As the narrator, he tries to tie up loose ends and provide closure to important relationships, as well as a final answer to the question of his identity. If you already suspect Redo's backstory, the list may feel satisfying; if you are still guessing, it may seem too clean and too easy. The list itself has little impact on the plot, serving mainly to wrap up storylines. Sure, that's how memory works; it's cyclical rather than linear, which often means forgetting details and filling in gaps. But it does feel like a cheap way to include extra details that weren't woven into the narrative.

The deeper meaning of the dead soldiers is surmised early in the story, so the novel’s later energy shifts to how Redo will solve the problem, opening the door to one of the book's more satisfying themes: the endless cycle of inaction and ineptitude from bureaucrats. When he finally tries to take matters into his own hands, he is met with resistance again, but still a lack of ideas. The reader feels for Redo when he finally snaps at politicians chastising him for his latest idea to rid himself of the bodies:

The novel's main message is the effects of endless war, while its secondary point is how red tape and government incompetence grind everything to a halt, sometimes for comic effect.

Centroeuropa offers a pointed critique of war’s destruction and society’s indifference to its consequences. Its brevity keeps it from bogging down, and a few humorous moments break up the somber allegory. But threads are left untied, and the purpose of certain characters and scenes remains unclear. It is an interesting book that presents its central critique effectively, but its flaws linger just beneath the surface.