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The book begins with a memory Krueger carried for decades: his father returning from World War II as a young man who had enlisted straight out of high school graduation, and then refusing, for the rest of his life, to speak about what he had seen. That silence was not unusual. The fathers of his friends, veterans of the same war or of Korea, kept the same wall up. The question of what was behind it never left him.
When he was eighteen years old, on his graduation from high school, my father enlisted in the military and marched off to Europe to fight in World War Two. He was just a kid. He came back several years later, a man wounded in body and in spirit. My father suffered from PTSD, although at that time they called it battle fatigue or shell shock. When, as a child, I pestered him for stories about the war, he refused to talk about it. He was very like the fathers of my friends, who’d also fought in WWII or Korea.
Krueger had already written toward this territory once before. His 2013 novel Ordinary Grace touched on veterans and trauma, but he knew he had pulled back too soon. The River We Remember was the longer commitment he owed the subject, and it widened the frame beyond the soldiers themselves to everyone waiting at home.
I touched briefly on this issue in an earlier novel, Ordinary Grace. With The River We Remember, I wanted to go deeper. I also wanted to explore the effects of war on those left behind — wives, mothers, fathers, sisters — who prayed desperately for the safety of their beloved husbands and sons and brothers, and who, in the end, may have lost them on the battlefield.
The murder that opens the novel, set in the fictional southern Minnesota town of Jewel in 1958, becomes the mechanism that forces all of that buried grief into the open — not just for the veterans, but for every family the war touched.
What became The River We Remember was not the first version of the book. Krueger had a completed manuscript years before publication, had been paid for it under contract, and decided it wasn’t deliverable. Telling his publisher he was walking away from a finished, contracted novel is not a minor professional decision.
I first took a crack at this more than six years ago. I completed a whole first draft of a novel. And I didn’t like it. I thought I had mangled the idea. [paraphrased from audio]
The failure of that draft came down to a single, fundamental craft problem. He set the manuscript aside, wrote This Tender Land for his publisher as a substitute, and then two more Cork O’Connor novels during the pandemic. When he finally ran out of other projects, he went back and diagnosed what had gone wrong the first time.
I didn’t have the narrative voice for the story. I tried it kind of as a first-person narrator originally, and it just didn’t work. [paraphrased from audio]
Returning to a manuscript he had abandoned and publicly called mangled required something more than a structural fix. He rewrote the entire novel, shifting from first-person to a third-person, multi-perspective approach. The plot stayed largely intact; the emotional relationship to the material had changed.
My heart was in it this time. I could feel like I cared about this story again. [paraphrased from audio]
From the start, Krueger was trying to do two things at once with this book: write the literary novel about wounding and healing that the subject demanded, and write a mystery that held together as a puzzle. His two publishing identities, the crime novelist and the author of standalone literary fiction, had to occupy the same pages.
I chose to couch the story in what I believed would be a compelling mystery. In its way, this novel is a melding of my two approaches to writing. I wanted it to come from my heart, and I also wanted it to be a flawless puzzle.
Jewel, the fictional town built along the Alabaster River, is as much a character in the novel as Sheriff Brody Dern or lawyer Charlotte Bauer. Krueger grew up in small Midwestern towns in the late 1950s and early 1960s, so the 1958 setting drew on memory as much as research, but he still verified period details rigorously. He describes building place by the same logic he uses to build people.
I always told my students, you should create sense of place in the same way that you create character because place has all of the characteristics that we would think of when we’re establishing character. It has a voice, it has a face... it has a particular smell. It has a culture to it. [paraphrased from audio]
Sheriff Brody Dern, the novel’s central figure, carries wounds from World War II that he keeps locked away. That portrait was not invented. Krueger drew on his father’s specific emotional posture: the moral seriousness, the refusal to surface what he had seen, the effort to do right while carrying something that couldn’t be named.
In some respects, he’s like my father. My father came back really wounded in spirit... Brody is also a man who is keeping his experiences stuffed deep inside himself. But he’s a man who has a strong moral center, he’s trying to do what he believes to be right. And that was certainly my father. [paraphrased from audio]
The book’s title replaced his original working title, “Alabaster,” after his editor at Atria rejected it. The replacement arrived without effort, during a bike ride, and immediately felt like it belonged. The title ended up shaping the epilogue, where Krueger writes directly about how memory of a shared place is never identical for any two people who lived in it.
The River We Remember just came to me and as soon as it came to me, I knew there’s the title. It resonates on so many levels with this story. [paraphrased from audio]
The novel is set in 1958, a year that sits squarely inside the decade most commonly remembered as the peaceful, prosperous aftermath of war. That collective memory is one of the things the book is arguing against. Jewel looks stable on the surface; what the murder investigation uncovers is how much grief the town has been carrying and suppressing simultaneously.
The ‘50s was really not as idyllic as we might have imagined it or remember it. We were post World War II and Korea. We’d come out of two major wars that took a lot of young men away, never to come back, that left a lot of families bereft, left a lot of wounding in this nation that we tend to overlook. [paraphrased from audio]
The mystery plot turns on who killed a man found dead in the Alabaster River. But that plot is a container for a larger question that Krueger has been living with since childhood, one that connects every character in Jewel regardless of whether they fought in a war.
At the heart of the novel is the question, how do we heal from the great wounds that life delivers to us in so many different ways? [paraphrased from audio]
Krueger does not leave the question of healing open-ended. He arrives at a specific answer, one that applies to the veterans in the novel, to the families they left changed, and to the town’s reckoning with its own history of prejudice and violence. The answer is not recovery through time or through community, but through something more demanding.
It’s important when we are dealing with all of this regret and guilt that we begin with forgiveness. We have to forgive ourselves for the trespasses that we have made and we have to forgive others for their trespasses against us. [paraphrased from audio]
The title keeps working after the last page. In the epilogue, Krueger writes about the Alabaster River as a figure for collective memory: every person who lived in Jewel carries a different version of the same past. The title’s second meaning, the one that only becomes fully visible at the end, is about how the past is never a shared object but always a personal one.
We all remember the past differently. The River We Remember really resonates well with the reader in that final passage of the book where I talk about how the past of us all is a different river for every person who has been a part of it. [paraphrased from audio]