"I come from a country that doesn't exist anymore." So says Aleksandar Krsmanovic by way of introduction; fleeing the war that ravaged Bosnia in the early '90s, his family has sought refuge in Germany. In 30-year-old Saša Stanišić's phenomenally hyped debut novel (the German publisher has already sold translation rights in over 25 countries), Aleksander is among the more than two million Bosnians — primarily Muslims — who fled their homes after attacks by Serbian nationalists, a conflict that would lead to one of the century's deadliest genocides. (If you're rusty on the history, you might start with graphic journalist Joe Sacco's devastating account Safe Area Goražde ).

Stanišić's book, however, is no dour war novel. To a cynic, How the Soldier Repairs the Gramophone might seem a transatlantic cousin to the "Brooklyn Books of Wonder" — novels in which a character's whimsical imagination serves up emotional saccharine against violent historical realities. Indeed, Stanišić's novel does feature a precocious, endearing narrator in Aleksandar, a mischievous exaggerator and indulgent storyteller who spins yarns about characters like the neighborhood communist whose adulterous wife leaves his copy of Das Kapital soiled, or the time he and his beloved Grandpa Slavko played chess on a tipped cow.

And yet, for all the fun Stanišić has with his protagonist, he makes no attempt to sugarcoat the war's horrifying violence and lingering psychological traumas. When Serbian soldiers capture Aleksandar's hometown of Višegrad, he goes into hiding in the cellar of an apartment building and ends up saving the life of a girl named Asija. After his family's escape to Germany, Aleksandar embarks on a decade-long search for this girl, who remains a ghostly reminder of his childhood.

Stanišić's circuitous chronology, shifts in perspective, and loose punctuation make for a challenging read, but those up to the task will be rewarded with a story that reveals the lingering scars of a conflict some Bosnians may rather forget. Aleksandar's obsessive search for Asija, the girl he simply calls "Beautiful," becomes a convincing representation of the need for survivors to find moral clarity and personal resolution among the emotional and physical wreckage of war.

-Paul Whitlatch