Invented Lives

by Andrea Goldsmith

  It brought her great satisfaction to be settled in a place of her own, as if now her life in Australia could truly begin. And four months later, the saddlery did feel like home — when she was inside, with the door shut, and surrounded by her belongings; but the grunt of displacement that had been constant since leaving Leningrad was not much diminished.

  More and more she was realising that hers had been an upheaval of seismic proportions. Not that she ever regretted her decision to emigrate. You risked everything for a new life in a new country, not because you were certain that life would be good in the new place, but because of what life had become in the old. While state-sanctioned killing of Jews had ended with Stalin’s death, and large-scale pogroms had stopped some years earlier, it didn’t mean these were gone forever. All it would take was another autocratic leader and the killing would return. As for the pogroms, they might have ceased, but the hatred that fuelled them was still very much in evidence, particularly in the vast rural regions. Then there was the daily discrimination in employment, housing, health and education, and all the slurs and insults as well. Jews in the Soviet Union, no matter how long they had lived there and no matter how loyal to the system, would never be Russian.

  No one willingly chooses exile — exile is the option when choice has run out — but Galina, being of a positive mindset, had tried to make the best of it, despite the permanent undercurrent of anxiety. When she boarded the train to Lvov, she had felt a nervous excitement; when she travelled from Lvov to Vienna, she had felt audacious; when she told the Jewish organisers in Vienna she had changed her mind about Israel and wanted to go to Australia, she felt astonishingly mature; on the train to Rome, she was both eager and fearful; in Rome, while waiting for her travel documents, she felt disoriented, but because of her interpreting work she also felt responsible. It was only eight months later, during the long flight to Australia, that she felt terrified, and the courage, or perhaps the denial, that had stifled her fears to this point was finally depleted. During the first few months in Australia, exiled from home, from language, from everything that was familiar, she felt far more an outsider than she ever had as a Jew in Russia — though a good deal safer.

  It was impossible to know the extent to which foreign Australia or the absence of her mother contributed to her alienation. Grief had accompanied her across the world when she travelled to Melbourne, and it had accompanied her across the city when she moved from Zara and Arnold’s to the saddlery. Grief followed her to bed, it patrolled her sleep, it was waiting for her in the morning. Grief, it seemed, was relentless, but at the same time migration was tougher than she had ever imagined. There had been the rupture from her language, from work, city, customs, history, habits, procedures, and a break with all the people who loved and accepted her and mirrored who she was. Complicating the situation still further was the way in which the Australians regarded her. Labelled ‘immigrant’ and ‘New Australian’, defined almost exclusively by her foreignness, she barely recognised the Galina Kogan the Australians saw.

  All migrations, she was coming to realise, were based on hope. And hope, at least for one born in the Soviet system, was just an abbreviation for wishful thinking, or a shorter word for delusion. The Australian press ran glowing reports of how life in the Soviet Union was changing. Politicians, commentators and journalists had latched on to glasnost and perestroika with a devotion that Gorbachev could only dream of when it came to his own Soviet citizens. The West viewed Gorbachev as a saviour, a strong leader intent on bringing democracy, liberalism and a free market to the Soviet Union. But Galina knew better. Even during his first months in power, it was clear to her that the new general secretary was no saviour, and far less in control of the unruly Soviet Union than he would ever appear to the West. The Soviet hardliners hated his reform type of communism, and the democrats hated him for adhering to communism in any form. For ordinary people, Gorbachev’s free-market reforms meant there was less food in the shops, with some essential goods unavailable for months, and his insane alcohol restrictions enraged people already doing it tough.

  It was obvious to Galina when she left the Soviet Union — Gorbachev had been in power for nearly a year at the time — that he wouldn’t last. A small breath of change like the NEP of the twenties, or Khrushchev’s thaw, or Gorbachev’s current loosening of the economy might bring better food for a lucky few, a new winter coat, perhaps even a holiday by the Black Sea. But before long, Soviet life always returned to its usual harsh ways. The situation was clear: Stalin, Lenin, and the seventy-year-long revolution swirled in the Soviet blood and would not be eliminated in a hurry.

  Not that Galina would voice her opinions to the admiring Australians, nor contradict them on this or any other matter. She was intent on watching and listening and learning the requirements of her new country — which would not have excluded her speaking about the old, but Australians rarely asked her about the Soviet Union. It was not for lack of interest, because they frequently raised the topic themselves, and always had much to say; in fact, they acted like authorities, couching statements as questions. Life in the Soviet Union must be much better under Gorbachev? they would say. Or: We know about the changes, but it’s still communism? Or: You must appreciate the freedom here? There were so few real questions about the USSR, but in stark contrast, so many questions about her thoughts and impressions of Australia. Australians loved hearing about themselves.

  Such an easygoing, casual people they were, and so comfortable in their Australian skins. Even the popular prime minister, Bob Hawke, fitted this profile. People referred to him fondly as their larrikin prime minister. When she consulted ‘larrikin’ in her dictionary she simply could not understand how this could be an admirable trait in a national leader. She knew about Mr Hawke’s support for Soviet Jews — he was wiser than most Westerners on this issue — and he had won a scholarship to study at Oxford University, so he must be clever, yet there was nothing intellectual about him. But then she had learned from Zara and Arnold that there was a problem regarding intellectuals in this country. They were not on a par with murderers or spies, but neither did they rank anywhere near the sporting stars, pop singers and actors who made up the pantheon of Australian heroes.

  No one would die for poetry here.

  Intellectuals were, to use an Australian expression, on the nose. Perhaps that explained the satisfied smugness she had observed in the people, and their widespread belief that Australia was the best country in the world: there were no intellectuals to disabuse them. Yet even this was not clear-cut. There existed alongside the self-satisfaction what Zara had described as ‘the great Australian cringe’, a sort of national inferiority complex, she said, possibly rooted in the country’s colonial past. (Maybe that explained all those questions about her impressions of Australia: the Australians were seeking reassurance.)

  So Australians were proudly insular on the one hand, yet embarrassed to be Australian on the other. They were fanatical about sports, yet so unfit that the government was sponsoring a campaign featuring the ‘couch potato’ Norm. They were generous and friendly, but quite a few of them did not like foreigners. Why doncha learn ta speak bloody English, ya fuckin’ wog? had been hurled at her by one angry man waiting behind her in a queue. Her skin was pale, her features were Caucasian; in appearance, she looked like most Australians. Only her accent singled her out. How much worse if she were African or Asian. As for the Australian Aborigines, she’d been in the country for a whole year, and had not met a single one.

  She flipped through the folder on her desk. This was the catalogue of templates for the sewing-pattern illustrations. Each page depicted a different figure: men, women, youths, children, toddlers. In a country with so many Asians, not one figure in the entire catalogue was Asian.

  From birth to death in the Soviet Union you knew exactly who you were and how you slotted into the system. Complex processes were simplified and streamlined; there was little need to thi
nk for yourself and no rewards if you did. She found the contradictions of Australian life confusing, and the flexibility they demanded of her stressful. While she knew this was all part of the West’s freedoms, she was coming to see that freedom was not the safe, happy-go-lucky state she had assumed it would be. And there was something else, something unexpected and unnerving: with so much freedom, it was easy to feel that no one was looking after you.

  With the last sewing illustration finished, Galina ate some leftover chicken before readying herself for her other job, her real estate job. Not that there was any hurry; punctuality was far from being an essential quality for workers at Ralph Merridale Graphics.

  ‘We keep artists’ hours here,’ the boss had said when he hired her. ‘We’re all part-time, we all have our own art, so don’t panic if you’re running late.’

  Ralph Merridale was, like his employees, an artist, but as he explained at her job interview, with three school-aged children he had bills to pay. His company supplied illustrations of houses for sale to several real estate agents. ‘And the number keeps growing,’ he said. ‘If I’m not careful I could become a painter manqué, as well as a merchant prince.’ He was not smiling, so neither did she.

  She had looked Ralph up in a catalogue of Australian artists. He was mentioned, but compared with other listings his entry was very short, and none of his work had been reproduced. Perhaps he was not much of an artist. Perhaps the real estate business was saving him from mediocrity.

  She surveyed her rack of clothes. What to wear? Melbourne’s weather was impossible to predict, an idiosyncrasy in which Melbournians seemed to delight. It had been winter when she moved into the saddlery, and so cold in her new home it felt positively Russian. In September (which had been unseasonably warm, according to the Bureau of Meteorology), she put away her radiator. The next month she brought it out again in what was described as an unusually cool October, and while she was tempted to return it to the cupboard today, a cool change was due later that would send the temperature tumbling. But for now, the sun beat down. Even her shaded place was warming up. She opted for her sea-green sundress and sandals, and hoped the cool change would wait until dark.

  She stepped outside into blazing heat. Having learned the necessity of conserving energy when it was hot, she walked slowly to the tram stop, and after a short wait was on her way. She liked the Melbourne trams, so clean and uncrowded, and she’d never known one to break down. She liked so much about her new country: the relaxed and easygoing people, the availability of anything and everything; she liked the perfumed bleaches and detergents, and the little price tickets on all the goods; and creative little touches like the plastic greenery in the butchery displays. And Australian shopping was bliss. Her all-time favourite shop was the huge Myer Emporium. With six upper levels plus a basement, and occupying almost an entire city block, Myer’s was a paradise of private enterprise. Everything from furniture to frocks was sold there, in a myriad of styles and colours and sizes. She loved the variety found in the West.

  Even the cars here appealed. There were so many brands and in a multitude of shapes and colours, and she loved the fresh, tangy smell of Australian petrol — clearly Soviet vehicles ran on a different fuel. And Australian food. It was so abundant and so easy to buy that once she started cooking for herself, she made sure to allow ample time for shopping. Who would have thought, she wanted to say to her mother, that shopping could be so enjoyable?

  When she first moved into the saddlery she had indulged in takeaway food. How greatly she had indulged. Two or three times a week she ate an Australian hamburger made by a Greek man whose shop was just a ten-minute walk away. The hamburger was enormous, with a thick meat patty, fried onions, a whole egg, cheese, lettuce and pickled beetroot, all sandwiched between the halves of a toasted bread roll, and dripping with tomato sauce. She bought hot, salty potato chips cooked by the same Greek man. (The first time she ordered chips, she asked for ‘the minimum’, expecting eight or ten chips, and was surprised to discover that the minimum was really a meal in itself.) And chicken, she loved the salty oozy Australian chicken cooked on a rotisserie. She could resist most of the cakes — her mother had been an excellent pastry cook — but not the pineapple donuts available from her local milk bar. And as an act of both freedom and defiance, she ate a banana every day: at home, bananas might have been wombats for all she ever saw one. Her favourite dessert was preserved fruit floating in condensed milk.

  Within a month of moving into the saddlery her clothes seemed tighter; after two more weeks there was no denying it. If she didn’t make some changes she’d soon look like a twenty-five-year-old babushka. She cut down on the food, but still she was eating too much and, as Zara pointed out, eating the wrong sort of food. But it was all so delicious, she simply could not resist.

  ‘You need to eat more vegetables,’ Zara said on one of her visits to the saddlery, inspecting the fridge and shelves.

  Galina bought tinned peas and tiny potatoes: there was something so secure and comforting about canned food. She bought more and more cans until her cupboard was full.

  ‘Fresh vegetables,’ Zara said on her next visit.

  This was, as it turned out, Zara’s last visit, and despite numerous invitations, Galina had not been back to her home. She wanted the warmth that Zara and Arnold offered, and she wanted the closeness. But their affection reminded her of her forever-absent mother — a painful reminder that she was alone in a strange place, alone in all the world, and she had to learn to manage on her own.

  Every night at half past six she would watch the news on the multicultural TV station, switching to the government broadcaster at seven. It was an evening ritual just like in Leningrad, when she and her mother and two hundred million other Soviet citizens tuned into Vremya. In her Australian saddlery, seated on her Australian couch, with the news playing on her Australian TV, Galina, having transposed this familiar habit, would experience a contented hour.

  And she read her Russian books. These evoked only the good of her Soviet life. They were her childhood, they were her mother, they were home. Home and language: how very connected they were. Even after a year in Australia, Galina felt like a renter of English, and feared she might always be.

  With other émigrés, it didn’t matter how little she had in common with them, there was a sense of connection just in speaking Russian together. And yet she felt she must ration her time with other émigrés, in the same way she had with Zara and Arnold. As much as she hungered for Russian, she responded to a fierce and uncompromising imperative that she learn to manage alone.

  Nothing was simple, nothing was clear, nothing was easy. She read about Australia’s history and geography, its flora and fauna, the Great Barrier Reef, the Aboriginal people; she even read books about Australian cricket and football. So many books, but what she really needed was a manual on how to be an Australian.

  Exile, it seemed to her, was a juggling act between past and present, remembering and forgetting — and her emigration was a form of exile, given she couldn’t ever return. This loss of place was hard enough, but the way in which exile divided her mind was even worse. She needed her past, but not so much of it that it would sabotage her new life. Was this the condition of exile? To want too much of memory while at the same time trying to control it? When it concerned her mother, she wanted to remember everything, except the last illness. As for the rest, she tried to remember particular people, particular places, particular experiences. Demanding of memory yet restricting it, she was rarely satisfied. And there were the black holes, deliberately created in order to manage her new life, but which, at the same time, stifled crucial aspects of who she was. That more people did not collapse under the burden of exile was remarkable.

  There was one prominent overlap between Australia and the Soviet Union that she found very amusing: the British Queen Elizabeth was as ubiquitous here as Lenin was at home. The queen’s image was on all the
coins, it graced a good many of the stamps, it hung in public buildings, it appeared in churches and schools. Queen Elizabeth here, Lenin at home. The plenitude of Lenin ensured that all Soviet citizens were caught in his aura and the Soviet ideological web. So what might the omnipresent queen reveal about the Australians?

  Thirty minutes later, Galina was settled at her desk at Ralph Merridale Graphics. Neil, who occupied the space next to her, had been at work for hours. His current artwork, his ‘real work’, a triptych inspired by Tasmania’s old-growth forests, was turning into ‘a dog’s dinner’, and he simply couldn’t stare at it for ‘another fucking fruitless innings’. Despite the state of his real work, he seemed quite cheery, humming along to some internal music as he drew.

  The office was at capacity today: four artists, a typist, a receptionist, as well as the boss, Ralph Merridale, who was always there (and again, Galina found herself wondering how real his ‘real work’ actually was). When she started here, Merridale’s was supplying drawings to five real estate agents; that number had now increased to eight.

  ‘We could work here full-time,’ Neil said. ‘Live the Australian dream.’

  There was not a glimpse of a smile, but Galina was sure he was making a joke, so she laughed. When he laughed in return, she knew she had got it right. Australian humour was a baffling business.

  Neil’s job today was removing real trees from the front of houses and replacing them with low, picturesque bushes that would show the houses to advantage. Given he was a painter of the Australian bush, there was humour to be applied here — the laconic, dry type in which Neil was an expert. She was wondering whether she might try it herself when Neil got to his feet.

  ‘I’m going to the stationery cupboard. Do you want anything?’

  She didn’t know what he meant. ‘I have never heard of this cupboard.’