by Nikki Stern
Dory greeted us enthusiastically. Tears welled in her eyes as she hugged me. I was overwhelmed by a sense of guilt as I realised how alone she’d been.
‘So, this is Paul,’ I said, stating the obvious.
‘I’ve wanted to meet you for so long,’ he enthused. ‘Nikki’s told me so much about you . . . Would you rather we spoke German?’
‘English is fine,’ said Dory, putting a sizeable slice of Gugelhupf—marble cake—in front of him. Although she spoke grammatically faultless English, I had long ceased to notice the Viennese cadences of her speech that were so evident to others.
I wanted to know how she’d been managing on her own. She told me she’d been keeping busy doing several classes—including ‘Be Your Own Art Critic’ and ‘International Politics’—and she still had her subscriptions to the opera, the ballet, the theatre and the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra; plus, she was still working two days a week as a pianist at several posh private schools, playing for their creative dance lessons.
‘I think it’s great that you’re doing so much,’ said Paul.
‘Not bad for seventy-two years old,’ I said affectionately.
If the war hadn’t happened, Dory would have been a concert pianist. I told Paul proudly that Dory was the youngest to graduate from the Vienna Conservatorium of Music; he seemed impressed.
Forever modest, Dory never sung her own praises, so I told Paul of her extraordinary life touring the world as a cultural celebrity. She had been the musical director of the Bodenwieser Ballet—till I came along. Gertrud Bodenwieser was another Viennese Holocaust survivor who had managed to flee to Australia and re-establish her troupe. Her dance company had become famous in Europe in the 1920s and ’30s, although Dory only joined them in Sydney in the early ’40s. They were hugely influential in the modern expressive dance movement and Dory was at the centre of it all.
‘That’s why she knows so many fascinating people,’ I said. I wanted Paul to appreciate the calibre of this woman and the milieu in which I was raised.
Dory took over. ‘Since Egon died, my life is pretty empty,’ she said, ‘but I’ve been seeing a lot of my friends.’ She told me she had a new friend who was my age: a French exchange student, Francine, who was delightful—they would often have afternoon tea together and talk about art or theatre.
I was thrilled that she had some young company. Dory had many younger acquaintances and all my friends thought she was ‘pretty cool’.
‘Come on,’ I said to Paul. ‘I’ll give you a tour of the house.’
So I started with the musical stuff: her piano—not as good as the two grands she had had in Vienna—but still acceptable. ‘That’s Beethoven’s death mask,’ I said, pointing above the piano. I’d always thought it a bit macabre; but next to it was a drawing of him alive. He and Mozart were Dory’s favourite composers; mine too, although I really liked Vivaldi and Bach.
I mentioned that the only other death mask I’d ever seen was Ned Kelly’s. I felt it my duty to educate Paul in key aspects of Australian history. ‘He’s our national hero—a bushranger who was hanged. Kind of a Robin Hood character,’ I explained.
Then I showed him the balalaika from Dory’s cousin, Isi, in Moscow. ‘He was her only living relative after the Holocaust.’
‘Really? She has no family?’ asked Paul.
‘No, and they both assumed each other dead.’ I recounted how, twenty years after the war finished, Dory got a letter from the Red Cross saying Isi was alive—she was ecstatic. He was living in Moscow and working for Pravda. Apparently he’d been in a Polish labour camp, but he had escaped from the Nazis and managed to survive in the forest. He’d made it to the Soviet border; the Gestapo opened fire but Isi was lucky enough to get across the frontier, where he was taken in by Soviet guards.
They corresponded for years, but all his letters were censored; we could see they’d been opened. My parents booked a trip to Moscow to see him, but tragically Egon got sick and Isi died before this could happen. Dory and her cousin never saw each other again.
I showed Paul the artwork Dory had collected: most of the pottery and glassware were mine.
‘Wow—this stuff is great,’ said Paul. He hadn’t realised how much ceramics I’d done; but I explained that I’d studied it for two years—it was part of my design degree.
And I showed him Dory’s mask collection. Her favourite was an imposing mask carved by a native Papuan man, Brere Awol. He’d come straight from remote ‘cannibal country’ when he visited us, later becoming a member of New Guinea’s parliament. Dory had wanted to make it a gift to her famous Viennese pianist friend, Alfred Brendel, who was the number-one recording artist in the world of classical music. He too collected masks but, when this one arrived, it turned out it didn’t fit in with his existing collection, so we kept it.
The pièce de résistance in Dory’s art collection was a portrait of me. She always said that, if her house was on fire, it was the first thing she’d grab. I told Paul that it was drawn by an artist called Louis Kahan. Aside from Dory and Egon, he and his family were the closest people I had to relatives as a child. He had done Bob Hawke’s portrait too and I once saw him draw Gough Whitlam off the TV, capturing an uncanny likeness. Growing up, I would visit his daughters regularly. Often we’d draw together and Louis would sketch us.
He became very well known in the Jewish community. Years later, I was visiting a boyfriend whose father had bought one of Louis’s drawings—and there I was, in pen and ink. It happened a few times that I’d go into people’s houses and see pictures of myself.
‘It’s because you’re so beautiful,’ said Paul. ‘The portrait is lovely.’
He thought I had a fascinating background and Dory’s house was amazing. ‘Kind of what I imagine a Viennese Salon would have been like,’ he said. ‘But, I’ve had enough culture for one day.’
Paul was impatient to see everything that Melbourne had to offer and so I showed him the sights: the city, the beach; we went rowing on the Yarra, and took in Lygon Street. I took him to my favourite haunt: the National Gallery of Victoria, with its moat that I’d swum in one hot summer’s day; and I proudly showed him my name on the official donors’ plaque, explaining how, when I was just five, Dory had generously put her bequest in my name—a gift that would stay there in perpetuity.
We did day trips, having our own picnic at Hanging Rock and visiting Healesville Sanctuary to see the native animals. Paul loved the kangaroos, but I was disturbed when he tried to feed them some beer. I noticed he was drinking rather a lot, but it was hot and he didn’t have any marijuana.
I showed him my old school, Methodist Ladies’ College. ‘One of the finest schools in Australia,’ I pronounced. ‘It’s Aussie Ivy League.’ MLC was a wonderful school—I owed it so much—and I told Paul that if we ever had a daughter, I wanted to send her there. Dory had worked there too, playing piano for creative dancing for thirty years.
Dory quizzed Paul repeatedly on his plans for the future. ‘Nikki told me she’s got a job teaching stained glass, but what are you going to do?’
‘Set up a studio.’
‘But shouldn’t you get some art training? Nikki said you’re a talented cartoonist.’
Paul placated her by saying he was getting together a portfolio so he could approach some newspapers; but Dory felt he should be studying—she’d always placed great emphasis on qualifications.
The Kahans wanted to meet Paul and I told him he’d get to see Louis’s portrait of Patrick White. It had won the Archibald Prize the year after he did my portrait and Dory had visited the Nobel Prize–winning author with a bottle of wine—a gift from Louis. After a delightful dinner there, Louis gave Paul a list of contacts in the Melbourne art scene.
Dory became agitated by Paul’s mess and his seeming lack of progress in producing a folio. He claimed he was waiting for some drawings to arrive from Holland. She was also annoyed that he’d raided her liquor cabinet without permission. I said we’d move out as s
oon as practicable, but in the meantime we had nowhere to go.
Things became tense and Paul thought her unreasonable. He insisted we buy a small tent and sleep in the front garden. Dory was furious and we argued further. Finally, we moved into a share household in Carlton vacated by Dory’s friend Francine. It was a relief to have a double bed and relative privacy.
Not long after we moved, Paul came home with some nudist magazines. ‘How about we join a nudist club?’
I wasn’t so sure. ‘I’m not really an exhibitionist.’
Paul assured me it would be fun and we’d meet interesting people. Almost as suddenly as he’d adopted the notion he dropped it, saying he didn’t want to go after all: ‘My dick’s too small—people are gonna stare.’
‘Jeez, you’re neurotic. Firstly, it’s not small, and secondly, people will probably stare anyway.’
‘You’re just saying that. I know I’m only average, but I bet you wouldn’t mind a couple of extra inches.’
‘You’re nuts. I’m really quite satisfied,’ I said. ‘Too big and it hurts.’ I could tell that Paul thought I was just pandering to his ego.
I took Paul to visit my old friends, but I sensed that mostly they didn’t take to him. This distressed me because I always placed great importance on friendships. One dear friend, Stephen, was visibly disturbed. He was a veritable bundle of talent, dabbling in art, literature and film-making; recently a play he’d written had been reviewed in The Canberra Times. He’d also made a short film about a modern-day Ned Kelly, recreating the famous Nolan paintings, which he jokingly said were better than the originals. He once claimed Mad Max was plagiarised from a script he’d submitted for a grant. His creativity was boundless and it saddened me that, with Paul’s arrival, our friendship seemed to be over.
Paul was keen to see more of Australia and often talked of travelling to Sydney. I suggested that we should go to Adelaide for the arts festival. I knew we could stay with an old boyfriend and I could catch up with some glass-blowing friends. So I showed him Adelaide and at the same time we soaked up the festivities.
One afternoon there was a poetry reading scheduled for Glenelg Beach. We waited with the crowds by the pier, but it was a no-show.
‘Bloody poets,’ said Paul, alluding to Richard Brautigan. So he suggested we lie on the sand and I could rub coconut oil over him.
The combination of heat, sea air and oil soon made him horny. ‘Why don’t we make love?’ he suggested.
‘You’re nuts—it’s four in the afternoon and the beach is jam-packed with people.’
‘No-one will notice. I’ll just lie on my back and you can straddle me. Lucky you’ve got a dress on. Just slide your knickers to one side and I’ll slide my cock into you.’
I protested that we had no contraception; but he told me not to worry, because it was the wrong time of the month. ‘And worst-case scenario? You get pregnant—it’ll be a child born out of love.’
I pondered this last statement and relented. ‘Okay, but make it quick. I don’t want people to notice.’
Back in Melbourne life continued, with me teaching stained glass and working on some photographic collages; Paul was fine-tuning his folio. Dory invited us for dinner and began questioning Paul again about his progress regarding employment. She urged him to take his drawings to the contacts Louis had given him: ‘It’s obvious from only one cartoon that you can draw.’
But Paul was stalling, telling her he wasn’t political enough for a newspaper . . . and besides, he didn’t have a work permit yet. ‘Anyway, I’m working on a board game.’
‘But I thought you wanted a career as a cartoonist?’
‘I do, but I’ve got this great idea for a board game,’ he said excitedly. ‘It’s called Dole and it’s kind of like Monopoly.’ He explained how, with each circuit of the board, you got a dole cheque. At the same time you navigated a series of catastrophes dictated by cards. The first one to go out backwards won. He’d already trademarked the name Dole, written in runes to mimic the federal Department of Social Security’s logo.
Dory wasn’t impressed. She told him tersely that this was something to do in his spare time, not when he should be studying or working.
The argument escalated. ‘Listen,’ said Paul, ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d stop nagging me about studying. I don’t need an interfering mother-in-law. Come on, Nikki—let’s go.’
I was caught in the middle, but felt I needed to support Paul; so we left. At home that night, Paul started a series of drawings of a witch with a remarkable likeness to Dory. Images of broomsticks and cauldrons completed the analogy. There was no denying he was a masterful artist, and he was obviously inspired. ‘This is gonna be my Jewish mother-in-law series.’
I told Paul he was being unfair: Dory suffered from depression and had had shock treatment years ago, but she meant well. ‘Besides, she had a point,’ I said. ‘And by the way, I’ve missed my period—I think I might be pregnant.’
Paul came home from the pub one day, telling me he’d just met a Dutch guy called Dirk, who lived in a share household; he was going to get Paul some dope. I was enjoying life without drugs: Amsterdam now seemed so long ago and far away. Apparently Dirk also knew of a job with a gay magazine.
‘Well, that’s great, because I was at the doctor’s today and I’m pregnant.’
My emotions were mixed. On the one hand, I longed to allow myself the jubilation that would normally accompany such news. My adoption had cut me off from family and I’d begun to think I’d never see anyone related to me. I was curious: What would my baby look like? What colour eyes and hair would it have? Yet, on the other hand, I felt apprehensive: How could we care for a child? We were just like children ourselves.
Despite my ambivalence, Paul’s reaction—not unexpectedly— was one of undiluted jubilation. But my practical side overrode my emotions.
‘I can’t see how we can have this child—I’ll have to have an abortion,’ I announced.
‘No . . . it’ll be fine. I’ve got a good chance of work and I can’t believe you’d want to abort our child.’
But I was dubious that we could support ourselves. Paul was only twenty—he was way too young to be a father. He protested that his mother was only nineteen when she had him, and she managed.
‘Yeah, and look how that turned out,’ I said, reminding him that he was brought up by Omoe, who had a huge family to support her. I told him that I had a pre-abortion appointment with my gynaecologist.
But Paul wanted to celebrate and insisted on calling Dory to invite her out. So I arranged dinner in Lygon Street. I was feeling apprehensive.
‘We have some wonderful news for you,’ he announced, uncorking the bottle of champagne he’d bought. ‘You’re going to be a grandmother.’
Dory was in shock. ‘Nikki-le, how far along are you? Because, if you possibly can, have an abortion.’ She turned to Paul, angrily telling him to put the champagne away.
‘About two months,’ I replied.
‘Well, then, it’s not too late.’
‘No,’ said Paul. ‘I don’t want her to have an abortion. I’ll work two jobs—even three—to support this baby.’
When Dory pointed out that he wasn’t actually qualified for anything, he was emphatic: he would do whatever it took—factory work, stacking shelves in supermarkets . . . anything at all. ‘I want this baby,’ he kept repeating.
The atmosphere was sombre and tense.
Driving home, Paul’s assessment was that Dory was just bitter because of her own infertility. ‘Secretly she hates you.’ He scowled.
I told him he was being ridiculous: she was just a practical woman who thought the timing was bad and Paul was too young.
‘And I don’t like the way she keeps talking about Francine,’ he continued. ‘What is she—some kind of surrogate daughter?’
‘No, they’re just friends. I’d like to meet her.’
So we arranged a dinner with Francine and I found her to be everything Dor
y described: charming and cultured.
Later, Paul told me repeatedly how he didn’t trust her. ‘She’s after your mother’s money.’
‘You’re paranoid—they just go to galleries together.’ I thought it was wonderful that Dory had young friends, but Paul remained unconvinced.
The visit to my gynae resulted in a date for an abortion. On the evening before, Paul pestered me relentlessly.
‘You know how much I love you . . . and how much I want this child.’ He begged me not to abort, saying how he’d work night and day to support me.
‘I love you too, and I want this child more than anything, but I just don’t know how we’ll manage.’
‘Trust me. Things’ll be fine.’
It wasn’t the first time Paul had used this phrase, but I wanted to believe him, so I cancelled my appointment.
I was deeply committed to Paul, but the enormity of my decision weighed heavily on my mind. Despite his youth, we would have to make it work. I knew a child would give me the sense of family—of blood ties—that I craved; perhaps Paul needed that too. He was often so tender and I had no doubt he would be a loving father.
The following day brought good news. He’d got a job as a graphic designer at a gay publication called Now in Melbourne.
I was ecstatic. ‘What did they think of your folio?’
‘They didn’t ask to see it. They hired me on the spot.’
I was worried that obviously they fancied him and things would go belly up when they realised he was married. He assured me they didn’t have to find out, and in fact they’d lined up another job in a gay pub. I was relieved that Paul had finally found gainful employment, although it all seemed rather tenuous.
‘Listen, Dirk’s having a fancy-dress party and I thought I could dress as a girl again . . . Maybe we could get me some high-heeled sandals.’
‘Mmm . . . I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’re skint—we can’t afford to spend money on frivolous shit. We’ve got a baby coming, remember?’
