As long as Galina remembers herself, she tried to put everything into words. These words wove themselves into songs in her head that provided a soundtrack to her days. Later, others could see what she did – through her poems. The fog that dissolves all the mundane details and remakes the city into something new, quiet and mysterious. The promise of a new day, when morning sunlight striking the cobblestones rings like a bell, and anything is possible. The suffocating lack of freedom, like a black vacuum of space but without the glory.
She was blacklisted from all official publications, but her poems were passed around in handwritten or typewritten samizdat copies in the most distant corners of the USSR.
Galina finally has her freedom, but at a price: she’s lost the words.
The first days after arrival are a blur. Meetings with old friends. Meetings with local politicians and artists whose campaigning had finally forced the Soviet government to grant her and Leonid permission to leave. Interviews – with interpreters, naturally; they are both famous enough – two acclaimed artists and dissidents, a poet and a violinist – for their arrival to garner attention.
Then comes the shock. The attention dies down, and life settles into a routine of sorts. But words, the waters she’d swum in all her life, don’t sustain her anymore. She hates feeling stupid every time she struggles to conduct the simplest conversation; or when the words around her form a sonic wall that she can’t break through or even peek over. This is even worse than getting lost all the time, or not knowing the most basic things like where to buy buttons.
The small Russian-speaking community receives Galina warmly, and organises several poetry readings. These make her feel like an intelligent, articulate woman again. The last, informal part, when everyone mingles freely over tea and cake, makes her feel like she’d never left her old homeland. Only the cakes are shop-bought rather than homemade: here it’s considered classier; besides, you can actually find quality products in the shops. The audience knows and loves her older work; the latest poems, describing Galina’s first impressions of her new home, get a more mixed reception. Some people come up to exclaim how spot on she is. Others launch into a spirited argument on how she’d got it all wrong. To the latter, she tends to respond with variations of:
‘Look, I’m not offering social or political commentary here. These are my impressions at this moment. I’m sure they’ll change.’
Eventually, the English classes pay off, as does the trick of trying to think in English as much as possible. Galina can manage the day-to-day well enough, and she hardly ever needs a dictionary when doing the shopping. But what is she going to do now? Back in her old life, she could walk down the street, and feel that her poems could reach out to anyone. Some awoke melodies inside the readers, and turned into songs. She hums under her breath:
At sunset, at the edge of the world,
There walked a man without a song…
She wonders how it would sound in English. Then looks at the people passing by and thinks that they are getting away. Galina probably isn’t quite famous enough to interest publishers in translating her new work for publication. Anyway, how would she check the translation’s quality? The Russian-speaking community here is too small. As for her first attempts at writing poems in English… she doesn’t think even her earliest childish scrawls were that godawful; but that could be a trick of the memory.
She needs a job. Leonid had no trouble getting one at a celebrated philharmonic orchestra. As for Galina, even her old fallback jobs – theatre, writing art catalogues – are beyond her for now. Many women in the community start by working as nannies or cleaners, then try to work their way back up. She isn’t crazy about the idea to start with; and listening to an acquaintance rant about having to babysit the children of ‘smug cows who think they are better than women who are a hundred times more intelligent and educated, just because they were born here and have more money’ puts her off once and for all.
Eventually she gets a job at a local cake shop. Some customers get annoyed when they have to repeat orders to her; particularly nasty ones make barbed or patronising comments; however, most are alright. The nice ones either pretend there’s nothing wrong with her English, or helpfully correct her grammar or pronunciation.
At home, all too often she and Leonid have nothing to say to each other. They always used to be equals – she a poet, he a musician. Now he’s a musician, and she’s a shop assistant.
There’s another problem. She’s losing her Russian. Sometimes she tries to think of a word, and feels like she’s facing a dark void when none come: the English word – because she doesn’t know it yet, and the Russian one – because she’s forgotten. This mute feeling scares her more than anything.
One day at the shop, she describes twisty little meringue cookies as ‘sinuous’ to a regular customer. The old woman twinkles in response:
‘Why, you’re a quite a poet, my dear!’
Galina smiles back and thinks, if only you knew.
Some time later, Galina looks around the back room of an old pub where an open mic poetry reading is taking place, and wonders if coming there was a mistake. The room looks both bohemian and cozy, with its ornate wallpaper, curvy couches and armchairs, and plush curtains, all a little faded and worn. She is nervously clutching a few handwritten pages, feeling again like an eight-year-old about to read her first poems to the class. The others’ poems are long, complex, full of allusions and associations – Galina has trouble following at times – and completely lacking in any meter whatsoever, let alone rhyme. The best she’s got is this:
Something is raging ahead
Like a fire, like a fire.
We’re going past it to get
To the water, to the water.
Following pathways unknown
Through the darkness, through the darkness
To find a road that leads
To a single light.
She sees stark images and symbols; but now she wonders if the poem isn’t too primitive. In the end, she reads it, as well as a couple of others, in her accented English. There’s a brief silence when she’s done, as if the listeners aren’t sure how to react, followed by a smattering of polite applause. Afterwards, she’s too shy to stay and chat; but it’s a start.
It’s dark by the time Galina walks home from the bus stop through quiet suburban streets. The streetlights illuminate enough to find her way, but little enough to make familiar streets look strange. The footpath is covered with a lattice of shadows cast by overhanging trees. The shadows dance and snake around, beckoning slyly to follow them down the street and into the unknown. She tries to describe it in her mind, and feels lighter than she had in ages.
Words will come.
Galina finally has her freedom, but at a price: she’s lost the words.
The first days after arrival are a blur. Meetings with old friends. Meetings with local politicians and artists whose campaigning had finally forced the Soviet government to grant her and Leonid permission to leave. Interviews – with interpreters, naturally; they are both famous enough – two acclaimed artists and dissidents, a poet and a violinist – for their arrival to garner attention.
Then comes the shock. The attention dies down, and life settles into a routine of sorts. But words, the waters she’d swum in all her life, don’t sustain her anymore. She hates feeling stupid every time she struggles to conduct the simplest conversation; or when the words around her form a sonic wall that she can’t break through or even peek over. This is even worse than getting lost all the time, or not knowing the most basic things like where to buy buttons.
The small Russian-speaking community receives Galina warmly, and organises several poetry readings. These make her feel like an intelligent, articulate woman again. The last, informal part, when everyone mingles freely over tea and cake, makes her feel like she’d never left her old homeland. Only the cakes are shop-bought rather than homemade: here it’s considered classier; besides, you can actually find quality products in the shops. The audience knows and loves her older work; the latest poems, describing Galina’s first impressions of her new home, get a more mixed reception. Some people come up to exclaim how spot on she is. Others launch into a spirited argument on how she’d got it all wrong. To the latter, she tends to respond with variations of:
‘Look, I’m not offering social or political commentary here. These are my impressions at this moment. I’m sure they’ll change.’
Eventually, the English classes pay off, as does the trick of trying to think in English as much as possible. Galina can manage the day-to-day well enough, and she hardly ever needs a dictionary when doing the shopping. But what is she going to do now? Back in her old life, she could walk down the street, and feel that her poems could reach out to anyone. Some awoke melodies inside the readers, and turned into songs. She hums under her breath:
At sunset, at the edge of the world,
There walked a man without a song…
She wonders how it would sound in English. Then looks at the people passing by and thinks that they are getting away. Galina probably isn’t quite famous enough to interest publishers in translating her new work for publication. Anyway, how would she check the translation’s quality? The Russian-speaking community here is too small. As for her first attempts at writing poems in English… she doesn’t think even her earliest childish scrawls were that godawful; but that could be a trick of the memory.
She needs a job. Leonid had no trouble getting one at a celebrated philharmonic orchestra. As for Galina, even her old fallback jobs – theatre, writing art catalogues – are beyond her for now. Many women in the community start by working as nannies or cleaners, then try to work their way back up. She isn’t crazy about the idea to start with; and listening to an acquaintance rant about having to babysit the children of ‘smug cows who think they are better than women who are a hundred times more intelligent and educated, just because they were born here and have more money’ puts her off once and for all.
Eventually she gets a job at a local cake shop. Some customers get annoyed when they have to repeat orders to her; particularly nasty ones make barbed or patronising comments; however, most are alright. The nice ones either pretend there’s nothing wrong with her English, or helpfully correct her grammar or pronunciation.
At home, all too often she and Leonid have nothing to say to each other. They always used to be equals – she a poet, he a musician. Now he’s a musician, and she’s a shop assistant.
There’s another problem. She’s losing her Russian. Sometimes she tries to think of a word, and feels like she’s facing a dark void when none come: the English word – because she doesn’t know it yet, and the Russian one – because she’s forgotten. This mute feeling scares her more than anything.
One day at the shop, she describes twisty little meringue cookies as ‘sinuous’ to a regular customer. The old woman twinkles in response:
‘Why, you’re a quite a poet, my dear!’
Galina smiles back and thinks, if only you knew.
Some time later, Galina looks around the back room of an old pub where an open mic poetry reading is taking place, and wonders if coming there was a mistake. The room looks both bohemian and cozy, with its ornate wallpaper, curvy couches and armchairs, and plush curtains, all a little faded and worn. She is nervously clutching a few handwritten pages, feeling again like an eight-year-old about to read her first poems to the class. The others’ poems are long, complex, full of allusions and associations – Galina has trouble following at times – and completely lacking in any meter whatsoever, let alone rhyme. The best she’s got is this:
Something is raging ahead
Like a fire, like a fire.
We’re going past it to get
To the water, to the water.
Following pathways unknown
Through the darkness, through the darkness
To find a road that leads
To a single light.
She sees stark images and symbols; but now she wonders if the poem isn’t too primitive. In the end, she reads it, as well as a couple of others, in her accented English. There’s a brief silence when she’s done, as if the listeners aren’t sure how to react, followed by a smattering of polite applause. Afterwards, she’s too shy to stay and chat; but it’s a start.
It’s dark by the time Galina walks home from the bus stop through quiet suburban streets. The streetlights illuminate enough to find her way, but little enough to make familiar streets look strange. The footpath is covered with a lattice of shadows cast by overhanging trees. The shadows dance and snake around, beckoning slyly to follow them down the street and into the unknown. She tries to describe it in her mind, and feels lighter than she had in ages.
Words will come.
Victoria Chvatal was born in the USSR; emigrated to Australia as a teenager; and emigrated to Israel while in her 40s. She currently lives in Jerusalem with her family.
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