She is grateful for the wisdom of maturity, but it seems to be making a mockery of some of her earlier choices. The fact is, you can be immersed in a type of life, as she has been, and so captive to it that you don’t realise its limitations, how confining it is. Even worse than not questioning, you don’t even see the need to question. The years pass, and it’s not that you have regrets, it’s not even that you can say how things should have been different. Rather, it’s like that old song of Peggy Lee’s: Is that all there is?

9 OLD SOVIET, NEW AUSTRALIAN

9

OLD SOVIET, NEW AUSTRALIAN

Galina is at Finland Station. In her pocket is a ticket for a train travelling to the West. She is carrying two huge suitcases, one in each hand, and on her back is a bulky hessian bundle that rises high above her head. The weight of the luggage is enormous, and she wonders how she will make it to the train. The station hall is packed, the crush and smell are overwhelming. She pushes through the crowd, it is so hard to breathe; everyone is concerned with their own business, no one offers to help. Up ahead she sees the doors to the platform, they’re open, and she feels a blast of fresh air. The people behind press her forward. She draws closer and closer, squeezes through the doorway, and finally emerges on the platform. The cold hits her; inside her clothes the sweat freezes on her skin.

In front of her is a long train. Passengers are walking down the platform; once they find their carriage, they disappear from view. There is no shelter and no one is loitering. Overhead the clouds are thick and low, the wind cuts her face. The platform is black with ice and filth; she’s not wearing her winter boots, so must walk with particular care. The train has many carriages, each displaying a number, and she is glad to see hers is one of the closer ones. She hefts her bags to the carriage door; there’s an impossibly high step to mount, and her spirits plummet. Suddenly a man materialises and lifts her bags onto the train; he stashes them in the space provided for luggage, then leaves before she can thank him. She sinks into her allocated seat, relief filling her like warm milk. Nothing can stop her now. Other passengers enter the carriage; no one acknowledges her, no one so much as glances at her. She checks the time: only ten minutes before the scheduled departure. A woman seated behind her says, ‘Soviet trains always run on time.’

A man in uniform appears and asks to see her ticket. ‘You’re in the wrong carriage.’ He nods in the direction of the front of the train. ‘You should be up there. Carriage three.’