End of the Night Girl Amy T Matthews Thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Creative Writing Discipline of English School of Humanities University of Adelaide April 2007 Contents 1. Abstract 3 2. Statement of Originality 5 3. Acknowledgements 6 4. Dedication 8 End of the Night Girl: 5. the taste of pink 10 6. strangers when we meet 61 7. secondhand kisses 113 8. the taste of amber 150 9. ghosts 186 10. end of the night, girl 230 11. Author’s Note 275 12. Bibliography for End of the Night Girl and ‘Navigating the Kingdom of Night’ 276 2 Abstract End of the Night Girl and ‘Navigating the Kingdom of Night’: End of the Night Girl Nothing seems to go right for Molly – she’s stuck in a dead-end waitressing job, she’s sleeping with a man she doesn’t even like, and she’s just been saddled with a swarm of goldfish and a pregnant stepsister. The chance discovery of an old photograph leads her into an act of creation, and brings her into contact with the ghost of a woman who has been dead for more than sixty years. Sixty years earlier, in Poland, Gienia’s family arranges her marriage to a distant cousin. Not long after her marriage to this stranger, the Nazis invade and she has to face life in the ghetto and the horrors of Auschwitz. End of the Night Girl is a complex fictional narrative in which the lives of these two women, ‘real’ and imagined, imagined and re-imagined, are inextricably combined. ‘Navigating the Kingdom of Night’ Critics, historians and Holocaust survivors have argued for decades over whether the Holocaust should be accessible to fiction and, if so, who has the right to write those fictions. ‘Navigating the Kingdom of Night’ addresses such concerns and analyses various literary strategies adopted by authors of Holocaust fiction, including the non- realist narrative techniques used by authors such as Yaffa Eliach, Jonathan Safran Foer and John Boyne and the self-reflexivity of Art Spiegelman. 3 Through the course of the essay I contextualise End of the Night Girl by turning my attention to works that raise critical issues of authorial intent and the reader/writer contract; for example Jerzy Kosinski’s The Painted Bird and Helen Darville’s The Hand That Signed the Paper. How did I resolve my own concerns? Which texts helped me and why? Together End of the Night Girl and ‘Navigating the Kingdom of Night’, one creatively and one critically, explore these complex and controversial questions in a contemporary Australian context. 4 Statement of Originality This work contains no material which has been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma in any university or other tertiary institution and, to the best of my knowledge or belief, contains no material previously published or written by another person, except where due reference has been made in the text. I give consent to this copy of my thesis, when deposited in the University Library, being made available for loan and photocopying, subject to the provisions of the Copyright Act 1968. In the case of End of the Night Girl there will be a one year embargo. Amy T Matthews April 2007 5 Acknowledgements Thanks to everyone who read the many drafts and offered advice and support: Henry Ashley-Brown, Chelsea Avard, Kathryn Doube, Rachel Hennessy, Stephanie Hester, Ben Marton, Barry, Susan and Gerald Matthews, Helen Mitchell and Stephanie Thomson. Thank you to all of my supervisors, initially Thomas Shapcott, a kind and generous man; the ever supportive Susan Hosking, gracious and inspiring, who once told me that it is possible to research, write and teach even when raising small children; and especially Nicholas Jose. I don’t have enough words to thank Nick, who has taught me so much about redrafting and editing and who was always honest, supportive and able to drag the best out of me, even when I didn’t think it was there. Thanks also to Judith Lukin-Admunsen, my mentor, who offered criticism so accurate it hurt and advice so inspiring I was able to redraft the novel yet again. Thank you to Chef Tony Carroll (who never once called me the C-word!) for letting me steal from his menus. And, finally, thank you to the people who make it all worthwhile – the ones who offer me every possible kind of support: encouraging me to write, babysitting so I can write and being more than happy to help – my husband, Ben Marton, the smartest guy I know, and my parents Barry and Susan Matthews, the best people I know. And to 6 Kirby, for helping me keep some perspective – redrafting is nothing compared to sleeplessness, vomit and nappies and the pleasure of PhDs and publication are nothing compared with the pleasure of being with you. 7 For my parents, who have always believed in me 8 End of the Night Girl 9 the taste of pink 10 ◦ ○ ◦ I hate weddings. Especially this one. The groom and his mates are three-deep at the bar, knocking back shots and bottles of beer; the bride is disappearing into the bathroom with a gaggle of bridesmaids and a bag of magic white powder, and the DJ is crap. I shuffle back and forth between the floor and the kitchen, removing dessert plates and returning with bitter filter coffee. The only thing that keeps me going is the fact that it’s almost over. That and the twenty-three dollars an hour. The kitchen’s closed up, the last of the sludgy chocolate wedding cake packed away in the cold room, to be picked up in the morning. The chefs have retired to the staff room with a couple of six packs of Pale Ale. In half an hour or so they’ll trail down, sign their timesheets and hike into town, where they’ll run into each other again at the Exeter or the Austral, or later at whatever club will let them in. Chef’s giving the dish pigs their final orders, after which he’ll take a beer into the office, write up next week’s roster, phone in orders, pack up and head home to the wife and kids. At the moment he’s towering over the dishies, rubbing his temples tiredly, not sure whether to laugh at Ping Pong, or belt him. Colin keeps his head down, mop sloshing back and forth. ‘Look at this,’ Chef grabs a spoon from the clean rack on top of the dishwasher, ‘what do you see?’ I can see Ping Pong’s narrow face from where I stand scraping half-eaten wedding cake into the bin. His face is rigid, frozen like a rabbit’s. He’s trying to search for the right words, for the right language to say them in. ‘Answer me.’ Chef raps Ping Pong on the forehead with the spoon. ‘Spoon?’ Ping Pong says tentatively. ‘For cake?’ ‘Spoon?’ Chef’s hand drops to his side, the spoon dangling limply from his fingers. 11 He looks exhausted. ‘Fucking spoon,’ he says, looking over at me. I force a smile. ‘What colour should spoon be?’ Chef speaks slowly, as though talking to a small child. Poor old Ping Pong’s face scrunches in consternation. ‘I’ll give you a hint you numb cunt: it shouldn’t be brown.’ He shoves the spoon at Ping Pong. ‘Wash the rack again.’ I drop my plates into the sink with a splash. ‘Oi!’ Chef calls after me. I think he’s going to yell at me ‘cause I splashed dishwater on his shoes, but he just wants a beer. ‘None of that local shit. Get me a Stella.’ ‘Yes, Chef.’ The bar is an oasis at the back of the restaurant. Outside its bright halogen boundaries, the dining room pulses with pink and blue light from the DJ’s corner. The floor and walls throb with the music. I push past Kevin and open the beer fridge. He wanders over to where I’m squatting. I can see the flicker of his white tea towel out of the corner of my eye. Bloody Kevin. ‘What are you doing?’ The question irritates me. The tone of voice he asks it in irritates me. The razor sharp crease in his beige trousers irritates me. ‘I’m getting Chef a beer.’ His thin lips tighten. ‘They already took some Pale Ale.’ ‘He doesn’t drink Pale Ale.’ We have the same exchange every Saturday night. Next he’ll say, Don’t forget to write it up on the sheet. And at 11.25 on the dot he’ll say, I’m heading off at 11.30. I have to be back first thing . and he’ll trail off, studiously ignoring the fact that I’m due back first thing in the morning too. 12 ‘Don’t forget to write it up on the sheet.’ ‘Are we out of Stella?’ I stare at the frosted rows of green and brown bottles. There are two empty rows, like missing teeth. ‘Needs to be restocked, can you remember to do that?’ ‘Wasn’t Neil meant to do it after lunch?’ He gives me a long-suffering stare, which is supposed to end the discussion. Fucking Neil. Fucking Kevin. Fucking cunts. I grab Chef a Crown and kick the fridge door closed. I can’t be bothered going out to the wine store. ‘I said Stella,’ Chef snaps when I slap the Crown down next to him. ‘We’re out,’ I lie.