It Can't Always Be Caviar

By Martina Kist

They say life is a journey ... in this case, they weren't kidding

Born in the land of tulips, Martina Kist traveled the world with her family. From the age of three, she became "that girl that moves a lot".

In this memoir of a true Third Culture Kid, she shares key moments in her search for identity against the backdrop of world events, like the moon landing, the first oil crisis, the fall of the Iron Curtain, the cold war, the Beirut bombings, and economic turmoil in Latin America.

The pages dance with a veritable kaleidoscope of languages, cultures, sounds, flavors and smells, from the Netherlands to Poland, USA, Switzerland, Mexico, France, and Argentina.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pollok Glen Publishing
• Release date: Jul 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739430825

Book preview

The bridge and the bicycle

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Holland 1963-1966

On a late February day, my children were preparing their school supplies in the lead up to a new school year in Argentina. They had divided the dining table in two. My son’s things were on one side, while my daughter’s were on the other, ready for their customary trading of items. I then noticed that each sector had a chunky calculator, one of those so-called scientific calculators with more buttons and functions than most people — myself included — could ever need in a lifetime. Suddenly, I remembered the Graphoplex slide rule that had accompanied me throughout high school and although I knew that it was this sort of attitude that made me an old bore, I couldn’t resist showing it to my children. But where exactly was that obsolete thing? Had it survived my numerous moves around the world?

I soon recalled that I would find it in the box that my grandmother Renée had given me when I turned thirteen. "It’s a bijzonderedingendoos," my Oma had explained that day —clearly pleased with the name that she had invented for it, that in our language, which joins words together to create new ones, meant something along the lines of box-for-extraordinary-things — and you can use it to keep important items, those you would like to take with you to your next destination.

I rushed to search for it at the top of a wardrobe where I had placed it six years earlier upon arriving in Buenos Aires, behind the winter hats and gloves that I did not expect to use much in this city. Yes, there was my box with its large seventies-style flower print and its lid held together with adhesive tape. I took it down from where it had lain untouched since my last move and placed it on a chair. When I opened it, I found the Graphoplex slide rule lying at the top in its brown leather sheath. That cover, designed to preserve it from deterioration, had clearly not managed to preserve it from progress. How frustrated I had been at the emergence of its electronic equivalent, a device strewn with keys, that had come to eradicate not only the slide rule itself but also the pride I had felt at being able to skillfully operate such a marvelous invention!

I removed it from its cover and went to show it to my children, explaining that we did not have calculators at school back then, and performed all our calculations on such an instrument. Since I did not manage to impress them, I returned the slide rule to its leather jacket and then to the box with the rest of my extraordinary things. I was overcome by a feeling of satisfaction from this mission accomplished — I had taught those two teenagers something about the prehistoric world — yet also by a touch of melancholy at the passing of time, heightened by my reunion with that box.

I placed it back on the shelf without looking further into it. Why should I? I already knew what it contained beside the slide rule. Dozens of letters from friends, as well as a few love letters, bearing stamps from Holland, France, Mexico or the USA; notices of the deaths of my grandparents; announcements of the births of my children, together with a few of their first pairs of shoes; various keys that had once safely been put away but for which I would probably be unable to tell you today what door or padlock they belonged to.

Why had I dragged the box from country to country for decades if I hardly ever opened it? Maybe precisely for moments like these, for times when I wished to see or to share something of my journey, to relive things. This flowery box was truly a part of me, so yes, it had to stay close to me, albeit at the back of a closet. Getting rid of it would have been like throwing my entire life into the trash, not only because of the memories directly related to those papers and other keepsakes accumulated since my teenage years, but also because of all the flashbacks it stirred up. The walls of that cardboard box seemed to somehow tie together my geographically scattered existence, that life of mine that had begun in Rotterdam.

While the children continued with their preparations, I started thinking about what my earliest memory was and it wasn’t long before an image appeared before me: Mum and I looking through the window of the apartment where I had been brought into the world by home birth, like most Dutch children in the sixties.

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She is pointing to the Van Brienenoord bridge which — I now know — had been built not long before. At the time, it was the largest bridge in the country and my parents must have been particularly pleased with having a privileged view of that masterpiece of modern engineering. It remains a majestic bridge to this day, and still impresses me on the rare occasions when I return to my birthplace.

The image of that immense structure contrasts with a much simpler one: the little seat that carries me, perched on the handlebars of Mum’s bicycle. I like feeling the wind in my face, the only part of me which is uncovered; the rest is completely wrapped up for winter. It’s not raining so Mum is not peddling too fast, and I recognize the greengrocer in front of his store. He always gives me a tangerine when we buy something from him. But we’re not going shopping now, instead we’re heading to the nanny’s house. It’s a large house with a black cat called Zwartje (little black one) who sleeps all day on the windowsill that looks out onto the garden. As soon as Mum leaves, the lady will help me put my yellow clogs on so that I can play outside since I am already wrapped up warm. My little clogs make me walk funny because they are very hard and make a lot of noise. So much the better, she says, as it helps her hear where I am.

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Were those scenes exactly as I remember them, or have my memories evolved or been enriched by old photographs of those moments, by stories or anecdotes of relatives? Another experience from my brief period in Rotterdam, for example, comes to me more vividly than the others because it became famous in my family and was intensified and transformed with every retelling. It begins with a question. Is he a child or a grown-up? I enquire while pointing at the little person who has just entered the elevator and is standing on tiptoes to press the button. That’s Mr. Dekker, Mum answers, but I sense by her voice that I have done something wrong. When we walk out of the elevator, she adds, Mr. Dekker is a Lilliputian, someone who doesn’t grow like everyone else. But you mustn’t point at people.

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Throughout my childhood, my parents complained about the many questions I asked — which were frequent and inappropriate at times — but they always made an effort to answer them. They would explain everything to me in detail using precise and elaborate language. This was part of their idea of education. They almost never answered something like you’re too young to understand. I suppose they thought it was wonderful that their little girl should learn and express clear ideas about how the world worked. As soon as I could talk, I started repeating their words and phrases to make an impression on people; for example, whenever a grown-up would ask me my age, I would answer as my father sometimes jokingly would, Two years old already; time flies!

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At one stage in my professional career, I had to learn quite a lot about human memory. All the research I read about agreed that our first childhood memories are shaped between the ages of two and four — which apparently makes me a typical case — and showed that our emotions play a key part in generating them. Certain events, such as the birth of siblings or moving house, can leave a mark very early on. My childhood therefore continued to be a textbook example: I had experienced both of those events simultaneously, starting with the birth of my little brother, two weeks before my third birthday.

He was born at home, in the early hours of the morning. I am told that I woke up —no doubt due to the goings on that were unusual for that time of day — and that Dad asked me to stay quietly in my crib because the doctor was looking after Mum in the room next door. He must have asked this in his serious business voice because —as the story goes — I managed to remain still for hours, without making a sound. I can just picture the scene: Dad, dressed in a suit and tie at five in the morning — under no circumstances would he receive a visit from the doctor in pajamas — negotiating with a toddler so that his new child could be born in peace.

Peace, however, was not very present in my life. At around the same time, on top of welcoming a new brother, I was told that we were going to move to Poland very soon. Based on how my parents tend to describe what I was like as a child, the conversation must have gone something like this:

–What is Poland?

–A country which is quite far away but not too far. It’s in the Eastern Bloc, behind the Iron Curtain.

–Why is there a curtain and why is it made of iron?

–It was put up to separate some countries from others. Countries don’t always get along, and some are enemies to each other.

–What’s an enemy?

–Someone who means you harm.

–Ah… And are we going to take my new baby brother to Poland?

Behind the curtain

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Poland 1966-1968

We traveled to Poland in our bottle-green Austin Minivan, filled to the brim. The whole back seat was taken up by myself and my brother’s bassinet — child car seats were not yet in use — and all our luggage was in the back.

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This journey is so long! We’ve already spent a night on the road and we’re not there yet! In the end they did bring my baby brother. It’s annoying that he cries so much. At last Dad stops the car and gets out to deal with paperwork in a little hut which in fact, as Mum explains, is not a hut but a customs office. It is surrounded by a wire fence with spikes that I know is called barbed wire and that you mustn’t touch or else you’ll get hurt. Dad is taking a long time in there. I want to get out of the car to fetch him but Mum doesn’t let me; I think she’s afraid of the soldiers who are looking at us, standing near the hut. Instead, I continue playing with the baby doll that my brother gave me when he was born. It’s the only toy they let me bring, all the others went off in the moving van. When Dad comes back, he starts the car and says that now we really are behind the Iron Curtain. So it’s not really made of iron, it’s just barbed wire!

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We arrived in Warsaw in April 1966. At the height of the Cold War. Westerners tended to stick together there, so my parents rented a temporary apartment in the British Club while our furniture was on its way.

The neighbors’ kids didn’t speak like us, and I couldn’t play with them because I didn’t understand a word they were saying. Mum told me their names were Peter, John and Julie, that they spoke a language called English and that I was going to learn it really fast. My little brother couldn’t talk yet so he didn’t have to learn it, he was lucky. Our mums began to spend time together and, during that first summer in Poland, we would go to the Club’s playground with them and play at their house which was larger than ours. Inside, the kids and I