Review: "Soviet Ghosts, European Dreams and a Bag of Onions: Moldova" by Lady Anna

Soviet Ghosts, European Dreams and a Bag of Onions: Moldova by Lady Anna
Published February 2025
★★

A brief look back at an upbringing in Moldova. I read this out of curiosity about the country—if memory serves, the only thing I've read even partially set in Moldova is The Geography of Bliss, which (again, if memory serves) talks about Moldova in the context of countries where people are generally unhappy or dissatisfied. Nothing from authors actually from, or having lived in, Moldova.

As a book, though, this is a disappointment. Although billed as a memoir, there is virtually nothing to tell us about the writer; much of the book is more general, in a "This is what life was like for people in Moldova" kind of way rather than a "Here are specific things that I experienced" kind of way. The author might be a woman, based on the name "Lady Anna" on the cover, but that is about all we learn.

Numerous anecdotes are repeated, and not in a way that feels intentional. But more to the point, there's this story: My father was a veterinarian, which meant that in theory, he had a stable government job. In reality, he worked for four years without a single paycheck, which led to some creative solutions in our household. [...] With no salary, he turned to bartering. Need a sick cow checked? That'll be two sacks of potatoes. [...] Meanwhile, my mother took up sewing, selling handmade clothes in the market for bread. (24)

It's an illustrative anecdote. But it's followed, immediately, by this: My father had once worked a stable job. Then, suddenly, he didn't. The factory shut down, and he, like thousands of others, had to improvise. First, he tried selling cigarettes at the market, trading them for sugar, oil, and whatever else he could barter. My mother, ever resourceful, sewed clothes and sold them for bread. One day, I saw my father swap a pack of imported cigarettes for an entire bag of potatoes. He beamed as if he'd just struck gold. "Dinner for a week!" he declared triumphantly. I didn't have the heart to remind him that a week in our household usually lasted three days. (25)

I have to surmise that the author decided that one version sounded better than the other, truth be hanged. And I don't even mind if not all of the details are exact—whether the author's father was a veterinarian or a factory worker is no skin off my nose, and although I don't advise it, this author wouldn't be the first to fudge memoir details for the sake of the story. But the blatancy of the change here (or, the lack of editing) makes me doubt the veracity of the rest of the story.

A few interesting moments (e.g., hadn't thought before about the complexity of deciding what language to use—Russian or Romanian—after the Soviet Union dissolved), but overall I can't recommend this; I'll have to look for something else from Moldova.