My attention drifts out to the ocean for a bit. The Cliff House sits on a cliff - surprise! - overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Large rocks, seagulls, and surfers hold steady in a tumble of blue. I am still on the barstool, next to Paulette who is deep in conversation with Sloan, "...and so finally we received our paperwork to get back into the United States, but that was 1933, the very worst year of the Depression...."
I hear the waiter clear the plates from a table behind me; I take a sip of beer, while still watching the twinkling of the water. Like the twinkling fireflies Paulette and I chased with Mason jars back home in Minnesota. Daddy called out to us, "Dottrar, dottrar! Now let the fireflies free - out of the jar with them." He reached out to tug on our braids. We protested, "Dad!" But we unscrewed our jars. What if our father had stayed in Sweden? He wouldn't have met our mom. Would we have still been twins if we'd been born in Stockholm? I can't imagine not having Paulette - my mirror, my guide, my firefly.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Stone Cold Sober
Sloan drained her Bloody Mary and bit the remaining juice from a quarter moon lemon wedge. Delicately she patted a soft white napkin to her lips and moved her barstool conspiratorially closer. She had spun a convoluted yarn and we were anxious for her to unravel more of her Russian past. The bartender eyed us suspiciously while removing plates, ever protective of his favorite little comrade customer. I ordered another round of drinks and smiled, hoping to nip any further mistrust in the bud.
Sloan spoke haltingly at first, then her story burst forth like a warm summer rain. She spoke quite wistfully. "After my father passed, my mother, Marion, and I were "persuaded" to stay in Russia, and we did until I was thirteen. The government knew of my mother's suffragette leanings, but none of the Kremlinite brass cared. All women were chattel as far as they were concerned. Journalism was mother’s forte, but they were far more interested in her skills as a multi-linguist. She had an ear for languages and could easily interchange Russian, French, German, or English with a quick twist of the tongue. Interpreting recordings of phone conversations made by unsuspecting foreigners was her assigned service, and she excelled at the task. Later, some would call it spying, but others, more kind, called it survival.” Sloan continued, “and not so coincidently, our passports disappeared shortly after my father was buried at the Kremlin. We were caught in the thick of bureaucratic Red tape for twelve years."
Claudette slapped her hand on the bar top. "Where where did you live? Did you go to school and were you alone a lot? What about your father?”
Sloan looked at us thoughtfully. “Let me wax philosophical for a moment." She put her hand on top of her head and made a twisting gesture. "My life is like a matryoshka doll, keep unscrewing its head, and a set of smaller dolls appear, one nested inside the other, much like an onion, so many layers, so many stories to tell.” When she closed her eyes I thought she was finished talking, but with much more passion in her voice she continued. “I distinctly remember Russia’s bitter cold mornings. When I was little and half asleep my mother wrapped me up like a woolen mummy but I still shivered well into the afternoons. The days we took the train to visit my father’s grave at the Kremlin are my coldest memories. I was very frightened of the guards who looked like gargoyles, stone-faced and scowling.”
Sloan spoke haltingly at first, then her story burst forth like a warm summer rain. She spoke quite wistfully. "After my father passed, my mother, Marion, and I were "persuaded" to stay in Russia, and we did until I was thirteen. The government knew of my mother's suffragette leanings, but none of the Kremlinite brass cared. All women were chattel as far as they were concerned. Journalism was mother’s forte, but they were far more interested in her skills as a multi-linguist. She had an ear for languages and could easily interchange Russian, French, German, or English with a quick twist of the tongue. Interpreting recordings of phone conversations made by unsuspecting foreigners was her assigned service, and she excelled at the task. Later, some would call it spying, but others, more kind, called it survival.” Sloan continued, “and not so coincidently, our passports disappeared shortly after my father was buried at the Kremlin. We were caught in the thick of bureaucratic Red tape for twelve years."
Claudette slapped her hand on the bar top. "Where where did you live? Did you go to school and were you alone a lot? What about your father?”
Sloan looked at us thoughtfully. “Let me wax philosophical for a moment." She put her hand on top of her head and made a twisting gesture. "My life is like a matryoshka doll, keep unscrewing its head, and a set of smaller dolls appear, one nested inside the other, much like an onion, so many layers, so many stories to tell.” When she closed her eyes I thought she was finished talking, but with much more passion in her voice she continued. “I distinctly remember Russia’s bitter cold mornings. When I was little and half asleep my mother wrapped me up like a woolen mummy but I still shivered well into the afternoons. The days we took the train to visit my father’s grave at the Kremlin are my coldest memories. I was very frightened of the guards who looked like gargoyles, stone-faced and scowling.”
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Reds, Revisited
Septuagenerian? More like an octogenarian! But however old Sloan was, she told a tale that Paulette and I would recall for many years to come....
As Sloan sipped her Bloody Mary and leaned in to take bites of her omelette, she told us fragments of her life. "Well, I was born here, of course, but my parents were journalists. And they were very interested in the workers' cause. They decided to go to Russia to write about the Bolsheviks. This was in 1920, I think. I was just a baby."
"What? You went to Russia as a baby? Wasn't it dangerous?" I exclaimed. I swung around to see the amazed expression on Paulette's face, before looking back at Sloan to hear her answer.
"Yes, yes. It was extremely dangerous." Sloan sat up a little straighter and had another sip, before continuing. "But my parents were very much of the time. Or at least, that is what I gathered. Mother had been a suffragette and Dad was truly concerned about the plight of the worker - you know, things were very different then. There was no insurance, no pensions, none of that. So anyway, we went to Russia, and they both got a number of pieces published. I believe they were the only American journalists in Russia and they had to sneak over the border from Finland to get there."
"Wow - really? With you? A baby?" Paulette looked startled. "How did they ever sneak you in?"
"Mother said they treated me like a puppy. They just put me in a bag - like that girl, Prague? or whatever her name is. You know, that girl who is rich and is known for doing nothing, but be pretty."
"Paris Hilton?"
"Yes, her. She puts a little dog in her bag. And I was that pooch." Sloan looked down to tug at her starched cuff. When she looked up again she was smiling. She took a small breath. "But then Dad became ill. I'm not sure what it was. Black lung? And he died. Mother said she was holding his hand and he just went to sleep. He was buried at the Kremlin - the only American buried there."
I choked a little on my beer. "He was buried at the Kremlin? Oh my God! Did you stay in Russia? What happened to you and your mother?"
As Sloan sipped her Bloody Mary and leaned in to take bites of her omelette, she told us fragments of her life. "Well, I was born here, of course, but my parents were journalists. And they were very interested in the workers' cause. They decided to go to Russia to write about the Bolsheviks. This was in 1920, I think. I was just a baby."
"What? You went to Russia as a baby? Wasn't it dangerous?" I exclaimed. I swung around to see the amazed expression on Paulette's face, before looking back at Sloan to hear her answer.
"Yes, yes. It was extremely dangerous." Sloan sat up a little straighter and had another sip, before continuing. "But my parents were very much of the time. Or at least, that is what I gathered. Mother had been a suffragette and Dad was truly concerned about the plight of the worker - you know, things were very different then. There was no insurance, no pensions, none of that. So anyway, we went to Russia, and they both got a number of pieces published. I believe they were the only American journalists in Russia and they had to sneak over the border from Finland to get there."
"Wow - really? With you? A baby?" Paulette looked startled. "How did they ever sneak you in?"
"Mother said they treated me like a puppy. They just put me in a bag - like that girl, Prague? or whatever her name is. You know, that girl who is rich and is known for doing nothing, but be pretty."
"Paris Hilton?"
"Yes, her. She puts a little dog in her bag. And I was that pooch." Sloan looked down to tug at her starched cuff. When she looked up again she was smiling. She took a small breath. "But then Dad became ill. I'm not sure what it was. Black lung? And he died. Mother said she was holding his hand and he just went to sleep. He was buried at the Kremlin - the only American buried there."
I choked a little on my beer. "He was buried at the Kremlin? Oh my God! Did you stay in Russia? What happened to you and your mother?"
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