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.”
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