Excerpt
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty far-fetched,” he said hastily. “It’s great having family here in the Soviet Union. You are so lucky, Jennifer.”
“Yes, I am. Do you think I should phone my mom? Tell her that I’ve met with Misha—Can you believe it? She calls him Misha—like she’s known him for years.”
“Well, you’ll be phoning your folks anyway to tell them you’ve arrived safely, won’t you?”
“No, they aren’t like that. It’s not that they don’t care. They just…”
“Yeah, I remember meeting your dad when I was studying in Toronto. He didn’t have much to say. I get the sense your mom is really running the show?”
“No, she’s browbeaten by my father.”
“Is this to do with the accident, Jen?”
“Everything about my family is to do with the accident.”
“You have Jewish background, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t talk about it because I wasn’t raised a Jew. My father was Church of England. Listen, I think I’ll try a telegram. It’s easier than the phone.”
But when Jennifer enquired at the Rossiya’s front desk, they directed her to the telegraph and telephone bureau next door to the hotel. This seemed like a lot of effort and she decided to wait. If her mother couldn’t be bothered telling her that she had family in the Soviet Union, then she couldn’t be bothered describing her joy to her mother. Withholding, it was called. It ran in the family.
Manolis Aligizakis 