by John Brooks
I walked her over to the window. We had an expansive view of a drab, gray, sprawling city. A faint pinkish red sunset was filtered through a thin layer of smog. Across the street was one of the tallest and perhaps ugliest buildings in Europe, the Palace of Culture and Science. Built in the fifties, it was a “gift” from the Soviet Union.
Joanna looked out at the view, seemingly mesmerized by the flow of traffic down below, a bustling swarm of small cars and trucks that must have looked like toys to her. Erika returned from the bathroom looking weary but happy. “Did you remember to burp her?”
“Burp her?” I remembered reading about it in a baby book somewhere. Erika rolled her eyes as she took Joanna from me, hoisting her over her shoulder. “You always burp a baby after she eats.” Another mental note: Reread chapter in baby book about burping the baby.
I called room service to order sandwiches, beer, and hot water for making baby formula, and then flipped through the channels on the TV: a Russian game show, German news, Italian soccer, French political talk show, Polish documentary on Hitler, CNN. Thank God, something I could understand.
Erika buckled Joanna back into her stroller and parked her three feet from the TV. She stared at the screen, unblinking, apparently hypnotized by the wonders of television and the news of the world. I collapsed on the hard beds, spent, as a breaking story came on about Boris Yeltsin, the first elected president of Russia. “How long have we been at this parenting now? Four hours? I’m exhausted. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this for another eighteen years.”
Erika plopped down next to me. “Get used to it.”
My eyes fixated on Joanna in the stroller in front of the flickering light. Here we were watching TV together like a real family. “Just kidding. I meant to say it was a good exhausted. I’m loving every minute of it.”
By the time room service arrived with our dinner and we ate, it was close to ten o’clock. Joanna was still awake in front of the TV, squirming in her stroller. “Let’s put her to bed.” Erika unsnapped her from the stroller, checked her diaper, and laid her in the crib on her belly with a wool blanket, the pink squeaky doll, a stuffed bunny, and a goose-down comfort pillow she’d bought at a gift shop in Warsaw.
Joanna kicked and thrashed like a turtle trying to right itself, then pulled herself up into a crouched position on her hands and knees. Letting out a soft hum, she rocked back and forth on her knees while staring straight ahead. Erika and I watched, transfixed, through the bars of the crib. She seemed to have no awareness that we were there. Erika whispered, “Oh my God. I think she’s trying to rock herself to sleep.” I studied her. “Wow. We saw those kids on TV, in the Romanian orphanages, do the same thing.”
She was referring to an ABC News 20/20 exposé we’d seen the year before about Romanian children abandoned in state orphanages, the disastrous result of a bizarre plan concocted by the Ceauşescu dictatorship to force women to bear children for the state. The televised images were heartbreaking—youngsters in straitjackets confined to metal bed frames in bleak, cold rooms; mentally disturbed adolescents left alone in silence, rocking back and forth; neglected infants drowning in their own filth, too weak to cry.
After about ten minutes, Joanna collapsed in a heap, crying. Maybe it was her rattly cough that kept her from sleeping. Erika jumped out of bed, picked her up, bouncing and shushing her, but Joanna’s distress seemed to get worse. Her crying became an ear-piercing scream.
I’d never heard such a desperate wail. Didn’t she have an off switch somewhere? We’d had a long day and needed sleep. Erika kept bouncing her up and down, rocking her back and forth. She sat her by the TV, but Joanna wouldn’t settle down.
An hour later, at eleven o’clock, Joanna finally calmed herself. Erika laid her back down on her stomach in the crib, kissed her hot sweaty head, and covered her with the wool blanket, pulling the comfort pillow up close to her face.
We looked at each other, exhausted. I felt like we were two bomb disposal experts who’d just defused an improvised explosive device. Looking over the bar of the crib, careful not to disturb her, I listened to her breathe. Her nose was stuffy, so she breathed through her mouth, wheezing from the congestion in her chest. I whispered to her, “Poor kid. You won’t be alone at night anymore.”
Then I blew her a kiss good night.
SIX
Two days after returning from Mrągowo, we sat in court for our adoption hearing. Since we could not bring Joanna, our hotel had recommended a girl who appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen to watch her in our room. We weren’t thrilled at the notion of our first separation from Joanna, even for a couple of hours, but we had little choice. Erika gave the young sitter a brief interview in Polish and determined that she was trustworthy.
The courtroom was small but ornate. The raised bench, desks, gallery, and carved paneling were made of mahogany. All the court officials—the judge, the state attorney, and Renata—were dressed in black robes with white silk scarves that looked like bow ties; all they needed were white powdered wigs. The only other people in the courtroom were two jurors, a court reporter, and a translator for me, the only non-Polish-speaker in the room.
The atmosphere was solemn. Erika and I sat behind a long table, facing the judge and jurors. It felt as though everyone’s eyes were trained on us, except for the judge, who was busy looking at our file, talking with Renata and the state attorney. I tried to read their facial cues and vocal tones to get a sense of where the hearing may lead us. With only a vague understanding of the Polish judiciary, we had to take Renata’s word that all would be fine. I prayed that she was correct.
My palms were cold and sweaty. Erika grabbed my hand for moral support. I surveyed the room for anyone who looked kind or supportive, but all I saw were stern, almost blank expressions that revealed nothing. If it weren’t for Renata and Erika sitting next to me, I would’ve felt even more helpless than I did.
The judge called the court to order. She looked to be in her forties, very professional and commanding. Maybe she was a mother herself. If so, perhaps she’d warm up to us and be sympathetic to our case. At the very least she’d be impressed by Erika’s Polish. But the judge had a grave look on her face as she spoke. The translator whispered to me that she was outlining the facts of the case. The judge turned toward me and spoke. I leaned toward the translator.
“The judge wants you to take witness stand,” she said.
Erika squeezed my hand hard as I stood up. “Don’t forget to breathe.”
My mind raced and my mouth felt thick as if full of sand as I faced the judge, feeling more like an accused criminal than an adoptive-parent-to-be. The judge glanced up at me and then read from a document I couldn’t understand. The translator was nearly a foot shorter than I was, so I bent down to listen to her translation. “She is introducing you to court,” she said.
The judge directed something to me that sounded like a question. The translator whispered, “What are your feelings for this child?”
The judge looked at me with an impassive expression. I froze, my head a swirl of thoughts. We’d literally just met Joanna but we weren’t about to let anyone take her away from us. Yet to her, we were strangers. Should I lie? Would it have jeopardized the entire hearing if I did? I should have thought this through beforehand.
It felt as if an hour had passed while the judge waited for my response before I blurted out to the translator, “I am absolutely in love with this child. I already feel bonded to her.”
God, that was so stupid.
The judge squinted at the translator and asked another question. “Do you understand that this child will have the same rights as if it were your biological child?”
I swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.” Please like me.
Another question. I bent down to listen to the translator. “Do you agree that you are undertaking a lifelong commitment to care for and raise this child?”
Of course I do, if you’ll just let us adopt her!
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Dziękuję. Proszę siedzieć.” The translator said that the judge thanked me and asked that I sit down. I bowed respectfully to the judge and did as I was instructed. Then Erika took the witness stand and breezed through all the questions in Polish.
Show-off.
The judge asked for a twenty-minute recess. Erika and I stepped into the lobby outside the courtroom while Renata stayed inside. We were alone in the cavernous hall, silent except for the echo of occasional footsteps. I was exhausted even though the hearing itself had lasted only minutes. We gave each other a long hug, saying nothing.
I paced back and forth, my hands jammed in my pockets, imagining the worst. There would be a problem. Maybe our paperwork was incomplete. Maybe a directive from a government minister had shut down all foreign adoptions. Joanna would have to be sent back to the orphanage and we’d be sent home.
There was a click of heels behind us on the marble floor bouncing off the high ceiling—Renata. She smiled and waved for us to come back. “It is very good,” she said.
I felt light-headed as we followed her back into the courtroom. More stern faces. The judge asked Erika and me to stand; Renata joined us. I bent down to listen to the translator read the verdict in English as the judge addressed the court.
“In the case submitted by John R. Brooks and Erika Brooks, née Borkowski, both citizens of the USA, to adopt the minor Polish citizen Joanna Dymowska, the court decides to: (1) decree the adoption of the child to the Brookses, (2) give the child the surname “Brooks,” (3) change the first name to “Casey,” and (4) prepare a new Certificate of Birth.”
The judge looked up from the document and smiled warmly at us for the first time.
“Gratulacje, Pan i Pani Brooks!” Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks! I was in disbelief. Did this just happen? The atmosphere in the courtroom instantly shifted from somber to joyous. Everyone broke into smiles and nods of support. Erika and I grabbed each other and Renata in a bear hug.
Joanna Dymowska was now officially Casey Joanna Brooks, and we were legally her parents in the eyes of the Polish court.
SEVEN
With the court hearing behind us, we were off with Renata to see a Polish pediatric neurologist for Casey’s medical exam. With the neurologist’s seal of approval, we could clear the American embassy for Casey’s visa and be home free. We’d come so far in such a short time; I could almost see the finish line. But the process turned out to be more than just a formality.
In 1987, the Reagan administration made it illegal for people with AIDS to enter the United States. Further, after the horror stories from Romanian orphanages, the State Department clamped down on health standards for foreigners applying for a U.S. visa. If a qualified Polish physician refused to certify to the U.S. embassy that Casey was healthy, according to broad State Department guidelines that seemed to go far beyond AIDS, we couldn’t bring her home with us.
Renata told us that the embassy referred many of its visa applicants to this doctor. She wasn’t particularly warm, but the embassy trusted her and Renata had never had an issue with her in other adoption cases. She’d be on our side.
Her office was in an elegant nineteenth-century building—one of the few in Warsaw not leveled in the war—on a tree-lined street in an upscale neighborhood. Erika, Renata, and I sat quietly in the waiting room, Renata fidgeting with a cigarette while Erika pushed Casey back and forth in her stroller. Casey soothed herself by rubbing the tip of her nose until it was red and chapped, apparently a habit she’d taught herself in the orphanage, where the children weren’t allowed pacifiers because of concerns about germs.
It had been less than a week since we’d left the orphanage, and Casey had made astounding progress from the quiet, lethargic infant we’d first met. She was more alert, expressive, cheery, and chatty with us, even though her vocabulary consisted of grunts, shrieks, and bursts of bahs and dahs.
She banged around with the toys we brought and had become fixated on MTV, one of three English-language cable channels in our hotel room. Best of all, with a pillow for support, she could sit up by herself. She was still prone to irritability and screaming fits, especially around bedtime, but that was probably to be expected of a fourteen-month-old.
The door to the doctor’s office opened and a woman in a white lab coat stepped out. She appeared to be in her fifties, short and wide in stature, with a stern face. She held up a pair of reading glasses slung around her neck, squinting at a clipboard in her hand. “Brooks?” She looked up at us, unexpressive, and motioned for us to follow her into her office.
For the next twenty minutes I watched, bewildered, as she sat Casey on a stainless-steel examination table. Though her strength and balance had improved, she was still tipsy sitting up without support. The doctor looked into her eyes, ears, and throat, and listened to her lungs with a stethoscope. She tested her for a parachute reflex, holding her up on all fours, but she collapsed on the table. The doctor scowled. She tested for hand-eye coordination and pincer skills, and tapped her elbows and knees with a rubber-tipped reflex-testing hammer.
Everyone spoke in agitated voices. Renata hovered over the doctor and gesticulated, talking excitedly. The doctor, still expressionless, said something to Erika; she shook her head no. Casey began to fuss. The doctor made notes on her clipboard, a hard look on her face. My pulse quickened. This didn’t look good. If only the doctor had seen how much Casey had improved since we’d left the orphanage.
Renata scowled, looking irritated. She spoke to the doctor in a stern voice, waving her arms up and down, pointing to Casey. The doctor listened impassively but shook her head. Erika had a worried look on her face. Renata asked us to wait outside the office with Casey while she finished her business with the neurologist. Once out in the hallway, I was desperate for information. “Honey, what the hell is going on?”
Erika let out a long sigh. “The doctor’s concerned about Casey’s development and motor skills, like the fact that she didn’t react to the parachute test and is still tipsy sitting up.”
I grimaced.
“She said that Casey really should be walking right now. She even said something about Casey’s head being a bit flat.”
“What? Are you kidding? I thought that was an old wives’ tale.” Erika once told me about the Poles’ fixation on round-headed babies—anything less than a head the shape of a basketball was considered unattractive.
I shook my head in disbelief. “So she thinks Casey’s head is unattractive, as if that means anything.”
Erika rolled her eyes and shrugged. After a few minutes, Renata joined us in the hallway, looking defeated as she lit another cigarette. We waited as she inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke up to the ceiling, shaking her head. My heart sank. Wasn’t this supposed to be a formality? Renata coughed and waved the smoke away from her face. “She say she cannot certify to U.S. embassy that Joanna is healthy, so we cannot get visa.”
We stood in the hallway, dazed, absorbing the weight of Renata’s bombshell. All three of us were quiet as Casey sat in her stroller chewing on a multicolored cloth starfish. My mind went into free fall.
Though Casey was now legally our child under Polish law, according to international law, Erika and I were American citizens in Poland on a temporary tourist visa. Casey was a Polish citizen with no exit visa. We couldn’t take her home until her visa problem was resolved, and we could stay together in Poland for only a limited time, until our visas expired. I had outlandish thoughts of us overstaying, but we could risk deportation, jail time, or, worst of all, losing Casey.
We turned again to Renata.
She put out her cigarette. “Look, this should not be problem if we get second opinion from other doctor.”
Erika and I brightened as Casey used the cloth starfish to rub her nose.
“Really?” I asked tentatively.
“I make appointment for second opinion at children’s hospital tomorrow,” Renata said with an air o
f confidence. “It will be okay. I know director there.”
She never ceased to amaze me.
The next day, Erika, Casey, and I took a taxi to the Warszawski Szpital dla Dzieci, the Warsaw Children’s Hospital, where we were to meet with a child psychologist for a second opinion. Renata couldn’t be there with us, but she calmed our fears of going alone, assuring us that this exam would go smoothly. We had no choice but to trust her. So far, she’d successfully navigated us through a series of hurdles and setbacks. This was the last one.
We pulled up to an imposing building that was nearly a block long. Built in the 1700s, it hadn’t aged gracefully. The forbidding façade looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in decades. Black flags hung from the windows. What the hell were they for? Weren’t black flags a symbol of mourning? I wished we’d insisted that Renata come with us.
We left the taxi and walked into the main reception area, Erika wheeling Casey in the collapsible stroller. She was dressed in her sunbonnet, a frilly top with matching pants, and white booties, looking every bit like a kewpie doll, her hand clamped on the pink squeaky doll we’d given her at the orphanage. The lights in the reception area were turned off and there was little activity where normally we would’ve expected to see a traffic jam of people. I turned to Erika. “Did you notice those black flags out front?”
She looked spooked. “How could I miss them? I wonder what they’re for?”
We found a young woman sitting behind a desk and approached her for help. I listened helplessly as Erika and the woman exchanged incomprehensible chatter before she pointed us toward the elevator. As we made our way across the reception area, the eerie silence around me became increasingly disconcerting. While waiting for the elevator, I leaned toward Erika. “What were you guys talking about?”
