“I have a daughter,” Sonia said. “A daughter who lives in America. She is an American. Born in Massachusetts.”
Lisa’s heart turned.
“I’m sorry, Sonia. You must miss her.”
“Don’t be sorry. She will have a good life, my Tanya. It is her life that is important.”
She drove on, her face expressionless although Misha frowned darkly and spoke harshly to her in Russian. She stared straight ahead and did not reply.
They stopped at last in front of a large stone building. Sonia parked as Misha pressed a buzzer and spoke into an intercom. The door swung open and a heavyset woman, her graying coarse hair twisted into a bun, stared at them.
Misha spoke rapidly, gesturing to Lisa and then to Elaine. The woman frowned but she smiled slightly, revealing two gold teeth, when Sonia joined them. Sonia spoke softly, cajolingly and Misha stepped away. Clearly, he knew that Sonia would have rapport with this woman who was unused to men, who lived in a world of children and their female caregivers.
Lisa heard Sonia say Dawkta Gordon and caught the word Americanski. She continued adding a spate of words that ended with Genia, baibee, rebyonok.
“Ah.” The woman’s pale face brightened. “Genia,” she repeated, as though all was suddenly clear to her, and she motioned them to follow her.
They walked down a long windowless hallway that smelled of carbolic soap and boiled cabbage. The house, despite its impressive exterior, was in a state of disrepair, the paint peeling from ochre-colored walls, the linoleum floor spotless but worn, sheets of grimy plastic covering broken windowpanes. An odd rhythmic bleating sounded from behind closed doors and Lisa realized that the sound was a muted chorus of crying babies.
But the room into which they were beckoned was painted a gleaming white and brightly-colored nursery rhyme characters were stenciled across the walls. Dolls and stuffed animals lined the shelves and picture books were neatly arrayed on a low table. The toys and books were pristine and carefully arranged. Elaine remembered the gay but shabby toys in Ruth’s Jerusalem day-care center and she wondered if the Russian orphans were ever permitted to cuddle the stuffed animals or allowed to turn the pages of the brightly jacketed books.
The woman motioned them toward a leather sofa, smiled her thin gold-toothed smile and left. Elaine and Lisa sat side by side, their apprehension growing with each passing minute. Sonia and Misha went to the window and stared out at the bleak play area where a faded blue plastic swing dangled from a single rope and a sagging jungle gym cast its shadow across the sere earth.
At last the door opened and a young woman, wearing a pale green coverall, a snood covering her hair, entered, carrying a small dark-haired child. Lisa gripped her mother’s hand and together they moved forward. The caregiver turned and they saw Genia’s elfin face, her rosebud of a mouth, her large long-lashed hazel eyes flecked with amber, her hair a cluster of damp dark curls. Lisa’s heart stopped. Impetuously, she touched the child’s cheek, tenderly stroked the satin-smooth olive skin and felt the heat of a single tear upon her hand. Genia wept soundlessly, her small body rigid, her hands clutching the strap of her caregiver’s coverall.
Lisa’s face froze, her eyes clouded with disappointment. She looked helplessly at her mother and Elaine, in turn, approached and smiled at the child.
“Krassavitsa,” she said, summoning the word from the depths of memory, hearing again her mother’s voice all those years ago when she braided her hair. “Oom-nitsa,” she murmured soothingly. “Beautiful little one. Darling child.”
Wide-eyed and puzzled, Genia looked at Elaine who repeated the words of endearment. The weeping ceased. Elaine held out her arms and wordlessly, the caregiver handed her the child. Elaine carried her to the window and Lisa stood beside her mother and the daughter she had traveled so far to claim. She reached up and twirled a dark curl about her finger.
“Krassavitsa,” she murmured soothingly, copying her mother’s intonation. “Sweetness. Little beauty.”
Genia turned toward her and Elaine placed the unprotesting child in her arms. Misha lifted the video camera and filmed them as they stood together in a circlet of waning sunlight.
Suddenly the door opened. A tall stern-looking woman, her black dress offset by a necklace of gemstones, stared at them, her frown lines creasing her high pale forehead. She spoke harshly to the young caregiver who cringed and, too swiftly, almost roughly, took Genia from Lisa’s arms. Lisa moved forward to protest but Elaine placed a restraining hand on her daughter’s shoulder. This was a situation for Misha and Sonia to deal with, she knew instinctively.
Misha was already smiling, his voice conciliatory as he offered an explanation. He smiled obsequiously, motioned to Lisa and Elaine, repeated their names and flipped open a folder of documents.
The woman turned to them, inclined her head.
“I am Irina Petrovna,” she said. “The directress of Children’s Home Number Thirty-One.”
“And I am Dr. Lisa Gordon,” Lisa said. “And this is my mother, Elaine Gordon. We are here, of course, to meet Genia and to arrange for her adoption. But you must know that.”
Irina Petrovna shrugged and spoke rapidly in Russian to Sonia and Misha. Genia began to cry and the young caretaker cradled her in a futile effort at comfort. The child cried harder. Lisa was very pale, her lips set in a thin line of anger.
Misha spoke again, his tone even more unctuous, a man who made his living reasoning with the unreasonable. Elaine and Lisa looked questioningly at Sonia whose translation was hesitant and softly spoken.
“The directress is annoyed that she was not informed of your visit. Misha explained that he had tried to phone her but she was out and we chose an hour that we hoped would not interfere with the baby’s mealtime or her nap but still she is angry.”
“Tell her that I, too, apologize but I was eager to meet my daughter,” Lisa said.
Again there was a rapid exchange in Russian. Irina Petrovna twirled her necklace, studied Lisa’s high black leather boots, her matching shoulder bag. She was a woman with an acute eye for fashion, Elaine realized. She noted that the directress’s own dress was of a soft wool and well tailored. It was, she supposed, an irrelevant observation but she filed it away.
Again Misha spoke pleadingly. Another rush of words followed by a brief nod of assent.
“You must go now,” Sonia reported. “But you may return tomorrow morning. At nine o’clock. Misha has explained that you want to take Genia to the American Medical Center for a checkup. This Irina Petrovna will permit although she says their doctor at the Home is very experienced and she does not see why you want another examination.”
“Tell her that I am sure the doctor here at the Home is excellent but we are following the advice of our adoption agency and, as she should know, the requirement of the American embassy,” Lisa said. “And ask her if I may dress Genia in these new clothes I have brought for her from America.”
Again Sonia spoke to the directress who glanced at the small garments, gave a curt reply and stalked out of the room, nodding cursorily in their direction.
“She says that in the Home Genia must wear the clothing of the Home,” Sonia explained unhappily. “Tomorrow she may wear the clothes you brought for her because it is forbidden to take anything that is the property of the government out of this building.”
“I suppose if we hadn’t brought something for her to wear, Genia would have to leave naked,” Lisa said angrily. She looked at Genia who had not stopped crying.
The young caregiver hesitated, then gave her the baby. Immediately, Genia was quiet.
“You see, Lisa,” Elaine said gently. “She knows who you are. She can feel your love.”
Lisa smiled and pressed her cheek against the baby’s soft dark hair.
Elaine reached into her bag and offered the young caregiver a disposable camera, a small bottle of toilet water and a gaily patterned silk neckerchief. The young woman blushed, put the camera and the toilet water into her pock
ets and slid the neckerchief into her sleeve. She spoke softly to Sonia.
“She thanks you,” the translator said. “She wants you to know that her name is Alla. She was once a child in this Home and she knows how much it means to hug the babies and play with them. She takes very good care of Genia who is her favorite charge. She tells me that everyone here has a special love for Genia. She must take her now or Irina Petrovna will be angry.”
Lisa nodded, pressed her lips to Genia’s cheek and surrendered her to Alla who glanced nervously at the door.
“Thank you,” Elaine said and Alla hurried out, holding Genia close. They stood in the doorway and watched her disappear down the corridor. Slowly then, they followed Sonia and Misha out of Children’s Home Number Thirty-One.
“I hate Irina Petrovna,” Lisa said grimly as the Lada carried them back to the Radisson.
Misha murmured something to Sonia.
“Misha says that you should not be frightened of her. Everything will be all right,” Sonia reported.
“Of course everything will be all right.” Elaine covered Lisa’s hand with her own as she repeated the reassuring words she only half believed.
They returned the next day and Alla brought Genia to them in the waiting room. The child did not cry as Lisa gently peeled off her flimsy faded pajama and frayed undershirt. She unknotted the rag used as a diaper and replaced it with a disposable one and dressed her in a soft white onesie and the red corduroy dress and matching tights. Alla touched the fabric, smiled and whispered in Russian to Sonia who smiled as she translated.
“Alla says that such a fabric is made for a princess and now Genia looks like a princess,” she said.
They bundled the baby into the royal-blue snowsuit and Lisa carried her out to the car, walking swiftly as though fearful that Irina Petrovna might appear at any moment and stop them.
“No, she cannot do that,” Sonia assured her when she voiced her anxiety. “It is Russian law that she must allow you to take the baby to a clinic of your choice.”
There was no wait at the American Medical Center. The smiling receptionist told them that there had been a call from the American embassy alerting them to Lisa’s arrival.
“David’s influence,” Lisa said. “Reaching from afar. He’s tracking us.” She spoke lightly but her face was bright with pleasure.
“It’s nice to be taken care of, isn’t it?” Elaine asked, smiling.
“I wouldn’t know,” Lisa replied too quickly. “Being taken care of hasn’t really been part of my life.”
Elaine stared at her, shocked and bewildered by the implication of her daughter’s words. She and Neil had taken very good care of their children. They had sought out the best summer camps, the best after-school programs, every talent explored and developed. Lisa’s fierce independence had been self-imposed. She had chosen to share little about her life with them and they, in turn had respected her privacy.
She bridled at the unfairness of Lisa’s words but she remained silent. This was not a time for emotional archaeology, for airing grievances of the past. This was a time to concentrate on Genia, on the building of a future. She lifted the video camera. Lisa wanted a visual record of their first days together, a record she would one day share with her daughter.
The young American doctor weighed Genia who whimpered as she was eased out of her pretty dress.
“Don’t worry. You’ll wear it again,” Lisa told her and the child seemed reassured by the words she did not understand.
“Not too underweight,” the doctor reported. “Perhaps by just a few pounds. The children from Home Thirty-One eat pretty well. I’ll say that much for them.”
He measured Genia on a paper sheet stretched out on the examining table, then listened to her heart, her lungs. She wiggled mischievously away when he pressed his fingers against her joints.
“Whoa. We’re not in a race,” he said and laughed as he caught her and tickled her playfully.
She smiled back.
“She’s very responsive, Dr. Gordon. That’s unusual for a child from an orphanage. Most of them have trouble relating at all. In fact there are some adoptions that I try to discourage because I can see real trouble down the road. The kids have been deprived of affection for so long that something inside of them twists up or freezes. But this little girl here—no problems. She’s going to make you very happy. Someone must have made her happy.”
“There’s a young caregiver at the home who seems to have a special liking for Genia. She’s played with her and shown her some affection. That might have made the difference,” Lisa said.
“That would do it,” the doctor agreed. “A little cuddling during the first few months of a child’s life is tremendously important. You were lucky in that.”
Lisa nodded. She remembered how Genia had clung to Alla. She would have to ask Sonia how she might express her appreciation to the sad-eyed young caregiver whose entire life had been spent in the grim confines of the Home.
The doctor touched Genia’s neck lightly and she laughed gleefully.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard an orphanage child laugh before,” he said and whipped a lollipop out of the pocket of his white coat. He held it out to Genia.
She stared at it but made no move to take it.
“And I don’t think she’s ever seen a lollipop before,” Elaine said as she peeled the cellophane wrap off the sweet and held it to Genia’s lips. The child smiled with delight as she tasted the green sweetness and she reached up, clenched the stick and eagerly licked the candy.
The doctor studied the records that had been sent to him and filled out the form which the United States embassy required in order to issue a visa for Genia.
“She’s a healthy little girl,” he said as Lisa struggled to dress Genia, who refused to relinquish her lollipop. “No fetal alcohol syndrome, no hint of maternal drug use, no HIV. That’s what we look for in Russian orphans. Strangely, the kids in Genia’s age group from that particular home are pretty healthy. A lot of them were simply abandoned when their parents died during the flu epidemic two years ago. There was no one left to care for them. But they don’t present with any in-utero symptoms. I don’t foresee any physical problems for your gal.”
“Thank you. Doctor, I’m a radiologist and I have some machines that are really adequate but not state of the art. Would you be interested?” Lisa asked. “I could arrange to have them shipped here.”
“The clinic would be grateful. We have only one functioning X-ray machine.”
“I’ll speak to a friend about the best way to arrange it,” Lisa said.
They shook hands, Elaine flashed the doctor a grateful smile and they hurried out to the Lada where Sonia waited patiently.
“I’m sorry it took so long, Sonia,” Lisa said apologetically.
“No problem. I write a letter to my daughter in America.” She snapped her pen closed and started the car.
“When will you see your daughter again, Sonia?” Elaine asked hesitantly.
“When I have enough money to return to America. Her father is American. We were not married. Many difficulties. He had a wife who would not give a divorce so we could not marry. I had a student visa and I had to leave when it expired. But Tanya, my daughter, she was born in America so she is a citizen. When I could not renew my visa and had to return to Russia I would not take Tanya with me. How would we live? Where would we live? I sleep on a sofa in my parents’ apartment but in America Tanya lives in a house with her father’s cousin. A big house. She has good food, good clothing, her own room. Good schools. Everything that you will give to your daughter, your Genia, my Tanya has. The people she lives with are good people. They send me letters, pictures. I write to her. I send her photographs. On her birthday I call her.” She braked at a light and reached into her oversize worn purse. “Here. I show you a picture of my Tanya.”
She held out the picture of a smiling girl, her hair, like Sonia’s, copper colored. She wore a UMass sweatshirt and a Boston R
ed Sox baseball cap was perched jauntily on her head.
“But you must miss her terribly,” Elaine said. It occurred to her that Sonia had not mentioned that man who could not get a divorce, Tanya’s father. He seemed oddly incidental to her story.
“Of course I miss her. She is my heart,” Sonia said. “But I did what was best for my Tanya. That is what a mother must do.”
She drove more slowly as they merged into traffic, her gaze fixed on the road but Elaine saw her reflection in the rearview mirror, saw the misery that contorted her face.
“Of course. That is what a mother must do,” she agreed as Lisa cuddled Genia.
The little girl drifted into sleep and she did not awaken when they arrived at the Home. Lisa carried her inside and placed her in Alla’s arms. As they left they passed the directress who walked rapidly by, barely acknowledging them.
“Bitch,” Lisa muttered as they hurried out of the building.
“Do not worry,” Sonia said. “It is best that we avoid Irina Petrovna.”
“If we can,” Elaine added apprehensively.
“She doesn’t frighten me.” Lisa’s tone was defiant but she clasped and unclasped her fingers throughout the ride back to the hotel.
eighteen
They returned to the Children’s Home the next day, Misha having arranged their schedule with Irina Petrovna. It was necessary, in order to satisfy the requirements of the Russian courts, that Lisa’s interaction with Genia be observed over a reasonable period of time. Claire had explained that to Lisa and seated in Claire’s airy sun-filled Philadelphia office, surrounded by photos of healthy smiling children, all of them inscribed by grateful and satisfied adoptive parents, it seemed an acceptable requirement. Those children were Claire’s adoption success stories and the happy mothers and fathers who had signed them had, of course, submitted to those mandatory observations. It was less acceptable in Moscow when it became clear that Lisa’s time with Genia would be monitored by Irina Petrovna who sat in judgment, armed with a notebook and a pen. Her presence on the very first day was an irritant swiftly dispelled by Genia’s smile of delight when she saw Lisa.
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