“Martin, she is so sad,” Jenny whispered.
“Yeah. She looks like the age group we will be working with. Something about that one, Jen.”
“I know.”
The orientation finally concluded and they were free to roam the town for the rest of the day. On their way out of the building, Martin stopped, taking a closer look inside a room with older looking fourteen-foot high doors. He grabbed Jenny’s reluctant hand and pulled her into the room with him.
The old musty smell of the room instantly overcame him and he knew he was on holy ground. The room was a shrine to the former days, the Soviet years. The deep red curtains and blood red display table-cloths flowed against the dark browns of the wide-board flooring and custom hand-carved paneled walls. These walls were adorned with paintings of the greats of history and former local party leaders. Medals and plaques filled the tables that clung to every inch of wall in the room. In the center of the room stood a long fold-out meeting table with an army of wooden fold-out chairs last popular in the 1930s. Martin imagined the meetings that had once taken place there in the past. This was the ideological utility room. Instead of generators and heating units, this would have been where the workers fueled up with propaganda before the day’s work. The darkness of the space repelled Martin, making him feel out of place, unwelcome. The room had been unlocked but seemed to him in some way forbidden.
The two looked to each other instinctively, caught hands again, and fled the room. They walked out of the building with alertness and speed normally reserved for an escape.
Jenny took the lead when they reached outside until Martin slowed their pace.
“There she is again,” he said, pointing.
“Let’s ask her name,” Jenny said.
“Okay. My Russian is good enough for that.”
They ambled over to the ancient and rusted playground monkey-bars she was climbing. If she feels pursued she might be frightened off. Martin locked eyes with her and pulled Jenny closer to himself as if they were bird-watching and had just come across a rare breed, careful not to scare it away.
“Hello,” Martin said slowly in his best Russian.
She flashed a huge smile at them, almost robotically. Martin glanced to Jenny who told him by her expression, “Yes, this is the least genuine smile I have ever seen in my life.”
He pressed on telling her their names and why they were there. That they would be playing many games. An older teacher appeared suddenly and began yelling something at the girl. Martin tried to make sense of it, tie her presence on the playground to some kind of disobedience. But there was nothing, mostly it was a repeated admonishment to not speak.
“I’m sorry,” the girl repeated back.
The woman never looked at them as she physically gathered up the child and nearly ran her back inside, whispering in her ear the whole while.
Martin and Jenny stood motionless in their confusion.
“Oksana,” he said to Jenny.
“That’s a pretty name, Martin.”
They walked to the outer gates by the street to call their group leader and wait for a taxi.
Martin watched Jenny as she sat on the curb, in a daze and with a slight grin. She was likely running through visions of Oksana in their home. Maybe playing in the back yard with a dog they didn’t yet have. All the while probably chanting to herself the child’s new last name.
But his emotions were in the present. He felt something different, strange and exhausted. Normally he was unaware of any emotions in the moment but in the span of ten minutes he had the largest sweeping feeling of love he could remember, followed by a quickening of intense fear and then anger. All in the span of ten minutes. In his heart he had suddenly become a dad, and his daughter had been stolen from him in a whirl of violent words. Worse, he had helplessly watched it all happen.
Each day they worked at the orphanage they searched for Oksana and asked the staff where she was. By the third day their translator closed them down.
“Mr. Martin. Please stop inquiring about child.”
“Why?” Martin asked.
“It is not appropriate. People much irritated, understand?”
“I’m much irritated. How can no one know where she is?”
“There are no answers. But no business is ours. No more, please. I go now for find afternoon schedule. Thank you.”
Knowing the director knew some English, Martin watched her schedule. If he caught her, like outside in transit to another building, he might get some information. He had quickly discovered that was the only way to access her.
On the last morning there he saw her heading from the administration building to where they kept the old school bus. A large woman in her late fifties with dyed yellow hair that punched out from her head-scarf. Always in conservative dress. From her attitude she probably wore the scarf on her head more for tradition than to keep her hair in place. There was enough hairspray on it already to harden a bowling ball.
He speed-walked quietly to overtake her midway in the courtyard.
“Madame, Director!”
“Yes?” She stopped and turned slowly toward him with wary eyes.
“Sorry to bother you. If I may, just a couple questions I can’t seem to get answered by the staff here.”
“Yes?”
“My wife and I met a little girl, maybe nine years old, named Oksana. We have not seen her since and this being our last day we would like to say good-bye to her. Also, can we know her status?
“Oksana Kholobayev. Her status?” she asked.
He caught his breath in sudden anticipation.
“Yes. Is she available for adoption?” he asked.
“I am sorry, no. Not possible. She has a Ukrainian guardian who will adopt her.”
“I don’t understand. She was here a few days ago,” Martin said.
“Oksana lives here and her teacher adopts her. Please, if you are interested in another child send me an email. I must go now. Thank you.”
Martin tipped his head, his mind spinning. “I’m sorry, I’m confused. If she has a guardian how does she live here?” Martin asked.
The director shook her head. “She not live here. Do you see her? No, she is with guardian. I must go.”
He didn’t like making anyone uncomfortable, especially not strangers, but he somehow felt no remorse with this woman. He tried to sum up the conversation as he walked slowly back to Jenny, stopping short to watch her playing with the children.
She looked so happy, so at home. How could God instil such a strong love for children into a woman who could not have children of her own? All week she talked about Oksana – at breakfast, on walks, taxi rides. She had fallen asleep to images of the child in her heart and in her home. When she talked of the girl, he listened, hiding his feelings, but she called him on it several times by simply telling him to stop worrying.
It would be best to interrupt her play, to take her aside for the news, rather than wait.
Jenny stiffened. “What did she say? Where is she?” Jenny asked.
“She has a guardian.”
“What is that? What does that mean?”
“She is not available.”
She sank as if suddenly swallowed into quicksand, eyes dulling and head dropping.
“But…”