“Why would the director lie?”
“I don’t know. But the girl was taken away the day we met her, probably the moment we met her.”
“Okay.”
He paced the playground trying to put the pieces together. Martin returned to Jenny with the same conclusion.
“It’s just…I think she is lying,” he said.
“What do we do? We leave in two days.”
A little boy with a nametag that said Victor came up to Martin. Oh yeah, the boy who could run at the wall of the building, run up it, and flip back around in the air.
“Hey, Spiderman. We’ll be right back in a minute. Go play.” Martin gently pressed the boy’s shoulder back in the direction of the play-group.
The boy stood firm. “I want say to you.”
“Okay, Victor. But real quick, okay,”
“No, take your time,” Jenny said, stroking his arm.
“I want say I know you love Oksana. She come back yesterday.”
“She was here?” Martin stepped closer. How could we have missed her?
“No, I say wrong. She back tomorrow.”
The thoughts and questions that flooded Martin’s mind were too complicated to ask the child even if the boy had known better English. Jenny’s shoulders had lifted and her smile reappeared, even though she knew they would leave too early in the morning to see the girl. And now this news lent more validity to his questions about the director.
It could be that Oksana was only coming to collect her things.
Or the boy could be mistaken. One look at the boys face threw that option out. Oksana’s disappearance was a major break to the boy’s routine understanding of his life there, obviously, and her coming back was important to him as well.
All their asking around about her had paid off. News of it had gotten around the orphanage and was clear to the children, the little inmates, that their friend might get adopted. The tension in his stomach eased a bit as the picture, the bigger plan expanded, Maybe this was God at work. Martin had seen it before – when all his efforts and failures seemed hopeless at the time, he would look back and see those moments as misplaced stones on a path to a victory.
But they were leaving for the States. How would he get more and better information, or communicate with Oksana? But he felt confident this would also happen as needed. Martin grew some confidence in his renewed hope, and the source of it. He held tight to this awareness. But he knew that he would likely loosen his grip on that faith before too long. He always did.
The last day in Mariupol had been set aside by the group as a free day. For some, this translated to sleeping in; others to shopping. They were leaving the hotel lobby when their group leader stopped them at the door.
“Martin, glad I caught you guys. You have been like the proverbial lost sheep this trip.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t know if you planned to spend the day at the orphanage. But in case, I am letting everyone know that we won’t have access today.”
“Why?”
“It’s scheduled as a free day for us so they plan their day around that as well. You know.”
“Not really. Why no ‘access’?”
“Mr. Johnson, you have made the relationship with the director difficult. To be honest, things are very tense right now. The director called me today and wants me to pass on her concerns to Chip in Kiev.”
“So this is about me?”
“Yes.”
“Then, you know, to be honest, you aren’t letting everyone know, are you?”
“Everyone has planned for a fun day. You guys should do that, too. Please.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Good. And don’t worry about this. The way I see it you are naturally very curious about adopting a child. It happens all the time. It’s nothing we can’t fix.”
“Okay.”
“I better get to the bus. Some of us are going to see the old part of town. Should get some great photos. Come along?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay. Thanks again for understanding. See you guys tonight maybe.”
After the man left Jenny asked, “What now?”
Martin and Jenny decided to take the drive to Berdyansk and spend the day there. A tourist beach town, smaller and less industrial, it would offer a change of pace and scenery.
They needed it.
The trip took only an hour of their day each way. When they reached Berdyansk the driver took them to the heart of the city.
“Here now.” The driver reached back for his fare.
Martin reached for his wallet. “Any tourist recommendations?”
The man shrugged.
“What is a good restaurant?” Martin held the money back, waiting for a response.
The man’s gaze followed the bills. “Soba okay.”
“Thanks.” He handed over the fare and the cab drove off. “Friendly locals, right?”
A beautiful stone-tiled walkway led from the street to the beach. It rolled out wide through a large, endless courtyard lined with shop upon shop. And dotted with beautiful trees, park benches, and kiosks. Teenage and college girls manned the kiosks, working their summer at the beach. After stopping at a few kiosks, Martin realized all their items were the same. They obviously had the same distributor of drinks and tourist junk items. “I think one guy owns this whole walkway,” he said to Jenny.
“In this economy, I doubt the workers care as long as there is work.” Jenny turned from the kiosk to inspect a store window. “Look at that scarf. I’ll bet it is hand made.”
Jenny shopped in every store they passed. If they had been in an American mall, he would tell her where he would be waiting for her. But this section of town resembled America so much; his need for the comfort of home compelled him to continue.
She bought some memorabilia for themselves and a hand-crafted ceramic plate for her folks. When they reached the end of the court they stopped to walk around the looming statue of Vladimir Lenin. It was the exact same pose he had seen in Kiev and Mariupol. Was this yet another attempt in years past to encourage conformity?
Today it was no longer holy ground, but apparently a favorite spot for the local children because of the steps and ramps that led to the base of the monument. A boy on a skateboard swooshed between them, breaking their handhold. They stood there for some time to watch the teens break-dancing for money until the loud thumping music was too much to bear.
Jenny grabbed his hand and hurried them to the beach front because she had seen a wedding ceremony taking place under a large golden-domed gazebo that jutted out over the waters edge. There was an old iron railing inside the open-arched structure with hundreds of different padlocks strung on it. Jenny pressed into Martin’s side as they looked on. The young couple added a lock, clamping it to the railing.
“How wonderful. I wish we had deep traditions like that.”
She hugged Martin.
“Well, it’s definitely appropriate.”
Jenny elbowed Martin in the side and gave a mock disappointed look.
They followed steps down the