To Russia With Love

The Story of Mark's Adoption

It is amazing how much a child can change one's life. Energize it, consume it, infuse it with new meaning and a different set of benefits and burdens. For most couples this experience first takes active shape with the birth of their biological child. For us, however, the experience was not realized until we had taken a trip to an orphanage located somewhere in the suburbs of Moscow, Russia where a certain 4 1/2 year old boy, named Maksim (whom we renamed "Mark"), had his home.

As with so many couples who adopt a child, the "gestation" leading to the delivery of this child into our lives started with an idea, a dream, conceived in the heart and brought to fruition through a long, circuitous journey full of stops and starts, hopes and setbacks. Instead of doctor checkups there were visits to the adoption agency; in lieu of Lamaze classes, there were social worker visits and homestudies; instead of the exercise of body, the exercise of hope and prayer. The process was, to borrow from Dickens, "...the best of times, the worst of times...the Spring of Hope, the Winter of Despair."

Off To Russia!

But finally on May 31, 1993 - a most Memorial Day for sure, the moment arrived for us to go to Russia! Our suitcases were filled to overflowing with our necessities, orphanage donations, and gifts. We realized that the next ten days would be full of "once-in-a-lifetime" experiences, and we wanted to absorb as much of our son's heritage as possible so that we could later share with him the beauties and realities of his country of birth.

Julie's parents had accepted our invitation to join us on this memorable trip, so we went as a foursome. We certainly appreciated having their emotional and logistical support (it was easier to spread the luggage requirements over four passengers instead of just two), and they were excited about not only witnessing first hand this very personal passage of our lives, but also about the opportunity to travel to a country that had all their lives seemed so inaccessible and forbidding from outside the Iron Curtain.

After leaving Detroit on a 6:45AM flight, and waiting in Kennedy airport in New York City until our 6:45PM flight that evening, we were on our way to Moscow, where we arrived almost nine hours later at about 11AM local time (3AM EST). The airport was replete with young men dressed in tired military uniforms, their dour expressions reflecting their ennui. They lined the narrow, dreary walkways through which we were funneled and gathered in small klatches near the immigration booths to which we soon arrived. The officials who quietly examined our passports and visas were similarly reticient. Our luggage came quickly enough, but we had to wait about an hour to get through customs, in part because of our confusion over which forms and lines we were to use.

On the other side of the line of custom booths we spotted Andrei, a bilingual Russian acquaintance of a friend of ours, who had volunteered to act as our interpreter and tour guide when he heard of our mission. Andrei became a good friend and confidante during our stay, offering not only interpretations of Russian language but also of Russian history, customs and traditions as they manifested themselves in our environs.

Russian Driving Customs.

The forty-five minute ride into the City of Moscow aboard the "limousine" we had ordered through our travel agent introduced us to the driving customs in Russia. Driving, we were told, was a luxury - only one in ten Russians owned a car, creating an elite which was fully aware of its exalted status. Moreover, frequent mechanical problems in the poorly built Lada's and other Russian-made vehicles necessitated that the owner or driver of the car be adept in mechanical matters, and almost every car in which we drove during our trip had a set of tools in the trunk. Not surprisingly, we never saw any woman or elderly person driving a car. The pride of ownership, coupled with the high proportion of younger men behind the wheel, made driving more of an adventure than a routine.

This was certainly the case with the young "buck" who weaved his Volvo through traffic, almost in rhythm with the western rock music which blared from his cassette tape player. It is the motor vehicles, not the pedestrians, which have the right-of-way on the road. More than once pedestrians, old and young alike, were sent scurrying for the relative safety of the sidewalk as an unyielding automobile soared by. An American friend we met in Moscow later told us of the vengeance he got one day after enduring many close calls as a pedestrian. He purposefully stood a few feet off the curb of a wide roadway where traffic was comfortably passing closer to the middle, acting as if he sought to cross. Immediately to his left was a deep pothole. Before long a young driver anxious to rebuke him for his insolence, steered his car in the direction of our friend and had the momentary satisfaction of seeing him dart for safety at the last minute, just a few seconds before the car slammed its front left wheel into the pothole.

Welcome to Moscow.

We roared past patches of forest and farm fields, marveling that some farmers are still using horse drawn plows and crude farming implements, but before long we started entering the outer suburbs of Moscow. Nine million people call this City home. There are no subdivisions of single family homes here. Instead, we saw an unending sea of high-rise apartment buildings on either side of the road. The wide sidewalks were teeming with people as we got closer to the center of the City, and we began to notice the ubiquitous kiosks, selling everything from Coke to perfume and electronics, crowded in bunches on or along the sidewalks - the first signs of the incipient capitalism we had heard about.

We also soon noticed that Russia had not enacted or enforced any environmental laws, as the acrid air stung our eyes and nose and hung in a brownish gray hue over the city. Even newer buildings were quickly made old by it, helped along in this regard by the generally poor standards of construction. As we saw often during our stay, many public buildings had major structural scars and defects - concrete stairs dangerously crumbled, holes in the floor covered by large sheets of plywood, leaking pipes spilling into overflowing buckets. At times it could be very frustrating for us as telephones did not work, doors did not shut, unlit hallways led to unpleasant bumps, etc., but this condition of contented dilapidation was pervasive and seemed accepted as inevitable by the people.

Valentina.

Our journey from the airport ended at the fenced and guarded Danilov Hotel, a former dormitory of the Russian Orthodox Church converted to an upscale hotel in the entrepreneurial spirit of the times. After checking in, and surrendering our passports for "registration" (this, we learned, is standard operating procedure for foreign tourists - the passports are returned within an hour), we met Valentina, our adoption facilitator who had processed our adoption petition through the Russian legal system prior to our arrival and who was guiding us through the final steps of acquiring the documents necessary to satisfy the U.S. requirements for international adoption. Valentina was the orphanage doctor who had specifically championed Maksim's cause and persevered through a difficult process of getting the appropriate ministerial approvals for our adoption of him.

Life for her had not been particularly kind. Now about fifty years old, she had one child, an adult daughter who was pursuing a career as an opera singer. Her husband had committed suicide a few years back under circumstances that were never discussed. She, herself, appeared to rely heavily on alcohol and chain smoking to get through life. But despite all of her burdens she was deeply involved with the orphan children under her supervision, and was clearly dedicated in particular to furthering Maksim's prospects in life. We came to learn that on several occasions she had Maksim stay with her at her apartment for the weekend and had taken him on trips to the zoo and other outings. We laughed at her telling of the time Maksim tossed her lipstick and other beauty products over her balcony rail into the snow below just because, well, because young boys think such mischief is fun. And now Valentina was laboring to send Maksim away to a country where she would most likely never see him again.

Quickly Down to Business.

After a few pleasantries, Valentina moved quickly to the matter at hand: "Are you ready to get Maksim?" she asked through Andrei's translation. "He is waiting for you." We were more ready to get some sleep, quite frankly, having been without rest for almost twenty-five hours, but Julie brushed the thought aside and quickly agreed on that course of action. Gordon felt too ashamed, and too brain numb, to protest.

First, we freshened up in our hotel rooms. Each room was a suite comprised of an anteroom full of closets and other storage areas; a sitting room complete with a desk, telephone, television, small refrigerator, two easy chairs and a sofa; a bedroom off the sitting room with two small twin beds (we never saw a double bed in any Russian hotel) and a night stand; and a bathroom off the anteroom with a bath and hand-held shower. In a novel plumbing touch which we saw in many places, the long bathtub faucet swiveled to serve also as the adjacent sink faucet. Hardwood floors were covered with short-napped rugs, and long pull curtains served as window coverings for the large windows which we could open into the garden area of the facility's grounds. All in all it was a "posh" hotel by Russian standards, and at $110 per night, including breakfast, it was reasonably priced. Oh, yes, the bath soap "chunk" was too lye intensive, the shower curtain was hopelessly small for the tub, the toilet hissed constantly, the toilet paper was very coarse and the steam pipes in the bath stiffened the threadbare linen cloths which were about the size of dish towels, but we were not here to enjoy the accommodations. We were just thankful our basic needs were adequately met.

Mama and Papa are here!

We took two cars to the orphanage. In ours, a friendly man named Sergei expertly negotiated the inhospitable streets while we and Valentina discussed the status of the adoption process.[1] If not for our exhaustion and the singular purpose of our journey, we would have enjoyed more the sunny June afternoon with temperatures gently hovering at about 75 degrees. Poor Valentina and Andrei found the "heat" oppressive. After about a 45 minute trip through the sprawling suburbs of the city, we drove up to an old three story building, dwarfed amidst an army of apartment buildings surrounding it on adjoining property. Evidence that the structure served as a children's orphanage could be immediately seen in the sagging swing sets and teeter-totters which stood among the weeds, their once-bright colors having surrendered to rust. Above us a group of children who had been expecting us gathered excitedly at one of the dirty second story windows. One cried out in Russian, "My mama and papa are here." The others were too innocent and too curious to be envious.

First stop was the director's office. After exchanging pleasantries through Andrei, we listened to Valentina and the director, a woman of similar age, engage in discussion. A few minutes later a shy boy was escorted by his "orphanage mother" into the director's office, his wide eyes peering out from underneath a yellow cap, his feet tentatively padding along in his plastic sandals. It is hard to describe the mixture of intense emotion we felt as we stared searchingly at this young stranger who from now on we would call our son, watching him try to absorb the enormity of the moment and to understand the meaning of the tear's now flowing freely down Julie's face. Andrei quickly explained to him, at Julie's prompting, that her tears were ones of joy, not disappointment. Soon Valentina had Maksim on her lap while she asked him some basic school room questions, both to make him more comfortable and to demonstrate his intelligence.

Meanwhile, Gordon and Andrei sat down with the director to finish some business. Since we were taking Maksim with us that day, the director wanted us to sign an inventory of the clothes we were taking with us. Not that we needed any of them, but we thought that wearing familiar clothes would provide him some comfort during the rapid transition of the next days and weeks. Using paper and carbon paper the director slowly wrote out the short list of the only worldly possessions Maksim could claim. Actually he could not claim even those items, since clothing at the orphanage is routinely distributed to the children without regard to who previously might have worn them.

After this we received a brief tour of the facilities and met the women on staff who were responsible for Maksim's group of about twelve children. All on the staff received us warmly and were almost as happy as we were. Tears were shed and hugs were exchanged; everyone was delighted that Maksim now had a family. Although there were many in the upper echelons of the Russian government who opposed the adoption of the nation's children by foreigners and bemoaned the effect of their loss on the nation's future, we found uniform support of the process at the orphanage level, where the immediate needs of the children and their right to be raised in a family environment were given greater weight than abstractions regarding national interests. In fact, more than once, especially since this trip, we witnessed or heard about officials at the local levels of government and administration overcoming adverse laws, politics and bureaucracy to make a way for their charges to have a normal family life overseas.

Maksim's room looked like a kindergarten classroom, with paints and toys carefully arranged on wood shelves, and learning materials neatly placed about the room. Unlike a classroom, however, twelve small wooden beds lined up in three rows were located in the center of the room. We learned that almost all of his group's structured activities occurred in this area, except for occasional excursions outdoors when the weather permitted. Meals, such as a potato and apple sauce for supper with some hard bread, were eaten at the same small desks where schoolwork was performed. Despite the limitations of the facilities, the children appeared to be happy. There was a lot of physical affection between the children and the caregivers, which we were glad to see. After distributing some gifts we had brought for the staff (cosmetics, perfume, lotions, gum, wallets) and presenting the children's clothes and vitamins that we had brought, we left with Maksim for the hotel.

Our First Night As Parents.

At 7 PM local time we returned to our hotel, too exhausted to think. But Maksim was wide awake, hungry, ready to have some fun with his new family, to explore the huge world that he had never seen. His initial tentativeness had by now evaporated. He sensed that it was "fun time" and he was determined not to miss any of it. We were amused watching him experience some "firsts" which would be boringly ordinary for an American child his age. His first ride in a car, the first time to stick his head out the window and feel the rush of wind blowing on his face (even though it had started to rain), the first time to crank the car window up and down, up and down - touching, prodding and poking everything as if he were trying to experience all of life at once.

Being hungry, our thoughts turned to finding a place to eat. The restaurant in the hotel seemed to make the most sense, but we were advised upon arrival that there was a requirement that we were to make a reservation at the restaurant in the morning if we planned to eat there that evening. HOWEVER, in consideration of the young child, and by the mere fortuity of the cancellation of someone else's reservation, they had a table for us all prepared. "Please come this way." Five weary sheep (and one frolicking lamb) followed their shepherd to green pastures. And how green they were! There before us was a white-clothed table already set up and graced with a collection of fine Russian dishes, mostly cold salads and appetizers. Perhaps because we had been up nearly 32 hours, perhaps because of the distraction of the day's events, we failed to question how much this was going to cost. But so what, given the special events of the day, a little extra for a celebratory meal was wholly appropriate. Hot dishes followed the salads, and tea and some dessert finished off a splendid tour of Russian cuisine. Then came the bill: $227, despite no alcoholic beverages. Snap! We had fallen into the trap. Someone later told us that restaurants in Russia sometimes pull this trick on unsuspecting foreigners - the preset table, the convenient "you're-in-luck" cancellation which provides you with a table, and, of course, the whopping bill which the victim feels too stupid to fight. Anyway, from then on we were careful to price out our meals in advance of ordering them, and we learned that one typically received better prices if he ordered off of the "ruble" menu instead of the convenient English menu with "special" English prices.

Patience Is the Key.

The next day was busy, although not much was accomplished. Rush hour traffic caused us to miss the 9:30A session at the U.S. Embassy where prospective adoptive parents from the United States are advised as to the requirements for obtaining a visa for their adopted child. Even though we were aware of the requirements already and had obtained the relevant information, it was strongly urged (now required) that parents attend the session at the Embassy before completing the adoption process.

A visit to the translators followed. Since the Immigration and Naturalization Service ("INS") requires that all documents be translated into English by a certified translator, it is typical that this step is one of the last in the process. Although all translations were to have been completed by now, we find out that the work is not yet done. "Come again tomorrow." This situation is not unusual, we came to find out. Time and time again promises of performance by officials and others were shamelessly broken, often without the attempt of an excuse. "Maybe tomorrow." People we needed to see did not show up for appointments, or were not in their offices during normal working hours. Documents were lost or prepared incorrectly, despite detailed instructions. Yet despite all of these setbacks (or perhaps because they are so common) Valentina remained unflappable. At first we were disappointed that Valentina was not more assertive, but we soon came to appreciate her patience and quiet persistence. One learns quickly that expressions of frustration or demands for performance are futile and counterproductive. There is no incentive for doing the job right or on time. It is like pushing with a straw: push too hard or too quickly and the process will get bent out of shape, perhaps permanently.

Exploring Russian Culture.

Despite the slow progress on the "business" part of our trip, we had much more success and satisfaction in the "pleasure" part. We greatly enjoyed taking Maksim to the zoo, where haggard-looking animals aimlessly paced their bare concrete cages, a reflection of the plight of the human population here. Maksim, however, was quickly learning the pleasures of ice cream on a warm summer afternoon. Cold drinks were available from concession stands where one was handed a softdrink bottle and a small glass. When you were finished, you returned the glass, which was then rinsed in cold water and returned to the tray ready for a future customer. Apparently, even germs are part of the "all things in common" philosophy still operating in the country. We also visited Red Square, where we toured the St. Basil's cathedral, the GUM (a large indoor mall, full of European imports that only the small but growing class of parvenu can afford) and the Kremlin. The evenings found us at other cultural outings, such as a performance of Sleeping Beauty at a theater in the Kremlin.

And then there was also a performance of Swan Lake at the Bolshoi Theater where Gordon was introduced to the reality that young boys have small bladders. Because our group could not get seats together, we split up. Maksim and Gordon were to sit together in one of the upper balconies. It took Gordon a long time to find where their section and seat were, as he received conflicting instructions from the ushers who did not speak English. After the doors had closed for the start of the performance, one usher disgustedly rushed them to their seats, which required several in the audience to shift around while Gordon and Maksim worked their way to two empty chairs in the middle of a row. There were several mumbled protests in Russian, but Gordon could only weakly smile in response. Fortunately, the conductor soon ascended the podium and the performance got under way. Gordon was just beginning to enjoy the opening strands of Swan Lake when he heard the dreaded words: "Peesit, Papa!" Even in Russian the message was clear, and Maksim's gyrations confirmed it was one which could not be ignored without disaster. So, with all the grace he could muster he carried Maksim out, trying to step on different feet this time to distribute the misery equitably. Well, he could not find a bathroom. Perhaps some of the cyrillic "hieroglyphics" on the wall would have helped a native, but they were of no help to him. Meanwhile, Maksim's clutching and moaning, which requires no translation, told him that time was running out. Finally, two floors down they happened upon a coat checker who, quickly apprising the situation, pointed them to a restroom door. As they raced to it, Gordon noticed it was a women's bathroom! He looked back at the woman, but she strenuously gestured that they should use the facilities. Gordon tried briefly to determine whether it was worse to be arrested in Russia for using a women's bathroom or, well, the alternative. In one of those moments where you just "do what you have to do", Gordon followed Maksim into the (vacant, phew!) restroom where the crisis was quickly resolved. The rest of the performance Gordon and Maksim spent downstairs in the lobby eating ice cream and chasing each other around a huge pillar. Welcome to fatherhood!

We also enjoyed going to a local open air produce market where the evidence of the old economic order and new economic order could be seen in dramatic contrast. In one area were tables of produce grown on State-run farms attended to by sullen State employees - the old order. The vegetables and fruits on those tables lay as and where they were dropped. Bored clerks stood by their sad offerings with all the snap and enthusiasm of a wet kleenex. They acted almost annoyed at us for disturbing their stupor with questions. In another area, however, produce from Georgia (a southern portion of Russia) was piled high in neat stacks on clean tables - the new order. As soon as we walked by, the smiling Georgian vendors offered the "beautiful ladies" a flower, and the rest of us a free sample of their goods. Their sales pitches were as highly polished as the neatly stacked fruit on their tables. Their offerings were clearly superior, and after haggling over prices a little bit (which the vendors clearly anticipated and enjoyed), a sale was made, we smiled our good-byes and walked cheerfully to next area.

Finishing up the "Paperwork".

All in all, that first week had been full of adventure. And despite the sometimes frustrating delays and detours, our paperwork was getting done. We had obtained photographs of Maksim for his visa, had his required physical examination at one of the Embassy-approved medical facilities (which charged $225 for a cursory ten minute examination - further evidence that American economic ways are taking hold in Russia) and had finished the translations and notarizations of our documents. We had also visited the office of one of the Ministry of Education officials who had been a major source of obstruction in the months prior to our trip. Her position on Maksim's adoption had turned like a weathervane. She often introduced new "requirements", like suddenly requiring that Julie and Gordon have a test for AIDS, and had raised seemingly silly and pointless questions regarding our dossier at different times. In each case we tried to comply patiently with her demands while enduring the emotional roller coaster ride her behavior caused. But now, as we stood in her office, there remained no signs of opposition, and she acted as if she had been a glad champion of the cause all along. It was all smiles as we delivered the fax machine she had all but demanded as a gift. She gushed over Maksim and his new family, and seemed to appreciate especially that his prospective grandparents also had made the trip. At one point she asked Maksim how he felt about his new parents. He told her he loved his mama and papa. Satisfied, she let us go.

The only things that remained to be done were getting Maksim's Russian passport and obtaining from the U.S. Embassy the immigrant visa permitting his entry and residence in the United States. These were the efforts of the second week. Ordinarily, getting a passport in Russia requires at least a three week wait. However, a financial inducement can reduce the time period to a day. Obtaining the immigrant visa for Maksim required a scheduled interview with an INS representative at the U.S. Embassy at which time our documents were reviewed for completeness and compliance with the requirements of U.S. law. One matter of primary importance was providing proof that the child was truly an "orphan" under U.S. law. Our country does not want to be seen as facilitating the "buying" by Americans of children from established but destitute families to satisfy a U.S. market for adopted children.

For us, in addition to providing evidence of our satisfaction of the Russian legal requirements for international adoption, this meant demonstrating that Maksim's biological mother had legally released her rights to Maksim, that she was not married at the time so that no father's rights needed to be released, and that Maksim had remained in the orphanage since that time without any relatives having visited him or having sought to claim him. It struck us as somewhat sad and ironic that the silence in his records as to contacts by his biological relatives was the very thing that enhanced his adoptablity. Maksim was asked if he understood what was happening. In Russian he calmly responded that he "was going to America on a plane." After the twenty minute interview and a wait of several hours (during which we went to one of the two McDonald's then in Moscow), a visa was issued and all was official. Maksim was ours and we could take him home to his new world!

The Final Good-Bye.

There remained one last excursion, however. It was Wednesday, June 9, and we were confirmed on a flight out of Moscow to New York the next morning. (One must reconfirm even "confirmed" reservations no later than 72 hours prior to flight time in order to avoid having one's reservation cancelled). Loaded down with some candy and a banana for each of the children Maksim was leaving behind, we traveled to Orphanage No. 1 one last time to say good-bye. Dressed in his new American clothes, Maksim quickly warmed up to his role as the center of attention, and had a great time passing out his food gifts to his erstwhile companions. We found out later that fresh fruit was a novelty for the orphanage children. It was something to watch the children devour the bananas, savoring each mouthful, even gnawing on the inside of the peel to get the last bite. There were more smiles, tears and well-wishes as we said our good-byes. Maksim's orphanage mother presented Maksim with a little gift - his favorite toy, a rickety dump truck that was held together by metal tabs bent through slots cut out of the attached pieces. Seeing the few toys there were on the shelves, it represented a sacrifice.

The congregation, including the excited children, moved outside to the parking area where the kids stood admiring the car Maksim was now sitting in. They all seemed happy for Maksim, as if his good fortune gave to each of them fresh hope of someday being part of a family. There was one exception, however. A little girl named Olga, who had been one of Maksim's favorite playmates, stood a little in the background with tears in her eyes as her friend's departure became imminent. Soon the orphanage mother brought Olga up to the car to say one more good-bye. Maksim felt uncomfortable watching her cry. So, he did the one thing he could think of to comfort her: he gave her his toy dump truck. It's what often made him happy, maybe it would help her to be happy again, too.

Homeward Bound.

The trip back home promised to be as arduous as the trip there, particularly because of the new addition to the team. Although Andrei had helped us so much by teaching us Russian phrases that he felt we might need, such as the Russian equivalent's of "come here", "that is not permitted", "are you hungry?", "eat", "why are you crying", "everything will be all right" and "good boy", we still were not conversant enough with Maksim to satisfy his thirst for information or his need for control. Having lived such a highly structured life, he felt uncomfortable not knowing the precise schedule for the day. We had brought with us on the trip a small "walkman" cassette tape recorder and a tape on which our adoption coordinator in the States spoke in soothing Russian tones about what was going on - about the airplane, his parents, his changing world. He listened to that tape with the intensity of a frightened child clutching a security blanket, listening to it over and over again throughout the trip home.

Even so, the force of emotions that understandably overwhelmed him made him wild, inconsolable and, at times, uncontrollable on the trip home. Among other things, he kept pressing the steward button even though we told him "that is not permitted", until a flight attendant finally had to speak sternly to him in Russian. The Russian language, the language of authority, seemed to work. In his world, those that could not speak it were the weak ones, the ones without authority. But that changed when in his new world everyone spoke English. It was a very long and wearying nine hours, but it felt so good to touch down on American soil in New York City around 4:00PM EST. Even though it was only late afternoon locally, Maksim had been awake 17 1/2 stressful hours. After picking up our luggage and going through customs, we headed to the Immigration Office with our Visa packet. By 6:00PM we are finally able to greet Gordon's father who was taking us to his house for a "welcome home" feast and then on to Gordon's mother's home for the night. The plans were that we would fly to Detroit the next day, spend the night at Julie's sister's house and then drive home to Grand Rapids, Michigan the morning after.

A far spent Maksim conked out in the front seat of the car on the way from Kennedy Airport. We wondered how long it would be before his dreams were in English. By the time we finally got to bed that night Maksim's orphanage companions had already started their new day nearly 5000 miles on the other side of the globe. In a few hours, "Mark" would be starting his.

Julie and Gordon Thomas live in East Grand Rapids with their three Eastern European-born children - Mark, Laura and Jenny.

[1] Our adoption of Mark predated the Russian laws currently in place which require, among other things, that both parents appear before a Russian judge who evaluates their suitability as parents and renders a decision on that issue ten days or so later. We were saved from the time consumption and uncertainty of the new procedures, as all of the Russian requirements for our adoption of Mark could be and were performed by Valentina on our behalf through powers of attorney before we arrived in the country.

© Julie and Gordon Thomas