Excerpt from:
by Rich Hall
RETURN TO MAIN PAGE
Chapter 6: Return to Votkinsk
March 2006
Rita and I sat quietly in the backseat of the black Mercedes being driven by our regional coordinator, Ivan. Mercedes are somewhat scarce in Russia, especially outside of Moscow, and I couldn’t help but think that the business of adoptions must be a pretty profitable one. We were headed from the Izhevsk airport to the town of Votkinsk, a little over an hour’s drive. Votkinsk is the birth place of renowned composer Tchaikovsky. It is also the birthplace of the Topol-M ballistic missile capable of hitting the United States. Andrey was in the orphanage there, recovering from a recent bout of chicken pox that had kept us from returning sooner.
Ivan, in his black leather jacket, struck me as a cross between Tony Soprano and Ernest Borgnine. He was constantly picking up and barking Russian into one of the three cell phones he had sitting on the dash. Not understanding what was said, I worried that he was talking to someone about our case and that something had gone terribly wrong. Ivan was a fast talker, and an even faster driver on this two lane road that was impossible to see under all the snow. I looked down to see if I could tighten my seatbelt any further. I glanced over to Rita to make sure she was wearing hers.
In the front passenger seat was Ivan’s assistant, Mila. Mila was a beautiful, petite, young, fiery redhead with an expression of indifference cast in stone upon her face, and a punk-style to her dress. She too was constantly on her cell phone. At various points in her conversation, Ivan would grab the phone from Mila and brusquely add his two cents. I thought how Russians, in general, needed to lighten-up and enjoy life more. On the other hand, I believe many of those same Russians found us Americans to be annoying with our constant joking, smiling, and overly optimistic view of life. The longer I stayed in Russia, the more I was coming around to their point of view.
Rita and I gazed out at the passing hills and falling snow. The landscape alternated between patches of pine trees and white snow covered hills. Russia was a beautiful country away from the crowded cities.
Turning to Rita, I said, “I wonder where we’re going to stay?”
“I don’t know but I hope it’s better than the sanitarium where we stayed in December,” said Rita.
“Maybe we’ll even get to sleep in the same room together this time,” I said laughing, remembering the separate rooms at the sanitarium, each with a single twin bed.
Small gray wooden houses suddenly appeared indicating we had finally arrived in Votkinsk. There was a sense of beauty that went along with the poverty that these houses represented. The houses were built in a “gingerbread” carved wooden style with latticed eaves and window panes. They were similar to the houses we had seen almost a year and a half earlier in Siberia, on our first visit to a Russian orphanage. I imagined a gust of wind suddenly blowing these houses over, such was their dilapidated state.
As we passed through Votkinsk, the lake alongside the town came into view and I could see it was still frozen over even though it was already the middle of March.
“Look, the ice fishermen are still out on the lake,” said Rita.
Possibly a hundred dots were scattered across the lake, each representing one man sitting alone on a bucket, looking down at a hole in the ice where his fishing line disappeared. When we were here in December, the dots on the lake were multiplied tenfold. I thought about how easy the ice fishermen have it in Minnesota with their ice shanty to keep them warm. Out on the ice in Votkinsk, the men had nothing but their fur hats, winter coats, backs to the wind, and perhaps a bottle of vodka to keep them warm.
The houses on the outskirts of town were soon replaced by large apartment buildings. I was reminded of the housing projects back in Chicago, standing grim, bleak, and menacing against the sky, places to be avoided. In Russia, apartment complexes like this are the norm and not the exception.
We pulled up to one of the smaller buildings. It was only five stories tall, but it still looked large and imposing. Chipped beige paint showed patches of white underneath. Balconies jutted out from the sides of the building, as though some miracle kept them from falling. Most of the balconies were enclosed by windows, giving the appearance of little sun rooms stuck to the outside walls.
Ivan motioned us out of the car as he popped the trunk and dumped our luggage into the brownish snow. A pack of stray dogs surrounded us. They appeared placid and weak; protruding rib cages advertising their hunger. The dogs kept a respectful distance away as we walked through them, although sometimes they were a little slow in moving out of our path. We passed through a thin metal door at the base of the building. Rusted and ill-fitted, it appeared to be all that stood between the dogs and the warmth inside.
The dimly lit stairwell smelled of urine. I tried my best not to let the suitcase touch anything as I followed Ivan up the stairs, Rita following behind me.
On the steps near the third floor, we had to navigate around a pile of dog vomit, thin wisps of vapor rising from it in the cold air. Rita and I would get to know this vomit well over the next few days. It was like a science project that we would check each time we went up or down the stairs, to see how well it had kept in the refrigerated stairwell.
My thoughts turned to my aching legs as we continued to climb. My lungs hurt with each breath as I struggled to make it up just one more step without dropping the heavy suitcase. At one point, a scraggly dog – no doubt the owner of the science project below – slinked past me going down the stairs in the other direction.
As we reached the fifth floor, Ivan was waiting with two women at the door of an apartment. He motioned for us to go inside.
I stepped from the stairwell into the apartment and found myself in a bright, clean world. This was going to be better than staying at the sanitarium. Ivan caught my attention by clearing his throat and motioning for us to take off our shoes so as not to allow the grime from the stairwell to get a foothold in this oasis.
“This is Alena, she take you to orphanage. I will be back three days.” With that, Ivan ran out the door and down the stairs. It was the first time that he had said anything to us about where we’d be staying.
“This is Galena and her daughter Alena,” Mila said. “They will not be staying at the apartment with you, but will come back and cook for you. Alena will take you to the orphanage each day and will be your translator.”
“Zdra-vstv-uitye,” we all said as we shook hands with each other. Hello in Russian.
“I must go now, goodbye” Mila said as she rushed after Ivan.
Alena was a tiny thing; a beautiful 25-year-old, more simply dressed than most Russian women her age. She was wearing a light blue sweater and a pair of tight-fitting, black corduroy pants. This was the one outfit that she would usually wear each day. Shoulder-length, straight dark brown hair framed her lightly freckled face, which showed the definite features of Asian descent. She was Tatar, a Mongolian people who invaded Eastern Europe back in the 13th century. They were known as proud, ferocious, violent-tempered people. We discovered that Alena and Galena considered themselves more Tatar than Russian, and very proud of their heritage.
Galena had a smiling, friendly face and an easy-going, pleasant demeanor. She seemed to be happy, something we found to be rare in Russia. She was a stout woman who appeared to be in her fifties, with red hair and a pale complexion that seemed to indicate more Russian blood than Tatar.
“Please, I will show you where you stay,” Alena said.
Alena led us to a room that I could see was her bedroom. There was a full size bed low to the ground with a thin mattress on it. A wardrobe stood against a wall and stuffed animals sat across the top of it. There was a group photo of several couples who appeared to be dressed up for a school dance. Another photo showed Alena posing with her date for that same night. It looked very much like an American high school prom.
“These are very nice pictures,” Rita said. “Where were they taken?”
“They were taken when I was in high school in Utah,” said Alena.
Alena could see the puzzled look on Rita’s face.
“I was foreign exchange student,” said Alena. “Do you know Mormons? I was exchange student for one year in Utah, near Salt Lake City.” Votkinsk is the official sister city of West Jordan, a suburb of Salt Lake City.
“My English was much better when I spoke it everyday. Now it is not so good since I do not get to speak it so much,” Alena continued.
“Your English is very good,” said Rita. “Does your mother speak English?”
“No, my mother does not speak English,” said Alena. “I am trying to teach it to her.”
We followed Alena from the bedroom into the living room. I noticed a large bookcase covering one wall. In the bookcase was a Koran. It was in Russian, but by this time, Rita and I had learned how to read the Cyrillic alphabet. I had no trouble making out the word Koran on the spine.
“I think they are Muslim,” I whispered to Rita, pointing to the Koran with my eyes.
Galena entered the room. She and Alena started talking to each other in Russian. I could see that something was bothering them.
“My mother is worried you will not like food she has for you to eat,” Alena said.
“That won’t be a problem as long as it’s not pork. I’m allergic to pork,” I replied.
My response triggered another discussion in Russian, and I began to fear that pork was the only thing they had for us to eat. It didn’t occur to me at the time that, if they were Muslim, they would not be serving pork.
Finally Alena said, “We do not have pork because … I am not sure how to tell you this. We are … um … Muslim. Will that be a problem for you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “We noticed the Koran on the bookshelf so we assumed you were Muslim.”
“This is not a problem for you?” Alena asked again.
“No,” I said. “Why do you think it would be a problem?”
She replied, “Everyone knows that all Americans think all Muslims are terrorists.”
Later that night, I saw Alena and her mother get into one of those discussions again. I could see a look of worry on Galena’s face. Alena approached us.
“My mother and I are sorry we have not left apartment yet. We have been unable to find somewhere else to stay for tonight,” she said.
“Why don’t you just stay here?” I said. “I don’t understand why you have to leave.”
“Ivan told us we have to leave because Americans want privacy,” she replied. “He said you told him you want us to leave apartment.”
“Rita and I said no such thing,” I said. “We expected you to stay here and were surprised when we were told you would be leaving for the night. You have to stay here, this is your home and we are your guests. If you were visiting us in the U.S., we would not leave our home.”
I could see the relief on Galena’s face as Alena translated what I had said.
“Spah-see-ba, spah-see-ba,” Galena said. Thank you, thank you in Russian. From that moment on, we were treated more like family than guests.
Later that night, after Rita and Galena had both gone to bed, Alena and I stayed up watching television. We were watching a Russian version of the sitcom The Nanny. It was not dubbed and had Russian actors. Sitting there watching the show brought a sense of familiarity to me; a feeling of being at home. It was a chance to finally relax.
Suddenly, Alena asked, “Is it true all blacks are … um … how you say … rude?”
“Where did you hear that?” I asked.
“When I was in Utah,” she said.
“Well,” I said, “Saying that all blacks are rude is like saying all Muslims are terrorists.”
I saw a look of doubt cross her face as though I had fed her a line of propaganda.
At that point, I said goodnight and headed off to bed. My thoughts turned to Andrey. I went to bed that night feeling both excitement and apprehension. I was excited about the prospect of becoming a father. I was apprehensive about that same prospect. What do I know about being a father?
RETURN TO MAIN PAGE
© 2007 by Richard Hall. All Rights Reserved.