Shampoo

It was hot.

Somehow, heat has a way of bothering Russians. As soon as the weather hits 75, they begin to lament the fact that they're alive. When July rolls around and the mid-afternoon temperatures get to somewhere around 90 degrees Fahrenheit, it's tough to find a happy person. Old grandmas who smile and cheerfully greet you on the street when it's -25 and the icicles are large enough to kill a person who might be foolish enough to walk under them, turn into mean old women.

Even this American was thinking a trip to the river was about the best idea in the world (but then, it doesn't take much to get me into water - just about any kind of water). We couldn't go to the river, though - it was 3 miles away, and though that's a nice trip by bicycle, a couple of the more...shall we say resourceful boys had taken all the bikes apart and sold the parts so they could buy cigarettes. So, no bikes = no swimming.

Tempers were rather short, and who could really blame the kids? They were every bit as Russian as the grumpy old women who were sitting in the shade, wishing for snow.

I sat amongst a group of kids, trying to think of exactly what to do to break the monotony.

"It's so hot; I'm gonna explode." Vera sighed, fanning herself with her small hands.

"Jen, think of something to do! I'm so bored I'm gonna explode." Tanya, another girl, addressed me as she absently kicked her sandal off and watched it land about a metre away.

I considered the options. We still had a good 2 hours until dinner; inside several of the younger kids were watching a Brazilian soap opera. I shuddered. Think of something to entertain them - anything but soap operas!

"We could play volleyball." The volleyball was still flat from Vlad's temper tantrum that had sent it smashing through a window the week before, but not so flat we couldn't make it work.

"Nah, we already played volleyball for like 30 hours today."

"There's only 24 hours in a day, though."

"You know what I mean. Volleyball is boring. I'm sick of volleyball."

I conceded that, unfortunately, it had been an overused activity as of late.

"Well..." I racked my brain, but everything I could think of, I instantly shot down before it became a suggestion.

We could go on a walk, but...as bored as these kids are, they'd find some sort of mischief to get into and I'd come back with half the number I'd left with.

We could have a water fight, but the lady on duty hates anything loud - she's likely to send them all to bed right after dinner if we do.

We could...play a game, but they already think they're too old to play games.

"This is dumb. I'm going to wash my hair." Vera rose to go inside, and suddenly, I had an epiphany.

"Girls! I have an awesome idea."

They knew that tone in my voice - immediately I had the attention of seven girls and two boys who had been building something in the sandbox.

"What is it?!" Anya nearly jumped up and down. For a split second I stopped and just took in the faces before me. There was something overwhelming about the amount of trust they had in me - something that made me realize how hard we'd worked to earn that trust, and how hard we must continue to work never to let them down.

I reached into my pocket and came up with a few rubles, knowing my idea wasn't exactly going to be a free one. It would be worth it, though.

"Hold on; you'll see in a second."

I went inside, followed closely by several curious, excited kids.

Approaching the caretaker on duty, I knew I'd sound ridiculous before I even started, but...well, sometimes you just have to sound ridiculous.

"Anna Alexandrovna, I was wondering if you still have those big bottles of shampoo we gave the kids."

My friend and I had been blessed with money for gifts for the orphanage from friends in the states, and we'd been able to go buy all sorts of useful supplies at the beginning of the summer.

"Of course we do. Do you need it?" She was already moving to unlock the supply cabinet.

"Well, actually, I'd like to buy it from you. Or I can go tomorrow and buy another one to replace it."

Her look should have been photographed; these ladies were used to out-of-the-ordinary requests and statements from us, but still we caught them off guard every once in a while.

"You don't have to buy your own shampoo! You're the one who bought it in the first place! Here, take it!"

I took it, but once again, reiterated that I wasn't just taking it; I'd replace it.

Turning to the girls, I saw several perplexed faces, a couple of eager ones, and one - predictably so - disgusted.

"Shampoo? There's nothing exciting about shampoo. That's stupid; I'm leaving."

Ah, Yuliya - always quick to judge, never patient enough to see things through...

I held up the bottle of shampoo and shrugged.

"If you don't think it's exciting, you don't have to join us." I walked to the washroom, still surrounded by a group of girls.

"Okay, girls - we're all gonna wash our hair." The tone in my voice still suggested to all of them that we were going to have more fun than usual, so they quickly dunked their heads under the faucets. It was then I saw that the curious caretaker had followed us and was watching suspiciously from the doorway. I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile at her, and she shrugged, then returned to her place in front of the TV.

As soon as the girls' hair was wet, I announced we were going to play. Squeezing a generous amount of shampoo into my hand, I walked over to Vera and began to lather up her hair. The rest of the girls stood, hair dripping, watching rather warily, until I began to form it into spikes and other silly things. Their laughter was like salve to my soul, and they all quickly caught on. Over the next hour we had everything from Santa Claus beard contests to mohawks. At one point one of the caretakers, a different lady, came marching in and began to reprimand the group - me included, she wasn't discriminatory - for wasting shampoo.

"But it's Jenni's shampoo; she's letting us use it!" Once this was confirmed, the lady told me in a rather frustrated tone that I shouldn't waste such a thing as my shampoo on orphans.

I figured a $2 bottle of shampoo was a small price for 2 hours of happiness and innocent fun - but then, like I said, I thought a lot of things they considered were weird.

The boys joined our fun as well - although with the classic orphanage haircut - buzzed with long bangs left in front, all we could really do was give them soap beards. It was pretty awesome, though.

As we were cleaning up and getting ready to go to dinner, one of the girls asked me a question I will never forget.

"Jenni, when you have kids of your own, will you let them play with shampoo like we did today?"

"Of course I will!" I smiled, and she glanced over her shoulder before continuing.

"Just don't forget, okay? It's important. When you have kids, make sure you love them. Make sure they know that you love them."

I won't forget. And I will never forget the amazing things I learned living in a Russian orphanage - nor will I forget the 130 kids I tried every day to make sure knew I loved them.

Back with more stories...

Nearly 3 years ago, I wrote the last post on this blog. I apologize for abandoning it; life took quite a few turns I did not expect!! I was able to return to 'my' kids, and then was returned to the States due to changes in registration and visa policies. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as I returned to college in the fall of 2008, studied for 2 semesters in California, then 1 semester in Israel, and, by God's grace, met the man of my dreams!

That's right - I'm married! He is absolutely amazing. My husband is my best friend and the most wonderful man in the world (although I will admit, I am just a bit biased. :o) ). He is finishing his last year of college, after which we plan to return to Russia together, prayerfully continuing to reach out with the hope of the Gospel.

As I am now finally able to catch up and continue writing a bit, I plan to do so as much as time will allow. I hope and pray these stories will continue to be a blessing and a help to whoever they may!

What is this place?

Anton was an optimist. You had to be, living the kind of life he lived. 12 years ago, he hadn't even been on this earth - and already, he was fully capable of taking care of himself. The only annoying bit was that nobody over the age of 18 seemed to agree that he was indeed capable of doing things on his own.
He liked his life - and the freedom it afforded. The first year after his mother died had been tough - emotionally, and financially. Though he'd been stealing and begging coins off rich people for years to keep her fed and his needs met, it was still a shock to be completely on his own.
Anton, though, was not only an optimist - he was resourceful. It was nearly a year and a half after his mother's death that the cops first caught him. He fought like a hero, but 11-year-old boys are rarely victorious over determined militia men, and it was then - 3 months ago and only four days shy of his 12th birthday that Anton found himself seated in a hard-backed chair, arms folded across his skinny chest, staring at the wall directly to the left of the officer's head. Eye contact would be admitted defeat - and, though physically they could bring him to this place, they couldn't force him to talk, or maintain eye contact. Now it was a battle of wills - and he was not the least bit concerned that his stubbornness could not outlast that of the officer.

The officer himself - a slightly overweight man who'd forgotten to take his hat off when he'd entered the building, was no pushover. His experience told him the moment the boy sat down what kind of an evening this would be. Here he saw kids from all different backgrounds - and it didn't take a genius to be able to tell a home kid from a street kid. Home kids were easy to spot - by the time you got them here, the Juvenile room at the jail, they were scared to death that you'd tell their folks. They'd fidget, and stare at the floor, and sometimes they'd cry. They usually volunteered all the information about their crimes before you so much as yelled at them.
There were different kinds of street kids, too. Some would be drunk - some loud, and some, like this one, hiding something. There were kids who would stare you in the eye, daring you to be the one to break eye contact. They were the easy ones - trying to prove how strong they were.
The boy before him proved to be a bit more of a challenge - his refusal to make eye contact at all showed his determination not to reveal whatever it was he was hiding.
After staring at the skinny kid for several moments, the officer began.

"So. What's your name?"
The silence that followed his question was not surprising, and he continued without hesitation.
"Obviously you don't get it. You're in my office now. You play by my rules here. This is how it goes - I ask a question, you answer me. Got it?"
The boy almost imperceptibly nodded his head, and the officer settled back in his chair.

"I asked you what your name is. I won't wait all night."

"My name is Anton."

"Last name."

"I don't know." It was a common answer, most often the kids were lying.

"If you lie to me, I'll break your head open. Now what is your last name?"

"I don't remember. I'm not lying." The boy was composed, but there was a slight tremble in his voice.
The officer stared hard at him for a moment, then shuffled the papers on his desk briskly. He'd learned that this had a rather unnerving effect on his charges.

"So you don't remember. Do you have parents?"

Again, the slight nod.

"Where do they live? I want to talk to them about their 10-year-old son being caught stealing."

"I'm not 10, I'm almost 12."

"I don't care how old you are. Where do your parents live?"

Still the boy hadn't made eye contact. He sat silently, wondering how he might escape this situation. Absently his eyes wandered to a painting of a stern-looking man on the wall. He remembered hearing about the man in school, several years back. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the name...

A sudden pain in his left ear brought him back to the present, and he realized the officer had left his desk and was now holding Anton's ear in a powerful grip.

"I told you once, boy, I don't have time to play games here. If you don't want to cooperate, I'll lock you up forever, and your parents will never see their little boy again."

Anton held out for a moment longer, but, after nearly having been lifted off his feet, gave in.

The secret he'd held and guarded for so long came spilling out.

"I...I don't have parents. I don't live anywhere."


Now, as he sat on a bus, Anton thought back to that night three weeks ago, when that one admission had changed the entire course of his life. It was somewhat upsetting, but, being the optimist he was, the 12-year old merely sat back wondering how best to take advantage of his situation. If there was one thing he'd learned on the streets, it was to be flexible. Work with what you've got, and make the best of every situation. If you couldn't do that, you'd be dead sooner than you knew.

The bus on which he sat was a typical one - the lady seated next to him had come all the way to the detention center in which he'd been living to 'collect him', as they put it. She was a nice lady - something about her put him at ease - she was pretty easy-going, which was unusual. She was rather plump, and smiled more often than most, and she confessed as soon as the bus was rolling along towards his new home that she loved eating sunflower seeds, as though this were some sort of underhanded habit. Anton was rather surprised when she offered him a handful of the small black seeds, but for a good half an hour afterwards they sat in companionable silence, holding the sunflower seeds in one hand, spitting the shells into the other, and staring out the window at the passing scenery.

After a while, the woman started up a rather one-sided conversation. Anton was still guarding himself, and purposely refused to volunteer information or appear interested, but that didn't seem to bother her - in fact, she seemed to expect it.

"So, has anyone told you about this place you're going to be living in?"
He sat silently for a moment, then just shrugged his shoulders. Let her think he didn't care.

"I figured as much. They never seem to think you care. It's your life, and they don't even think to inform you of the facts, just pack you up and away you go with some strange lady."

Anton was listening intently now.

"So this place is a boarding school. It's got a little over a hundred kids right now. It's for kids who...well, who have a hard time in school."

"For idiots." The interjection was harsh, as Anton was more than a little insulted at being sent to one of these 'special' places.

"No, not idiots. Well, I mean, lots of people say that, but our kids aren't stupid. They're just...the kind of kids nobody wants to understand. They need help, and we try to help them."

His silence was not meant to hurt her - he was simply processing the way she'd explained things.

"Anyway, it's an orphanage, too. There's about 25 kids who, like you, live there year-round. You go to school on campus. We have a big, nice dorm building to live in, and not long ago we built a new kitchen & cafeteria, so you'll get to enjoy that. The roof of the old one collapsed - too many winters, I guess. Anyway, we just store cabbage and things in that building now - this one is right off the school building, which is nice, 'cause when you go to lunch from class, you don't even have to put your coat on - you just go straight to lunch and straight back to class. And we have a infirmary, and it's really quite beautiful in our village. Have you ever lived in a village?"

In spite of himself, Anton was becoming endeared to this chattery woman.

"No. I lived with my mother in the city, near the circus. You know that area?"
She nodded her head vigorously.
"Do I know that area! Of course I do! My brother lived just across from the big yellow department store when he was studying in the University."
"The one with the escalator?"
"Yeah, that's the one. It didn't work when I was staying with him, though."
"I go in there all the time! We lived in building number 49, on the 7th floor. Do you know where that is?" Somehow, this woman had made Anton completely forget to protect himself - he let his guard down completely for the first time since being caught by the cops nearly 2 months before.

"Sure I know where it is, my brother lived right next door, in 47. He was on the 2nd floor, though. His neighbor was this old lady who had at least 10 cats, and she named them all 'Jack - Jack 1, Jack 2, and so forth'."

Their chatter continued rather pleasantly off and on the remainder of the trip, and Anton learned more about his new home than he could have, had he demanded the information. He was relaxed, but nonetheless filing away all the information she was giving him for future use.

He was capable of taking care of himself. If anyone thought differently, even this nice woman, they were sorely mistaken. And they would have to learn that he was going to take orders from no man - he was his own master, and, after nearly 2 years of living solo, he did not take kindly to the idea of being told what to do, and how to do it.

As they exited the bus and walked toward a large brown building, Anton squared his shoulders. He would size this place up, see how things were, and, if necessary, take off at the first opportunity. No four walls would keep him from doing as he pleased - and, at the moment, school didn't sound all that appealing.
He'd stay, for a little while. You had to try something before you gave up on it - but, as he followed the lady up a small wooden walkway, a noise caught his ear.
He stopped to listen, and realized that it was a woman's voice - yelling from somewhere above him. He craned his neck and saw an extremely blonde head of hair peeking out the 2nd-story window of the building which he was now approaching, then looked and located the child at whom she was yelling.
"I said no playing in the rain! Come inside this instant, you'll catch your death out there. You don't even have your rubber boots on!"

No, sir. This place just might not work out for Anton, after all. The mere thought of someone yelling at him like that made his stomach turn in disgust.

"C'mon, then, Anton - let's get you to the nurse. She always wants to read the medical papers, even though it was only several hours ago they checked you for everything from lice to altzheimers, and you look perfectly healthy to me. It's procedure, I guess."
The nice lady led the way to the infirmary, but Anton's thoughts were already on one thing - if the food here turned out to be bad, there was no way he'd stick around.

A reply to some comments

I thought I'd take a second to reply to the comments I've gotten regarding my posts on this blog. My intention was never to depress people - I haven't made up or thought up, nor have I exaggerated any of the things I've been writing. Actually, to be honest, I've left a lot out.

The kid with the doors is one of my dearest buddies - the only thing I changed was his name. The 'fly-on-the-wall' view of a Saturday is only one of a hundred Saturdays I've seen.

Vova's 1st day at boarding school is about another little buddy of mine - the only thing I changed was his name, as well. I had a question - why he was at boarding school at all. His grandma was (and is) a wonderful woman, who took wonderful care of him. She lived too far away to send him to school, though - at age 8, he still had no idea what letters were, and now, at age 10, he's just getting caught up to the other kids his age in reading, math, and other subjects. He's also adapted to life in the boarding school - and he doesn't cry.

I want you to read these stories and understand, that this is life for my kids. Good, bad, ugly, or otherwise, there's no changing it to make things sound better. The stories I read from other writers either paint a completely dismal picture with no hope anywhere, or a cleaned-up version that doesn't really give people an idea what things are truly like.

There is hope. The kids are amazing little people. They have a tough life, yeah. A really tough life, at times. But they themselves are tough. Life requires them to be tough. They learn it's okay to deceive someone, but you never cry. The most important lesson in 1st grade is to learn how to be a convincing liar.

So here's the question - why are we there? It's what most people would (and do) call an impossible task. But we're just crazy enough to believe that there's hope. There's hope for kids like Misha, and Vova, and all the rest. I want you to get a picture of what things are like now - so that someday, when I share about what amazing changes God has done, you'll truly be able to rejoice with me - having seen a bit of where they came from.

Also - a lot of you reading this have adopted, or are in the process of adopting kids from Russia. I want you to understand, why they are the way they are - where and what it is they've come from, and perhaps, hopefully, the things I have seen & have a chance to share with you, will help in the long run.

Anyways, there are good times. There are fun things. There are times we laugh so hard, our sides hurt. There was the day we all spend hours throwing water out the window and watching it freeze before it hit the ground - we had a blast!

There's a thousand memories and images in my head - some are good. Most, to be honest, though, are bad.

I'll keep writing - just understand that when I write this stuff, it's not to make people upset, particularly. it's to honestly give you a description of how our little friends live - how they think, what they experience, and what shapes them into who they will one day become in adulthood.

Thanks for commenting - even if the comments are negative, please, don't stop making them! I appreciate all of your honesty.

Vova's story - the 1st day in 1st grade (in a boarding school)

The 8-year-old boy had never lost his baby fat. It wasn't that he was overfed - far from it. Close inspection of the little tyke would show that the only place he really looked anything but skinny was his face - his chubby cheeks endeared him to his grandmother - she called them 'kissable'.

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Vova climbed the steps to the huge, brown building. Had he needed to open the door himself he would have found it too heavy, but thankfully the lady whom he'd met at the bus stop opened it for him and ushered him inside.

Always somewhat sensitive, he recoiled at the smells that overwhelmed his senses as the huge door slammed behind him. Momentarily disgusted, he stood unmoving in the entryway, not wanting to venture further. The woman was already halfway up the stairs, expecting that he'd followed her. When she realized he was still standing at the threshold, she addressed him.
"Vova! Come on! We haven't got all day!"

The edge in her voice urged him forward, though everything inside was begging him to take flight and run back home - back to his grandmother's kitchen, where undoubtedly she was baking bread and his kitten was sleeping near the fireplace.

He wordlessly mounted the stairs and approached the lady. What was her name again? She'd told him at the bus station, but he'd been rather overwhelmed by all the new sights and sounds (and smells), and had barely remembered to grab the bag of food his grandma had packed earlier that morning, let alone a strange new woman's name.

As soon as he was within arms' reach, she grabbed his upper arm and hauled him the rest of the way to the teacher's lounge, apparently unconvinced he could make it there on his own.
It wasn't the first time someone had handled him roughly, but Vova still took offense to her boldness, and resisted just enough to let her know he didn't appreciate this kind of treatment.

She didn't seem to notice.

Upon reaching the second floor, Vova saw, for the first time, a terrifying crowd of various-aged children - some alarmingly big ones, some just his age, some in-between. Boys and girls milled about, yelled, and two even seemed to be having some sort of shoving match. His eyes widened as he took in the scene - the noise made him forget completely his aversion to the smells he'd been affronted with upon entering the building - now, had his arm been free, he would have covered his ears with his hands to drown out the chaos.
Fortunately the woman whisked him into the teacher's lounge and slammed the door behind - the slamming of the door made him jump, but it did put a barrier between him and the noise. Now he found himself being analyzed by no less than 5 women. It was really a rather frightening experience - they stood around, arms folded, some with hands on their hips, and discussed him.

"this is the new 1st grader? How old is he?"

"Goodness, would you look at that hair! We'll have to get Lena to shave his head, he's probably crawling with lice."

"Is that bag all he brought with him? I thought the director made it clear boarders had to bring their own rubber boots and winter coat."

"Wonder when the last time he bathed was?"

Vova could have answered all of these questions, had they actually been directed at him. The ladies didn't seem to care what his opinion was, though, and continued conversing as though he didn't understand Russian.

"Did anyone bring sheets over for his bed?"

"Yeah, I had the boys get some yesterday. He'll have to make it himself, though - they just left them sitting on the desk."

"Oh, that's alright - he's a big strong boy. Aren't you Vova? You can make your bed yourself, can't you?"

They'd been talking about him for so long, Vova didn't realize someone had personally addressed him until the woman who'd met him at the bus station snapped her fingers.

"Vova! Marina Timurovna asked you a question! Are you deaf? This isn't a school for deaf children. Dumb children can't live here, either - you aren't deaf, are you? Maybe you're dumb. Are you dumb?"

Vova's ears burned at her words, and he could barely find his tongue. All he wanted was to escape these awful women, this loud, smelly building, and all of their stinging comments. He wanted to cry, and he wanted to go home, and he suddenly realized he needed to use the bathroom.

"N-no, I'm not dumb." It came out stuttered - which made his ears burn even more.

"Well, then, at least we know that much - he's not deaf, and he's not dumb."

The woman who'd asked him about the bed repeated her question - this time a bit harsher.
"You do know how to make a bed, don't you?"

He couldn't find his tongue, so Vova just nodded.

Thankfully, she seemed satisfied. "Well, then, what are you standing around in here for? I'll show you your new room, and you can put your things away and make your bed. It's almost time for breakfast, so you need to hurry."She opened the door and, not wanting to be dragged by the arm again, Vova fell into step right on her heels.
"Right. You'll be in a room with the other 1st and 2nd grade boys. We expect things to be tidy and neat - you're not allowed to be sloppy here. Put your things away, and you'll take your turn sweeping and mopping the floors, probably later this week, when you're more adjusted. Bed's aren't for sitting on, they're for sleeping in. Don't sit on your bed. Do you have soap and a toothbrush with you?"

Again, Vova had a hard time keeping up with her train of thought - he was still processing her instructions, and had completely missed her question.

"Do I have what?"

"Soap, you know, to wash with. And a toothbrush. You've probably never brushed your teeth before."

In spite of himself, Vova glared at her. "I do too brush my teeth! I brush them every day!"
She raised an eyebrow as though she didn't believe him, but then turned and opened a bedroom door.

"Here - you'll live in here. This little shelf is for your soap, and toothbrush."


3 boys were playing on the rug in the middle of the room. It struck Vova as strange that they didn't even look up when he entered with the lady - they continued playing as though nothing had happened.

"That bed near the window, the one with no sheets, is yours. Make your bed and put your things away. Sasha, Roma, this is Vova. He's new and he'll be in your class."

For the first time, the other boys looked up from their game. Two of them only stared at him, the third gave him a little wave, but without smiling.

Vova wanted to cry, and he had to use the bathroom even worse now, but the lady just gave him a gentle shove towards his bed and then left abruptly.

He was alone with the 3 boys now, and for some reason, this unnerved him terribly. He made his way to the bed he'd been assigned and, after carefully laying his plastic bag of belongings on the bedstand, began to make it. He'd nearly finished, when the door was thrown open and a boy of about 14 entered.
"Where's the new kid?" The three on the floor all pointed to where Vova stood, pillow in one hand and pillowcase in the other, and the big boy met his eyes with what Vova could only perceive as an evil grin. It seemed like only a second later the boy was standing so close Vova involuntarily arched backwards to put some distance between their faces.
"So, where's your stuff, new boy?"
He blinked, not understanding. The older boy snatched up the bag he'd brought from home, and Vova suddenly realized what was happening. His hand shot out to stop it, but the older boy just took a step backwards.

"Easy fatso, just keep making your bed." Vova watched warily as the boy rummaged thru the bag, then angrily as he pocketed the home-made cabbage pies his grandmother had packed for later.
"Those are mine!" Vova finally found his voice, and the statement came out in a squeak.

"Not anymore. You better figure things out quick, Fatso. You got things we want, we take 'em, and you don't say anything." He pocketed Vova's only pen, his comb, and the small stuffed dog he'd been given for his 5th birthday.
Vova felt tears stinging his eyes. Those were his things!
The older boy dropped the bag, now containing only the new boys' clean shirt and underwear, and stepped close once again. He grabbed Vova by the front of his shirt and lifted him off the floor.
"Now look, fatso. You don't tell anyone anything, ever - you got that? If you do, I'll make you sorry you ever came here."
As the boy suddenly released his grip, Vova fell to the floor, and, unprepared, his knees gave out from under him. As he went down, Vova's head connected with the edge of his nightstand, and brought instant tears to his eyes.

The older boy turned to leave and, as he was closing the door, smirked and said "what a cry-baby."

The 3 other boys left in the room fixed their eyes on him.

"Yeah, you are a cry-baby. What's the matter with you? Stop crying."
This was spoken by a skinny, blonde-haired boy with ears that stuck out on either side of his head.

Vova buried his face in his hands and sat down on the edge of his bed. The morning had proved too much for his 8-year-old constitution - first the early-morning bus ride away from the only place he wanted to be, then the long walk to the boarding school, the ordeal in the teacher's room, and now this. In a matter of 4 hours his world had been turned upside-down, and he didn't like it one bit.
Long before he was ready, the lady from before burst into the room, announcing it was time for breakfast. The other three scrambled to pull on their rubber boots and light jackets, which had been hanging on hooks on the wall.

"What are you doing over there, Vova? I thought I told you not to sit on the bed!"
The woman marched over to where Vova was and he quickly stood, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve and sniffing loudly as he did.
"And don't wipe your nose on your sleeve, haven't you had any upbringing at all? Goodness. You didn't even finish making your bed, and now we're going to be late! What are you crying for? Stop this minute, and get your coat on!"
Vova's crying started up once again, and she fixed at him with an exasperated look.
"What is it?"

Vova stuttered, but he managed to get out his latest crisis.

"I...I d-don't have a coat!"

The woman sighed deeply and grabbed him by the arm.
"Well, we'll have to get you one later from the store-room. Will you just look at that face? Go to the washroom and get washed up - we'll wait for you by the front door. But hurry!"

Vova still desperately needed to use the bathroom, and anxiously looked thru his tears at the lady.
"where's the toilet? I need to go!"

She gave him a little shove and released his arm, then addressed one of the boys standing near the door, waiting to go to breakfast.
"Roma, show him where the bathroom is, and hurry - we're going to be late to breakfast!"
Roma was the one who'd waved to him earlier. He barely waited for Vova before heading down the hallway towards the teacher's room Vova had been in before. They walked thru a terrifying crowd past that room, to another. Roma pounded on the locked door, then yelled in an amazingly loud voice "open up! The new kid's gonna wet his pants!"
The door was flung open after a moment, and two teenage girls exited, one of them shoving Roma as she walked past. "You're such a pest!" He didn't seem to notice this, and turned to address Vova for the first time.
"Hurry up and go, and wash your face, you don't want everyone knowing you're a cry-baby right away."
Somehow, though his words were harsh, Roma's tone was the warmest Vova had heard since leaving home, and it gave him a spark of hope.
Two minutes later Vova opened the door of the bathroom, and alarmingly realized that the building, only moments ago so loud he couldn't think, was now strangely silent. His heart began to race - though he couldn't understand why, for some reason this was even scarier than the noise had been. Being alone in this big, new place was a terrifying thought.

He raced down the stairs, then threw himself against the big, heavy door. Thru sheer willpower Vova managed to open it, and found himself face-to-face with the 3 boys who'd been in his bedroom.
"You took long enough! Hurry up! Now we're gonna be late!"

It had been an emotionally overwhelming morning, and as Vova hurried to keep up with the hungry 3 boys, his tears threatened to return. He never asked to come to school - he'd been happy at home with his grandmother. Who needed school, anyway? He was overwhelmed, and angry that his things had been stolen, and he hated walking as fast as these boys were forcing him to.
"Hey, new boy, you aren't gonna get any breakfast - you're too slow. We're gonna eat all your food."
The shove from behind was unexpected and Vova nearly tripped, only catching himself at the last second. A dark-eyed boy in a red hat and dirty green jacket glared at him and ran ahead.
For Vova, it was the last straw, and for the third time that day, tears spilled down his cheeks. By the time they reached the dining hall, his vision was blurred and he couldn't even see where he was going. Roma turned around and, staring at him for a moment, came over and put his hands on both of the new boys' shoulders.

"Hey, new kid, listen up. You can't cry here - nobody cries. If you cry it'll be worse. You get it? Stop crying, right now. I'm telling you, it won't get you no sympathy in this place. Don't cry anymore - ever again. Never cry. Life will be better that way."

Cigarettes & Mickey Mouse

The shout rang out across the open, snow-covered yard - out to the other side of the woodshed, where four boys stood lazily taking in the late-afternoon sunset and sharing a cigarette. Kids raised with 96 others learn quickly that to be heard above the din, one must learn to make his voice carry far distances. Sasha had learned this trick well, and now he shouted with all his lung power one of the only words in the Russian language that could bring all kids, regardless of age, running from all directions. Even before he had time to slam the door shut to keep out the cold air, the four smokers had abandoned their cigarette and were hurriedly returning to the big three-story building they called home. Stomping their boots & shaking the light dusting of snow off their coats onto the wood floor (it wasn't any of their turns to mop on Saturdays, so who cared if they left puddles?), they half-jokingly shoved each other as they raced up the stairs, past the teacher's lounge, and into the TV room, where already a formidable sized group had gathered, seated on the low, green-painted wooden benches, around the much prized, blaring television. One of the new arrivals, his voice nearly cracking as he yelled over the noise of the tv, yelled for an explanation. "What's on? Sasha said cartoons. What cartoons?" He confidently made his way to the best seat in the house, bench closest to the television, front and center, which was at the moment occupied by a very excited 3rd grader. Vacating the seat was no challenge to Timur, and with a smooth, practiced motion he wordlessly lifted the 3rd grader by his coat, gave him a small shove to the side, and occupied the space himself. Yuri the 3rd grader never blinked - he first tried to seat himself on the bench behind Timur, but was met with a growl from another of the new arrivals, Dennis, who's menacing whisper was clear even though the noise in the room was close to chaotic, and Yuri moved to the side of the room, contenting himself with a standing position near the radiators that lined the wall. At least it was warm, standing that close to the only source of heat in the building.
"Mickey Mouse is on - everyone shut up, Mickey Mouse is on!" For 7 minutes, the room was as close as it ever got to quiet - with 24 sets of eyes happily glued to the cartoon images on the screen. Occasional bursts of childish laughter broke out, and for a moment, it was forgotten that these kids weren't just like every other child in the world.
Commercial breaks occur in Russia, as well as everywhere else, and as an ad for lemon-smelling dish soap came on, there was a scramble for the washrooms as nine boys and five girls, ranging in age from 10 to 15, crammed into the small room and lit up for a quick smoke. The somewhat-overweight weekend nanny heard the movement, and for a moment, her sense of duty as their caretaker surfaced. She followed her nose to the stench coming from the washroom, the thought never occuring to her that Yuri the 3rd grader was very obviously standing guard. He frantically pounded on the door and yelled 'hurry up, you guys!' - she missed his meaning and patted him on the head, assuring him that the big kids would be done washing their hands in a moment, and he'd get his turn at the sinks.

She was about to knock on the door when it was flung open and a crowd of coughing teenagers came barreling out.
She sniffed again, leaning close to one of the boys.

"Were you smoking in there?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure? I smell cigarette smoke."

"I wasn't smoking! We were just washing our hands!"

"Why does it smell like smoke in there?"

"I don't smoke!"

"Well, alright. Turn that TV down, you'll all go deaf!"

"Yeah, well, then we wouldn't have to listen to you anymore."

"Oh, you kids. Why do I even try? Turn it down I said!"

"NO! What's it matter to you, anyway? It's our ears, not yours."

The same boy who had called them in from outside yelled from the TV room that the cartoons were back, and the conversation with the nanny was abruptly brought to a close. Scrambling once again to find their places, after a short scrap over who had been sitting where, the room was once again as silent as one could ever find it.
Sighing that her job didn't pay enough, the nanny threw her hands up in the air in exasperation and returned to the teacher's lounge, where the blaring of the kids' TV nearly drowned out her own. Turning on the electric teapot, she settled back down to continue watching the poorly-translated Brazilian soap opera she'd come to depend upon for entertainment. Something - anything to distract her from the monotony of her chosen profession. Not that she'd particularly chosen this profession - who would? It almost paid the bills, though, and didn't require any real skills.

All too soon the cartoons were over, to the chagrin and verbally uttered disappointment of most in the room. They were followed by a feature film, one which was not new to our group of bored viewers. Shouts rang out as the crowd decided whether to watch this film again, or switch to the other channel.

"We've seen this one - it's the one where the guy kills that other guy."

"Yeah, so? It's a good movie. And there's the part where the car blows up. Keep it on."

"No, I hate this movie, it's stupid."

"Nobody asked you! I wanna watch it! Leave it on."

"There's something better on the other channel, change it!"

"NO! I said leave it on! Touch that button and I'll kill you!"

"Shut up, everyone! Just watch the stupid movie!"

The interruption for dinner was welcome, but untimely. Wanting to miss as little as possible, the older kids finished in 7 minutes flat and raced back. Completely immersed in the plot of a murderous betrayal, they were quite annoyed when the nanny once again invaded their lives, flicking the light on and demanding their attention.

"I told you to turn that volume down! You'll all go deaf!"

"Quiet! We're trying to watch a movie!"

"Turn it down!"

"Fine, fine, we'll turn it down. Just go away, we're missing the best part."

"Yuri, you're sitting too close - move back."

"Quiet!"

"You know, kids, cartoons are on channel 2 right now."

"What?! Cartoons? Which ones?"

"Looney Tunes, I think."

"Right now?"

"Yes, it started 5 minutes ago."

"Turn the channel! Hey - cartoons are on the other channel! Change it!"

"But...we were watching the movie!"

"we've already seen that stupid movie. The guy dies and the murderer falls off a building and then his car blows up. Now TURN THE CHANNEL!"

Once again, happiest watching cartoons, our kids sit glued to the screen.

It's been a typical Saturday in our orphanage.

Doors

There is something terrifically satistfying about slamming a door as a way of making your point in a disagreement. Doors serve many different uses in life - they can shut out that which we fear or do not welcome, or simply want to ignore. Likewise they can be flung open in a welcoming gesture. We can lock them, secreting away that which we do not want to see, or that which we do not wish to share with others.

Misha liked doors - he had always associated them with security. Rightly so - closed doors afford much security. To him it had become somewhat of an obsession - he couldn't even think straight if a door was partially open. Not one to excel scholastically, nevertheless he was able to keep satisfactory grades in all subjects but one.
For reasons unknown yet still disturbing, his teacher of geography had the terrible habit of leaving the classroom door open during her lessons. Not wide open - just cracked enough to let in a draft and the unnerving suspicion that someone was watching him from the other side - the lack of security a partially opened door afforded made it impossible for the 12-year old boy to focus on European city capitols or lifestyle in Senegal.
And so Misha failed exams and was repeatedly scolded for his inattentiveness - the teacher was at first puzzled, then irritated, then indifferent. Her questioning of his reasons brought her to dead-end after dead-end - he would only repeat that he couldn't concentrate, and it didn't matter anyway. Not one particularly soft-hearted toward the struggling student, she wrote him off as a boy who, through either stubborness or idiocy, would always receive failing grades in her class.

Misha himself was not completely aware of the reasons for his unsettledness - to him it was just part of who he was. It was this that compelled him to engage in a fistfight with one of his classmates - another boy who simply decided he wanted the bed facing the door. Misha would never forget walking into that bedroom for the first time, and realizing that he had been assigned a bed in the corner, near the windows. His heart began to pound - couldn't they understand? He had to have the bed facing the door. The last thing he needed to see at night, in order to fall asleep, was that firmly closed door - the first thing he needed to be able to see was the threat of it opening. What if someone came into their room? He needed to be the one to see it first.
The other boy simply liked the bed and chose it - doors for him meant no more than floors - necessary elements of a building. When Misha had objected and said he wanted the bed, it became a sporting challenge - ended by a winner-takes-all fistfight. Misha was the smaller of the two, but he fought for a cause, and in the end it was he who laid staring at the door night after night, contented by its closed-ness.