Fall 2004, Volume 9 Number 3

Table of Contents

Baby House #12...
by Stephanie Kempf

On a cold night in May, 200l I pulled up to the battered gate of Baby House #12 in the backstreets of St. Petersburg, Russia with two strangers, ready to meet my nineteen month-old son, Andrei, for the first time. (Two days earlier, my husband had been admitted to a Los Angeles hospital for emergency surgery. He would be all right so we decided I would keep our appointed court date and bring our son home.) Vlad, my driver had taken every shortcut he could to get me from the airport to the Baby House  before Andrei was put into bed. Alex, my translator, was preparing me for what would be the most wonderful and emotional event of my life. Both men had been through this many times with foreigners coming to their beautiful, old city to take away its abandoned children. They were extremely courteous and respectful as well as proud of their Russian heritage.

An old man hobbled out of the guard-house into the drizzle to check our documents.  He glared at me suspiciously when I presented a U.S. passport, but I was moved by the fact that he was so protective of these children no one else wanted. He waved us through and closed the gate behind us.  Inside the Baby House it was quiet, dark and chilly. Several antique wicker prams lined the entranceway.  There was a strong smell of boiled cabbage. Alex motioned for me to sit on a wooden bench and whispered with a smile," I’ll tell them Andrei’s mother is here."     

I had always imagined this moment with great ceremony:  our baby, pink and bundled in a blanket, presented to Jim and me by his Russian “mamas” while soft music played and candles burned.  A scrawny cat growled hungrily as it twirled in and out of my ankles. Down the dimly lit hall a stern woman marched a pale little boy towards me.  The child was dressed in torn girl’s leggings, three ragged sweaters and light blue plastic shoes (two sizes too small). He had a runny nose and his cheeks burned with eczema. As I stood, the woman pushed past me and pulled Andrei into a large dark room with burgundy shag carpet.  As soon as I entered she closed the door leaving us alone.  I switched on the light. 

Andrei stood there smiling, his eyes twinkling mischievously.  I sat on the floor and reached out my hand to him.  He lowered his eyes.  I pulled some toys out of my bag and placed them all in front of him.  He stooped down, picked them up one at a time and placed them in my lap, still smiling.  I laughed and held out my hand again. This time he put his little hand in mine and I took this as a sign that he accepted me.  Then, he ran away and hid behind a purple velvet couch. For the next half-hour we played hide-and-seek from a distance while I fought the urge to hug him tightly.

There was no heat in the house and Andrei, like all the children, had a chronic cold.  He was unusually pale.  I would learn later that he was seriously anemic and had rickets, a vitamin D deficiency which causes the bones to soften.  He had never been outside in the sunlight and his meals consisted mainly of potatoes, porridge, bread, cabbage and a little milk.  Meat and fruit were available in small quantities only on holidays. He also suffered from intestinal parasites because of the lack of clean drinking water.  In spite of all this, a lively, even defiant, spirit shone through.. I was       in   love!

When the stern woman came to take him away I asked Alex if I might see where my son sleeps.  I was led upstairs to a small room with twenty-five miniature twin beds sitting low to the floor.  At the foot of each bed lay an old, rolled blanket. The wood floor was cold and bare. Outside in the dark hallway twenty-five toddlers sat on little blue potties--not one made a sound. One woman was in charge.  I blew Andrei a kiss and left.

 On the way to my comfortable hotel in St. Isaac’s Square Alex graciously answered my many questions. (According to Human Rights Watch there are approximately 600,000 abandoned children throughout Russia and the number is on the rise.  Last year 5,209 of them became part of U.S. families). Many of these children are left as infants in a dom rebyonka (Baby House). They remain here until they are six years old, then they are moved to an orphanage.  Most of the orphans have at least one living parent, but for various reasons--poverty, sickness, unemployment, trouble with the law, etc. the parent can’t take care of the child. 

Since the collapse of Soviet rule in 1991 many individuals and institutions have been caught up in the country’s economic transition. Orphanages were once totally funded by the government.  Now their staffs--overworked and underpaid (some not paid at all)--plead for donations of food and clothing from adoption agencies and church groups outside the country. Another reason for the prevalence of child abandonment has to do with an entrenched Soviet ideology which favors collective organization over individual care and the belief that the State could replace family. Working and unemployed parents view orphanages as temporary boarding houses for their children. They hope to go back for them once they get on their feet. Unfortunately, after awhile most parents simply stop visiting their children.

For the rest of that week I visited Andrei twice a day in the Baby House. At lunch I watched him run to grab his bib, a dirty rag hanging from a peg, and place it over his head.  The children all fed themselves, eating very quickly and quietly.  In between visits I spent my time getting to know Andrei’s native city and culture. Alex and Vlad told me colorful stories about its history and took me to the ballet, palaces, Dostoyevsky’s house and the Hermitage, an art museum with three million exhibits. Together, we climbed to the top of St. Isaac’s Cathedral  where music by Tchaikovsky played from loudspeakers, ringing out over the entire city. It would have been glorious had I not been so aware of the quiet desperation that surrounded us--those hungry little faces of the orphans, the Russians on the street who made the most of what little they had. Vlad wore the same shirt everyday. Alex told me the Russian people may own one coat and one pair of shoes but they take very good care of them. Grocery stores were very small and did not carry much variety--especially those outside the city.  I visited a toy store to purchase a matreshka (nesting dolls) and some Russian books for Andrei.  It was clear that this was a shop that only wealthy customers would enter, even though the prices were what we in the U.S. would consider average. Once I asked Alex about a medieval-looking structure across the Neva River. He explained that it was the prison and that most of the older boys from the orphanage would end up there after leaving public school at the age of fifteen. Without guidance and financial support many of them fall into the wrong company on the street and become involved in drug use and other illegal activities.

 It is customary in Russia to give gifts for favors. The adoption agency had advised me on what to bring for the “mamas” in Baby House #12 who had taken care of Andrei--Tylenol, instant coffee, stockings, shampoo and cosmetics.  These are luxuries and they were very grateful.  I had also brought a large suitcase filled with medicines for the children, vitamins, clothing and blankets. On one visit to a department store Alex helped me purchase shoes for Andrei’s little friends.  I preferred the sneakers but he insisted we get thirty pairs of the blue plastic shoes that the salesman kept hidden in the back of the stockroom. " It is important that they all have the same," Alex explained.

Snow fell on the morning of my adoption hearing. The courtroom was full: the judge and her many attendants, the prosecuting attorney, Valentina, the head of Baby House #12, a representative from the Department of Child Welfare, a government inspector and several others--all women! For one hour I was asked questions about the details of our financial circumstances, how my husband and I met, our families, religious practices and access to medical care.  I was embarrassed to have to describe our New York apartment.  The typical Russian family lives in a tiny one or two bedroom apartment.  A washer-dryer is an unimaginable luxury. Alex would tell me later that the average Russian earns around $150 a month and that the judge’s annual salary was only $2,100.

In spite of our vast economic and cultural differences there was an understanding between us.  I had come half way around the world to claim a little boy who had nothing and no one to call his own except his name. There were tears, hugs and congratulations all around when the judge finally announced, "You may take your son home today."  I rushed back to the Baby House. Andrei’s “Mamas” undressed him (they wanted to keep his ragged clothes!) and passed him around, kissing his smiling face and holding him close. They asked that I send photos of him as he grows.  I promised. I quickly dressed him in clothes that his U.S. cousins had outgrown and we were off to Moscow to process his paperwork.  We said a tearful spaziba (thank you) to Alex and Vlad at the big train station at midnight and exchanged addresses.  We were on our way home.

For three months after he was home Andrei held onto food inside his cheeks, refusing to swallow it for hours. This is typical of children who never get enough food.  It was interesting watching him taste crunchy, sweet or tart foods for the first time.  He ate anything and everything!  He had never developed a strong sucking instinct because as an infant he was given watered down milk in a bottle with a very large hole in the nipple--a fast way to get several babies to finish their meal.  Some exercises took care of this problem in a month or so.

Today Andrei is a healthy, energetic, articulate and affectionate five year-old. An expert on dinosaurs and trains, he loves to snuggle and tell knock-knock jokes. A lovely, young Russian woman visits him each week to encourage him to speak Russian and to tell him stories about his homeland.  Alex has visited us and taken back photos to Andrei’s Russian “mamas.” We celebrate Russia Day every June 1st--the day Andrei arrived in the U.S. We eat Russian food, tell the story of how we became a family and look at photos of the children and “mamas” in Baby House #12.  I think of them everyday and of the mothers and fathers who will never see them.

Stephanie Kempf is a teacher and writer. She is the author of Finding Solutions To Hunger: Kids Can Make A Difference.  Stephanie is a member of the KIDS Advisory Board, and may be contacted at stephaniekempf@mac.com

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