THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, July 2, 1994 TAG: 9407010085
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY KATHY WILLIAMS, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 291 lines
LYDIA. LYDIA. LYDIA.
The name I'd chosen for my second child drummed through my head, trying to pummel out what had become a nagging question.
Would I ever meet the child I longed to adopt?
Looking to the frozen ground below from my seat on Russia's cruel parody of an airline, it seemed unlikely.
How many people had died in Aeroflot airplane crashes? At least 200 just this year. How many times had I been told about an available child, only to have my hopes erased at the last minute? At least twice in two weeks.
It was only for the chance of a daughter that I would get on this plane and fly to the Arctic Circle.
Lydia. Lydia. Lydia.
Her name practically screamed in my head as the plane descended into the tiny airport at Murmansk.
The woman at the adoption agency had promised me I'd find my dream at the city's orphanage - a 17-month-old whose Russian name was Natasha. She would become my Lydia.
I was betting on it. Betting with my life and my heart.
Two weeks before, I'd been roused out of my shower at 10:30 one night.
``Get out of the shower,'' my husband screamed as he thrust a portable phone in my hand. ``It's the adoption agency. They have our child.''
I couldn't believe it. I'd just talked to them the week before, and they had given me no encouragement. Now they wanted me to fly to Moscow the next weekend to pick up a 16-month-old girl named Lyodmila.
She was in an orphanage just a 90-minute train ride from Moscow, the adoption agency director said.
``Are you ready to go?'' she asked.
Was she kidding?
We'd waited a year for this.
Well, this was progress, I told Glenn as I hung up the phone. It had taken us five years of waiting in the United States and then seven weeks in Romania to adopt our first child, Daniel. Now we would have Lydia. Just a quick trip to Russia. How hard could that be?
The next week, nothing played in my head except the arrival of our beautiful Lydia. The agency faxed us a blurred photo. And it was love at first sight.
But by noon the next day, the romance was over.
``We've made a mistake,'' said the lifeless voice on the phone. ``Lyodmila is not eligible for adoption. She's part of a sibling group and they can't be broken up.''
I pitched the blurred fax of Lyodmila's little head into the trash and watched it float to the bottom as tears streamed down my face.
The next day, I was surprised to hear from the agency again. They felt bad about what had happened and asked if I'd be willing to fly to Russia anyway with no promise of a specific child.
``You can go to Kirov. We're sure you can find a child there. Under the age of 2.''
Kirov was a 13-hour train ride from Moscow. I hesitated, but I had a plane ticket, I was packed. I'd adopted my son this way. Got on a plane. Went to Romania. Searched weeks for a child until I found Daniel in a small orphanage near the Soviet border. It had worked out.
``I'm ready,'' I said, already feeling the renewed enthusiasm. Just four days now and I'd be in Russia with my daughter.
When the phone rang at my desk the next day, I knew automatically it was bad news.
``Kirov is not going to work out. But how about going to Murmansk?''
In Murmansk, a 17-month-old girl named Natasha needed a home. First Lyodmila. Now Natasha. I rolled the strange name around in my head. Pretty, but I'd change it to Lydia anyway. Maybe keep Natasha as a middle name. Yes, I wanted her. Please let this be it.
That night I checked a map and saw that Murmansk was at the top of the world - a port city on the Berents Sea just inside the Arctic Circle.
I called the agency back. ``I won't fly there on Aeroflot.'' They laughed and said no other airlines went into Murmansk. The only other option was a train from Moscow that would take 36 hours.
``Fine, fine. Book me.''
Natalia, my Russian guide, greeted me at the Moscow airport all smiles, but once we were settled in the car and headed into the city, she broke the news:
``We cannot take the train to Murmansk. It's too dangerous. We must fly.''
``On Aeroflot?''
``Yes, yes. I will take you to the American Embassy tomorrow and they will tell you. It is the only way.''
The next day at the embassy, Natalia introduced Chuck and Cindy - a couple from California who would also be traveling to Murmansk where they planned to adopt a 2-year-old.
Yes, they had concerns about Aeroflot, but an embassy worker told them taking a train was far riskier. There had been several attacks on Americans. With $8,000 in cash hanging in a bag around my neck, it was something to consider. I needed the money to pay for the remaining adoption expenses. There were no credit cards, no traveler's checks in this country. If I got robbed, that would end everything.
But so would a plane crash, I reminded Chuck and Cindy. Aeroflot, after all, has the worst accident record in aviation history. They shrugged. And suddenly, I knew I was going. On Aeroflot. Tomorrow morning.
The small plane was packed with its 50 passengers that included a Saint Bernard in row 5B, a spaniel somewhere in the back and a small boy clutching a scraggly gray cat.
A man bent to give the little cat a friendly scratch on the head, which evoked a piercing screech from the cat and a chain reaction of barking from the two dogs on board.
But no one seemed to mind. We were off. Overhead bins flapping. Suitcases shifting. Seat belts unfastened. And complete silence from the American passengers.
``Everything OK?'' Natalia called over her shoulder to her American guests. We nodded.
Mid-flight, Chuck gave me a nudge.
``Kathy, you a Christian?'
My hand went instinctively to the cross hanging around my neck. And then I checked to see if we were going down.
``I'll make a deal, Kathy. You say your Christian prayers. I'll say my Jewish ones. Maybe somebody will listen to us and we'll get to Murmansk.''
I wanted to laugh, but I wasn't sure Chuck was kidding. Squeezing my eyes tight, I tried to muster a prayer, but my brain was frozen.
Chuck's prayers must have broken through. We landed. Safely. And were whisked off to the orphanage at Murmansk. There Cindy and Chuck would be met and escorted to another orphanage two hours away.
Somewhere in this tiny orphanage, Lydia was waiting for me. I couldn't wait to see her.
It was late April and the sun was lingering in the sky, gently crowding out darkness until only daylight remained at the Arctic Circle.
I took that as a good sign. Daylight was better than darkness. Everything would be OK now. Soon I would have their Natasha - my Lydia - in my arms.
Natalia and the orphanage director had disappeared into another room five minutes after we arrived.
What was taking so long? Where was my 17-month-old? Maybe she would come running into the room. They did walk at that age, didn't they?
Finally, Natalia, flanked by our translator and the orphanage director, glided into the room carrying a little girl who looked like a porcelain doll.
Beautiful, but not mine. Too little. Too young. I wonder why she's here.
Natalia held the child out to me murmuring something in Russian.
I reached for her and then pulled back as I heard the interpreter say:
``This one is yours. Natasha's eligibility for adoption has changed. Her grandmother visited her yesterday. If a family member shows an interest, the child cannot be adopted.''
The three women could see the shock on my face.
The baby with the big blue eyes was beautiful, but this was the third child in two weeks and my head was spinning.
They interpreted the shock as dislike.
``You like?'' the translator asked in a worried voice.
``Why yes, of course. It's just a shock. I expected 17-month-old Natasha.''
``You have questions, you ask now,'' the translator pressed.
The three women stood in a circle around us. Cradling the child they pushed into my arms, I tried to form a question, but I couldn't think. It was an odd moment for a woman who asks questions for a living.
``Uh, who is this?'' I finally blurted.
``Tatiana.''
And then a flood of questions spilled over them.
``Age?''
``9 months.''
``Why did her mother abandon her?''
``She couldn't afford to take care of her.''
``How is her health?''
``She is in fine shape.''
``Who was her father?''
``Unknown.''
``When is her birthday?''
``July 17, but you can change it. Six months earlier or later. Your choice.''
``Does she have siblings?''
``Her mother had two other pregnancies. That's all we know.''
``How old is her mother?''
``32.''
I stopped to catch my breath and take another peek at the stranger in my arms. I patted her on the back and a small, comforting hand gave me a return pat on the shoulder.
The Russian women waited for the verdict.
``She's mine,'' I said.
Lyodmila. Natasha. Now Tatiana. But all Lydia to me.
My Lydia, Lydia, Lydia.
Over the next few days, I lived in a silent world. The translator had traveled with Cindy and Chuck to another orphanage two hours away where they would adopt 2-year-old Emily.
I was left in the care of a Russian couple who did not speak English, except to say ``Come eat.'' No one at the orphanage spoke English. Each day I eagerly went there to spend time with Lydia, trying to obediently follow the Russian instructions from the nurses who cared for the infants.
It was lunch time and I was to feed Lydia. The nurses delivered a large bowl of mashed potatoes laced with bits of ground beef and broth. They also brought what looked like a huge napkin. I tied it around Lydia's neck and the nurses tried to hold back the laughter, but I could hear snickering.
They tore the napkin off Lydia's neck and tied it in a huge triangular kerchief around my head. The nurses sat on either side, feeding the 10 babies who were taken one by one from the playpen they shared. Ten babies in 45 minutes. Impressive. I hadn't even finished up with one.
I wanted to say ``Give me a break. I've never had a baby. My son was 3 when I adopted him.''
But we couldn't speak and I couldn't figure out a way to tell them in sign language, so I suffered their disapproving stares and indiscreet chortles.
The orphanage was so unlike the squalor I'd discovered my son in three years ago. This place was sunny and cheery, with brightly painted walls and well-fed children. About 60 children, ages 3 months to 3 years, called it home. Ever since the Soviet Union crumbled, orphanages had sprung up all over with thousands of children abandoned in times of such economic stress.
Many parents hoped to reclaim their children when times got better. But likely most of these children would grow up in a string of orphanages until at age 14, they were put out to make it on their own.
I didn't want that for Lydia. The thought that something could still go wrong tugged at my heart. I had no idea what was happening with the adoption, and I couldn't ask anyone. All I knew was the woman I was staying with had something to do with it.
What if this was a test and I was getting points off for improper feeding? Maybe the nurses would tell her when she picked me up that evening.
But late that evening, the woman walked into my bedroom. Smiling, she dropped two official-looking documents into my hand - both in Russian. The Russian alphabet looks nothing like English, so I didn't have a clue. I had thought I'd be going to court at some point, but no one ever took me there.
Later, I would learn that I had been staying with an important official who decides all adoptions. That night she had given me a new birth certificate for Lydia and the final adoption decree.
She was the court. And I had passed.
After much agonizing, Chuck and Cindy decided Emily was to be theirs.
The picture they had received of their daughter was nearly a year old. The child they met at the orphanage was not the smiling little girl they'd fallen in love with.
Emily's long hair had been cropped boyishly short. She had developed a severe skin problem that made her scratch until she bled. Chuck and Cindy were alarmed when they first met Emily, but after a few days, they were won over by the little girl's charm.
``She planted a kiss right on my nose,'' Cindy said. ``That was it for me.''
And so we were ready to take our children home.
The flight back no longer seemed daunting. Surely the lives of two beautiful little girls would be insurance against disaster.
All we had to do was get approval from the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. They would decide if we could take our children to the United States.
We turned our paperwork into the U.S. consul and waited for our names to be called. Chuck and Cindy spent less than 20 minutes answering innocuous questions about the circumstances of their adoption.
Approved. They sat down to wait for me and then we'd all head to the airport to get reservations back to the United States.
The consul officer looked over my paperwork and then at Lydia.
``She's beautiful,'' she said.
``I think so.''
``Why did her mother give her up?''
``Hard times. You have a copy of the letter right there in the mother's handwriting.''
I could sense something was wrong.
The consul officer turned to confer with another officer.
``She's only 9 months old,'' she sniffed. ``Did you at any time see any bribes transpire? Did you see anyone being paid?''
``No. No. No. She was in an orphanage. Her mother gave her up. The Russian courts allowed the adoption. It is a legal adoption.''
An hour later, I turned to Cindy and Chuck.
``You'd better go on to the airport. This could take a while.''
Lydia started to squirm in my arms as the inquisition continued. I couldn't understand why there were so many questions about this.
I wanted to scream, to beg, but I'd been warned that sometimes at the embassy, things got difficult.
Just stay calm. Play along. Don't push back. That had been the advice.
I took a deep breath and pressed my lips against the top of Lydia's head. It would be OK. We'd done nothing wrong. Surely they would let me bring my daughter into the United States.
More paper shuffling. More consultations.
The embassy would be closing soon and then it would be a long holiday weekend. If we didn't get out today, we'd be stuck here for a while.
Prayers came to my lips this time. Chuck wasn't around so I'd have to handle this one myself.
Thirty minutes later, the verdict was in.
``OK,'' the consul said. ``We've looked at everything and it's gonna fly. Congratulations.''
I gathered Lydia in my arms and ran out the door before anyone could say anything different.
We were headed home.
Lydia. Lydia Tatiana. I liked the sound of it. ILLUSTRATION: [Color Photos by] BETH BERGMAN/Staff
Lydia, who once lived in a Russian orphanage at the Artic Circle,
has found a new homes in Chesapeake.
Daniel, 6, has lunch with his new sister, Lydia. My husband, Glenn
Ponder, and I adopted him three years ago in Romania.
KATHY WILLIAMS
I'd been expecting a 17-month-old named Natasha. Instead, Natalia
put 9-month-old Tatiana into my arms.
Lydia and Emily, 2, adopted by a California couple, get ready for
the long trip back to the United States.
KEYWORDS: ADOPTION by CNB