To Sing Frogs Chapter 27a

Red Square thru gates

Chapter 27

 

Shut Down

 

 The gates were already locked. We could only gaze past iron at the strange and colorful onions perched just above the rise of the ground within Red Square. Rows of replica World War II era trucks were parked along the sidewalk next to the GUM department store. They waited quietly idle and resting up for dress rehearsal before the V-Day parade. The main event was to be held on the following Monday.

The parade would have been a sight to behold. With any luck we wouldn’t see it. Our flight home was scheduled for Sunday and we hoped to be long gone.

It would be a shame to have the kids in Moscow without being able to get their pictures on Red Square and throughout the Kremlin. Oh well. We’d do the best we could.

The plaza between the Bolshoi Theater and Red Square’s nearest entrance to our hotel offered plenty of picture opportunities. Towering brick walls were capped by pinnacles forming buildings all too recognizable as stereotypically historical Russian. They were all painted red. More than red. Kind of brown, almost purple. Old red.Like so much spilt blood long since dried and still remaining.

Bill helped us with shooting family photos and then we would switch off. We needed pictures with Dyehdushka Bill too. While we were disappointed with not being able to see the major tourist sites it was still overwhelming to be so close to places that had been so mysterious and forbidden to Americans only a decade and a half before.

While the plaza was less than busy that Friday morning, celebrations would cause its capacity to be far exceeded on the following Monday. Those who had sacrificed to provide safety for others would arrive at that time. I felt as if I could almost understand those defenders from yesteryear. They never quite knew the plight of those behind the lines while they alternated between rushing into battle and waiting under siege.

We were standing in the traditional meeting place where veterans of the Great Patriotic War searched for surviving comrades each V-Day. Their numbers had been dwindling over the years and the slow curve was about to become precipitous. The doomsday clock of age we all carry was ticking to the end for veterans of World War II. Almost all were now in their eighties. Over half of those who met in this exact plaza for the very first V-Day celebration had already turned into dust.

After a barrage of photographs, Sarah was tired of walking. I don’t know why. Bill had carried her almost the whole way. Denney was fine as long as Amy held him, but he burst into tears every time she put him down for a picture. Celeste had experienced more than enough Russian culture.

It was time for a change. It was time for lunch. It was time for Amérika.

Yellow humps stuck up above a building several hundred meters from where we had attempted to enter Red Square. Ahhh, Amérika. Mass produced mystery chicken parts—machine-formed frozen beef patties—deep fried potato strips—golden arches—McDonalds. You don’t get much further from Russian society than quick service and consistency, not to mention predictable “quality.” I have to say all three of our new children made the cultural adaptation with ease. What kid doesn’t love McDonalds?

 

 

The girls were taking turns giggling and watching each other while carbonated bubbles tickled their noses when Julia approached us. We were sitting at a table just outside a miniature snack shop that bordered the lobby of our five-star hotel. Bill had gone up for a well-deserved nap. Sarah was wearing him out and there was no reason for him to be at our 2:00 appointment with the U.S. embassy. It was only for finalization of the adoption paperwork.

“Were you able to get into Red Square?” Julia asked.

“They never opened it this morning,” I answered. “We got a few pictures around the outside though.”

“The good news is you might get another chance.”

“Nope. They told us it’s closed until after the parade.”

“Yes… well, the bad news is there’s a problem with Celeste’s passport.”

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