To Sing Frogs Chapter 10a

Luba and Mama Olga reading her soft book at the Partizansk Baby Hospital

Chapter 10

 

A Vision of Things to Come

 

Luba already had a mama. She had absolutely no use for another one.

Stass led us through the golden wood doors and into the cloud-white, sky-blue building. The mirage ended as we stepped onto aged, cracked, and blistered vinyl flooring. The walls of the interior were the same as the smooth chalky white stucco outside, but appeared so much less elegant up close. We weren’t in heaven after all.

The door closed behind us. Several steps later we turned left, down the hallway that bisected the width of the long building. After passing three or four rooms, Stass opened a door while leaning forward and poking his head in to see if we should enter or wait in the hallway. There was a quick exchange in Russian between him and a woman’s voice—then he stepped across a threshold and waved us in.

Forty-something Olga, the director of Partizansk Baby Hospital, was also a doctor. Her stethoscope hung around her neck and over her white lab coat when she stood up from her chair. She nodded a quick but cordial greeting to us as she walked by. Her hand was extended to pass off a three-by-four inch piece of paper to a poorly but warmly dressed woman who sat with a toddler on her lap. The woman looked closely at the paper while Olga talked to her in Russian and wiped the little boy’s red and runny nose. The mother responded as if she understood the doctor’s instructions. Then she put the prescription in her coat pocket and stood up, bouncing and readjusting her offspring-appendage in preparation to carry him out of the room. “Spaseeba,” She said while nodding in a slight informal bow. “Spaseeba. Spaseeba.” Thank you. Thank you.

“Pazyaloosta,” came the appropriate response. You’re welcome. Please. Pazyaloosta, with the “zy” making the sound of the “s” in the English word “pleasure,” translates as please. So…

“Thank you.”

“Please.”

       Weird. Then again, who are English speakers to criticize?

            “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            “Welcome to what?”

            Maybe the Russian way is just an abbreviation. It might make more sense than the English, had it not been abbreviated.

            “Thank you.”

            “Please. Please don’t mention it.”

“John this is Olga, director of the Baby Hospital here in Partizansk,” Stass said. I snapped back from the debate in my mind as to what should be said after thank you.

“It’s a pleasure.” Olga looked very professional. Even so, her animated smile seemed friendly. Her medium-brown wavy hair was shoulder length. It had a slight hint of red and looked natural at first. On closer observation salt and pepper roots betrayed the secret that she was a week past perfect timing on her next very good dye job.

So I’d place her around fortyish. It’s hard to tell with Russian women.

It’s a tough life in that part of the world so the environment eventually takes its toll. I’m sure at one point the woman was a more than fair representative of a race that has far more than its share of incredibly beautiful young women. Olga had passed the age when the scale tips. When it comes to the “over-the-hill” group, Russia possesses more than its allotment of women who look like they could go bear hunting with a rubber band. Still, if Olga was not a beauty pageant winner in her early years she was not anywhere near the extreme of the over-the-hill generation either. One thing is sure; age and gravity win against us all. In Russia they win with a vengeance.

“Olga says welcome. Welcome to Partizansk,” Stass translated. The doctor gave both Amy and me firm and vigorous two-hand handshakes.

“Thank you. It’s our pleasure to be here,” Amy responded.

Olga spoke and Stass laughed. “She says you are even more beautiful than your picture.”

Amy blushed. “Thank you.”

“She says she feels like she already knows you. The director has spent lots of time going over your file.”

The director had the advantage. We hadn’t received a copy of her file for our review. That’s the way it is when you adopt. You feel as if you and your partner are the only ones forced to walk around naked in a society of fully dressed people.

Marina-Grigorievna and Olga greeted each other quickly with a little dialog and without handshakes. It appeared as if they were good friends and close enough to ignore formalities.

The director seemed almost as excited for us to see “Lubishka” as we were to meet the little girl. She held her hand to the door directing us out in front of her. Stass followed us all into the hallway.

We were led to our right and headed back the way we came, passing by the entrance to the building. Soon we approached what appeared to be a playroom. Olga directed us in and said something to Marina-Grigorievna and Stass before walking quickly down the hall.

“Olga is going to get Luba,” Stass explained while the social worker took a seat in a not-worn, light gray, vinyl armchair. “She says she’ll only be a minute. Feel free to sit down while you wait.” He gestured toward a light gray couch, the matching piece to the chair where Marina-Grigorievna was now taking off her black leather gloves.

 

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