To Sing Frogs Chapter 7d

I missed the picture of Katya and Amy, but Amy got one of Katya and me blowing kisses to the Vladivostok sunset.

“Would you like to blow kisses to your new brothers in America?” Amy asked.

The little girl’s face became the brightest light in the room. “Dá. Dá!”

Mother and child lifted hands to their lips and blew multiple kisses. “One for Mike!” “One for Cory!” “One for Steve!” “And one for Jack!” Simultaneously they blew the last kisses to the sun. Amy swooped Katya back into her arms for a kiss of her own. Katya abruptly pulled away, almost instinctively. Then she seemed to locate a wisp of confidence. Amy warned us that would happen. When children have been abused by parents—as Amy and Katya had—it takes time. Trust can only advance by degrees. After a short contemplative delay Katya hugged Amy. Then she kissed her back, on the cheek.

It was getting late and Stass was ready to leave. He kindly indicated that we must be exhausted and ready to get to the hotel. Even though Amy and I could have stayed the night, I politely responded that the hotel sounded good. Amy’s eyes flew open. “The soft books!”

            “Oh,” I said to Stass, “Amy has made a couple of cloth books for Katya, to explain the trip home. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes to read them to her. Do you mind?”

“Sure. No problem.”

The translator moved next to my wife and Katya preparing to translate the few pages. He smiled as Amy opened the first book. “The book is in Russian!” he blurted.

“Russian and English,” Amy replied. “The books are hers and we want her to have and read them for a long time.”

Stass read to an animated Katya. She squirmed on Amy’s lap and pointed while they discussed pictures about the sun going to America, cars, hotels, restaurants, and members of her new family. There were even two horses and a pet Siberian Husky. The little girl was bursting with excitement when she learned the dog was also Russian and had a Russian name. Dasha.

The child squealed and began to jabber. “Katya says she has a friend named Dasha,” Stass said. “Is this an American name?”

Amy said Dasha was a Russian dog and she had a Russian name just like Katya. Stass smiled. Nicely played. Finishing the soft books didn’t take long. Then it was time to go.

Katya cried a flashflood of tears as we reluctantly tore ourselves away. She was left only with words—thin, hollow sounds that said we would return the next day. Promises were cheap. Families had abandoned Katya and all of her peers. Why would it be any different this time? Trust comes only by degrees.

I understood why she was so hysterical. There was nothing I wanted more than to be able to console that little girl. Alas, words don’t trump experience.

It’s not just children. Even as adults we place ourselves into positions where we only rely on what we can see—with our eyes—from our own limited perspective.

In Katya’s case it anchored her to her fears. It was so extreme that I couldn’t help her comprehend a future free from betrayal no matter how much I wanted to.

Silently and with my heart breaking I did the only thing a father can do when his child can’t bring herself to trust him. I left her alone with her tears. Amy said it’s like what God does. If I thought He had enough time to micromanage I might agree. I couldn’t bear to watch Katya anymore, so we followed Stass through the icy metal curtain into the gathering darkness.

 

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