To Sing Frogs Chapter 8d

Katya and the other orphans playing on the slide

Marina was different. She stood patiently waiting at the top of the hill while politely asking each returning child if she might have a turn. Fat chance. The vinyl would be surrendered to someone in the attacking mob while Marina quietly stepped back. Though she was beginning to become frustrated it was not in her nature to fight or quarrel.

Finally after finishing her run, one of the older girls—who was a head taller than any of the rest—jerked her limp sled away from the other children who tried to steal it away. She shouldered some aside, elbowed others, and stomped through several more before reaching out and handing the sheet to the porcelain Asian doll. The other orphans rushed off to attack another victim. Marina sincerely thanked the awkward giant who happily smiled back at her. As soon as she reached the bottom of the hill Marina picked up the makeshift sled and carefully stepped up the hill where she turned it over to the first person that rushed her. Then she walked over to be with Katya and Amy.

Marina was taken care of because of someone stronger. It would be nice if it could always be so. Numbers say it won’t. The science of probability and Darwin’s theory suggest that odds of such a solution going on forever are nil. If only God had time to micromanage. Surely if He did, Marina’s situation would be corrected. The universe is frigid. Life is harsh.

After a half-hour on the slope all but the most committed of the luge racers had ceased to clamor for more turns. The sleds were put away and workers led the children to the playground.

There were swings, monkey bars, teeter-totters, and other playground equipment. The children were most drawn to the slippery-slide. The top of its sloped tin surface was only about a meter-and-a-half off the ground though the curved handles on its sides reached up another half meter. The implement had been constructed from various types of scrap metal and included handles and steps made from pipe. What surprised me were the side rails. They were made from inch-and-a-half angle iron with the corner of the joined sides pointing upward. The several supports holding the rail up were made from the same type of metal. Any collision with the side rail would have resulted in—well, who knows, really? Still, an OSHA inspector would have— I should rephrase. If OSHA ever sends inspectors to Russia I give the following stock recommendation; Strong Buy; Depends® adult briefs.

“Come with me,” Amy said to Katya and Marina. They looked at her strangely so she held out her hand while wiggling fingers as she turned to walk away. The two little girls followed. The questionable construction of the slide made Amy even more nervous than me.

“Where are you going?” I asked facetiously. “You’ll miss out on all of the fun!”

“Somebody’s going to the hospital before they get done over there,” Amy responded. “I think the swings are safer.” Swings were more in line with Marina’s demeanor anyway.

The design and manner of use for a slippery slide forced an unusual situation. As children raced from the end of the slide back to the steps a line formed naturally. It was one of the few actual queues I ever saw in Russia. It almost appeared to be precursory to an evolutionary change.

Eventually sliding down the implement the way its designers had intended wasn’t fun enough. The children were soon skating down the surface on their feet. I heard a shriek and saw one of the workers running toward the slide. While she ran she shouted orders for the child at the top to stop. It was too late.

Still, the descent was uneventful. The other orphans cheered for their peer when he completed the imitation Olympic ski jump despite the shrieking objections of the orphanage worker.

Then it was too cold to continue to play outside. At least that’s what Stass told us the worker said. We all herded back into the building.

While we walked Stass told us we needed to get on the road so we could be at the Partizansk Baby Hospital in time to meet Luba. The drive would take three hours.

Katya noticed that we stayed in our coats while she and the other children removed theirs and hung them on hooks. She sensed what was going on and began to pout. Then she started to cry. Stass told her we needed to leave so we could visit Luba. That at least kept her from the hysteria we witnessed as we left the day before. While sadness remained, news of Luba initiated a sparkle in her eye. I hoped it was a glimmer of desire for reunification.

Stass told her to give us hugs. As expected she grabbed Amy first. Katya threw her arms around the mother’s neck, kissed her, and whispered in her ear. Amy glowed. Then my future daughter turned to me and I swooped her up in my arms. She squeezed me tighter and tighter like a constrictor clamping its prey. Then she kissed me on the cheek and placed her mouth next to my ear. My heart melted as I heard the words to one of the five or six Russian phrases I recognized. “Yá tibyá lo bloo, papashka.” I love you, daddy.

 

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