they would be playing many games. An older teacher appeared suddenly and began yelling something at the girl. Martin tried to make sense of it, tie her presence on the playground to some kind of disobedience. But there was nothing, mostly it was a repeated admonishment to not speak.
“I’m sorry,” the girl repeated back.
The woman never looked at them as she physically gathered up the child and nearly ran her back inside, whispering in her ear the whole while.
Martin and Jenny stood motionless in their confusion.
“Oksana,” he said to Jenny.
“That’s a pretty name, Martin.”
They walked to the outer gates by the street to call their group leader and wait for a taxi.
Martin watched Jenny as she sat on the curb, in a daze and with a slight grin. She was likely running through visions of Oksana in their home. Maybe playing in the back yard with a dog they didn’t yet have. All the while probably chanting to herself the child’s new last name.
But his emotions were in the present. He felt something different, strange and exhausted. Normally he was unaware of any emotions in the moment but in the span of ten minutes he had the largest sweeping feeling of love he could remember, followed by a quickening of intense fear and then anger. All in the span of ten minutes. In his heart he had suddenly become a dad, and his daughter had been stolen from him in a whirl of violent words. Worse, he had helplessly watched it all happen.
Each day they worked at the orphanage they searched for Oksana and asked the staff where she was. By the third day their translator closed them down.
“Mr. Martin. Please stop inquiring about child.”
“Why?” Martin asked.
“It is not appropriate. People much irritated, understand?”
“I’m much irritated. How can no one know where she is?”
“There are no answers. But no business is ours. No more, please. I go now for find afternoon schedule. Thank you.”
Knowing the director knew some English, Martin watched her schedule. If he caught her, like outside in transit to another building, he might get some information. He had quickly discovered that was the only way to access her.
On the last morning there he saw her heading from the administration building to where they kept the old school bus. A large woman in her late fifties with dyed yellow hair that punched out from her head-scarf. Always in conservative dress. From her attitude she probably wore the scarf on her head more for tradition than to keep her hair in place. There was enough hairspray on it already to harden a bowling ball.
He speed-walked quietly to overtake her midway in the courtyard.
“Madame, Director!”
“Yes?” She stopped and turned slowly toward him with wary eyes.
“Sorry to bother you. If I may, just a couple questions I can’t seem to get answered by the staff here.”
“Yes?”
“My wife and I met a little girl, maybe nine years old, named Oksana. We have not seen her since and this being our last day we would like to say good-bye to her. Also, can we know her status?
“Oksana Kholobayev. Her status?” she asked.
He caught his breath in sudden anticipation.
“Yes. Is she available for adoption?” he asked.
“I am sorry, no. Not possible. She has a Ukrainian guardian who will adopt her.”
“I don’t understand. She was here a few days ago,” Martin said.
“Oksana lives here and her teacher adopts her. Please, if you are interested in another child send me an email. I must go now. Thank you.”
Martin tipped his head, his mind spinning. “I’m sorry, I’m confused. If she has a guardian how does she live here?” Martin asked.
The director shook her head. “She not live here. Do you see her? No, she is with guardian. I must go.”
He didn’t like making anyone uncomfortable, especially not strangers, but he somehow felt no remorse with this woman. He tried to sum up the conversation as he walked slowly back to Jenny, stopping short to watch her playing with the children.
She looked so happy, so at home. How could God instil such a strong love for children into a woman who could not have children of her own? All week she talked about Oksana – at breakfast, on walks, taxi rides. She had fallen asleep to images of the child in her heart and in her home. When she talked of the girl, he listened, hiding his feelings, but she called him on it several times by simply telling him to stop worrying.
It would be best to interrupt her play, to take her aside for the news, rather than wait.
Jenny stiffened. “What did she say? Where is she?” Jenny asked.
“She has a guardian.”
“What is that? What does that mean?”
“She is not available.”
She sank as if suddenly swallowed into quicksand, eyes dulling and head dropping.
“But…”
“But what?” Jenny asked. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“That’s it. Something is not right. I don’t believe her,” Martin said.
“Why would the director lie?”
“I don’t know. But the girl was taken away the day we met her, probably the moment we met her.”
“Okay.”
He paced the playground trying to put the pieces together. Martin returned to Jenny with the same conclusion.
“It’s just…I think she is lying,” he said.
“What do we do? We leave in two days.”
A little boy with a nametag that said Victor came up to Martin. Oh yeah, the boy who could run at the wall of the building, run up it, and flip back around in the air.
“Hey, Spiderman. We’ll be right back in a minute. Go play.” Martin gently pressed the boy’s shoulder back in the direction of the play-group.
The boy stood firm. “I want say to you.”
“Okay, Victor. But real quick, okay,”
“No, take your time,” Jenny said, stroking his arm.
“I want say I know you love Oksana. She come back yesterday.”
“She was here?” Martin stepped closer.
