Open Doors

by Gloria Goldreich

  He had rejected Elaine because she was too old and Denis because he was single.

  “In Russia the family is very important. The judge will want a family—a mother, a father.”

  Lisa had felt a vague uneasiness. Claire had assured her that she had arranged several adoptions for single parents but still Misha’s words were unsettling. They had decided at last on Peter who had faxed an affidavit of agreement which Misha had copied and added to the dossier.

  “I know how busy you are, Misha,” Lisa said. “But please arrange some time for me before the hearing. I want to know the procedure and be prepared for any questions I might be asked.”

  “Yes. Of course. I will explain to you exactly what will happen in the courtroom. But you have no need to worry. Your Genia was an abandoned child so there is no need for release from her family. Who knows who they are? So that is one big problem that you do not have. Do not be concerned. Misha has been the facilitator of many adoptions. Yes, Sonia?”

  “Misha is an excellent facilitator,” Sonia agreed. “But now we must go to the Home. We do not want to anger Irina.”

  Lisa grimaced. Misha darted out of the Lada and hurried into the hotel where, in all probability, another anxious adoptive parent waited for him.

  That morning Elaine sat beside Genia and Lisa on the floor, her drawing pad open, her colored pencils neatly arranged. She drew a picture of her own home, a young woman with a child in her arms standing in the doorway, the garden crowded with flowers. Genia stared at the picture and Elaine pointed to Lisa, then to the woman in the drawing.

  “Mama,” she said.

  She pointed to the drawing of the child and then to Genia.

  “Genia. Genia and Mama.”

  Genia looked puzzled and then, as though a new understanding had broken through, she smiled, her heart-shaped face newly radiant. She touched the drawing and reached up to touch Lisa’s face.

  “Mama?” The word was a question, the touch a caress.

  Lisa nodded.

  “Mama.” The question had vanished, the smile remained.

  Lisa’s eyes filled and Elaine put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Sonia nodded approvingly but across the room, Irina Petrovna shifted in her seat and jabbed angrily at her notebook.

  They ignored her. Elaine added other drawings, creating a panel. Lisa handing the child a doll. Toys. A ball. An airplane. Genia looked puzzled. She fluttered her arms but realized that the child had never seen an airplane. She drew a bird instead.

  “Tweet,” Genia chortled happily. “Tweet, tweet.”

  Elaine and Lisa clapped their hands and then Genia clapped for herself.

  “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” Lisa said happily, as they drove back to the Radisson.

  “Wonderful,” Elaine and Sonia agreed in unison.

  “Oh, Mom, can you believe it? In a week’s time she’ll be mine. In a week we’ll be on our way home to America.”

  Elaine nodded but she did not answer. She was the daughter of a woman who had hugged all good news close, fearful that any premature proclamation could tempt the evil eye. A stupid superstition, she knew, but she trembled at the thought that Lisa’s optimism might be premature.

  “We’ll be together always, Genia and I,” Lisa said dreamily.

  “It will be wonderful for me to have a granddaughter nearby,” Elaine reflected. “Only a two-hour drive away. I hop into my car and claim a kiss, a hug. A blessing when I think of the flights to Los Angeles and Tel Aviv to see my other grandchildren.”

  “Mom, why don’t you think about moving to Philadelphia or at least to a nearby suburb?” Lisa asked hesitantly. “You don’t want to spend the rest of your life rattling around that big house, so far from all of us.”

  “Actually, Lisa, I don’t know what I want to do,” Elaine replied. “I don’t want to stay in the house. I know that much. But I’m finding it hard to decide where I want to live for the rest of my life.”

  She stared out the car window. They were passing a housing project and as they stopped for a light a Russian grandmother wearing the traditional babushka crossed the street. She held the hands of laughing twin boys and smiled benevolently at them. Elaine had no doubt that she was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted to do for the rest of her life and where she would live. She leaned back, grateful to Lisa for not pursuing the question to which she had no answer.

  Misha and Sonia came to the hotel the evening before the court hearing and reviewed the questions that were usually posed to adoptive parents by the judge and the prosecutor.

  “Prosecutor?” Lisa asked in bewilderment.

  “In Russia the prosecutor means the attorney who acts on behalf of the government,” Sonia explained. “No need to be frightened by the word.”

  “They will ask about your life, your profession, why you are adopting in Russia rather than the United States,” Misha continued. “There may be a question about why you do not have a biological child of your own and another about the religion in which you will raise the child. What else will they ask?” He consulted his tattered notebook. “Some more questions. What will you tell Genia about her Russian heritage? Does your family approve of the adoption? What are your child care arrangements? This will be an important question for you because you will be a single mother, a working mother.”

  “I’ll explain that I’ve hired a live-in nanny. I even brought a picture of Ellen and the letters of reference her former employers wrote. And photographs of her room in my home and Genia’s nursery. Claire suggested that I do that,” Lisa assured him.

  “Ah, Claire. She thinks of everything,” Misha said admiringly. “Yes. I remember that those photographs and letters are in your dossier. And that the judge will have them before him. Refer to them but keep your answers very brief. And if the judge or the prosecutor asks one question after another wait until Sonia has translated all the questions. We are fortunate that we have permission for Sonia to act as translator. Sometimes we have the court translator and their English is not as good as Sonia’s. You see, Dawkta Gordon, we are well prepared for this hearing. No need to worry.”

  “I do see. And I’m grateful,” Lisa said.

  It rained the morning of the hearing, a doleful drizzle that was impervious to Sonia’s windshield wipers. She cursed briefly and pressed the accelerator, indifferent to the lack of visibility.

  “We don’t want to be late,” she muttered.

  Sonia’s irritability and the weather darkened Elaine’s mood. She was relieved, however, to see that Lisa remained light-hearted. David had phoned early that morning from Helsinki to wish her luck and his call had energized her. She had dressed carefully for the hearing, following Claire’s advice. A dark suit, a tailored white shirt, sensible shoes. She wore scant makeup, carefully applied, and she had brushed her helmet of dark hair into an obsidian gleam.

  “Do I look like a mother?” she asked Elaine playfully.

  “You look like a beautiful woman,” Elaine had replied. “And you will be a beautiful mother.”

  “Oh, Mom, that’s what David said. That’s exactly what he said,” Lisa responded happily. “Nothing can go wrong now.”

  “Of course nothing will go wrong,” Elaine agreed.

  She herself wore the turquoise-colored skirt she had bought in Santa Monica and she stroked the fabric, taking tactile comfort from its softness even as she wondered why she was in need of that comfort. Everything was in order. They were in great shape.

  They arrived at the courthouse, a stately neoclassic building, its facade adorned with the bronze busts of stern-looking men, jurists and lawmakers of a distant era, Elaine supposed. The metal was unpolished and scratched, marred by graffiti in elegant Cyrillic scrawls. They climbed the steps to the main portico, which was supported by square black pillars. The interior contained no vestige of former elegance. They walked down a dimly lit corridor, the walls bare, the paint flaking, and entered a courtroom which was surprisingly small and austere. Its windows were
narrow and droplets of rain slithered down dirt-encrusted panes and formed small puddles on the pockmarked granite sills.

  The court stenographer, a heavyset woman, her iron-gray hair tightly twisted into a bun, sat at a small table and fiddled with an ancient stenotype machine, now and again interrupting her efforts to sneeze into a thin white handkerchief tucked into the sleeve of her dark dress. A chubby, pleasant-looking man, wearing a gray suit shiny with age, sat in the front row intently studying the sheaf of papers he balanced unsteadily on his lap.

  “He is a representative of the Department of Education,” Misha whispered to Lisa. “He was charged with reading through your dossier to determine if there is any reason why his department should not support the adoption. We can rely on him to support it. He does not want to waste another morning in court if you should appeal his denial.”

  Sonia took a seat beside Lisa. She nodded to a pale young woman in a dark woolen dress who hurried to take her place. Wispy hair framed her thin expressionless face. Her eyes were narrow, her lips pursed shut.

  “Who is she?” Elaine asked Sonia.

  “The prosecutor. She may ask some questions. The judge will ask other questions,” Sonia explained. “She is not the most pleasant woman but do not be concerned about her.”

  “If you say so,” Elaine said but her heart sank when the door opened and Irina Petrovna, resplendent in a purple knit dress, swept in and took a seat beside the prosecutor. The two women spoke briefly, their heads bent close.

  Lisa glanced worriedly at Misha who shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “It is not unusual for the directress to appear at an adoption proceeding.”

  Lisa nodded and stared straight ahead, fixing her eyes on the raised dais in front of a huge judicial bench that contained three large chairs. A copy of her dossier was placed in front of the center chair where the judge would sit. A sudden silence fell across the room as the door opened. Everyone stood as Judge Timashkov, a stooped gray-haired man, his judicial robe frayed at the sleeves and rusted at the yoke, entered. They all inclined their heads deferentially and the elderly stenographer blew her nose very loudly. The judge flashed her an avuncular smile and sat, motioning the others to do the same.

  He opened the dossier and turned the pages slowly and then sat back as though satisfied. He nodded and the carefully choreographed hearing proceeded with an almost rhythmic slowness. Elaine loosened her scarf and tried to avoid looking at Irina Petrovna who was, she knew, staring hard at her.

  The portly representative of the Department of Education gave a brief report, his tone noncommittal.

  “He says that his department has studied all your documents and it supports the adoption,” Sonia whispered to Lisa. “You see. There is nothing to worry about.”

  Lisa breathed more easily. She rose when her name was called and stood before the judge. The judge spoke softly, slowly and Sonia translated softly, slowly.

  Lisa’s hands trembled and her heart beat too fast, but her voice was calm as she gave her name and informed the court that she was a physician.

  “The judge asks why you have come to Russia to adopt a baby,” Sonia said.

  “Please tell him that my father was born in Russia and Russian culture was always part of my life. I want to share my life with a child born in my father’s homeland. Also I have friends who have adopted Russian children and their experiences have been excellent,” Lisa replied.

  The judge listened to the answer and nodded approvingly. He asked another question which Sonia translated in turn.

  “What will you teach your child about her Russian heritage?” Sonia asked.

  “I have been collecting things during my stay in Russia that will help me show Genia how rich and colorful Russian culture is. I have bought picture books of Russian cities and the countryside, collections of Russian fairy tales and nesting dolls as well as other Russian toys. I hope that she will learn the language of her native land. When she is older we will return to Russia together on more than one visit,” Lisa said.

  The prosecutor rose. She fired off a question in rapid Russian. Sonia shrugged.

  “The prosecutor takes note of the fact that you are a physician with a large practice. How will the child be cared for if you are always so busy and not at home with her?”

  “I have arranged for a very competent nanny who will live with us so that she will be available at all times. I believe the judge and the prosecutor will find references to her in the dossier.”

  The judge rummaged through the papers and smiled when he came upon the relevant documents. He spoke brusquely to the prosecutor, glanced at his watch, and shook his finger at her but she shrugged and asked yet another question.

  “She wants to know in what religion you will raise the child,” Sonia said.

  “I am Jewish. Genia will be Jewish,” Lisa replied.

  Another question. Almost impatiently, Sonia translated.

  “Does your family approve of this adoption?”

  Lisa smiled.

  “They are enthusiastic about it. In fact, my mother traveled to Moscow with me.” She pointed to Elaine who nodded vigorously.

  The prosecutor sat down but Irina Petrovna rose and turned to the judge, speaking rapidly. Sonia frowned. Misha clasped and unclasped his hands, his face furrowed in anger.

  Lisa willed herself to calm as she and Sonia returned to their seats.

  “What is Irina saying, Sonia?” she asked nervously.

  “She says that she observed your sessions with Genia and they went well but she is opposed to this adoption because you are a single mother. There is a regulation in the rules of the Children’s Home Thirty-One that says that adoptions by single parents are to be discouraged and can only be permitted with the agreement of the directress. The judge is trying to persuade her to permit the adoption. See, how he argues with her.”

  Lisa nodded. The judge was in fact pulling pages out of the dossier and waving them at Irina Petrovna. His voice rose in anger. The directress remained calm, her face frozen into a mask of obstinacy. She spoke to the prosecutor who, in turn, rose and addressed the judge.

  “What’s happening?” Lisa asked anxiously.

  “The judge is angry because he feels that you will provide this child with a wonderful life. Irina Petrovna will not be persuaded. Irina asked the prosecutor if she was not acting within her rights according to Russian law and the prosecutor agrees. She has told the judge that legally, he is bound to deny the adoption,” Sonia said, her voice heavy with defeat.

  Lisa felt a weight descend upon her heart. She leaned forward, her face flushed, her eyes wide with disbelief. Elaine gripped her daughter’s ice-cold hand, her own breath coming in stertorous gasps. This couldn’t be happening. They couldn’t lose Genia. Not now. Not ever.

  Misha sprang to his feet. He spoke reasonably, cajolingly. The judge lifted his hands and shook his head. His gesture was one of defeat. He turned to the prosecutor who shrugged. He uttered his words of judgment slowly and reluctantly.

  “The judge explains that according to the law of this precinct, he cannot grant the adoption over the objection of the directress. However, he is allowing a ten-day period during which this decision may be appealed and perhaps reversed,” Sonia said.

  “On what grounds?” Elaine asked.

  “The directress may change her mind. There have been cases where a situation has changed,” Sonia said unhappily. “Perhaps your situation will change.”

  Elaine nodded. They were grasping at straws, she acknowledged but at least there were straws to be grasped.

  The judge rose, murmured a few words and left the room, carrying the dossier with him. Lisa sat very still as though paralyzed by grief and Elaine stroked her daughter’s hand. Irina glanced at them as she left, her thin lips twisted into a grimace of triumph. She murmured a few words to Sonia as she brushed past her.

  “What did she say?” Elaine asked.

  “She said to te
ll you that she thinks your skirt is very beautiful,” Sonia replied bitterly.

  “What I don’t understand,” Lisa said, “is why she opposed the adoption. Claire told me that she’s arranged adoptions for single parents without difficulty. Misha, have you acted as a facilitator for other adoptions by single parents from Children’s Home Thirty-One?”

  “Yes,” Misha said.

  “And they proceeded without difficulty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what was our problem? Simply an antipathy to us?”

  Misha and Sonia looked at each other. Sonia murmured something to him. Misha hesitated briefly and nodded.

  “You remember that I told you about a family for whom Irina created difficulty, even lying about the man’s behavior with the child?” Sonia asked.

  Lisa nodded.

  “That family was also Jewish. That is why I advised you not to tell her that you went to the synagogue,” she said. “Irina could not deny that adoption on the basis of religion because that would be against Russian law and so she invented that false accusation against that man. In your case, she had to find some obscure regulation.”

  “Anti-Semitic bitch that she is,” Misha said harshly.

  “Come. Let us have some lunch, some wine and I will take you back to the hotel,” Sonia said.

  “But I can still see Genia, can’t I?” Lisa asked.

  “Yes. You still have ten days.” Misha spoke hesitantly. “But perhaps it would be easier for you, for her, to cut your ties to the child now.”

  He looked pleadingly at Elaine but she shook her head.

  “We cannot decide anything now,” she said firmly. “We need time to think. To plan. Damn it. I’m not going to let that woman win.”

  “I want to see Genia now,” Lisa said quietly. “Mom, please understand. I want to be alone with her just now.”

  “I understand,” Elaine said. She would not intrude upon her daughter; she understood her need to sit quietly with the child she had taken into her heart.

  Sonia drove Lisa to the Home and by tacit agreement drove Elaine back to the hotel. There would be no recourse to the false comfort of wine and food in the face of a loss they could not bring themselves to discuss.