Dedicated
to Sonia
Larissa Jackson Boonstra
Mother says my
earliest memories cannot possibly be of the Russian orphanage where I
was placed at two and a half years old. But I am the one who
lives with these images.
It was
1977.
I entered the
orphanage as would a storm, screaming and lashing my feet against a
caretaker who held my tear-stained face tightly to her breasts.
I scratched her face yet, bless her, she held me closely until I was
safely placed in a crib. Her face mirrored mine, a plain face,
red from strain. As she leaned over me, clear blue eyes stared
into mine.
My dimpled knee
swung over the crib in an attempt to free myself, but the caretaker
took hold of me and placed me in the crib again and again.
Though her hands were as sandpaper against my skin, her voice was as
soothing as a balm and her murmurs of ‘hush,’ so gently offered,
led me to sleep.
Morning sun
streaked through a crack in a wall near my crib. I awoke to the sun's
rays and children screaming as they grabbed at the air for milk and
touch. The scent of urine permeated the nursery. Fully
awakened, I howled.
The collage of
sights and sounds remains with me. Sounds of crinkling paper
slippers moving through the rows of cribs, caressing whispers of,
"Shhhh," meant to soothe sweat-stained foreheads, words of,
"Acch, the smell," from harsh voices, infants rising as if
of their own accord from slat prisons, hands dipping my small body
into sudsy water, the drying of our wiggling forms, short tops serving
as the only covering, tipped cribs, puddles of warm urine trickling
into waiting buckets, the chafing noise of the scrubbing of the cribs.
Even now, in the middle of
sleep, I hear the snap of freshly cleaned covers as they cut through
the air. I recall their
coarseness against my skin as I fight my way out of the maelstrom of
sleep.
Images of bottles
of milk propped against wooden slats stay with me. If the milk
soaked its nourishment into the sheets, tiny, shriveled hands grasped
at the sweet moisture. Mouths sucked cloth until sleep lulled
babes back to nightmares or the rare gift of dreams of family, a warm
embrace.
Older infants held
their bottles high as though they were prizes, and drained their
contents until only air existed. Toddlers were fed sticky mush
and hungrily grasped at spoons.
"Greedy
little ones," our caretakers said as the tasteless watered-down
porridge slipped down throats.
None was greedier
than I.
On that first
morning my caretaker lifted me from the crib as I kicked and scratched
at her. This was also her first year at the orphanage and so she
kept a diary of my progress, among others. When the entries were
translated they said my caretaker sang my name, Sonia, and rocked me
until I was calm enough to enter the playroom where she placed me in a
chair. She wrote that I sat up straight, looking ahead. I
don't remember much of this. Fortunately, the orphanage gave the
diary to my adoptive parents. I do recall flat voices responding
to music in the most basic of rhythms. The walls in that room
were stark white and our voices echoed around them. I remember
shy, stoic smiles and a dance-like shuffling from left to right as we
sang. It seems an odd directive to me now.
The diary says
that this caretaker was proud of my behavior until we played patty
cake. My flat hand curled into a claw that raked down the arm of
a sweet child next to me. Scolded, I was returned to my crib
where I screamed over the singsong sounds of children.
At three years
old, I was regularly placed in a playroom with two other children but
again and again I scratched at their faces. My punishment
remained the same. I was taken back to my crib to cry
alone.
And so I began
rocking back and forth on my knees in my crib. I stared ahead as
the caretakers whisked by, so the diary says. The doctor
examined me, finding me healthy enough, but so bored that the rocking
had become my escape. The notes read that when he patted my head
my determined look met his stare.
Perhaps the
caretaker who was so good to me wished me a better home. Perhaps
she wished to be rid of me. I only know it was my turn to be
videotaped. All of us were up for adoption.
Many couples came from other countries and wanted proof of
healthy bodies.
The tape came out
well. It was that God awful pattern of pink pigs frolicking
across my dress that enchanted me. I passed a mirror, touched the
matching pink bow in my hair and covered my mouth with my hands as
giggles escaped like breaking bubbles. I was so pleased with
myself that I smiled through the whole videotape.
After the day of
the taping, I began running to the playroom, pulling at toddlers my
own age who didn't behave properly. The diary pages, and these
my mother won't let me forget, say I moved to the stilted music adding
raised eyebrows, flirtatious glances and exaggerated movements.
I became a star playing to a captive audience. One caretaker
brought a hankie to cover her mouth to stifle her laughter.
One day a new
child came into the playroom. She was sobbing. The caretaker's
notes say I rushed to her saying, "Don't cry. Don't cry."
The following day I crushed her with a hug. She cried from the
squeeze. My embraces became lighter and eventually she came to sit
next to me. We'd hold hands.
Moved from my crib
and placed in a bed, I found my new friend in the bed next to mine. We
locked eyes until sleep embraced us.
My rocking back
and forth stopped and never again did I lash out.
Finally, at three-and-a-half years of age, I had visitors from
America.
Once again I wore
a colorful dress and pink bow.
I remember looking
up at a dark-haired man and a pretty woman. They talked to me
but I didn't understand their words. I smiled. I was so
happy to be back in a dress and, of course, to be the center of
attention.
Three days later
the woman from America held me in her lap as a Russian doctor gave me
a shot. "What a wonderful child," he said.
"Not a peep out of her."
He laughed and repeated the words in a language I didn't
know. The doctor was not looking at me, but the woman was.
I think that’s why she needs to believe I only imagine I
remember the orphanage. You see, Mother placed 
her
hand over mine for what we both saw in the mirror before us was the
reflection of a child screaming...
without letting out a sound.
Once
outside the orphanage, the woman leaned down to me. I only
recognized my name, Sonia, not the other words she spoke. But I
saw her tears and patted her face. I turned once to see the
caretaker's face at the orphanage window. She waved a white hanky at
me. I offered a tiny wave for two, as my friend stood next to her. I
turned and held to the woman I learned to call Mother. We walked at my
pace to a waiting car, which drove us to the airport and to my new
home.
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