The Ukrainian government's moratorium on foreign adoption, which was supposed to last three or four months, dragged on through the end of 1994, through 1995, and into 1996. A snapshot of Denis hung in a magnetic frame on the front of our refrigerator. We looked at his picture several times a day and prayed for him. His eighth birthday came and went. Was he getting too old to be able to adjust to family life? As months turned into years, I began to give up hope that Denis would ever come home.
At the age of eight, Denis was moved to a boarding school. I had heard terrible stories from other adoptive parents of children being mistreated and preyed upon by older children in such schools, and I lay awake nights praying for Denis's safety. Was it right, we wondered, for our children to grow up waiting for a child who never came? We began to think it might be better to give up and get on with our lives. Somehow, though, we were never quite able to do that.
Denis was almost nine years old when the news came, in March 1996, that the moratorium had been lifted. Under Ukraine's new adoption law, a national adoption center would be set up in Kiev. No one knew how long that would take. Our I-600 had expired, so we filed another one. Months passed without any more news from Ukraine. Shortly before Christmas 1996, we called Olga, and the news was better. She thought we should be able to come for Denis by summer. Meanwhile, the new law required more documents, and our second dossier was too old to be used.
We started over on what would be our third dossier. We had a new homestudy. We obtained required documents and had them translated. When I called Olga in May, she said I should plan to come in August. She thought everything should go smoothly. Denis was now ten years old.
In August, three years after my last visit to Ukraine, Tanya met me at the airport in Kiev. As we travelled by overnight train to Kherson, I shared my fears with Tanya. Had Denis grown bitter and hardened by the long wait? Had he given up hope that I would come back for him? Had he been badly treated at his school? She had been unable to visit him in the boarding school, so she didn't know.
We drove for hours to the Sea of Azov where the children had been taken for summer camp. We had the permission of the government authorities to bring Denis back to Kherson, but we must be quick, I was told, so that there would be no problems. Some people are still very suspicious of Americans. As we approached the camp's guard, I was told not to speak, so that I would not stand out as an American. We were hurried quickly to a building, shuffled along to a dormitory where workers were getting Denis up from a rest period.
I saw him first from the back, making his bed, folding his towel. He was smaller than I had expected, and thin. But here at last was my son! I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob. He was dressed in a very thin sleeveless undershirt and threadbare shorts. His sandals had long ago lost their buckles.
Tanya took Denis by the hand to lead him outside. I followed along behind with our driver. Denis was speaking to Tanya. He began to cry.
"He wants to say goodbye to some of the teachers," Tanya explained. We went outside and I took pictures of Denis with several of the women who had cared for him at the boarding school. They hugged him and told him goodbye. I wished we did not have to hurry him away like this. No matter how good the life awaiting him, his leavetaking should not be so abrupt. After all, he would never see these people again.
In the car, Denis recounted in detail his memories of us. I showed him pictures of the family at home and explained that I had come at last to adopt him. He seemed pleased by this, but confused. He began to ask questions about his new life, apparently trying to take in this sudden change. " Will I go to school?" he asked, "Will I brush my teeth?" We laughed.
Denis smiled at me shyly. He asked Tanya a question. I waited for the translation. "He wants to know if he can call you Mama," Tanya told me.
Denis was quiet for several minutes. Finally he asked another question, "Can I say now that I have a home?"
Olga's reassurances that Denis's adoption would go smoothly, it turned out, were overly optimistic. Two days later, the process hit a major snag. I was bustled off to the car immediately after breakfast by Olga and Tanya who both looked very worried. As Olga's husband drove, they explained. In order to adopt Denis, I needed the permission of the Director of Education of the district in which Denis's boarding school was located.
Olga had tried to handle this as a routine matter by telephoning the inspector, a woman who worked under this man in the district office, but the day before, the woman had called Olga and told her that she had taken the necessary paper to the director, but that he had not signed it. He would not return her calls. He refused to discuss the matter. Our only hope was to go to see him in person.
We drove for more than two hours through the Ukrainian countryside, past miles of vineyards and fields of sunflowers, to Bolshoi Aleksandrovka, a tiny picturesque village. The inspector walked us from her office to the building where the office of the director was located. As we walked, she told Olga about the director, Vladimir Fyodorovitch. He was a very powerful man in this district, she said. He used to be the head of a large collective farm, and as director of education he still had a great deal of influence. Tanya translated for me what was being said to Olga. Vladimir Fyodorovitch was a crazy person, it was said. Everyone was afraid of him. No one knew what he would do.
We were ushered into Vladimir Fyodorovitch's large office. He motioned for me to sit down. What was I doing here, he asked, gruffly. I explained that I wanted his permission to adopt Denis Tho, and that I had been waiting to do so for more than four years. Why did I want to adopt this child, he asked. I explained that I had two Korean children at home, that we wanted another son, and that we had fallen in love with little Denis. Olga passed pictures of my family to him and he looked at them without changing his expression. He sat back in his big chair with his arms crossed, frowning.
There were more than five thousand children in this district, he told me. He considered them all his children. It would make him very sad to give one of his children to someone else. And didn't I think Denis was being well cared for in his school? As Tanya translated this to me, she added in a whisper, "Speak carefully, Jennifer."
The only thing that made the long wait bearable, I said, was that I knew that Denis was being very well cared for. I hoped God would forgive this lie.
Vladimir Fyodorovitch spoke again. Denis is a Ukrainian child. He has been raised by Ukrainian people. He should stay in Ukraine. My heart sank.This man did not intend to let me adopt Denis. Had I really waited more than four years and gone through miles of red tape, at great expense only to be stopped by this proud, foolish man? I couldn't believe it. While Olga and Tanya spoke, I prayed. My God, please for Denis's sake, let him come home. We can give him a family.
Olga was explaining that I loved the country of Ukraine, that I loved its people, that I was even learning a little Russian so I could communicate. Why, this was my third trip to Ukraine!
"I am not Ukrainian," I said, "But I am a mother. Every child needs a home. Every child should have a mama and a papa, a family. And I will never let Denis forget that he is Ukrainian," I added. I was not lying now.
Vladimir Fyodorovitch looked at me. He narrowed his eyes. He puffed out his cheeks. He could see that I was trying hard to persuade him, he said.
"Start crying, Jennifer" Tanya whispered to me.
I would never have thought I could cry on command, but at this moment it was all too easy.
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