Sasha, as he was called, had a round face, almond-shaped eyes and beautiful, straight, soft brown hair. He was the most gorgeous child I had ever seen. His sweet smile was shy, and his grip was firm and desperate as he wrapped his hands around my neck. Ludmilla, the director of the orphanage, or "children's home," as it was called there, led us to a door, unlocked it, and my husband and I walked inside with our little boy. Just as quickly, Ludmilla locked the door from the outside and left us alone. A family. Immediately, we were a family. And immediately, Sasha began to scream.
His ear-piercing, high-decibel, unceasing cries were nothing short of shattering - to both my ears and my soul. We loved him at first sight, but Sasha was having no part of us. Although he still clung to me, and I to him, his screams continued for too long. We tried everything to get him to stop. We offered him the cookies we had smuggled in our backpack and a little toy truck we had brought from home, but, even the ball we bounced in front of him did not ease his cries.
There was no doubt that he could be heard throughout the ancient building and was probably disturbing the other 100 children who lived there. In the next minute, we knew he was definitely disturbing at least one person. With the turn of a key, Ludmilla marched back into the room, surveyed the situation, zeroed in on Sasha and said, "Ploho malchik (bad boy)." Then she brandished a paddle.
Instinctively, I realized I would sooner let Ludmilla beat me with the wooden object of torture than ever let her touch my son with it again. I firmly shook my head no when she offered it to me, and held my little boy tighter. When she turned on her heels and left us alone, Sasha mercifully quieted down.
We were only allowed two hours a day to visit our new son and leaving him at the end of our allotted time became my personal torture. I quickly learned to say, "Be a good boy" in Russian, and I would whisper it to him before I left. Then I would pray that he would be. I silently begged him with my last glance to avoid any negative behavior, and thus avoid any more physical contact with the paddle.
Sasha already had a little scar across the bridge of his nose that I was more than curious about, but I bit my tongue whenever I thought to ask Ludmilla about it. It was old news, already healed, like I hoped his resulting emotional wounds would. I looked every day for further signs of abuse, and gratefully saw none. But even that did not quiet my fears. I counted each day, nearly 30 of them, painfully, waiting for the day the adoption was finalized and we could bring our son home.
Once we were settled here, and Sasha began to speak a little English, I couldn't resist. I questioned him about the scar. He slapped his little hands together hard and said, "Ludmilla - boom." There was no doubt in my mind what he was trying to tell me.
Although the thought that my child had been the object of physical punishment still makes me sick to my stomach, I have made peace with it. I wasn't there to prevent it. I wasn't there to stop it. I must accept that he was being handled by people who were not exposed to alternate means by which to reprimand. They were reacting in the only way they knew how, and in their minds just trying to maintain order among the crowd of children left in their charge. Ignorance and lack of information sums it up, but by no means excuses it. That realization does not make it better, but in a way, makes it almost forgivable.
That said, child abuse of any kind in this land of milk and honey is deplorable, reprehensible and simply criminal. We are a nation of alternatives, opportunities, free advice and help. There is no reason for a child to ever be touched in an unkind or hurtful way. What is worse is when someone, whether a health care professional, an educator, a friend or a neighbor, suspects that a child is being mistreated and does nothing. We simply cannot be silent when a child is screaming. We cannot ever abdicate our ability and responsibility to respond.
Shame on anyone who was aware that a 7-year-old child was the victim of her stepfather's rants and his sheer brutality - and did nothing. You are all guilty and there is nothing left to do but pray Nixzmary Brown rests in peace.
Comments about this story? KBarone@liherald.com or (516) 569-4000 ext. 202.
