Orphans go to prison

Christmas time in Russia. This is my first one here, and I am out in the snow, taking it all in. They say the weather is warm for winter. I don’t know, I came here from Houston Texas, and it don’t feel warm to me.

The holiday season being as busy as it is sometimes causes us to get lost in ourselves. I had an experience the other day that moved me. I am a big, Texas man. Not particularly prone to tugs at my heartstrings, but this would have touched an IRS agents heart.

I went to a church service here at Immanuel Baptist Church on the 24th, and I met a lady on a mission. No, really. She is on a church mission to reach out to the orphanages and prisons.

She was going to visit an orphanage, then later that day, a prison. I asked if I could go along, and she agreed.

There was me, 3 girls from England, Lyuba, (The lady in charge.) and a little boy who Lyuba has taken in, then another car full of people following.

On the way, we stopped, got some lavash, a big round Georgian bread. It looks like one of those pizza crusts you can buy in the USA, and is a traditional bread from the republic of Georgia. (Georgia was the home of some notable figures in Russian history. Joseph Stalin, and more recently, Eduard Scheverdnaze.) We also got some cheese, and some sausages and sodas. We sat in the car, waiting for the other car to show up. We had lost them en route.

While there, we got to know each other a bit more. The girls were from England, and are here to help out, and Lyuba is a physicist, now working as an angel. She used to build nuclear bombs. She was at the top of the military industrial complex of the former Soviet Union, and now she shleps around presents, food, and much needed hugs to orphans. Amazing, huh?

Anyway, we get done munching, and decide to go into the orphanage, and look around. It was a snowy day, biting wind, and bitter cold temperature.

We filed toward the building, each of us a bit tentative, thinking of what we might see inside.

The reputations of Russian orphanages had made an impression on each of us westerners. We had all seen some variation of the same program, with little children chained to the floor naked, babies who had been mechanically fed and changed, never being hugged or loved. I think we were all wondering if we had made a mistake in coming. Misery is so much neater on television. When you see it on TV, misery and poverty don't have the smell, or the horrible 3 dimensional quality that is impossible to capture with a lens. It is pitiful, but it lacks the disgust that makes it real. No matter, we were here, and Lyuba was leading us inside.

Lyuba is a Russian woman. She is the quintessential Russian woman, in many respects. She absolutely personifies the Russian quality of perseverance. This is a lady who sees the world as it is. No rose colored glasses for Lyuba.

She had been at the apex of Russian scientific society, and now she was at the bottom of the bottom. She spends her days working for the people nobody else wants, and her nights, I am sure, she sleeps the sleep of a person who feels content at having done her best.

It would be easy to imagine Lyuba as staying awake nights worrying about her charges, but I don't think so. She doesn't have the luxury for any such romantic trifles. You see, she has kids to worry about. She can’t imagine things as she wishes they were, she has to live with things how they are. She has to let kids go sometimes. Let them go to a life without love, without happiness, without a chance. She can’t help them all, and I don't think she agonizes about it. She is matter of fact. Pragmatic. She has a businesslike love for these kids and her work.

Once in a while, you will see a sparkle in her eye, but it never clouds her vision. There was the time the little girl came to hug her at the orphanage. She bent down, hugged her, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and turned her around to meet us. This little girl, she said, had been with the orphanage for a while now, and had been rescued from a very dangerous situation. Her parents were criminals, and they specialized in stealing scrap metal. They would lift this little child over a fence, and she would run and steal chunks of metal, bringing them to the fence, tossing them over, then scurrying back across the fence to join them.

She was the youngest of 9 children.

I was meeting Fagin’s’ child. Lyuba said when this particular girl came to the orphanage, she was incredibly strong in the arms and legs. When she would jump up to hug you, and she would almost choke you because of the unnatural strength of her arms.

Her parents haven't been to see her. Quite naturally, she misses them.

There is the boy who Lyuba has taken charge of. He is about 9 or 10, and has some behavior problems. (Who would guess?) He was, as so many of the orphans, the product of a drug addicted household. Not only him, but all of his family that are children have been placed in orphanages. He has cousins at this one. Lyuba knows she can’t help this boy forever, but she knows he is in desperate need at this juncture of his life. He has nothing. Through her intervention, he will at least have a few months of love. Maybe that can be a foundation to build something on.

Without being too descriptive, let me just tell you that the orphanage was a lot nicer than I thought it would be. It was clean, the staff seemed kind, and the building was warm. The kids slept on bunk beds, and there were several kids in dormitory style rooms. Each bunk was made. Nothing was out of place. It was too neat to be friendly, but it showed that if nothing else, someone was watching out for these kids.

Most of them are the products of alcoholic or drug addicted parents. They get abused at home and run away, (as early as age 4 or 5.) get taken away by the authorities, or just get dropped off here. Most of them escape from their parents. The case of the little girls stealing for her parents is not unique. Most of these kids have been exploited by their parents in search of the next drink or high. For the most part, the government over here doesn't have the time or inclination to do anything about it. If a kid gets caught in a crime, it may come to the attention of the authorities that they are in a terrible situation, but usually not. They usually have to run away to escape.

Well, I need to sign off, so I will let you all go now. Enjoy your holidays. Feel damn lucky you were born to good families. I know I do.

This is part two.

It is the 26th of December here, and Christmas is over for you, but still two weeks away for us here in Russia.

I wanted to finish my story about the other day, when I went to the orphanage and the prison.

After visiting at the orphanage for a while, and getting to know a few of the kids, (Most of them were very shy, and stayed in the far reaches of the rooms.) we needed to leave to go to the prison. There was going to be a musical program put on by three of the adults and about ten of the kids from the orphanage. They had worked up this program to do for the prisoners. Lyuba got in her car, with the English girls, and I convinced them to let me ride in the van with the orphans. I jammed in with the kids, and we got rolling.

Our destination was a town called Kolpina. It is just outside St. Petersburg. A suburb, built for industrial purposes, and a prison was put there also. There is a small river there called the Izhora river. Peter the Great established a metal working plant there, called Izhorskiya Zavodi. The town is about 300 years old, but the prison looks older.

The name of the place is Kolpinskaya Vospitatilinaya Colonia. It is red brick, barbed wire covered, and ugly. This is the kind of place that makes a Republican smile. Lots of law and order here.

We waited in the vehicles while Lyuba got our documents in order with the officials. I was hanging out with the kids, showing them my cowboy hat, boots, and explaining that I didn't PERSONALLY know Chuck Norris. (Everyone here knows Chuck Norris as a Texas Ranger. NOBODY knows the Lone Ranger. It is SOOOO depressing.) Lyuba came and asked me for my passport.

After about 20 minutes, she came back, said, "Its ok. You can come in, but don't mention that you are a journalist, and don't take pictures. We don't want them to see the camera."

We spilled from the vehicles, and headed for the door.

The door is a green metal sheet cut out of the stone wall. You ring a bell, it pops open, and you go inside. We are in a small alcove, with a group of guards on the other side of a mesh cage. They look at me, look at my passport, back at me, at the passport..... "Da. Harosho." (Yes, it's ok.)

A door on our left pops open, and we go into the prison. This door opens into a yard, unoccupied at the time. We go to the other side of the yard, through a corridor, and I become aware of sets of eyes following us from the shuttered windows. The buildings are stone and brick. They are large, institutional-style buildings. They look hundreds of years old.

It was here that they would hold prisoners sometimes waiting to be shipped to Siberia. Here they would administer lashes from the dreaded knought. Here they would shave half your head, to make you more identifiable as a prisoner. Here, the Tsar would remand you to be chained to a wall, forbidden to have any communication, sometimes for 40 years or more. A grim history. A palace of long forgotten horrors.

As we come closer to the corridor, and consequently, closer to the buildings, whispered voices can be heard, but not understood. One imagines, "Hey, can you send a message to my mother?" or perhaps, "Do you have any chocolate?" but you don't know. These souls, tortured here as they may be, are largely criminals, here due to their transgressions on the peaceful lives of their neighbors. To be sure, there are some innocents, and some being punished overly for their malfeasance, but for the most part, these are murderers, thieves, and cruel violators of the weaker. This may be a horrible place, but thank God it exists.

We enter the corridor, and I have snuck my camera from its bag, and am trying to take pictures, 'shooting from the hip', so to speak. I don't want to be seen with it, although I am confident I can talk my way out of trouble if I get caught.... The first time.

We spill out into another yard, with some crude exercise equipment, and see some shaved-headed, black clad figures crossing the yard carrying large buckets from the building that we are heading to, going to the building we just passed. They keep their heads down, eyes forward. No guards are to be seen, other than the two accompanying us. There are towers, at intervals, but I can’t tell if they are occupied. It is bitterly cold, and from what I have seen, Russian dedication to work wouldn't necessarily keep a guard on a ledge in this weather. The snow is blowing, drifting, stinging any open spots of skin. I am wearing my cowboy hat, (Not a good idea.) a full length leather coat, a scarf, a suit, boots, etc, and I am cold everywhere that isn't covered. My ears burn, my eyes water, and my nose is stinging when the snowflakes hit, feeling sharp against the tender skin.

The door is open, so we go inside. Up a few stairs, down a hallway, into an office. We all wait, and eventually a commander comes in, and leads us down a hall to an open door, and we are backstage of an auditorium. We come out on the stage, to an empty, barely-lit room, and take seats in the first row.

The orphans go right to work. They go on stage, and begin unpacking boxes that have preceded our arrival. There are shawls, ropes, wires, and all sorts of things to be used in the production. The quality is what you would find at an inner city school production, if the federal government didn't give them grants. Mismatched outfits only enhanced the sweet tenderness of it all though, and I think the show would be ill served somehow were it better equipped.

The English girls and I sat shivering in the front row. Apparently, there is not heat here. It is empty-warehouse cold, but hey, "It's a DRY cold..."

"Ne helodna", (Its not cold.) various Russians assured me, (Including one little boy about 7.) when they saw me blowing on my hands.(Through my leather, fur lined gloves.) and stamping my iguana-clad feet. The English girls and I knew better. It was cold. Bitter, horrible, I want a fire and a bottle of cognac cold.

Once the stage was set up, they began testing the sound system, and one of the Brits got up and sang for a while. She alternated between Amazing Grace, Hey Jude, Joy to the World, and a few other songs.

In the middle of one of her songs, the doors to our right banged open, striking loudly against the stone wall, and a rush of dark energy in the form of people came pouring in. These men, all in mis-matched dark coats and black stocking caps came pouring in, escaping the wind outside for the relative comfort offered up by the auditorium walls. Driven by the snow, wind, and guards outside hurrying them forward, coupled with the curiosity inside as to what was in store for them. Today they had the rarest of all joys for a prisoner, an escape from the tedium.

They tumbled in and haphazardly chose their seats. The sound was akin to the sounds you hear in an army mess hall when the new trainees come piling in, eager to rest, to eat. Undisciplined, but in some sort of order. Out of control, but within well defined bounds. It was a familiar sound.

We in the front row were startled by this sudden appearance, and the animal energy it exuded as this tide of damned humanity lapped at our seats. Like a dark sea, the ebb and flow silently threatened to encroach upon us, though never actually doing so. They filled the seats behind ours, and they rocked back and forth, blowing on hands that had no gloves. It was horrible, and frightening.

For a large crowd, they were subdued, almost silent. You could hear the heavy stamping of boots, shaking off the snow on the wooden floor of the room, and the whispered Russian, unintelligible, even had it been in English, but no raucous noises. A well behaved lot, considering their history. It was interesting that the only guard I saw was one man, in the back, and he was an administrator. We were alone with several hundred of the inmates, and it was a little scary.

I turned, took a few pictures, and the guys nearest to me loosened up a little. Some smiled, several posed for photos, but the one directly behind me covered his face when I took his picture, and he motioned for me to not take any more of him.

I got out of my seat, and began to walk down the hallway a bit. The Russian who didn't want his picture taken leaned forward, and whispered in heavily accented English, "Watch your pockets." I was shocked that he spoke English. He was the only person I found there that did. I waded into the crowd a bit, taking pictures as I went, showing them to the guys, shaking hands, and tried to answer questions in my extremely limited Russian, then the lights went down.

I worked my way back to the front, and sat down as the program started.

The program was lovely. I don't know a better way to describe it.

The dancing was ill conceived and badly timed. The kids were perfectly behaved, but not very good. Not one kid balked at his task, but sometimes they got out of time. The themes were almost all religious, although one little girl did a pantomime of a person on the street abusing passers-by, and laughing at the problems she caused, until she noticed, after a while, that her feet were stuck. She couldn't move. She was forced to stay where she was. After a while, each of the people she had wronged passed by her, free to move about, do as they wanted, and she was stuck in one place. None of them abused her as they went by, but they sometimes did look at her with a smug, self satisfied smile. I don't think this part was the favorite of anyone in the audience.

The program closed with the kids coming from behind a curtain, (Two sheets strung up between two poles standing upright on stage.) carrying lit candles. (No OSHA here.) They knelt down, simulated prayer for a moment, and then some of them stood, forming a cross. Then they sang Silent Night. In Russian. It was beautiful.

I don't know how many of you know the story of Silent Night, but the song was written by a man who was very poor, but wanted to contribute something. He didn't have any money, so his humble offering was this little song he scribbled down. I don't think he could have imagined how much that song has meant to millions of people over the last couple of centuries. That's how it is sometimes. A person doesn't know the effect they have on people and events. Maybe 'It's a Wonderful Life' should have closed with Silent Night instead of Auld Lang Syne.

Well, the lights came on, and we left through the stage entrance. The prisoners were still seated, and I saw a lot of smiles, and waves, as they watched the orphans leave. It was touching. A really beautiful, spirit of Christmas kind of Christmas eve.

We wound our way back out of the prison, to the doors, through them, I got my passport and we all piled into the waiting, heated van. It was glorious. Off we flew toward St. Petersburg. Once there, I asked them to just drop me off at a subway station, as I needed to get home. (I was supposed to meet Lena for lunch at the library around noon. It was about 8 pm now.) One little boy in particular seemed to like me, and I gave him a hug, told him I would see him again, waved goodbye to the others, thanked the three adults, and got out of the van. The cold air hit me, and a sense of freedom hit me. I was no longer in the prison, but I was also no longer bound by the emotional incarceration of the orphans. I was on the street, free and easy. Happy go lucky Dave, bon vivant, and friend to all. I wanted, on some level to shake myself, like a dog beginning to dry himself, and lose the memory of that horrible prison, and that terrible memory of those forlorn kids, with their friendly faces, missing teeth, and lost futures. Their eyes didn't need to haunt me. I could just put it out of my head and go look for my next experience.

But I wouldn't. I will be haunted. I will not forget them.

I will go back, see them, try to help them. It wont, in the grand scheme of things, make a damn bit of difference. I am going to this one. There are more than a dozen orphanages here in St. Petersburg. God knows how many there are in Russia.

Like George Bailey, I sometimes feel like the luckiest man alive. I have been blessed, and maybe, just maybe, like the guy who wrote Silent Night, I can do some small thing that might make a difference someday. Oh, I am sure I won’t influence as many people as wonderfully as Silent Nights author did, but who knows. If I can help one child, he may grow to NOT be in that prison. He may become a doctor, or a teacher, and help many others. All I know is, I have to try. It would be easy to forget, but I don't want to.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And auld lang syne?

Chorus:

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet