Attack of the Babushkas

When we finally stopped in front of their house, within minutes of getting out of the car, babushkas were coming at us from all directions. All yelling, “Olya, Olya, Olylinka, Ollichka, etc.” These rotund old ladies in their flowered dresses and equally flowered kerchiefs hugged and squeezed Olya, passing her from one to another like a piece of prized strudel (or the Ukrainian equivalent of strudel). Maria came out from the house quickly and came to our group and the larger group of babushkas. Olya was very patient and let everyone hug her and rub her face and stroke her hair (many photos below!!!!!). Each and every babushka (most of them only neighbors) made a hand gesture to indicate Olya “was only this high” when I saw her last. One babushka turned out to be Olya’s biological grandmother, Hanah, and she was talking in a steady stream to anyone that would listen.

Maria, (Olya’s biological mother) rushed out from the house and joined the crowd although she did not rush to the middle, staying to one side and beaming at Olya and all the attention she was getting.

Maria is always smiling, but never opening her mouth, we all believe, because she is missing her six front teeth. Our translator suggested the teeth may have been knocked out, something they frequently see if there is an alcoholic husband. That’s pure speculation of course, but Nikolai has a record of abuse to Maria. On this day however he was stone sober and even refused alcohol when offered later on, saying he doesn’t drink. Nikolai also rushed out to join the group although he appeared from another direction than the house we were standing in front of us.

I was so busy taking photos that it was a while before I realized we were actually standing in front of the house where Olya and Andry were born.

From the back of the van we brought out the iphoto book of photos of Olya and the second book of all the children when they were together in Spain we had made for Maria and handed them to her. Maria kept hers but the larger book was quickly snarfed up by the babushkas as Jim and Cara turned the pages for them narrating as they turned the pages, in English of course, which was greek to the whole group. But none seemed to mind as they pointed and sighed and squealed in a steady stream of Ukrainian, each person talking rapid fire at the same time.

This was a remarkable moment. It’s impossible to describe the emotional impact. This was the first time all the villagers had seen Olya in seven years. She was taken from the village when she was only three but is was obvious to see that her return today enraptured these old women.

Maria requested that we go up to the house because the grandfather was there in a wheelchair unable to come down to the reunion. We pulled Olya out of the babushka’s clutches and followed Maria to the house where she shyly invited us inside. The interior was extraordinary; every inch of wall space was covered with religious icons, photos and sometimes photos on top of photos, calendars, lots of faces of men and women, pages from magazines including many pin ups of women in lingerie, embroidery and large panels of intensely patterned fabric. The effect of all this creativity was garish, but beautiful as well; this house was a piece of art, “outsider art," but art for sure. We agreed later that we could imagine Olya doing the same if she had been in this same circumstance.

The table was filled with photos of all the children, most of the photos we recognized as the ones we had shared with Andry. He had been bringing the photos we gave him back to Maria and Nikolai. Andry has told us many times that he wants to be adopted by Ron and me and live with his sister but at the same time we can see the strong bond he has with his biological parents (or at least Maria). It is obvious how important it was to him to have his new parents and biological parents meet. He is the one who "orchestrated" the meeting at his school yesterday.

As far as we could tell, there were only two small rooms and a cubbyhole-like space where food was prepared. I couldn’t get into that space; it was filled with two women bent over preparing some food.

Maria and Nikolai wanted us to see everything and seemed pleased at me taking photos of everything. There was no embarrassment; Maria especially seemed proud of her home. It was very neat and orderly even if the floor was seriously sagging and a large tree limb helped support the ceiling. She pointed out the space where Olya had slept and Andry space as well. Reflecting on this later, I could not figure out where everyone else slept, there didn’t seem to be enough bed space.

There was no bathroom. Nor was there any water. The water was brought in from a well outside. Jim told us later he saw an “outhouse” outside, actually just a hole in the ground with a makeshift shelter around it.

Olya has been curious about her past. While in Miami she had asked us if “the people in Ukraine” would have baby photos of her. I (Pippa) asked Maria if she had any. She pointed out a stack of four small photo books. She stood by as I went through the photos with Olya. They were all photos of Andry and Olya when they were in Spain, undoubtedly brought to Maria by Andry over the years. Olya’s orphanage probably gave Maria the photos that Olya’s Spanish host family had taken of her. Ron and I call Olya "the most photographed child in the world". We always have a camera pointed at her documenting every smile, accomplishment and special moment that we can. (Soon Andry will also experience this.) It’s hard to believe the visual record of these children didn't begin until they went to Spain when they were four and seven and will continue in America. There are no photos of the times when the children were living in the Ukrainian house. They have no baby pictures of themselves. Of course Maria and Nikolai would not have had a camera nor the means to make prints; this is a very poor place.

All the while Maria and Nikolai willingly posed for photos and I (Ron) had the impression I was photographing a 2007 Ukrainian version of James Agee’s book of the American Depression, “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.” That book had wonderful black and white photos––all showing the dignity of the impoverished farmers in the dust belt of the 20s. In this version, the Ukrainian love for decoration and color was a great contrast to the spare interiors of the American mid-west. But the faces and the look on the faces is very much the same.