Free Rescuing Julia Twice by Tina Traster

say.
    â€œYeah, I saw that too. Onward Christian soldiers.”
    â€œWhat if we stayed here?” I say. “What if we stay in the lost corner of the world where presumably nothing awful ever happens? I bet the people here have never even heard about 9/11.”
    â€œI don’t know about that,” he says. “We might be in a remote place but, look, you’re on the Internet. I don’t think these people are some aboriginal tribe cut off from the world.”
    Of course he is right. It’s been about a decade since Novosibirsk has been opened to the West. There are glimmering signs of capitalism all around us. Still, this place feels like the end of the world to me. A safe house, ironically.

    The next day we go to court to finalize the adoption. I had brought a skirt to wear, thinking it’d be important to look nice, but I cannot bear to wear hose and expose my legs to this frost. On the ride to court, we are coached; we are told what will be asked and what we should say. This all seems ridiculous, like all the bureaucracy we’ve been exposed to before, but, like good monkeys, we respond on cue. Even though this is a formality—and we’re told the courts never deny an adoption—my stomach is filled with butterflies. “What if …” We’ve come this far. “Can you imagine?” I say to Ricky.
    â€œIt’ll be fine.”
    I’ve learned there’s only one thing that rattles Ricky, and that’s a day on the slopes, skiing. When he was twelve he was skiing in the Catskills with his two older brothers. They abandoned him on an icy day, and he broke his leg. He was laid up in bed for months and needed to be home tutored for the rest of seventh grade. He never skied again. When we fell in love in 2000, he knew how much I loved to ski, and he dusted himself off and clipped on a set of skis. It’s only when we drive up to the mountains that he grows quiet and pensive. I guess he needs to be afraid of something. Today, he’s not worried. It’s not that his training as a lawyer makes this process more decipherable; he simply trusts things will turn out okay. He often says, “I know the sun will rise every morning.”
    The court session is quick and painless. We are asked a couple of questions by a panel of administrators. Olga translates. “Congratulations,” she says when we leave the tiny courtroom. The next stop is the ticketing office to buy airline tickets from Siberia back to Moscow. Olga had explained we couldn’t do this in advance because there was uncertainty as to how many days we would have to spend in Novosibirsk.

    On our last day in the city, we are free until 9:00 PM, when we will be taken to the orphanage to collect Julia. Vladimir drives us to a local crafts market, which is a warren of art and collectibles. I buy some old maps of Novosibirsk.
    â€œOne day I’ll want to write about this godforsaken place,” I tell Ricky. “It will be good to have a map.”
    â€œHopefully by then you’ll have mastered Russian,” he says.
    I thumb through the artwork. The place is dank and musty, but I come across a few pieces I like. We buy a six-by-six-inch framed enamel of a mélange of Russian-style buildings overlapping each other. “Novosibirsk” is written on the painting in English. It is signed by “Shylaga.”
    â€œVery good artist. Local artist,” says the purveyor, a bulky man with a thick black mustache.
    Ricky leans in and says, “They’re probably made in a factory in China.”
    Perhaps, but we like it.
    Then I notice a pair of whimsical painted kittens with oversized eyes and curious expressions. “These really are sweet. I am going to buy these and hang them in Julia’s room.”

    On the way to the orphanage that night, we are told to be very fast. Julia will be handed to us naked. “Don’t talk to anyone. Dress her quickly. Be