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A Series of Fortunate Events
By Heather Svokos
Star-Telegram Staff Writer
December 26, 2004
DEAR READER: We are happy to tell you that the story you are holding in your hands is very pleasant. It tells the happy -- even miraculous -- tale of four Russian orphans and two incredible people named Bill and Laura Waybourn. If you prefer reading something that ends in disaster, put this down immediately. Otherwise, be forewarned that this story just might change your life.
* *
On the midnight train to Shumerly, Russia, a 16-year-old boy gazes out the window at the dark, snowy landscape and train yards as they chug past. He silently notes each stop on the route he knows well. With olive skin and dark, haunted eyes, Dan is the picture of sullen, brooding James Dean cool. As if to underscore the image, a crescent-shaped scar hooks out from the corner of his left eye.
You'd never know he was on the journey of a lifetime: to save his best friend.
He twists the thin silver band on his middle finger. It was a gift he received a few months before, inside a letter from his best friend, Slava, half a world a way.
Slava has a matching ring; he keeps his in his pocket.
On the band, there is an inscription in Cyrillic letters.
It translates: God be with us, and keep us safe.
A year and a half ago, in July 2003, on a train heading the opposite direction, Dan was the one being saved.
As a 10-year-old boy, Dan was seized from his home in Cheboksary by Russia's version of Child Protective Services. Then known by his Russian name of Kirill, he had been living with his mother and grandmother, who was his primary caretaker. When his grandmother died, he no longer had a stable home life. Based on a variety of complaints, he was removed and taken to the orphanage at Shumerly, about 400 miles east of Moscow.
It took Kirill awhile to adjust to this new life. A quiet, independent boy, he worked hard to stay away from bad influences.
Because of his strong will and tendency to isolate himself, other kids made fun of him. No pushover, Kirill fought back when pressed. In his mind, "If you can stand up for yourself, people will not make fun of you again."
For a time, Kirill waited for his mother to come back for him, even running away once. But the weeks turned into months, with no letter, no word.
The orphanage director, Luba Shinkorenko, watched as her darling boy changed before her. The shining eyes and precocious smile gave way to a trancelike expression and hunched shoulders.
"He was always just a little bit sad," Luba said, "and he looked very abandoned and lost in this life."
Thousands of miles away, two strangers would find him.
Bill Waybourn sat in a pew at Christ Chapel Church in Fort Worth. At 43, his life was in place. Police chief of Dalworthington Gardens since 1984, this amiable man had a wife, two grown children from a previous marriage, and a grandson.
But on this Sunday two years ago, the good pastor's words would set off a chain reaction that no one could have ever predicted.
The Rev. Ted Kitchens told the poignant story of a teen-age Russian boy who had visited America recently in hopes of finding a family through the Gladney Center's Bright Futures adoption program. Russian children are invited to the United States for 10 days, hosted by American families. Ideally, the visit will lead to permanent adoption.
At 14, Kirill was teetering on the brink of a grim destiny.
He was about to "age out" of the orphanage. Russian orphans who haven't been adopted by 15, 16 or 17 are cast out as young adults to struggle with life on their own. There simply isn't room for them anymore. Some head back to unstable families; others turn to drugs and crime; many make up the street population of Russia. They're born into the world with little or no chance.
And there was Bill Waybourn, taking all this in. He is methodical, cautious -- a cop to the hilt. "I never thought of myself as an impetuous person," he said.
Yet, listening to Kirill's story, he almost had to pin down his right arm to keep it from shooting into the air. Right there, in front of God and everyone, he was ready to announce: "Search over -- we've got it."
He restrained himself long enough to go home and discuss it with Laura, then 30, his wife of four years, who had stayed home from church that day to care for a sick grandson.
Adoption was not on their radar; they hoped and prayed that maybe another family would take up the yoke, and Kirill would be fine.
But the boy still pulled at them.
They debated. They prayed some more. Laura talked to her parents.
"And suddenly," Bill said, "it was like: Let's go for it."
At the orphanage, Kirill kept mostly to himself. He had learned much too early not to trust easily and not to put much stock in hope.
It would take a 9-year-old named Slava to open the door a crack.
Not long after Kirill landed at Shumerly, the orphanage welcomed two new boys: Slava and his 3-year-old brother, Sergei. Like Kirill, they had been removed from their home, in the Chuvashian region of Russia.
Slava had a shy, warm smile and sandy hair. He was quiet, generous and responsible -- at 9, already a father figure to his little brother.
Both athletes and music lovers, Slava and Kirill played soccer, marched through the woods and devoured whatever Russian pop music they could get their hands on.
The trust built slowly, as they helped each other adjust to school and orphanage life.
Eventually, the boys came to know a funny, impish 7-year-old named Zhenya. Abandoned at birth, Zhenya had bounced in and out of institutions his whole life. He had always dreaded the thought that he was alone in the world.
Still, the boy often managed a smile that spread slyly, crookedly beneath eyes that glimmered with mischief.
From the start, Slava felt Zhenya was someone special.
Now, looking at Slava, Sergei and Zhenya, with their sandy hair, boomerang eyebrows and chiseled porcelain faces, it makes perfect sense. But Slava wouldn't learn the truth for three years.
One day in 2002, the orphanage director, by a complete fluke, stumbled upon an amazing clerical revelation. And the feeling that kept tugging at Slava was confirmed.
Zhenya was their lost brother.
Kirill, Slava, Zhenya and Sergei were just a handful of the more than 100 orphans at Shumerly and of the 700,000 in Russia. Along a path riddled with disappointment and pain, it was chance that brought together this community of boys -- brothers by blood and by bond.
But it's doubtful their love for each other would be enough to save them from a painful fate.
Laura Waybourn was on the verge of throwing up. She was more nervous for him than for her.
In April 2003, she was in Russia for the first time in her life. In an orphanage, face to face with the 14-year-old who was about to become her son.
"Is there anything about me that's gonna make him uncomfortable?" she thought. "Is he gonna think we're weird -- what is he thinking?"
Standing before her was a sweet, honest, painfully shy young teen-ager, who at the moment was scared to death. "It was kind of like a blind date," Laura said. "If it were a blind date where it were a pre-arranged marriage."
As part of the adoption, Kirill would need a middle name. Bill and Laura had one in mind: Lucas, or Luke.
Kirill objected, surprisingly strongly. He settled on Daniel.
Months later, Bill and Laura would learn why: If you say "luk" to a Russian, it means onion.
"He thought we were trying to name him Onion Waybourn," Bill said, laughing.
It took two trips to Russia and piles of paperwork and embassy red tape before the Waybourns headed back home with their new son.
Kirill was leaving behind everything he knew and loved -- his motherland, the tight-knit community at Shumerly, where the staff treated him as their golden boy. And, worst of all, he was leaving his best friend. Before he left for America in November 2003, Kirill gave Slava some of his few possessions -- mostly clothes. He promised him they would be friends forever, and that they would always stay in touch.
A despondent Slava wanted to believe, but he had his doubts.
For months, Kirill was so withdrawn that it made Laura ache. Her son walked around the house with downcast eyes, a silent stranger.
He refused to use any term to refer to his new mother and father. Finally, they drafted a long list of options and drew a line in the sand: You will pick something.
Kirill chose Ma and Pa.
Kirill's English improved rapidly with Laura's home-schooling, although there were still plenty of what Bill likes to call "Ricky Ricardo moments."
Bill and Kirill bonded over dove hunting and skeet shooting, and the whole family took up karate. Kirill cultivated a mean front snap kick and a winning streak. And like any teen-age boy in America, he spent hours in the den, conquering video games.
In July 2003, on his first birthday in the States, Kirill announced: "I think I want to go by my American name. Not Daniel but Dan."
When Dan first came to America, he mentioned that he'd be happy to be a mechanic. Within a year, he started talking about the possibility of college. And when his old orphanage director visited the States on business, she told Bill and Laura: "He seems very happy. He cares very much for you. He told me: 'This is a great country. Do you know that I can do anything I want, except be president?' "
The opportunities were in America. But back in his home country, his best friend was waiting on a promise.
A visitor arrived at the orphanage in Shumerly with a hand-carried delivery from the States. It was Anne Ivy, a Fort Worth woman who was there to adopt a boy named Dmitry, a friend of Zhenya's.
She had something for Slava: a Walkman, from Dan -- from Kirill.
He hadn't forgotten.
The Waybourns could hardly forget Slava, either.
Dan had filled Ma and Pa with stories of his friend: how, like an informal disciplinarian, he watched over the other kids in the orphanage; how he was a caretaker to his little brothers; and how he would spend what little money he earned on them.
This March, a hand-carried letter from Slava provoked delight, then worry.
Just shy of 15, Slava was getting close to aging out of the orphanage.
"I was worried about him because life there [in Chuvashia] is pretty difficult," Dan said. "I just wanted him to get out of there and have a good life and still be with his brothers."
"He never directly came out and said: 'Hey, will you all adopt Slava?' but he kinda hinted around toward it," Bill said. "And we had a frank conversation with him and said: There's nothing that we can do -- he's not up for international adoption. But in the Waybourn house, what we do is pray for him."
That's what Dan did.
And they went on about their life.
It's not often that a routine e-mail check changes your life.
But what's routine in the life of the Waybourns? While scanning her e-mail, Laura came across a new Gladney posting of Russian kids up for adoption.
She immediately called Bill at work. Her voice was more high-pitched than normal. "You're not going to believe this," she said.
"There's a slew of names on the list," Bill recalled. "And there they were, bigger'n Dallas."
Slava.
Zhenya.
Sergei.
"Oh my God," Bill thought. "We're going back to Russia."
This was just two months after Bill told Dan to pray for Slava. "This convinced us that Dan was a pretty good prayer warrior," Bill laughed.
The boys were scheduled to come over for the Bright Futures camp, and the Waybourns were the natural host family.
In July, the three brothers reunited with their old friend -- the American.
Dan and Slava would stay up all night talking, mulling the possibility that one day, they would officially become brothers.
Bill and Laura watched them all closely, but it was hard to take their eyes off Sergei. With elfin ears and wide, dancing eyes, he is achingly cute. His broad smile comes as easily as rain and is sometimes comically punctuated by one sharp, solitary nod of approval.
"They were incredible kids, and we had such a great time," Bill said. "It became crystal clear that these four boys needed to be together."
But Dan still wouldn't give himself over to blind hope.
"I just don't want to disappoint myself," he said. "I believe in today, not tomorrow."
It was enough to make even their closest friends take pause. How could Bill and Laura flip their lives upside down to adopt one Russian teen-ager, and then turn around and adopt his best friend and two brothers? Three trips to Russia, tens of thousands of dollars in adoption fees, the chaos of a language barrier, a home uprooted and the prospect of four sets of college tuitions -- all on the salary of a public servant.
Were they well people?
For as long as the Rev. Bill Hines can remember, the Waybourns had taken in troubled teens, children in need, parents in search of help for their children. For weeks, months or even a year at a time, they've all had a home at the Waybourns.
Bill Waybourn grew up one of eight children. Together, with his 24 years in law enforcement -- 20 years as chief -- and Laura's years in Child Protective Services, they had witnessed much pain.
As a former investigative case worker for Child Protective Services, Laura understood the horrors more deeply than most. One of her cases, in particular, left an indelible mark.
In 1999, in an apparent double murder-double suicide, the Nunez family of Fort Worth was found dead in their car. Two parents, two young sons. The tragedy was probably triggered by a child abuse investigation and severe financial problems.
"It was one of the worst things I've ever gone through -- that anybody on the case had ever gone through," she said. She was proud of her work with CPS, proud of the agency, but the Nunez tragedy prompted her to quit.
"I've seen some stuff that's similar in Russia, as far as neglect," Laura said. "I've seen it directly. I've stood knee to knee with the people who are doing it."
But paramount in this decision was the couple's faith.
"They certainly see it as a Christian ministry -- they're very devoted to Christ," said Hines, a longtime friend. "Love is given without requirement."
And so was sacrifice.
"When your attitude toward life is a life of service," Hines said, "then you're not as concerned about buying that second home on the lake, or that expensive vacation you're not gonna be able to take."
As for footing the bill, Bill and Laura trust that they'll be able to make it work. "God will provide what we need," Bill says. "As far as resources, we hope we'll continue to be wise with what we have."
Every now and then, Hines or his wife, Cathy, will get a call, letting them know of something wacky and wonderful that's happening at the Waybourn house. "I say: What else is new? It's a wild and crazy place to be."
Three new sons on the way, but there was something no one knew yet. Life was about to get even crazier.
In the lobby of the Moscow Sheraton Palace, Laura Waybourn fidgets with her gloves and shifts in her chair. A blunt, sharp-witted woman, she squirms backward, forward and sideways. It's just after 10:30 at night on a recent Sunday, and the family is within a hairsbreadth of their boys.
Once at the train station, they will board an overnight railcar to Shumerly, home to the orphanage.
If it were up to Laura, she wouldn't bother with the train. She would convert her chair into an ejector seat and catapult herself those 400 miles eastward, to scoop up her boys. She has lost every shred of patience. "I want to see them right now, I want to see them yesterday," she groans.
Bill is antsy, too, but more outwardly calm. Sitting back in his boots, his trench coat riding up around his shoulders, he is a transplanted cowboy in Moscow.
But coolest of all is Dan, slumped back in his chair. His parents kid him about his stoicism.
"This is Dan excited," Laura says, morphing her face into the blankest, most impassive expression possible.
Everyone cracks up. Even Dan.
"I see Slava," someone says, as the train pulls to a stop.
At the Shumerly station, no one expected the sight: Waiting outside the Waybourns' train car are three grinning brothers, each holding out a single rose for his new mother.
It's cold outside, so the reunion is quick -- a warm tangle of hugs and laughter, peppered with chatter in Russian and English.
It is a quick car ride to the orphanage. The building that was home to Dan and his friends is primitive and clean, and since Dan's departure, now sports a new pine-walled gym, complete with ropes, rings and stationary bikes. Paintings and crafts and smiling photos dot the walls.
The Shumerly orphanage defies any expectation of a Dickensian nightmare, where children live in filth and neglect, and where infants lie still, deprived of the human touch. Here, there is the presence of joy.
Tangible love flows among the children and from Luba and some of the staffers there. The music teacher, Elena Vasilievna Yezhova, is a veritable Twyla Tharp for the under-15 set, choreographing elaborate musical numbers to be done in a brightly colored performance room. On this special day, the adult audience is treated to a Russian folk dance, a grasshopper dance, a modern dance, and a solo ballad by Zhenya.
One number, however, shocks Bill's conservative Texas sensibilities: Three young boys -- one of them his son-to-be Sergei -- take the stage in white tutus and leotards. There is some eye-rolling discussion of this later, when Bill and Laura are shopping, eager to ditch Sergei's pink-striped sneakers in favor of more weather-appropriate black boots.
"No more pink shoes for my boy," Laura announces in the store.
"No pink shoes, and no tutus," Bill adds. "We're goin' to Texas."
As they tour the orphanage for their second time, Bill and Laura are eager to see a 13-year-old boy named Vitaly. They're also a little heartbroken. They met this polite, precious, smiley boy in July at the Bright Futures camp. He is the only child from that group still waiting to be adopted.
"Nobody stepped up," Bill said.
There will be many memories of the day when a judge in Cheboksary, Russia, made the adoptions official: the numbing cold, the suit and tie that Dan couldn't wait to peel off, the interminable waiting, the nerves, the boredom, the long-awaited jubilation.
But one thing, from that night's celebratory dinner, will always leap to the front of Laura's mind. Everyone at the dinner gave a toast, including these four found brothers.
All eyes were on young Sergei as he raised his glass in a subtle toast to Zhenya, the brother he might never have known. "To a good family," he said, "and for no one else to get lost again."
Zhenya struggles to lift himself off the bed, but it's futile. His head is trapped in the vice of a Dan Waybourn leglock.
For the American parents, who don't understand much Russian, these moments of horseplay become their window to the boys' world.
They watch.
In the hotel, where the four of them spill onto the bed, laughing and wrestling and chatting in their mother tongue, or where the older ones sit, plugged into their portable CD and tape players, sharing the latest Russian dance music. In the restaurant, where all the boys grow more silent than normal.
In the American Embassy, where Dan drapes his arm over Zhenya's shoulder, and playfully, repeatedly, bonks him on the back of the head.
But beyond reading body language, the parents know that they are easily shut out of this secret fraternity.
At first, it drove Laura crazy -- in July, when the boys visited the States. "I wanted to know exactly what everybody was saying all the time," she said. But in Russia, she was ready for it.
"I think it's great now," she said. "Let them have their time."
Plus, she's developed a system. "I started just watching them," she said. "I'm not right all the time -- maybe 30 percent, I know what they're thinking, and with the 10 words I do know, I know if they need something."
She thinks this transition will be much easier than the one with Dan, partly because they have a built-in translator in him, and partly because of personality differences. "As shy as any of them are alone," Laura says, "if you put them all together, none of them are as shy as he was.
"The only time it drives me crazy is if I've asked Dan to ask them something for me and he doesn't really tell me what they said."
Still, she's prepared for a lifetime of these secret moments.
"They can shut you out," she says. "I can see that happening, especially as they learn more English."
But as long as they're respectful, she says, she'll roll with it.
They call Zhenya the wild card. Because he's been institutionalized his whole life, Bill and Laura know he may be the slowest to assimilate to family life.
He's already a hold-out in one respect. When the Waybourns were in Russia, his two blood brothers had, early on, decided they would go by their American names -- perhaps on Dan's recommendation that it would make life easier. Slava will go by Joe, and will allow Laura to occasionally call him Joey. Sergei was the first to announce that he was going by Reagan, which Bill and Laura chose for Ronald Reagan and his role in ending the Cold War.
So far, though, Zhenya is Zhenya. He's shown no interest in going by his middle name, Douglas.
Reagan is a slip of a boy, but he can eat like a trucker: He packs away the cabbage soup, fish-and-onion sandwiches, and stabs into vegetables as if they might scurry off the plate.
But by Thanksgiving Day, his appetite has waned, along with his infectious smile; he and the other boys are quiet and tired -- especially Dan. As the trip's unofficial translator, this aloof young man is having a rough time, bouncing back and forth between Russian and English, in complete cultural limbo. At times, he struggles to communicate in either language.
Still, on this American holiday, celebrated in Russia, at an Italian cafe, he helps his brothers order from the menu. No turkey and mashed potatoes -- it's pizza, lasagna and carbonara for the Waybourns this November.
Reagan sits very still in his chair, his head lowered. The waitress delivers his plate, upon which sits a calzone bigger than his head. He looks up, the eyes widen, the grin returns, and the table bursts into laughter. They laugh harder when they watch him take bites so huge they protrude from inside his cheeks as if he's storing nuts for the winter.
For the moment, the happy little eating machine is back.
A new Thanksgiving, and a new Waybourn family: Bill, Laura, and the Russian Federation, as Bill calls his new brood. The picture is almost complete.
"The only thing is, we're missing a little Onion," Laura says. "That's killing me."
Even if the new boys understood English, they wouldn't have known what Laura was talking about. A surprise awaited the newest Waybourn sons. "Onion" was code for the final twist in this adoption odyssey.
A month earlier, in the midst of waiting on word of the Russian adoptions, fate knocked once again at the Waybourn house.
It took the form of a longtime acquaintance of Bill's, a very pregnant woman going through a rough time.
True to form, the Waybourns gave counsel to the woman and her family; Bill put them in touch with a prospective family, to start a private adoption.
But the would-be adoptive mother dropped a bomb on Laura.
The woman didn't think she and her husband were the right parents for the child. But she knew a couple who was.
"I think it's your baby," the woman told Laura.
Laura the chatterbox was dumbstruck.
When she and Bill sat down to discuss it over coffee, the questions poured out: Why now? Is this what we're supposed to do? What about Bill's age? How would we do it with the other boys?
They just would.
And the pieces fell into place. The birth mother agreed to the plan on Wednesday. The baby was born on a Thursday. They named the baby Lucas, or Luke -- their original choice for Dan, who didn't want to go through life an Onion.
Laura and Bill were bursting to tell everyone, but they didn't want Luke's adoption to complicate their pending Russian adoptions. They would keep it a secret, all through the Russia trip. Until they landed at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport.
The plane was late. It was 1 in the morning, but they all gathered to greet the new Waybourn clan: Laura's parents; Bill's children, Travis, 23, a rookie cop in Pantego, and Heather, 21, a sophomore at Tarrant County College; longtime friends Bill and Cathy Hines; Anne Ivy and her son Dmitry. And, of course, Lucas, age 9 weeks.
According to plan, Dan introduced the boys to their new baby brother, and, Laura hoped, gave a brief explanation of what in the world had just happened. They seemed to comprehend the news, judging by their smiles and their eagerness to cradle him in their arms.
Lest there was any confusion, Laura told Dan: "Can you make sure they know that I wasn't pregnant?"
Zhenya dives onto the couch as if he's lived there all of his 13 years. Reagan skips around the house in his red Pokιmon T-shirt, counting the minutes until he can watch the Shrek DVD for the 100th time. Dan and Slava -- Joe -- hole up in the den, immersed in a video game.
Laura says the boys have taken to rocking their new baby brother in his swing. They talk to him and try to make him smile. Because he's a pudgy little fellow, they call him Mr. Tolsty -- tolsty is Russian for fat.
Out of the unnatural environment of hotel rooms, courtrooms and embassies, the boys burst to life again, and their natural curiosity speeds up considerably. Zhenya wants to repeat everything, and Reagan sits and compares his feet with Luke's.
Like Dan, the boys will be home-schooled at first, while they assimilate and learn English. Next year, Dan plans to go to Temple Christian school.
Dan and Joe will share a bunk-bed room, as will Zhenya and Reagan.
Extra room, drywall and major renovations are courtesy of "Mr. Safety," the man more commonly known as Laura's dad, Larry Morris.
When Bill Waybourn took a seat on that pew in November 2002, in the middle of Fort Worth, he had no earthly clue about the plight of the Russian orphan. Three trips abroad and four Russian children later, he's a 45-year-old man with a family of nine and a whole new life.
"I just sat down and listened to a minister preach, and . . . my goodness."
He's an adoption convert now, a kind of missionary.
"It's an amazing thing, what Gladney's doing," he says. "I really applaud them for going in this direction."
He and Laura hope that by telling their family's story, it will open the door to more adoptions -- they're especially hoping to find a home for Vitaly.
"Our heart breaks for the Russian orphan," he said. "But hopefully, somebody else will step up to the plate. Because I know that there are families out there that have the resources, the time, the love . . . "
Their friend, Bill Hines, says it'll be hard for Bill and Laura to pass up kids like Vitaly.
"I think one of the big challenges for them now -- such a large family and still in the business of caring for people -- is that they're going to be looking for more and more people like themselves that they can funnel people to," Hines said. "People that have the same heart and same sort of mission."
The Waybourn house? It's a little full right now.
IN THE KNOW
Gladney Center programs and sessions
The Gladney Center for Adoption, based in Fort Worth, is one of the country's oldest adoption agencies. Gladney handles both domestic and international adoptions, and since its founding in 1887 has placed more than 26,000 children in homes and served more than 36,000 birth mothers.
In the summer, Gladney holds the Bright Futures camp, where older Russian orphans (over age 7) get a glimpse of America through a 10-day visit, where they are hosted by American families in the hope of adoption.
In January, Gladney will hold several information/education sessions on international adoption from Bulgaria, China, Guatemala, Kazakhstan, Russia and Ukraine. A session will be held in Dallas on Jan. 11 and in Fort Worth on Jan. 13.
For more information on adoption, the Bright Futures Camp, or the informational sessions, contact Gladney at (817) 922-6088 or (800) 452-3639, or visit www.gladney.org.
The cost of adoption
Standard fees for adopting from Russia:
Gladney Adoption Fee: $2,500 for first child, $500 for related sibling, no fee is assessed for additional related siblings.
Gladney Post Placement Fee: $2,050 for completing and processing reports for 3 years. (Russian requirement).
In-country fee: $4,500
Including other non-Gladney fees, the total estimate is about $12,000, not including travel.
The federal government also offers an adoption tax credit, which can reduce adoption expenses. (www.irs.gov/publications/p968/index.html)
Russia's orphans: Who's left behind?
There were over 700,000 orphans in Russia in 2000, although unofficial estimates indicate that there may be as many as 2 million orphans in Russia, including street children and the homeless.
Of the total, 95 percent of these children are "social orphans," meaning their parents are living but have been deemed unfit to parent because of neglect, alcohol or drug abuse, or financial hardships.
About 15,000 children leave Russian orphanages each year, once they are 16 to 18 years old. Of these:
5,000 are unemployed
6,000 are homeless
3,000 turn to crime
approximately 1,500 commit suicide
roughly half the girls are forced into prostitution.
Thousands of children are abandoned to the state at a rate of 113,000 a year for the past two years, up dramatically from 67,286 in 1992.
Russia did not allow foreigners to adopt its orphans until 1992, after perestroika was in place. In 1997, Russia became the No. 1 source of international adoptions for the United States.
SOURCES: Russian Orphan Aid Foundation, Ministry of Education of the Russian Federation, Russian Information Services, Russian Life magazine, CoMission for Children at Risk, 2002.
Special Thanks to Victoria Nemonezhnaya, the Russian Translator; Vera Malakhova, An Adoption Coordinator for the Gladney Center; and Luba Shinkorenko, Shumerly's Orphanage Director. Heather Svokos, (817) 390-7686 hsvokos@star-telegram.com
Visitors to our site since May 21, 2002.
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