He watched the Frisbee ripping through the stifling August air. It was lunch time, but the excitement of fencing with balloon helmets and swords and weaving macramé bracelets softened the familiar sensation of hunger. Vladimir, ten years old, couldn’t take his eyes off the man with the Frisbee. At last it was offered to Vladimir. He found himself fumbling, nervous. After all, this was a grown man, a father-type man, tossing the Frisbee, and Vladimir was an orphan.

He hesitated, then entered the game with all his heart. His first toss went wild; he shrugged his shoulders thinking he’d lost his chance and moved to step out of the game. But the man, the father-type man, pulled him back and took the time to show him the Frisbee toss technique. Vladimir’s eyes softened. This was confusing. A second chance, gentle instruction – these were not part of his expectation. He continued to fumble. Instruction continued. Now another child, an American from the visiting group, stepped in and took the man’s place in the game. Vladimir found the man at his shoulder becoming his own personal coach. In five minutes Vladimir was ahead of the game, but his heart was full of something new. His eyes kept looking for the father-type man, tracking his movements through the throng of children, following his voice. Vladimir’s heart learned the effect of a father’s touch upon the tender life of a boy and he would never forget it.

This was no ordinary orphanage; not really an orphanage at all. This was a “holding place” that was becoming an orphanage – a common happening in the desolation of Ukraine’s “social services.” Street children are often brought here and left until a place in an orphanage could be found. Children picked up for petty crime – breaking and entering or stealing food – are here waiting for court. Also, very young gypsy children whose parents would not release them to be listed for adoption because they intended to come back for them when they would be old enough to beg on the streets. And Vladimir.

The bright-eyed, eager boy called Vladimir was left at Zhmerinka for a different reason. The director told the story with a tone of indignation. Vladimir was brought here by a mother whose second husband made it incovenient for Vladimir to remain in the family. The mother told Vladimir he was going to summer camp and left him at Zhmerinka after first signing papers to release him to the state. “He is uncontrollable,” she told the director. With tears in her eyes, the director said, “He is only a boy.” Such is the cultural effect of godlessness in government.

The children went in to the steamy building that serves as the community kindergarten except for the two rooms given to caring for the transient orphans. We spoke our good-byes, passed out the things we had brought, and walked out of the building. As we turned the corner to the street, voices above were shouting “Dasvedanya!” We watched the faces, so familiar now after a week on the mission to Vinnitsa orphanages. The faces hold wonder – the wonder of friendship, gratefulness, hope, but something else – “You’re leaving us too.” But Vladimir’s eyes were on the father-type man, and as we turned the other corner, he blew a kiss.