KIDS 

These kids showed up in the corridors of our college dorm one day. At
first, the bolder ever-cheerful fireball of a red-head. Then, the more
timid demure boy with large blue eyes that seemed to take up half of
his face. They were skinny and looked to be about ten or eleven years
old.  Students talked to the kids, laughed at the antics of the
redhead, told them dirty jokes, shared food and smokes.

One night they wound up in our room. My kind-hearted roommates invited
them for dinner. Then, one of my two roommates said that he knows
another room with a spare bed that he can use so if the kids wanted to
stay they could sleep in his bed. That is how the kids came to live
with us.

Both kids had a spark of intelligence in their eyes. They were
bright. It felt like all they needed was kindness and
support. Instinctively, they pulled at our heart-strings. They were
nice, they listened to us, they tried to help with the chores. They
tried not to be too much of a burden. The shy kid was particularly
sincere in his attempts to please us.  Yet, they were kids. They were
occasionally loud and messy. Then my army training came in handy:
"Kids, lights out in 5 minutes. Go washup. If you don't make it, you
are doing push-ups."

It turned out they ran away from the nearby orphanage. The Soviet
Union had recently fallen apart and places like that felt it
first. The kids' stories of abuse and neglect were heart
wrenching. They ran away multiple times. They said that if they were
brought back to the orphanage, they were going to run away again. We
did not know it yet, but in a few years the population of street
children in Russia would approach the post-WWII levels when more that
20 million people died and the war-torn country just could not cope.

We invited a reporter. He interviewed the kids. He said that their
story is indeed news-worthy.  However, the facts needed to be
cross-checked. A lot of the stories of abuse were very difficult to
confirm. He never pursued the story. I guess, the country had more
dramatic news to hear: the bodies of businessmen and journalists started
winding up in dumpsters, the first Chechen war heated up.

The kids kept living with us.  As I was sitting in class or going to
work, the kids were often on my mind. Without help they had no
future. I was trying to figure out what to do with them. My plans got
progressively more surreal and fantastic. I realized that it would not
work out. My roommates were just as lost as to what to do.  Yet we
could not go on living like that.

One evening, we cooked dinner. Divided it into five portions as
usual. Before we started eating I said:

"Kids, we cannot let you stay with us anymore. You have to leave. This
 is your last meal."

They did not argue. They did not ask why. They did not say anything at
all. They quietly finished their food, gathered their meager
possessions, opened the door of our room, stepped into nowhere and
closed the door behind them.