First-Class Citizens

An afternoon meeting in Vilnius, Lithuania, discussing religious affairs was not unlike many meetings I go to. Our daughter Bridget, who often accompanies my husband, Mark, and me, keeps us fairly disengaged from adult activities. That afternoon, like many others, I worked hard at alternating between my chair and the floor, while keeping up the flow of quiet toys to my daughter, then 10 months old, and trying to glean something of the topic at hand.

Eventually the activity level in our corner of the room required drastic action, and I picked up Bridget and left the room as graciously as I could. After Mark took his turn caring for Bridget, the meeting came to a close. But having missed almost half of a meeting that had felt very significant, I walked toward the door, wondering if bringing our baby on our 15-day tour of the Soviet Union was worth it. As I said goodbye to our host, she smiled and touched me where I needed it the most: "Oh, thank you so much for bringing your baby to our country."

Exchanges like this, especially when communication is made all the richer through gestures and expressions, made moments of doubt about our traveling as a threesome evaporate. In fact, now I can't imagine traveling without Bridget in the Soviet Union, simply because the opportunities and insights offered from being with her were the most significant and memorable of our time there. Children, I have no doubt, not only bring out the best in people there, they also reveal a characteristic that runs deep among Soviet people, visible only when a child is present.

Having traveled quite a bit with Bridget, I have realized that it is then that I am most aware of her needs, trying to keep one step ahead of the next looming crisis. In this frame of mind, and with Bridget in my arms, we boarded our Aeroflot flight which would take us from London to Leningrad, via Moscow.

A flight official spotted us as we boarded and, without speaking a word, brought us into the first-class cabin, all the while holding our economy-class tickets. I felt for the first time that because of our baby we were shown not the seats at the back, where we would not disturb anyone, but the seats in the front, where Bridget could stretch across three seats for a long nap.

When we arrived in Leningrad, another instance of favor toward children occurred. After searching endlessly for a taxi stand, we found one--along with the 500-plus people who arrived there before us. I felt a long way from home, seeing so many people waiting so patiently for the occasional taxi arriving every five minutes or so.

But almost as soon as we joined the line, we were instructed by a friendly, uniformed gentleman behind us to go to the front. I gave an inquiring look, but he insisted, pointing at the baby. I was almost embarrassed as we passed literally hundreds of people standing in line. But when we reached the front, people began to move aside so that we had free access to the next taxi. I was doubly embarrassed, not having yet learned to say even "thank you" in Russian. Despite feelings of inadequacy, I said it passionately in English over and over again on my way to the cab.

THE FACT THAT children hold such a special place in Soviet society is indisputable, but why this is so was less obvious. A waiter explained that Soviet people love children because they lost so many during World War II and the Nazi occupation. "Children," he said, "are our future."

Respect and care for children seemed almost a civic duty in the Soviet Union: My husband was particularly susceptible to dozens of mothers and grandmothers approaching him with various "suggestions" for Bridget's care and comfort. For instance, they cannot bear for children to be on the floor for any reason. And even in the hottest weather (it was rarely below 80 degrees during our visit), they warned that Bridget should have been totally covered from head to toe. They often looked at her bare legs or feet and, while stroking them, spoke with the kind of compassion usually reserved for the most neglected of children. "Children are the real first-class citizens in our country," said one tour guide in Riga without a hint of a smile.

Bridget also provided opportunities for a more natural and easy rapport with Soviet parents. One of our cherished experiences was spending an afternoon at a public swimming area along the shore of the Neva River in Leningrad. Bridget's delightful squeals joined those of the throng, and before long she was crawling confidently from blanket to blanket, meeting new friends. Inevitably one of us would have to catch up to her, and eventually our Western identity became well noticed. We gave some toys away and received many warm smiles and handshakes. I often reminded myself during our visit that Bridget was affording me the experience of a lifetime--seeing the human face of the Soviet people in a way unique to the Western traveler.

This reminder would follow when I was feeling most bound to the domestic duties, or when I was simply weary from having to carry Bridget in places where her stroller wasn't allowed. While visiting the Summer Palace outside Leningrad, I was carrying Bridget and felt as if I were about to drop. An elderly guard offered me her chair.

We had a wonderful time together while I sat near her with Bridget on my lap, despite the fact that all she could offer me was the only three English words that she knew. I soon realized that those three words were to her the only ones necessary to communicate those things most dear. "Peace, love, and children," she said, while I nodded in agreement.

Dana Mills-Powell traveled to the Soviet Union with her family in June 1986 with the Friendship Religious Tour. She was the editor of Decide for Peace, published in the United Kingdom by Marshall Pickering in 1986 (distributed in the United States by Zondervan) when this article appeared.