The Monovich Orphanage

It seems, quite peculiarly, that the answer to people’s fates comes straight out of thin air. The realization of my destiny hit me quite literally like that when I was kneeling by a chimney shaped well in the village, all those winters ago.

When the snow surrounding me would crunch beneath my naked feet, and my bare knees stained it with blood as I cupped my hands for a sip of ice cold water, straight from the community well. The old lady wearing a red, furred hood coat would bring me hot tea and change that would be plenty to buy me socks, and shoes, and pants, and a coat. However, the money was more often than not, wasted on food. I say wasted because the store owners back then would charge homeless boys about three times as much as a regular customer.

The snow became my only blanket during those times, as I had mastered the art of containing my heat beneath it. Yet every morning when I woke up, I was soaked, cold and alone, laying on a bed of newspapers and a pillow made of plastic bags.

And I would go back to the well, everyday, like clockwork, to drink the ice cold water that was the essence of my life. It was on one of those days that the first letter arrived.

As I was wheeling up a bucket of water, I found a scribbled letter floating on top of it, covered in bright doodles and, as I was to find out later, misspelt words. Hypnotised by the never before seen hieroglyphs covering the letter, I carefully pulled it out and began to attempt reading it. I could make out a few words such as “please” and “sick” and “I am” but the context of the letter represented nothing to me but a foreign language. My Mama would read me bedtime stories every night, stories about the battle between good and evil, where evil was inevitably defeated in the end, no matter how uneven the odds. But truth be told, once she passed away giving birth to my little sister, I began to hate all books, all words and all writing. I knew she would not have been proud of me for that reason, however I could not help it, no matter what. It was too much.

I was so absorbed into understanding the context of the letter, and so overwhelmed with memories of Mama reading to me by the chimney, that I failed to notice the person that had been watching me for the past five minutes.

“What is it you’re holding there, Nikolai?” the woman with the furred coat asked me. Her look was majestic as always, her massive white face and bright red cheeks shining among the white fox tails surrounding her hood.

“It’s a letter, Ms. Monovich.” I remember looking down at my feet afterwards, realizing they had turned a light blue colour from all the time I spent trying to understand the piece of paper I was holding. My knees, as always, were staining the snow around me. Comparing mine to hers, her coat hung down to her ankles, underneath which her booted feet could be seen. A glittering emerald green reflected off of them, and into the snow.

“Well what does it say, my boy?” she questioned, a great warm smile running across her face. Her teeth were in a poor state, to say the least. Covered by cavities and a yellow tint to them, they looked almost as if her mouth was stuffed with bumble bees.

“I don’t know. I can’t read.” I said, looking down at her emerald boots again.

“Come with me boy, let’s read it together.” she said, and took my hand.

A few minutes later, I found myself having tea in Ms. Monovich’s glorious mansion, that was the village’s crown jewel. Her small round glasses were neatly placed on her equally round nose as she was reading the letter to me, mouthing the words along, for her reading had gotten worse in her old age.

“Nikolai, this is quite the letter you’ve got here.” she said. “A young boy wrote this and threw it out the window, in hopes that someone would find it and come to his aid. It’s about his brother..”

“What? What does it say?” I said impatiently.

“Hello, kind stranger. I hope this letter find you well.” Ms. Monovich said.

“Did you mean to say “finds”?” I asked her, hoping that my mediocre literary skills would somewhat impress her. After all, most homeless boys can’t read a single word of Russian.

“No boy, that’s what he wrote there.” she continued. “My mother ran away with the family money last week, and ever since, dad has fallen into depression. He took out his anger on me a few day ago, after drink. I tried take my brother to run away with him, but he caught us when we were sneaking through the windo. He knock me out with his fist and throw my brother in the door. My brother is not safe in this house. Please help. Demyan Bobrov.” Ms. Monovich glanced up from the letter to look at my reaction. My trembling hand reached to grab the teacup, but ended up spilling everything on her polished hardwood floor.

“Oh no, I am so terribly sorry, Ms. Monovich.” I said as I attempted to clean up the mess I had made. I was half expecting her to strike me, but something told me she would not. She was a woman with a charisma and empathy I had never received before, from anyone else.

A heavy hand fell onto my shoulder. “Don’t worry, boy.” she said. “Let’s go help the Bobrov kids.”

We got into her horse drawn carriage after she gave me some clothes to wear. I had almost forgotten the feel of a jacket covering my forearms before putting on the jacket she gave me. A feeling of warmth flooded my entire being, and I felt loved again, like I once felt when I was with my mama.

After hours of searching and asking around, we found the Bobrov residence. Demyan let us in after Ms. Monovich explained why we were there, and we took the two boys into the carriage with us, while Mr. Bobrov was out, drinking no doubt. The two boys were inexplicably short and dressed in dark green and red clothing. An elvish appearance surrounded them.

We took them to the Monovich mansion, and she treated them in the same manner she did me, offering them tea and a place to stay until they figured everything out. I had never such an admiration for anyone else as I did for Ms. Monovich.

The next day, as I was following my ritualistic routine, I made my way to the village well, and once again wheeled up a bucket of water. This time, two letters greeted me, floating gingerly on top of the water.

Running to the Monovich mansion, I could not believe what was happening. Letters, letters were coming into the well! Or from within it. That, I never figured out.

“What are you doing out there, Nikolai?” Ms. Monovich said, the radiant smile never leaving her face as she spoke every word.

Excitedly, I showed her the two letters in my hands. She motioned for me to come in, and sit down for a cup of tea, as became customary after. The two Bobrov boys, named Demyan and Yaromir greeted me as I walked inside. Their matching red and green attire was now accompanied by two red hats, courtesy of Ms. Monovich.

Reading the letters, they were apparently two other kids, with two other calls for help. Southern Russia was not undergoing a period of prosperity at the time, it seems.

In a familiar fashion, Ms. Monovich and I got dressed, and went on our way to rescue the two children. This time however, we were stopped by the Bobrov brothers before leaving. They suggested that the kids need a little more to come home to than just tea. They showed us paper boats and swans they had made out of the napkins sitting on Ms. Monovich’s tea table. The idea was brilliant.

Coming back home in the horse-drawn carriage, we made our way into the kitchen, walking alongside the two children that needed shelter from the cold Russian winter.

As days passed by, the bucket got filled with more and more letters, all of which were answered by the loving Ms. Monovich and her boy, Nik.

That is how the story of the Monovich Orphanage began. Ms. Monovich died shortly after, however every winter, the bucket would become filled with letters on a daily basis. Sometimes they were wishes, sometimes they were calls for help. No matter what though, they were always answered by the Dobrov brothers and I. If anyone needed rescue, the Monovich Orphanage was there, its white roof peeking up from amongst the mountains.

In a natural manner, I put on Ms. Monovich’s red, furred hood coat and emerald coloured boots. I look in the mirror. I am much older now, much wiser, and with a much whiter beard. But just as much of the kid I was when she rescued me from the snow all those winters ago.

“Ready to go, Saint Nik?” Demyan Dobrov said, handing me a bag filled with letters, and another filled with toys made by him and his brother.

“Always ready, boy.” I say, smiling.

Hopping in the sled, I start flying towards the stars, hoping that I can help everyone in time, like Ms. Monovich has once helped me. “HO-HO-HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!” I cry out as the Russian city lights fade into the fog and snow, and I make my way to the United States.