By Kelley Yuan

Paavo had never endured a winter this cold before. He hated the snarling winds that swept through Moscow yearly, but this cold was different. A heavy, sinister chill now followed, the kind that coiled itself tightly around your skin before sinking its teeth into bone.
The crumbling walls of the orphanage preserved little of what heat remained. But Paavo was a big boy this year–eight years old, in fact–and that meant he and the other older boys could endure the colder, drafty rooms as their warmer rooms were used to house the younger children who were sick.
Some of the vezuchiys returned to visit during the week of Christmas. They were “the lucky ones,” in new families with better prospects, the ones who didn’t need to return to the shivering orphanage. Dmitry, Paavo’s confidant and swashbuckling co-conspirator, had found a new home three months ago. Yet he still tackled Paavo the same way they had always done for the past two years, enveloping him in the warm wool of his new scarf and sweater. As Dmitry pulled back, cheeks rosy and laugh breathless from excitement, Paavo stared in wonder. He looks so warm.
All too soon into their joyful reunion, a larger, gentle hand came to rest on Dmitry’s shoulder, accompanied by a deeper voice of a stranger, “Come, son. We must leave soon.”
“Da, Papa.”
After the two boys shared a long hug, Dmitry vanished. Paavo didn’t understand what this feeling was, or how it made his heart sink as he watched Dmitry and his father stride into the snow holding hands. Though he was relieved that Dmitry was happier, he also felt as if a rusty fishhook had lodged itself between his ribs. Whenever he breathed in, it would tear open new pangs of loneliness and revive old fears–whether Dmitry would still remember him in a few months, whether he would wait at the orphanage forever, whether he would ever find a real home where he belonged. Eyes lowered, he paced back to his room, lips softly tracing the syllables “Da, Papa. Da, Papa.”An hour later, a careful knock on the door gave way to Gospodin Michalev, the orphanage’s most frequent and beloved visitor. Michalev worked long hours at the nearby smelting factory, but he always made time to play with the children. As far back as Paavo could remember, Michalev was there telling stories, tossing stones with them, and tearing down the street with them just as frantically when some stones accidentally soared into two apartment windowpanes.
But his relationship with them was not only of mischief and mirth. Michalev also brought them broth and an occasional treat when they fell sick. As the little ones cowered next to him on the floor during a thunderous storm, he challenged the storm to a roaring contest, shaking his fist at the heavens and teasing smiles from their faces. He was Paavo’s favorite adult because his eyes and ears were like a fox’s, catching the smallest flickers of discomfort or sadness. He paid attention to the concerns that the other adults thought were stupid. Who cared if Paavo wanted to learn to ride a bike like the other kids at school but could not find one on which to practice? Michalev did, and he refashioned a bike from the junkyard, teaching Paavo until he could lap the fastest boy in the schoolyard. Bulky arms, a sandpaper voice, and a mess of umber hair belied the kind, golden eyes and deep, rumbling laughter that greeted you when he bent down to meet you.
“Andrei and Isaak told me they saw you go into your room again. They thought you were still going to play outside with them later. What are you thinking about, little man?” He joined Paavo in the corner of the room, back pressed against the wall and matching the cross-legged pose the boy held as thoughts flurried like snowflakes in his head.
“Gospodin Michalev, who was my Papa?”
At the word “Papa,” Paavo hesitated. Michalev knew Paavo too well; the boy paused when he was unsure of what to expect but had also deliberated over the question for so long. He studied the boy’s pensive gaze, then shed his winter coat and draped it over the boy’s thin frame. In truth, Michalev knew nothing about Paavo’s father. He had heard from the chair of the orphanage that they found Paavo as an infant on the steps of a church near Podolsk. His father may have been one of the many who succumbed to pneumonia or hunger that year.
Michalev quietly rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and turned to face Paavo, meeting his eyes.
“Your papa was strong. When the gas heating failed in your home, he would wake up hours earlier to cover you with his blanket, then burn the coal outside in the frost to make breakfast and hot water for you and your Mama. When food was harder to come by, he made sure you two were fed before his lips would taste a crumb. Understand, little man, that when he put you in the hands of this orphanage, your Papa had already tried everything in his power to save the two people he loved most. Your Papa did not leave you here because he did not love you. Your Papa placed you here because he loved you more than his own life. He loved you too much to see you put up with more hardship.”
He paused, and a faint grin flashed across his face.
“Your papa was also silly and kind. You know, his pranks would have given even naughty Isaak a run for his rubles! At the end of the night he could make a whole table of strangers ache from laughter. But when you found yourself in trouble, you could count on your Papa to save your sorry behind and then never let you hear the end of it.” He wagged his large finger and grabbed Paavo’s ear playfully.
Another pause. Paavo watched the man’s golden eyes soften and stare off into something Paavo could not see.
“One day, Papa will come and take you back home. I am sure of it. And you will be happy, Paavo. You see, he is working hard at two jobs to make enough money for the house and warmer clothes for you. At night, he waits tables at a small restaurant, and he constantly spills the bowls of borscht. The bowls are just so heavy and awkward, and when he tries to place the bowls on the table, they tip backward and he usually gets some soup on his clumsy wrist.”
Paavo smiled. Borscht was his favorite dish; the orphanage cook knew too and snuck extra potatoes into his bowl. It was a rich, savory stew tinted a dark orange-red by the beets and cabbage. On a lucky day, the cook would throw in some meat and a wink. Surely, this small connection with the soup to his father meant something.
“But,” Michalev chuckled, pushing himself off the floor, “it is time for you to go to bed, Paavo.” The wind had died down, now simply panting after a long day of frigid gusts. The sun was reeling in his last rays of light, but a few scattered ribbons of orange remained plastered against a purple winter sky.
As Paavo nestled into his mattress, Michalev threw his coat over his shoulder and shuffled toward the door. Right as the man with the golden eyes rolled his sleeves back down his forearms, Paavo let his eyes slowly droop into slumber.
Until he caught a glimpse of an orange soup stain on the left cuff of the sleeve.