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staring straight ahead. Erika and I watched, transfixed, through the bars of the crib. She seemed to have no awareness that we were there. Erika whispered, “Oh my God. I think she’s trying to rock herself to sleep.” I studied her. “Wow. We saw those kids on TV, in the Romanian orphanages, do the same thing.”
    She was referring to an ABC News 20/20 exposé we’d seen the year before about Romanian children abandoned in state orphanages, the disastrous result of a bizarre plan concocted by the Ceauşescu dictatorship to force women to bear children for the state. The televised images were heartbreaking—youngsters in straitjackets confined to metal bed frames in bleak, cold rooms; mentally disturbed adolescents left alone in silence, rocking back and forth; neglected infants drowning in their own filth, too weak to cry.
    After about ten minutes, Joanna collapsed in a heap, crying. Maybe it was her rattly cough that kept her from sleeping. Erika jumped out of bed, picked her up, bouncing and shushing her, but Joanna’s distress seemed to get worse. Her crying became an ear-piercing scream.
    I’d never heard such a desperate wail. Didn’t she have an off switch somewhere? We’d had a long day and needed sleep. Erika kept bouncing her up and down, rocking her back and forth. She sat her by the TV, but Joanna wouldn’t settle down.
    An hour later, at eleven o’clock, Joanna finally calmed herself. Erika laid her back down on her stomach in the crib, kissed her hot sweaty head, and covered her with the wool blanket, pulling the comfort pillow up close to her face.
    We looked at each other, exhausted. I felt like we were two bomb disposal experts who’d just defused an improvised explosive device. Looking over the bar of the crib, careful not to disturb her, I listened to her breathe. Her nose was stuffy, so she breathed through her mouth, wheezing from the congestion in her chest. I whispered to her, “Poor kid. You won’t be alone at night anymore.”
    Then I blew her a kiss good night.

SIX
    T wo days after returning from Mrągowo, we sat in court for our adoption hearing. Since we could not bring Joanna, our hotel had recommended a girl who appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen to watch her in our room. We weren’t thrilled at the notion of our first separation from Joanna, even for a couple of hours, but we had little choice. Erika gave the young sitter a brief interview in Polish and determined that she was trustworthy.
    The courtroom was small but ornate. The raised bench, desks, gallery, and carved paneling were made of mahogany. All the court officials—the judge, the state attorney, and Renata—were dressed in black robes with white silk scarves that looked like bow ties; all they needed were white powdered wigs. The only other people in the courtroom were two jurors, a court reporter, and a translator for me, the only non-Polish-speaker in the room.
    The atmosphere was solemn. Erika and I sat behind a long table, facing the judge and jurors. It felt as though everyone’s eyes were trained on us, except for the judge, who was busy looking at our file, talking with Renata and the state attorney. I tried to read their facial cues and vocal tones to get a sense of where the hearing may lead us. With only a vague understanding of the Polish judiciary, we had to take Renata’s word that all would be fine. I prayed that she was correct.
    My palms were cold and sweaty. Erika grabbed my hand for moral support. I surveyed the room for anyone who looked kind or supportive, but all I saw were stern, almost blank expressions that revealed nothing. If it weren’t for Renata and Erika sitting next to me, I would’ve felt even more helpless than I did.
    The judge called the court to order. She looked to be in her forties, very professional and commanding. Maybe she was a mother herself. If so, perhaps she’d warm up to us and be