By Peyton Wojcik
Sandcastles at the End of the Rainbow looks towards the heroism of one man, recalling how he forever changed my own world and my sister’s, forever, by bringing her into my life. It is a tribute to the love that my sister and I have shared as a result of the adoption that he facilitated.
Photo by Sarah Basile
Photo by Peyton Wojcik
For the past thirteen years, every time I go to the beach, it’s been the same. Riley and I shoot off into the ocean, sinking into the icy water and floating over the waves until we reach the point where everything is still. We’re far enough away from the shore that I can’t see her, but I know exactly what Milana is doing. She sits, hunched over in the sand, gray particles caking her entire body from the heels to her neck. The only thing that distinguishes her from the earth is whatever form of neon yellow, flowery pink, or teal-with-unicorns bathing suit she wears on this trip. Her task is simple: to spend all day building sandcastles.
When it’s time to reapply sunscreen or wipe off the salt water that burns our blue eyes red, Riley and I return to our younger sister and join her on the blanket that marks our little stretch of beach. I pop open the cooler and grab a bottle of Lipton Green Tea. I pass it to Mila, who drinks greedily until I have to beg for the bottle back so that I can take another swig. She throws her arms around me, pulling me close, and smacks her lips against my cheek. It leaves a wet spot, a reminder of her love. I don’t wipe it off. Instead, I grab a bucket, scoop in some soft, light sand, and join her in adding my own construction to her collection.
I can barely remember the years before we adopted Milana. Back then, it was just my older sister Karissa, my twin sister Riley, and me. It doesn’t seem right that there was a time when it was just the three of us.
When I search back in my memory to recall ages one through eight, it’s hazy, like looking through a photo album full of gaps where Mila’s rosy, freckled face should’ve been.
Thankfully, that space has been filled for a long time since then.
The years since I turned eight are much easier to remember. I don’t remember the day we picked her and my mother up from the airport, but I can recall other things. When it comes to Mila, it feels like my brain is an encyclopedia.
Her favorite color is purple, like mine. She’s boy crazy, so much that it drives me crazy. She has a crush on Gilbert Blythe (who doesn’t?) but also one on Prince Zuko, one on Anakin Skywalker, and one on Cedric Diggory…the list goes on. Her favorite flavor of ice cream is chocolate chip cookie dough. I know that if we go get ice cream together, she will never get any other flavor.
I know this too: the first time I saw Mila, I remember being distinctly and thoroughly unimpressed. Such a thing sounds unimaginable now – how could I ever feel nothing for someone who means everything to me? But I was seven and I had yet to meet her.
My parents had been discussing adopting a child between themselves and with me and my sisters for some time now, and I had decided that if we were to do so, I wanted a little sister. We had taken up scrolling through the website for the adoption agency we were using, Reece’s Rainbow, as a pastime, and I had seen plenty of kids from all over the world that I thought were cute. So by the time I saw the singular blurry photo the orphanage had provided, I was not particularly excited. I remember my mom asking me what I thought. With my long-standing tendency to people-please, I’m sure I told her she was cute. What I really thought was that with her cropped blonde hair, she looked like a boy. Which I did not want. So at seven years old, going on eight, I was not entirely convinced that this little Ukrainian toddler was the one that should be my sister. I was so wrong.
I’m not sure how we actually ended up choosing to adopt Milana, but I do know that we would never have been able to do so without Serge Zevlever.
With his short, stocky build, shaved head, and big, burly arms, Serge may not have been the man most people would expect to devote his life to assisting the adoptions of Ukrainian orphans with special needs.
“He was a big scary dude,” my mother told me, remembering her first impression of him. He was easy to be intimidated by. Yet his somewhat gruff exterior gave way to a kind soul. According to my mother’s friend Sarah Basile, for whom Serge facilitated three adoptions, “Anyone who has had the privilege of seeing Serge smile with that light shining from his eyes knew his good heart immediately.”
For this reason, my mother remembers him fondly, even thirteen years later.
While he was not always physically present at my sister’s adoption, his presence wound throughout the entire process. Milana’s adoption was not his first — Serge helped 40 to 50 families adopt children with special needs from Ukraine annually. He did whatever it took to help orphans. He didn’t publicize this fact, but he often paid for the surgeries that some children needed while they awaited adoption. Serge was truly protective of the orphans he worked to aid and wanted them to lead happy lives.
In order to adopt Milana, my mother spent six weeks in Ukraine. The aid Serge provided during this time was immeasurable. Throughout her time in Ukraine, his help allowed my mother to navigate a foreign country with a new child, getting them both back safely. Serge set my parents up with facilitators and translators in Ukraine. He led the team that ensured that my parents had a place to stay in Luhansk and provided transportation to and from Milana’s orphanage. Attaining Milana’s passport and visa, necessary steps to enable her to leave the country, were both made possible by Serge and his team. He wanted orphans with disabilities to have the love of a family, and he made this possible for so many.
His work was especially important when one takes into mind the attitudes towards people with disabilities in Ukraine. According to the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF), before the culmination of the Russo-Ukrainian War in 2022, Ukraine had the highest number of children in institutional care in Europe, with over 90,000 children living in care facilities. About half were disabled. These children are institutionalized and kept out of society if not adopted. Adopting them is no easy task either — thus the need for Serge. Sarah Basile remembered Serge making her aware in her first adoption that she would be asked if she was adopting her daughter to “sell her organs on the black market.” That answer seemed more reasonable to some Ukrainian officials than actually wanting to adopt a child with a disability.
Serge started this work towards the end of the 1990s, and continued doing so until his death in 2022, saving countless children from spending their lives isolated and institutionalized until the very end.
A dual citizen of Ukraine and the United States, Serge was in his home country when Russia attacked that year. He didn’t have to be. As an American citizen, he could’ve returned to the States to escape the Russian invasion. Instead, he chose to stay. On February 26th, 2022, he offered to survey the safety of a Kyiv bomb shelter. He went outside to check and was shot by a sniper.
Serge died trying to prolong the lives of others, like he had done for so many orphans with disabilities.
He was only sixty-two.
Milana turns sixteen this year.
When she first came home, she was a tiny three year old with a baby face, ghostly pale skin, and ruddy cheeks. She once bit Riley’s cheek, leaving it a nasty shade of puke green for days. When she met our three dogs, she screamed if they so much as looked at her. The orphanage had left her scarred.
The scars still remain. But she has changed so much since then. The scared little girl is gone, replaced with one who is confident and brave. When Mila visits me at college, she bats her eyes and says, “Hey, boys,” to every group of cute guys she sees. She wants to go to college too, and become a teacher.
Without Serge, she’d never be here. She’d never be part of my family. Milana would’ve stayed in the orphanage until she reached a certain age, and then have been institutionalized for the rest of her life. Serge made it possible for her to come home to us.
So when we go to the beach, I savor the time spent with her in the sand. I sink down next to her, even though I hate how the grains stick to my skin. We take turns scooping the bucket full of sand and packing it in. I watch as Mila flips it, beaming at her success, and moves onto the next one. She is methodical and dedicated. I follow her lead, digging a moat or fetching water as instructed. I know she will grow up and do whatever she puts her mind to.
I also know this: Serge Zevlever gave her the chance to build sandcastles with me. He gave her the opportunity to build her life.
Photo by Peyton Wojcik