exposing the dark side of adoption
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Romanian Babies Are Big - And Dirty - Business

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By Victoria Clark

London Observer

BUCHAREST, Romania - "God gives children to poor people," says the young Gypsy mother of four who is thinking of selling her 7-month-old daughter and toddler for $500 for the pair - a year's salary.

Louise and her husband, Alan, from Canada, have everything they want but children. She has photographs from back home: "That's my swimming pool. That's my country home," she says proudly.

The Gypsy, only 21, is bewildered. "Is Canada in Romania?" she asks.

Gean, the Romanian baby broker with his fine leather jacket and gold ring, says it is near America.

"I've heard of America. I know it's very far away," the mother says, turning to the baby on her hip to hide her tears, "but I can see that the lady from Canada is 100 percent good.'

The baby broker's assistant, with mirror sunglasses perched on her head and fur coat around her shoulders, offers comfort:

"You can make more babies; you're young. The money will help you care for the others."

Negotiations are carried out in fast Romanian. Translation is kept to a bare minimum. Louise, 29, is gazing appalled at the one room, with its hay-strewn bedstead, and the children's bare feet.

"My dog lives better than this," she mutters.

We must return later for the father's consent. But Gean, the baby broker, reckons it's in the bag, since at a meeting a week ago the father had asked: "How many do you want?"

Gean is fixing a deal with the uncle, who says, "Come back in a

year. I'll sell you a new baby."

Gean sniggers. "I'm the boss, and he's the baby machine," he says. "That's life."

But Louise is crying. "How can you sell your kids for $500?"

By mid-afternoon she has decided to select another baby found in the orphanage of the nearest town, Ploesti. His mother is found. While a grandmother peels potatoes onto the floor of the main room, the middle-aged Gypsy agrees to a price of 30,000 lei ($200). She could do with some new furniture, she says. "Come back next year. I'll have another for you to take to Canada."

By nightfall, the Gypsy father of the first baby, Megan, has agreed to the sale. He lights the gas lamp while Gean explains the procedure. A blood sample is needed, and he must appear at the local court in Ploesti.

"The money must remain a secret between all of us here," says Gean. "Megan's father says he needs a pair of blue jeans and no hassle with the police."

"It's hard to deal with pure-blood Gypsies," says Maurice, Gean's half-brother and boss. "They won't give up their babies. Half-blood Gypsies, you can deal with them.'

Maurice is frank about his sideline. The brothers have installed themselves at the Hotel President in Bucharest, a center for bus loads of childless couples arriving from all over the Western world to set about the business of adopting a Romanian orphan.

The lobby is abuzz with appalling tales, congratulation and commiserations: Sue's baby got hepatitis B. Beth, fighting to adopt triplets, pulled a knife on a Gypsy.

The number of children in Romania's orphanages is down to half its pre-revolution figure. Legalized abortion helps reduce the problem of unwanted children, and as the number of newborn babies available is almost negligible, demand is outstripping supply.

Helpless in an alien culture, desperate for a child and aching to return home, many couples find the lines between right and wrong blur. Smiling guides like Maurice wave them through the gates of hell - they are adept at dealing with last-minute qualms of conscience: "Tell a lie, break a law, forge a document," he beseeches his clients, "but do me a favor: Give this child a chance in life."

With the connivance of doctors and nurses, baby brokers organize adoptions of the newborn before they even get to the orphanages.

Dr. Sorin Puia of Giulesti Hospital in Bucharest is angry. He describes the case of a peasant girl admitted one night who gave birth at midnight. By 7 a.m. the baby had disappeared.

"The nurses were linked to its mother," he concludes. The baby broker, calling himself a "translator," "lawyer," "driver" or "friend," then steps in to work the system.

Bribes, called "gifts," guarantee tipoffs from village nurses and doctors. Another "gift" grants special access to the quality merchandise - an 18-month-old boy capable of taking two steps.

The nurse must receive something if the baby boy is not to be shown to the next couple of shoppers. John and Mary like the little boy. The child's mother is amenable. Gean tells her the foreign lady and gentleman are delighted the child is pure Romanian - not Gypsy. But after three disappointments, they are not counting their chickens: "We've had to toughen up," they confess.

"Gifts" allow legal formalities to be bypassed. The 15-day rule in Bucharest, under which parents may withdraw from the deal, can be waived. A helpful court secretary, together with a mayor and a judge, can speed up the case. A doctor's report can be doctored.

"It's kind of interesting the number of gifts we have to give," said another adopting couple, listing 10 cartons of Kent cigarettes, three bottles of whiskey, eight sets of makeup and 15 silk ties. "Alissa and "Craig" - both under 2, neither Gypsy - will soon be theirs for $4,000.

It is more expensive but easier on the nerves if you have a qualified lawyer. One who works in Rimnicu Vilcea, a town 125 miles west of Bucharest, has an attractive package: For the translation of documents, speedy legal processing, transport and the dispatch of a "gift" to natural parent, he charges $2,000. That includes $1,000 for the "gift."

The lawyer's name is on the U.S. Embassy's advice sheet. The consul stresses that negotiations are strictly between the buyer and seller. "The courtesy giving and the gifts are not something either the U.S. or Romanian governments would encourage," he says.

One Western diplomat doubts the Romanian government's willingness to crack down on the trade because there is too much money being made.

"With the Gypsies, anything is possible," says Dr. Alexandra Zugravesc of the Committee for the Support of Children's Institutions. She voices the deep and general Romanian prejudice against the Gypsy minority but is shocked to discover that baby-selling extends far beyond the Gypsy population.

A government spokesman, Bogdan Baltazar, is unwilling to consider the circumstances in which a parent might be forced to give up his or her child. He says he wants to remind Westerners that "there are certain things which cannot be bought."

Romanian children should have a chance to serve their country and live where their fathers and forefathers had lived, he says.

Neither official doubts the heinous nature of the baby-selling business. A new commission responsible to the Health Ministry is expected to be working within a month. Its brief is to eliminate the middle man. It must produce a central register of Romanian children available for adoption.

After a week in Romania, Louise is cynical about the government plan to control the baby business: "I guess this means they want a share of the action, too."

1991 Apr 14