I’m writing from Russia, the city of Samara on the Volga River. And there has been a terrible, horrible mistake. I’m sitting in a dingy classroom in an old boarding school (better known as an orphanage) somewhere far from the city center where I live. Or maybe I should say, where I used to live. Now I’m not sure about that, or about anything.
I definitely don’t belong HERE. But for a reason I can’t explain or understand, three days ago a rude woman marched me away from my mother and brought me here on the tram. A policeman was there too. I will never forget the look on Mama’s pale face, or her last words to me: “Forgive me, Irochka.” Forgive her for what?
My formal name is Irina Vladimirovna Kotova. But just Irina will do. If you come to rescue me, just say you are looking for the Irina with the violin, and someone will know who you mean. Not that my violin is doing me much good anymore. There are no musicians here or anyone who appreciates culture, manners, or friendship. I have to get out. I just have to.
You see, not long ago, I lived a rather nice, normal life. We had a nice flat. My mother wore stylish clothes and my father was the concert master in the Philharmonic. I attended school at the pension and studied violin with a prestigious instructor. We were happy. But what I didn’t see coming was the end of our country—the USSR. I was too young to understand what had happened, and how everything was ruined. Now that I’m fourteen, I see it now—but I still don’t see why I was taken from my mother. She has been sick, but is that a crime? It wasn’t her fault my father died. I still went to school. Usually there was something to eat every day.
I’m trying to get up the nerve to go to the office of the boarding school director and ask him when my mother will come for me. But so far, I’ve been too afraid. I’m not the most outgoing of girls. And he’s often preoccupied, even angry, rushing here and there, barking orders to the staff. He doesn’t have time for the likes of me.
Oy! Here comes the teacher. She is late and will blame the public transport, as do most Russians. I must pretend to pay attention, even though the lessons are far below my level. If you get this letter and can come to rescue me, take bus 47 to the Chirimshanskaya stop. Cross the street and ask anyone to direct you to the boarding school. Or, just follow the first child who looks as if nobody cares about them.
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My Story Title: Her Shining Eyes
My Story Genre: YA Historical
My Story Releases: September 2019
Happy Anniversary
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The Author of My Story: Jeanette Morris
Jeanette Morris is a freelance writer/editor, traveler, fisherwoman, missionary to Russia, wife, mother, grandmother, friend, voracious reader, and slow-but-sure knitter. In my second-half adventure, I'm writing novels, exploring the world, trying to stay fit and healthy, and letting go of past labels and failures. It may be my "golden years," but I believe the best is ahead. My story is still being written!
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Get Connected:
- Website: www.jeanette-morris.com
- Twitter: https://www.jeanette-morris.com/books/her-shining-eyes/
- Instagram: https://www.instgram.com/jeanette.a.morris.7
- Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jeanette.a.morris.7
- Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4345793.Jeanette_Morris
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WHERE can the book be purchased?
- Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/s?k=her+shining+eyes+jeanette+morris&crid=DMNGLNGZG6EB&sprefix
- www. Boldvisionbooks.com
- To purchase or "look inside": https://www.jeanette-morris.com/books/her-shining-eyes/
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DRAWING TO BE HELD WEDNESDAY EVENING ~ Sept 9, 2020
