“What’s her name?” the daycare director asks.
“Klara.”
“Erm. . . Clai-rah? Clea. . .” the director struggles. “Does she have a nickname?” she finally asks hopefully.
“Yes,” I say. “We call her Medvezhatka.”
The light goes out of the poor woman’s eyes.
“Clea-reh. . . Clay-reh. . .” she chants hopelessly.

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