When Stanislav Nekrash stands up it takes a little while. Not just because he is a giant of a man, but also because when he does stand he does so with deliberateness and purpose. The first time I met Stanislav, he looked at me through the glass he sits behind on Saturdays and Sundays at the Wannalancit Mills security office, and as he looked at me I felt measured. His big bright eyes registered me, categorized me as non-threatening, and welcomed me all in an instant. He then began to stand, employing an economy of motion that, while slow, suggested power and stored energy. When his entire bulk was fully extended and he stood towering over me, I felt small, insignificant, and somewhat intimidated. He stared down at me, slid his glasses off his nose, and said, “How may I help you?” with a very heavy Russian accent.

Never having interviewed anyone for anything before, my carefully scripted and practiced introductory lines vanished, and I muttered and stammered, “I, ah, want to, ah, tell your story.”

He stared down at me, arched his left eyebrow, lifted his glasses' left arm to the corner of his bearded mouth and began to chew on the arm. He continued to stare for a moment more till I said, “Please.”

“May I see some ID, please?” He asked politely but guardedly.

“Oh, of course, of course.” I said, quickly extracting my wallet. “I am a student at UMass Lowell, and I want to write a story about you for a class I’m in.”

Stanislav took my ID, held it at arms length in front of me then alternated looking at my picture and me till he was satisfied. “Come in and sit down, please,” he said, motioning me into his security office. He followed me in and sat opposite me in the little room. Putting his glasses back on, Stanislav took a notebook out of a laptop computer bag on the floor, opened it to the first blank page, and copied my name down from my ID. He then returned my ID, reclined a little in his chair and said, “Explain to me this again. You want to tell my story? What story?”

“Well, that all depends on you. I just thought we’d get to know each other a little bit and go from there,” I said.

“My English is horrible. Some other people I know who would be better for this for you.”

“Stanislav, first of all, your English is far from horrible, and second, I want to tell your story, any story about you.”

“Oh, I have no story.”

“Everybody has a story, Stanislav. It’s my job to find it,” I said, laughing a little.

“Explain this to me a little again, please. You want to write a story about me for school? Why?” Stanislav asked scratching his graying beard slightly.

“This is a project hoping to document through storytelling the lives and characters of immigrants currently living in Lowell. Each student in the class will write about a different person from a different country. I chose Russia as my country because I grew up in Alaska and have always been interested in Russia and Russians,” I explained. When I finished explaining my assignment, Stanislav’s breast pocket began to emit a loud ringing noise.

“Excuse me please,” he said before extracting a small cell phone at the end of a necklace from his pocket. “Allo,” he said first, followed by a stream of Russian. He spoke quickly, nodding and shaking his head numerous times. He smiled and he frowned. His voice grew deep and gruff at times and at others sounded soft and understanding. The phone call ended with Stanislav chuckling softly, shaking his head slightly and saying, “Yes, yes dear, goodbye.” He looked at me, held the tiny phone in one massive hand and pointed to it with the other and said, “My son, Phillip. He the only one who calls me.” He slid the phone back into his breast pocket with practiced ease.

After Stanilav’s phone call ended I found I was short on time and needed to arrange to meet with him again. We set plans to meet the next weekend to continue my research. Stanislav escorted me to the office door and watched me head to my car. He waved and smiled as I pulled away. I also smiled.

When I next walked through Stanislav’s office door, he greeted me with an expansive smile and hearty welcome. “How are you, Eric?” he asked gently.

“I’m pretty well, Stanislav. And yourself?” I responded as I took in the setting for the second time. I hadn’t really noticed how very small the office was on my first visit. I shook my head inwardly thinking it must be difficult to spend 16 hours a day for 2 days in row in such cramped quarters. The office was small, indeed, but something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, contributed to the confined feeling. Maybe it was the overwhelming presence of electronics and surveillance video screens and wires or maybe it was the apparent isolation amidst a crowded office complex, but something made that office feel confining, even cage-like.

“Oh, I have been well. Please have a seat,” he said, swiveling a wheeled office chair my way. “What will we speak about today?”

“Well, let’s see,” I said, thumbing through my notes. “What did you do in Russia for a living?”

Stanislav’s eyes clouded for a moment, he reclined a little in his chair and teased his beard a bit. He looked at me, maybe a little suspiciously, cleared his throat a bit and began, “For most of career I have been nuclear physicist. Then I worked in Russian Parliament for a few years, and then colleague of mine offered me job working for him with private company as manager and security. Most jobs, they are OK, but last job pay very well for Russia. This is the job I have when I come to Lowell in 1999.”

My eyes widened upon hearing the words “nuclear physicist,” for surely I would be able to extract an exciting tale from a nuclear physicist working in Russian during the height of the cold war. Instead of jumping right in to the whole nuclear physics angle, though, I decided to progress slowly. “Tell me about your family,” I asked.

“I have two boys with first wife and then she die. I remarry to second wife who has one boy. My first two boys live here in America, and my second wife and son live in Russia. That is all,” Stanislav said, a pained look fleeting across his face.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen your wife and son in Russia?” I asked.

“A little over a year,” Stanislav said shaking his head. “My wife’s son, he trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, he just young, but he always in trouble. His momma can’t control him. I try to help. But I am here… they are there.”

“What brought you over here?” I asked, wondering why he left his wife and stepson in Russia.

Stanislav once again leaned back in his chair and stared at me, rubbing his temples and teasing his beard. “Do you have family?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “I have a wife, one son and another son on the way.” This visit I didn't yet mention that my wife has been in and out of the hospital for treatment for my unborn son's malfunctioning heart. The worry can be overwhelming, but throwing myself into this project is a welcome distraction.

He looked at me and smiled. “You might understand as a father yourself.” He said. “Come over here with me.” Stanislav stood, guided me out the office door and took me to the security office lobby window. He put massive left arm on my shoulder, stooped a little and pointed with his right hand to a building peeking above the treetops a few hundred yards away. “You see building there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“This is where I live with my oldest son, Phillip.” He said, affectionately patting the cell phone in his pocket. “He is a good, good boy, but he have trouble. No trouble with police, just trouble with some of life. It doesn’t matter what trouble it is.” He looked me in the eye and said softly, “When your boy is in trouble in life, you will go. You will go no matter what money you make. No matter what, you will go. You understand?”

I do understand. A father’s love is borderless.