by Ruta Sepetys
I didn’t believe her. I listened to the Russian words. The tone of their voices and the cackling laughter didn’t sound like talk of family. Ona began again. She had taken to chanting “No, no, no, no,” over and over. One of the NKVD stood up and yelled, flipping his hand at our group.
“I better try to quiet her,” said Mother, getting up, “before the guards become angry.” Jonas was already asleep. I covered him with my blue raincoat and wiped his hair away from his eyes. The bald man snored. The gray-haired man wound his watch. Andrius sat at the edge of the group, one knee pulled to his chest, watching the guards.
He had a strong profile, an angular jaw. A piece of his disheveled hair fell perfectly against the side of his face. I’d need a soft pencil to draw it. He saw me staring. I turned away quickly.
“Hey,” he whispered to me.
I looked up. Something rolled across the grass and hit my leg. It was the stone with the sparkles he had found that day when he jumped off the train.
“The crown jewel from the train car princess,” I whispered, smiling.
He nodded with a laugh.
I picked it up to roll back to him.
“No, you keep it,” said Andrius.
We woke at sunrise. A few hours later a wagon came, chose the other group, and took them away. The guards then loaded us into the back of two trucks and drove us across the valley beyond the notch in the hills where a road began. No one spoke. We were too frightened to discuss our possible destination.
Riding in the truck, I realized that trying to escape would have been ridiculous. There was nothing for miles. We didn’t see a human being or pass another vehicle. I thought about the man who had my handkerchief, hoping it was passed along, moving closer to Papa. After two hours we saw huts dotting the sides of the road. We entered what appeared to be an inhabited area, and the truck pulled over in front of a wooden building. The guards jumped out, yelling, “Davai! Davai!” and other instructions.
“They say we should leave our luggage in the trucks,” said Mother, clutching her coat tightly over her arm.
“I want to know where we’re going before we get out,” demanded Mrs. Arvydas.
Mother tried to talk to the guards. She turned and smiled. “It’s a bathhouse.”
We jumped off the truck. Mother folded her coat and put it in her suitcase. The guards split us into male and female groups.
“Boys, carry me,” the bald man said to Andrius and Jonas. “You have to bathe me.”
Jonas looked petrified, Andrius disgusted. I smiled, which seemed to annoy Andrius even more. The men went first. The guards called them up onto the porch and began yelling in their faces, pushing them. Jonas looked at Mother for translation.
“Take off your clothes, dear,” Mother translated.
“Now? Right here?” Jonas asked, looking at all the women and girls.
“We’ll all turn around, won’t we, ladies?” said Mother. We all turned our backs to the porch.
“No use in being modest now,” said Mr. Stalas. “We’re nothing but skeletons. Now take off my pants, boy. Ow! Watch my leg.”
I heard Mr. Stalas complaining and Jonas apologizing. A belt buckle knocked against the wood of the porch. I wondered if it was Andrius’s. The guards yelled.
“He says you must leave your clothes there, that they will be deloused,” Mother translated.
Something smelled funny. I couldn’t tell if it came from our group of women or from the bathhouse. We heard the bald man yell from within the structure.
Mother turned around and clasped her hands together. “My sweet Jonas,” she whispered.
26
WE WAITED. “What’s going on in there?” I said. Mother shook her head. Three NKVD stood on the porch. One barked yet another command.
“Ten of us at a time,” said Mother. “We must go to the porch and take off our clothes.”
We were in the first group, along with Mrs. Arvydas, the grouchy woman, and her daughters. Mother helped Ona up onto the porch. I unbuttoned my dress and pulled it over my head, unbraided my hair, and took off my sandals. Mother stood in her brassiere and underwear, helping Ona. The guards stood on the porch, staring at us. I hesitated.
“It’s okay, dear,” said Mother. “Think of how nice it will be to feel clean again.” Ona began to whimper.
A young blond guard lit a cigarette, turned his back, and looked off toward the truck. Another NKVD stared, grinning and biting his bottom lip.
I took off my bra and panties and stood on the porch, covering myself with my hands. Mrs. Arvydas stood next to me, her voluptuous breasts too large to conceal with her thin forearm. A guard with a gold tooth, who appeared to be a commander, walked down the porch stopping to look at each woman, scanning her up and down. He stopped at Mrs. Arvydas. She did not lift her head. He swirled a toothpick on his tongue and raised his brow, violating her with his stare.
I let out a breath in disgust. Mother’s head snapped to me. The guard grabbed my arms and threw them down to my sides. He looked me up and down and grinned. He reached out and groped my breast. I felt his ragged fingernails scratch across my skin.
I had never been naked in front of a man before. His touch, the rough hand on me, made me feel sick, and dirtier on the inside than I was on the outside. I tried to cross my arms. Mother yelled something in Russian and pulled me behind Ona.
Ona’s inner thighs and buttocks were caked with chunks of dried blood. The guard began to scream at Mother. She removed her remaining clothing and put her arm around me. They marched us into the bathhouse.
27
A GUARD STOOD AT a distance. He plunged a scoop in a bucket and threw some sort of white powder at us. The showers clicked on with an icy spray.
“We must hurry,” said Mother. “We don’t know how long they’ll give us.” She took a small chunk of soap and scrubbed at my scalp and face, ignoring her own body. I watched the brown rivers of dirt run down my legs, over my ankles, and into the drain. I wanted to be sucked down with it, away from the guards and the humiliation.
“Keep scrubbing, Lina, quickly,” said Mother, turning to wash Ona.
I stood shivering under the stream of water, washing as well as I could, hoping the guards would not be waiting for us on the other side of the wall.
I washed Mother’s back and tried to wash her hair. Mrs. Arvydas stood under the stream of water, her hands raised above her head gracefully, unaware, as if she were in her own private bath at home. The showers snapped off.
We retrieved our clothes on the other side of the wall. I quickly pulled my dress over my head and felt a knock against my thigh. The stone from Andrius. I put my hand in my pocket, my fingers searching for the smooth edge.
Mother combed through my hair with her fingers. I looked at her wet face. Water dripped from her blond waves onto her shoulders.
“I want to go home,” I whispered, shivering. “Please.”
She dropped her clothing and hugged me, long and hard. “We’ll go home. Keep thinking of your father and of our house. We must keep it alive in our hearts.” She let go and looked at me. “If we do, we’ll get there.”
The men were already in the first truck. Another group of women and children stood naked on the porch as we exited.
“Feel better, darling?” said Mother, smiling at Jonas as she climbed into the truck. She checked her suitcase for her coat. Jonas looked much improved, in appearance and disposition. So did Andrius. His wet hair was shiny, the color of dark cinnamon.
“Now we’re clean dead men. So what of that?” said the bald man.
“If we were dead men, they wouldn’t allow us to shower,” said the gray-haired man, looking at his watch.
“Hey, there was blond hair under all that dirt,” said Andrius, reaching out and grabbing a strand of my hair. I shrank back and looked away. Mother put her arm around me.
“What’s wrong, Lina?” asked Jonas.
I ignored him. I thought of the guard who touched me and all the thin
gs I should have done—slapped him, kicked him, screamed in his face. I put my hand in my pocket and grabbed the stone from Andrius. I squeezed it and tried as hard as I could to break it.
“Do you suppose they’ll take us for a four-course meal now that we’ve been to the sauna?” joked Mrs. Rimas.
“Oh, yes, a piece of black forest torte and a cognac or two,” laughed Mrs. Arvydas.
“I’d love a nice hot coffee,” said Mother.
“Strong coffee,” added the bald man.
“Wow, I never thought it could feel so good to be clean!” exclaimed Jonas, looking at his hands.
Everyone’s humor was much improved, except Ona’s. She continued chanting. Despite the efforts of Mrs. Rimas, she could not be calmed. As the last group of women and children boarded the truck, the commander saw Ona standing up, sitting down, and pulling her hair. He yelled at her. The young blond guard appeared at the back of the truck.
“Leave her be,” said Mrs. Rimas. “The poor dear is grieving.”
Mother translated to the commander. Ona stood up and stamped her right foot. The commander stepped up and pulled Ona from the truck. She lost all control, screaming, clawing at him. She was no match for his height or strength. He threw her to the ground. His eyes narrowed and his square jaw tightened. Mother scrambled to jump off the truck to Ona. It was too late. The commander pulled out a pistol and shot Ona in the head.
I gasped, along with everyone else. Andrius grabbed Jonas’s face and covered his eyes. Blood, the color of thick red wine, pooled under Ona’s head. Her leg splayed out in an unnatural, bent angle. One of her feet was missing a shoe.
“Lina,” said Andrius.
I turned my head to him, dazed.
“Don’t look,” he said.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I turned my head back. The young blond guard was staring at Ona’s body.
“Lina, look at me,” urged Andrius.
Mother slumped on her knees near the edge of the truck, looking down at Ona. I moved and sat down near my brother.
The engine rumbled and the truck began to roll. Mother sat down and put her face in her hands. Miss Grybas clucked her tongue, shaking her head.
Jonas pulled my head against his knees and patted my hair. “Please, don’t say anything to the guards. Don’t make them mad, Lina,” he whispered.
Ona’s body got smaller and smaller as we drove away. She lay dead in the dirt, murdered by the NKVD. Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, her daughter decomposed in the grass. How would her family ever know what happened to her? How would anyone know what was happening to us? I would continue to write and draw whenever I had the chance. I would draw the commander firing, Mother on her knees with her head in her hands, and our truck driving away, the tires spitting gravel onto Ona’s dead body.
28
WE DROVE INTO A LARGE collective farming area. Clusters of decrepit one-room cabins formed a shanty village. The warm sun was clearly temporary. Buildings pitched at a slant, their warped roofs warning of extreme weather.
The guards ordered us off the truck. Andrius hung his head, standing close to his mother. They began directing us to what I thought were our own shacks, but when Miss Grybas and Mrs. Rimas entered one, a woman ran out and began arguing with the guards.
“There are people living in the cabins,” whispered Jonas.
“Yes, we’ll most likely have to share,” said Mother, pulling us close.
Two women walked past us carrying large buckets of water. I didn’t recognize them from our train.
We were assigned to a dingy hut near the back of the settlement. The gray wood was bald, shaved by many seasons of wind and snow. The door had splits and cracks and sat crooked on the frame. A strong wind could whisk the shack up into the sky, scattering it in a burst of pieces. The blond guard pulled the door open, bellowed something in Russian and pushed us inside. A squat Altaian woman wrapped in layers ran to the door and began screaming after the guard. Mother moved us to the corner. The woman turned and began yelling at us. Her hair poked out of her kerchief like black straw. Wrinkles formed an atlas on her wide, weathered face.
“What’s she saying?” asked Jonas.
“She says she has no room for filthy criminals,” said Mother.
“We’re not criminals,” I said.
The woman continued her rant, throwing her arms in the air and spitting on the floor of the hut.
“Is she crazy?” asked Jonas.
“She says she barely has food enough for herself and she’s not about to share it with criminals like us.” Mother turned her back to the woman. “Well, now, we’ll just set our things in this corner. Jonas, put your suitcase down.”
The woman grabbed my hair and pulled it, yanking me toward the door to throw me out.
Mother yelled, blasting the woman in Russian. She ripped the woman’s hand from my head, slapped her, and pushed her away. Jonas kicked her in the shin. The Altaian woman stared at us with angled black eyes. Mother returned the stare. The woman let out a hearty laugh. She asked a question.
“We’re Lithuanian,” said Mother, first speaking in Lithuanian and then in Russian. The woman jibbered.
“What’s she saying?” I asked.
“She says feisty people make good workers and that we have to pay her rent.” Mother continued asking questions.
“Pay her? For what? To live in this hole in the middle of nowhere?” I said.
“We’re in Altai,” said Mother. “They are farming potatoes and beets.”
“So there are potatoes to eat?” asked Jonas.
“Food is rationed. She said the guards oversee the farm and the workers,” said Mother.
I remembered Papa talking about Stalin confiscating peasants’ land, tools, and animals. He told them what crops they would produce and how much they would be paid. I thought it was ridiculous. How could Stalin simply take something that didn’t belong to him, something that a farmer and his family had worked their whole lives for? “That’s communism, Lina,” Papa had said.
The woman yelled at Mother, wagging her finger and shaking her head. She left the hut.
We were on a kolkhoz, a collective farm, and I was to become a beet farmer.
I hated beets.
maps and snakes
29
THE SHACK WAS approximately ten feet by twelve feet. Lodged in the corner was a small stove surrounded by a couple of pots and dirty tins. A pallet of straw sat next to the wall near the stove. There was no pillow, only a worn quilted coverlet. Two tiny windows were created out of bits of glass that had been puttied together.
“There’s nothing here,” I said. “There isn’t a sink, a table, or a wardrobe. Is that where she sleeps?” I asked. “Where will we sleep? Where is the bathroom?”
“Where can we eat?” said Jonas.
“I’m not certain,” said Mother, looking in the pots. “This is filthy. But nothing a little cleaning can’t fix, right?”
“Well, it’s nice to be off that train,” said Jonas.
The young blond NKVD burst through the door. “Elena Vilkas,” he said.
Mother looked up at the guard.
“Elena Vilkas!” he repeated, louder this time.
“Yes, that’s me,” said Mother. They began speaking in Russian, then arguing.
“What is it, Mother?” asked Jonas.
Mother gathered us into her arms. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll stay together.”
The guard yelled, “Davai!” waving us out of the hut.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“The commander wants to see me. I told him we all had to go together,” said Mother.
The commander. My stomach rolled. “I’ll stay here. I’ll be fine,” I said.
“No, we must all stay together,” said Jonas.
We followed the blond guard between battered shacks until we reached a log building in much better condition than the others. A few NKVD gathered near the door smoking cigarettes. They leered at Mo
ther. She surveyed the building and the guards.
“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
“No,” said Jonas. “We’re coming in with you.”
Mother looked toward the lusty guards, then at me.
A guard stepped down from the door. “Davai!” he yelled, pulling Mother by the elbow toward the building.
“I’ll be right back,” said Mother over her shoulder before she disappeared through the door.
“I’ll be right back,” said Mother.
“But what do you think?” I asked.
“I think you look lovely,” said Mother, stepping back to admire the dress.
“Good,” said the tailor, placing pins back into his small satin pin cushion. “All done, Lina. You can change now, but be careful, it’s just pinned, not stitched.”
“Meet me on the sidewalk,” said Mother over her shoulder before she disappeared through the door.
“Your mother has excellent taste in dresses,” said the tailor.
He was right. The dress was beautiful. The soft gray color made my eyes stand out.
I changed out of the dress and walked outside to meet Mother. She wasn’t there. I peered down the row of brightly colored shops but didn’t see her. Down the street, a door opened and Mother emerged. Her blue hat matched her dress, which fluttered around her legs as she walked toward me. She held up two ice cream cones and smiled, a shopping bag dangling from her arm.
“The boys are having their day and we’ll have ours,” said Mother, her red lipstick shining. She handed me a cone and steered us over to a bench. “Let’s sit.”
Papa and Jonas had gone to a soccer match, and Mother and I had spent the morning shopping. I licked the creamy vanilla ice cream and leaned back against the warm bench.
“It feels good to sit,” sighed Mother. She looked over to me.
“Okay, the dress is finished—what else did we have to do?”
“I need charcoal,” I reminded her.
“Ah, that’s right,” said Mother. “Charcoal for my artist.”
