by Ruta Sepetys
“Andrius, I—”
“No, you have no idea. You have no idea how much I hate myself for putting my mother through this, how every day I think of ending my life so she can be free. But instead, my mother and I are using our misfortune to keep others alive. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? You’re too selfish and self-centered. Poor you, digging all day long. You’re just a spoiled kid.” He turned and walked away.
40
THE STRAW PRICKLED AGAINST my face. Jonas had fallen asleep a long time ago. A soft whistle blew each time he exhaled. I tossed and turned.
“He’s trying, Lina,” said Mother.
“He’s sleeping,” I said.
“Andrius. He’s trying and you’re blocking him at every pass. Men aren’t always graceful, you know.”
“Mother, you don’t understand,” I said.
She ignored me and continued. “Well, I can see you’re upset. Jonas said that you were nasty to Andrius. That’s unfair. Sometimes kindness can be delivered in a clumsy way. But it’s far more sincere in its clumsiness than those distinguished men you read about in books. Your father was very clumsy.”
A tear rolled down my cheek.
She chuckled in the darkness. “He says I bewitched him the very instant he saw me. But do you know what really happened? He tried to talk to me and fell out of a tree. He fell out of an oak tree and broke his arm.”
“Mother, it’s not like that,” I said.
“Kostas,” she sighed. “He was so clumsy, but he was so sincere. Sometimes there is such beauty in awkwardness. There’s love and emotion trying to express itself, but at the time, it just ends up being awkward. Does that make sense?”
“Mmm, hmm,” I said, trying to muffle my tears.
“Good men are often more practical than pretty,” said Mother. “Andrius just happens to be both.”
I couldn’t sleep. Each time I closed my eyes I saw him winking at me, his beautiful face coming toward mine. The smell of his hair lingered around me.
“Are you awake?” I whispered.
Joana rolled over. “Yes, it’s too hot to sleep,” she said.
“I feel like I’m spinning. He’s so ... handsome,” I told her.
She giggled, tucking her arms under her pillow. “And he dances even better than his older brother.”
“How did we look together?” I asked.
“Like you were having a great time,” she said. “Everyone could see that.”
“I can’t wait to see him tomorrow,” I sighed. “He’s just perfect.”
The next day after lunch we ran back to the cottage to brush our hair. I nearly ran over Jonas on my way out.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“For a walk,” I said, rushing after Joana.
I walked as fast as I could without breaking into a jog. I tried not to crumple the drawing rolled in my hand. I had decided to draw him when I couldn’t sleep. The portrait came out so well that Joana suggested I give it to him. She assured me he’d be impressed with my talent.
His brother rushed up to Joana, meeting her in the street.
“Hey, stranger,” he said, smiling at Joana.
“Hi!” said Joana.
“Hi, Lina. What do you have there?” he said, motioning to the paper in my hand.
Joana looked over toward the ice cream shop. I moved around her to find him.
“Lina,” she said, reaching out to hold me back.
It was too late. I had already seen. My prince had his arm around a girl with red hair. They were cozy, laughing, sharing an ice cream cone. My stomach plunged and twisted.
“I forgot something,” I said, backing away. My fingers wrenched the portrait in my sweaty hand. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Joana.
“No, that’s all right,” I said, hoping the blotches of heat I felt on my neck weren’t visible. I attempted a smile. The sides of my mouth trembled. I turned and walked away, trying to keep my composure until I reached a safe distance.
Clenching my jaw didn’t stop the tears. I stopped and leaned against a trash can on the street.
“Lina!” Joana caught up to me. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. I opened the crinkled portrait of his handsome face. I ripped it up and threw it away. Stray pieces escaped my grip and blew across the street. Boys were idiots. They were all idiots.
41
AUTUMN APPROACHED. The NKVD pushed us harder. If we so much as stumbled, they reduced our bread rations. Mother could close her thumb and middle finger around my forearm. I had no tears. The sensation of crying would fill me, but my eyes would only dry-heave and burn.
It was hard to imagine that war raged somewhere in Europe. We had a war of our own, waiting for the NKVD to choose the next victim, to throw us in the next hole. They enjoyed hitting and kicking us in the fields. One morning, they caught an old man eating a beet. A guard ripped out his front teeth with pliers. They made us watch. Every other night they woke us to sign the documents sentencing us to twenty-five years. We learned to sit in front of Komorov’s desk and rest with our eyes open. I managed to escape the NKVD while sitting right in front of them.
My art teacher had said that if you breathed deeply and imagined something, you could be there. You could see it, feel it. During our standoffs with the NKVD, I learned to do that. I clung to my rusted dreams during the times of silence. It was at gunpoint that I fell into every hope and allowed myself to wish from the deepest part of my heart. Komorov thought he was torturing us. But we were escaping into a stillness within ourselves. We found strength there.
Not everyone could sit still. People became restless, exhausted. Finally, some gave in.
“Traitors!” spit Miss Grybas under her breath, clucking her tongue. People argued about those who signed. The first night someone signed, I was furious. Mother told me to feel sorry for the person, that they had been pushed over the edge of their identity. I couldn’t feel sorry for them. I couldn’t understand.
Walking to the fields each morning, I could predict who would be the next to sign. Their faces sang songs of defeat. Mother saw it, too. She would chat with the person and work next to them in the field, trying to bolster their spirit. Sometimes it worked. Many times it didn’t. At night I drew portraits of those who had signed and wrote about how the NKVD broke them down.
The NKVD’s hostilities strengthened my defiance. Why would I give in to people who spit in my face and tormented me each and every day? What would I have left if I gave them my self-respect? I wondered what would happen if we were the only ones left who wouldn’t sign.
The bald man moaned that we could believe no one. He accused everyone of being a spy. Trust crumbled. People began to question each other’s motives and planted seeds of doubt. I thought of Papa, telling me to be careful with my drawing.
Two nights later, the grouchy woman signed the papers. She bent over the desk. The pen trembled in her knobby hand. I thought she might change her mind, but suddenly she scribbled something and threw the pen down, committing herself and her little girls to twenty-five years. We stared at her. Mother bit her bottom lip and looked down. The grouchy woman began screaming, telling us we were imbeciles, that we were all going to die, so why didn’t we eat well until then? One of her daughters began to cry. That night, I drew her face. Her mouth sagged, forlorn. The lines of her brow plunged with both anger and confusion.
Mother and Mrs. Rimas scavenged for news of the men or the war. Andrius passed information to Jonas. He ignored me. Mother wrote letters to Papa, even though she had no idea where to send them.
“If only we could get to that village, Elena,” said Mrs. Rimas one night in the ration line. “We could mail our letters.”
People who signed the twenty-five-year sentence were able to go to the village. We were not.
“Yes, we need to get to the village,” I said, thinking of getting something to Papa.
“Send the whore, that Arvydas woman
,” said the bald man. “She’ll hustle the best deals. Her Russian is probably pretty good by now.”
“How dare you!” said Mrs. Rimas.
“You disgusting old man. Do you think she wants to sleep with them?” I yelled. “Her son’s life depends on it!” Jonas hung his head.
“You should feel sorry for Mrs. Arvydas,” said Mother, “just as we feel sorry for you. Andrius and Mrs. Arvydas have put extra food in your mouth many a night. How can you be so ungrateful?”
“Well, then you’ll have to bribe that cranky cow who signed,” said the bald man. “You can buy her off to mail your letters.”
We had all written letters that Mother planned to mail to her “contact,” a distant relative who lived in the countryside. The hope was that Papa had done the same thing. We weren’t able to sign our names or write anything specific. We knew the Soviets would read the notes. We wrote that we were all well, having a lovely time, learning good trade skills. I drew a picture of Grandma and wrote “Love from Grandma Altai” underneath with my scribbled signature. Surely Papa would recognize the face, my signature, and the word Altai. Hopefully the NKVD wouldn’t.
42
MOTHER HELD THREE sterling silver serving pieces she had sewn into the coat. She had carried them since we were deported.
“Wedding gifts,” she said, holding the silver, “from my parents.” Mother offered one piece to the grouchy woman in exchange for mailing letters and picking up sundries and news when she went to the village. She accepted.
Everyone longed for news. The bald man told Mother of a secret pact between Russia and Germany. Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Poland, and others were divided between Hitler and Stalin. I drew the two of them, dividing countries like children dividing toys. Poland for you. Lithuania for me. Was it a game to them? The bald man said Hitler broke his agreement with Stalin, because Germany invaded Russia a week after we were deported. When I asked Mother how the bald man knew about the pact, she said she didn’t know.
What had happened to our house and everything we owned since we were deported? Did Joana and my other relatives know what had happened? Maybe they were looking for us.
I was glad that Hitler had pushed Stalin out of Lithuania, but what was he doing there?
“Nothing could be worse than Stalin,” said one of the men at the dining room table. “He is the epitome of evil.”
“There is no better or worse,” said Papa, his voice low. I leaned farther around the corner to listen.
“But Hitler won’t uproot us,” said the man.
“Maybe not you, but what about us Jews?” said Dr. Seltzer, my father’s close friend. “You heard the circulation. Hitler made the Jews wear armbands.”
“Martin’s right,” said my father. “And Hitler’s setting up a system of ghettos in Poland.”
“A system? Is that what you call it, Kostas? He’s locked up hundreds of thousands of Jews in Lodz and sealed off even more in Warsaw,” said Dr. Seltzer, his voice soaked with desperation.
“It was a bad choice of words. I’m sorry, Martin,” said
Papa. “My point is that we’re dealing with two devils who both want to rule hell.”
“But Kostas, to remain neutral or independent will be impossible,” said a man.
“Lina!” whispered Mother, grabbing me by my collar. “Go to your room.”
I didn’t mind. The constant talk of politics bored me. I was only listening for my drawing game. I tried to draw their expressions simply by hearing the conversation but not seeing their faces. I had heard enough to draw Dr. Seltzer.
Jonas continued to work with the two Siberian women making shoes. They liked him. Everyone loved Jonas and his sweet disposition. The women advised that he’d best make boots for winter. They looked the other way when he set aside scraps of materials. Jonas was learning Russian much quicker than I was. He could understand a fair amount of conversation and could even use slang. I constantly asked him to translate. I hated the sound of the Russian language.
43
I THRASHED NEXT to Mother in the beet field. Black boots appeared near my feet. I looked up. Kretzsky. His yellow hair parted on the side and cascaded across his forehead. I wondered how old he was. He didn’t look much older than Andrius.
“Vilkas,” he said.
Mother looked up. He rattled off something in Russian, too quickly for me to understand. Mother looked down and then back at Kretzsky. She raised her voice and yelled out to the field. “They’re looking for someone who can draw.”
I froze. They had found my drawings.
“Do any of you draw?” she said, shading her eyes and looking across the field. What was Mother doing? No one responded.
Kretzsky’s eyes narrowed, looking at me.
“They’ll pay two cigarettes for someone to copy a map and a photograph—”
“I’ll do it,” I said quickly, dropping my hoe.
“No, Lina!” said Mother, grabbing my arm.
“Mother, a map,” I whispered. “Maybe it will bring us news of the war or the men. And I won’t have to be in this field.” I thought about giving a cigarette to Andrius. I wanted to apologize.
“I’ll go with her,” said Mother in Russian.
“NYET!” yelled Kretzsky. He grabbed me by the arm. “Davai!” he yelled, pulling me away.
Kretzsky dragged me from the beet field. My arm ached under his grip. As soon as we disappeared from view, he let go of me. We walked in silence toward the kolkhoz office. Two NKVD approached down the row of shacks. One caught sight of us and shouted to Kretzsky.
He looked over to them, then back at me. His posture changed. “Davai!” yelled Kretzsky. He slapped me across the face. My cheek stung. My neck twisted from the unexpected blow.
The two NKVD drew near, watching. Kretzsky called me a fascist pig. They laughed. One of them asked for a match. Kretzsky lit the guard’s cigarette. The NKVD brought his face an inch from mine. He muttered something in Russian, then blew a long stream of smoke in my face. I coughed. He took the burning cigarette and pointed the glowing tip at my cheek. Brown tar stains filled a crack between his front teeth. His lips were chapped and crusty. He stepped back, looking me over, nodding.
My heart hammered. Kretzsky laughed and slapped the guard on the shoulder. The other NKVD raised his eyebrows and made obscene gestures with his fingers before laughing and walking away with his friend. My cheek throbbed.
Kretzsky’s shoulders dropped. He stepped back and lit a cigarette. “Vilkas,” he said, shaking his head and blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He laughed, grabbed my arm, and dragged me toward the kolkhoz office.
What had I just agreed to?
44
I SAT AT A TABLE in the kolkhoz office. I shook out my hands, hoping to stop them from quivering. A map was placed to my upper left, and a photograph to my upper right. The map was of Siberia, the photo of a family. In the photograph, a black box had been drawn around the man’s head.
An NKVD brought paper and a box with a nice selection of pens, pencils, and drafting supplies. I ran my fingers over the writing utensils, longing to use them for my own drawings. Kretzsky pointed to the map.
I had seen maps in school, but they had never interested me as this one did. I looked at the map of Siberia, shocked by its enormity. Where were we on the map? And where was Papa? I surveyed the details of the plot. Kretzsky pounded his fist on the table, impatient.
Several officers hovered around while I drew. They flipped through files and pointed to locations on the map. The files had papers and photographs affixed to them. I stared at the cities on the map as I was drawing, trying to commit them to memory. I would re-create it on my own later.
Most of the officers left as soon as the map was finished. Kretzsky flipped through files, drinking coffee while I drew the man in the photograph. I closed my eyes and inhaled. The coffee smelled incredible. The room was warm like our kitchen at home. When I opened my eyes, Kretzsky was staring at me.
H
e set his coffee cup down on the table, examining the drawing. I looked at the man’s face as it came to life on my page. He had bright eyes and a warm smile. His mouth was relaxed and calm, not pinched like Miss Grybas’ or the bald man’s. I wondered who he was and whether he was Lithuanian. I thought about creating something his wife and children would like to look at. Where was this gentleman, and why was he important? The ink from the pen flowed smoothly. I wanted that pen. When Kretzsky turned, I dropped it in my lap and leaned closer to the table.
I needed texture to capture the man’s hair. I dipped my finger into Kretzsky’s coffee cup, lifting grounds onto my finger. I dabbed them on top of my other hand and swished the brown around on my skin. I used the coffee grounds to blot texture into the hair. Almost. I leaned forward and brushed a bit of the grit with my pinky. It curved softly in a gentle sweep. Perfect. I heard footsteps. Two cigarettes appeared in front of me. I turned, startled. The commander stood behind me. My skin prickled at the sight of him, bristling on my arms and the back of my neck. I pushed myself against the table, trying to conceal the pen in my lap. He raised his eyebrows at me, flashing the gold tooth under his lip.
“Finished,” I said, sliding the drawing toward him.
“Da,” he said, nodding. He stared at me, his toothpick bobbing on his tongue.
45
I WALKED BETWEEN the huts in the dark, making my way toward the NKVD building at the back of the camp. I heard voices mumbling behind the brittle walls. I hurried along the tree line, cradling the cigarettes and the pen in my pocket. I stopped behind a tree. The NKVD barracks looked like a hotel compared with our shacks. Kerosene lamps burned brightly. A group of NKVD sat on the porch playing cards and passing a flask.
I crept in the shadows to the back of the building. I heard something—crying, and whispers in Lithuanian. I turned the corner. Mrs. Arvydas sat on a crate, her shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with muffled sobs. Andrius knelt down in front of her, his hands clasping hers. I inched closer. His head snapped up.
