by Ruta Sepetys
“We should have gone with her,” said Jonas.
He was right. But I didn’t want to be near the commander. Mother knew it. I should have gone in with her. Now she was alone with them, unprotected, and it was my fault. I tugged Jonas over to the side of the building near a dirty window.
“Stay here so the blond guard can see you,” I told Jonas.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“I’m going to look in the window, to make sure Mother’s all right.”
“No, Lina!”
“Stay there,” I told him.
The blond guard looked no more than twenty. He was the one who had turned away when we took our clothes off. He took out a pocketknife and began scraping underneath his fingernails. I edged over toward the window and stood on my toes. Mother sat in a chair and stared into her lap. The commander sat on the edge of a desk in front of her. He flipped through a file while speaking to Mother. He closed the file and balanced it on his thigh. I looked over at the guard, then stretched a bit higher for a better view.
“Stop it, Lina. Andrius says they’ll shoot us if you make trouble,” whispered Jonas.
“I’m not making trouble,” I said, moving back to my brother. “I just wanted to make sure she was all right.”
“Well, remember what happened to Ona,” said Jonas. What had happened to Ona? Was she in heaven with her daughter and my grandma? Or was she floating amongst the trains and masses of Lithuanians, searching for her husband?
Those were questions for Papa. He always listened intently to my questions, nodding and then pausing carefully before answering. Who would answer my questions now?
The weather was warm, despite the cloudy sky. In the distance, beyond the shacks, I saw spruce and pine trees interspersed with farmlands. I looked around, memorizing the landscape to draw it for Papa. I wondered where Andrius and his mother were.
Some of the buildings were in better shape than ours. One had a log fence around it and another, a small garden. I’d draw them—sad and shriveled with barely a spot of color.
The door to the building opened and Mother emerged. The commander walked out and leaned against the door frame, watching her walk. Mother’s jaw clenched. She nodded as she came toward us. The commander called something to her from the door. She ignored him and grabbed our hands.
“Take us back to the hut,” she said, turning to the blond guard. He didn’t move.
“I know the way,” said Jonas, starting off through the dirt. “Follow me.”
“Are you okay?” I asked Mother once we began walking.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice low.
My shoulders dropped as weight escaped them. “What did he want?”
“Not here,” she said.
30
“THEY WANT ME to work with them,” said Mother once Jonas had returned us to the shack.
“Work with them?” I said.
“Yes, well, they want me to work for them,” she said. “Translating documents, and also speaking with the other Lithuanians who are here,” she said.
I thought of the file that the commander held.
“What will you get for doing it?” asked Jonas.
“I’m not going to be their translator,” said Mother. “I said no. They also asked me to listen to people’s conversations and report them to the commander.”
“To be a snitch?” said Jonas.
“Yes,” said Mother.
“They want you to spy on everyone and report to them?” I asked.
Mother nodded. “They promised preferential treatment if I agreed.”
“Pigs!” I shrieked.
“Lina! Lower your voice,” said Mother.
“They think you would help them after what they’ve done to us?” I said.
“But Mother, maybe you will need the special treatment,” said Jonas with concerned eyes.
“They don’t mean it,” I snapped. “They’re all liars, Jonas. They wouldn’t give her anything.”
“Jonas,” said Mother, stroking my brother’s face. “I can’t trust them. Stalin has told the NKVD that Lithuanians are the enemy. The commander and the guards look at us as beneath them. Do you understand?”
“Andrius already told me that,” said Jonas.
“Andrius is a very smart boy. We must speak only to one another,” said Mother, turning to me, “and please, Lina, be careful with anything you write or draw.”
We dug through our suitcases and organized what we could sell if the need arose. I looked at my copy of The Pickwick Papers. Pages 6-11 were torn out. Page 12 had a smudge of dirt on it.
I grasped the gold picture frame and took it out of the suitcase, staring at my father’s face. I wondered where the handkerchief was. I had to send more.
“Kostas,” said Mother, looking over my shoulder. I handed her the frame. Her index finger lovingly traced my father’s face and then her mother’s. “It’s wonderful that you brought this. You have no idea how it lifts my spirit. Please, keep it safe.”
I opened the tablet of writing paper I had packed. 14 June, 1941. Dear Joana stood alone on the first page, a title without a story. I had written that nearly two months ago, the night we were taken. Where was Joana, and where were the rest of our relatives? What would I write now if I were to finish it? Would I tell her that the Soviets had forced us into cattle cars and held us prisoner for six weeks with barely any food or water? Would I mention that they wanted Mother to spy for them? And what about the baby that died in our car and how the NKVD shot Ona in the head? I heard Mother’s voice, warning me to be careful, but my hand began to move.
31
THE ALTAIAN WOMAN returned and clattered around. She put a pot on the stove. We watched as she boiled two potatoes and gnawed on a stump of bread.
“Mother,” said Jonas, “will there be potatoes for us tonight?”
When we asked, we were told we had to work to earn food.
“If you worked for the NKVD, Mother, would they give you food?” asked Jonas.
“No, my dear. They would give me empty promises,” she replied, “which is worse than an empty belly.”
Mother paid the woman for a single potato, then again for the privilege to boil the potato. It was ridiculous.
“How much money do we have left?” I asked.
“Barely any,” she said.
We tried to sleep, huddled against Mother on the floor of bare boards. The peasant woman slurped and snored, sunken in her bed of straw. Her sour breath filled the small room. Was she born here in Siberia? Had she ever known a life other than this? I stared into the dark and tried to paint images with my mind on the black canvas.
“Open it, darling!”
“I can’t, I’m too nervous,” I told Mother.
“She wanted to wait until you got home,” Mother told Papa. “She’s been holding that envelope for hours.”
“Open it, Lina!” urged Jonas.
“What if they didn’t accept me?” I said, my damp fingers clutching the envelope.
“Well, then you’ll be accepted next year,” said Mother.
“You won’t know as long as the envelope is sealed,” said Papa.
“Open it!” said Jonas, handing the letter opener to me.
I slid the silver blade under the flap on the back of the envelope. Ever since Mrs. Pranas had mailed my application, I had thought of little else. Studying with the best artists in Europe. It was such an opportunity. I sliced open the top of the envelope and removed a single sheet of folded paper. My eyes scanned quickly across the type.
“Dear Miss Vilkas,
“Thank you for your recent application for the summer arts program. Your samples are most impressive. It is with great pleasure that we offer you a place in our—”
“Yes! They said yes!” I screamed.
“I knew it!” said Papa.
“Congratulations, Lina,” said Jonas, slinging his arm around me.
“I can’t wait to tell Joana,” I said.
&
nbsp; “That’s wonderful, darling!” said Mother. “We have to celebrate.”
“We have a cake,” said Jonas.
“Well, I was just certain we’d be celebrating.” Mother winked.
Papa beamed. “You, my dear, are blessed with a gift,” he said, taking my hands. “There are great things in store for you, Lina.”
I turned my head toward a rustling sound. The Altaian woman waddled to the corner, grunted, and peed into a tin can.
32
IT WAS STILL DARK when the NKVD began yelling. They ordered us out of the shack, shouting at us to form a line. We scrambled to fall in with the others. My Russian vocabulary was growing. In addition to davai, I had learned other important words, such as nyet, which meant “no”; sveenya, which meant “pig”; and of course fasheest, “fascist.” Miss Grybas and the grouchy woman were already in line. Mrs. Rimas waved to Mother. I looked around for Andrius and his mother. They weren’t there. Neither was the bald man.
The commander walked up and down the line, chewing on his toothpick. He looked us over and made comments to the other guards.
“What’s he saying, Elena?” asked Mrs. Rimas.
“He’s dividing us up for work detail,” said Mother.
The commander approached Mother and yelled in her face. He pulled Mother, Mrs. Rimas, and the grouchy woman out of the line. The young blond guard pulled me out of line and pushed me toward Mother. He divided up the rest. Jonas was in a group with two elderly women.
“Davai!” The young blond guard handed Mother a belted piece of canvas and marched our group away.
“Meet us back at the shack,” yelled Mother to Jonas. How would that be possible? Mother and I couldn’t even find our way back from the NKVD building. It was Jonas who showed us the way. We would surely be lost.
My stomach turned with hunger. My legs dragged. Mother and Mrs. Rimas whispered back and forth in Lithuanian behind the blond guard. After walking a few kilometers we arrived at a clearing in the woods. The guard grabbed the canvas from Mother and threw it on the ground. He yelled a command.
“He says, ‘dig,’” said Mother.
“Dig? Dig where?” asked Mrs. Rimas.
“Here, I guess,” said Mother. “He says if we want to eat, we must dig. Our ration depends on our progress.”
“What are we to dig with?” I asked.
Mother asked the blond guard. He kicked the heap of canvas. Mother unfolded it and found several rusty hand shovels, the kind used in a flower garden. The handles were missing.
Mother said something to the guard that prompted an irate “Davai” and the kicking of the shovels into our shins.
“Get out of my way,” said the grouchy woman. “I’m going to get this over with. I need to eat and so do my girls.” She got down on her hands and knees and started chipping away at the earth with the tiny shovel. We all followed. The guard sat under a tree and watched, smoking cigarettes.
“Where are the potatoes and the beets?” I asked Mother.
“Well, they are clearly punishing me,” said Mother.
“Punishing you?” asked Mrs. Rimas. Mother whispered in her ear about the commander’s offer to work for him.
“But Elena, you could have gotten preferential treatment,” said Mrs. Rimas. “And most likely, extra food.”
“A guilty conscience is not worth extra food,” said Mother. “Think of the demands that could be made of me in that office. And think of what could happen to people. I don’t need that on my soul. I’ll persevere like everyone else.”
“A woman said there’s a town five kilometers away. There’s a store, a post office, and a school,” said Mrs. Rimas.
“Perhaps we could walk there,” said Mother, “and send letters. Maybe someone has heard from the men.”
“Be careful, Elena. Sending letters may endanger the people back home,” said Mrs. Rimas. “Don’t put anything in writing, ever.”
I looked at my feet. I had been writing down everything and had already filled several pages with descriptions and drawings.
“No,” whispered Mother. She looked to the grouchy woman pounding the dirt and leaned toward Mrs. Rimas. “I have a contact.”
What did Mother mean, she had a “contact”? Who was her contact? And the war—now the Germans were in Lithuania. What was Hitler doing? I wondered what had happened to our house and everything we left behind. And why were we digging this stupid hole?
“Well, at least your housemate talks to you,” said Mother. “Ours is a beastly thing that grabbed Lina by the hair.”
“The villagers are not happy,” said Mrs. Rimas. “But they were expecting us. Apparently, several truckloads of Estonians were dumped in a nearby village a few days ago.”
Mother’s shovel paused. “Estonians?”
“Yes,” whispered Mrs. Rimas. “They’ve deported people from Estonia and Latvia, too.”
Mother sighed. “I feared that might happen. It’s madness. How many will they deport?”
“Elena, there will be hundreds of thousands,” said Mrs. Rimas.
“Quit your gossiping and get to work,” barked the grouchy woman. “I want to eat.”
33
WE HAD DUG a pit more than two feet deep when a truck brought a small bucket of water. The guard gave us a break. Blisters wept on my hands. Our fingers were caked with dirt. They wouldn’t give us a ladle or cup. We bent like dogs, each taking turns lapping out of the bucket while the blond guard drank leisurely from a large canteen. The water smelled fishy, but I didn’t care. My knees looked like raw meat, and my back ached from bending for hours.
We were digging in a small clearing, surrounded by woods. Mother asked permission to go to the bathroom and then pulled me, along with Mrs. Rimas, into the trees. We squatted, our dresses bunched around our waists, to relieve ourselves.
We faced each other, all on our haunches. “Elena, can you pass the talcum, please?” said Mrs. Rimas, wiping herself with a leaf.
We began to laugh. It was such a ridiculous sight, grabbing our knees in a circle. We actually laughed. Mother laughed so hard that her ringlets fell loose from the kerchief she had tied around her hair.
“Our sense of humor,” said Mother, her eyes pooled with laughing tears. “They can’t take that away from us, right?”
We roared with laughter. The lantern flames flickered in the dark. Joana’s brother pumped a playful tune on the accordion. My uncle, who had indulged in blackberry liquor, danced a disjointed jig around the backyard of the cottage, trying to imitate our mothers. He pretended to hold a skirt and looped from side to side.
“Come,” whispered Joana, grabbing my hand. “Let’s take a walk.”
We locked arms and walked between the dark cottages down to the beach. Sand crawled into my shoes. We stood on the shore, the water lapping near our feet. The Baltic Sea glistened in the moonlight.
“The way the moon is shining on the water, it’s like it’s beckoning us in,” sighed Joana.
“It is. It’s calling us,” I said, memorizing the light and shadow to paint later. I kicked off my sandals. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t have my bathing suit,” said Joana.
“Neither do I. So what?”
“So what? Lina, we can’t swim naked,” she said.
“Who said anything about swimming naked?” I asked.
I waded into the black water in my dress.
“Lina! For goodness’ sake, what are you doing?” gasped Joana.
I held out my arms and traced the moon shadows on the water. My skirt lifted, weightless. “C’mon, it’s lovely!” I dived under the surface.
Joana kicked off her shoes and waded into the water up to her ankles. The light reflected off of her long brown hair and tall frame.
“Come in, it’s beautiful!” I said. She waded in slowly, too slowly. I jumped up and pulled her in. She screamed and laughed. Joana’s laugh could be singled out in a crowd. It had a raw freedom that echoed around me.
“You’re crazy!�
�� she said.
“Why am I crazy? It looked so beautiful; I wanted to be part of it,” I said.
“Will you paint us like this?” asked Joana.
“Yes, I’ll call it... Two Heads, Bobbing in Black,” I said, flicking water at her.
“I don’t want to go home. It’s just too perfect here,” she said, swirling her arms through the water. “Shh, someone’s coming.”
“Where?” I said, spinning around.
“There, in the trees,” she whispered. Two figures emerged from the trees in front of the beach. “Lina, it’s him! The tall one. The one I told you about. The one I saw in town! What do we do?”
Two boys walked to shore, looking out at us.
“A bit late for a swim, isn’t it?” said the tall boy.
“Not at all,” I said.
“Oh, really, do you always go swimming after dark?” he asked.
“I go swimming whenever I feel like it,” I said.
“And what about your older sister there? Does she always go swimming at night?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” I said. Joana kicked me underwater.
“You should be careful. You don’t want someone to see you without clothes.” He grinned.
“Really? You mean like this?” I jumped and stood up in the water. My wet dress clung to me like melted taffy to paper. I flung my arm in the water, trying to get them both wet.
“Crazy kid.” He laughed, dodging the water.
“C’mon,” said his friend. “We’ll be late for the meeting.”
“A meeting? What sort of meeting is going on at this hour?” I asked.
The boys dropped their heads for a moment. “We have to go. Good-bye, older sister,” said the tall boy to Joana before turning to walk down the beach with his friend.
“Bye,” said Joana.
We laughed so hard I thought surely our parents would hear us. We jumped out of the water, grabbed our sandals, and ran back through the sand onto the shadowy path. Frogs and crickets chirped and warbled all around us. Joana grabbed my arm, pulling me to a stop in the dark. “Don’t tell our parents.”
“Joana, we’re soaking wet. They’ll know we went swimming,” I said.