by Ruta Sepetys
“No, I mean about the boys ... and what they said,” she said.
“All right, older sister, I won’t tell,” I said, grinning. We ran through the dark, laughing all the way back to the cottage.
What did Joana know about the boys and their meeting that I didn’t?
The laughter had died. “Lina, let’s go, dear,” said Mother.
I looked back to the hole. What if we were digging our own grave?
34
I FOUND A STICK and snapped it in half. I sat down and used it to draw in a patch of hard dirt. I drew our house, garden, and the trees before it was time to return to work. I pushed small stones into the earth with my thumb, creating a pathway to our front door, and lined the roof with twigs.
“We must prepare,” said Mother. “The winter will be beyond anything we’ve experienced. Temperatures will be below freezing. There will be no food.”
“Winter?” I said, leaning back on my heels. “Are you joking? You think we’ll still be here when winter comes? Mother, no!” Winter was months away. I couldn’t bear the thought of living in that shack, digging holes for months, and trying to avoid the commander. I glanced over to the blond guard. He was looking at my drawing in the dirt.
“I hope not,” said Mother, lowering her voice. “But what if we are? If we’re not prepared, we’ll surely freeze or starve.” Mother had the grouchy woman’s attention.
“The snowstorms in Siberia are treacherous,” said Mrs. Rimas, nodding.
“I don’t know how the shacks withstand it,” said Mother.
“Why don’t we build our own building?” I asked. “We can build a log house like the kolkhoz office, with a chimney and a stove. We can all live together.”
“Stupid girl. They’ll never give us time to build something of our own, and if we did build something, they’d take it for themselves,” said the grouchy woman. “Keep digging.”
It began to rain. Water plopped on our heads and shoulders. We opened our mouths to drink.
“This is insanity,” said Mrs. Rimas.
Mother shouted over to the blond guard. The butt of his cigarette glowed under the shelter of the tree branches.
“He says we must dig faster,” said Mother, raising her voice as the rain poured down in sheets. “That the soil will be soft now.”
“Bastard,” said Mrs. Rimas.
I looked over and saw our house melting in the dirt. My drawing stick rolled away, propelled by the wind and rain.
I put my head down and dug. I jabbed the small shovel into the earth, harder and harder, pretending the soil was the commander. My fingers cramped and my arms shook with exhaustion. The hem of my dress was ripped, and my face and neck were sunburned from the morning sun.
When the rain stopped, we marched back to the camp, covered in mud up to our waists. My stomach convulsed with hunger. Mrs. Rimas slung the canvas over her shoulder and we dragged along, our hands cramped, still locked on to the shovel blades we had gripped for nearly twelve hours.
We entered the camp near the back. I recognized the bald man’s shack with its brown door and was able to direct Mother toward ours. Jonas was inside waiting for us. Every pot was brimming with water.
“You’re back!” he shouted. “I was worried you wouldn’t find the hut.”
Mother wrapped her arms around Jonas, kissing his hair.
“It was still raining when I got back,” explained Jonas. “I dragged the pots outside so we could have water.”
“Very smart, love. Have you had some to drink?” asked Mother.
“Plenty,” he said, looking at me in my bedraggled state. “You can have a nice bath.”
We drank from a large pot before washing our legs off. Mother insisted I drink more, even when I felt I couldn’t.
Jonas sat cross-legged on the boards. One of Mother’s scarves was spread out in front of him. In the center was a lonely piece of bread, with a small flower next to it.
Mother looked down at the bread and the wilted flower. “What sort of banquet do we have here?” she said.
“I received a ration coupon for my work today. I worked with two ladies making shoes,” said Jonas, smiling. “Are you hungry? You look tired.”
“I’m so hungry,” I said, staring at the solitary piece of bread. If Jonas received bread for working indoors on shoes, we must certainly be getting an entire turkey, I thought.
“We are each entitled to three hundred grams of bread for our work,” explained Jonas. “You have to collect your ration coupon at the kolkhoz office.”
“That’s ... that’s all?” asked Mother.
Jonas nodded.
Three hundred grams of dry bread. I couldn’t believe it. That’s all we got after digging for hours. They were starving us and would probably dump us into the holes we dug. “It’s not enough,” I said.
“We’ll find something more,” said Mother.
Fortunately, the commander wasn’t at the log building when we arrived. We were given our coupons without having to beg or dance. We followed the other workers into a nearby building. The bread was weighed and distributed to us. I could almost close my palm around the entire ration. On the way back, we saw Miss Grybas in back of her shack. She waved us over. Her arms and dress were filthy. She had been working in the beet fields all day. Her face twisted with revulsion when she saw us. “What are they doing to you?”
“Making us dig,” said Mother, pushing her mudencrusted hair away from her face. “In the rain.”
“Quickly!” she said, pulling us toward her. Her hands trembled. “I could be in awful trouble taking risks like this for you. I hope you know that.” She reached into her brassiere and pulled out a few small beets and passed them quickly to Mother. She then raised her dress and took two more from her underwear. “Now hurry, go!” she said. I heard the bald man yelling in the shack behind us.
We scurried back to our hut to begin our feast. I was too hungry to care that I hated beets. I didn’t even care that they had been transported in someone’s sweaty underwear.
35
“LINA, PUT THIS in your pocket and take it to Mr. Stalas,” said Mother, handing me a beet.
The bald man. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it. “Mother, I’m too tired.” I lay on the planks, my cheek flush to the wood.
“I brought some straw for us to sleep on,” announced Jonas. “The women told me where I could find it. I’ll bring more tomorrow,” he said.
“Lina, hurry, before it gets too dark. Take it to Mr. Stalas,” said Mother, organizing the straw with Jonas.
I walked into the bald man’s shack. A woman and two wailing babies took up most of the gray space. Mr. Stalas was cramped in the corner, his broken leg splinted with a board.
“What took you so long?” he said. “Are you trying to starve me? Are you in cahoots with them? What torture. Crying day and night. I’d trade the rotting baby for this rubbish.”
I dropped the beet onto his lap and turned to leave.
“What happened to your hands?” he said. “They’re disgusting.”
“I’ve been working all day,” I snapped. “Unlike you.”
“What do they have you doing?” he asked.
“Digging holes,” I said.
“Digging, eh?” he mumbled. “Interesting, I thought they’d have pulled your mother.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Your mother is a smart woman. She studied in Moscow. The damn Soviets know everything about us. They know about our families. Don’t think they won’t take advantage of that.”
I thought about Papa. “I need to get word to my father so he can find us.”
“Find you? Don’t be stupid,” he scoffed.
“He will. He’ll know how to find us. You don’t know my father,” I said.
The bald man looked down.
“Do you?”
“Have those guards gotten to you and your mother yet?” he asked. I looked at him. “Between your legs, have they gotten to you yet?�
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I huffed in disgust. I couldn’t take it anymore. I left him and walked out of the hut.
“Hey.”
I turned toward the voice. Andrius was leaning up against the shack.
“Hi,” I said, looking over to him.
“You look horrible,” he said.
I was too exhausted to muster a clever reply. I nodded.
“What are they having you do?”
“We’re digging holes,” I said. “Jonas made shoes all day.”
“I cut trees in the forest,” he said. Andrius looked dirty, but untouched by the guards. His face and arms were tan, making his eyes appear very blue. I pulled a clump of dirt from my hair.
“Which shack are you in?” I asked.
“Somewhere over there,” he said, without motioning in any particular direction. “Are you digging with that blond NKVD?”
“With him? That’s a joke. He’s not digging,” I said. “He just stands around smoking and yelling at us.”
“His name is Kretzsky,” said Andrius. “The commander, he’s Komorov. I’m trying to find out more.”
“Where are you getting information? Is there any news of the men?” I asked, thinking of Papa. He shook his head.
“There’s supposed to be a village nearby, with a post office,” I said. “Have you heard that? I want to send a letter to my cousin.”
“The Soviets will read everything you write. They’ve got people to translate. So be careful what you say.”
I looked down, thinking of the NKVD asking Mother to be a translator. Our personal correspondence wasn’t personal. Privacy was but a memory. It wasn’t even rationed, like sleep or bread. I thought about telling Andrius that the NKVD had asked Mother to spy.
“Here,” he said, holding out his hand. He opened his palm to reveal three cigarettes.
“You’re giving me cigarettes?” I asked.
“Well, what did you think, that I had a roasted duck in my pocket?”
“No, I meant ... Thank you.”
“Sure. They’re for your brother and your mother. Are they doing okay?”
I nodded, kicking at the dirt. “Where’d you get the cigarettes?” I asked.
“Around.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Fine,” he said quickly. “Look, I gotta go. Tell Jonas I said hi. And try not to ruin the cigarettes with your blister juice,” he teased.
I staggered back to our shack, trying to see which way Andrius went. Where was his hut?
I gave Mother the three cigarettes. “From Andrius,” I said.
“How sweet of him,” said Mother. “Where did he get them?”
“You saw Andrius?” said Jonas. “Is he okay?”
“He’s okay. He chopped wood all day in the forest. He said to tell you hello.”
The Altaian woman toddled over and thrust her hand out to Mother. They had a brief exchange interspersed with “nyets” and stomps from the Altaian woman’s foot.
“Elena,” said Mother, pointing to her own chest. “Lina, Jonas,” she said, pointing to us.
“Ulyushka!” the woman said, thrusting her palm to Mother.
Mother gave her a cigarette.
“Why are you giving her a cigarette?” asked Jonas.
“She says it’s payment toward rent,” said Mother. “Her name is Ulyushka.”
“Is that her first or last name?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But if we’re to live here, we must be able to address one another properly.”
I arranged my raincoat over some of the straw that Jonas had brought. I lay down. I hated the way Mother had said, “If we’re to live here,” like we were staying. I also heard Mother say spaseeba, which meant “thank you” in Russian. I looked over and saw her sharing a match with Ulyushka. Mother pulled two graceful puffs through her long fingers and then put it out quickly, rationing her own cigarette.
“Lina,” whispered Jonas. “Did Andrius look okay?”
“He looked fine,” I said, thinking of his tan face.
I was lying in bed, waiting for the sound. I heard soft footsteps outside. The curtain billowed up, revealing Joana’s tanned face in the window.
“Come out,” she said. “Let’s sit on the porch.”
I crept out of our bedroom and onto the porch of the cottage. Joana draped askew in the rocker, gliding back and forth. I sat in the chair next to her, pulling my knees up and tucking my bare feet under my cotton nightgown. The rocker croaked a steady rhythm while Joana stared off into the darkness.
“So? How was it?” I asked.
“He’s wonderful,” she sighed.
“Really?” I said. “Is he smart? He’s not one of those dumb boys who drink beer at the beach all day, is he?”
“Oh no,” she breathed. “He’s in his first year at university. He wants to study engineering.”
“Hmph. And he doesn’t have a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Lina, stop trying to find something wrong with him.”
“I’m not. I’m just asking,” I said.
“One day, someone will catch your eye, Lina, and hopefully when it happens, you won’t be so critical.”
“I’m not critical,” I said. “I just want to make sure he’s good enough for you.”
“He has a younger brother,” said Joana, grinning at me.
“Really?” I crinkled my nose.
“See? You’re already critical and you haven’t even met him.”
“I’m not being critical! So where is this younger brother?”
“He’ll be here next week. Do you want to meet him?”
“I don’t know, maybe. It depends what he’s like,” I said.
“Well, you won’t know until you meet him, will you?” teased Joana.
36
WE WERE ASLEEP WHEN it happened. I had rinsed off my blisters and started a letter to Joana. But I was too tired. I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, the NKVD was yelling at me, pushing me to get outside.
“Mother, what’s happening?” said Jonas.
“They say we must report to the kolkhoz office immediately.”
“Davai!” shouted a guard holding a lantern. They became impatient. One drew a pistol.
“Da! Yes!” said Mother. “Hurry, children! Move!” We scrambled out of our straw. Ulyushka rolled over, turning her back to us. I looked over to my suitcase, grateful I had hidden my drawings.
Others were also herded from their huts. We walked in a line down the dirt path toward the kolkhoz office. I heard the bald man yelling somewhere behind us.
They packed us into the main room of the log building. The gray-haired man who wound his watch stood in the corner. The little girl with the dolly waved excitedly to me, as if reunited with a long-lost friend. A wide bruise blossomed across her cheek. We were instructed to wait quietly until the others arrived.
The log walls were chinked with gray paste. At the head of the room, a desk with a black chair took up much of the floor. Portraits of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin hung above the desk.
Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili. He called himself Josef Stalin, which meant “Man of Steel.” I stared at the picture. He seemed to stare back. His right eyebrow arched, challenging me. I looked at his bushy mustache and dark, stony eyes. The portrait showed him almost smirking. Was that intentional? I wondered about the artists who painted Stalin. Were they grateful to be in his presence, or terrified of the outcome if he found their portraits unbecoming? The picture of Stalin was crooked.
The door opened. The bald man hobbled in on his broken leg.
“And not one of you thought to help me!” he yelled.
Komorov, the commander, marched in, followed by several NKVD carrying rifles. The blond guard, Kretzsky, was at the end of the line carrying a stack of papers. How did Andrius learn their names? I looked around for Andrius and his mother. They weren’t there.
Komorov began speaking. Everyone turned toward Mother. The commander paused and raised his eyebrow at her, twirl
ing the ever-present toothpick on his tongue.
Mother’s face tightened. “He says we’ve been brought here for paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” said Mrs. Rimas. “At this hour?”
Komorov continued speaking. Kretzsky held up a typewritten document.
“We are all to sign that document,” said Mother.
“What does it say?” the crowd demanded.
“It says three things,” said Mother, staring at Komorov. He continued speaking, with Mother translating in between for the group.
“First, we sign that we agree to join this collective farm.” There were rumbles within the room. People turned back to the commander as he spoke. His arm casually moved his uniform aside, displaying the gun at his hip. The crowd shifted.
“Second,” said Mother, “we sign that we agree to pay a war tax of two hundred rubles per person, children included.”
“Where are we to get two hundred rubles?” said the bald man. “They’ve already stolen all that we had.”
Chattering ensued. An NKVD pounded the butt of his rifle on the desk. The room quieted.
I looked at Komorov as he spoke. He stared straight at Mother, as if he were deeply enjoying what he was saying to her. Mother paused. Her mouth sagged.
“Well, what is it? What’s the third, Elena?” said Mrs. Rimas.
“We agree that we are criminals.” Mother paused. “And that our sentence shall be ... twenty-five years’ hard labor.”
Shouts and wails erupted in the small room. Someone began to hyperventilate. The crowd pushed forward toward the desk, arguing. The NKVD lifted their rifles, pointing them at us. My jaw unlatched. Twenty-five years? We were going to be imprisoned for twenty-five years? That meant I would be older than Mother when we were released. I reached out to Jonas to steady myself. He wasn’t there. He had collapsed at my feet.
I couldn’t pull a deep breath. The room began to fold in around me. I was sliding, tangled in panic’s undertow.
“SILENCE!” yelled a male voice. Everyone turned. It was the gray-haired man who wound his watch.
“Calm yourselves,” he said slowly. “We do no good by becoming hysterical. We can’t think clearly if we panic. It’s scaring the children.”