by Ruta Sepetys
I looked at the little girl with the dolly. She clung to her mother’s dress, tears spilling onto her bruised face.
The man lowered his voice and spoke calmly. “We are intelligent, dignified people. That is why they have deported us. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Alexandras Lukas. I am an attorney from Kaunas.” The crowd quieted. Mother and I helped Jonas to his feet.
The commander, Komorov, yelled from the desk at the front of the room.
“Mrs. Vilkas, please tell the commander that I am explaining the situation to our friends,” said Mr. Lukas. Mother translated. Kretzsky, the young blond guard, chewed his thumbnail.
“I’m not signing any document,” said Miss Grybas. “They made us sign a registration document at the teachers’ conference. Look where it got me. That’s how they collected the names of all the teachers to deport.”
“They’ll kill us if we don’t sign,” said the grouchy woman.
“I don’t believe so,” said the gray-haired man. “Not before winter. We are in the first week of August. There is much work to be done. We are good, strong workers. We are farming for them, building structures for them. It is to their benefit to use us, at least until winter comes.”
“He’s right,” said the bald man. “First they’ll grind us from grain to flour, then they’ll kill us. Who wants to wait around for that? Not me.”
“They shot the girl who had the baby,” huffed the grouchy woman.
“They shot Ona because she lost her senses,” said Mr. Lukas. “She was out of control. We are not out of control. We are intelligent, rational people.”
“So we shouldn’t sign?” someone asked.
“No. I believe we should sit down in an orderly manner. Mrs. Vilkas will explain that we are not ready to sign paperwork.”
“Not ready?” said Mrs. Rimas.
“I agree,” said Mother. “We must not completely refuse. And we must show that we are not hysterical. Form three lines.”
The NKVD held up their rifles, unsure what we might do. We sat down in straight lines in front of the desk, under portraits of Russia’s leaders. The guards looked at one another, dumbfounded. We sat calmly. We had regained a slice of dignity. I put my arm around Jonas.
“Mrs. Vilkas, please ask Commander Komorov what the charges are,” said the gray-haired man. Mother translated. Komorov sat on the edge of the desk, swinging his boot.
“He says we are charged under Article 58 of the Soviet Penal Code for counterrevolutionary activities against the USSR,” said Mother.
“That doesn’t carry a twenty-five-year sentence,” muttered the bald man.
“Tell him we will work for them and we will provide good labor, but we are not yet ready to sign,” said Mr. Lukas.
Mother translated. “He says we must sign now.”
“I am not signing a paper condemning me to twenty-five years,” said Miss Grybas.
“Nor am I,” I said.
“So what do we do?” asked Mrs. Rimas.
“We wait here quietly until we are dismissed,” said Mr. Lukas, winding his watch.
And so we waited.
“Where’s Andrius?” whispered Jonas.
“I don’t know,” I said. I had heard the bald man ask the same question.
We sat on the floor of the kolkhoz office. Every few minutes, Komorov would slap or kick someone, trying to bully them into signing. No one did. I winced with his every step. Sweat trickled across the nape of my neck and along my spine. I tried to keep my head down, afraid that Komorov would notice me. Those who fell asleep were beaten.
Hours passed. We sat obediently, like schoolchildren in front of the principal. Finally, Komorov spoke to Kretzsky.
“He’s telling the young guard to take over,” Mother translated.
Komorov marched over to Mother. He grabbed her by the arm and spit something that resembled an oyster onto her face. Then he left.
Mother quickly wiped off the slime, as if it didn’t bother her at all. It bothered me. I wanted to roll the hate up into my mouth and spit it back in his face.
37
AT SUNRISE THEY TOLD us it was time to go back to work. Tired but relieved, we dragged ourselves to our shack. Ulyushka was already gone. The hut smelled of rotten eggs. We drank some of the rainwater and ate a stub of bread Mother had saved. Despite my washing efforts, my dress was still stiff with mud. My hands looked like a small animal had chewed on them. Yellow pus leaked from the blisters.
I tried my best to clean the sores with the rainwater. It didn’t help. Mother said I needed to form calluses.
“Just do the best you can, dear,” said Mother. “Move your arm as if you’re digging, but don’t press. I’ll do the work.” We set off out of the hut, walking toward the lineup for work detail.
Mrs. Rimas walked toward us, her face covered in fear. Then I saw it, the body of a man with a stake driven through his chest into the side of the kolkhoz office. His arms and legs dangled like a limp marionette. Blood soaked through his shirt and dripped to form a stain beneath him. Buzzards feasted on his fleshy bullet wounds. One pecked at his empty eye socket.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Mother gasped, grabbed me, and tried to cover my eyes.
“He wrote a letter,” whispered Mrs. Rimas.
I moved past Mother, looking at the piece of paper tacked up, fluttering next to the dead man. I saw handwriting and a very crude diagram.
“He wrote a letter to the partisans—the Lithuanian freedom fighters. The NKVD found it,” said Mrs. Rimas.
“Who translated it for them?” whispered Mother. Mrs. Rimas shrugged.
My stomach dropped, thinking of my drawings. I felt nauseous and put my hand to my mouth.
The blond guard, Kretzsky, stared at me. He looked tired and angry. Our standoff had deprived him of sleep. He marched us out to the clearing at a faster pace than normal, yelling and pushing at us.
We arrived at the large pit we had dug the day before. Looking at it, I estimated that four men lying down could fit inside. Kretzsky instructed us to dig another pit next to the first. I couldn’t erase the image of the dead man from my mind. His diagram was nothing more than a few crude lines. I thought of my drawings, lifelike and full of pain, sitting in my suitcase. I had to hide them.
I yawned and hacked away at the dirt. Mother said the time went faster if we talked about things that made us happy. She said it gave us strength.
“I want to find that village,” I said. “Maybe we can buy food or send letters.”
“How can we go anywhere, when all we do is work?” said the grouchy woman. “And if we don’t work, we don’t eat.”
“I’ll try to ask the woman I live with,” said Mrs. Rimas.
“Be careful who you ask,” said Mother. “We don’t know who we can trust.”
I missed Papa. He would know who we could ask and who we should stay away from.
We dug and dug until the water arrived. Commander Komorov was on the truck. He walked around the holes, inspecting them. I eyed the bucket of water. My hair stuck to my face. I wanted to submerge my head and drink. Komorov barked a command. Kretzsky shifted his feet. Komorov repeated the command.
Mother’s face was suddenly the color of chalk. “He says ... we must get in the first hole,” she said, clenching her dress.
“For what?” I asked.
Komorov yelled and pulled a pistol from his belt. He pointed it at Mother. She jumped down into the first hole. The pistol moved to my head. I jumped in. He continued until all four of us were in the hole. He laughed and gave another instruction.
“We must put our hands on our heads,” said Mother.
“No, dear God,” said Mrs. Rimas, shaking.
Komorov walked around the hole, looking at us, pointing the pistol. He told us to lie down. We lay next to each other. Mother grasped my hand. I stared up. The sky was blue behind the silhouette of his large, square frame. He circled the hole again.
“I love you, Lina,
” whispered Mother.
“Our Father, who art in heaven,” began Mrs. Rimas.
BANG!
He shot into the hole. Dirt crumbled down from above our heads. Mrs. Rimas screamed. Komorov told us to shut up. He circled around and around, muttering that we were disgusting pigs. Suddenly, he began kicking dirt from the large pile into the hole. He laughed and kicked faster and faster. The soil landed on my feet, then on my dress, then on my chest. He kicked furiously, covering us in dirt, still pointing the gun at our faces. If I sat up, I’d be shot. If I didn’t sit up, I’d be buried alive. I closed my eyes. A heavy load of dirt sat on my body. Then finally, dirt fell onto my face.
BANG!
More dirt crumbled above our heads. Komorov laughed wildly, kicking dirt onto our faces. Dirt covered my nose. I opened my mouth to breathe and choked on the soil.
I heard Komorov cackling and then hacking. He laughed and coughed, trying to regain composure, as if he had outdone himself. Kretzsky said something.
BANG!
Then it was quiet. We lay there, buried in our own efforts. I heard a muffled rumble of the truck driving away. I couldn’t open my eyes. I felt Mother squeezing my hand. She was still alive. I squeezed back. Then I heard Kretzsky’s voice above us. Mother sat up and frantically began wiping dirt from my face. She pulled me up. I hugged her, not wanting to let go. Mrs. Rimas dug the grouchy woman out. She wheezed and coughed up dirt.
“It’s okay, darling,” said Mother, rocking me into her. “He’s just trying to scare us. He wants us to sign those documents.”
I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t even speak.
“Davai,” said Kretzsky softly. He reached out his hand.
I looked up at his outstretched arm. I hesitated. He reached down farther. I grabbed his forearm. He grasped mine. I dug my toe into the dirt and let him pull me out. I stood at the side of the hole, face-to-face with Kretzsky. We stared at each other.
“Get me out of here!” yelled the grouchy woman. I looked away, where the truck had driven off. Kretzsky sent us back to digging. No one spoke for the rest of the day.
38
“WHAT’S WRONG?” asked Jonas when we arrived back at the shack.
“Nothing, dear,” said Mother.
Jonas looked from Mother to me, searching our faces for answers.
“We’re just tired.” Mother smiled.
“Just tired,” I told Jonas.
Jonas motioned us over to his pallet of straw. Inside his small cap were three large potatoes. He put his finger to his lips so our gasps wouldn’t be audible. He didn’t want Ulyushka to take the potatoes for rent.
“Where did you get them?” I whispered.
“Darling, thank you!” said Mother. “And I think we have just enough rainwater left. We’ll make a nice potato soup.”
Mother grabbed the coat out of her suitcase. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To take food to Mr. Stalas,” she said.
I checked my suitcase, thinking of the dead man knifed up against the kolkhoz office. My drawings were undisturbed. The lining on the bottom of my suitcase was held down by snaps. I tore each drawing and page of writing from my tablet, slid it under the lining, and snapped it back in place. I would hide my messages to Papa until I found a way to send something.
I helped Jonas set the water to boil. Then it occurred to me. Miss Grybas wasn’t able to give us beets today. Mother didn’t take a potato. So what was she feeding the bald man?
I walked through the huts and quickly ducked out of sight. Mother was talking to Andrius in front of the bald man’s shack. She was no longer holding her coat. I couldn’t hear their conversation. Andrius looked concerned. He discreetly handed a bundle to Mother. She reached out and patted his shoulder. Andrius turned to leave. I ducked behind the shack. Once Mother passed, I peeked out and began to follow him.
Andrius walked down the row of barracks. I stayed well behind, just close enough to see where he was going. He made his way to the edge of the camp, then continued on to a large log building with windows. He stopped and looked around. I ducked behind the edge of a shack. It looked like Andrius entered the building from the rear. I crept closer and hid behind a bush.
I squinted to peer in the window. A group of NKVD sat around a table. I looked to the back of the building. No, Andrius couldn’t have gone inside an NKVD building. I was just about to follow him farther. Then I saw her. Mrs. Arvydas appeared in the window carrying a tray of glasses. Her hair was clean and styled. Her clothes were pressed. She was wearing makeup. She smiled and distributed the drinks to the NKVD.
Andrius and his mother were working with the Soviets.
39
I SHOULD HAVE BEEN grateful for the potato soup that night. But all I could think about was Andrius. How could he do it? How could he work with them? Did he live in that building? I thought about lying in that hole while Andrius lay in a bed, a Soviet bed. I kicked at my itchy straw, staring at the rusted ceiling.
“Mother, do you think they’ll let us sleep tonight? Or will they insist we go to the office to sign the papers?” asked Jonas.
“I don’t know,” said Mother. She turned her head to me. “Andrius gave me that nice bread we had with our soup. It’s very courageous of him to take risks like that for us.”
“Oh, he’s courageous, isn’t he?”
“What do you mean by that?” said Jonas. “He is courageous. He gets us food nearly every day.”
“He sure looks like he’s eating well, doesn’t he? I think he’s actually gained weight,” I said.
“And be glad of that,” said Mother. “Be glad that not everyone is desperate for food like we are.”
“Yes, I’m very glad the NKVD aren’t hungry. If they were hungry, how would they have the strength to bury us alive?” I said.
“What?” said Jonas.
Ulyushka yelled at us to be quiet.
“Hush, Lina. Let’s say our prayers and give thanks for that wonderful meal. Let’s pray that your father is just as well.”
We slept through the night. The next morning, Officer Kretzsky told Mother that we were to join the other women in the beet fields. I was thrilled. We bent and thrashed amongst the long green rows of sugar beets, using hoes without handles. Miss Grybas lectured us on the pace of our work. She told us that on the first day, someone leaned on the handle a moment to wipe their brow. The Soviets made them saw the handles off. I realized how difficult it was for Miss Grybas to steal beets for us. Armed guards stood watch. Although they seemed more interested in smoking and telling jokes, slipping a beet into my underwear unnoticed was no easy task. It poked out like an extra limb.
That evening, I refused to take food to Mr. Stalas. I told Mother I felt too sick to walk. I couldn’t stand to see Andrius. He was a traitor. He was plump on Soviet food, eating from the hand that strangled us each and every day.
“I’ll take Mr. Stalas his food,” said Jonas after a few days.
“Lina, go with him,” said Mother. “I don’t want him to go alone.” I walked with Jonas to the bald man’s shack. Andrius was waiting outside.
“Hi,” he said. I ignored him, left Jonas outside, and walked in to give Mr. Stalas his beets. He was standing up.
“There you are. Where have you been?” he said, leaning up against the wall. I noticed Mother’s coat tucked into his bed of straw.
“Disappointed I’m not dead?” I said, handing him the beets.
“That’s a sour mood,” he said.
“Are you the only one who’s allowed to be angry? I’m sick of this. I’m tired of the NKVD hounding us.”
“Bah. They don’t care if we sign,” said the bald man. “Do you really think they need our permission, our signatures, to do what they’re doing to us? Stalin needs to break our will. Don’t you understand? He knows if we sign some stupid papers, we’ll give up. He’ll break us.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
He waved m
e away. “It doesn’t look good on you—anger,” he said. “Now get out.”
I walked out of the shack. “Let’s go, Jonas.”
“Wait,” whispered Jonas, leaning in to me. “He brought us salami.”
I folded my arms across my chest.
“I guess she’s allergic to kindness,” said Andrius.
“That’s not what I’m allergic to. Where did you get your salami?” I said.
Andrius stared at me. “Jonas, can you leave us for a minute?” he said.
“No, he can’t leave us. My mother doesn’t want him to be alone. That’s the only reason I came,” I said.
“I’m fine,” said Jonas. He turned and walked away.
“So, is that what you’re eating these days?” I asked. “Soviet salami?”
“When I can get it,” he said. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Andrius looked stronger, his arms muscular. He drew in a breath and blew a plume of smoke over our heads.
“And cigarettes, too,” I commented. “Are you sleeping in a nice bed in that Soviet building?”
“You have no idea,” he said.
“I don’t? Well, you don’t look tired or hungry. You weren’t dragged to the kolkhoz office in the middle of the night and condemned to twenty-five years. So, are you reporting all of our conversations to them?”
“You think I’m spying?”
“Komorov asked Mother to spy and report to him. She said no.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Andrius, the crimson in his face rising.
“I don’t?”
“No, you have no idea,” he said.
“I don’t see your mother working in the dirt—”
“No,” said Andrius, leaning in, an inch from my face. “You know why?” A vein in his temple bulged. I felt his breath on my forehead.
“Yes, because—”
“Because they threatened to kill me unless she slept with them. And if they get tired of her, they still might kill me. So how would you feel, Lina, if your mother felt she had to prostitute herself to save your life?”
My jaw dropped.
The words flew out of his mouth. “How do you think my father would feel if he knew? How does my mother feel, lying with the men who murdered her husband? No, your mother might not translate for them, but what do you think she’d do if they held a knife to your brother’s neck?”