Between Shades of Gray

by Ruta Sepetys

  We had to trek farther and farther to find wood. We were nearly five kilometers from camp. At the end of the day Janina clung by my side.

  “Liale showed me something,” she said.

  “What’s that?” I said, stuffing twigs into my pockets for our stove and my paintbrushes.

  Janina looked around. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

  She took my hand and walked me down the edge of the tree line and into the snow. She reached out her mitten, pointing.

  “What is it?” I asked. My eyes scanned the snow.

  “Shh ...” She pulled me closer and pointed.

  I saw it. A huge owl lay in the snow at the edge of the trees. Its white feathers blended so well that at first I didn’t see it. Its body looked to be nearly two feet long. The large raptor had tiny brown speckles on its head and trunk.

  “Is he sleeping?” asked Janina.

  “I think it’s dead,” I replied. I took a stick from my pocket and poked at the wing. The owl didn’t move. “Yes, it’s dead.”

  “Do you think we should eat him?” asked Janina.

  At first I was shocked. Then I imagined the plump body, roasting in our barrel, like a chicken. I poked at it again. I grabbed its wing and pulled. It was heavy, but slid across the snow.

  “No! You can’t drag him. The NKVD will see. They’ll take him away from us,” said Janina. “Hide him in your coat.”

  “Janina, this owl is enormous. I can’t hide him in my coat.” The thought of a dead owl in my coat made me shiver.

  “But I’m so hungry,” cried Janina. “Please? I’ll walk in front of you. No one will see.”

  I was hungry, too. So was Mother. So was Jonas. I leaned over the owl and pushed its wings against its belly. It was stiff. Its face looked sharp, menacing. I didn’t know if I could put it against my body. I looked at Janina. She nodded, her eyes wide.

  I glanced around. “Unbutton my coat.” Her little hands set to work.

  I lifted the dead raptor and held it against my chest. Shivers of revulsion rolled through my body. “Hurry, button me up.”

  She couldn’t button the coat. The owl was too large. I could barely get my coat around its body.

  “Turn him around, so his face doesn’t stick out,” said Janina. “He’ll blend in with the snow. Let’s hurry.”

  Hurry? How was I supposed to walk five kilometers, pregnant with a dead owl, without the NKVD noticing? “Janina, slow down. I can’t walk fast. It’s too big.” The horned beak poked at my chest. Its dead body was creepy. But I was so hungry.

  Other deportees looked at me.

  “Our mamas are sick. They need food. Will you help us?” explained Janina.

  People I didn’t know formed a circle around me, sheltering me from view. They escorted me safely back to our jurta, undetected. They didn’t ask for anything. They were happy to help someone, to succeed at something, even if they weren’t to benefit. We’d been trying to touch the sky from the bottom of the ocean. I realized that if we boosted one another, maybe we’d get a little closer.

  Janina’s mother plucked the owl. We all crowded around the makeshift stove to smell it cook.

  “It smells like a duck, don’t you think?” said Jonas. “Let’s pretend it’s duck.”

  The taste of warm meat was heavenly. It didn’t matter that it was a bit tough; the experience lasted longer because we had to chew. We imagined we were at a royal banquet.

  “Can’t you just taste the gooseberry marinade?” sighed Mrs. Rimas.

  “This is wonderful. Thank you, Lina,” said Mother.

  “Thank Janina. She found the owl,” I said.

  “Liale found him,” corrected Janina.

  “Thanks, Janina!” said Jonas.

  Janina beamed, holding a fistful of feathers.

  78

  CHRISTMAS CAME. We had made it halfway through winter. That was something to be grateful for.

  The weather continued, relentless. Just as one storm passed, another queued at its heels. We lived the life of penguins, freezing under layers of ice and snow. Mrs. Rimas stood outside the bakery. The smell of butter and cocoa made her cry. The NKVD made cakes and pastries in their bakery. They ate fish, drank hot coffee, and enjoyed canned meats and vegetables from America. After a meal, they’d play cards, smoke cigarettes, maybe a cigar, and drink a snifter of brandy. Then they’d light the fire in their brick barracks and cover themselves with their fur blankets.

  My drawings became smaller. I didn’t have much paper. Mother didn’t have much energy. She couldn’t even sit up for the Kucios Christmas celebration. She had lain too long. Her hair was frozen to a board. She drifted in and out of sleep, waking only to blow a kiss when she felt us near.

  The lice brought typhus. The repeater fell ill. He insisted on leaving our jurta.

  “You’re such nice people. It’s too dangerous for you all. Dangerous,” he said.

  “Yes, get out of here,” said the bald man.

  He moved to a jurta where people had similar symptoms—fever, rash, some delirium. Mrs. Rimas and I helped him walk.

  Four days later, I saw his naked body, eyes wide open, stacked in a heap of corpses. His frostbitten hand was missing. White foxes had eaten into his stomach, exposing his innards and staining the snow with blood.

  I turned and covered my eyes.

  “Lina, please take those books off the table,” said Mother.

  “I can’t stand to see such ghastly images, not at breakfast.”

  “But that’s what inspired Edvard Munch’s art. He saw these images not as death, but as birth,” I said.

  “Off the table,” said Mother.

  Papa chuckled behind his newspaper.

  “But Papa, listen to what Munch said.”

  Papa lowered the newspaper.

  I turned to the page. “He said, ‘From my rotting body flowers shall grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.’ Isn’t that beautiful?”

  Papa smiled at me. “You’re beautiful because you see it that way.”

  “Lina, take the books off the table, please,” said Mother. Papa winked at me.

  “We must do something!” I cried to Jonas and Mrs. Rimas.

  “We can’t let people die like this.”

  “We’ll do our best. That’s all we have,” said Mrs. Rimas. “And we’ll pray for a miracle.”

  “No! Don’t talk like that. We will survive,” I said. “Right, Jonas?”

  Jonas nodded.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” I asked him.

  “I’m fine,” he replied.

  That night, I sat with Mother’s head in my lap. Lice marched triumphantly across her forehead. I flicked them off.

  “Did you apologize?” asked Mother, gazing at me through heavy eyelids.

  “To whom?”

  “To Nikolai. You told him you hated him.”

  “I do hate him,” I said. “He could help us. He chooses not to.”

  “He helped me,” said Mother softly.

  I looked down at her.

  “That day when I went to meet the grouchy woman coming back from the village, it was dark. Some NKVD drove by. They began to taunt me. They lifted my dress. Nikolai came. He shooed the others off. He drove me the rest of the way. I begged him to find news of your father. We met the grouchy woman on the road in the dark. Nikolai dropped us three kilometers from camp. We walked the rest of the way. See,” she said, lifting her face to mine, “that helped me. And I think the commander found out about it. Nikolai was punished for it. I think that’s why he’s here.”

  “He deserves to be here. Maybe he’ll get sick and everyone will ignore him. Then he’ll see how it feels. He could get a doctor for us!”

  “Lina, think of what your father would say. A wrongdoing doesn’t give us the right to do wrong. You know that.”

  I thought about Papa. She was right. He would say something like that.

  Jonas walked into the jurta. “How is she?” he asked.

  I put my hand
on Mother’s forehead. “She still has a high fever.”

  “Darling,” said Mother to Jonas. “I’m so very cold. Are you cold?”

  Jonas took off his coat and handed it to me. He lay down beside Mother, wrapping himself around her. “Okay, put the coat on top of us. Get the small hide from Ulyushka,” said Jonas.

  “Ulyushka,” said Mother fondly.

  “I’ll warm you, Mother,” said Jonas, kissing her cheek.

  “I feel better already,” she said.

  79

  I PRACTICED THE Russian words. Doctor. Medicine. Mother. Please. My stomach jumped. I clutched the stone. I heard Andrius’s voice. Don’t give them anything, Lina. Not even your fear.

  It wasn’t just Mother. The man who wound his watch was sick. Janina’s mother was sick. If I could just get some medicine. I hated the thought of asking them for anything. The NKVD had killed Papa. I hated them for it. I couldn’t let them do the same to Mother.

  I saw Kretzsky near the NKVD barracks. He stood with Ivanov. I waited. I wanted to speak to Kretzsky alone. Time passed. I had to go to work in order to get my ration. I trudged through the snow toward them.

  “Look, it’s a little pig,” said Ivanov.

  “My mother is sick,” I said.

  “Really?” he said, feigning concern. “I think I know something that might help.”

  I looked at him.

  “Give her plenty of sunshine, fresh fruits, and lots of vegetables.” He laughed at his own sick joke.

  “We need a doctor. We need medicine,” I said, shivering.

  “What else do you need? A bathhouse? A school? Well, you better get building. Davai!”

  I looked at Kretzsky.

  “Please, help me. We need a doctor. We need medicine. My mother is sick.”

  “There is no doctor,” said Kretzsky.

  “Medicine,” I said. “We need medicine.”

  “Do you want another twenty years?” yelled Ivanov. “I can give you that. No bread today, you ingrate. Get to work! Davai!”

  I didn’t get a doctor. I didn’t get medicine. I lost my ration and humiliated myself in the process. I began walking to the trees. I had forgotten what the sun felt like on my face. When I closed my eyes, I could see sunlight in Lithuania, and on Andrius’s hair. But I couldn’t imagine the sun on the Laptev Sea. Even if we did make it through the winter, would we have the strength to build things? Could we really build a bathhouse and a school? Who would be left to teach?

  I couldn’t lose Mother. I would fight. I would do whatever it took. She trembled, slipping in and out of sleep. Jonas and I sandwiched her between us, trying to warm and comfort her. Mrs. Rimas heated bricks to warm her feet. Janina picked the lice off her eyelashes.

  The bald man leaned over and tucked his ration under Mother’s hand. “Come on, woman. You’re better than this. You’ve got children to take care of, for God’s sake,” he said.

  Hours passed. Mother’s teeth chattered. Her lips turned blue.

  “J-Jonas, keep this.” She handed him Papa’s wedding band. “It’s full of love. Nothing is more important.”

  Mother’s trembling increased. She whimpered between breaths. “Please,” she pleaded, staring at us with urgent eyes. “Kostas.”

  We held her between us, our arms curled around her withered body.

  Jonas breathed quickly. His frightened eyes searched mine. “No,” he whispered. “Please.”

  80

  JANUARY 5. Jonas held Mother through the lonely morning hours, rocking her gently, as she used to do with us. Mrs. Rimas tried to feed her and massage circulation into her limbs. She couldn’t eat or speak. I warmed bricks and shuttled them back and forth from the stove. I sat next to her, rubbing her hands and telling stories from home. I described every room in our house in detail, even the pattern on the spoons in the kitchen drawer. “The cake is in the oven baking and it’s hot in the kitchen, so you’ve decided to open the window over the sink and let the warm breeze in. You can hear children playing outside,” I told her.

  Later that morning Mother’s breathing became increasingly labored.

  “Warm more bricks, Lina,” my brother told me. “She’s too cold.”

  Suddenly, Mother looked up at Jonas. She opened her mouth. Not a sound came out. The trembling stopped. Her shoulders relaxed and her head fell against him. Her eyes faded to a hollow stare.

  “Mother?” I said, moving closer.

  Mrs. Rimas touched her hand to Mother’s neck.

  Jonas began to cry, cradling her in his eleven-year-old arms. Small whimpers became deep, racking sobs, shaking his entire body.

  I lay down behind him, hugging him.

  Mrs. Rimas knelt beside us. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,” she began.

  “Mother,” cried Jonas.

  Tears spilled down my cheeks.

  “She had a beautiful spirit,” said the man who wound his watch.

  Janina stroked my hair.

  “I love you, Mother,” I whispered. “I love you, Papa.”

  Mrs. Rimas continued.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

  “Amen.”

  It described Mother perfectly. Her cup overflowed with love for everyone and everything around her, even the enemy.

  Mrs. Rimas began to cry. “Sweet Elena. She was so dear, so good to everyone.”

  “Please, don’t let them take her body,” said Jonas to Mrs. Rimas. “I want to bury her. We can’t let her be eaten by foxes.”

  “We’ll bury her,” I assured Jonas through my tears. “We’ll make a coffin. We’ll use the boards we sleep on.”

  Jonas nodded.

  The bald man stared blankly, and for once, said nothing.

  “She looks pretty,” said Jonas, standing at the side of Grandma’s coffin. “Papa, does she know I’m here?”

  “She does,” said Papa, putting his arms around us. “She’s watching from above.”

  Jonas looked up toward the ceiling and then to Papa.

  “Remember last summer, when we flew the kite?” said Papa.

  Jonas nodded.

  “The wind came and I yelled to you that it was time. I told you to loosen your grip. The string started unwinding, and the wooden spool spun through your hands, remember? The kite went higher and higher. I had forgotten to tie the string to the spool. Do you remember what happened?”

  “The kite disappeared up into the sky,” said Jonas.

  “Exactly. That’s what happens when people die. Their spirit flies up into the blue sky,” said Papa.

  “Maybe Grandma found the kite,” said Jonas.

  “Maybe,” said Papa.

  The bald man sat, his elbows on his knees, talking to himself. “Why is it so hard to die?” he asked. “I helped turn you in. I said ‘No’ too late. I saw the lists.”

  Mrs. Rimas spun around. “What?”

  He nodded. “They asked me to confirm people’s professions. They asked me to list the teachers, lawyers, and military who lived nearby.”

  “And you did it?” I said.

  Jonas held Mother, still crying.

  “I told them I would,” said the bald man. “And then I changed my mind.”

  “You traitor! You pathetic old man!” I said.

  “Pathetic, and yet I survive. Surely, my survival is my punishment. That has to be it. This woman closes her eyes and she is gone. I’ve wished for death since the first day, and yet I survive. Can it really be so hard to die?”

  81

  I WOKE, UNEASY. The night had been unkind. I slept next to Mother’s body, muffling my sobs so as not to scare Jonas. My beautiful mother—I would never see her smile again, feel her arms
around me. I already missed her voice. My body felt hollow, like my sluggish heartbeat was bouncing and echoing through my vacant, aching limbs.

  The bald man’s questions kept me awake in thought. Was it harder to die, or harder to be the one who survived? I was sixteen, an orphan in Siberia, but I knew. It was the one thing I never questioned. I wanted to live. I wanted to see my brother grow up. I wanted to see Lithuania again. I wanted to see Joana. I wanted to smell the lily of the valley on the breeze beneath my window. I wanted to paint in the fields. I wanted to see Andrius with my drawings. There were only two possible outcomes in Siberia. Success meant survival. Failure meant death. I wanted life. I wanted to survive.

  Part of me felt guilty. Was it selfish that I wanted to live, even though my parents were gone? Was it selfish to have wants beyond my family being together? I was now the guardian of my eleven-year-old brother. What would he do if I perished?

  After work, Jonas helped the man who wound his watch make a coffin. Mrs. Rimas and I prepared Mother.

  “Is there anything left in her suitcase?” asked Mrs. Rimas.

  “I don’t think so.” I pulled Mother’s suitcase from under the board she lay on. I was wrong. Inside were fresh, clean clothes. A light dress, silk stockings, shoes without scuffs, her tube of lipstick. There was also a man’s shirt and tie. Papa’s clothes. I began to cry.

  Mrs. Rimas brought her hand to her mouth. “She really intended to return home.”

  I looked at Papa’s shirt. I lifted it to my face. My mother was freezing. She could have worn these clothes. She kept them, to return to Lithuania in a clean set of clothes.

  Mrs. Rimas pulled out the silk dress. “This is lovely. We’ll put this on her.”

  I took Mother’s coat off of her. She had worn the coat since the night we were deported. Stitch marks and stray threads pocked the inside where she had sewn in our valuables. I lifted the fabric of the lining. A few papers remained.

  “Those are deeds to your home and property in Kaunas,” said Mrs. Rimas, looking at the paperwork. “Keep them safe. You’ll need them when you go home.”