I worried about Andrius, hoping he was able to return the file unnoticed. And what was the word that he had pointed to, the one he thought was “offense” or “charge”? I refused to believe that Papa had done something wrong. I turned it over in my head. Mrs. Raskunas worked at the university with Papa. She wasn’t deported. I saw her peeking out of her window the night we were taken away. So not everyone from the university was deported. Why Papa? I wanted to tell Mother that Papa was sent to Krasnoyarsk, but I couldn’t. She’d be too worried about him being in prison, and she’d be angry that I had stolen the file. She would also worry about Andrius having it. I worried about Andrius.
That night, I tore more drawings from my tablet and hid them with the others under my suitcase lining. I had two pages left. My pencil hovered around the edge of the paper. I looked up. Mother and Jonas spoke quietly. I rolled the pencil between my fingers. I drew a collar. A snake began to draw itself, coiling upward. I quickly scratched it out.
The next afternoon I saw Andrius on my way back from work. I scanned his face for news of the file. He nodded. My shoulders relaxed. He had returned it. But had he found the meaning of the word? I smiled at him. He shook his head, annoyed, but kind of smiled, too.
I found a thin, flat piece of birch and brought it back to our hut. At night, I decorated the edges with Lithuanian embroidery patterns. I drew a picture of our house in Kaunas on it, along with other symbols of Lithuania. On the bottom I wrote, “Deliver to Krasnoyarsk Prison. With love from Miss Altai.” I included my scribble signature, along with the date.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” asked the grouchy woman when I approached her.
“Just give it to a Lithuanian you see in the village,” I said. “Tell them to pass it on. It has to get to Krasnoyarsk.”
The grouchy woman looked at my drawings of the Lithuanian coat of arms, Trakai Castle, our patron saint, Casimir, and the stork, the national bird of Lithuania.
“Here,” I said, extending a tattered piece of clothing bunched in my hand. “Maybe one of your girls can use this underskirt. I know it’s not much, but—”
“Keep your slip,” said the grouchy woman, still looking at my drawings. “I’ll pass it along.”
58
MARCH 22. MY SIXTEENTH birthday. My forgotten birthday. Mother and Jonas left the shack for work. Neither acknowledged my birthday. What did I expect, a celebration? We barely had a scrap to eat. Mother traded what she could for stamps to mail letters to Papa. I wouldn’t say anything about it to Mother. She would feel horrible for having forgotten. The month before, I had reminded her it was Grandma’s birthday. She felt guilty for days. After all, how could she forget her own mother’s birthday?
I spent the day piling wood, imagining the party I’d have if we were still in Lithuania. People in school would wish me a happy birthday. Our family would dress in some of our finest clothes. Papa’s friend would take photographs. We’d go to an expensive restaurant in Kaunas. The day would feel special, different. Joana would send a present.
I thought of my last birthday. Papa was late coming to the restaurant. I told him I had received nothing from Joana. I noticed that he stiffened at the mention of my cousin. “She’s probably just busy,” he had said.
Stalin had taken my home and my father. Now he had taken my birthday. My feet dragged as I walked through the snow after work. I stopped for my ration. Jonas was in line.
“Hurry!” he said. “Mrs. Rimas received a letter from Lithuania. It’s a thick one!”
“Today?” I asked.
“Yes!” he said. “Hurry! Meet me at the bald man’s shack.”
The line moved slowly. I thought about the last time Mrs. Rimas had received a letter. It was warm in her crowded shack. I wondered if Andrius would be there.
I got my ration and ran through the snow to the bald man’s shack. Everyone huddled in a ball. I saw Jonas. I walked up behind him.
“What did I miss?” I whispered.
“Just this,” he said.
The crowd parted. I saw Mother.
“Happy birthday!” everyone yelled.
A lump bobbed in my throat.
“Happy birthday, darling!” said Mother, throwing her arms around me.
“Happy birthday, Lina,” said Jonas. “Did you think we forgot?”
“I did. I thought you forgot.”
“We didn’t forget,” said Mother with a squeeze.
I looked around for Andrius. He wasn’t there.
They sang a birthday song. We sat and ate our bread together. The man who wound his watch told the story of his sixteenth birthday. Mrs. Rimas told of the buttercream frosting she made for cakes. She stood and demonstrated how she’d position the bowl on her hip and whip the spatula. Frosting. I remembered the creamy consistency and sweetness.
“We have a present for you,” said Jonas.
“A present?” I asked.
“Well, it’s not wrapped, but yes, it’s a present,” said Mother.
Mrs. Rimas handed me a bundle. It was a pad of paper and a stub of a pencil.
“Thank you! Where did you get it?” I asked.
“We can’t tell our secrets,” said Mother. “The paper is ruled, but it’s all we could find.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” I said. “It doesn’t matter that it has lines.”
“You’ll draw straighter.” Jonas smiled.
“You must draw something to remember your birthday. This will be a unique one. Soon this will all be a memory,” said Mother.
“A memory, bah. Enough celebration. Get out. I’m tired,” complained the bald man.
“Thank you for hosting my party,” I said.
He grimaced and flapped his hands, pushing us out the door.
We linked arms and started toward Ulyushka’s. I looked up at the frosty gray sky. More snow was on the way.
“Lina.” Andrius stepped out from behind the bald man’s shack.
Mother and Jonas waved and continued on without me.
“Happy birthday,” he said.
I moved toward him. “How did you know?”
“Jonas told me.”
The tip of his nose was red. “You can come inside, you know,” I told him.
“I know.”
“Have you figured out the word in the file?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t come for that. I came ... to give you this.” Andrius revealed something from behind his back. It was wrapped in a cloth. “Happy birthday.”
“You brought me something? Thank you! I don’t even know when your birthday is.”
I took the package. Andrius turned to leave.
“Wait. Sit down,” I said, motioning to a log in front of a shack.
We sat next to each other. Andrius’s brow creased with uncertainty. I pulled the cloth back. I looked at him.
“I ... I don’t know what to say,” I stuttered.
“Say you like it.”
“I do like it!”
I loved it. It was a book. Dickens.
“It’s not The Pickwick Papers. That’s the one I smoked, right?” He laughed. “This one’s Dombey and Son. It was the only Dickens I could find.” He blew into his gloved hands and rubbed them together. His warm breath swirled like smoke in the cold air.
“It’s perfect,” I said. I opened the book. It was printed in Russian.
“So now you have to learn Russian or you won’t be able to read your present,” he said.
I mocked a scowl. “Where did you get it?”
He pulled in a breath, shaking his head.
“Uh-oh. Should we smoke it right away?”
“Maybe,” he said. “I tried to read a bit of it.” He faked a yawn.
I laughed. “Well, Dickens can be a little slow at first.” I stared at the book in my lap. The burgundy binding felt smooth and tight. The title was etched deep in gold print. It was beautiful, a real present, the perfect present. Suddenly, it felt like my birthday.
I looked at Andrius. “Thank
you,” I said. I put my mittens on his cheeks. I pulled his face to mine and kissed him. His nose was cold. His lips were warm and his skin smelled clean. My stomach fluttered. I pulled back, looking at his handsome face, and tried to remember how to breathe. “Really, thank you. It’s a wonderful present.”
Andrius sat on the log, stunned. I stood up.
“It’s November twentieth,” he said.
“What?”
“My birthday.”
“I’ll remember that. Good night.” I turned and walked away. Snow began to fall.
“Don’t smoke it all at once,” I heard behind me.
“I won’t,” I called over my shoulder, hugging my treasure.
59
WE DUG THROUGH the snow and slosh for the sun to reach our little potato patch. The temperatures inched just above freezing according to a thermometer outside the kolkhoz office. I could unbutton my coat.
Mother ran into the hut, her face flushed, gripping an envelope. Her hand trembled. She had received a letter from our housekeeper’s cousin, telling her through coded words that Papa was alive. She held me tight, saying “Yes” and “Thank you” over and over.
The letter made no mention of his location. I looked at the crease within her brow, newly carved since we had been deported. It was unfair to keep it from her. I told Mother that I had seen the file and that Papa was in Krasnoyarsk. Her first reaction was of anger, shocked at the risk I took, but over the following days her posture improved and her voice carried a lilt of happiness. “He’ll find us, Mother, he will!” I told her, thinking of the piece of birch already en route to Papa.
Activity increased in the camp. Deliveries came from Moscow. Andrius said some contained boxes of files. Guards left. New ones arrived. I wished Kretzsky would leave. I hated the constant fear, wondering if he would throw something at me. He did not leave. I noticed he and Andrius spoke from time to time. One day, while I walked to chop wood, trucks arrived with officers. I didn’t recognize them. Their uniforms had different coloring. They walked with a tight gait.
After being forced to draw the commander, I drew whatever I saw or felt. Some drawings, like Munch’s, were full of pain, others hopeful, longing. All were an accurate portrayal and would certainly be considered anti-Soviet. At night I would read half a page of Dombey and Son. I labored over each word. I constantly asked Mother to translate.
“It’s old, very proper Russian,” said Mother. “If you learn to speak from this book, you’ll sound like a scholar.”
Andrius began to meet me in the ration line. I chopped a little harder, hoping the day would move faster. I washed my face at night in the snow. I tried to brush my teeth and comb through my tangled hair.
“So, how many pages have you smoked so far?” his voice whispered behind me.
“Almost ten,” I said over my shoulder.
“You must be nearly fluent in Russian by now,” he teased, pulling on my hat.
“Peerestan,” I said, smiling.
“Stop? Ah, very good. So you really did learn something. What about this word—krasivaya?”
I turned around. “What does that mean?”
“You’ll have to learn it,” said Andrius.
“Okay,” I said. “I will.”
“Without asking your mother,” he said. “Promise?”
“All right,” I said. “Say it again.”
“Krasivaya. Really, you have to learn it on your own.”
“I will.”
“We’ll see,” he said, smiling as he walked away.
60
IT WAS THE FIRST WARM DAY of spring. Andrius met me in the ration line.
“I got through two pages last night, all by myself,” I boasted, taking my chunk of bread.
Andrius wasn’t smiling. “Lina,” he said, taking my arm.
“What?”
“Not here.” We walked away from the line. Andrius didn’t speak. He gently steered me behind a nearby shack.
“What is it?” I asked.
He looked over his shoulder.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re moving people,” he whispered.
“The NKVD?”
“Yes.”
“Where?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet.” The light that had bounced through his eyes the day before had disappeared.
“Why are they moving people? How did you find out?”
“Lina,” he said, holding on to my arm. His expression frightened me.
“What is it?”
He took my hand. “You’re on the list.”
“What list?”
“The list of people who are being moved. Jonas and your mother are on it, too.”
“Do they know I took the file?” I asked. He shook his head. “Who told you?”
“That’s all I know,” he said. He looked down. His hand squeezed mine.
I looked at our clasped hands. “Andrius,” I said slowly, “are you on the list?”
He looked up. He shook his head.
I dropped his hand. I ran past the tattered shacks. Mother. I had to tell Mother. Where were they taking us? Was it because we hadn’t signed? Who else was on the list?
“Lina, calm yourself!” said Mother. “Slow down.”
“They’re taking us away. Andrius said so,” I panted.
“Maybe we’re going home,” said Jonas.
“Exactly!” said Mother. “Maybe we’re going someplace better.”
“Maybe we’re going to be with Papa,” said Jonas.
“Mother, we haven’t signed. You didn’t see the look on Andrius’s face,” I said.
“Where is Andrius?” asked Jonas.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s not on the list.”
Mother left the shack to find Andrius and Mrs. Rimas. I paced the floor.
The floorboards creaked, complaining of Papa’s pacing.
“Sweden is preferable,” said Mother.
“It’s not possible,” explained Papa. “Germany is their only choice.”
“Kostas, we have to help,” said Mother.
“We are helping. They’ll take a train to Poland, and we’ll arrange passage to Germany from there.”
“And the papers?” asked Mother.
“Arranged.”
“I would feel better if it were Sweden,” said Mother.
“It cannot be. It’s Germany.”
“Who’s going to Germany?” I yelled from the dining room.
Silence.
“Lina, I didn’t know you were in here,” said Mother, coming out of the kitchen.
“I’m doing my homework.”
“A colleague of your father’s is going to Germany,” said
Mother.
“I’ll be back for dinner.” Papa kissed Mother on the cheek and rushed out the back door.
News of the impending move burned through the camp like a spark riding gasoline. People dashed in and out of huts. Speculations flew. Stories changed each minute. Others cropped up the next. Someone claimed additional NKVD had arrived in camp. Someone else said they saw a group of NKVD loading their rifles. No one knew the truth.
Ulyushka threw open the door of the shack. She spoke to Jonas and quickly exited.
“She’s looking for Mother,” said Jonas.
“Does she know something?” I asked.
Miss Grybas ran into our shack. “Where is your mother?” she asked.
“She went to find Andrius and Mrs. Rimas,” I said.
“Mrs. Rimas is with us. Bring your mother to the bald man’s shack.”
We waited. I didn’t know what to do. Should I put everything in my suitcase? Were we really leaving? Could Jonas be right? Could we be going home? We hadn’t signed. I couldn’t shake the image of concern on Andrius’s face when he told me we were on the list. How did he know we were on it? How did he know he wasn’t?
Mother returned. People stood elbow-to-elbow in the bald man’s shack. The volume grew as we entered.
&nbs
p; “Shh,” said the man who wound his watch. “Everyone, please sit down. Let’s hear from Elena.”
“It’s true,” said Mother. “There is a list and there is word of moving people.”
“How did Andrius find out about it?” asked Jonas.
“Mrs. Arvydas received some information.” Mother looked away. “I don’t know how she came by it. I am on the list. So are my children. Mrs. Rimas is on the list. Miss Grybas, you are not on the list. That’s all I know.”
People quickly began asking if they were on the list.
“Stop your yapping. She said that’s all she knows,” said the bald man.
“Interesting,” said the man who wound his watch. “Miss Grybas is not on the list. She hasn’t signed. So it’s not just those who refuse to sign.”
“Please,” choked Miss Grybas, “don’t leave me here.”
“Quit blubbering. We don’t know what’s happening yet,” said the bald man.
I tried to find the pattern. How were they sorting us for the impending move? But there wasn’t a pattern. Stalin’s psychology of terror seemed to rely on never knowing what to expect.
“We must be prepared,” said Mr. Lukas, winding his watch. “Think of the journey we had in coming here. We’re not nearly as strong. If we are to face that journey again, we must be prepared.”
“You don’t think they’ll put us back in the train cars, do you?” gasped Mrs. Rimas. A wave of cries rippled through the group.
How could we be prepared? None of us had food. We were malnourished, weak. We had sold nearly all of our valuables.
“If it is true, and I am not leaving, I will sign the papers,” announced Miss Grybas.
“No! You mustn’t!” I said.
“Stop,” said Mrs. Rimas. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m thinking very clearly,” said Miss Grybas, sniffing back tears. “If you and Elena are gone, I will be nearly alone. If I sign, they will allow me to teach the children in the camp. Even if my Russian is poor, I can still teach. And if I’m alone, I’ll need to have access to the village. They’ll grant access only if I sign. That way, I can continue writing letters for all of us. It must be done.”