Janina tapped the bald man on the shoulder. “I heard you’re a Jew,” she said.
“That’s what you heard, eh?” said the bald man.
“Is it true?” asked Janina.
“Yes. I heard you’re a little brat, is that true?”
Janina paused, thinking. “No, I don’t think so. Did you know Hitler and the Nazis might kill the Jews? My mama said that.”
“Your mother’s wrong. Hitler is killing the Jews.”
“But why?” asked Jonas.
“The Jews are the scapegoat for all of Germany’s problems,” said the bald man. “Hitler’s convinced racial purity is the answer. It’s too complicated for children to understand.”
“So you’re here with us, rather than with the Nazis?” asked Jonas.
“You think I’d choose this? Under Hitler or Stalin, this war will end us all. Lithuania is caught in the middle. You heard the man. The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. The United States may already be allied with the Soviets. Enough talk. Be quiet,” said the bald man.
“We’re going to America,” said the repeater. “America.”
65
AFTER A WEEK, the train stopped late at night. Mrs. Rimas said she saw a sign that said Makarov. They herded us out of the carriages. The open air swirled around my face, clean, fresh. I breathed in through my nose and exhaled through my dry lips. The guards directed us toward a large building four hundred yards away. We dragged our filthy belongings from the train. Mother collapsed in the dirt.
“Lift her, quickly,” said Mrs. Rimas, looking around for the guards. “If they would shoot a grieving mother, they might shoot a woman with loose legs.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m just tired,” said Mother. Mrs. Rimas and I helped Mother walk. Jonas dragged our suitcases. Mother stumbled again near the building.
“Davai!” Two NKVD approached, clutching rifles. Mother wasn’t moving fast enough.
They marched toward us. Mother straightened up. One of the NKVD spit in the dirt. The other looked at her. My stomach dropped. Kretzsky. He had traveled with us.
“Nikolai,” Mother said weakly.
Kretzsky pointed in another direction. He marched away toward a group of people.
The building felt large, like an enormous barn. There must have been a thousand of us. We were too tired to speak. We fell to the ground on our belongings. My muscles released their clench. The stillness of the ground felt wonderful, as if a hand had stopped a metronome. The screeching of the rails had finally ended. I put my arm around my suitcase, hugging Dombey and Son. It was quiet. We lay in our rags and slept.
Morning broke. I felt Janina breathing, nestled against my back. Jonas sat on top of his suitcase. He nodded at me. I looked at Mother. She slept soundly, her face and arms on her suitcase.
“She called him Nikolai,” said Jonas.
“What?” I asked.
Jonas began pacing. “Kretzsky. Did you hear her? Last night, she called him Nikolai.”
“Is that his first name?” I asked.
“Exactly. I don’t know. How does she know?” snapped Jonas. “Why did he come with us?” Jonas kicked at the dirt.
The NKVD arrived with bread and buckets of mushroom soup. We woke Mother and dug in our bags for a cup or a dish.
“They are preparing us, preparing,” said the repeater. “We shall feast every day in America. Every day.”
“Why are they feeding us?” I asked.
“To strengthen us for work,” said Jonas.
“Eat every last bit,” instructed Mother.
After the meal, the guards began rounding up groups. Mother strained to hear.
She laughed weakly. “We’re going to bathe. We’ll be able to bathe!”
We scurried toward a large wooden bathhouse. Mother’s stride had steadied. We were divided at the gate into male and female groups.
“Wait for us,” Mother told Jonas.
We were instructed to take off our clothes and give them to Siberian men working at the door. All modesty dissolved. The women quickly undressed. They wanted to be clean. I looked down, hesitating.
“Hurry, Lina!”
I didn’t want them to touch me, to look at me. My arms folded over my breasts.
Mother spoke to one of the men. “He says we must hurry, that this is a travel stop. A large group is coming later today. He says that Latvians, Estonians, and Ukranians have already passed through,” said Mother. “It’s okay, darling, really.”
The men didn’t seem to be paying any attention. Of course not. Our shrunken bodies appeared almost androgynous. I hadn’t had a period in months. Nothing about me felt feminine. A piece of pork or a foamy beer would be more alluring to men.
After our showers, we were put on a truck with our belongings. They drove us several kilometers through the woods until we arrived at the bank of the Angara River.
“Why are we here?” asked Jonas.
Large wooden sheds dotted the bank. Tucked near the trees was a large NKVD building.
“They’re putting us on boats. Don’t you see? We’re going to America. America!” said the repeater. “We’re traveling up the Angara to the Lena and then across the sea to the Bering Strait. The Bering Strait.”
“That journey would take months,” said the man who wound his watch.
America? How could we leave Papa behind in a prison in Krasnoyarsk? How would I get my drawings to him? And what about the war? What if other countries became allies with Stalin? I saw Andrius’s face, when he told me we were on the list. Something about his expression told me we weren’t going to America.
66
THE BOATS WERE delayed. We waited on the stony banks of the Angara River for more than a week. They fed us barley porridge. I couldn’t figure out why they were feeding us more than bread. It was not out of kindness. Our strength would be needed, but what for? We sat in the sun, as if on vacation. I drew for Papa and wrote to Andrius every day. I drew on small scraps of paper so as not to be noticed and hid them between the pages of Dombey and Son. An Estonian woman noticed me drawing and gave me additional paper.
We hauled logs, but only for our nightly bonfires. We sat around the crackling fires and sang Lithuanian songs. The entire forest echoed in song from the people of the Baltics singing of their homeland. Two women were chosen to travel to Tcheremchov by train to help carry supplies back for the NKVD. They mailed our letters for us.
“Please, could you take this to Tcheremchov and pass it along to someone?” I handed a slat of wood to the woman.
“It’s lovely. The flowers—you’ve done a beautiful job. I had rue flowers in my backyard at home,” she said, sighing. She looked up at me. “Your father is in Krasnoyarsk?”
I nodded.
“Lina, please don’t get your hopes up. Krasnoyarsk is a long way from here,” said Mother.
One day, after sitting in the sun, Mother and I waded into the Angara. We ran out of the water, laughing. Our clothes clung tightly to our thin bodies.
“Cover yourself!” said Jonas, looking around.
“What do you mean?” said Mother, pulling at the wet fabric clinging to her.
“They’re watching,” said Jonas, motioning with his head to the NKVD.
“Jonas, they have no interest. Look at us. We’re hardly glamorous,” said Mother, wringing water from her hair. I wrapped my arms around my torso.
“They found Mrs. Arvydas interesting. Maybe he finds you interesting,” said Jonas.
Mother’s hands dropped. “What are you talking of? Who?”
“Nikolai,” said Jonas.
“Kretzsky?” I said. “What about him?”
“Ask Mother,” said Jonas.
“Stop it, Jonas. We don’t know Nikolai,” said Mother.
I faced Mother. “Why do you call him Nikolai? How do you know his name?”
Mother looked from me to Jonas. “I asked him his name,” she said.
My stomach dropped. Was Jonas right? “But Mother, he’s a mon
ster,” I said, wiping water from the scar on my forehead.
She moved in closer, wringing out her skirt. “We don’t know what he is.”
I snorted. “He’s a—”
Mother grabbed my arm. Pain shot up into my shoulder. She spoke through clenched teeth. “We don’t know. Do you hear me? We don’t know what he is. He’s a boy. He’s just a boy.” Mother let go of my arm. “And I’m not lying with him,” she spat at Jonas. “How dare you imply such a thing.”
“Mother...,” stammered Jonas.
She walked away, leaving me rubbing my arm.
Jonas stood, shocked by Mother’s outburst.
67
FOR WEEKS, THE BARGES crept farther north up the Angara. We disembarked and rode for days in the back of black trucks through dense forests. We passed enormous fallen trees, with trunks so large the truck could have driven inside them. I saw no human beings. The dark forest seemed to surround us, impenetrable. Where were they taking us? We broiled each day and shivered at night. Blisters healed. We ate everything given to us, thankful we weren’t put to work.
The trucks arrived at Ust Kut, on the River Lena. We waited once again for barges. The bank of the Lena was blanketed with tiny pebbles. It poured rain. The makeshift tents on the bank did nothing to shelter us. I lay on top of my suitcase, protecting Dombey and Son, the stone, my drawings, and our family photo. Janina stood in the rain. She stared at the sky, carrying on conversations with no one. Kretzsky’s boots crunched up and down the bank. He yelled at us to stay in groups. At night, he’d stand staring at the silvery ribbon of moonlight on the Lena, moving only to bring his glowing cigarette to his lips.
My Russian improved. Jonas was still far ahead of me.
After two weeks, the barges arrived and the NKVD once again boarded us to float north.
We left Ust Kut and passed Kirensk.
“We’re traveling north,” said Jonas. “Maybe we really will sail for America.”
“And leave Papa behind?” I asked.
Jonas looked out at the water. He said nothing.
The repeater spoke of nothing but America. He tried to draw maps of the United States, discussing details he had heard from friends or relatives. He needed to believe it was possible.
“In America there are excellent universities in an area they call New England. They say New York is quite fashionable,” said Joana.
“Who says New York is fashionable?” I asked.
“My parents.”
“What do they know of America?” I asked.
“Mother has an uncle there,” said Joana.
“I thought all of Auntie’s family was in Germany,” I said.
“Apparently she has a relative in America. She gets letters from him. He’s in Pennsylvania.”
“Hmph. I don’t much care for America. They certainly lack for art. I can’t name a single American artist who is accomplished.”
“You better not be drawing me,” said the bald man. “I don’t want any pictures drawn of me.”
“Actually, I’m almost finished,” I said, shading in the gray area of his spotted cheeks.
“Tear it up,” he insisted.
“No,” I said. “Don’t worry, I won’t show it to anyone.”
“You won’t, if you know what’s good for you.”
I looked down at my drawing. I had captured his curled lip and the surly expression he always wore. He wasn’t ugly. The deep lines above his brow just made him look cranky.
“Why were you deported?” I asked him. “You said you were a stamp collector. But why would they deport you for collecting stamps?”
“Mind your own business,” he said.
“Where is your family?” I pressed.
“I said it’s none of your business,” he snapped, pointing his crooked finger at me. “And if you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep your drawings out of sight, you hear me?”
Janina sat down next to me.
“You’ll never be a famous artist,” said the bald man.
“Yes, she will,” argued Janina.
“No, she won’t. You know why? Because she’s not dead. But maybe there’s still hope for that. America, bah.”
I stared at him.
“My dolly’s dead,” said Janina.
68
WE APPROACHED JAKUTSK.
“Now we shall see. We shall see,” said the repeater, fidgeting. “If we disembark here, we will not go to America. We will not go.”
“Where would we go?” asked Jonas.
“To the Kolyma region,” said the bald man. “To the prisons, maybe Magadan.”
“We’re not going to Magadan,” said Mother. “Stop such talk, Mr. Stalas.”
“Not Kolyma, no, not Kolyma,” said the repeater.
The barges slowed. We were coming to a stop.
“No, please, no,” whispered Jonas.
Mrs. Rimas began to cry. “I can’t be in prison this far from my husband.”
Janina tugged at my sleeve. “Liale says we’re not going to Kolyma.”
“What?” I said.
“She says we’re not going.” She shrugged.
We crowded near the edge of the barge. Some of the NKVD disembarked. Kretzsky was among them. He carried a rucksack. A commander met the guards on the shore. We watched as they checked assignments.
“Look,” said Jonas. “Some of the NKVD are loading supplies onto the boat.”
“So we’re not getting off here?” I asked.
Suddenly, voices rose from the bank. It was Kretzsky. He was arguing with a commander. I understood the commander. He told Kretzsky to get back on the barge.
“Kretzsky wants to stay,” said Jonas.
“Good, let him stay,” I said.
Kretzsky flailed his arms at the commander, who pointed back at the boat.
Mother sighed and looked down. Kretzsky turned back toward the barge. He wasn’t leaving. He was coming with us, wherever we were going.
The passengers cheered and embraced as the barge pulled away from Jakutsk.
A week later spirits were still buoyant. People sang on the deck of the barge. Someone played an accordion. Kretzsky stormed through the crowd, shoving people aside. “What’s wrong with you? Are you all imbeciles? You cheer as if you’re going to America. Fools!” he yelled.
The elation collapsed to murmurs.
“America. America?” said the repeater quietly.
Where were they taking us? It was already August. Temperatures dropped as we sailed northward. It felt like late October, not summer. The forests along the bank of the Lena thinned.
“We’ve crossed into the Arctic Circle,” announced the man who wound his watch.
“What?” gasped Jonas. “How can that be? Where are they taking us?”
“That is correct,” said the repeater. “We’ll go to the mouth of the Lena and get on huge steamships to America. Steamships.”
The barges stopped in Bulun and Stolbai in the Arctic. We watched as large groups were herded off the barge and simply left standing on the deserted shore as we pulled away. We sailed on.
In late August we reached the mouth of the River Lena. The temperature was just above freezing. The icy waves of the Laptev Sea crashed against the barge as it was moored to the shore.
“Davai!” yelled the guards, jabbing us with the butts of their rifles.
“They’re going to drown us,” said the bald man. “They’ve brought us all this way to drown us and get rid of us here.”
“Dear God, no,” said Mrs. Rimas.
The NKVD threw a wooden plank against the side of the barge. They pushed the children down the plank, screaming for them to hurry.
“Hurry, where? There’s nothing here,” said Mother.
She was right. It was completely uninhabited, not a single bush or tree, just barren dirt to a shore of endless water. We were surrounded by nothing but polar tundra and the Laptev Sea. The wind whipped. Sand blew into my mouth and stung my eyes. I clutched my suitcase
and looked around. The NKVD made their way to two brick buildings near a cluster of trees. How would we all fit? There were more than three hundred of us.
Kretzsky argued with some of the NKVD, repeating that he had to go to Jakutsk. An NKVD with greasy hair and brown crooked teeth stopped us.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“To the buildings,” said Mother.
“Those are for the officers,” he snapped.
“And where are we supposed to stay?” asked Mother. “Where is the village?”
The guard waved his arms wide. “This is the village. You have the whole village for yourself.” The other NKVD laughed.
“Excuse me?” said Mother.
“What, you don’t like it? You think you’re too good for this? Fascist pig. Pigs sleep in the mud. Didn’t you know that? But before you sleep, you have to finish the bakery and build a fish factory.” He moved closer to Mother. His corroded teeth protruded from under his top lip. “You fascists like fish, don’t you? You pigs disgust me.” He spit on her chest and walked away. “You don’t even deserve the mud,” he yelled over his shoulder.
They made us carry bricks and wood from the barge. We filed in and out of the barge’s deep hold, carrying as many bricks as we could. It took ten hours to unload the barges. In addition to bricks and wood, we carried barrels of kerosene, flour, and even small fishing boats, all for the NKVD. My arms trembled with fatigue.
“Liale says we’re not going to America,” announced Janina.
“No kidding. Did your ghost doll tell you we’d be here?” demanded the bald man. He pointed to a sign, crisped and faded from the weather.
Trofimovsk. The very top of the Arctic Circle, near the North Pole.
69
WE HUDDLED TOGETHER and pulled our coats tight for warmth. I longed for the labor camp, for Ulyushka’s hut, for Andrius. The steamer’s whistle shrieked and pulled the barges back down the Lena. Were they going to pick up more people?
“How will you mail letters to Papa from here?” asked Jonas.
“There has to be a village close by,” said Mother.
I thought of the piece of wood, handed off in Tcheremchov. Something had to have made its way to Papa by now.