Between Shades of Gray(24)

The door to the building opened and Mother emerged. The commander walked out and leaned against the door frame, watching her walk. Mother’s jaw clenched. She nodded as she came toward us. The commander called something to her from the door. She ignored him and grabbed our hands.

“Take us back to the hut,” she said, turning to the blond guard. He didn’t move.

“I know the way,” said Jonas, starting off through the dirt. “Follow me.”

“Are you okay?” I asked Mother once we began walking.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice low.

My shoulders dropped as weight escaped them. “What did he want?”

“Not here,” she said.





30


“THEY WANT ME to work with them,” said Mother once Jonas had returned us to the shack.

“Work with them?” I said.

“Yes, well, they want me to work for them,” she said. “Translating documents, and also speaking with the other Lithuanians who are here,” she said.

I thought of the file that the commander held.

“What will you get for doing it?” asked Jonas.

“I’m not going to be their translator,” said Mother. “I said no. They also asked me to listen to people’s conversations and report them to the commander.”

“To be a snitch?” said Jonas.

“Yes,” said Mother.

“They want you to spy on everyone and report to them?” I asked.

Mother nodded. “They promised preferential treatment if I agreed.”

“Pigs!” I shrieked.

“Lina! Lower your voice,” said Mother.

“They think you would help them after what they’ve done to us?” I said.

“But Mother, maybe you will need the special treatment,” said Jonas with concerned eyes.

“They don’t mean it,” I snapped. “They’re all liars, Jonas. They wouldn’t give her anything.”

“Jonas,” said Mother, stroking my brother’s face. “I can’t trust them. Stalin has told the NKVD that Lithuanians are the enemy. The commander and the guards look at us as beneath them. Do you understand?”

“Andrius already told me that,” said Jonas.

“Andrius is a very smart boy. We must speak only to one another,” said Mother, turning to me, “and please, Lina, be careful with anything you write or draw.”





We dug through our suitcases and organized what we could sell if the need arose. I looked at my copy of The Pickwick Papers. Pages 6-11 were torn out. Page 12 had a smudge of dirt on it.

I grasped the gold picture frame and took it out of the suitcase, staring at my father’s face. I wondered where the handkerchief was. I had to send more.

“Kostas,” said Mother, looking over my shoulder. I handed her the frame. Her index finger lovingly traced my father’s face and then her mother’s. “It’s wonderful that you brought this. You have no idea how it lifts my spirit. Please, keep it safe.”

I opened the tablet of writing paper I had packed. 14 June, 1941. Dear Joana stood alone on the first page, a title without a story. I had written that nearly two months ago, the night we were taken. Where was Joana, and where were the rest of our relatives? What would I write now if I were to finish it? Would I tell her that the Soviets had forced us into cattle cars and held us prisoner for six weeks with barely any food or water? Would I mention that they wanted Mother to spy for them? And what about the baby that died in our car and how the NKVD shot Ona in the head? I heard Mother’s voice, warning me to be careful, but my hand began to move.





31


THE ALTAIAN WOMAN returned and clattered around. She put a pot on the stove. We watched as she boiled two potatoes and gnawed on a stump of bread.

“Mother,” said Jonas, “will there be potatoes for us tonight?”

When we asked, we were told we had to work to earn food.

“If you worked for the NKVD, Mother, would they give you food?” asked Jonas.

“No, my dear. They would give me empty promises,” she replied, “which is worse than an empty belly.”

Mother paid the woman for a single potato, then again for the privilege to boil the potato. It was ridiculous.

“How much money do we have left?” I asked.

“Barely any,” she said.

We tried to sleep, huddled against Mother on the floor of bare boards. The peasant woman slurped and snored, sunken in her bed of straw. Her sour breath filled the small room. Was she born here in Siberia? Had she ever known a life other than this? I stared into the dark and tried to paint images with my mind on the black canvas.

“Open it, darling!”

“I can’t, I’m too nervous,” I told Mother.

“She wanted to wait until you got home,” Mother told Papa. “She’s been holding that envelope for hours.”

“Open it, Lina!” urged Jonas.

“What if they didn’t accept me?” I said, my damp fingers clutching the envelope.

“Well, then you’ll be accepted next year,” said Mother.

“You won’t know as long as the envelope is sealed,” said Papa.

“Open it!” said Jonas, handing the letter opener to me.