Between Shades of Gray(33)

“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 me 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?”

“Andrius, I—”

“No, you have no idea. You have no idea how much I hate myself for putting my mother through this, how every day I think of ending my life so she can be free. But instead, my mother and I are using our misfortune to keep others alive. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? You’re too selfish and self-centered. Poor you, digging all day long. You’re just a spoiled kid.” He turned and walked away.