Between Shades of Gray(41)

“Can he hear me?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Jonas. You’re going to be all right. We just need to find you something to eat and drink. Hang on, friend, do you hear me?” Jonas lay motionless.

Andrius took a cloth bundle from inside his coat. He unwrapped a small silver can and pulled a pocketknife from his pants. He punctured the top of the can.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He has to eat this,” said Andrius, leaning toward my brother’s face. “Jonas, if you can hear me, open your mouth.”

Jonas didn’t move.

“Jonas,” I said. “Open your mouth. We have something that’s going to help you.”

His lips parted.

“That’s good,” said Andrius. He dipped the blade of the knife into the can. It reappeared with a juicy stewed tomato on it. The back of my jaws cramped. Tomatoes. I began to salivate. As soon as the tomato touched Jonas’s mouth, his lips began to quiver. “Yes, chew it and swallow,” said Andrius. He turned to me. “Do you have any water?”

“Yes, rainwater,” I said.

“Give it to him,” said Andrius. “He has to eat all of this.”

I eyed the can of tomatoes. Juice spilled off of Andrius’s knife and onto his fingers. “Where did you get them?” I asked.

He looked at me, disgusted. “I got them at the corner market. Haven’t you been there?” He stared, then turned away. “Where do you think I got them? I stole them.” He heaped the last of the tomatoes into my brother’s mouth. Jonas drank the juice from the can. Andrius wiped the blade and juice from his fingers on his trousers. I felt my body surge forward toward the juice.

Mother arrived with one of the Siberian shoemakers. Snow was piled atop their heads and shoulders. The woman ran to my brother, speaking quickly in Russian.

“I tried to explain what was wrong,” said Mother, “but she insisted on seeing for herself.”

“Andrius brought a can of tomatoes. He fed them to Jonas,” I said.

“Tomatoes?” gasped Mother. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, dear, and please thank your mother for me.”

The Siberian woman began speaking to Mother.

“There’s a tea she thinks will heal him,” translated Andrius. “She’s asking your mother to help her collect the ingredients.” I nodded.

“Andrius, could you stay a bit longer?” asked Mother. “I know Jonas would feel so much better with you here. Lina, boil some water for the tea.” Mother leaned over my brother. “Jonas, I’ll be right back, darling. I’m going for a tea that will help you.”





49


WE SAT IN SILENCE. Andrius stared at my brother, his fists clenched. What was he thinking? Was he mad that Jonas was sick? Was he mad that his mother was sleeping with the NKVD? Was he mad that his father was dead? Maybe he was just mad at me.

“Andrius.”

He didn’t look at me.

“Andrius, I’m a complete idiot.”

He turned his head.

“You’re so good to us, and I’m ... I’m just an idiot.” I looked down.

He said nothing.

“I jumped to a conclusion. I was stupid. I’m sorry I accused you of spying. I’ve felt horrible.” He remained silent. “Andrius?”

“Okay, you’re sorry,” he said. He looked back to my brother.

“And ... I’m sorry about your mother!” I blurted.

I grabbed my writing tablet. I sat down to finish the drawing of Jonas’s room. At first, I was conscious of the silence. It hung heavy, awkward. As I continued to sketch, I slipped into my drawing. I became absorbed with capturing the folds of the blanket perfectly, softly. The desk and the books had to be just right. Jonas loved his desk and his books. I loved books. How I missed my books.

I held my schoolbag, protecting the books. I couldn’t let it slap and bang in the usual way. After all, Edvard Munch was in my bag. I had waited nearly two months for my teacher to receive the books. They had finally arrived, from Oslo.

I knew my parents wouldn’t appreciate Munch or his style. Some called it “degenerate art.” But as soon as I saw photos of Anxiety, Despair, and The Scream, I had to see more. His works wrenched and distorted, as if painted through neurosis. I was fascinated.

I opened our front door. I saw the solitary envelope and raced toward the foyer table. I tore it open.





Dear Lina, Happy New Year. I’m sorry I haven’t written. Now that the Christmas holiday is passed, life seems on a more serious course. Mother and Father have been arguing. Father is constantly ill-tempered and rarely sleeps. He paces the house through all hours of the night and comes home at lunchtime to get the mail. He’s boxed up most of his books, saying they take up too much space. He even tried to box up some of my medical books. Has he gone mad? Things have changed since the annexation.

Lina, please draw a picture of the cottage in Nida for me. The warm and sunny memories of the summer will help push me through the cold to spring.

Please send me your news and let me know where your thoughts and drawings take you these days.

Your loving cousin,

Joana



“He told me about his airplane,” said Andrius, pointing over my shoulder to the drawing. I had forgotten he was there.