Between Shades of Gray(43)

“A toast,” said Mother, lifting the bottle of vodka to Mrs. Arvydas. “To good friends.”

Mrs. Arvydas smiled and nodded. Mother took a small sip from the bottle and then shimmied at the hips, delighted. We all joined in, taking small sips and laughing together, savoring the moment. Andrius leaned back against the wall, watching us and grinning.

That night, I fantasized about Papa joining us for the holiday. I imagined him trudging through the falling snow toward Altai, arriving in time for Christmas with my handkerchief in his breast pocket. Hurry, Papa, I urged. Please hurry.

“Don’t worry, Lina, he’ll be here soon,” said Mother. “He’s getting the hay for the table.”

I stood at the window, looking out into the snow.

Jonas helped Mother in the dining room. “So we’ll have twelve courses tomorrow. We’ll be eating all day.” He smacked his lips.

Mother smoothed the white tablecloth over the dining room table.

“Can I sit next to Grandma?” asked Jonas.

Papa’s dark silhouette emerged on the street before I could protest and argue that I wanted to sit next to Grandma.

“He’s coming!” I shouted. I grabbed my coat. I ran down the front steps and stood in the middle of the street. The small dark figure grew taller as it approached through the low light of dusk and the curtain of falling snow. A tinkling of bells from a horse’s harness floated from the street over.

I heard his voice before I could make out his face. “Now, what sort of sensible girl stands in the middle of the road when it’s snowing?”

“Only one whose father is late,” I teased.

Papa’s face appeared, frosty and red. He carried a small bundle of hay.

“I’m not late,” he said, putting his arm around me. “I’m right on time.”





51


CHRISTMAS EVE ARRIVED. I worked all day chopping wood. Moisture from my nose froze, encrusted around my nostrils. I kept my mind busy trying to remember details about each Christmas at home. No one swallowed their bread ration in line that night. We greeted each other kindly and made our way back to our shacks. Jonas looked somewhat like himself again. We washed our hair in melted snow and scrubbed at our fingernails. Mother pinned her hair up and dotted lipstick on her lips. She rubbed a bit of the red into my cheeks for color.

“It’s not perfect, but we do the best we can,” said Mother, adjusting our clothes and hair.

“Get the family picture,” said Jonas.

The others had the same idea. Photographs of families and loved ones were plentiful in the bald man’s shack. I saw a photo of Mrs. Rimas and her husband. He was short, like her. She was laughing in the photo. She looked so different, strong. Now she drooped, like someone had sucked air out of her. The bald man was particularly quiet.

We sat on the floor as if around a table. There was a white cloth in the center with hay and fir boughs in front of each person. One spot was left empty. A stub of tallow burned in front of it. Lithuanian tradition called for an empty place to be left at the table for family members who were gone or deceased. People placed photographs of their family and friends around the empty seat. I gently set our family photo at the empty setting.

I took out the bundle of food I had been saving and placed it on the table. Some people had small surprises—a potato they had saved or something they had pilfered. The grouchy woman displayed some biscuits she must have bought in the village. Mother thanked her and made a fuss.

“The Arvydas boy and his mother sent this,” said the bald man. “For after dinner.” He tossed something out. It landed with a thud. People gasped. I couldn’t believe it. I was so shocked I started to laugh. It was chocolate. Real chocolate! And the bald man hadn’t eaten it.

Jonas whooped.

“Shh ... Jonas. Not too loud,” said Mother. She looked at the package on the table. “Chocolate! How wonderful. Our cup runneth over.”

The bald man put the bottle of vodka on the table.

“Now, you know better,” scolded Miss Grybas. “Not for Kucios.”

“How the hell should I know?” snapped the bald man.

“Maybe after dinner.” Mother winked.

“I don’t want any part of it,” said the bald man. “I’m Jewish.”

Everyone looked up.

“But ... Mr. Stalas, why didn’t you tell us?” asked Mother.

“Because it’s none of your business,” he snapped.

“But for days we’ve been meeting about Christmas. And you’ve been so kind to let us use your hut. If you had told us, we could have included a Hanukkah celebration,” said Mother.

“Don’t assume I haven’t celebrated the Maccabees,” said the bald man, pointing his finger. “I just don’t blather on about it like you fools.” The room fell quiet. “I don’t wax on about my worship. It’s personal. And honestly, poppy seed soup, bah.”

People shifted uncomfortably. Jonas started to laugh. He hated poppy seed soup. The bald man joined in. Soon we were all laughing hysterically.

We sat for hours at our meal and makeshift table. We sang songs and carols. After much pressing, Mother persuaded the bald man to recite the Hebrew prayer Ma’oz Tzur. His voice lacked its usual pinched tone. He closed his eyes. The words quivered with emotion.