Between Shades of Gray(48)

I spent the day piling wood, imagining the party I’d have if we were still in Lithuania. People in school would wish me a happy birthday. Our family would dress in some of our finest clothes. Papa’s friend would take photographs. We’d go to an expensive restaurant in Kaunas. The day would feel special, different. Joana would send a present.

I thought of my last birthday. Papa was late coming to the restaurant. I told him I had received nothing from Joana. I noticed that he stiffened at the mention of my cousin. “She’s probably just busy,” he had said.

Stalin had taken my home and my father. Now he had taken my birthday. My feet dragged as I walked through the snow after work. I stopped for my ration. Jonas was in line.

“Hurry!” he said. “Mrs. Rimas received a letter from Lithuania. It’s a thick one!”

“Today?” I asked.

“Yes!” he said. “Hurry! Meet me at the bald man’s shack.”

The line moved slowly. I thought about the last time Mrs. Rimas had received a letter. It was warm in her crowded shack. I wondered if Andrius would be there.

I got my ration and ran through the snow to the bald man’s shack. Everyone huddled in a ball. I saw Jonas. I walked up behind him.

“What did I miss?” I whispered.

“Just this,” he said.

The crowd parted. I saw Mother.

“Happy birthday!” everyone yelled.

A lump bobbed in my throat.

“Happy birthday, darling!” said Mother, throwing her arms around me.

“Happy birthday, Lina,” said Jonas. “Did you think we forgot?”

“I did. I thought you forgot.”

“We didn’t forget,” said Mother with a squeeze.

I looked around for Andrius. He wasn’t there.

They sang a birthday song. We sat and ate our bread together. The man who wound his watch told the story of his sixteenth birthday. Mrs. Rimas told of the buttercream frosting she made for cakes. She stood and demonstrated how she’d position the bowl on her hip and whip the spatula. Frosting. I remembered the creamy consistency and sweetness.

“We have a present for you,” said Jonas.

“A present?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not wrapped, but yes, it’s a present,” said Mother.

Mrs. Rimas handed me a bundle. It was a pad of paper and a stub of a pencil.

“Thank you! Where did you get it?” I asked.

“We can’t tell our secrets,” said Mother. “The paper is ruled, but it’s all we could find.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” I said. “It doesn’t matter that it has lines.”

“You’ll draw straighter.” Jonas smiled.

“You must draw something to remember your birthday. This will be a unique one. Soon this will all be a memory,” said Mother.

“A memory, bah. Enough celebration. Get out. I’m tired,” complained the bald man.

“Thank you for hosting my party,” I said.

He grimaced and flapped his hands, pushing us out the door.

We linked arms and started toward Ulyushka’s. I looked up at the frosty gray sky. More snow was on the way.

“Lina.” Andrius stepped out from behind the bald man’s shack.

Mother and Jonas waved and continued on without me.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

I moved toward him. “How did you know?”

“Jonas told me.”

The tip of his nose was red. “You can come inside, you know,” I told him.

“I know.”

“Have you figured out the word in the file?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t come for that. I came ... to give you this.” Andrius revealed something from behind his back. It was wrapped in a cloth. “Happy birthday.”

“You brought me something? Thank you! I don’t even know when your birthday is.”

I took the package. Andrius turned to leave.

“Wait. Sit down,” I said, motioning to a log in front of a shack.

We sat next to each other. Andrius’s brow creased with uncertainty. I pulled the cloth back. I looked at him.

“I ... I don’t know what to say,” I stuttered.

“Say you like it.”

“I do like it!”

I loved it. It was a book. Dickens.

“It’s not The Pickwick Papers. That’s the one I smoked, right?” He laughed. “This one’s Dombey and Son. It was the only Dickens I could find.” He blew into his gloved hands and rubbed them together. His warm breath swirled like smoke in the cold air.

“It’s perfect,” I said. I opened the book. It was printed in Russian.

“So now you have to learn Russian or you won’t be able to read your present,” he said.

I mocked a scowl. “Where did you get it?”

He pulled in a breath, shaking his head.

“Uh-oh. Should we smoke it right away?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I tried to read a bit of it.” He faked a yawn.

I laughed. “Well, Dickens can be a little slow at first.” I stared at the book in my lap. The burgundy binding felt smooth and tight. The title was etched deep in gold print. It was beautiful, a real present, the perfect present. Suddenly, it felt like my birthday.