Between Shades of Gray(49)

I looked at Andrius. “Thank you,” I said. I put my mittens on his cheeks. I pulled his face to mine and kissed him. His nose was cold. His lips were warm and his skin smelled clean. My stomach fluttered. I pulled back, looking at his handsome face, and tried to remember how to breathe. “Really, thank you. It’s a wonderful present.”

Andrius sat on the log, stunned. I stood up.

“It’s November twentieth,” he said.

“What?”

“My birthday.”

“I’ll remember that. Good night.” I turned and walked away. Snow began to fall.

“Don’t smoke it all at once,” I heard behind me.

“I won’t,” I called over my shoulder, hugging my treasure.





59


WE DUG THROUGH the snow and slosh for the sun to reach our little potato patch. The temperatures inched just above freezing according to a thermometer outside the kolkhoz office. I could unbutton my coat.

Mother ran into the hut, her face flushed, gripping an envelope. Her hand trembled. She had received a letter from our housekeeper’s cousin, telling her through coded words that Papa was alive. She held me tight, saying “Yes” and “Thank you” over and over.

The letter made no mention of his location. I looked at the crease within her brow, newly carved since we had been deported. It was unfair to keep it from her. I told Mother that I had seen the file and that Papa was in Krasnoyarsk. Her first reaction was of anger, shocked at the risk I took, but over the following days her posture improved and her voice carried a lilt of happiness. “He’ll find us, Mother, he will!” I told her, thinking of the piece of birch already en route to Papa.

Activity increased in the camp. Deliveries came from Moscow. Andrius said some contained boxes of files. Guards left. New ones arrived. I wished Kretzsky would leave. I hated the constant fear, wondering if he would throw something at me. He did not leave. I noticed he and Andrius spoke from time to time. One day, while I walked to chop wood, trucks arrived with officers. I didn’t recognize them. Their uniforms had different coloring. They walked with a tight gait.

After being forced to draw the commander, I drew whatever I saw or felt. Some drawings, like Munch’s, were full of pain, others hopeful, longing. All were an accurate portrayal and would certainly be considered anti-Soviet. At night I would read half a page of Dombey and Son. I labored over each word. I constantly asked Mother to translate.

“It’s old, very proper Russian,” said Mother. “If you learn to speak from this book, you’ll sound like a scholar.”

Andrius began to meet me in the ration line. I chopped a little harder, hoping the day would move faster. I washed my face at night in the snow. I tried to brush my teeth and comb through my tangled hair.

“So, how many pages have you smoked so far?” his voice whispered behind me.

“Almost ten,” I said over my shoulder.

“You must be nearly fluent in Russian by now,” he teased, pulling on my hat.

“Peerestan,” I said, smiling.

“Stop? Ah, very good. So you really did learn something. What about this word—krasivaya?”

I turned around. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll have to learn it,” said Andrius.

“Okay,” I said. “I will.”

“Without asking your mother,” he said. “Promise?”

“All right,” I said. “Say it again.”

“Krasivaya. Really, you have to learn it on your own.”

“I will.”

“We’ll see,” he said, smiling as he walked away.





60


IT WAS THE FIRST WARM DAY of spring. Andrius met me in the ration line.

“I got through two pages last night, all by myself,” I boasted, taking my chunk of bread.

Andrius wasn’t smiling. “Lina,” he said, taking my arm.

“What?”

“Not here.” We walked away from the line. Andrius didn’t speak. He gently steered me behind a nearby shack.

“What is it?” I asked.

He looked over his shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re moving people,” he whispered.

“The NKVD?”

“Yes.”

“Where?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet.” The light that had bounced through his eyes the day before had disappeared.

“Why are they moving people? How did you find out?”

“Lina,” he said, holding on to my arm. His expression frightened me.

“What is it?”

He took my hand. “You’re on the list.”

“What list?”

“The list of people who are being moved. Jonas and your mother are on it, too.”

“Do they know I took the file?” I asked. He shook his head. “Who told you?”

“That’s all I know,” he said. He looked down. His hand squeezed mine.

I looked at our clasped hands. “Andrius,” I said slowly, “are you on the list?”

He looked up. He shook his head.

I dropped his hand. I ran past the tattered shacks. Mother. I had to tell Mother. Where were they taking us? Was it because we hadn’t signed? Who else was on the list?