Between Shades of Gray(52)

62


THEY CAME BEFORE sunrise. They burst into our shack waving rifles, just as they had burst into our home ten months before. We had only minutes. This time I was ready.

Ulyushka rose from her pallet. She barked at Mother.

“Stop yelling. We’re leaving,” I told her.

She began handing Mother potatoes, beets, and other food she had stored. She handed Jonas a thick animal hide to put in his suitcase. She gave me a pencil. I couldn’t believe it. Why was she giving us food? Mother tried to hug her. They barely embraced. Ulyushka pushed her away and stomped out.

The NKVD told us to stand and wait outside our shack. The man who wound his watch came walking toward us, suitcase in hand. He was on the list. Mrs. Rimas was behind him, followed by the girl with the dolly, her mother, and a stream of other people. We began a slow procession toward the kolkhoz office, dragging our belongings. Faces looked years older than when we had arrived ten months before. Did I look older, too? Miss Grybas ran to us, crying.

“They’ve sent for you. You’re going to America. I just know it. Please don’t forget about me,” she begged. “Please don’t let me waste away here. I want to go home.”

Mother and Mrs. Rimas hugged Miss Grybas. They assured her they would not forget her. I would never forget her, or the beets she hid under her dress.

We trudged on. I heard Miss Grybas’s crying fade behind us. The grouchy woman walked out of her shack. She held up a withered hand and nodded. Her daughters clung to her legs. I remembered her, hiding the bathroom hole on the train with her girth. She had lost so much weight. My eyes scanned for Andrius. I had Dombey and Son tucked safely in my suitcase, next to our family picture.

A large truck sat near the kolkhoz office. Kretzsky smoked with two NKVD nearby. The commander stood on the porch with an officer I didn’t recognize. They began calling names alphabetically. People climbed into the back of the truck.

“Take care, Jonas,” said Andrius’s voice behind us. “Good-bye, Mrs. Vilkas.”

“Good-bye, Andrius,” said Mother, grasping his hands and kissing his cheeks. “Take care of your mother, dear.”

“She wanted to come but ...”

“I understand. Give her my love,” said Mother.

The NKVD continued reading names off the list.

“Write to me, okay, Jonas?” said Andrius.

“I will,” said Jonas. He extended his small hand for a handshake.

“Take care of these two, okay? Your father and I are counting on you,” said Andrius.

Jonas nodded.

Andrius turned. His eyes found mine. “I’ll see you,” he said.

My face didn’t wrinkle. I didn’t utter a sound. But for the first time in months, I cried. Tears popped from their dry sockets and sailed down my cheeks in one quick stream. I looked away.

The NKVD called the bald man’s name.

“Look at me,” whispered Andrius, moving close. “I’ll see you,” he said. “Just think about that. Just think about me bringing you your drawings. Picture it, because I’ll be there.”

I nodded.

“Vilkas,” the NKVD called.

We walked toward the truck and climbed inside. I looked down at Andrius. He raked through his hair with his fingers. The engine turned and roared. I raised my hand in a wave good-bye.

His lips formed the words “I’ll see you.” He nodded in confirmation.

I nodded back. The back gate slammed and I sat down. The truck lurched forward. Wind began to blow against my face. I pulled my coat closed and put my hands in my pockets. That’s when I felt it. The stone. Andrius had slipped it into my pocket. I stood up to let him know I had found it. He was gone.





ice and ashes





63


WE TRAVELED ALL morning in the truck. The road squirreled a thin line, hidden in the trees. Like Mother, I tried to think of the positive. I thought of Andrius. I could still hear his voice. At least we had left the commander and Kretzsky behind. I hoped we would be somewhere near Krasnoyarsk, closer to Papa.

The truck stopped next to a field. We were allowed to jump off and relieve ourselves in the grass. The NKVD began yelling within a matter of seconds.

“Davai!”

I knew that voice. I looked over. Kretzsky.

Late that afternoon, we reached a train station. A faded sign creaked in the wind. Biysk. Trucks littered the train yard. The scene was unlike the train station when we were deported. In Kaunas, back in June, we were frantic. Panic rose everywhere. People ran and screamed. Now, masses of tired, gray people made their way slowly toward the train cars, like a group of exhausted ants marching toward a hill.

“Everyone stand at the front of the door opening,” instructed the bald man. “Look uncomfortable. Maybe they won’t put more people in here and we’ll have room to breathe.”

I stepped up into the train car. It was different from the previous car, longer. A lamp hung from above. The carriage smelled of sour body odor and urine. I missed the fresh air and the scent of wood from the labor camp. We did as the bald man suggested and crowded near the door. It worked. Two groups of people were steered toward other cars.

“This is filthy,” said Mrs. Rimas.

“What did you expect? A luxury sleeper car?” said the bald man.