Between Shades of Gray(56)

“Mother...,” stammered Jonas.

She walked away, leaving me rubbing my arm.

Jonas stood, shocked by Mother’s outburst.





67


FOR WEEKS, THE BARGES crept farther north up the Angara. We disembarked and rode for days in the back of black trucks through dense forests. We passed enormous fallen trees, with trunks so large the truck could have driven inside them. I saw no human beings. The dark forest seemed to surround us, impenetrable. Where were they taking us? We broiled each day and shivered at night. Blisters healed. We ate everything given to us, thankful we weren’t put to work.

The trucks arrived at Ust Kut, on the River Lena. We waited once again for barges. The bank of the Lena was blanketed with tiny pebbles. It poured rain. The makeshift tents on the bank did nothing to shelter us. I lay on top of my suitcase, protecting Dombey and Son, the stone, my drawings, and our family photo. Janina stood in the rain. She stared at the sky, carrying on conversations with no one. Kretzsky’s boots crunched up and down the bank. He yelled at us to stay in groups. At night, he’d stand staring at the silvery ribbon of moonlight on the Lena, moving only to bring his glowing cigarette to his lips.

My Russian improved. Jonas was still far ahead of me.

After two weeks, the barges arrived and the NKVD once again boarded us to float north.

We left Ust Kut and passed Kirensk.

“We’re traveling north,” said Jonas. “Maybe we really will sail for America.”

“And leave Papa behind?” I asked.

Jonas looked out at the water. He said nothing.

The repeater spoke of nothing but America. He tried to draw maps of the United States, discussing details he had heard from friends or relatives. He needed to believe it was possible.

“In America there are excellent universities in an area they call New England. They say New York is quite fashionable,” said Joana.

“Who says New York is fashionable?” I asked.

“My parents.”

“What do they know of America?” I asked.

“Mother has an uncle there,” said Joana.

“I thought all of Auntie’s family was in Germany,” I said.

“Apparently she has a relative in America. She gets letters from him. He’s in Pennsylvania.”

“Hmph. I don’t much care for America. They certainly lack for art. I can’t name a single American artist who is accomplished.”



“You better not be drawing me,” said the bald man. “I don’t want any pictures drawn of me.”

“Actually, I’m almost finished,” I said, shading in the gray area of his spotted cheeks.

“Tear it up,” he insisted.

“No,” I said. “Don’t worry, I won’t show it to anyone.”

“You won’t, if you know what’s good for you.”

I looked down at my drawing. I had captured his curled lip and the surly expression he always wore. He wasn’t ugly. The deep lines above his brow just made him look cranky.

“Why were you deported?” I asked him. “You said you were a stamp collector. But why would they deport you for collecting stamps?”

“Mind your own business,” he said.

“Where is your family?” I pressed.

“I said it’s none of your business,” he snapped, pointing his crooked finger at me. “And if you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep your drawings out of sight, you hear me?”

Janina sat down next to me.

“You’ll never be a famous artist,” said the bald man.

“Yes, she will,” argued Janina.

“No, she won’t. You know why? Because she’s not dead. But maybe there’s still hope for that. America, bah.”

I stared at him.

“My dolly’s dead,” said Janina.





68


WE APPROACHED JAKUTSK.

“Now we shall see. We shall see,” said the repeater, fidgeting. “If we disembark here, we will not go to America. We will not go.”

“Where would we go?” asked Jonas.

“To the Kolyma region,” said the bald man. “To the prisons, maybe Magadan.”

“We’re not going to Magadan,” said Mother. “Stop such talk, Mr. Stalas.”

“Not Kolyma, no, not Kolyma,” said the repeater.

The barges slowed. We were coming to a stop.

“No, please, no,” whispered Jonas.

Mrs. Rimas began to cry. “I can’t be in prison this far from my husband.”

Janina tugged at my sleeve. “Liale says we’re not going to Kolyma.”

“What?” I said.

“She says we’re not going.” She shrugged.

We crowded near the edge of the barge. Some of the NKVD disembarked. Kretzsky was among them. He carried a rucksack. A commander met the guards on the shore. We watched as they checked assignments.

“Look,” said Jonas. “Some of the NKVD are loading supplies onto the boat.”

“So we’re not getting off here?” I asked.

Suddenly, voices rose from the bank. It was Kretzsky. He was arguing with a commander. I understood the commander. He told Kretzsky to get back on the barge.