Between Shades of Gray(61)

“Idiots. They built their door so it opened out. When it snowed, they trapped themselves inside. The weaklings couldn’t pull or claw the door down!” Ivanov laughed, slapping his thigh. “Four of them are dead in there! Stupid pigs,” he said to another guard.

Jonas’s mouth hung open. “What are you looking at?” yelled Ivanov. “Get to work.”

I pulled Jonas away from the crying woman and the snowcovered mound.

“He was laughing. Those people died and Ivanov was laughing,” I said.

“Four people died in the very first snowstorm,” said Jonas, looking at his feet. “Maybe more. We need more wood. We have to make it through the winter.”

They split us into groups. I had to walk three kilometers to the tree line to find wood for the NKVD. The bald man was in my group. We trudged through the snow, a dry crunching underfoot.

“How am I expected to walk in this with my bad leg?” complained the bald man.

I tried to rush ahead. I didn’t want to be stuck with him. He would slow me down.

“Don’t you leave me!” he said. “Give me your mittens.”

“What?”

“Give me your mittens. I don’t have any.”

“No. My hands will freeze,” I said, the cold already scraping against my face.

“My hands are already freezing! Give me your mittens. It’s only for a few minutes. You can put your hands in your pockets.”

I thought about my brother offering me his coat, and wondered if I should share my mittens with the bald man.

“Give me your mittens and I’ll tell you something,” he said.

“What are you going to tell me?” I asked, suspicious.

“Something you want to know.”

“What would I want to know from you?” I asked.

“Hurry, give me your mittens.” His teeth chattered.

I walked on, silent.

“Just give me your damn mittens and I’ll tell you why you were deported!”

I stopped and stared at him.

He snatched the mittens off my hands. “Well, don’t just stand there. Keep walking or we’ll freeze to death. Put your hands in your pockets.”

We walked.

“So?”

“You know a Petras Vilkas?” he asked.

Petras Vilkas. My father’s brother. Joana’s father. “Yes,” I said. “He’s my uncle. Joana’s my best friend.”

“Who’s Joana, his daughter?”

I nodded.

“Well, that’s why you’re deported,” he said, rubbing the mittens together. “Your mother knows. She just hasn’t told you. So there you have it.”

“What do you mean, that’s why we’re deported? How do you know?” I asked.

“What does it matter how I know? Your uncle escaped from Lithuania before you were deported.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I? Your aunt’s maiden name was German. So your uncle’s family escaped, probably repatriated through Germany. Your father helped them. He was part of it. So your family was then put on the list. So your father’s in prison, you’ll die here in arctic hell, and your best friend is probably living it up in America by now.”

What was he saying? Joana escaped and went to America? How could that be possible?




“Repatriate, if they can get away with it,” said my father, stopping abruptly when he saw me in the doorway.




Dear Lina, Now that the Christmas holiday is passed, life seems on a more serious course. Father has boxed up most of his books, saying they take up too much space.




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.




“Sweden is preferable,” said Mother.

“It’s not possible,” said Papa. “Germany is their only choice.”

“Who’s going to Germany?” I yelled from the dining room.

Silence.




“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.”





It was possible.

Joana’s freedom had cost me mine.

“I’d give anything for a cigarette,” said the bald man.





74


“BUT WHY DIDN’T you tell me?”

“We were trying to protect your uncle. They were going to help us,” said Mother.

“Help us what?” asked Jonas.

“Escape,” whispered Mother.

There was no need to lower our voices. Everyone pretended to occupy themselves with their fingernails or clothing, but they could hear every word. Only Janina watched intently. She sat on her knees next to Jonas, swatting lice off her eyebrows.

“When they got to Germany, they were going to process papers for us to try to repatriate as well.”

“What’s repatriate?” asked Janina.

“To go back to where your family is originally from,” I told her.