Between Shades of Gray(68)

Mrs. Rimas brought her hand to her mouth. “She really intended to return home.”

I looked at Papa’s shirt. I lifted it to my face. My mother was freezing. She could have worn these clothes. She kept them, to return to Lithuania in a clean set of clothes.

Mrs. Rimas pulled out the silk dress. “This is lovely. We’ll put this on her.”

I took Mother’s coat off of her. She had worn the coat since the night we were deported. Stitch marks and stray threads pocked the inside where she had sewn in our valuables. I lifted the fabric of the lining. A few papers remained.

“Those are deeds to your home and property in Kaunas,” said Mrs. Rimas, looking at the paperwork. “Keep them safe. You’ll need them when you go home.”

There was another small piece of paper. I unfolded it.

It was an address in Biberach, Germany.

“Germany. That has to be where my cousin is.”

“Probably, but you mustn’t write to that address,” said Mrs. Rimas. “It could get them in trouble.”

That night, Jonas and I stole shovels and ice picks from outside the NKVD barracks. “It has to be someplace we’ll remember,” I told him. “Because we’re taking her body back to Lithuania with us.” We walked to a little hill near the Laptev Sea.

“This has a nice view,” said Jonas. “We’ll remember this.”

We dug all night, chipping away at the ice, digging as deep as we could. As morning approached, Mrs. Rimas and the man who wound his watch arrived to help. Even Janina and the bald man came to dig. The ice was so hard, the grave was fairly shallow.

The next morning Mrs. Rimas slipped Mother’s wedding band off her finger. “Keep this. Bury it with her when you take her back home.”

We carried the coffin out of the jurta and walked slowly through the snow toward the hill. Jonas and I held the front, Mrs. Rimas and the man who wound his watch held the center, and the bald man carried the back. Janina trailed beside me. People joined us. I didn’t know them. They prayed for Mother. Soon, a large procession walked behind us. We passed the NKVD barracks. Kretzsky talked with guards on the porch. He saw us and stopped talking. I looked ahead and walked toward the cold hole in the ground.





82


I PAINTED A MAP to the gravesite using the ash mixture and a feather from the owl. Mother’s absence left a gaping hole, a mouth missing its front tooth. The eternal grayness in camp became a shade darker. Amidst the polar night, our only sun had slipped under a cloud.

“We could drown ourselves,” said the bald man. “That would be easy, right?”

No one responded.

“Don’t ignore me, girl!”

“I’m not ignoring you. Don’t you understand? We’re all tired of you!” I said.

I was so very tired. Mentally, physically, emotionally, I was tired. “You always talk of death and of us killing ourselves. Haven’t you figured it out? We’re not interested in dying,” I said.

“But I’m interested!” he insisted.

“Maybe you don’t really want to die,” said Jonas. “Maybe you just think you deserve to.”

The bald man looked up at Jonas and then at me.

“You think of nothing but yourself. If you want to kill yourself, what’s keeping you?” I said. Silence sat between our stares.

“Fear,” he said.





Two nights after we buried Mother, there was a whistle on the air. A storm would arrive the next day. I bundled in all that I could find and set out into the blackness to steal wood from the NKVD building. Each day, when chopping and delivering wood, we dumped extra behind the pile. It was understood that if someone was brave enough to steal it, it was there. A man in group twenty-six got caught stealing wood. They sentenced him to an additional five years. Five years for one log. It could have been fifty. Our sentences were dictated by our survival.

I walked toward the NKVD barrack, making a wide circle to arrive at the back, close to the woodpile. My face and ears were wrapped in a cloth, with only my eyes exposed. I wore Mother’s hat. A figure scurried past me, carrying a large plank of wood. Brave. The planks were leaned up against the barracks. I turned near the back of the woodpile. I stopped. A figure in a long coat stood behind the giant stacks of wood. It was impossible to see in the darkness. I turned slowly to leave, trying not to make a sound.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!”

I turned around.

“Group number?” he demanded.

“Eleven,” I said, backing away.

The figure moved closer. “Vilkas?”

I didn’t respond. He stepped toward me. I saw his eyes under the large fur hat. Kretzsky.

He stumbled and I heard swishing. He carried a bottle.

“Stealing?” he asked, taking a swig.

I said nothing.

“I can’t arrange for you to draw a portrait here. No one wants one,” said Kretzsky.

“You think I want to draw for you?”

“Why not?” he said. “It kept you warm. You got food. And you drew a nice, realistic portrait.” He laughed.

“Realistic? I don’t want to be forced to draw that way.” Why was I even talking to him? I turned to leave.

“Your mother,” he said.