Between Shades of Gray (19 page)

Jonas ran toward our shack. I slowed my pace. “They have a file on us,” I said, watching my brother shrink in the distance.

“They have files on everyone,” said Andrius. He tossed the sack of flour up, readjusting it on his shoulder.

“Maybe you could help me with something,” I said.

Andrius shook his head, almost laughing. “I can’t steal a file, Lina. That’s a lot different from wood or a can of tomatoes. It’s one thing to get in the kitchen, but—”

“I don’t need you to take the file,” I said, stopping short of our shack.

“What?” Andrius stopped.

“I don’t need you to steal the file.” I looked around and opened my coat slightly. “I already have it,” I whispered. “It was on the commander’s desk. I need you to put it back once I’ve read it.”

Shock flooded Andrius’s face. His head snapped from side to side, to see if we were alone. He pulled me behind a shack. “What’s wrong with you! Do you want to get yourself killed?” he whispered.

“The bald man said it’s all in our files, where we were sent, perhaps what happened to the rest of our family. It’s all right here.” I crouched down, letting go of the potatoes and other items I had been carrying. I reached into my coat.

“Lina, you can’t do this. Give me the file. I’m taking it back.”

Footsteps approached. Andrius stood in front of me. Someone passed.

He dropped the sack and reached for the file. I moved away from him and opened it. My hands trembled. There were photos of our family, and papers attached to the folder. My heart sank. It was all in Russian. I turned to Andrius. He grabbed the file from my hand.

“Please,” I begged. “Tell me what it says.”

“Are you really that selfish? Or are you just stupid? They’ll kill you and your family,” he said.

“No.” I grabbed his arm. “Please, Andrius. It might help me find my father. You heard him on the train. I can help him find us. I can send him my drawings. I just need to know where he is. I ... I know you can understand.”

He stared at me and then opened the file. “I don’t read Russian that well.” His eyes quickly scanned the papers.

“What does it say?”

“Students at the Academy,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “This word is ‘artist.’ That’s you. Your father,” he said, putting his finger under a word.

“Yes, what?” I said.

“Location.”

I huddled near Andrius. “What does it say?”

“Krasnoyarsk. Prison.”

“Papa’s in Krasnoyarsk?” I remembered drawing Krasnoyarsk on the map for the NKVD.

“I think this word means ‘offense’ or ‘charge,’” he said, pointing to some writing. “It says your father is—”

“Is what?”

“I don’t know this word,” whispered Andrius. He snapped the file shut and stuffed it in his coat.

“What else does it say?”

“That’s all it says.”

“Can you find out what the word is? The one about Papa?”

“What if I get caught with this?” said Andrius, suddenly full of anger.

What if he did get caught? What would they do to him? He turned to walk away. I grabbed him. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

He nodded, pulling away from me.

MOTHER WAS DELIGHTED with the food. We decided to eat most of it immediately, just in case the NKVD tried to take it back. The canned sardines were delicious, well worth the tender gash on my head. Their oil felt silky against my tongue.

Mother gave Ulyushka a potato. She invited her to share our meal. She knew Ulyushka was less likely to report that we had food if she ate some herself. I hated that Mother shared with Ulyushka. She had tried to throw Jonas out into the snow when he was sick. She didn’t think twice about stealing from us. She never shared her food. She ate egg after egg, right in front of us. Yet Mother insisted on sharing with her.

I worried about Andrius, hoping he was able to return the file unnoticed. And what was the word that he had pointed to, the one he thought was “offense” or “charge”? I refused to believe that Papa had done something wrong. I turned it over in my head. Mrs. Raskunas worked at the university with Papa. She wasn’t deported. I saw her peeking out of her window the night we were taken away. So not everyone from the university was deported. Why Papa? I wanted to tell Mother that Papa was sent to Krasnoyarsk, but I couldn’t. She’d be too worried about him being in prison, and she’d be angry that I had stolen the file. She would also worry about Andrius having it. I worried about Andrius.

That night, I tore more drawings from my tablet and hid them with the others under my suitcase lining. I had two pages left. My pencil hovered around the edge of the paper. I looked up. Mother and Jonas spoke quietly. I rolled the pencil between my fingers. I drew a collar. A snake began to draw itself, coiling upward. I quickly scratched it out.

The next afternoon I saw Andrius on my way back from work. I scanned his face for news of the file. He nodded. My shoulders relaxed. He had returned it. But had he found the meaning of the word? I smiled at him. He shook his head, annoyed, but kind of smiled, too.

I found a thin, flat piece of birch and brought it back to our hut. At night, I decorated the edges with Lithuanian embroidery patterns. I drew a picture of our house in Kaunas on it, along with other symbols of Lithuania. On the bottom I wrote, “Deliver to Krasnoyarsk Prison. With love from Miss Altai.” I included my scribble signature, along with the date.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” asked the grouchy woman when I approached her.

“Just give it to a Lithuanian you see in the village,” I said. “Tell them to pass it on. It has to get to Krasnoyarsk.”

The grouchy woman looked at my drawings of the Lithuanian coat of arms, Trakai Castle, our patron saint, Casimir, and the stork, the national bird of Lithuania.

“Here,” I said, extending a tattered piece of clothing bunched in my hand. “Maybe one of your girls can use this underskirt. I know it’s not much, but—”

“Keep your slip,” said the grouchy woman, still looking at my drawings. “I’ll pass it along.”

MARCH 22. MY SIXTEENTH birthday. My forgotten birthday. Mother and Jonas left the shack for work. Neither acknowledged my birthday. What did I expect, a celebration? We barely had a scrap to eat. Mother traded what she could for stamps to mail letters to Papa. I wouldn’t say anything about it to Mother. She would feel horrible for having forgotten. The month before, I had reminded her it was Grandma’s birthday. She felt guilty for days. After all, how could she forget her own mother’s birthday?

I spent the day piling wood, imagining the party I’d have if we were still in Lithuania. People in school would wish me a happy birthday. Our family would dress in some of our finest clothes. Papa’s friend would take photographs. We’d go to an expensive restaurant in Kaunas. The day would feel special, different. Joana would send a present.

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.

Stalin had taken my home and my father. Now he had taken my birthday. My feet dragged as I walked through the snow after work. I stopped for my ration. Jonas was in line.

“Hurry!” he said. “Mrs. Rimas received a letter from Lithuania. It’s a thick one!”

“Today?” I asked.

“Yes!” he said. “Hurry! Meet me at the bald man’s shack.”

The line moved slowly. I thought about the last time Mrs. Rimas had received a letter. It was warm in her crowded shack. I wondered if Andrius would be there.

I got my ration and ran through the snow to the bald man’s shack. Everyone huddled in a ball. I saw Jonas. I walked up behind him.

“What did I miss?” I whispered.

“Just this,” he said.

The crowd parted. I saw Mother.

“Happy birthday!” everyone yelled.

A lump bobbed in my throat.

“Happy birthday, darling!” said Mother, throwing her arms around me.

“Happy birthday, Lina,” said Jonas. “Did you think we forgot?”

“I did. I thought you forgot.”

“We didn’t forget,” said Mother with a squeeze.

I looked around for Andrius. He wasn’t there.

They sang a birthday song. We sat and ate our bread together. The man who wound his watch told the story of his sixteenth birthday. Mrs. Rimas told of the buttercream frosting she made for cakes. She stood and demonstrated how she’d position the bowl on her hip and whip the spatula. Frosting. I remembered the creamy consistency and sweetness.

“We have a present for you,” said Jonas.

“A present?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not wrapped, but yes, it’s a present,” said Mother.

Mrs. Rimas handed me a bundle. It was a pad of paper and a stub of a pencil.

“Thank you! Where did you get it?” I asked.

“We can’t tell our secrets,” said Mother. “The paper is ruled, but it’s all we could find.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” I said. “It doesn’t matter that it has lines.”

“You’ll draw straighter.” Jonas smiled.

“You must draw something to remember your birthday. This will be a unique one. Soon this will all be a memory,” said Mother.

“A memory, bah. Enough celebration. Get out. I’m tired,” complained the bald man.

“Thank you for hosting my party,” I said.

He grimaced and flapped his hands, pushing us out the door.

We linked arms and started toward Ulyushka’s. I looked up at the frosty gray sky. More snow was on the way.

“Lina.” Andrius stepped out from behind the bald man’s shack.

Mother and Jonas waved and continued on without me.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

I moved toward him. “How did you know?”

“Jonas told me.”

The tip of his nose was red. “You can come inside, you know,” I told him.

“I know.”

“Have you figured out the word in the file?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t come for that. I came ... to give you this.” Andrius revealed something from behind his back. It was wrapped in a cloth. “Happy birthday.”

“You brought me something? Thank you! I don’t even know when your birthday is.”

I took the package. Andrius turned to leave.

“Wait. Sit down,” I said, motioning to a log in front of a shack.

We sat next to each other. Andrius’s brow creased with uncertainty. I pulled the cloth back. I looked at him.

“I ... I don’t know what to say,” I stuttered.

“Say you like it.”

“I do like it!”

I loved it. It was a book. Dickens.

“It’s not
The Pickwick Papers
. That’s the one I smoked, right?” He laughed. “This one’s
Dombey and Son
. It was the only Dickens I could find.” He blew into his gloved hands and rubbed them together. His warm breath swirled like smoke in the cold air.

“It’s perfect,” I said. I opened the book. It was printed in Russian.

“So now you have to learn Russian or you won’t be able to read your present,” he said.

I mocked a scowl. “Where did you get it?”

He pulled in a breath, shaking his head.

“Uh-oh. Should we smoke it right away?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I tried to read a bit of it.” He faked a yawn.

I laughed. “Well, Dickens can be a little slow at first.” I stared at the book in my lap. The burgundy binding felt smooth and tight. The title was etched deep in gold print. It was beautiful, a real present, the perfect present. Suddenly, it felt like my birthday.

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.

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.