Between Shades of Gray (14 page)

“Disappointed I’m not dead?” I said, handing him the beets.

“That’s a sour mood,” he said.

“Are you the only one who’s allowed to be angry? I’m sick of this. I’m tired of the NKVD hounding us.”

“Bah. They don’t care if we sign,” said the bald man. “Do you really think they need our permission, our signatures, to do what they’re doing to us? Stalin needs to break our will. Don’t you understand? He knows if we sign some stupid papers, we’ll give up. He’ll break us.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

He waved me away. “It doesn’t look good on you—anger,” he said. “Now get out.”

I walked out of the shack. “Let’s go, Jonas.”

“Wait,” whispered Jonas, leaning in to me. “He brought us salami.”

I folded my arms across my chest.

“I guess she’s allergic to kindness,” said Andrius.

“That’s not what I’m allergic to. Where did you get your salami?” I said.

Andrius stared at me. “Jonas, can you leave us for a minute?” he said.

“No, he can’t leave us. My mother doesn’t want him to be alone. That’s the only reason I came,” I said.

“I’m fine,” said Jonas. He turned and walked away.

“So, is that what you’re eating these days?” I asked. “Soviet salami?”

“When I can get it,” he said. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Andrius looked stronger, his arms muscular. He drew in a breath and blew a plume of smoke over our heads.

“And cigarettes, too,” I commented. “Are you sleeping in a nice bed in that Soviet building?”

“You have no idea,” he said.

“I don’t? Well, you don’t look tired or hungry. You weren’t dragged to the kolkhoz office in the middle of the night and condemned to twenty-five years. So, are you reporting all of our conversations to them?”

“You think I’m spying?”

“Komorov asked Mother to spy and report to him. She said no.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Andrius, the crimson in his face rising.

“I don’t?”

“No, you have no idea,” he said.

“I don’t see your mother working in the dirt—”

“No,” said Andrius, leaning in, an inch from my face. “You know why?” A vein in his temple bulged. I felt his breath on my forehead.

“Yes, because—”

“Because they threatened to kill me unless she slept with them. And if they get tired of her, they still might kill me. So how would you feel, Lina, if your mother felt she had to prostitute herself to save your life?”

My jaw dropped.

The words flew out of his mouth. “How do you think my father would feel if he knew? How does my mother feel, lying with the men who murdered her husband? No, your mother might not translate for them, but what do you think she’d do if they held a knife to your brother’s neck?”

“Andrius, I—”

“No, you have no idea. You have no idea how much I hate myself for putting my mother through this, how every day I think of ending my life so she can be free. But instead, my mother and I are using our misfortune to keep others alive. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? You’re too selfish and self-centered. Poor you, digging all day long. You’re just a spoiled kid.” He turned and walked away.

THE STRAW PRICKLED AGAINST my face. Jonas had fallen asleep a long time ago. A soft whistle blew each time he exhaled. I tossed and turned.

“He’s trying, Lina,” said Mother.

“He’s sleeping,” I said.

“Andrius. He’s trying and you’re blocking him at every pass. Men aren’t always graceful, you know.”

“Mother, you don’t understand,” I said.

She ignored me and continued. “Well, I can see you’re upset. Jonas said that you were nasty to Andrius. That’s unfair. Sometimes kindness can be delivered in a clumsy way. But it’s far more sincere in its clumsiness than those distinguished men you read about in books. Your father was very clumsy.”

A tear rolled down my cheek.

She chuckled in the darkness. “He says I bewitched him the very instant he saw me. But do you know what really happened? He tried to talk to me and fell out of a tree. He fell out of an oak tree and broke his arm.”

“Mother, it’s not like that,” I said.

“Kostas,” she sighed. “He was so clumsy, but he was so sincere. Sometimes there is such beauty in awkwardness. There’s love and emotion trying to express itself, but at the time, it just ends up being awkward. Does that make sense?”

“Mmm, hmm,” I said, trying to muffle my tears.

“Good men are often more practical than pretty,” said Mother. “Andrius just happens to be both.”

AUTUMN APPROACHED. The NKVD pushed us harder. If we so much as stumbled, they reduced our bread rations. Mother could close her thumb and middle finger around my forearm. I had no tears. The sensation of crying would fill me, but my eyes would only dry-heave and burn.

It was hard to imagine that war raged somewhere in Europe. We had a war of our own, waiting for the NKVD to choose the next victim, to throw us in the next hole. They enjoyed hitting and kicking us in the fields. One morning, they caught an old man eating a beet. A guard ripped out his front teeth with pliers. They made us watch. Every other night they woke us to sign the documents sentencing us to twenty-five years. We learned to sit in front of Komorov’s desk and rest with our eyes open. I managed to escape the NKVD while sitting right in front of them.

My art teacher had said that if you breathed deeply and imagined something, you could be there. You could see it, feel it. During our standoffs with the NKVD, I learned to do that. I clung to my rusted dreams during the times of silence. It was at gunpoint that I fell into every hope and allowed myself to wish from the deepest part of my heart. Komorov thought he was torturing us. But we were escaping into a stillness within ourselves. We found strength there.

Not everyone could sit still. People became restless, exhausted. Finally, some gave in.

“Traitors!” spit Miss Grybas under her breath, clucking her tongue. People argued about those who signed. The first night someone signed, I was furious. Mother told me to feel sorry for the person, that they had been pushed over the edge of their identity. I couldn’t feel sorry for them. I couldn’t understand.

Walking to the fields each morning, I could predict who would be the next to sign. Their faces sang songs of defeat. Mother saw it, too. She would chat with the person and work next to them in the field, trying to bolster their spirit. Sometimes it worked. Many times it didn’t. At night I drew portraits of those who had signed and wrote about how the NKVD broke them down.

The NKVD’s hostilities strengthened my defiance. Why would I give in to people who spit in my face and tormented me each and every day? What would I have left if I gave them my self-respect? I wondered what would happen if we were the only ones left who wouldn’t sign.

The bald man moaned that we could believe no one. He accused everyone of being a spy. Trust crumbled. People began to question each other’s motives and planted seeds of doubt. I thought of Papa, telling me to be careful with my drawing.

Two nights later, the grouchy woman signed the papers. She bent over the desk. The pen trembled in her knobby hand. I thought she might change her mind, but suddenly she scribbled something and threw the pen down, committing herself and her little girls to twenty-five years. We stared at her. Mother bit her bottom lip and looked down. The grouchy woman began screaming, telling us we were imbeciles, that we were all going to die, so why didn’t we eat well until then? One of her daughters began to cry. That night, I drew her face. Her mouth sagged, forlorn. The lines of her brow plunged with both anger and confusion.

Mother and Mrs. Rimas scavenged for news of the men or the war. Andrius passed information to Jonas. He ignored me. Mother wrote letters to Papa, even though she had no idea where to send them.

“If only we could get to that village, Elena,” said Mrs. Rimas one night in the ration line. “We could mail our letters.”

People who signed the twenty-five-year sentence were able to go to the village. We were not.

“Yes, we need to get to the village,” I said, thinking of getting something to Papa.

“Send the whore, that Arvydas woman,” said the bald man. “She’ll hustle the best deals. Her Russian is probably pretty good by now.”

“How dare you!” said Mrs. Rimas.

“You disgusting old man. Do you think she wants to sleep with them?” I yelled. “Her son’s life depends on it!” Jonas hung his head.

“You should feel sorry for Mrs. Arvydas,” said Mother, “just as we feel sorry for you. Andrius and Mrs. Arvydas have put extra food in your mouth many a night. How can you be so ungrateful?”

“Well, then you’ll have to bribe that cranky cow who signed,” said the bald man. “You can buy her off to mail your letters.”

We had all written letters that Mother planned to mail to her “contact,” a distant relative who lived in the countryside. The hope was that Papa had done the same thing. We weren’t able to sign our names or write anything specific. We knew the Soviets would read the notes. We wrote that we were all well, having a lovely time, learning good trade skills. I drew a picture of Grandma and wrote “Love from Grandma Altai” underneath with my scribbled signature. Surely Papa would recognize the face, my signature, and the word
Altai
. Hopefully the NKVD wouldn’t.

MOTHER HELD THREE sterling silver serving pieces she had sewn into the coat. She had carried them since we were deported.

“Wedding gifts,” she said, holding the silver, “from my parents.” Mother offered one piece to the grouchy woman in exchange for mailing letters and picking up sundries and news when she went to the village. She accepted.

Everyone longed for news. The bald man told Mother of a secret pact between Russia and Germany. Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Poland, and others were divided between Hitler and Stalin. I drew the two of them, dividing countries like children dividing toys. Poland for you. Lithuania for me. Was it a game to them? The bald man said Hitler broke his agreement with Stalin, because Germany invaded Russia a week after we were deported. When I asked Mother how the bald man knew about the pact, she said she didn’t know.

What had happened to our house and everything we owned since we were deported? Did Joana and my other relatives know what had happened? Maybe they were looking for us.

I was glad that Hitler had pushed Stalin out of Lithuania, but what was he doing there?