“Where are you getting information? Is there any news of the men?” I asked, thinking of Papa. He shook his head.
“There’s supposed to be a village nearby, with a post office,” I said. “Have you heard that? I want to send a letter to my cousin.”
“The Soviets will read everything you write. They’ve got people to translate. So be careful what you say.”
I looked down, thinking of the NKVD asking Mother to be a translator. Our personal correspondence wasn’t personal. Privacy was but a memory. It wasn’t even rationed, like sleep or bread. I thought about telling Andrius that the NKVD had asked Mother to spy.
“Here,” he said, holding out his hand. He opened his palm to reveal three cigarettes.
“You’re giving me cigarettes?” I asked.
“Well, what did you think, that I had a roasted duck in my pocket?”
“No, I meant ... Thank you.”
“Sure. They’re for your brother and your mother. Are they doing okay?”
I nodded, kicking at the dirt. “Where’d you get the cigarettes?” I asked.
“Around.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Fine,” he said quickly. “Look, I gotta go. Tell Jonas I said hi. And try not to ruin the cigarettes with your blister juice,” he teased.
I staggered back to our shack, trying to see which way Andrius went. Where was his hut?
I gave Mother the three cigarettes. “From Andrius,” I said.
“How sweet of him,” said Mother. “Where did he get them?”
“You saw Andrius?” said Jonas. “Is he okay?”
“He’s okay. He chopped wood all day in the forest. He said to tell you hello.”
The Altaian woman toddled over and thrust her hand out to Mother. They had a brief exchange interspersed with “nyets” and stomps from the Altaian woman’s foot.
“Elena,” said Mother, pointing to her own chest. “Lina, Jonas,” she said, pointing to us.
“Ulyushka!” the woman said, thrusting her palm to Mother.
Mother gave her a cigarette.
“Why are you giving her a cigarette?” asked Jonas.
“She says it’s payment toward rent,” said Mother. “Her name is Ulyushka.”
“Is that her first or last name?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But if we’re to live here, we must be able to address one another properly.”
I arranged my raincoat over some of the straw that Jonas had brought. I lay down. I hated the way Mother had said, “If we’re to live here,” like we were staying. I also heard Mother say spaseeba, which meant “thank you” in Russian. I looked over and saw her sharing a match with Ulyushka. Mother pulled two graceful puffs through her long fingers and then put it out quickly, rationing her own cigarette.
“Lina,” whispered Jonas. “Did Andrius look okay?”
“He looked fine,” I said, thinking of his tan face.
I was lying in bed, waiting for the sound. I heard soft footsteps outside. The curtain billowed up, revealing Joana’s tanned face in the window.
“Come out,” she said. “Let’s sit on the porch.”
I crept out of our bedroom and onto the porch of the cottage. Joana draped askew in the rocker, gliding back and forth. I sat in the chair next to her, pulling my knees up and tucking my bare feet under my cotton nightgown. The rocker croaked a steady rhythm while Joana stared off into the darkness.
“So? How was it?” I asked.
“He’s wonderful,” she sighed.
“Really?” I said. “Is he smart? He’s not one of those dumb boys who drink beer at the beach all day, is he?”
“Oh no,” she breathed. “He’s in his first year at university. He wants to study engineering.”
“Hmph. And he doesn’t have a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Lina, stop trying to find something wrong with him.”
“I’m not. I’m just asking,” I said.
“One day, someone will catch your eye, Lina, and hopefully when it happens, you won’t be so critical.”
“I’m not critical,” I said. “I just want to make sure he’s good enough for you.”
“He has a younger brother,” said Joana, grinning at me.
“Really?” I crinkled my nose.
“See? You’re already critical and you haven’t even met him.”
“I’m not being critical! So where is this younger brother?”
“He’ll be here next week. Do you want to meet him?”
“I don’t know, maybe. It depends what he’s like,” I said.
“Well, you won’t know until you meet him, will you?” teased Joana.
36
WE WERE ASLEEP WHEN it happened. I had rinsed off my blisters and started a letter to Joana. But I was too tired. I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, the NKVD was yelling at me, pushing me to get outside.
“Mother, what’s happening?” said Jonas.
“They say we must report to the kolkhoz office immediately.”
“Davai!” shouted a guard holding a lantern. They became impatient. One drew a pistol.
“Da! Yes!” said Mother. “Hurry, children! Move!” We scrambled out of our straw. Ulyushka rolled over, turning her back to us. I looked over to my suitcase, grateful I had hidden my drawings.
Others were also herded from their huts. We walked in a line down the dirt path toward the kolkhoz office. I heard the bald man yelling somewhere behind us.
They packed us into the main room of the log building. The gray-haired man who wound his watch stood in the corner. The little girl with the dolly waved excitedly to me, as if reunited with a long-lost friend. A wide bruise blossomed across her cheek. We were instructed to wait quietly until the others arrived.
The log walls were chinked with gray paste. At the head of the room, a desk with a black chair took up much of the floor. Portraits of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin hung above the desk.
Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili. He called himself Josef Stalin, which meant “Man of Steel.” I stared at the picture. He seemed to stare back. His right eyebrow arched, challenging me. I looked at his bushy mustache and dark, stony eyes. The portrait showed him almost smirking. Was that intentional? I wondered about the artists who painted Stalin. Were they grateful to be in his presence, or terrified of the outcome if he found their portraits unbecoming? The picture of Stalin was crooked.
The door opened. The bald man hobbled in on his broken leg.
“And not one of you thought to help me!” he yelled.
Komorov, the commander, marched in, followed by several NKVD carrying rifles. The blond guard, Kretzsky, was at the end of the line carrying a stack of papers. How did Andrius learn their names? I looked around for Andrius and his mother. They weren’t there.
Komorov began speaking. Everyone turned toward Mother. The commander paused and raised his eyebrow at her, twirling the ever-present toothpick on his tongue.
Mother’s face tightened. “He says we’ve been brought here for paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” said Mrs. Rimas. “At this hour?”
Komorov continued speaking. Kretzsky held up a typewritten document.
“We are all to sign that document,” said Mother.
“What does it say?” the crowd demanded.
“It says three things,” said Mother, staring at Komorov. He continued speaking, with Mother translating in between for the group.
“First, we sign that we agree to join this collective farm.” There were rumbles within the room. People turned back to the commander as he spoke. His arm casually moved his uniform aside, displaying the gun at his hip. The crowd shifted.
“Second,” said Mother, “we sign that we agree to pay a war tax of two hundred rubles per person, children included.”
“Where are we to get two hundred rubles?” said the bald man. “They’ve already stolen all that we had.”
Chattering ensued. An NKVD pounded the butt of his rifle on the desk. The room quieted.
I looked at Komorov as he spoke. He stared straight at Mother, as if he were deeply enjoying what he was saying to her. Mother paused. Her mouth sagged.
“Well, what is it? What’s the third, Elena?” said Mrs. Rimas.