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.
42
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?
“Nothing could be worse than Stalin,” said one of the men at the dining room table. “He is the epitome of evil.”
“There is no better or worse,” said Papa, his voice low. I leaned farther around the corner to listen.
“But Hitler won’t uproot us,” said the man.
“Maybe not you, but what about us Jews?” said Dr. Seltzer, my father’s close friend. “You heard the circulation. Hitler made the Jews wear armbands.”
“Martin’s right,” said my father. “And Hitler’s setting up a system of ghettos in Poland.”
“A system? Is that what you call it, Kostas? He’s locked up hundreds of thousands of Jews in Lodz and sealed off even more in Warsaw,” said Dr. Seltzer, his voice soaked with desperation.
“It was a bad choice of words. I’m sorry, Martin,” said Papa. “My point is that we’re dealing with two devils who both want to rule hell.”
“But Kostas, to remain neutral or independent will be impossible,” said a man.
“Lina!” whispered Mother, grabbing me by my collar. “Go to your room.”
I didn’t mind. The constant talk of politics bored me. I was only listening for my drawing game. I tried to draw their expressions simply by hearing the conversation but not seeing their faces. I had heard enough to draw Dr. Seltzer.
Jonas continued to work with the two Siberian women making shoes. They liked him. Everyone loved Jonas and his sweet disposition. The women advised that he’d best make boots for winter. They looked the other way when he set aside scraps of materials. Jonas was learning Russian much quicker than I was. He could understand a fair amount of conversation and could even use slang. I constantly asked him to translate. I hated the sound of the Russian language.
43
I THRASHED NEXT to Mother in the beet field. Black boots appeared near my feet. I looked up. Kretzsky. His yellow hair parted on the side and cascaded across his forehead. I wondered how old he was. He didn’t look much older than Andrius.
“Vilkas,” he said.
Mother looked up. He rattled off something in Russian, too quickly for me to understand. Mother looked down and then back at Kretzsky. She raised her voice and yelled out to the field. “They’re looking for someone who can draw.”
I froze. They had found my drawings.
“Do any of you draw?” she said, shading her eyes and looking across the field. What was Mother doing? No one responded.
Kretzsky’s eyes narrowed, looking at me.
“They’ll pay two cigarettes for someone to copy a map and a photograph—”
“I’ll do it,” I said quickly, dropping my hoe.
“No, Lina!” said Mother, grabbing my arm.
“Mother, a map,” I whispered. “Maybe it will bring us news of the war or the men. And I won’t have to be in this field.” I thought about giving a cigarette to Andrius. I wanted to apologize.