AS THE BALD MAN predicted, we were able to continually bribe the grouchy woman into visiting the post office for us when she went to the village. For two months, our bribes returned nothing. We shivered in our shacks, warmed only by the promise of an eventual envelope carrying news from home. Temperatures lived well below zero. Jonas slept near the little stove, waking every few hours to add more wood. My toes were numb, the skin cracked.
Mrs. Rimas was the first to receive a letter. It was from a distant cousin and arrived mid-November. News traveled fast around the camp that a letter had arrived. Nearly twenty people pushed inside her shack to hear the news from Lithuania. Mrs. Rimas hadn’t returned from the ration line. We waited. Andrius arrived. He squeezed in next to me. He produced stolen crackers from his pockets for everyone. We tried to keep our voices down, but excitement percolated through the packed crowd.
I turned, accidentally elbowing Andrius. “Sorry,” I said. He nodded.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Fine,” he replied. The bald man entered the shack and complained there was no room. People pushed forward. I was smashed against the front of Andrius’s coat.
“How’s your mother?” I asked, glancing up at him.
“As well as can be expected,” he said.
“What do they have you doing these days?” My chin was practically against his chest.
“Chopping down trees in the forest.” He shifted his weight, looking down at me. “You?” he asked. I could feel a wisp of his breath on the top of my hair.
“Hauling bags of grain,” I said. He nodded.
The envelope was handed around. Some people kissed it. It came to us. Andrius ran his finger over the Lithuanian stamp and postmark.
“Have you written to anyone?” I asked Andrius.
He shook his head. “We’re not sure it’s safe yet,” he said.
Mrs. Rimas arrived. The group tried to part, but it was too crowded. I was shoved onto Andrius again. He grabbed me, trying to keep us from pushing the crowd like a line of dominoes. We steadied ourselves. He quickly let go.
Mrs. Rimas said a prayer before opening the envelope. As expected, some lines of the letter were crossed out with thick black ink. But enough was legible.
“‘I have had two letters from our friend in Jonava,’” read Mrs. Rimas. “That has to be my husband,” she cried. “He was born in Jonava. He’s alive!” The women hugged.
“Keep reading!” yelled the bald man.
“‘He said that he and some friends decided to visit a summer camp,’” said Mrs. Rimas.
“‘He finds it to be beautiful,’” she continued. “‘Just as described in Psalm 102.’”
“Someone get their Bible. Look up Psalm 102,” said Miss Grybas. “There’s some sort of message in that.”
We helped decode the rest of the letter with Mrs. Rimas. Someone joked that the crowd was better than a stove for warmth. I stole glances at Andrius. His bone structure and eyes were strong, perfectly proportioned. It appeared he was able to shave from time to time. His skin was wind-burned like the rest of us, but his lips weren’t thin or cracked like the NKVD. His wavy brown hair was clean compared with mine. He looked down. I looked away. I couldn’t imagine how filthy I must have looked, or what he saw in my hair.
Jonas returned with Mother’s Bible.
“Hurry!” someone said. “Psalm 102.”
“I have it,” said Jonas.
“Shh, let him read.”
“Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my cry come unto thee.
“Hide not thy face from me in the day when I am in trouble; incline thine ear unto me: in the day when I call, answer me speedily.
“For my days are consumed like smoke, and my bones are burned as a firebrand.
“My heart is stricken, and withered like grass; I forget to eat my bread.
“By reason of the voice of my groaning, my bones cleave to my flesh ...”
Someone gasped. Jonas’s voice trailed off. I clutched Andrius’s arm.
“Keep going,” said Mrs. Rimas. She wrung her hands.
The wind whistled and the walls of the hut shuddered. Jonas’s voice grew faint.
“I am like a pelican of the wilderness: I am like an owl in the desert.
“I watch, and am as a sparrow alone upon the housetop.
“Mine enemies reproach me all the day; and they that are mad against me are sworn against me.
“For I have eaten ashes like bread, and mingled my drink with weeping.
“My days are like a shadow that declineth; and I am withered like grass.”
“Make him stop,” I whispered to Andrius, dropping my head against his coat. “Please.” But he didn’t stop.
Jonas finally finished. A gust of wind clattered against the roof.
“Amen,” said Mrs. Rimas.
“Amen,” echoed the others.
“He’s starving,” I said.
“So what? We’re starving. I’m withered like grass, too,” said the bald man. “He’s no worse off than me.”
“He’s alive,” said Andrius quietly.
I looked up at him. Of course. He wished his father was alive, even if he was starving.
“Yes, Andrius is right,” said Mother. “He’s alive! And your cousin has probably sent him word that you’re alive, too!”
Mrs. Rimas read the letter again. Some people left the shack. Andrius was one of them. Jonas followed.
48
IT HAPPENED A WEEK later. Mother said she had seen signs. I saw nothing.
Miss Grybas waved frantically to me. She was trying to run through the snow.
“Lina, you must hurry! It’s Jonas,” she whispered.
Mother said she had noticed that his color had turned. Everyone’s color had turned. Gray had crept beneath our skin, settling in dark trenches under our eyes.
Kretzsky wouldn’t let me leave my work. “Please,” I begged. “Jonas is sick.” Couldn’t he help, just this once?
He pointed back to the stack of grain sacks. The commander walked around, yelling and kicking at us to hurry. A snowstorm was coming. “Davai!” yelled Kretzsky.
By the time I returned to our shack, Mother was already there. Jonas was lying on her pallet of straw, nearly unconscious.
“What is it?” I asked, kneeling beside her.
“I don’t know.” She pulled up Jonas’s pant leg. His shin was covered in spots. “It may be some sort of infection. He has a fever,” she said, putting her hand on my brother’s forehead. “Did you notice how irritable and tired he has become?”
“Honestly, no. We’re all irritable and tired,” I said. I looked at Jonas. How could I not have noticed? Sores lined his bottom lip, and his gums looked purple. Red spots dotted his hands and fingers.
“Lina, go get our bread rations. Your brother will need nourishment to fight this off. And see if you can find Mrs. Rimas.”
I fought my way through the swirling snow in the dark, the wind stabbing at my face. The NKVD wouldn’t give me three rations. Because Jonas collapsed on the job, they said, he had forfeited his ration. I tried to explain that he was ill. They waved me away.
Mrs. Rimas didn’t know what it was, nor Miss Grybas. Jonas seemed to slip further from consciousness.
The bald man arrived. He loomed over Jonas. “Is it contagious? Does anyone else have spots? The boy could be the angel of death for us all. A girl died of dysentery a few days ago. Maybe that’s what it is. I think they threw her in that hole you dug,” he said. Mother ordered him out of the shack.
Ulyushka yelled at us to take Jonas outside in the snow. Mother yelled back and told her to sleep somewhere else if she was worried about contagion. Ulyushka stomped out. I sat next to Jonas, holding a snow-cooled cloth to his forehead. Mother knelt down and spoke softly, kissing his face and hands.
“Not my children,” whispered Mother. “Please, God, spare him. He is so young. He’s seen so little of life. Please ... take me instead.” Mother raised her head. Her face contorted with pain. “Kostas?”