IT TOOK TWO WEEKS for Jonas to improve. His legs trembled when he walked. His voice was barely more than a whisper. In the meantime, Mother and I became weaker. We had to split our two bread rations to feed Jonas. At first, when we asked, people contributed a portion of what they had. But as the cold crept deeper into our shacks, it began to chill generosity. One day, I saw Miss Grybas turn her back and shove her entire bread ration into her mouth the moment it was handed to her. I couldn’t blame her. I had often thought of doing the same thing. Mother and I didn’t ask for contributions after that.
Despite our pleadings, the NKVD refused to give us food for Jonas. Mother even tried speaking to the commander. He laughed at her. He said something that upset her for days. We had nothing left to sell. We had bartered practically everything we owned with the Altaians for warm clothing. The lining of Mother’s coat hung thin, like fluttering cheesecloth.
The approach of Christmas bolstered spirits. We gathered in each other’s shacks to reminisce about the holidays in Lithuania. We talked endlessly about Kucios, our Christmas Eve celebration. It was decided that Kucios would be held in the bald man’s shack. He grudgingly agreed.
We closed our eyes when listening to the descriptions of the twelve delicious dishes representing the twelve apostles. People rocked back and forth, nodding. Mother talked of the delicious poppy seed soup and cranberry pudding. Mrs. Rimas cried at the mention of the wafer and the traditional Christmas blessing, “God grant that we are all together again next year.”
The guards warmed themselves with drink after work. They often forgot to check on us or didn’t want to venture out into the biting, frosty winds. We gathered each night to hear about someone’s holiday celebration. We grew to know each other through our longings and cherished memories. Mother insisted that we invite the grouchy woman to our meetings. She said that just because she had signed didn’t mean she wasn’t homesick. Snow fell and the temperatures plummeted, but work and the cold felt tolerable. We had something to look forward to—a small ritual that brought relief to our gray days and dark nights.
I had begun to steal logs to keep the stove fired. Mother constantly worried, but I assured her I was careful and that the NKVD were too lazy to come out into the cold. One night, I left the bald man’s shack to get a log for the stove. I crept around his shack. I heard movement and froze. Someone was standing in the shadows. Was it Kretzsky? My heart stopped ... Was it the commander?
“It’s just me, Lina.”
I heard Andrius’s voice in the darkness. He struck a match and lit a cigarette, briefly illuminating his face.
“You scared me,” I said. “Why are you standing out here?”
“I listen from out here.”
“Why don’t you come inside? It’s freezing,” I said.
“They wouldn’t want me inside. It’s not fair. Everyone is so hungry.”
“That’s not true. We’d be happy to have you. We’re just talking about Christmas.”
“I know. I’ve heard. My mother begs me to bring her the stories each night.”
“Really? If I hear about cranberry pudding one more time, I’ll go crazy,” I said, smiling. “I just need to get some wood.”
“You mean steal some?” he said.
“Well, yes, I guess,” I said.
He shook his head, chuckling. “You’re really not scared, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I’m cold.” He laughed.
“Do you want to walk with me?” I asked.
“Nah, I better get back,” he said. “Be careful. Good night.”
Three days later Mrs. Arvydas and Andrius arrived with a bottle of vodka. The crowd fell silent when they walked through the door. Mrs. Arvydas wore stockings. Her hair was clean and curled. Andrius looked down. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. I didn’t care that she wore a clean dress and wasn’t hungry. No one wanted to trade places with her.
“A toast,” said Mother, lifting the bottle of vodka to Mrs. Arvydas. “To good friends.”
Mrs. Arvydas smiled and nodded. Mother took a small sip from the bottle and then shimmied at the hips, delighted. We all joined in, taking small sips and laughing together, savoring the moment. Andrius leaned back against the wall, watching us and grinning.
That night, I fantasized about Papa joining us for the holiday. I imagined him trudging through the falling snow toward Altai, arriving in time for Christmas with my handkerchief in his breast pocket. Hurry, Papa, I urged. Please hurry.
“Don’t worry, Lina, he’ll be here soon,” said Mother. “He’s getting the hay for the table.”
I stood at the window, looking out into the snow.
Jonas helped Mother in the dining room. “So we’ll have twelve courses tomorrow. We’ll be eating all day.” He smacked his lips.
Mother smoothed the white tablecloth over the dining room table.
“Can I sit next to Grandma?” asked Jonas.
Papa’s dark silhouette emerged on the street before I could protest and argue that I wanted to sit next to Grandma.
“He’s coming!” I shouted. I grabbed my coat. I ran down the front steps and stood in the middle of the street. The small dark figure grew taller as it approached through the low light of dusk and the curtain of falling snow. A tinkling of bells from a horse’s harness floated from the street over.
I heard his voice before I could make out his face. “Now, what sort of sensible girl stands in the middle of the road when it’s snowing?”
“Only one whose father is late,” I teased.
Papa’s face appeared, frosty and red. He carried a small bundle of hay.
“I’m not late,” he said, putting his arm around me. “I’m right on time.”
51
CHRISTMAS EVE ARRIVED. I worked all day chopping wood. Moisture from my nose froze, encrusted around my nostrils. I kept my mind busy trying to remember details about each Christmas at home. No one swallowed their bread ration in line that night. We greeted each other kindly and made our way back to our shacks. Jonas looked somewhat like himself again. We washed our hair in melted snow and scrubbed at our fingernails. Mother pinned her hair up and dotted lipstick on her lips. She rubbed a bit of the red into my cheeks for color.
“It’s not perfect, but we do the best we can,” said Mother, adjusting our clothes and hair.
“Get the family picture,” said Jonas.
The others had the same idea. Photographs of families and loved ones were plentiful in the bald man’s shack. I saw a photo of Mrs. Rimas and her husband. He was short, like her. She was laughing in the photo. She looked so different, strong. Now she drooped, like someone had sucked air out of her. The bald man was particularly quiet.
We sat on the floor as if around a table. There was a white cloth in the center with hay and fir boughs in front of each person. One spot was left empty. A stub of tallow burned in front of it. Lithuanian tradition called for an empty place to be left at the table for family members who were gone or deceased. People placed photographs of their family and friends around the empty seat. I gently set our family photo at the empty setting.
I took out the bundle of food I had been saving and placed it on the table. Some people had small surprises—a potato they had saved or something they had pilfered. The grouchy woman displayed some biscuits she must have bought in the village. Mother thanked her and made a fuss.
“The Arvydas boy and his mother sent this,” said the bald man. “For after dinner.” He tossed something out. It landed with a thud. People gasped. I couldn’t believe it. I was so shocked I started to laugh. It was chocolate. Real chocolate! And the bald man hadn’t eaten it.
Jonas whooped.
“Shh ... Jonas. Not too loud,” said Mother. She looked at the package on the table. “Chocolate! How wonderful. Our cup runneth over.”
The bald man put the bottle of vodka on the table.
“Now, you know better,” scolded Miss Grybas. “Not for Kucios.”
“How the hell should I know?” snapped the bald man.
“Maybe after dinner.” Mother winked.
“I don’t want any part of it,” said the bald man. “I’m Jewish.”
Everyone looked up.
“But ... Mr. Stalas, why didn’t you tell us?” asked Mother.
“Because it’s none of your business,” he snapped.