“Tell me, Lina,” said the man who wrote for the newspaper, “what do you think of this new Lithuania?”
“Well,” interrupted my father quickly. “That’s not really conversation for a young girl, now, is it?”
“It will be conversation for everyone, Kostas, young and old,” said the journalist. “Besides,” he said, smiling, “it’s not as if I’d print it in the paper.”
Papa shifted in his chair.
“What do I think of the Soviets’ annexation?” I paused, avoiding eye contact with my father. “I think Josef Stalin is a bully. I think we should push his troops out of Lithuania. They shouldn’t be allowed to come and take what they please and—”
“That’s enough, Lina. Leave the pot of coffee and join your mother in the kitchen.”
“But it’s true!” I pressed. “It’s not right.”
“Enough!” said my father.
I returned to the kitchen, stopping short to eavesdrop.
“Don’t encourage her, Vladas. The girl is so headstrong, it scares me to death,” said Papa.
“Well,” replied the journalist, “now we see how she takes after her father, don’t we? You’ve raised a real partisan, Kostas.”
Papa was silent. The gathering ended and the men left the house at alternating intervals, some through the front door and some through the back.
“The university?” said the bald man, still wincing with pain. “Oh, well, he’s long gone then.”
My stomach contracted like someone had punched me. Jonas turned a desperate face to Mother.
“Actually, I work at the bank and I saw your father just this afternoon,” said a man, smiling at Jonas. I knew he was lying. Mother gave the man a grateful nod.
“Saw him on his way to the grave then,” said the surly bald man.
I glared at him, wondering how much glue it would take to keep his mouth shut.
“I am a stamp collector. A simple stamp collector and they’re delivering me to my death because I correspond internationally with other collectors. A university man would certainly be near the top of the list for—”
“Shut up!” I blurted.
“Lina!” said Mother. “You must apologize immediately. This poor gentleman is in terrible pain; he doesn’t know what he is saying.”
“I know exactly what I am saying,” the man replied, staring at me.
The hospital doors opened and a great cry erupted from within. An NKVD officer dragged a barefoot woman in a bloodied hospital gown down the steps. “My baby! Please don’t hurt my baby!” she screamed. Another officer walked out, carrying a swaddled bundle. A doctor came running, grabbing at the officer.
“Please, you cannot take the newborn. It won’t survive!” yelled the doctor. “Sir, I beg you. Please!”
The officer turned to the doctor and kicked the heel of his boot into the doctor’s kneecap.
They lifted the woman into the truck. Mother and Miss Grybas scrambled to make room for her lying next to the bald man. The baby was handed up.
“Lina, please,” Mother said, passing the pink child to me. I held the bundle and instantly felt the warmth of its little body penetrating through my coat.
“Oh God, please, my baby!” cried the woman, looking up at me.
The child let out a soft cry and its tiny fists pummeled the air. Its fight for life had begun.
6
THE MAN WHO WORKED at the bank gave Mother his jacket. She wrapped the suit coat around the woman’s shoulders and smoothed her hair away from her face.
“It’s all right, dear,” said Mother to the young woman.
“Vitas. They took my husband, Vitas,” breathed the woman.
I looked down at the little pink face in the bundle. A newborn. The child had been alive only minutes but was already considered a criminal by the Soviets. I clutched the baby close and put my lips on its forehead. Jonas leaned against me. If they would do this to a baby, what would they do to us?
“What is your name, dear?” said Mother.
“Ona.” She craned her neck. “Where is my child?”
Mother took the child from me and laid the bundle on the woman’s chest.
“Oh, my baby. My sweet baby,” cried the woman, kissing the infant. The truck lurched forward. She looked at Mother with pleading eyes.
“My leg!” wailed the bald man.
“Do any of you have medical training?” asked Mother, scanning the faces in the truck. The people shook their heads. Some wouldn’t even look up.
“I’ll try to make a splint,” said the man from the bank. “Does anyone have anything straight I can use? Please, let’s help one another.” People shifted uncomfortably in the truck, thinking about what they might have in their bags.
“Sir,” said Jonas, leaning around me. He held out his little ruler from school. The old woman who had gasped at my nightgown began to cry.
“Well, yes, that’s very good. Thank you,” said the man, accepting the ruler.
“Thank you, darling,” said Mother, smiling at Jonas.
“A ruler? You’re going to set my leg with a little ruler? Have you all gone mad?” screeched the bald man.
“It’s the best we can do at the moment,” said the man from the bank. “Does anyone have something to tie it with?”
“Someone just shoot me, please!” yelled the bald man.
Mother pulled the silk scarf from her neck and handed it to the man from the bank. The librarian slid the knot from her scarf as well, and Miss Grybas dug in her bag. Blood began to soak through the front of Ona’s hospital gown.
I felt nauseous. I closed my eyes and tried to think of something, anything, to calm myself. I pictured my sketchbook. I felt my hand stir. Images, like celluloid frames, rolled through my mind. Our house, Mother adjusting Papa’s tie in the kitchen, the lily of the valley, Grandma ... Her face soothed me somehow. I thought of the photo tucked in my suitcase. Grandma, I thought. Help us.
We arrived at a small train depot in the countryside. Soviet trucks filled the rail yard, packed with people just like ours. We drove alongside a truck with a man and woman leaning out. The woman’s face was streaked with tears.
“Paulina!” the man yelled. “Do you have our daughter Paulina?” I shook my head as we passed.
“Why are we at a countryside depot and not Kaunas station?” asked an old woman.
“It’s probably easier to organize us with our families. The main station is so busy, you know,” said Mother.
Mother’s voice lacked certainty. She was trying to convince herself. I looked around. The station was tucked in a deserted area, surrounded by dark woods. I pictured a rug being lifted and a huge Soviet broom sweeping us under it.
7
“DAVAI!” YELLED AN NKVD officer as he opened the back gate of the truck. The train yard swarmed with vehicles, officers, and people with luggage. The noise level grew with each passing moment.
Mother leaned down and put her hands on our shoulders. “Stay close to me. Hold on to my coat if you need to. We must not be separated.” Jonas grabbed on to Mother’s coat.
“Davai!” yelled the officer, yanking one of the men off the truck and pushing him to the ground. Mother and the man from the bank began to help the rest. I held the infant while they brought Ona down.
The bald man twisted in pain as he was carried off the truck.
The man from the bank approached an NKVD officer. “We have people who need medical attention. Please, get a doctor.” The officer ignored the man. “Doctor! Nurse! We need medical assistance!” shouted the man into the crowd.
The officer grabbed the man from the bank, stuck a rifle in his back and began to march him away. “My luggage!” he yelled. The librarian grabbed the man’s suitcase, but before she could run to him, he had disappeared into the crowd.
A Lithuanian woman stopped and said she was a nurse. She began tending to Ona and the bald man while we all stood in a circle around them. The train yard was dusty. Ona’s bare feet were already caked in dirt. Hordes of people passed by, threading through one another with desperate faces. I saw a girl from school pass by with her mother. She raised her arm to wave, but her mother covered her eyes as she approached our group.
“Davai!” barked an officer.
“We can’t leave these people,” said Mother. “You must get a stretcher.”