“I don’t understand,” I lied. I motioned for him to turn his head to the left.
I drew a loose outline. I’d have to start with the uniform. I couldn’t look at his face. I tried to work quickly. I didn’t want to spend a minute longer than necessary near the man. Sitting in front of him felt like a shiver that would never go away.
How can I do this in an hour? Focus, Lina. No snakes.
The commander was not a good sitter. He insisted on frequent breaks to smoke. I found I could get him to sit longer if I showed him my progress from time to time. He was enchanted with himself, lost in his own ego.
After another fifteen minutes, the commander wanted a break. He reclaimed his toothpick from the desk and walked outside.
I looked at the drawing. He looked powerful, strong.
The commander returned. He had Kretzsky with him. He snapped the pad from my hands. He showed it to Kretzsky, swatting him on the shoulder with the back of his hand.
Kretzsky’s face was turned to the drawing, but I could feel he was staring at me. The commander said something to Kretzsky. He replied. Kretzsky’s speaking voice was very different from his commands. His tone was calm, young. I kept my head down.
The commander handed the pad back to me. He circled me, his black boots taking slow, even steps around my chair. He looked at my face and then barked a command at Kretzsky.
I started sketching his hat. That was the last piece. Kretzsky returned and handed the commander a file. Komorov opened the file and flipped through papers. He looked at me. What did it say in that file? What did he know about us? Did it say something about Papa?
I began sketching furiously. Hurry, davai, I told myself. The commander began asking questions. I could understand bits and pieces.
“Been drawing since child?”
Why did he want to know? I nodded, motioning for him to turn his head slightly. He obliged and posed.
“What you like to draw?” he asked.
Was he making conversation with me? I shrugged.
“Who is favorite artist?”
I stopped and looked up. “Munch,” I told him.
“Munch, hmm.” He nodded. “Don’t know Munch.”
The red stripe above his brim needed more detail. I didn’t want to spend the time. I just shaded it all in quickly. I carefully tore the sheet from the pad. I handed the paper to the commander.
He dropped the file on the desk and grabbed the portrait. He walked around the office, admiring himself.
I stared at the file.
It was just sitting there, lying on the desk. There had to be something about Papa in that file, something that could help me get a drawing to him.
The commander gave Kretzsky an order. Bread. He told Kretzsky to give me bread. I was supposed to get more than bread.
The commander left the room. I began to protest.
Kretzsky pointed to the front door. “Davai!” he yelled, waving for me to leave. I saw Jonas waiting outside.
“But—” I started.
Kretzsky shouted something and exited behind the desk.
Jonas opened the door and peeked in. “He told us to go to the kitchen door. I heard him. We can get our bread there,” he whispered.
“But we’re supposed to get potatoes,” I argued. The commander was a liar. I should have drawn the snakes. I turned to pick up my drawing pad. I saw the file on the desk.
“C’mon, Lina, I’m hungry,” said Jonas.
“Okay,” I said, pretending to gather my paper. I grabbed the file and shoved it in my coat.
“Yes, let’s go,” I said, rushing through the door. Jonas had no idea what I had done.
55
WE WALKED TO the NKVD barracks. I felt my heartbeat thump in my ears. I tried to calm myself, act normal. I looked over my shoulder. I saw Kretzsky exit the rear door of the kolkhoz office. He walked in the shadows to the barracks, his long wool coat swaying around his feet. We waited in back near the kitchen, as instructed.
“He may not come,” I said, eager to run back to the shack.
“He has to come,” said Jonas. “They owe us food for your drawing.”
Kretzsky appeared at the back door. A loaf of bread sailed into the dirt. Couldn’t he hand the bread to us? Would that be so difficult for him? I hated Kretzsky.
“C’mon, Jonas. Let’s go,” I said. Suddenly, potatoes rocketed at us. I heard laughter from inside the kitchen.
“Do you have to throw them?” I said, moving toward the dark doorway. The door closed.
“Look, there are several!” said Jonas, running to pick them up.
The door opened. A tin can smacked against my forehead. I heard clapping and felt a warm dripping above my eyebrow. Cans and garbage rained down around us. The NKVD amused themselves by pelting helpless children with garbage.
“They’re drunk. Hurry, let’s go! Before they start shooting,” I said, not wanting to drop the file.
“Wait, some of it is food!” said Jonas, frantically collecting things off the ground. A sack flew out and hit Jonas in the shoulder, knocking him over. A cheer erupted from behind the door.
“Jonas!” I ran to him. Something wet hit me in the face.
Kretzsky appeared at the door and said something.
“Hurry,” said Jonas. “He says we’re stealing food and he’s going to report us.”
We scurried around, like hens in a yard, craning our necks for anything that touched the ground. I reached up to clear the smelly slop from my eyes. Rotten potato peels. I put my head down and ate them.
“Fasheest sveenya!” yelled Kretzsky. He slammed the door.
I gathered things in my skirt, holding my arm against my coat and the file. I took all I could carry, even empty cans for residue. The left side of my forehead throbbed. I reached up and felt a big, wet goose egg.
Andrius emerged from the side of the building. He looked around. “I see you got something for your drawing,” he said.
I ignored him and quickly began snatching the potatoes with my free hand. I stuffed them into my pockets and skirt, desperate to get each one.
Andrius moved to lift the sack I was straddling. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “We’ll get it all.”
I looked up at him.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” I said, pulling potato rot from my hair.
Jonas scooped up the bread. Andrius picked up the big sack.
“What’s in that?” asked Jonas.
“Flour,” said Andrius. “I’ll carry it back for you.”
“Did you hurt your arm?” asked Andrius, watching me clutch my coat.
I shook my head.
We trudged through the snow in silence.
56
“HURRY, JONAS,” I said as soon as we were a safe distance from the NKVD building. “Mother will be worried. Run ahead and let her know we’re okay.”
Jonas ran toward our shack. I slowed my pace. “They have a file on us,” I said, watching my brother shrink in the distance.
“They have files on everyone,” said Andrius. He tossed the sack of flour up, readjusting it on his shoulder.
“Maybe you could help me with something,” I said.
Andrius shook his head, almost laughing. “I can’t steal a file, Lina. That’s a lot different from wood or a can of tomatoes. It’s one thing to get in the kitchen, but—”
“I don’t need you to take the file,” I said, stopping short of our shack.
“What?” Andrius stopped.
“I don’t need you to steal the file.” I looked around and opened my coat slightly. “I already have it,” I whispered. “It was on the commander’s desk. I need you to put it back once I’ve read it.”
Shock flooded Andrius’s face. His head snapped from side to side, to see if we were alone. He pulled me behind a shack. “What’s wrong with you! Do you want to get yourself killed?” he whispered.
“The bald man said it’s all in our files, where we were sent, perhaps what happened to the rest of our family. It’s all right here.” I crouched down, letting go of the potatoes and other items I had been carrying. I reached into my coat.
“Lina, you can’t do this. Give me the file. I’m taking it back.”