Рута Шепетис - Ashes in the Snow [aka Between Shades of Gray]

“There are people living in the cabins,” whispered Jonas.

“Yes, we’ll most likely have to share,” said Mother, pulling us close.

Two women walked past us carrying large buckets of water. I didn’t recognize them from our train.

We were assigned to a dingy hut near the back of the settlement. The gray wood was bald, shaved by many seasons of wind and snow. The door had splits and cracks and sat crooked on the frame. A strong wind could whisk the shack up into the sky, scattering it in a burst of pieces. The blond guard pulled the door open, bellowed something in Russian and pushed us inside. A squat Altaian woman wrapped in layers ran to the door and began screaming after the guard. Mother moved us to the corner. The woman turned and began yelling at us. Her hair poked out of her kerchief like black straw. Wrinkles formed an atlas on her wide, weathered face.

“What’s she saying?” asked Jonas.

“She says she has no room for filthy criminals,” said Mother.

“We’re not criminals,” I said.

The woman continued her rant, throwing her arms in the air and spitting on the floor of the hut.

“Is she crazy?” asked Jonas.

“She says she barely has food enough for herself and she’s not about to share it with criminals like us.” Mother turned her back to the woman. “Well, now, we’ll just set our things in this corner. Jonas, put your suitcase down.”

The woman grabbed my hair and pulled it, yanking me toward the door to throw me out.

Mother yelled, blasting the woman in Russian. She ripped the woman’s hand from my head, slapped her, and pushed her away. Jonas kicked her in the shin. The Altaian woman stared at us with angled black eyes. Mother returned the stare. The woman let out a hearty laugh. She asked a question.

“We’re Lithuanian,” said Mother, first speaking in Lithuanian and then in Russian. The woman jibbered.

“What’s she saying?” I asked.

“She says feisty people make good workers and that we have to pay her rent.” Mother continued asking questions.

“Pay her? For what? To live in this hole in the middle of nowhere?” I said.

“We’re in Altai,” said Mother. “They are farming potatoes and beets.”

“So there are potatoes to eat?” asked Jonas.

“Food is rationed. She said the guards oversee the farm and the workers,” said Mother.

I remembered Papa talking about Stalin confiscating peasants’ land, tools, and animals. He told them what crops they would produce and how much they would be paid. I thought it was ridiculous. How could Stalin simply take something that didn’t belong to him, something that a farmer and his family had worked their whole lives for? “That’s communism, Lina,” Papa had said.

The woman yelled at Mother, wagging her finger and shaking her head. She left the hut.

We were on a kolkhoz , a collective farm, and I was to become a beet farmer.

I hated beets.

THE SHACK WAS approximately ten feet by twelve feet. Lodged in the corner was a small stove surrounded by a couple of pots and dirty tins. A pallet of straw sat next to the wall near the stove. There was no pillow, only a worn quilted coverlet. Two tiny windows were created out of bits of glass that had been puttied together.

“There’s nothing here,” I said. “There isn’t a sink, a table, or a wardrobe. Is that where she sleeps?” I asked. “Where will we sleep? Where is the bathroom?”

“Where can we eat?” said Jonas.

“I’m not certain,” said Mother, looking in the pots. “This is filthy. But nothing a little cleaning can’t fix, right?”

“Well, it’s nice to be off that train,” said Jonas.

The young blond NKVD burst through the door. “Elena Vilkas,” he said.

Mother looked up at the guard.

“Elena Vilkas!” he repeated, louder this time.

“Yes, that’s me,” said Mother. They began speaking in Russian, then arguing.

“What is it, Mother?” asked Jonas.

Mother gathered us into her arms. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll stay together.”

The guard yelled, “Davai!” waving us out of the hut.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“The commander wants to see me. I told him we all had to go together,” said Mother.

The commander. My stomach rolled. “I’ll stay here. I’ll be fine,” I said.

“No, we must all stay together,” said Jonas.

We followed the blond guard between battered shacks until we reached a log building in much better condition than the others. A few NKVD gathered near the door smoking cigarettes. They leered at Mother. She surveyed the building and the guards.

“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

“No,” said Jonas. “We’re coming in with you.”

Mother looked toward the lusty guards, then at me.

A guard stepped down from the door. “Davai!” he yelled, pulling Mother by the elbow toward the building.

“I’ll be right back,” said Mother over her shoulder before she disappeared through the door.

“I’ll be right back,” said Mother.

“But what do you think?” I asked.

“I think you look lovely,” said Mother, stepping back to admire the dress.

“Good,” said the tailor, placing pins back into his small satin pin cushion. “All done, Lina. You can change now, but be careful, it’s just pinned, not stitched.”

“Meet me on the sidewalk,” said Mother over her shoulder before she disappeared through the door.

“Your mother has excellent taste in dresses,” said the tailor.

He was right. The dress was beautiful. The soft gray color made my eyes stand out.

I changed out of the dress and walked outside to meet Mother. She wasn’t there. I peered down the row of brightly colored shops but didn’t see her. Down the street, a door opened and Mother emerged. Her blue hat matched her dress, which fluttered around her legs as she walked toward me. She held up two ice cream cones and smiled, a shopping bag dangling from her arm.

“The boys are having their day and we’ll have ours,” said Mother, her red lipstick shining. She handed me a cone and steered us over to a bench. “Let’s sit.”

Papa and Jonas had gone to a soccer match, and Mother and I had spent the morning shopping. I licked the creamy vanilla ice cream and leaned back against the warm bench.

“It feels good to sit,” sighed Mother. She looked over to me. “Okay, the dress is finished—what else did we have to do?”

“I need charcoal,” I reminded her.

“Ah, that’s right,” said Mother. “Charcoal for my artist.”

“We should have gone with her,” said Jonas.

He was right. But I didn’t want to be near the commander. Mother knew it. I should have gone in with her. Now she was alone with them, unprotected, and it was my fault. I tugged Jonas over to the side of the building near a dirty window.

“Stay here so the blond guard can see you,” I told Jonas.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’m going to look in the window, to make sure Mother’s all right.”

“No, Lina!”

“Stay there,” I told him.

The blond guard looked no more than twenty. He was the one who had turned away when we took our clothes off. He took out a pocketknife and began scraping underneath his fingernails. I edged over toward the window and stood on my toes. Mother sat in a chair and stared into her lap. The commander sat on the edge of a desk in front of her. He flipped through a file while speaking to Mother. He closed the file and balanced it on his thigh. I looked over at the guard, then stretched a bit higher for a better view.