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

He set his coffee cup down on the table, examining the drawing. I looked at the man’s face as it came to life on my page. He had bright eyes and a warm smile. His mouth was relaxed and calm, not pinched like Miss Grybas’ or the bald man’s. I wondered who he was and whether he was Lithuanian. I thought about creating something his wife and children would like to look at. Where was this gentleman, and why was he important? The ink from the pen flowed smoothly. I wanted that pen. When Kretzsky turned, I dropped it in my lap and leaned closer to the table.

I needed texture to capture the man’s hair. I dipped my finger into Kretzsky’s coffee cup, lifting grounds onto my finger. I dabbed them on top of my other hand and swished the brown around on my skin. I used the coffee grounds to blot texture into the hair. Almost. I leaned forward and brushed a bit of the grit with my pinky. It curved softly in a gentle sweep. Perfect. I heard footsteps. Two cigarettes appeared in front of me. I turned, startled. The commander stood behind me. My skin prickled at the sight of him, bristling on my arms and the back of my neck. I pushed myself against the table, trying to conceal the pen in my lap. He raised his eyebrows at me, flashing the gold tooth under his lip.

“Finished,” I said, sliding the drawing toward him.

“Da,” he said, nodding. He stared at me, his toothpick bobbing on his tongue.

I WALKED BETWEEN the huts in the dark, making my way toward the NKVD building at the back of the camp. I heard voices mumbling behind the brittle walls. I hurried along the tree line, cradling the cigarettes and the pen in my pocket. I stopped behind a tree. The NKVD barracks looked like a hotel compared with our shacks. Kerosene lamps burned brightly. A group of NKVD sat on the porch playing cards and passing a flask.

I crept in the shadows to the back of the building. I heard something—crying, and whispers in Lithuanian. I turned the corner. Mrs. Arvydas sat on a crate, her shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with muffled sobs. Andrius knelt down in front of her, his hands clasping hers. I inched closer. His head snapped up.

“What do you want, Lina?” said Andrius.

“I… Mrs. Arvydas, are you all right?” She turned her head away from me.

“Leave, Lina,” said Andrius.

“Can I help somehow?” I asked.

“No.”

“Is there anything I can do?” I pressed.

“I said, leave!” Andrius stood up to face me.

I hung motionless. “I came to give you—” I reached in my pocket for the cigarettes.

Mrs. Arvydas turned her head to me. Her eye makeup ran down over a bloody welt that blazed across her cheek.

What had they done to her? I felt the cigarettes crush between my fingers. Andrius stared at me.

“I’m sorry.” My voice caught and broke. “I’m really so sorry.” I turned quickly and began to run. Images streaked and bled together, contorted by my speed—Ulyushka, grinning with yellow teeth; Ona in the dirt, her one dead eye open; the guard moving toward me, smoke blowing from his pursed lips— Stop it, Lina —Papa’s battered face looking down at me from the hole; dead bodies lying next to the train tracks; the commander reaching for my breast. STOP IT! I couldn’t.

I ran back to our shack.

“Lina, what’s wrong?” asked Jonas.

“Nothing!”

I paced the floor. I hated this labor camp. Why were we here? I hated the commander. I hated Kretzsky. Ulyushka complained and stomped for me to sit down.

“SHUT UP, YOU WITCH!” I screamed.

I rifled through my suitcase. My hand knocked the stone from Andrius. I grabbed it. I thought about throwing it at Ulyushka. Instead, I tried to crush it. I didn’t have the strength. I put it in my pocket and snatched my paper.

I found a sliver of light outside in back of our hut. I held the stolen pen above the paper. My hand began to move in short, scratchy strokes. I took a breath. Fluid strokes. Mrs. Arvydas slowly appeared on the page. Her long neck, her full lips. I thought of Munch as I sketched, his theory that pain, love, and despair were links in an endless chain.

My breathing slowed. I shaded her thick chestnut hair resting in a smooth curve against her face, a large bruise blazing across her cheek. I paused, looking over my shoulder to make certain I was alone. I drew her eye makeup, smudged by tears. In her watery eyes I drew the reflection of the commander, standing in front of her, his fist clenched. I continued to sketch, exhaled, and shook out my hands.

I returned to our shack and hid the pen and drawing in my suitcase. Jonas sat on the floor, bobbing his knee nervously. Ulyushka was asleep on her pallet, snoring.

“Where’s Mother?” I asked.

“The grouchy woman went to the village today,” said Jonas. “Mother walked down the road to meet her on the way back.”

“It’s late,” I said. “She’s not back?” I had given the grouchy woman a wood carving to pass along for Papa.

I walked outside and saw Mother coming toward the shack. She carried coats and boots. She smiled her huge smile when she saw me. Miss Grybas came scurrying toward us.

“Hurry!” she said. “Put those things out of sight. The NKVD is rounding everyone up to sign papers.”

I didn’t have a chance to tell Mother about Mrs. Arvydas. We put everything in the bald man’s shack. Mother put her arms around me. Her dress hung on her thin frame, her hip bones protruding at the belted waistline.

“She mailed our letters!” whispered Mother, beaming. I nodded, hoping the handkerchief had passed across hundreds of miles already, ahead of the letters.

It wasn’t five minutes before the NKVD burst into our hut, yelling for us to report to the office. Jonas and I marched along with Mother.

“And drawing the map this afternoon?” she asked.

“Easy,” I said, thinking of the stolen pen hidden in my suitcase.

“I wasn’t sure it was safe,” said Mother. “But I guess I was wrong.” She put her arms around us.

Sure, we were safe. Safe in the arms of hell.

“Tadas was sent to the principal today,” announced Jonas at dinner. He wedged a huge piece of sausage into his small mouth.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he talked about hell,” sputtered Jonas, juice from the plump sausage dribbling down his chin.

“Jonas, don’t speak with your mouth full. Take smaller pieces,” scolded Mother.

“Sorry,” said Jonas with his mouth stuffed. “It’s good.” He finished chewing. I took a bite of sausage. It was warm and the skin was deliciously salty.

“Tadas told one of the girls that hell is the worst place ever and there’s no escape for all eternity.”

“Now why would Tadas be talking of hell?” asked Papa, reaching for the vegetables.

“Because his father told him that if Stalin comes to Lithuania, we’ll all end up there.”

“IT’S CALLED TURACIAK,” Mother told us the next day. “It’s up in the hills. It’s not large, but there’s a post office and even a small schoolhouse.”

“There’s a school?” said Miss Grybas excitedly.

Jonas shot me a look. He had been asking about school since the beginning of September.

“Elena, you must tell them I’m a teacher,” said Miss Grybas. “The children in the camp must go to school. We have to create some sort of school here.”

“Did she mail the letters?” asked the bald man.

“Yes,” said Mother. “And she wrote the post office address on the return.”

“But how will we know if any letters arrive for us?” said Mrs. Rimas.