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

The streets began to buzz with activity. “We were early,” one of the men commented to Mother. He looked at his watch. “It’s nearing three A.M. now.”

The bald man, lying on his back, turned his face toward Jonas. “Boy, put your hands over my mouth and pinch my nose. Don’t let go.”

“He will do nothing of the sort,” said Mother, pulling Jonas close.

“Foolish woman. Don’t you realize this is just the beginning? We have a chance now to die with dignity.”

“Elena!” A voice hissed from the street. I saw Mother’s cousin Regina hiding in the shadows.

“Have you any relief now that you’re on your back?” Mother asked the bald man.

“Elena!” The voice appeared again, a little louder.

“Mother, I think she’s calling you,” I whispered, eyeing the NKVD smoking on the other side of the truck.

“She’s not calling me—she’s a crazy woman,” Mother said loudly. “Be on your way and leave us alone,” she yelled.

“But Elena, I—”

Mother turned her head and pretended she was deep in conversation with me, completely ignoring her cousin. A small bundle bounced into the bed of the truck near the bald man. His hand grabbed for it greedily.

“And you speak of dignity, sir?” said Mother. She snapped the bundle out of his hands and put it under her legs. I wondered what was in the package. How could Mother call her own cousin “a crazy woman”? Regina had taken a great risk to find her.

“You are the wife of Kostas Vilkas, provost at the university?” asked a man in a suit sitting down from us. Mother nodded, wringing her hands.

I watched as Mother twisted her palms.

Murmurs rose and fell in the dining room. The men had been sitting for hours. “Sweetheart, take them the fresh pot of coffee,” said Mother.

I walked to the edge of the dining room. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over the table, held captive by the closed windows and drapes.

“Repatriate, if they can get away with it,” said my father, stopping abruptly when he saw me in the doorway.

“Would anyone like more coffee?” I asked, holding up the sterling pot.

Some men looked down. Someone coughed.

“Lina, you’re turning into quite a young lady,” said a friend of my father’s from the university. “And I hear that you’re a very talented artist.”

“Indeed, she is!” said Papa. “She has a very unique style. And she’s exceptionally smart,” he added with a wink.

“So she takes after her mother then,” joked one of the men. Everyone laughed.

“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.

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.