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

THE DAY AFTER we finished our jurta, Janina came running to me. “Lina, there’s a ship! There’s a ship coming!”

Within seconds, the NKVD was upon us, pointing rifles in our faces. They ordered everyone into their jurtas. They ran, screaming, frantic.

“Jonas?” Mother yelled. “Lina, where is Jonas?”

“He was sent to fish,” I said.

“Davai!” barked Ivanov, pushing me into the jurta.

“Jonas!” yelled Mother, stumbling to get away from Ivanov.

“He’s coming, Elena,” said Mr. Lukas, running toward us. “I saw him behind me.”

Jonas arrived, out of breath from running. “Mother, there’s a ship. It has an American flag.”

“The Americans have arrived. They’ve arrived!” said the repeater.

“Will the Americans fight the NKVD?” asked Janina.

“Stupid girl. The Americans are helping the NKVD,” said the bald man.

“They’re hiding us,” said Mother. “The guards don’t want the Americans to see us, to know what they’re doing to us.”

“Won’t the Americans wonder what these mud huts are?” I asked.

“They’ll think they’re some sort of military unit,” said the man who wound his watch.

“Should we run out, so the Americans can see us?” I asked.

“They’ll shoot you,” said the bald man.

“Stay put, Lina!” said Mother. “Do you understand me?”

She was right. The NKVD was hiding us from the Americans. We stayed in our jurtas for more than five hours. That’s how long it took for the American ship to be unloaded. As soon as the ship sailed, the NKVD came screaming for us to get to work. There were supplies to be moved to the bakery and NKVD barracks. I watched as the American ship drifted out of sight, pulling thoughts of rescue away with it. I wanted to run to the shore, waving my arms, screaming.

The supplies were stacked on large wooden pallets and stood as tall and wide as four homes in Kaunas. Food. It was so close. Jonas told me to keep an eye on the wood from the pallet, that we could use it to build a door for our jurta.

The man who wound his watch spoke English. He translated the markings on the containers. Canned peas, tomatoes, butter, condensed milk, powdered eggs, sugar, flour, vodka, whiskey. More than three hundred Lithuanians and Finns moved mountains of food and supplies they would never again touch. How much food was there in America that a ship could drop such an enormous supply for fewer than twenty guards? And now the Americans had sailed away. Did they know the Soviets’ gruesome secret? Were they turning the other cheek?

After the food, we moved supplies—kerosene, fishing nets, fur-lined coats, hats, thick leather gloves. The NKVD would be cozy for the winter. The wind blew through my threadbare coat. I strained to lift crate after crate with Jonas.

“Please, stop,” Mother told Mr. Lukas.

“I’m sorry,” he said, winding his watch. “It calms me.”

“That’s not what I mean. Stop translating the words on the crates. I can’t bear to know what we’re carrying anymore,” Mother said as she walked away.

“I want to know,” objected the bald man. “I want to know what might be available if the opportunity presents itself for one of you.”

“What does he mean?” asked Jonas.

“Probably that he wants us to steal things for him,” I said.

“She’s doing it again,” said Jonas.

“What?” I asked.

Jonas motioned to Mother. She was talking to Kretzsky.

JONAS FOUND AN EMPTY barrel floating in the Laptev Sea. He was able to pull it ashore with a log. He rolled it up to our jurta. The men cheered.

“For a stove,” Jonas said, smiling.

“Good work, darling!” said Mother.

The men set to work on the barrel, using empty tin cans from the NKVD’s trash to create a stovepipe.

It was risky to carry or save your bread ration when Ivanov was around. He loved to take bread rations. Three hundred grams. That’s all we got. Once, I saw him snatch a piece of bread from an old woman in line at the bakery. He popped it into his mouth and chewed it up. She watched, her empty mouth chewing along with his. He spit it on her feet. She scrambled to pick up every chewed piece and eat it. Mrs. Rimas said she heard Ivanov had been reassigned from a prison in Krasnoyarsk. The assignment in Trofimovsk had to be a demotion. Had Kretzsky also been demoted? I wondered if Ivanov had been at the same prison as Papa.

My stomach burned. I longed for the gray porridge they gave us on the train. I drew detailed pictures of food—steaming chicken with crispy, glazed skin, bowls of plums, apple cakes with crumbling crusts. I wrote down the details of the American ship and the food it carried.

The NKVD set us to rolling logs out of the Laptev Sea. We were to chop them up to dry for firewood. We weren’t allowed any wood for ourselves. We sat in our jurta facing the empty stove. I saw plates with food being taken from our dinner table and the pieces scraped into the trash. I heard Jonas’s voice saying, But Mother, I’m not hungry when told to finish his dinner. Not hungry. When were we ever not hungry?

“I’m cold,” said Janina.

“Well, go find some wood for the stove then!” said the bald man.

“Where can I find it?” she asked.

“You can steal it. Near the NKVD building,” he replied. “That’s where the others are getting it.”

“Don’t send her to steal. I’ll go find something,” I said.

“I’ll come with you,” said Jonas.

“Mother?” I expected her to protest.

“Hmm?” she said.

“Jonas and I are going to look for wood.”

“All right, dear,” she said softly.

“Is Mother okay?” I asked Jonas as we walked out of our mud hut.

“She seems weaker and confused,” said Jonas.

I stopped. “Jonas, have you seen Mother eat?”

“I think so,” he said.

“Think about it. We’ve seen her nibble, but she’s always giving us bread,” I said. “Just yesterday she gave us bread. She said it was an additional ration she got for hauling logs.”

“Do you think she’s giving us her ration?”

“Yes, or at least part of it,” I said. Mother was starving herself to feed us.

The wind howled as we walked toward the NKVD building. My throat burned with each breath. The sun did not appear. The polar night had begun. The desolate landscape was painted in blues and grays by the moon. The repeater kept saying we had to make it through the first winter. Mother agreed. If we could make it through the first winter, we’d survive. We had to endure the polar night and see the sun return.

“Are you cold?” asked Jonas.

“Freezing.” The wind sliced through my clothing and stabbed at my skin.

“Do you want my coat?” he asked. “I think it will fit.”

I looked at my brother. The coat Mother had traded was too big for him. He’d grow into it.

“No, then you’ll be cold,” I said. “But thanks.”

“Vilkas!” Kretzsky. He wore a long wool coat and carried a canvas sack.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Looking for driftwood to burn,” said Jonas. “Have you seen any?”

Kretzsky hesitated. He reached into the bag and threw a piece of wood at our shins, walking away before we could say anything.

That night, September 26, the first snowstorm arrived.

It lasted two days. The wind and snow bellowed and blew through the cracks in our jurta. The freezing temperatures crept into my knees and hips. They ached and throbbed, making it hard to move. We huddled together for warmth. The repeater pushed in close. His breath smelled rotten.

“Did you eat fish?” asked the bald man.