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

After ten days he said he had to move on, that there were other camps with deportees who were suffering. I gave him all the letters I had written to Andrius. He said he would mail them.

“And your father?” he asked.

“He died in prison, in Krasnoyarsk.”

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“Ivanov told my mother.”

“Ivanov did? Hmm,” said the doctor, shaking his head.

“Do you think he was lying?” I asked quickly.

“Oh, I don’t know, Lina. I’ve been to a lot of prisons and camps, none as remote as this, but there are hundreds of thousands of people. I heard a famous accordion player had been shot, only to meet him a couple of months later in a prison.”

My heart leapt. “That’s what I told my mother. Maybe Ivanov was wrong!”

“Well, I don’t know, Lina. But let’s just say I’ve met a lot of dead people.”

I nodded and smiled, unable to contain the fountain of hope he had just given me.

“Dr. Samodurov, how did you find us?” I asked him.

“Nikolai Kretzsky,” was all he said.

JONAS SLOWLY BEGAN to heal. Janina was speaking again. We buried the man who wound his watch. I clung to the story of the accordion player and visualized my drawings making their way into Papa’s hands.

I drew more and more, thinking that come spring, perhaps I might be able to send off a message somehow.

“You told me those Evenks on the sleds helped the doctor,” said Jonas. “Maybe they would help us, too. It sounds like they have a lot of supplies.”

Yes. Maybe they would help us.

I had a recurring dream. I saw a male figure coming toward me in the camp through the swirling ice and snow. I always woke before I could see his face, but once I thought I heard Papa’s voice.

“Now, what sort of sensible girl stands in the middle of the road when it’s snowing?”

“Only one whose father is late,” I teased.

Papa’s face appeared, frosty and red. He carried a small bundle of hay.

“I’m not late,” he said, putting his arm around me. “I’m right on time.”

I left the jurta to chop wood. I began my walk through the snow, five kilometers to the tree line. That’s when I saw it. A tiny sliver of gold appeared between shades of gray on the horizon. I stared at the amber band of sunlight, smiling. The sun had returned.

I closed my eyes. I felt Andrius moving close. “I’ll see you,” he said.

“Yes, I will see you,” I whispered. “I will.”

I reached into my pocket and squeezed the stone.

“What are you doing? Keep moving or we won’t finish today,” said the man. Construction vehicles roared behind him.

“I found something,” said the digger, staring into the hole. He knelt down for a closer look.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” The man lifted a wooden box from the ground. He pried the hinged top open and looked inside. He removed a large glass jar full of papers. He opened the jar and began to read.

Dear Friend,

The writings and drawings you hold in your hands were buried in the year 1954, after returning from Siberia with my brother, where we were imprisoned for twelve years. There are many thousands of us, nearly all dead. Those alive cannot speak. Though we committed no offense, we are viewed as criminals. Even now, speaking of the terrors we have experienced would result in our death. So we put our trust in you, the person who discovers this capsule of memories sometime in the future. We trust you with truth, for contained herein is exactly that—the truth.

My husband, Andrius, says that evil will rule until good men or women choose to act. I believe him. This testimony was written to create an absolute record, to speak in a world where our voices have been extinguished. These writings may shock or horrify you, but that is not my intention. It is my greatest hope that the pages in this jar stir your deepest well of human compassion. I hope they prompt you to do something, to tell someone. Only then can we ensure that this kind of evil is never allowed to repeat itself.