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

“How could they do this?” I asked aloud. I looked around the train car. No one spoke. How could we stand up for ourselves if everyone cowered in fear and refused to speak?

I had to speak. I’d write everything down, draw it all. I would help Papa find us.

Andrius shifted his legs. I looked down at him.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

I WOKE WITH A START next to Jonas and Andrius. The door to our car had been closed and locked. People began to panic.

The engines let out a hiss of steam.

“Please don’t move unless you absolutely have to,” ordered Miss Grybas. “Make sure the bathroom area stays clear.”

“Mrs. Book Lady? Will you tell us a story?” asked the girl with the dolly.

“Mama,” whimpered a little voice, “I’m scared. Turn on the light.”

“Did anyone bring a lantern?” someone asked.

“Sure, and I have a four-course meal in my pocket, too,” said the bald man.

“Mr. Stalas,” said Mother, “please, we’re all doing the best we can.”

“Girl,” he commanded. “Look out that little slot and tell us what you see.”

I moved toward the front of the car and hoisted myself up.

“The sun is beginning to rise,” I said.

“Spare us the poetry,” snapped the bald man. “What’s happening out there?”

The train hissed again, then clanked.

“NKVD officers are walking by the train with rifles,” I said. “There are some men in dark suits looking at the train cars.”

We felt a jolt and the train began to move.

“There’s luggage everywhere,” I said. “And lots of food on the platform.” People groaned. The station looked eerie, desolate, frozen with only remnants of the chaos that had taken place. There were single shoes strewn about, a cane, a woman’s purse lying open, and an orphaned teddy bear.

“We’re moving out of the station,” I reported. I craned my neck to look ahead. “There are people,” I said. “There’s a priest. He’s praying. A man is holding a large crucifix.”

The priest looked up, flung oil, and made the sign of the cross as our train rolled away.

He was issuing last rites.

AS WE ROLLED, I reported every detail from the window. The Nemunas River, the big churches, buildings, the streets, even the trees we passed. People sobbed. Lithuania had never looked more beautiful. Flowers burst with color against the June landscape. We moved along, our cars marked “thieves and prostitutes.”

After two hours the train began to slow.

“We’re coming into a station,” I said.

“What does the sign say?” asked the bald man.

I waited for the train to move closer. “Vilnius. We’re in… Vilnius,” I said quietly.

Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. We had studied the history in school. Six hundred years ago, the Grand Duke Gediminas had a dream. He saw an iron wolf standing high upon a hill. He consulted a priest about the dream who told him that the iron wolf symbolized a large and formidable city, a city of opportunity.

“Lina, may I speak to you, please?”

The remainder of my classmates filed out of the room. I approached the teacher’s desk.

“Lina,” she said, clasping her hands on the desk, “it seems you prefer socializing to studying.” She opened a folder in front of her. My stomach leapt into my throat. Inside were notes I had written to girls in class, along with accompanying sketches. On top of the pile sat a drawing of a Greek nude and a portrait of my handsome history teacher. “I found these in the trash. I’ve spoken to your parents.”

My hands became clammy. “I was trying to copy the figure from a library book—”

She raised her hand to stop me. “In addition to being quite social, however, you appear to be a gifted artist. Your portraits are”—she paused, rotating the drawing—“captivating. They show a depth of emotion well beyond your years.”

“Thank you,” I breathed.

“I believe your talent is above what we could develop here. There is a summer program, however, in Vilnius.”

“In Vilnius?” I asked. Vilnius was a few hours away.

“Yes, in Vilnius. Next year, when you’re sixteen, you’d be allowed to enter. If accepted, you’d study with some of the most talented artists in northern Europe. Would that interest you?”

I tried to swallow my excitement long enough to speak. “Yes, Mrs. Pranas, it would.”

“Then I’d like to recommend you. You’ll fill out an application and submit some samples of your drawings,” she said, handing the folder with the notes and sketches to me. “We’ll send them off to Vilnius as soon as possible.”

“Mrs. Pranas, thank you!” I said.

She smiled and leaned back in her chair. “It’s my pleasure, Lina. You have talent. You have a successful future ahead of you.”

Someone discovered a loose board behind some luggage on the back wall. Jonas crawled back and wiggled it aside.

“What do you see?”

“There’s a man in the trees,” said Jonas.

“Partisans,” said the bald man. “They’re trying to help us. Get his attention.”

Jonas stuck his hand out of the opening in the board, trying to wave.

“He’s coming,” said Jonas. “Shh!”

“They’re unhooking the cars with the men,” a man’s voice said. “They’re splitting the train in two.” He ran back into the woods.

Intermittent shots rang out in the distance.

“Where are they taking the men?” I asked.

“Maybe the men are going to Siberia,” said Mrs. Rimas. “And we’re going somewhere else.”

I preferred the thought of Siberia, if that’s where Papa would be.

Metal clanged and screeched. They were dividing the train. There was another sound.

“Listen,” I said. “The men.” It grew louder. Louder. They were singing, singing at the top of their lungs. Andrius joined, and then my brother and the gray-haired man. And finally, the bald man joined in, singing our national anthem. Lithuania, land of heroes…

I wept.

THE VOICES OF THE MEN in the other cars had sounded full of pride, full of confidence. Fathers, brothers, sons, husbands. Where were they all going? And where were we going, a train car full of women, children, elderly, and infirmed?

I wiped my tears with my handkerchief and allowed others to do the same. When it was handed back to me, I paused, staring at it. Unlike paper, the handkerchief could travel hand to hand without deteriorating. I would use it to draw on for Papa.

While I devised a plan, the women in the car showed constant concern for the baby, who could not seem to nurse.

Mrs. Rimas urged Ona to keep trying. “Come, come, dear.”

“What is it?” asked my mother through the darkness of the car.

“It’s Ona,” said Mrs. Rimas. “Her ducts are clogged and she’s too dehydrated. The baby won’t suckle.”

Despite Mrs. Rimas’s efforts, nothing seemed to help.

We rolled for days, stopping in the middle of nowhere. The NKVD wanted to ensure we could not be seen and had nowhere to run. We waited for our daily stops. It was the only time the door would be open to light or fresh air.

“One person! Two buckets. Any dead bodies in there?” the guards would ask.

We had agreed to rotate. That way, everyone would get a chance to get out of the car. Today was my turn. I had dreamed of seeing blue sky and feeling the sun on my face. But earlier, it had begun to rain. We had all scrambled to hold cups and containers out of the little slot to catch the rainwater.