The Siberian woman began speaking to Mother.
“There’s a tea she thinks will heal him,” translated Andrius. “She’s asking your mother to help her collect the ingredients.” I nodded.
“Andrius, could you stay a bit longer?” asked Mother. “I know Jonas would feel so much better with you here. Lina, boil some water for the tea.” Mother leaned over my brother. “Jonas, I’ll be right back, darling. I’m going for a tea that will help you.”
49
WE SAT IN SILENCE. Andrius stared at my brother, his fists clenched. What was he thinking? Was he mad that Jonas was sick? Was he mad that his mother was sleeping with the NKVD? Was he mad that his father was dead? Maybe he was just mad at me.
“Andrius.”
He didn’t look at me.
“Andrius, I’m a complete idiot.”
He turned his head.
“You’re so good to us, and I’m ... I’m just an idiot.” I looked down.
He said nothing.
“I jumped to a conclusion. I was stupid. I’m sorry I accused you of spying. I’ve felt horrible.” He remained silent. “Andrius?”
“Okay, you’re sorry,” he said. He looked back to my brother.
“And ... I’m sorry about your mother!” I blurted.
I grabbed my writing tablet. I sat down to finish the drawing of Jonas’s room. At first, I was conscious of the silence. It hung heavy, awkward. As I continued to sketch, I slipped into my drawing. I became absorbed with capturing the folds of the blanket perfectly, softly. The desk and the books had to be just right. Jonas loved his desk and his books. I loved books. How I missed my books.
I held my schoolbag, protecting the books. I couldn’t let it slap and bang in the usual way. After all, Edvard Munch was in my bag. I had waited nearly two months for my teacher to receive the books. They had finally arrived, from Oslo.
I knew my parents wouldn’t appreciate Munch or his style. Some called it “degenerate art.” But as soon as I saw photos of
Anxiety, Despair,
and
The Scream,
I had to see more. His works wrenched and distorted, as if painted through neurosis. I was fascinated.
I opened our front door. I saw the solitary envelope and raced toward the foyer table. I tore it open.
Dear Lina,
Happy New Year. I’m sorry I haven’t written. Now that the Christmas holiday is passed, life seems on a more serious course. Mother and Father have been arguing. Father is constantly ill-tempered and rarely sleeps. He paces the house through all hours of the night and comes home at lunchtime to get the mail. He’s boxed up most of his books, saying they take up too much space. He even tried to box up some of my medical books. Has he gone mad? Things have changed since the annexation.
Lina, please draw a picture of the cottage in Nida for me.
The warm and sunny memories of the summer will help push me through the cold to spring.
Please send me your news and let me know where your thoughts and drawings take you these days.
Your loving cousin,
Joana
“He told me about his airplane,” said Andrius, pointing over my shoulder to the drawing. I had forgotten he was there.
I nodded. “He loves them.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure,” I said, handing him my tablet.
“It’s good,” said Andrius. His thumb was pressed against the edge of the tablet. “Can I look at the others?”
“Yes,” I said, thankful there were only a few sketches I hadn’t yet torn from the pad.
Andrius turned the page. I took the compress from Jonas’s head and went to cool it in the snow. When I returned, Andrius was looking at a picture I had drawn of him. It was from the day Mrs. Rimas received the letter.
“It’s a strange angle,” he said, laughing quietly.
I sat down. “You’re taller than me. That’s how I saw it. And we were all packed pretty tight.”
“So, you had a good angle of my nostrils,” he said.
“Well, I was looking up at you. This angle would be different,” I said, observing him.
He turned to me.
“See, you look different from this perspective,” I said.
“Better or worse?” he asked.
Mother and the Siberian woman returned.
“Thank you, Andrius,” said Mother.
He nodded. He leaned over and whispered something to Jonas. He left.
We steeped the leaves in the water I had boiled. Jonas drank it. Mother stayed propped at his side. I lay down but couldn’t sleep. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw the painting of
The Scream
in my head, but the face was my face.
50
IT TOOK TWO WEEKS for Jonas to improve. His legs trembled when he walked. His voice was barely more than a whisper. In the meantime, Mother and I became weaker. We had to split our two bread rations to feed Jonas. At first, when we asked, people contributed a portion of what they had. But as the cold crept deeper into our shacks, it began to chill generosity. One day, I saw Miss Grybas turn her back and shove her entire bread ration into her mouth the moment it was handed to her. I couldn’t blame her. I had often thought of doing the same thing. Mother and I didn’t ask for contributions after that.
Despite our pleadings, the NKVD refused to give us food for Jonas. Mother even tried speaking to the commander. He laughed at her. He said something that upset her for days. We had nothing left to sell. We had bartered practically everything we owned with the Altaians for warm clothing. The lining of Mother’s coat hung thin, like fluttering cheesecloth.
The approach of Christmas bolstered spirits. We gathered in each other’s shacks to reminisce about the holidays in Lithuania. We talked endlessly about
Kucios
, our Christmas Eve celebration. It was decided that Kucios would be held in the bald man’s shack. He grudgingly agreed.
We closed our eyes when listening to the descriptions of the twelve delicious dishes representing the twelve apostles. People rocked back and forth, nodding. Mother talked of the delicious poppy seed soup and cranberry pudding. Mrs. Rimas cried at the mention of the wafer and the traditional Christmas blessing, “God grant that we are all together again next year.”
The guards warmed themselves with drink after work. They often forgot to check on us or didn’t want to venture out into the biting, frosty winds. We gathered each night to hear about someone’s holiday celebration. We grew to know each other through our longings and cherished memories. Mother insisted that we invite the grouchy woman to our meetings. She said that just because she had signed didn’t mean she wasn’t homesick. Snow fell and the temperatures plummeted, but work and the cold felt tolerable. We had something to look forward to—a small ritual that brought relief to our gray days and dark nights.
I had begun to steal logs to keep the stove fired. Mother constantly worried, but I assured her I was careful and that the NKVD were too lazy to come out into the cold. One night, I left the bald man’s shack to get a log for the stove. I crept around his shack. I heard movement and froze. Someone was standing in the shadows. Was it Kretzsky? My heart stopped ... Was it the commander?
“It’s just me, Lina.”
I heard Andrius’s voice in the darkness. He struck a match and lit a cigarette, briefly illuminating his face.
“You scared me,” I said. “Why are you standing out here?”
“I listen from out here.”
“Why don’t you come inside? It’s freezing,” I said.
“They wouldn’t want me inside. It’s not fair. Everyone is so hungry.”
“That’s not true. We’d be happy to have you. We’re just talking about Christmas.”
“I know. I’ve heard. My mother begs me to bring her the stories each night.”
“Really? If I hear about cranberry pudding one more time, I’ll go crazy,” I said, smiling. “I just need to get some wood.”
“You mean steal some?” he said.
“Well, yes, I guess,” I said.
He shook his head, chuckling. “You’re really not scared, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I’m cold.” He laughed.
“Do you want to walk with me?” I asked.
“Nah, I better get back,” he said. “Be careful. Good night.”
Three days later Mrs. Arvydas and Andrius arrived with a bottle of vodka. The crowd fell silent when they walked through the door. Mrs. Arvydas wore stockings. Her hair was clean and curled. Andrius looked down. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. I didn’t care that she wore a clean dress and wasn’t hungry. No one wanted to trade places with her.
“A toast,” said Mother, lifting the bottle of vodka to Mrs. Arvydas. “To good friends.”
Mrs. Arvydas smiled and nodded. Mother took a small sip from the bottle and then shimmied at the hips, delighted. We all joined in, taking small sips and laughing together, savoring the moment. Andrius leaned back against the wall, watching us and grinning.
That night, I fantasized about Papa joining us for the holiday. I imagined him trudging through the falling snow toward Altai, arriving in time for Christmas with my handkerchief in his breast pocket.
Hurry, Papa
, I urged.
Please hurry
.
“Don’t worry, Lina, he’ll be here soon,” said Mother. “He’s getting the hay for the table.”
I stood at the window, looking out into the snow.
Jonas helped Mother in the dining room. “So we’ll have twelve courses tomorrow. We’ll be eating all day.” He smacked his lips.
Mother smoothed the white tablecloth over the dining room table.
“Can I sit next to Grandma?” asked Jonas.
Papa’s dark silhouette emerged on the street before I could protest and argue that I wanted to sit next to Grandma.
“He’s coming!” I shouted. I grabbed my coat. I ran down the front steps and stood in the middle of the street. The small dark figure grew taller as it approached through the low light of dusk and the curtain of falling snow. A tinkling of bells from a horse’s harness floated from the street over.
I heard his voice before I could make out his face. “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.”
51
CHRISTMAS EVE ARRIVED. I worked all day chopping wood. Moisture from my nose froze, encrusted around my nostrils. I kept my mind busy trying to remember details about each Christmas at home. No one swallowed their bread ration in line that night. We greeted each other kindly and made our way back to our shacks. Jonas looked somewhat like himself again. We washed our hair in melted snow and scrubbed at our fingernails. Mother pinned her hair up and dotted lipstick on her lips. She rubbed a bit of the red into my cheeks for color.
“It’s not perfect, but we do the best we can,” said Mother, adjusting our clothes and hair.
“Get the family picture,” said Jonas.
The others had the same idea. Photographs of families and loved ones were plentiful in the bald man’s shack. I saw a photo of Mrs. Rimas and her husband. He was short, like her. She was laughing in the photo. She looked so different, strong. Now she drooped, like someone had sucked air out of her. The bald man was particularly quiet.
We sat on the floor as if around a table. There was a white cloth in the center with hay and fir boughs in front of each person. One spot was left empty. A stub of tallow burned in front of it. Lithuanian tradition called for an empty place to be left at the table for family members who were gone or deceased. People placed photographs of their family and friends around the empty seat. I gently set our family photo at the empty setting.
I took out the bundle of food I had been saving and placed it on the table. Some people had small surprises—a potato they had saved or something they had pilfered. The grouchy woman displayed some biscuits she must have bought in the village. Mother thanked her and made a fuss.
“The Arvydas boy and his mother sent this,” said the bald man. “For after dinner.” He tossed something out. It landed with a thud. People gasped. I couldn’t believe it. I was so shocked I started to laugh. It was chocolate. Real chocolate! And the bald man hadn’t eaten it.
Jonas whooped.
“Shh ... Jonas. Not too loud,” said Mother. She looked at the package on the table. “Chocolate! How wonderful. Our cup runneth over.”
The bald man put the bottle of vodka on the table.
“Now, you know better,” scolded Miss Grybas. “Not for Kucios.”
“How the hell should I know?” snapped the bald man.
“Maybe after dinner.” Mother winked.
“I don’t want any part of it,” said the bald man. “I’m Jewish.”
Everyone looked up.
“But ... Mr. Stalas, why didn’t you tell us?” asked Mother.
“Because it’s none of your business,” he snapped.
“But for days we’ve been meeting about Christmas. And you’ve been so kind to let us use your hut. If you had told us, we could have included a Hanukkah celebration,” said Mother.
“Don’t assume I haven’t celebrated the Maccabees,” said the bald man, pointing his finger. “I just don’t blather on about it like you fools.” The room fell quiet. “I don’t wax on about my worship. It’s personal. And honestly, poppy seed soup, bah.”
People shifted uncomfortably. Jonas started to laugh. He hated poppy seed soup. The bald man joined in. Soon we were all laughing hysterically.
We sat for hours at our meal and makeshift table. We sang songs and carols. After much pressing, Mother persuaded the bald man to recite the Hebrew prayer
Ma’oz Tzur
. His voice lacked its usual pinched tone. He closed his eyes. The words quivered with emotion.
I stared at our family picture, sitting at the empty seat. We had always spent Christmas at home, with bells tinkling in the streets, and warm smells wafting from the kitchen. I pictured the dining room dark, the chandelier laced in cobwebs, and the table covered in a fine layer of dust. I thought of Papa. What was he doing for Christmas? Did he have a tiny piece of chocolate to melt on his tongue?