Kretzsky's shoulders dropped. He stepped back and lit a cigarette. "Vilkas," he said, shaking his head and blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He laughed, grabbed my arm, and dragged me toward the kolkhoz office.

What had I just agreed to?

44.

I SAT AT A TABLE in the kolkhoz office. I shook out my hands, hoping to stop them from quivering. A map was placed to my upper left, and a photograph to my upper right. The map was of Siberia, the photo of a family. In the photograph, a black box had been drawn around the man's head.

An NKVD brought paper and a box with a nice selection of pens, pencils, and drafting supplies. I ran my fingers over the writing utensils, longing to use them for my own drawings. Kretzsky pointed to the map.

I had seen maps in school, but they had never interested me as this one did. I looked at the map of Siberia, shocked by its enormity. Where were we on the map? And where was Papa? I surveyed the details of the plot. Kretzsky pounded his fist on the table, impatient.

Several officers hovered around while I drew. They flipped through files and pointed to locations on the map. The files had papers and photographs affixed to them. I stared at the cities on the map as I was drawing, trying to commit them to memory. I would re-create it on my own later.

Most of the officers left as soon as the map was finished. Kretzsky flipped through files, drinking coffee while I drew the man in the photograph. I closed my eyes and inhaled. The coffee smelled incredible. The room was warm like our kitchen at home. When I opened my eyes, Kretzsky was staring at me.

He set his coffee cup down on the table, examining the drawing. I looked at the man's face as it came to life on my page. He had bright eyes and a warm smile. His mouth was relaxed and calm, not pinched like Miss Grybas' or the bald man's. I wondered who he was and whether he was Lithuanian. I thought about creating something his wife and children would like to look at. Where was this gentleman, and why was he important? The ink from the pen flowed smoothly. I wanted that pen. When Kretzsky turned, I dropped it in my lap and leaned closer to the table.

I needed texture to capture the man's hair. I dipped my finger into Kretzsky's coffee cup, lifting grounds onto my finger. I dabbed them on top of my other hand and swished the brown around on my skin. I used the coffee grounds to blot texture into the hair. Almost. I leaned forward and brushed a bit of the grit with my pinky. It curved softly in a gentle sweep. Perfect. I heard footsteps. Two cigarettes appeared in front of me. I turned, startled. The commander stood behind me. My skin prickled at the sight of him, bristling on my arms and the back of my neck. I pushed myself against the table, trying to conceal the pen in my lap. He raised his eyebrows at me, flashing the gold tooth under his lip.

"Finished," I said, sliding the drawing toward him.

"Da," he said, nodding. He stared at me, his toothpick bobbing on his tongue.

45.

I WALKED BETWEEN the huts in the dark, making my way toward the NKVD building at the back of the camp. I heard voices mumbling behind the brittle walls. I hurried along the tree line, cradling the cigarettes and the pen in my pocket. I stopped behind a tree. The NKVD barracks looked like a hotel compared with our shacks. Kerosene lamps burned brightly. A group of NKVD sat on the porch playing cards and passing a flask.

I crept in the shadows to the back of the building. I heard something-crying, and whispers in Lithuanian. I turned the corner. Mrs. Arvydas sat on a crate, her shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with muffled sobs. Andrius knelt down in front of her, his hands clasping hers. I inched closer. His head snapped up.

"What do you want, Lina?" said Andrius.

"I ... Mrs. Arvydas, are you all right?" She turned her head away from me.

"Leave, Lina," said Andrius.

"Can I help somehow?" I asked.

"No."

"Is there anything I can do?" I pressed.

"I said, leave!" Andrius stood up to face me.

I hung motionless. "I came to give you-" I reached in my pocket for the cigarettes.

Mrs. Arvydas turned her head to me. Her eye makeup ran down over a bloody welt that blazed across her cheek.

What had they done to her? I felt the cigarettes crush between my fingers. Andrius stared at me.

"I'm sorry." My voice caught and broke. "I'm really so sorry." I turned quickly and began to run. Images streaked and bled together, contorted by my speed-Ulyushka, grinning with yellow teeth; Ona in the dirt, her one dead eye open; the guard moving toward me, smoke blowing from his pursed lips-Stop it, Lina-Papa's battered face looking down at me from the hole; dead bodies lying next to the train tracks; the commander reaching for my breast. STOP IT! I couldn't.

I ran back to our shack.

"Lina, what's wrong?" asked Jonas.

"Nothing! "

I paced the floor. I hated this labor camp. Why were we here? I hated the commander. I hated Kretzsky. Ulyushka complained and stomped for me to sit down.

"SHUT UP, YOU WITCH!" I screamed.

I rifled through my suitcase. My hand knocked the stone from Andrius. I grabbed it. I thought about throwing it at Ulyushka. Instead, I tried to crush it. I didn't have the strength. I put it in my pocket and snatched my paper.

I found a sliver of light outside in back of our hut. I held the stolen pen above the paper. My hand began to move in short, scratchy strokes. I took a breath. Fluid strokes. Mrs. Arvydas slowly appeared on the page. Her long neck, her full lips. I thought of Munch as I sketched, his theory that pain, love, and despair were links in an endless chain.

My breathing slowed. I shaded her thick chestnut hair resting in a smooth curve against her face, a large bruise blazing across her cheek. I paused, looking over my shoulder to make certain I was alone. I drew her eye makeup, smudged by tears. In her watery eyes I drew the reflection of the commander, standing in front of her, his fist clenched. I continued to sketch, exhaled, and shook out my hands.

I returned to our shack and hid the pen and drawing in my suitcase. Jonas sat on the floor, bobbing his knee nervously. Ulyushka was asleep on her pallet, snoring.

"Where's Mother?" I asked.

"The grouchy woman went to the village today," said Jonas. "Mother walked down the road to meet her on the way back."

"It's late," I said. "She's not back?" I had given the grouchy woman a wood carving to pass along for Papa.

I walked outside and saw Mother coming toward the shack. She carried coats and boots. She smiled her huge smile when she saw me. Miss Grybas came scurrying toward us.

"Hurry!" she said. "Put those things out of sight. The NKVD is rounding everyone up to sign papers."

I didn't have a chance to tell Mother about Mrs. Arvydas. We put everything in the bald man's shack. Mother put her arms around me. Her dress hung on her thin frame, her hip bones protruding at the belted waistline.

"She mailed our letters!" whispered Mother, beaming. I nodded, hoping the handkerchief had passed across hundreds of miles already, ahead of the letters.

It wasn't five minutes before the NKVD burst into our hut, yelling for us to report to the office. Jonas and I marched along with Mother.

"And drawing the map this afternoon?" she asked.

"Easy," I said, thinking of the stolen pen hidden in my suitcase.

"I wasn't sure it was safe," said Mother. "But I guess I was wrong." She put her arms around us.

Sure, we were safe. Safe in the arms of hell.

"Tadas was sent to the principal today," announced Jonas at dinner. He wedged a huge piece of sausage into his small mouth.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because he talked about hell," sputtered Jonas, juice from the plump sausage dribbling down his chin.

"Jonas, don't speak with your mouth full. Take smaller pieces," scolded Mother.

"Sorry," said Jonas with his mouth stuffed. "It's good." He finished chewing. I took a bite of sausage. It was warm and the skin was deliciously salty.

"Tadas told one of the girls that hell is the worst place ever and there's no escape for all eternity."

"Now why would Tadas be talking of hell?" asked Papa, reaching for the vegetables.

"Because his father told him that if Stalin comes to Lithuania, we'll all end up there."

46.

"IT'S CALLED TURACIAK," Mother told us the next day. "It's up in the hills. It's not large, but there's a post office and even a small schoolhouse."

"There's a school?" said Miss Grybas excitedly.

Jonas shot me a look. He had been asking about school since the beginning of September.

"Elena, you must tell them I'm a teacher," said Miss Grybas. "The children in the camp must go to school. We have to create some sort of school here."

"Did she mail the letters?" asked the bald man.

"Yes," said Mother. "And she wrote the post office address on the return."

"But how will we know if any letters arrive for us?" said Mrs. Rimas.

"Well, we'll have to continue to bribe someone who signed," said Miss Grybas with a grimace. "They'll check for our mail when they take their trips to the village."

"She said she met a Latvian woman whose husband is in a prison near Tomsk," said Mother.

"Oh, Elena, could our husbands be in Tomsk?" asked Mrs. Rimas, bringing her hand to her chest.

"Her husband wrote that he is spending time with many Lithuanian friends." Mother smiled. "But she said the letters were cryptic and arrived with markings."

"Of course they did," said the bald man. "They're censored. That Latvian woman better be careful what she writes. And you better be careful, too, unless you want to be shot in the head."

"Will you never stop?" I said.

"It's the truth. Your love letters could get them killed. And what of the war?" asked the bald man.

"The Germans have taken Kiev," said Mother.

"What are they doing there?" asked Jonas.

"What do you think they're doing? They're killing people. This is war!" said the bald man.

"Are the Germans killing people in Lithuania?" said Jonas.

"Stupid boy, don't you know?" said the bald man. "Hitler, he's killing the Jews. Lithuanians could be helping him!"

"What?" I said.

"What do you mean? Hitler pushed Stalin out of Lithuania," said Jonas.

"That doesn't make him a hero. Our country is doomed, don't you see? Our fate is genocide, no matter whose hands we fall into," said the bald man.

"Stop it!" yelled Miss Grybas. "I can't bear to hear about it."

"That's enough, Mr. Stalas," said Mother.

"What about America or Britain?" asked Mrs. Rimas. "Surely they'll help us."

"Nothing yet," said Mother. "But soon, I hope."

And that was the first news of Lithuania in months. Mother's spirits soared. Despite her hunger and blisters from hard work, she was effervescent. She walked with a bounce. Hope, like oxygen, kept her moving. I thought about Papa. Was he really in prison somewhere in Siberia? I recalled the map I had drawn for the NKVD, and then Stalin and Hitler dividing up Europe. Suddenly, a thought hit me. If Hitler was killing the Jews in Lithuania, what had happened to Dr. Seltzer?

The possibility of letters en route made for endless conversation. We learned the names of everyone's relatives, neighbors, coworkers-anyone who could possibly send a letter. Miss Grybas was sure the young man who had lived next door to her would send a letter.

"No, he won't. He probably never noticed you lived there," said the bald man. "You're not exactly the noticeable type."

Miss Grybas was not amused. Jonas and I laughed about it later. At night, we'd lie in our straw creating ridiculous scenarios of Miss Grybas romancing her young neighbor. Mother told us to stop, but sometimes I heard her giggling right along with us.

Temperatures dipped and the NKVD pushed us harder. They even gave us an extra ration at one point because they wanted another barrack built before the snow came. We still refused to sign the papers. Andrius still refused to speak to me. We planted potatoes for spring, even though no one wanted to believe we might still be in Siberia when the cold broke.

The Soviets forced Mother to teach school to a mixed class of Altaian and Lithuanian children. Only the children whose parents signed were allowed to attend school. They forced her to teach in Russian, even though many children did not yet fully understand the language. The NKVD would not let Miss Grybas teach. It pained her. They told her if she signed, they would allow her to assist Mother. She wouldn't sign, but helped Mother with lesson plans in the evenings.

I was happy that Mother was able to teach in a covered shack. Jonas had been reassigned to chopping logs for firewood. The snow had arrived, and he came back each night wet and freezing. The tips of his frozen hair would simply break off. My joints became stiff from the cold. I was sure the insides of my bones were full of ice. They made a cracking, snapping sound when I stretched. Before we could get warm, we'd feel a horrible stinging sensation in our hands, feet, and face. The NKVD grew more irritable when the cold came. So did Ulyushka. She demanded rent whenever she felt like it. I literally wrestled my bread ration out of her hand on several occasions.

Jonas paid Ulyushka our rent with splinters and logs he stole from the cutting. Thankfully, he had made sturdy boots and shoes for us while working with the two Siberian women. His Russian was quickly improving. I drew my little brother taller, his face somber.

I was assigned to hauling sixty-pound bags of grain on my back through the snow. Mrs. Rimas taught me how to pilfer some by moving the weave of the bag aside with a needle and then moving it back, undetected. We were quickly perfecting the art of scavenging. Jonas sneaked out each night to retrieve scraps of food from the NKVD's trash. Bugs and maggots didn't deter anyone. A couple of flicks of the finger and we stuffed it in our mouths. Sometimes, Jonas would return with care packages that Andrius and Mrs. Arvydas would hide in the trash. But aside from the occasional bounty from Andrius, we had become bottom-feeders, living off filth and rot.