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?

The door to the shack blew open. The NKVD pushed inside, pointing guns at us.

"Davai!" yelled a guard, grabbing the man who wound his watch. People began to protest.

"Please, it's Christmas Eve," pleaded Mother. "Don't try to make us sign on Christmas Eve."

The guards yelled and began pushing people out of the shack. I wasn't leaving without Papa. I scrambled over to the other side of the table. I grabbed our family photo and stuffed it up my dress. I would hide it on the way to the kolkhoz office. Kretzsky didn't notice. He stood motionless, holding his rifle, staring at all the photographs.

52.

THEY WORKED US hard on Christmas Day. I stumbled from fatigue, having had no sleep the night before. When I returned to the shack, I could barely walk. Mother had given Ulyushka a whole package of cigarettes for Christmas. She sat, with her feet propped up near the stove, smoking. Where had Mother gotten the cigarettes? I couldn't understand why Mother gave anything to Ulyushka.

Jonas arrived with Andrius.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

"Thank you for the chocolate," said Mother. "We were beside ourselves."

"Andrius, wait a minute," said Jonas. "I have something for you."

"I have something for you, too," I said. I reached into my suitcase and pulled out a sheet of paper. I handed it to Andrius.

"It's not very good," I said, "but it's a better angle. Smaller nostrils."

"It's great," said Andrius, looking at my drawing.

"Really? "

His eyes flashed up, locking on mine. "Thank you."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. "Merry Christmas," I finally said.

"Here," said Jonas, holding out his hand. "It was yours, then you gave it to Lina. She gave it to me when I was sick. I survived, so I figure it must be pretty lucky. I think it's your turn to have it." Jonas opened his fingers to reveal the stone with the sparkles inside. He handed it to Andrius.

"Thanks. I guess this thing is lucky," said Andrius, looking at the stone.

"Merry Christmas," said Jonas. "And thanks for the tomatoes."

"I'll walk back with you," said Mother. "I'd like to wish your mother a Merry Christmas, if she can steal away for a moment."

Jonas and I lay on our straw, bundled in our coats and boots.

"Remember when we used to sleep in pajamas?" asked Jonas.

"Yes, with goose-down covers," I said. My body sank into the straw and into the quiet. I felt the chill of the hard ground slowly creeping onto my back and up over my shoulders.

"I hope Papa has a goose-down blanket tonight," said Jonas.

"Me, too," I said. "Merry Christmas, Jonas."

"Merry Christmas, Lina."

"Merry Christmas, Papa," I whispered.

53.

"LINA!" SAID ANDRIUS, running into our shack. "Hurry, they're coming for you."

"Who?" I asked, startled. I had just returned from work.

"The commander and Kretzsky are on their way now."

"What? Why?" gasped Mother.

I thought of the stolen ink pen, hidden in my suitcase. "It's ... I ... stole a pen," I said.

"You did what?" said Mother. "How could you be so foolish! Stealing from the NKVD?"

"It's not about a pen," said Andrius. "The commander wants you to draw his portrait."

I stopped and turned to Andrius. "What?"

"He's an egomaniac," said Andrius. "He went on about needing a portrait for the kolkhoz office, a portrait for his wife-"

"His wife?" said Jonas.

"I can't do it," I said. "I can't concentrate around him." I looked at Andrius. "He makes me uncomfortable."

"I'm going with you," said Mother.

"He won't allow it," said Andrius.

"I'll break my hands if I have to. I can't do it," I said.

"Lina, you will do nothing of the sort," said Mother.

"If you break your hands, you won't be able to work," said Andrius. "And if you can't work, you'll starve to death."

"Do they know she has other drawings?" Jonas said quietly. Andrius shook his head.

"Lina." Andrius lowered his voice. "You have to make the picture ... flattering."

"You're telling me how to draw?" I said.

He sighed. "I like your drawings. Some are very realistic, but some, they're, well, twisted."

"But I draw what I see," I said.

"You know what I mean," said Andrius.

"And what am I going to get for this?" I asked. "I'm not doing this for a piece of bread or a couple of bent cigarettes."

We argued about what to ask for. Mother wanted postage stamps and seeds. Jonas wanted potatoes. I wanted our own shack and a goose-down blanket. I thought about what Andrius said and struggled to decide what was "flattering." Broad shoulders would signify power. His head turned slightly would accentuate his strong jawline. The uniform would be easy. I could draw it very accurately. It was his face that concerned me. When I imagined sketching the commander, I had no problem, until I got to his head. My mind saw a clean and pressed uniform, with a nest of wicked snakes sprouting out of his neck, or a skull with hollow black eyes, smoking a cigarette. The impressions were strong. I longed to draw them. I needed to draw them. But I couldn't, not in front of the commander.

54.

A FIRE CRACKLED in the kolkhoz office. The room smelled of burning timber. I took off my mittens and warmed my hands on the fire.

The commander marched in. He wore a spotless green uniform with blue piping. A black pullover strap cradled his pistol holder. I tried to make note quickly so I wouldn't have to look at him. Blue pants, a blue hat with a raspberry band above the brim. Two shiny gold medals hung on the left side of the uniform. And of course, the ever-present toothpick danced back and forth from each side of his mouth.

I dragged a chair near his desk and sat, motioning for the commander to be seated. He pulled his chair out and sat down in front of me, his knees nearly touching mine. I moved my chair back, pretending I was searching for the right angle.

"Coat," he said.

I looked up at him.

"Take it off."

I didn't move.

He nodded, his deep-set eyes glaring through me. He wrapped his tongue around the toothpick, swirling it from side to side.

I shook my head and rubbed my arms. "Cold," I said.

The commander rolled his eyes.

I took a deep breath and looked up at the commander. He stared at me.

"How old are you?" he asked, his eyes running over my body.

It started. Snakes slithered out of his collar and wrapped themselves around his face, hissing at me. I blinked. A gray skull sat on his neck, its jaws flapping, laughing.

I rubbed my eyes. There are no snakes. Don't draw the snakes. I now knew how Edvard Munch felt. "Paint it as you see it," he had said during his lifetime. "Even if it's a sunny day but you see darkness and shadows. Paint it as you see it." I blinked again. I can't, I thought. I can't draw it as I see it.

"I don't understand," I lied. I motioned for him to turn his head to the left.

I drew a loose outline. I'd have to start with the uniform. I couldn't look at his face. I tried to work quickly. I didn't want to spend a minute longer than necessary near the man. Sitting in front of him felt like a shiver that would never go away.

How can I do this in an hour? Focus, Lina. No snakes.

The commander was not a good sitter. He insisted on frequent breaks to smoke. I found I could get him to sit longer if I showed him my progress from time to time. He was enchanted with himself, lost in his own ego.

After another fifteen minutes, the commander wanted a break. He reclaimed his toothpick from the desk and walked outside.

I looked at the drawing. He looked powerful, strong.

The commander returned. He had Kretzsky with him. He snapped the pad from my hands. He showed it to Kretzsky, swatting him on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

Kretzsky's face was turned to the drawing, but I could feel he was staring at me. The commander said something to Kretzsky. He replied. Kretzsky's speaking voice was very different from his commands. His tone was calm, young. I kept my head down.

The commander handed the pad back to me. He circled me, his black boots taking slow, even steps around my chair. He looked at my face and then barked a command at Kretzsky.

I started sketching his hat. That was the last piece. Kretzsky returned and handed the commander a file. Komorov opened the file and flipped through papers. He looked at me. What did it say in that file? What did he know about us? Did it say something about Papa?

I began sketching furiously. Hurry, davai, I told myself. The commander began asking questions. I could understand bits and pieces.

"Been drawing since child?"

Why did he want to know? I nodded, motioning for him to turn his head slightly. He obliged and posed.

"What you like to draw?" he asked.

Was he making conversation with me? I shrugged.

"Who is favorite artist?"