58.

MARCH 22. MY SIXTEENTH birthday. My forgotten birthday. Mother and Jonas left the shack for work. Neither acknowledged my birthday. What did I expect, a celebration? We barely had a scrap to eat. Mother traded what she could for stamps to mail letters to Papa. I wouldn't say anything about it to Mother. She would feel horrible for having forgotten. The month before, I had reminded her it was Grandma's birthday. She felt guilty for days. After all, how could she forget her own mother's birthday?

I spent the day piling wood, imagining the party I'd have if we were still in Lithuania. People in school would wish me a happy birthday. Our family would dress in some of our finest clothes. Papa's friend would take photographs. We'd go to an expensive restaurant in Kaunas. The day would feel special, different. Joana would send a present.

I thought of my last birthday. Papa was late coming to the restaurant. I told him I had received nothing from Joana. I noticed that he stiffened at the mention of my cousin. "She's probably just busy," he had said.

Stalin had taken my home and my father. Now he had taken my birthday. My feet dragged as I walked through the snow after work. I stopped for my ration. Jonas was in line.

"Hurry!" he said. "Mrs. Rimas received a letter from Lithuania. It's a thick one!"

"Today?" I asked.

"Yes!" he said. "Hurry! Meet me at the bald man's shack."

The line moved slowly. I thought about the last time Mrs. Rimas had received a letter. It was warm in her crowded shack. I wondered if Andrius would be there.

I got my ration and ran through the snow to the bald man's shack. Everyone huddled in a ball. I saw Jonas. I walked up behind him.

"What did I miss?" I whispered.

"Just this," he said.

The crowd parted. I saw Mother.

"Happy birthday!" everyone yelled.

A lump bobbed in my throat.

"Happy birthday, darling!" said Mother, throwing her arms around me.

"Happy birthday, Lina," said Jonas. "Did you think we forgot?"

"I did. I thought you forgot."

"We didn't forget," said Mother with a squeeze.

I looked around for Andrius. He wasn't there.

They sang a birthday song. We sat and ate our bread together. The man who wound his watch told the story of his sixteenth birthday. Mrs. Rimas told of the buttercream frosting she made for cakes. She stood and demonstrated how she'd position the bowl on her hip and whip the spatula. Frosting. I remembered the creamy consistency and sweetness.

"We have a present for you," said Jonas.

"A present?" I asked.

"Well, it's not wrapped, but yes, it's a present," said Mother.

Mrs. Rimas handed me a bundle. It was a pad of paper and a stub of a pencil.

"Thank you! Where did you get it?" I asked.

"We can't tell our secrets," said Mother. "The paper is ruled, but it's all we could find."

"Oh, it's wonderful!" I said. "It doesn't matter that it has lines."

"You'll draw straighter." Jonas smiled.

"You must draw something to remember your birthday. This will be a unique one. Soon this will all be a memory," said Mother.

"A memory, bah. Enough celebration. Get out. I'm tired," complained the bald man.

"Thank you for hosting my party," I said.

He grimaced and flapped his hands, pushing us out the door.

We linked arms and started toward Ulyushka's. I looked up at the frosty gray sky. More snow was on the way.

"Lina." Andrius stepped out from behind the bald man's shack.

Mother and Jonas waved and continued on without me.

"Happy birthday," he said.

I moved toward him. "How did you know?"

"Jonas told me."

The tip of his nose was red. "You can come inside, you know," I told him.

"I know."

"Have you figured out the word in the file?" I asked.

"No, I didn't come for that. I came ... to give you this." Andrius revealed something from behind his back. It was wrapped in a cloth. "Happy birthday."

"You brought me something? Thank you! I don't even know when your birthday is."

I took the package. Andrius turned to leave.

"Wait. Sit down," I said, motioning to a log in front of a shack.

We sat next to each other. Andrius's brow creased with uncertainty. I pulled the cloth back. I looked at him.

"I ... I don't know what to say," I stuttered.

"Say you like it."

"I do like it!"

I loved it. It was a book. Dickens.

"It's not The Pickwick Papers. That's the one I smoked, right?" He laughed. "This one's Dombey and Son. It was the only Dickens I could find." He blew into his gloved hands and rubbed them together. His warm breath swirled like smoke in the cold air.

"It's perfect," I said. I opened the book. It was printed in Russian.

"So now you have to learn Russian or you won't be able to read your present," he said.

I mocked a scowl. "Where did you get it?"

He pulled in a breath, shaking his head.

"Uh-oh. Should we smoke it right away?"

"Maybe," he said. "I tried to read a bit of it." He faked a yawn.

I laughed. "Well, Dickens can be a little slow at first." I stared at the book in my lap. The burgundy binding felt smooth and tight. The title was etched deep in gold print. It was beautiful, a real present, the perfect present. Suddenly, it felt like my birthday.

I looked at Andrius. "Thank you," I said. I put my mittens on his cheeks. I pulled his face to mine and kissed him. His nose was cold. His lips were warm and his skin smelled clean. My stomach fluttered. I pulled back, looking at his handsome face, and tried to remember how to breathe. "Really, thank you. It's a wonderful present."

Andrius sat on the log, stunned. I stood up.

"It's November twentieth," he said.

"What?"

"My birthday."

"I'll remember that. Good night." I turned and walked away. Snow began to fall.

"Don't smoke it all at once," I heard behind me.

"I won't," I called over my shoulder, hugging my treasure.

59.

WE DUG THROUGH the snow and slosh for the sun to reach our little potato patch. The temperatures inched just above freezing according to a thermometer outside the kolkhoz office. I could unbutton my coat.

Mother ran into the hut, her face flushed, gripping an envelope. Her hand trembled. She had received a letter from our housekeeper's cousin, telling her through coded words that Papa was alive. She held me tight, saying "Yes" and "Thank you" over and over.

The letter made no mention of his location. I looked at the crease within her brow, newly carved since we had been deported. It was unfair to keep it from her. I told Mother that I had seen the file and that Papa was in Krasnoyarsk. Her first reaction was of anger, shocked at the risk I took, but over the following days her posture improved and her voice carried a lilt of happiness. "He'll find us, Mother, he will!" I told her, thinking of the piece of birch already en route to Papa.

Activity increased in the camp. Deliveries came from Moscow. Andrius said some contained boxes of files. Guards left. New ones arrived. I wished Kretzsky would leave. I hated the constant fear, wondering if he would throw something at me. He did not leave. I noticed he and Andrius spoke from time to time. One day, while I walked to chop wood, trucks arrived with officers. I didn't recognize them. Their uniforms had different coloring. They walked with a tight gait.

After being forced to draw the commander, I drew whatever I saw or felt. Some drawings, like Munch's, were full of pain, others hopeful, longing. All were an accurate portrayal and would certainly be considered anti-Soviet. At night I would read half a page of Dombey and Son. I labored over each word. I constantly asked Mother to translate.

"It's old, very proper Russian," said Mother. "If you learn to speak from this book, you'll sound like a scholar."

Andrius began to meet me in the ration line. I chopped a little harder, hoping the day would move faster. I washed my face at night in the snow. I tried to brush my teeth and comb through my tangled hair.

"So, how many pages have you smoked so far?" his voice whispered behind me.

"Almost ten," I said over my shoulder.

"You must be nearly fluent in Russian by now," he teased, pulling on my hat.

"Peerestan," I said, smiling.

"Stop? Ah, very good. So you really did learn something. What about this word-krasivaya?"

I turned around. "What does that mean?"

"You'll have to learn it," said Andrius.

"Okay," I said. "I will."

"Without asking your mother," he said. "Promise?"

"All right," I said. "Say it again."

"Krasivaya. Really, you have to learn it on your own."

"I will."

"We'll see," he said, smiling as he walked away.

60.

IT WAS THE FIRST WARM DAY of spring. Andrius met me in the ration line.

"I got through two pages last night, all by myself," I boasted, taking my chunk of bread.