We were in the first group, along with Mrs. Arvydas, the grouchy woman, and her daughters. Mother helped Ona up onto the porch. I unbuttoned my dress and pulled it over my head, unbraided my hair, and took off my sandals. Mother stood in her brassiere and underwear, helping Ona. The guards stood on the porch, staring at us. I hesitated.
“It’s okay, dear,” said Mother. “Think of how nice it will be to feel clean again.” Ona began to whimper.
A young blond guard lit a cigarette, turned his back, and looked off toward the truck. Another NKVD stared, grinning and biting his bottom lip.
I took off my bra and panties and stood on the porch, covering myself with my hands. Mrs. Arvydas stood next to me, her voluptuous breasts too large to conceal with her thin forearm. A guard with a gold tooth, who appeared to be a commander, walked down the porch stopping to look at each woman, scanning her up and down. He stopped at Mrs. Arvydas. She did not lift her head. He swirled a toothpick on his tongue and raised his brow, violating her with his stare.
I let out a breath in disgust. Mother’s head snapped to me. The guard grabbed my arms and threw them down to my sides. He looked me up and down and grinned. He reached out and groped my breast. I felt his ragged fingernails scratch across my skin.
I had never been naked in front of a man before. His touch, the rough hand on me, made me feel sick, and dirtier on the inside than I was on the outside. I tried to cross my arms. Mother yelled something in Russian and pulled me behind Ona.
Ona’s inner thighs and buttocks were caked with chunks of dried blood. The guard began to scream at Mother. She removed her remaining clothing and put her arm around me. They marched us into the bathhouse.
27
A GUARD STOOD AT a distance. He plunged a scoop in a bucket and threw some sort of white powder at us. The showers clicked on with an icy spray.
“We must hurry,” said Mother. “We don’t know how long they’ll give us.” She took a small chunk of soap and scrubbed at my scalp and face, ignoring her own body. I watched the brown rivers of dirt run down my legs, over my ankles, and into the drain. I wanted to be sucked down with it, away from the guards and the humiliation.
“Keep scrubbing, Lina, quickly,” said Mother, turning to wash Ona.
I stood shivering under the stream of water, washing as well as I could, hoping the guards would not be waiting for us on the other side of the wall.
I washed Mother’s back and tried to wash her hair. Mrs. Arvydas stood under the stream of water, her hands raised above her head gracefully, unaware, as if she were in her own private bath at home. The showers snapped off.
We retrieved our clothes on the other side of the wall. I quickly pulled my dress over my head and felt a knock against my thigh. The stone from Andrius. I put my hand in my pocket, my fingers searching for the smooth edge.
Mother combed through my hair with her fingers. I looked at her wet face. Water dripped from her blond waves onto her shoulders.
“I want to go home,” I whispered, shivering. “Please.”
She dropped her clothing and hugged me, long and hard. “We’ll go home. Keep thinking of your father and of our house. We must keep it alive in our hearts.” She let go and looked at me. “If we do, we’ll get there.”
The men were already in the first truck. Another group of women and children stood naked on the porch as we exited.
“Feel better, darling?” said Mother, smiling at Jonas as she climbed into the truck. She checked her suitcase for her coat. Jonas looked much improved, in appearance and disposition. So did Andrius. His wet hair was shiny, the color of dark cinnamon.
“Now we’re clean dead men. So what of that?” said the bald man.
“If we were dead men, they wouldn’t allow us to shower,” said the gray-haired man, looking at his watch.
“Hey, there was blond hair under all that dirt,” said Andrius, reaching out and grabbing a strand of my hair. I shrank back and looked away. Mother put her arm around me.
“What’s wrong, Lina?” asked Jonas.
I ignored him. I thought of the guard who touched me and all the things I should have done—slapped him, kicked him, screamed in his face. I put my hand in my pocket and grabbed the stone from Andrius. I squeezed it and tried as hard as I could to break it.
“Do you suppose they’ll take us for a four-course meal now that we’ve been to the sauna?” joked Mrs. Rimas.
“Oh, yes, a piece of black forest torte and a cognac or two,” laughed Mrs. Arvydas.
“I’d love a nice hot coffee,” said Mother.
“Strong coffee,” added the bald man.
“Wow, I never thought it could feel so good to be clean!” exclaimed Jonas, looking at his hands.
Everyone’s humor was much improved, except Ona’s. She continued chanting. Despite the efforts of Mrs. Rimas, she could not be calmed. As the last group of women and children boarded the truck, the commander saw Ona standing up, sitting down, and pulling her hair. He yelled at her. The young blond guard appeared at the back of the truck.
“Leave her be,” said Mrs. Rimas. “The poor dear is grieving.”
Mother translated to the commander. Ona stood up and stamped her right foot. The commander stepped up and pulled Ona from the truck. She lost all control, screaming, clawing at him. She was no match for his height or strength. He threw her to the ground. His eyes narrowed and his square jaw tightened. Mother scrambled to jump off the truck to Ona. It was too late. The commander pulled out a pistol and shot Ona in the head.
I gasped, along with everyone else. Andrius grabbed Jonas’s face and covered his eyes. Blood, the color of thick red wine, pooled under Ona’s head. Her leg splayed out in an unnatural, bent angle. One of her feet was missing a shoe.
“Lina,” said Andrius.
I turned my head to him, dazed.
“Don’t look,” he said.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I turned my head back. The young blond guard was staring at Ona’s body.
“Lina, look at me,” urged Andrius.
Mother slumped on her knees near the edge of the truck, looking down at Ona. I moved and sat down near my brother.
The engine rumbled and the truck began to roll. Mother sat down and put her face in her hands. Miss Grybas clucked her tongue, shaking her head.
Jonas pulled my head against his knees and patted my hair. “Please, don’t say anything to the guards. Don’t make them mad, Lina,” he whispered.
Ona’s body got smaller and smaller as we drove away. She lay dead in the dirt, murdered by the NKVD. Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, her daughter decomposed in the grass. How would her family ever know what happened to her? How would anyone know what was happening to us? I would continue to write and draw whenever I had the chance. I would draw the commander firing, Mother on her knees with her head in her hands, and our truck driving away, the tires spitting gravel onto Ona’s dead body.
28
WE DROVE INTO A LARGE collective farming area. Clusters of decrepit one-room cabins formed a shanty village. The warm sun was clearly temporary. Buildings pitched at a slant, their warped roofs warning of extreme weather.
The guards ordered us off the truck. Andrius hung his head, standing close to his mother. They began directing us to what I thought were our own shacks, but when Miss Grybas and Mrs. Rimas entered one, a woman ran out and began arguing with the guards.
“There are people living in the cabins,” whispered Jonas.
“Yes, we’ll most likely have to share,” said Mother, pulling us close.
Two women walked past us carrying large buckets of water. I didn’t recognize them from our train.
We were assigned to a dingy hut near the back of the settlement. The gray wood was bald, shaved by many seasons of wind and snow. The door had splits and cracks and sat crooked on the frame. A strong wind could whisk the shack up into the sky, scattering it in a burst of pieces. The blond guard pulled the door open, bellowed something in Russian and pushed us inside. A squat Altaian woman wrapped in layers ran to the door and began screaming after the guard. Mother moved us to the corner. The woman turned and began yelling at us. Her hair poked out of her kerchief like black straw. Wrinkles formed an atlas on her wide, weathered face.