“No!” I cried, clutching for it, and failing. The door to the prison wagon slammed shut in my face, and I saw my father’s bag, the last piece of him I’d ever have, being carried away.
A wave of terror flushed through me once the prison wagon began to move. Surely they wouldn’t send a child to an actual prison!
Did they think of me as a child? My crimes had certainly equaled even those of the adult smugglers, so they owed me no mercy.
But I hoped they would grant it.
Did Lukas know they were taking me away, or Milda? Were they able to get the books out of Milda’s home? Would it be burned, too, like so many others? Or perhaps the entire town would be on fire before morning.
I cried for the first hour of the ride, until I had no more tears. Until my eyes were so swollen that they felt thick and heavy. After that, I lay on my side in the wagon, my arms wrapped tight around myself, existing in that middle place between sleep and wake where nightmares happened, until the wagon finally stopped.
I sat up just as the door opened, and there was Rusakov again. For a brief moment, he seemed to soften as he noticed my tearstained cheeks and reddened eyes. Then his expression hardened again as he reached in and dragged me from the wagon.
We had passed through an archway with iron doors that slammed shut behind us, and now I was in a courtyard in front of a large building constructed of massive stone blocks, with a few barred windows and Russian flags everywhere standing as a reminder of who was in charge.
With his hand gripping my left arm, Rusakov led me through a main set of doors, though I wasn’t taken to a cell as I’d expected. Instead, I was thrown into a room near the entrance, one without a single window and with a door that was locked from the outside. There was no furniture, but I sat on the floor and tried not to let my imagination run away from me.
Instead, I reminded myself that I had to be strong, and I was strong enough for this, wasn’t I? Back on the farm with my family, I’d been kicked once by a horse, and another time dropped a hammer on my foot while practicing one of my father’s tricks. I’d accidentally cut my arm once with a scythe—the same arm that was burned now, in fact—which I was also strong enough to endure. But if they were going to torture me for information, I didn’t know if I could withstand it. I didn’t know if I was strong enough for that.
The problem was that I had little choice otherwise. If this was only about the books, as awful as it would be to see them destroyed, I wouldn’t give my life for them. But it wasn’t the books. I knew names of carriers, those who distributed books within the country, and those who bought them. How many people had come through Milda’s shop pretending to buy some little item so they could obtain the book they really wanted? I’d already decided I would not voluntarily turn anyone in, but could the information be forced out of me? How much torture could I stand before the names would fall from my lips, even knowing that by doing so, I would subject them to the same torment?
Hours passed before the handle of the door in my little locked room turned and Rusakov walked in carrying a metal box. Two other soldiers accompanied him, one with a little round table and the other with a single chair. A chair for Rusakov. I wouldn’t get one. I’d never felt smaller in my life.
It wasn’t because of the table and chair. I feared what was in the box, what might have taken them hours to pull together to elicit a confession from me.
By now, I was exhausted. Surely it was morning or maybe even later, and I’d barely slept ten minutes together here in this room. I was famished and terrified, and I doubted the strength of my will. Rusakov didn’t need to torture me any further. Not if he knew how much he already had.
“Leave us alone,” Rusakov ordered the two soldiers in the room with him. They obeyed, locking the door behind them. I wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was Rusakov.
I crossed my legs and sat on the floor, completely unsure of what to expect.
Rusakov withdrew a paper from a pocket in his uniform and unfolded it, then pretended to read it. Pretended, I knew, because obviously he would have already read it, already known what was written on the paper, but he wanted to worry me further with what it might say.
And it was working. My heart pounded so hard against my chest that each beat had begun to hurt. I couldn’t see how it didn’t break the bones there.
Finally, he looked up from the paper. “These are the sentencing orders for Henri and Lina Zikaris, both convicted of smuggling across our borders and within our borders.”
Rather than making me feel afraid, which was surely his intention, I became angry at hearing my parents’ names. “Did you send them to Siberia?”
“Their pleas for mercy weren’t for themselves—that should make you proud. They only pled for you. The last they saw of you was as you ran into a patch of woods with a dozen of my men on your heels. They begged to know if you were safe, if their punishment could wait until they had the chance to arrange for your care.”
“Where are my parents?” I said, angrier than before.
“How interesting that they seemed to care more about your well-being than you care for theirs. If you really loved them, you would have saved them. They would have done that for you.”
“Where are—”
“I signed the order myself to send them to Siberia, as I warned you I would.” My eyes closed as Rusakov confirmed the worst of my suspicions, but he wasn’t finished. “They are lucky, you know. Not many years ago, they would have walked to Siberia in chains, across ice and snow, a journey that might have taken three years, if they survived it. Most didn’t. Now we put them on trains for as far as they can take them. When the rails end, your parents’ work will begin, building more railways, extending the reach of the Russian Empire. They must work hard, for our prison guards have little tolerance for laziness. Can your mother endure a log being attached to her leg by chains for the next twenty years? How many beatings can your father survive? I hope that will not be their fate.”
“How long is their sentence?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Once they’ve completed their term of punishment, they will almost certainly remain in Siberia … how would they ever find passage home?”
With my head hanging down, I asked, “Am I now in the same prison where my parents were taken after their arrest?” I wondered how closely I was following in their footsteps, how long until I was given the same sentence as them, or if I had any chance at all of leaving this room.
In answer, Officer Rusakov picked up the box from the table beside him and slid it across the floor toward me. In paint on one side was written the name H Zikaris. After some hesitation I opened the box and saw a pipe and a deck of cards, items I recognized as having belonged to my father. Below them was a rose brooch and a crocheted handkerchief, my mother’s. At the bottom was a key. I’d never seen that before.
“Why are you showing this to me?” I asked.