Free Between Shades of Gray by Ruta Sepetys

staring. Why wasn’t her family taken? Why did they hide behind their curtains instead of trying to stop them from deporting us? Papa would never have done that.
    “I can understand why the bald man is on the list,” I said. “He’s horrible.”
    “He’s awfully eager to die, isn’t he?” said Andrius, staring up at the sky.
    “You know what?” said Jonas. “Looking at the sky, it’s like I’m lying on the grass at home, in Lithuania.”
    That sounded like something Mother would say, throwing color onto a black-and-white picture.
    “Look,” continued Jonas, “that cloud looks like a cannon.”
    “Make it blow up the Soviets,” I said, running my fingers over the blades of grass. “They deserve it.”
    Andrius turned his head to me. I felt awkward under his prolonged gaze.
    “What?” I asked.
    “You always seem to have a mouthful of opinions,” he said.
    “That’s what Papa said. See, Lina, you better be careful,” said Jonas.
    My bedroom door swung open. “Lina, I want to see you in the living room,” said Papa.
    “Why?” I asked.
    “In the living room, NOW!” Papa’s nostrils flared. He walked out of the room.
    “Mother, what’s wrong?”
    “You heard your father, Lina. Go to the living room.”
    We walked out into the hallway.
    “Go to sleep, Jonas,” said Mother without even looking in the direction of my brother’s room. I looked over. Jonas was peeking out his bedroom door, his eyes wide.
    Papa was steaming mad, and he was mad at me. What had I done? I walked into the living room.
    “Is this what you waste your talent on?” He thrust a scrap of paper in my face.
    “Papa, it was a joke,” I explained.
    “YOU think it’s a joke. What if the Kremlin doesn’t think it’s a joke? They’re perfect likenesses, for God’s sake!” He dropped the paper into my lap.
    I looked at my sketch. The likeness was perfect. Even in a clown suit, it was obviously Stalin. I drew him standing in our dining room, with Papa and his friends sitting around the table, launching paper airplanes at him. The men were laughing. Stalin had a sad clown face as airplanes hit his head. Papa and Dr. Seltzer were perfect likenesses. I hadn’t quite mastered the journalist’s chin yet.
    “Are there others?” my father demanded, snapping the paper from me.
    “It was for fun,” said a small voice. Jonas stood in his pajamas in the hallway. “Please don’t be mad, Papa.”
    “Were you in on this, too?” yelled my father.
    “Oh, Jonas,” said Mother.
    “He wasn’t in on it! I drew it myself. I showed it to him because I thought it was funny.”
    “Have you shown this to anyone else?” asked Papa.
    “No. I just drew it this afternoon,” I said.
    “Lina,” said Mother. “This is serious. The Soviets could arrest you if they saw your drawing.”
    “But how would they ever see it? I threw it away,” I argued.
    “What if someone found it in the trash like I did? A wind could have blown this to the foot of Stalin,” said Papa. “You’ve drawn your father and his friends mocking the leader of the Soviet Union! Are there others?” he asked.
    “No, that’s the only one.”
    Papa tore up my drawing and threw the pieces into the fire.
    Andrius continued to stare at me. “Is that what you want?” he finally asked. “To blow up the Soviets?”
    I turned to look at him. “I just want to go home. I want to see my father,” I said.
    He nodded.

25
    EVENING CAME and two groups were left. Most of the NKVD had departed with the train. Only five armed officers remained, with two trucks. Nearly seventy-five Lithuanians and only five Soviets, yet no one dared move. I think most of us were too tired and weak. The grass was a welcomed bed, the space a luxury. I made note of landmarks to draw for Papa.
    The NKVD made a fire and cooked their dinner while we sat and stared. They had American canned goods, bread, and coffee. After dinner they drank vodka and smoked, the volume of their voices rising