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directing her class. “We must all take just a bit, to ensure everyone can eat.”
    The slop resembled gray animal feed. Some children refused to eat it.
    Jonas found the package from Mother’s cousin Regina. Inside was a small blanket, a sausage, and a coffee cake. Mother shared the food, giving small pieces to everyone. The baby continued to wail. Ona twisted and screamed right along with the child, who still refused to eat and looked a darker shade of pink.
    Hours passed. Andrius didn’t return. Mother sat down next to me. “How did your father look?” she asked, smoothing my braids and putting her arm around my shoulder.
    “Not too bad,” I lied. I put my head on her shoulder. “Why are they taking us? Is it really because Papa works at the university? That doesn’t make sense.”
    The bald man groaned.
    “See, like him,” I whispered. “He’s not a teacher. He’s a stamp collector and he’s being deported,” I said.
    “He’s not just a stamp collector,” said Mother under her breath. “Of that I am certain. He knows too much.”
    “What does he know?”
    Mother sighed, shaking her head. “Stalin has a plan, my love. The Kremlin will do anything to see it through. You know that. He wants Lithuania for the Soviet Union, so he’s moving us out temporarily.”
    “But why us?” I asked. “They already moved into Lithuania last year. Isn’t that enough?”
    “It’s not just us, dear. I imagine he’s doing the same to Latvia, Estonia, and Finland. It’s complicated,” said Mother. “Try to rest.”
    I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep. I wondered if my cousin Joana was also on a train somewhere. Maybe she was near Papa. Papa said I could help him, but how could I help him if we were really going to Siberia? I dozed off, thinking of Andrius, trying to see his face.
    As I walked by the piece, my feet stopped. The face. It was enchanting, like nothing I had ever seen. It was a charcoal portrait of a young man. The corners of his lips turned up, yet despite his smile, the pain on his face made my eyes well with tears. The subtleties within his hair blended so softly, yet created strong variation. I stepped closer to inspect. Flawless. How did he achieve such sheer shade without so much as a pause or a fingerprint? Who was the artist, and who was the young man? I looked at the signature. Munch.
    “Young lady, follow the group, please. That’s part of a different exhibit,” said our guide.
    Some of the students had complained earlier. How could they complain about a field trip to the art museum? I had been looking forward to it for months.
    The guide’s shoes clacked down the tile floor. My body moved forward, but my head remained fixed on the drawing, fixed on the face. I rubbed my fingers together. A light touch, yes, but with confidence. I couldn’t wait to try it.
    I sat at the desk in my bedroom. I felt the charcoal vibrate slightly as I pushed it across the page. The sound it made against the paper gave me chills. I bit my bottom lip. I ran my middle finger along the edge, softening the harsh line. Not quite, but almost.
    I pushed the tip of my finger through the dirt on the floor, drawing his name. Munch. I would recognize his art anywhere. And Papa would recognize mine. That’s what he meant. He could find me if I left a trail of drawings.

14
    WHEN I WOKE, the car was dark. I moved to the front and hung my head over the side for air. My hair swung away from my neck. A rush of air swirled around my face, and I breathed deeply. Gravel crunched. I snapped my head up, expecting to see a guard. No one was there. The gravel shifted again. I dropped my head back down, looking under the train. A dark figure huddled near the wheel. I squinted, trying to focus in the low light. A bloody hand lifted toward me, shaking. I pulled back before realizing.
    Andrius.
    I turned toward Mother. Her eyes were closed, her arms wrapped around Jonas. I looked out on the train platform. The NKVD marched two cars