Blots on Humanity
March 1949

A small blot appears on the titanium surface of a white sheet of paper. Hands, my hands, reaching down and tearing it from the pad, sending it floating swiftly into the metallic garbage pail by the foot of my bed. Nothing to write about and the essay to be handed in to my professor’s scrutiny tomorrow! The pail taunts me with its little layer of ruined papers.

Downstairs my mother sings as she paints darling yellow birds and sweet pink cherry blossoms with dried pellets of color and a water jar. Tatiana, tantalizing devil of a younger sister, pokes the cat with a birch stick from our young sapling in the garden to see its reaction; a mouse scampers by the yowling feline on our kitchen floor. I picture it with my mind’s eye, matching noise to image from my high loft bedroom. An inspiration in its own right. Nib touches sheet and the ink flows—and stops as a hard, loud knock bounces off our old wooden door. Creaking, then the sharp tapping of boot heels and a figure in my mind, the Russian soldier, hated military cruelty, marching right into our kitchen. My pen again blots my paper as my hand stills. What is happening? What have we done?

The silence hangs in the air, heavy, a block of still air with nothing but the click-clack of boots, and I shiver as the accented Russian voices echo around and around. Then there is Mother, the sound of Mother as I listen in the high loft, arguing, protesting, pleading. Pleading. What a silly idea—Mother, most refined, would not beg of anything from these Stalinist monsters. Yet I find my ears drawn to her panicked tone, the stiff voices of the Soviets as their voices get louder and indiscreet, let the neighbors find out, they will be deported as well, now get a move on it—and I clamp my hands onto my head and hum loudly as the soldiers shout, bemused, at my poor mother. I manage to figure out, as the tapping resides and she rushes into the loft, that we are really getting deported, that this is not a joke, it is not ridiculous, it is really happening...and then there is no thinking to be done, only the piling of clothes into overstuffed suitcases and waiting, watching for what they will do to us, where we will go. Tatiana makes not a sound.

In a moment of premonition I cover my sister’s mouth with my hand as Mother breaks the news to her, No dolls, absolutely not, Tatiana darling, find your coat! Softly, firmly, stated with a crease of worry in the loose skin on her forehead, Mother waits for the storm she knows will come. The little worm comes out from under my grasp, howling, face twisted into an absurd grimace. As the tantrum ravages, I quietly fit two more sweaters into my case, concealing my notepad in the thick, itchy wool. My fingers shake and I grab the chair to steady myself, willing my knees not to tremble, attempting by sheer force to keep my heart from pounding. And Father! Where is he? Papa will come, he surely will, be patient, sweet, and I watch her eyes and know she is unsure, afraid he will not come, that we’ll be gone before he finds us.

Mother tries to put one more coat into the brimming suitcase and resigns herself to wearing it as the leather seams stretch and tear. We are shoved into the van, crowded, neighbors spinning tales of our fate in the furthermost locations in the world. Mother and I stay silent. Even Tatiana, noisy little brat, is quiet. The van picks people up until we are packed together and still no one has heard anything of Father. What did they do to him? The smell of fear penetrates the room—there must be others who have lost family in the frantic scrambling morning had brought. My stomach grumbles. The van has been driving on for an hour now, and it is hard to breath. There is no nourishment to be found; no one thought of bringing bread or water. We were told the relocation would be harsh and clothing was packed before sustenance. And now we go on empty bellies.

We breathe in the fresh oxygen and stretch out our cramped bodies as the van empties into the train station. I cry out as the one Soviet hits me hard on the shoulder with the butt of his rifle. Forward, Estonian whore! I clamber out of reach of the heavy wood. How rude of them, to simply shout insults at us, hit and spit as if we were criminals, when we have done nothing wrong! My head spins with anger, shock, injury, injustice. I wobble and collapse into the sea of people around me. Someone catches my slumping body as the station with its bustling crowds fades into blackness.

I wake in a moving train car, to the sound of crying. The tiny compartment is transporting as many as thirty bewildered Estonians, with no windows to circulate fresh air and enough persons in it to be horribly claustrophobic. Some kind soul has propped me up against a side of the car with my knees tucked under my arm, quite uncomfortable but nonetheless, better than the unlucky ones who must stand. I crouch for hours as the train pulls on and the car is gradually contaminated with the smell of sweat, stale breath, and urine. Mothers sob at having their sons torn away from them. Others listen on in fear and awe as a pessimistic old woman begins to weave stories of how they will make us labor in the snow and feed us next to nothing. I strain my ears for the sounds of Mother and Tatiana, unable to move my head lest I catch a whiff of the foul air we are forced to breathe.

The train slows to a stop and the car is drained of people; I can hear them shouting and the smack of their rifles on human flesh and bone. I stand and place a hand on the side of the car as pain racks my body from stooping for so long in the corner. I watch a blonde, well-trimmed soldier strut into the car and immediately pinch his nose. A strange word comes out of his mouth, screechy and nasal. I glare at his back through the corner of my eye, thinking, just whose fault is it we smell so foul?
My feet move and I run.

It is difficult to tell individuals apart in the mush of people. I dart in and out of the masses as I try to find Mother and Tatiana, crushing against one person while avoiding another. I cannot see faces clearly, dazed by the sudden transportation and hours of bending over in the train car. Mother? Mother! Tatiana! My vision blurs. The world spins for a moment. In the center of it all a figure stands. Mother!

She is sobbing. I reach my arm out and tentatively touch her shoulder, perplexed. I force my ears to hear what she is saying. I lost her, my baby, Tatiana! My eyes pull wide and she falls on my shoulder as the tears flow, soaking into my blouse. Over her shoulder I am still searching, watching for the short, plump figure. Are you sure? She could have gone to...No, she is sure. Tatiana! Tatiana! My voice is hoarse. Mother, why did you not keep an eye on her? I shake my head and try to calm down. It is not her fault. Tatiana could never be kept in place, how hard could it be for something small to lure her away from Mother’s side?

We question everyone; none have seen her. Mother drenches my blouse with tears. Secretly I am glad we have lost the little devil. She was a nuisance and a bother. I immediately extinguish such thoughts as the guilt settles into my stomach. Tatiana, my little sister!

The soldiers herd us away from the station, despite Mother’s begging. Mother! Does she not realize we will never Tatiana in the hordes of people? I take her hand and drag her towards the groups guarded by Soviets. Mother! Do you wish to lose yourself as well as Tatiana? She sniffles and follows my lead.

A soldier shouts at us in the blistering heat. Your food will be brought in a bucket—you should be lucky we feed you, swine!—and there, the soldier points, is your toilet. Back in the cars, filthy capitalists! Mother is lachrymose as I bring her back to our moving prisons. I am again in the corner of the car, where the acrid smells settle in the heaviest. What is a capitalist? I elbow out far enough to unclasp my suitcase, fingering the latches and feeling for my notepad. My hand moves across the page, uneven as the train clatters over the tracks.

Each day food is brought to us, thin slop disguised as soup. I have again lost Mother in the mass of people. Each hour is spent in my head, to the small joys and anguish of my life before. Before the train, before the Russians, before watery soup and toilet holes in train cars, before wondering what they will do to us. It was all beautiful, writing essays for my professor and listening to my family about their tasks down below me. Never mind the unfinished essay. I would write a thousand essays, to be away from the stench of the cattle car. The train slides into the final station after six weeks. We are led out much in the same way, only weaker, humiliated, and lost.

The deportees are herded again into groups are taken to a small building with showers lining the walls. Women and men are separated and we form a line as the Soviets hit us with their rifles. I watch, cowering, as one hard smack draws blood. The soldiers order us to strip in a combination of faulty Lithuanian and Russian. I hesitate, but tentatively undo the buttons on my collar as the women around me drop their clothing on the ground and walk into the showers. Wet, something wet on my back, even before I reach the showers, spit on my back. Another bit of dirt to wash off. I turn and find myself staring into the eyes of a young blonde Soviet. His features are twisted into a grimace and I bend over as his rifle butt slams into me, whimpering. Leave the clothes strewn on the ground, and run, run into the showers. The blonde soldier smirks in his shiny uniform.

A spray of cold water streams out of the metal nozzles and the freezing liquid hits me hard. I let out a small scream and scrub at my skin as quickly as I can. The line of women disperses as people try to collect their scattered clothing. The wind blows my hair away from my shivering body and the cold invades my mind. I throw on my grime-filled clothes—and right away a soldier barks at me, pointing. The other women are huddled together as they watch the Soviet scream. The slap comes down hard on my cheek and stays there, singing out its pain. No one makes a move to stop him. I stumble towards the others with a red mark on my face, soon to be crosshatched blue and black. We are pushed into the forest.

The huts are dingy, frail things; the one solid building is the Soviet office. I curse them silently as women are assigned work areas. Farm, mines, digging! Check, check, check, goes the pen nib. I scan the group of shivering females for any signs of Mother or Tatiana, strain my ears like I so often did up in my loft, but I cannot find them. I realize I am on my own. Mother is gone; Tatiana is gone. The women here are too exhausted to even stand on their feet; how will they labor in the farms and mines they are assigned to, or support me, a girl alone in the world? I will stay strong, for Mother. I will live to tell the world of this inhumanity, of calling us pigs and whores. I will again write essays for my professor. The Soviets will not get away with this crime, not even if they gag my mouth and break my pen. Not even if they deport us to the farthest corners of the world.