It wasn’t.
Daria wasn’t even sure it was the next day when soldiers came through again, in pairs, grabbing people by the arm, the leg, the neck, and yanking them onto the ground. They wrenched off coats and shoes, stuffing them into burlap sacks, gesturing for them to strip off the rest. Daria was down to her undergarments, when she realized they meant everything. And not just her, the children, too.
“No, please.” Daria pulled the shivering girls closer; they clung to her, faces pressed against her thighs. She rubbed their goose-pimpled shoulders with her own frigid hands. “They’re so cold.”
In response, the guard reached across and yanked down a strap of Daria’s brassiere. One breast sprang out and flopped against her rib cage. Edward, who’d been standing stripped beside her, his hand outstretched, clutching their open passports, looked from Daria’s nakedness, to the guard, to his wife’s stunned face. His arm collapsed, along with his hope. Daria shoved the girls for Edward to hold, freeing her palms to cover herself. But just like she’d once been unable to heed Mama’s sensible advice and refrain from baiting Adam, Daria again refused to perform as expected of her. Instead of cowering, she haughtily unhooked her brassiere and dropped the remainder of her clothes into the guard’s outstretched bag.
Edward did the same, though a great deal more meekly. Too late, Daria remembered the jewelry hidden in their pockets. She hadn’t thought to remove and hide it . . . where? All they had was their bunk. But she hadn’t expected to have their clothes taken away. To think she’d been so proud of her resourcefulness in overdressing them, and now all the jewelry she’d brought for bribes was gone.
Daria supposed she would have felt more embarrassed to be standing exposed, if everyone around them weren’t being equally humiliated. And if it weren’t so bitterly cold that it was all she could think about. A second guard maneuvered down the narrow aisle between bunks. His sack was filled with a hodgepodge of army surplus uniforms, prisoner garb, and clothes Daria guessed had been stripped off previous prisoners—or the dead—that no one else wanted. He reached in and distributed indiscriminately, giving Edward a pair of pants too wide at the waist and too short in the legs, while Daria was flung a jacket that barely buttoned across the chest. The girls got men’s shirts that brushed the floor. Shoe size wasn’t even a consideration.
“Trade.” The guard shrugged. “No personal belongings here. No more bourgeois fashion. You are being granted the privilege of earning your keep. You will no longer be useless persons. Be grateful. Don’t make us regret our leniency.”
Dressed for their new, productive lives, all the adults were marched outside, the children ordered to stay, no word on whether they’d be taken care of or fed. Alyssa and Anya clung to Daria’s legs, then, when she peeled them off, to Edward’s. He patted them both reassuringly on the heads but looked to Daria for the next step.
She tugged Alyssa by one arm, Anya by the other, though each kept a hand still glued to Edward’s thighs.
“There are rules here,” Daria said, “just like at school and at home. If you follow them, everything will be all right.”
“I don’t want to follow the rules.” The frustration Anya had been keeping pent up burst out in a river of tears, with a full-out tantrum not far behind.
Their work details were leaving. Daria glanced desperately over her shoulder, wondering how much time she had to calm Anya down before their guards returned to drag them out.
To her surprise, Alyssa intervened, pulling Anya away from their parents, holding on to both her sister’s shoulders. “If you follow the rules,” Alyssa repeated sternly, “everything will be all right. Mama said.”
Chapter 6
The sun was coming up, though still unable to penetrate the forest. In addition to prisoners and guards, Daria spied men and women she guessed were from the village they’d passed. They were dressed better: sturdier shoes, stockings, hats, scarves, mittens.
“They were once like you,” the guard droned on. “Traitors. Parasites. Enemies of the state. This is not a prison.” He gestured toward the forest. “There, on the other side, you may see what a true prison is. We are the Siberian settlement of Kyril. We have come to tame the land, to lay roads and cultivate crops, to demonstrate to the world what Soviet labor can produce. We will conquer the tundra even as others say it cannot be done. You are not prisoners. You are pioneers who will prove your worth through honest work. You will build homes to raise your children, you will build schools to educate all children, you will be heroes of the Motherland!”
Daria’s teeth chattered. The wind sliced through her chest. Every breath felt colder coming out than going in. Her lungs tightened. The soles of her feet burned. She could no longer bend her fingers. Opening her mouth ripped her stiff cheeks. Daria stole a glance at Edward. He was staring straight ahead, afraid of taking his eyes off their speaker. He breathed in short, nervous gasps. His legs trembled, prompting him to shift his weight from foot to foot. His arms hung limply, but his fingers twitched, picking out a virtual composition. It had been Edward’s calming mechanism since childhood, his father had told Daria. How lucky for him to still have that, she thought.
“You!” The guard zeroed in on Daria’s husband.
Edward recoiled. He looked as if he might run, though where? The guard grabbed Edward by the shoulder and tugged him forward, twisting Edward around to face the assembled. Edward stumbled, knees buckling as his ankles rotated beneath him. He was jerked back up onto his feet.
“Confess,” the guard ordered.
Edward stared at him dumbly.
“Your crimes,” the guard prompted.
“I-I . . .” Edward stammered, looking around helplessly, eyes settling on Daria, beseeching her to explain what was expected of him. “I . . . didn’t do anything.”
“In that case, you wouldn’t be here.” The guard shoved Edward down. Edward landed on all fours, his palms breaking through the frozen ground on impact and sinking into the mud up to his wrists, jagged ice slicing his flesh.
The guard pointed at a woman standing next to Daria. She’d been nodding her head the entire time he was speaking. “Please demonstrate for our comrade”—the guard balanced the heel of his boot on Edward’s back, forcing Daria’s husband to arch his spine under the pressure—“how a righteous Soviet citizen engages in samokritika, self-criticism.”
She’d been waiting for an opportunity to demonstrate her allegiance and gleefully launched into a prepared litany. “I undermined the work of the Party. I hoarded food. I conspired with foreign elements. I stole from the people. I elevated the individual above the collective. I disseminated anti-Soviet propaganda. I slowed down productivity at my place of employment.” This went on for over ten minutes. If she’d been allowed to continue, Daria felt certain the woman would confess to colluding with Leon Trotsky prior to his expulsion—despite being a schoolgirl in 1928.
Her toneless recitation bored even the guard. He kicked her back into line, removing his boot from Edward’s back, allowing Daria’s husband to painstakingly rise.
“Now, Comrade,” the guard repeated. “It is your turn. Confess.”