A Boy Is Not a Ghost Read online

The kids who were in the other carriages have spotted me. We hug each other and make silly faces and stagger around the platform laughing. We’re all a little soft in the head from being cooped up in the Train of Horrors for two months.

  “Letters to friends and family may be deposited here,” a guard bellows into a megaphone. He lifts a wooden mail crate and sets it on a ledge. People begin to scrounge around for paper and pens. Word gets round that there are postcards for sale inside the enormous station building.

  My friends and I wobble over to the postcards, which are stacked on a long table. A soldier is in charge of selling the postcards and he’s even handing out free stamps.

  The message is loud and clear. The government is interested in our mail.

  Some of the postcards are in color, and I wish I could buy one for Max. They’re only two kopeks, but I don’t have any money.

  The black-and-white postcards are free. They show a photo of Stalin and Lenin sitting together on a bench. Lenin looks suspicious in the photo, as if he already knows just how bad Stalin is going to be when he takes over as leader of the Soviet Union.

  I help myself to a postcard (I’m only allowed one) because paper of any kind is precious.

  Back outside, everyone is writing letters and whispering, “Be careful” and “Stick to neutral facts.”

  In other words, don’t complain about anything, if you value your life.

  Felicia asks me to hold her sleeping baby while she scribbles a quick note, and then Elias hands me everyone’s letters and cards and says, “Natt, you’ll be our mailman.”

  I add my letter to Max to the pile and head for the mail crate.

  The sun is still shining, but it’s suppertime, and three trucks arrive with food for sale. The prices, as usual, are astronomical.

  We’re low on money, so we try trading with the vendor closest to us. She’s a young woman with broad shoulders and a red, sweaty face.

  My mother shows her an embroidered nightgown that is so fancy the red-faced woman thinks it’s a party dress, and she agrees to take the gown in exchange for soft bread, four hard-boiled eggs and dried fish.

  I’m pretty excited about the soft bread and the eggs. Mostly we’ve been living on onions, hard cheese, the occasional boiled potato, and black bread that is a close cousin to rocks.

  As soon as the food vendors leave, trucks arrive for us. The journey gives me a chance to see more of the town. We’re in Siberia, but Novosibirsk could be anywhere. Ordinary people wearing ordinary clothes are doing ordinary things.

  I’m praying we can stay here.

  The truck stops at a large wooden building that turns out to be a school, and we’re led into the schoolyard.

  This is where we’ll be sleeping. If it rains, we’re out of luck.

  As we settle down, I see that the fence around the yard is nothing more than a few shoulder-high wooden poles with two horizontal logs connecting them. We’re expected to climb between the logs to reach the toilet cabin.

  Yes, a toilet cabin! For the first time in two months, I’ll be able to go to the toilet in privacy.

  Even more amazing, attached to the wall of the school is an OUTDOOR TAP WITH RUNNING WATER! Clean, fresh water. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful. We all line up to take a drink and wash our face and hands.

  If this is Siberia, it’s not so bad.

  Our little group sets up in the yard. Everyone is in a good mood, thanks to the TAP WITH RUNNING WATER, the fresh air, the big town around us.

  Even Elias smiles as he lifts Shainie up in the air.

  We eat the food we bought at the station. The bread is so delicious, it brings tears to my eyes. Memories of being with Papa in Zastavna come flooding back. I think about the cheese and sauerkraut sandwiches the two of us used to eat when we rode in the cart to buy grain from farmers.

  Most of the time I try not to think about my father. I try not to think about the horrible thing I did.

  Papa was arrested a year ago, right after the Russians took over Zastavna. Even though he was in our town prison for the first eight months, we weren’t allowed to visit. But one time, Mama got lucky. A guard secretly told her that we could walk by the prison at a certain hour, and Papa would see us through the window.

  That’s when I did the worst thing in the world.

  As we walked by, I turned my head away.

  I will never, ever forgive myself.

  Two weeks after I turned my head away, on the day before my twelfth birthday, Papa had a fake trial and was sentenced to hard labor in Magadan, the farthest corner of coldest Siberia.

  Now, eating the delicious soft bread, I wonder what poor Papa is eating in the Gulag. I feel tears trickling down my cheeks.

  “Everyone, get ready!” a guard blares into a megaphone. “Line up in twos, women in one line, men in another. We’re going to the banya.”

  I don’t know what a banya is, but I’m glad for any distraction. If I think too much about Papa, I’ll go off the deep end.

  “It’s only a steam bath,” Elias reassures me as we begin to march down the street. I’m a bit scared because I’ve never been to a steam bath before, but the women and girls go into the wooden hut first, and they come out laughing.

  The men and boys go next. We take off our bug-infested clothes, and clouds of steam rise from water poured on hot stones. The hot steam washes away our grime.

  Best of all, the steam washes away the tiny black lice still clinging to our skin.

  Russian attendants hit our backs and arms with venik — birch branches covered with sweet-smelling leaves. It feels strange at first. Then it starts to feel good, especially since I’m so itchy. I begin to laugh, too.

  When our clothes are returned to us, they’ve been disinfected. The lice are really and truly gone, though we’ll have to make sure they aren’t hiding in our blankets.

  As I fall asleep, I dream of magnificent Siberian tigers running through the forest in a heavy fog. At first the tigers can’t see where they’re going. But then children appear, laughing and shaking huge stalks of venik that magically lift the fog.

  By the second day, we’re all feeling healthier. Our yellow-gray skin is slowly returning to its usual color, and we no longer look like Egyptian mummies come to life. The guards bring us cabbage and bread in the morning and then again in mid-afternoon. It’s black bread, but not nearly as bad as the petrified dust they gave us on the train.

  Andreas the Tall told us that the guards are living on the exact same bread and cabbage. There isn’t enough food even for soldiers. All of Europe is having food problems because of the war.

  So here we are, steamed clean and eating bread and cabbage in a schoolyard in Novosibirsk.

  I know we’re not free. We can’t leave. We have nowhere to go. That’s why there isn’t much of a fence around us.

  But for the moment, our prison is invisible, and invisible things are easier to ignore.

  I can go on pretending that I’m free. Free as a bird.

  4

  Do You Have Any Chocolate?

  It’s our fourth day in Novosibirsk. I’m playing Pirates and Treasures with my friends. We’re hiding pretend treasures, reading pretend maps and fighting pretend duels.

  I’m surveying the lay of the land from behind a fort of suitcases when I notice that the atmosphere in the courtyard has changed.

  It’s much quieter than usual.

  A man with round glasses and wiry hair that sticks out in every direction is moving from group to group and whispering. As soon as he finishes whispering, the group goes silent. It’s as if he’s cast a spell on them.

  I’ve been trying very hard not to be a boy who’s afraid of his own shadow, and I’m a lot better than I used to be. But I can’t shake off the wave of panic that washes over me.

  Are we going to be sent to the Gulag — or somewher
e even worse?

  I leave my fort and casually stroll over to my mother to see what’s what. But the man with the round glasses hasn’t reached our little group yet.

  When he finally arrives, he crouches next to Andreas the Tall and clears his throat nervously. He has news, but it isn’t about us at all.

  It’s about the war in Europe. I want to laugh with relief.

  But before he’s had a chance to say more than two words, my mother completely humiliates me by trying to block my ears in front of everyone. I push her away and move over to where Elias is sitting. He never treats me like a baby.

  Then an odd thing happens. I simply can’t make sense of the man’s words. It’s as if my thoughts are flying away from the sound of his raspy voice, flying away from the things he is saying, which are things that no one could in fact be saying.

  “Excuse me, I’m going for a walk,” I announce.

  “Good idea,” Elias says, and he gives me a gentle pat on the back.

  Without looking at anyone, I get up and thread my way through the crowd to the fence. I lean my elbows on a post and look out at the dirt road. I can make out a pale strip of water in the distance, and I remember Irena telling me that one of the longest rivers in the world, the Ob, flows through Novosibirsk.

  The school is on a quiet road with a large field at one end. It’s relaxing to look at the field.

  After a few minutes, a boy and a girl cross the field in my direction. When they see me, they stop in their tracks and stare.

  I wave, and they wave back. They have a short consultation and decide to come over. They must be curious about these refugees from Eastern Europe.

  “Hello,” I say in Russian.

  “Who are you?” the boy asks. He’s a little older than me, but the girl seems to be about my age. She has dancing eyes and a few freckles on her nose. Her light brown hair is braided and wound on both sides of her head like two bread buns.

  “I’m Natt,” I say. “I’m from Bukovina.” I can tell that doesn’t mean anything to them, so I add, “About 4,500 kilometers west of here. It took us two months to get here.”

  “Why did you come?” the boy asks.

  I wish I could tell them the truth! I was exiled because Stalin isn’t the kind, friendly leader that Comrade Martha, our principal, said he was. He’s a cruel tyrant. His soldiers sent my father to a Siberian labor prison for no reason at all, and we were banished from our homes along with who knows how many other innocent people.

  But I remember Max’s warning before we left: Don’t trust anyone.

  “Comrade Stalin is giving us an opportunity to help build the future,” I say instead.

  They look disappointed.

  “Do you have any chocolate?” the girl asks me.

  Chocolate! I barely remember what that is.

  “No, do you?”

  And suddenly all three of us burst out laughing. We’re having a wild fit of giggles.

  When we wind down, the girl says, “I’m Olga. I want to be a ballerina.” She curves her arms over her head and performs a twirl.

  “You’re very good,” I say politely.

  “I’ve been going to ballet school for five and a half years. My brother Peter is going to be a pilot. What about you?”

  “I want to be a chemist,” I say, to my own surprise. “I like molecules.”

  Olga’s brother nods. “Me, too.”

  “Will you be staying here?” Olga asks.

  “They haven’t told us. I really hope so. I love Novosibirsk.”

  I’ve said the right thing. They both smile proudly.

  “Do you know The Nutcracker?” Olga asks.

  What luck! I do know it. When the Russians came to our town, they organized concert nights in the community hall. The concerts consisted of the people of Zastavna sitting on chairs and listening to a record playing on a gramophone. One time the record was The Nutcracker, and in the background there was a silent film showing Russian ballet dancers.

  “Yes, I do. It’s by Tchaikovsky.” By a miracle I remember the composer’s name.

  “My ballet school is putting it on for Christmas. I hope I get to be in it. There’s a part for kids.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get chosen. Do you know Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata?”

  But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize with horror that Beethoven was German! Russia is at war with Germany, and here I am praising a German composer.

  I’m terrified that I’ll be reported and arrested on the spot.

  But Olga exclaims, “Oh, I love the Moonlight Sonata!” So maybe it’s okay. Beethoven lived a long time ago, after all. He didn’t know there was going to be a war. “It’s so beautiful! My mother knows how to play it. But she isn’t here now,” she adds a little sadly. “If I get to be in The Nutcracker, she won’t see me.”

  I’d like to ask where her mother is, but I don’t want to be rude.

  “My father’s away, too,” I say. “He’s . . . um . . . working in another city.”

  “Where?” Peter asks, and for a moment I’m lost for an answer.

  “I forget,” I lie. If I say Magadan, they’ll know he’s in a Gulag prison. That’s what Magadan is famous for. Prisoners and gold mines. Prisoners who work in gold mines.

  “Our mother is in Moscow,” Peter says. “She’s a translator for the government. She knows a lot of languages. She sent me a steam engine.”

  We all fall silent. It looks like we’ve run out of things to say. Or things we can say. I’m worried they’ll leave and I’ll never see Olga again.

  “If you give me your address, I’ll write to you when I know where we’re going,” I say.

  Olga looks up at her brother. He frowns like an adult, then makes up his mind. “Ulitsa Reka 17.”

  “Ulitsa Reka 17,” I repeat — 17 River Street.

  “Well, time to go,” Peter says. “We have to do our chores.” He takes Olga’s arm and they head off.

  “Good luck building the future!” they both call out, and we all laugh again.

  I wish they’d stay a little longer. How lucky they are, to have a home to go to! Lucky even to have chores. I’d do anything to have chores at my own home.

  Just before they turn the corner, Olga looks back at me. I wave and she does another twirl. She looks as if she’s about to lift off the ground and fly.

  Maybe she likes me. Why else would she turn around to see if I was still there, and then do a twirl for me?

  5

  The Moon Is Happy

  I’m still staring after Olga and Peter, when suddenly a tall woman with a long braid and piercing blue eyes approaches me from the other side of the fence and hands me a triangular pastry.

  “For Felicia Hoffman, with the baby,” she says under her breath, then hurries away.

  Felicia! She’s in our group. What a strange coincidence.

  I hide the pastry deep inside my pocket. I look around to see if anyone has noticed, but the guards are busy talking to one another. When we first arrived, they shouted their orders and kept reminding us that if we tried to escape, we’d spend the rest of our lives in prison. No one thought they were exaggerating. We know what Stalin is like by now.

  But they soon realized that we’re not a troublesome bunch. We do as we’re told. We’re polite. We always thank them for handing out black bread and whatever else is on the menu (cabbage, cabbage or cabbage). They barely shout at all now.

  But they’re still strict. Irena has been begging for permission to ask about her parents at the city’s army headquarters. Since she’s the only one among us who volunteered to come to Siberia, she thought she might have a chance.

  But the guards absolutely refuse. They like Irena, and they joke and chat with her, but they won’t allow her to leave even for half an hour. They’re scared they’ll be sent to
the Gulag themselves if they bend the rules.

  So I have to be careful.

  I stroll over to our group and sit next to Felicia. Her baby is fast asleep in her arms.

  I reach into my pocket and retrieve the pastry.

  “A tall woman asked me to give this to you,” I murmur.

  Felicia’s eyes widen with excitement, but she controls herself as she closes one hand over the pastry.

  She has to work extra hard at blending in, not only because of her little baby, but because of the big, bulky cherry-red turban. No one has ever seen her without the turban, even when we stopped for a dip at the crystal lake.

  Felicia breaks open the pastry. We’re all watching her now, but out of the corners of our eyes, so as not to draw attention to ourselves.

  Inside the pastry, instead of filling, there’s a tiny piece of paper. Felicia reads what it says and quickly tears it up. She buries the pieces in the ground.

  “That letter I wrote at the station — it was to a distant cousin who lives here,” she says in a low voice. “Her husband is studying at the transportation university. And she lives only three blocks from here!” Felicia continues in an even lower voice. “She’s going to help me escape, so that my darling baby has a chance. She’s meeting me tonight at 2:00 a.m. behind the toilet cabin. I’ll be able to stay with her.”

  We’re all thinking the same thing: You’ll get caught.

  But then something happens. Something that’s straight out of The One Thousand and One Nights, with its magic lamps and secret treasures.

  Felicia hands her sleeping baby to Cecilia and unpins her red turban. Very slowly, she begins to unwind the long, cherry-red scarf, which is made of pieces of silk and cotton stitched together.

  I try not to stare as the last bit of scarf slides away. Underneath the turban, Felicia is nearly bald. Only a thin fuzzy layer of yellow hair covers her scalp.

  “I shaved my head before we left,” she explains, “so I wouldn’t get hot under the scarf.”

  And now we find out why she never removed her scarf. She’s sewn tiny pouches along the inside.