Words on Fire

But I also knew that I’d been wrong before, staying silent when I had something important to say. I couldn’t fade into the shadows, nor would I whisper my words to Lukas so that he could say them for me. The words in my mind had to be spoken by me.

“I don’t do magic,” I said. “I do tricks that my father taught me. That was how he earned money for our family, but that wasn’t his purpose in life, nor my mother’s. My parents sacrificed everything they had, everything they loved, and maybe even their own lives, for the true magic. It’s our books. Our language, our culture, our identities are inscribed in every word. As long as we have our books, we cannot be crushed, we cannot be forgotten. Because of our books, we will not be erased from our own history. We will remember who we are, all that we stand for, and all that we will fight for and continue fighting for until the day we see the last Cossack soldier leave this land. If you want revenge for what they have done here, then tonight gather your family around you by the firelight and read. Learn. Create ideas of your own and spread them to others. It will be proof that we are winning.”

I finished speaking to warm embraces and more wishes of thanks, and Lukas leaning over and whispering into my ear that we had better leave while we still could.

I nodded back at him. He was right. This had been the worst of nights, but morning had come, and we had work to do.

When the priest told us it was safe enough to leave the barn, most of the people hurried to their homes, eager to report to their loved ones there about who was safe, and who would not be returning home.

One of the men we had saved was a physician, who had Rusakov carried to his home, where he could tend to the wound more properly.

Lukas and I decided to walk back to the church, to see if anything of it remained after the soldiers had carried out their orders. I must’ve looked back a thousand times, hoping to see Ben following us, but Lukas finally said, “He won’t be there, Audra.”

“I know.” But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

A few steps later, Lukas said, “When Ben was gruff with you, or tried to get you to go away all those times, it was only because—”

“He just wanted to keep me safe, I understand.”

“It’s more than that. I’ll show you.”

By then, we’d reached the church. The priest was seated on the front steps, looking deeply saddened.

“They’ll call what happened last night a massacre,” he said. “If there was anger in the country before now—”

“The church is still here,” Lukas said.

The priest shrugged. “Yes, but at what price?” For the first time, he seemed to really see us. “You both should get inside where it’s warm.”

We nodded and walked past him to enter the church, which was empty now. I sat on one bench but rather than sit with me, Lukas excused himself, returning a minute later with a wrapped package that he set on my lap.

From its shape, I already had a good idea of what it might be, but I unwrapped it anyway to see the same locked book I had given to Milda five months ago. Except this time, I had the key, somehow still in my apron pocket.

“Ben had this book?” I asked. “Why would he care?”

“Open it, Audra.” While I dug in my apron for the key, Lukas added, “Last night, Ben told me where this book was hidden. He said if he didn’t make it back, that I was to give it to you, but only if he didn’t make it back.”

“Why would that have mattered?” I pushed the key into the lock, though it didn’t seem to want to turn.

“He said that if you knew what was inside, he’d never get you to stop smuggling. But if he didn’t return, he hoped that once you saw the book, you’d listen to his final request and leave the country, go to where it’s safer.”

Finally, the key turned and the lock snapped apart. I opened the book and began thumbing through the papers. Page after page was the same, names connected by lines, many of them with pictures drawn beside the names.

These were family records. I kept turning pages, one after another, wondering why Ben would’ve cared so much about showing this to me.

And knowing in my heart why he did. But I had to see it.

Two-thirds of the way through the book was the last recorded page. Halfway down I read the name “Ben Kagan” and a line across from him with the name of a woman who must have been his wife once.

But for now my eye dipped lower to a drawing of my mother with her name, Lina, below the picture. Across from her was a line with my father’s picture, and his name, Henrikas Zikaris.

A line descended from their pictures, but nothing else was there. This book hadn’t been updated since my birth, but suddenly the reasons for Ben treating me the way he did became clear. Why he hadn’t wanted me to smuggle,

why I’d become more headstrong the longer I knew him. Why he wanted to keep me safe.

Ben was my grandfather. He must’ve known, must have ached as much as I did to hear what had happened to my mother, his daughter, but he’d never said a word about it.

“Milda is over the border,” Lukas said. “She needs someone to stay and help her. You’ll still be helping books get into Lithuania, maybe even doing more good there than you could do here.”