Words on Fire

“The poem was written thirty-five years ago, before the press ban, before the ban on our language, our words. Imagine how much more true those words are today. Especially because the poem itself is illegal now.”

“Milda told me why our books are illegal,” I said. “Punishment for a failed uprising.”

“The uprising didn’t fail,” Lukas said. “It’s still happening, and is stronger than ever. That’s what we are doing each time we transport a book, and why we are doing it. You’ll see—one day the tsar will have to admit that he cannot control us, cannot crush us, and certainly cannot force us into his Russian mold. You are now as much a part of the uprising as those who fought all those years ago. But our weapons today are cleverness, and courage, and words.”

“And you really believe our small country, full of peasants and farmers, will win against the Russian Empire?”

“I believe the day will come when Lithuania owns its borders and all the land inside it. I believe we will be free one day, and I can only hope I’ll still be alive to see it.”

I stared at him, wondering why he’d said it that way. Did he think this occupation might outlast him, even if he lived to be a hundred years old? Or did he believe he might not live much longer, not as a book smuggler?

“Ben fought in the uprising too,” Lukas said. “He was much younger then, of course, but every bit as grumpy, from what I’m told. He was the leader of a group of fighters near Šiauliai, where you first met him. Even when it was clear the uprising would fail, Ben refused to give up, so he and his group continued fighting until one day they were captured by the Russians. The governor of the region sentenced them to hanging, but Ben had an escape plan in mind. On the day they were to be transported to the gallows, they would fight back and overpower the soldiers …”

Lukas’s voice drifted off then. Finally, I said, “Ben’s still alive, so it must have worked.”

“Ben thought it had worked. They did fight the soldiers, and they ran. But Ben was the only one who got away. The rest of his group was executed that same day. Ben will probably never tell you this story—I had to hear it from someone else. He’s ashamed of himself for running when the others couldn’t. He’s ashamed for having survived when no one else did.”

“But that wasn’t his fault! Nothing would’ve been gained if he had surrendered.”

“I know that, and you know it, but Ben doesn’t see it that way. That’s why he continues to smuggle: because he feels he owes it to the friends he lost that day. But it’s also why he’s so protective of you now, and of me too. He’s terrified of being in charge of anyone again who doesn’t make it out alive.”

I sat with that thought for several minutes, pondering Ben’s gruff, distant nature and finally understanding him. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he cared too much.

“We shouldn’t wait here any longer,” Lukas said. “Let’s get back on the road.”

“Your back—”

“My back will hurt whether I’m lying down or walking upright. We have books to deliver.” I stood to help him, but he hesitated, pointing upward. “What’s that?”

The sun had shifted angles enough for Lukas to see what I hadn’t been able to from my position. Holding my breath with anticipation, I grabbed a nearby stool and reached up to a beam overhead. On it was a notebook covered in brown leather.

I pulled it down and blew off the thin layer of dust that had settled on its surface. “This is my father’s notebook, where he keeps all the secrets of his magic tricks!”

I crouched beside Lukas so that he could see the notebook, too, but when I opened it, my shoulders fell.

“What’s wrong?” Lukas asked.

“I can’t read it.”

“Let me help you.”

He reached for it, but I pulled it closer to myself. “No,” I said. “I can’t read this … yet. But I will. Let’s go.”

While Lukas steadied himself on his feet, I tucked my father’s notebook deep inside the shoulder bag that had been his once. Then we set out again in the early morning light to meet Ben. The walk was far more difficult for Lukas than he would admit. We had returned to the forest, and with every stumble over an exposed root in the road or a low-hanging branch, he had to stop and make himself breathe until the worst of the stinging had passed.

I’d added half his load of books to mine, and now with nineteen books in a sack slung over my shoulders, I was feeling an ache from my neck down into my legs. But I didn’t complain. Things were worse for Lukas.

Hoping to turn his mind elsewhere, I said, “When we first met, I accused you of being a thief. I’m sorry about that.”

He smiled over at me. “Don’t be sorry. In fact, your accusation reminded me of the story I’ve been telling you of Rue. Well, not Rue, but the boy I told you about when we were back in the church. You may not know his story, but I do, for it was told to me from the very mouth of the frog who lives in a pond near the boy’s home.”

My eyes narrowed. “A frog?”

“A rather special frog, as you may have already imagined. For I have spoken to a thousand frogs in my life, and this was the only one who answered.”

I giggled. “Does the boy know of this talking frog in the pond near his home?”

“Of course he does! In fact, the boy has never told the full truth of his life to anyone but this frog. You see, the boy has lied about himself for so long, that sometimes he forgets why he started working on Rue’s land in the first place.”