When the Czar’s soldiers were finished with our house in the Sakiai, finished tearing rugs and spearing mattresses with their swords, they surveyed the courtyard where Aras was harnessed to Father’s cart.
An iron-faced man in uniform took long strides around the cart. He pulled at the ropes securing our possessions.
“Whose cart is this?” he said. He pulled at the ropes again – they were tied tightly for the long journey ahead and the load did not move.
My mother sobbed, her glance darting between us boys and my father. My mother stood unmoving as she followed my father’s approach to the cart and the soldiers. “Petras,” she whispered.
The whole night was unreal to me. It was as though I lay awake in my bed, unable to move, trapped in the grip of some terrible nightmare.
Aras raised up
