Ripped away from home, to work...and work...and work. Just doing the bare minimum to survive, and even then; it feels as if it is not enough.

The Siberian cold and snow was dragging and harsh. Your brother on the haystacks bed, scurvy had taken over him. The lack of food had wore both you and your brother thin. If you had the energy, you'd have begged, borrow and steal for your brother; only if it wouldn't get you killed.

The door to your poor, undeveloped, and worn out hut creaked, Andrius coming inside, with a can of tomatoes, that he'd stolen from the NKVD, the fools that stole everyone away from their homes in Lithuania. He did it just for your brother, trying to help him.

"Where'd you get that, Andrius?" You asked, confusion wounding your face as you check the fire to make sure it was still running, and not dying out.

"I stole them, from those pigs."