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Chapter 1
Have you ever been in the situation when you had to sort out the personal belongings of the recently passed away family member? And while sifting through the old photographs, letters, keepsakes, trinkets, and other items-saved for reasons you could never know - did it ever occur to you that this is all what remains of that person? That his entire life, his thoughts and desires, beliefs and hopes, dreams and disappointments, sins and achievements-they all were able to fit in just a few cardboard boxes.
And, simultaneously, you perhaps also get worried that you might stumble upon something you were never meant to see: a deeply buried secret or delicate truth, and that such unintended discovery could alter not only your view of that person, but even your understanding of yourself.
These were my thoughts when about half a year ago I was going through the modest belongings of my late father. They had been lying in our basement, gathering dust and attracting spiders, untouched for almost four years. Yes, that"s how long it has been since the day of his funeral. People say time flies.
To my regret I seldom saw my dad when he was alive and not even once did I visit his grave. Such a callous attitude was probably due to the influence of my mom but also could be just a matter of inconvenience.
In the final years of his life he lived in a small, government subsidized apartment in Brooklyn, New York, near Brighton Beach, more than two hundred miles away from me. Not a short ride to visit him.
His apartment consisted of one small room and an even smaller bathroom. He had almost no furniture and only few personal items aside from an old lumpy suit which he wore on special occasions and a portable radio "Grinding" he used to listen to the "Voice of America" in Russian language.
We threw most of his possessions into a garbage can, some of them donated to a charity and the rest I put in two boxes I found in the building"s hallway, brought them to my house and stored in the basement. And since then I have never touched them because I was always preoccupied with something else. Or maybe I simply didn't want to.
But a few weeks earlier, when we signed the papers finalizing our purchase of the house in the West Newton area, near Charles River, and started to get ready for a big move, my wife Lucy said to me:
"Gene, we have now an excellent opportunity to get rid of the old unused junk. Look in the basement and see if we can throw anything away."
Thus, after long hiatus, I was compelled to look through the content of those cardboard boxes once again.
The first of them, the larger one, contained nothing else but several albums of postage stamps. My father was an avid stamps collector. Despite his unrestrained drinking habits and meager earnings, he somehow managed to save a few bucks here and there each month to buy in addition to his collection. Sometimes he traded stamps with the fellow collectors or peeled them off used envelopes. He even succeeded to bring some of them from Russia, having paid hefty bribes to customs officers at the border control, when our family immigrated to the United States in the 1970s.
Once he said to me:
"My dear son, parents typically bequeath something to their children. I'll leave you my stamps. I have been collecting them all my life and I will be very pleased to know that you, and perhaps my grandchildren after you, will continue the work I have started."
He couldn"t leave me anything more substantial, of course - not a house, not a farm, not even a charming vintage car. He was an unfortunate and poor man, struggling to meet his basic needs. He arrived in this country with just a few hundred bucks in his pocket and due to his advanced age and limited English, he couldn"t get a job as an electrical engineer, and since he never had a driver"s license, he couldn"t become even a taxi driver. In the end, he made a living as a janitor, cleaning buildings and washing dishes in Chinese restaurants. On top of that, as I had noted earlier, he had a strong addiction to alcohol...
"Your dad is a habitual loser", branded him my mom when I asked her for the reason of their divorce, "A loser and a drunkard. My mother, God bless her memory, told me: don"t marry a Russian muzhik, he won"t provide you with the necessities and you will live whole your life like a pauper. Unfortunately I was too young to appreciate her wise advice."
Actually, taking all these circumstances into consideration I might count myself as a lucky guy - I got, at least, some inheritance. Unfortunately, neither I nor our son Daniel have any interest in his hobby. Moreover, I consider it to be a silly and meaningless activity which would take away my precious time. And Daniel... Well, Daniel has something else on his mind: music, girls, soccer... Why would he be interested in such nonsense like old post stamps?
After flipping through the few pages I put the album back in the box.
"I need to visit a store selling collectibles and find out how much these stamps might be worth," I thought, "With the downpayment for the house and the looming moving expenses our budget has taken a significant blow. It needs replenishment. No one is interested in these stamps anyway."
And putting the first box aside, I turned to the next one. It contained old, mostly black-and-white, photographs, several letters, and a notebook.
Although most of the photos showed people I didn"t recognize, a few of them caught my eye-and twinged my heart. One in particular stood out: a picture of our family, still in Russia, before my parents divorced-my mom, my dad, and me. I was probably two or three years old, sitting on my dad"s lap, and all three of us were smiling, relaxed, and happy.
And here is another one: we"re in some park together with my father"s family-his mother, "Baba" Klava, and his father, "Ded" Vasily. I still remember them, vaguely but distinctly-especially my grandfather. He had lost one leg during World War II while flying a Yak-1 fighter. I was always amazed by how deftly he moved on his crutches.
We haven"t been in contact with dad"s parents since we left USSR. They were both devoted communists. They disowned their son and cursed our family for, as they put it, our betrayal of the motherland. I don"t even know if they are still alive.
And who"s this? Oh-what a surprise. Unexpectedly, I found a photo of Grandma Reva, dad"s mother-in-law", my mom"s mom. Unlike my paternal grandparents, I remember her very well; she passed away after we had already immigrated to the U.S. I must have been then five or six, or maybe even seven years old.
She was an awkward woman, disgruntled and unsocial, needlessly timorous and, at the same time, cranky and peevish. She had a difficult character.
Why did my dad keep her picture? Odd. As I can remember, he never liked her.
I never saw her husband, by the way, my other grandfather, whose name, I knew, was Pranas. Grandma Reva had told me about him a little bit. She said that shortly after WWII he was arrested by the KGB, sent to GULAG, and vanished there without a trace. I didn"t even know how he looked like. Not a single picture of him had survived.
And here is the photo of some schoolchildren, probably my father's classmates. Yes, indeed, here is he himself - my dad, the second one from the left in the top row. Frowning and angry. As usual. Khe-khe-khe. And here is the picture of him with the bearded fellow. Most likely, his former co-worker... And... and who the hell, is this one?
From an old, yellowish, partially faded photograph, a blond man, dressed in the Nazi uniform, stared at me.
"Probably some actor," I made a guess, "from an amateur theater".
I turned the photo over to look for an explanation. Written unevenly in my father's handwriting was a single word: "Šimkus ".
Šimkus. Hm. The word meant nothing to me, though something about it tugged at a distant memory. I probably had heard it before somewhere. Or maybe I didn"t. Maybe it was another word which sounded like this one. I couldn"t tell.
With a tinge of confusion, I slipped the photo back into the pile and resumed my inspection. But not for long. Something about that man continued to gnaw at me, something about him wasn"t right, but I couldn"t put my finger at the source of my discontent. Was it man"s provocative uniform or something else? I couldn"t say for sure. It was a kind of wrongness that doesn"t shout, but whispers-a subtle dissonance, an uneasy feeling like the one you have when you spot a police cruiser lurking between bushes on a highway, oblivious of your own speed.
I again found the photo and began to examine it, but now more thoroughly, trying not to miss any detail which may have eluded me the first time. And gradually, as I studied man"s posture and features, it became clear to me that I saw him before. He looked hauntingly familiar to me. But where did I see him? When? And under what circumstances?
Could he have been one of my father"s old friends? No, I didn"t know any of them. My distant relative? Or some famous movie actor? No, none of them rang a bell.
"Gene!" I heard Lucy"s vexed voice from the kitchen, "How long shall I call you? Your steak is already cold."
During our dinner she asked me:
"Did you find anything interesting in the basement?"
"Yes. My father's post stamps. Six albums."
Lucy contemplated for a few seconds.
"We need to find out how much they might cost", she said, "We are now tight with the money, while they lie there as dead weights. Neither you nor Daniel are interested in them."
"My father has been collecting those stamps all his life," I retorted timidly.
"Yes, of course..." - dithered Lucy - "Anything else?"
"Dad"s photographs."
For some reason, I didn't want to share with her my uneasiness and talk about the picture of a stranger in the Nazi uniform. But his image pestered me, importunately and relentlessly, like certain melodies sometimes do - you hum them and hum, until they make you nauseous, but still won't let you go.
Even at night I couldn"t fall asleep, turning from side to side and constantly waking up Lucy. The thing that irritated me the most was the notion that I couldn"t explain to myself why I was so curious about this man identity and why I was so eager to delve into it. And I kept stubbornly digging through my memory, mentally flipping from one known to me individual to another, trying to find in any of them the resemblance to the ghostly person. Unfortunately, all my efforts were fruitless.
The rain, which had been drizzling in our area for almost a week, suddenly ended - I stopped hearing its monotonous pattering at the window, and in the ensuing silence, for a very brief moment, I experienced a curious sensation. It appeared to me that the answer to the maddening question, the one which had troubled me for so long, was lurking somewhere in the darkness of my house, in the depths of its shadowy abyss. This feeling came and instantly went away.
But it left me in a state of uncertainty and bewilderment. I wasn"t sure if this was just a figment of my imagination or some kind of supernatural magical revelation which, as I heard, is often visiting people during pivotal moments of their lives.
And thrilled by the second possibility I got up from the bed and wandered for a while aimlessly around my house, stumbling into the closed doors and pieces of furniture, until eventually I groped the switch on the wall, turned it on and found myself in our bathroom across from the slanted mirror that I promised Lucy to fix several months ago. The sight of a middle-aged man with the wrinkled face and sizable belly brought me back to the reality.
"Oh, what a fool I was", I thought of myself with indignation, "To fall into such silly trap. For even if this indeed would be true and I indeed got some kind of paranormal message I still had to be a real idiot to believe that the clue to the identity of the man could be found inside my house. Only three people live in it: me, my wife and my son. Nobody else. No one is hiding here, and no one was hiding when we moved in seven years ago. Even to consider such a possibility was on my part a ridiculously silly thing. I must forget about it as soon as possible".
Once again I glanced at my pitiful reflection in the mirror and bitterly sighed.
"What a disgrace," I thought of myself, concluding the brief examination, "I definitely need to exercise more - perhaps ride a bicycle on the weekends and go to a gym. The office work and computers cannot improve either my health or my image. But what should I do now?"
And since I had no desire to return to bed, I was facing only two options: to watch a night show on TV or have a light snack. And following a short mental deliberation I decided to go to the kitchen and look for something in the fridge.
On its door, among many messages, cards, and memos, I spotted a note I had written recently myself:
"Do you really want to eat, glutton?"
The answer to this question was firmly negative. Therefore I opened the cabinet above the fridge. While I was trying to reach a jar with the decaffeinated coffee thinking simultaneously that a consumption of this tasty liquid, even decaffeinated, couldn"t help me in improving my image, something deafening and bright, resembling a lighting thunderbolt, hit into my head: I suddenly remembered where I saw the blond man in Nazi uniform.
I saw him in the mirror. Two minutes ago.
Astonished by my discovery I rushed back to the bathroom to test my conjecture and scrutinized my reflection for an extended period of time, concluding at the end that I was undoubtably correct.
Just to dispel the last of the doubts I run down to the basement, found again the picture of the blond man, returned to the bathroom and spent more time comparing two of us. It was certain, no, more than certain, more than two plus two are equal to four, that the man on the photo and I - we looked exactly the same. The same shape of the eyes, same nose, same chin... Even the mole on the right chick was the same. But why? How could this, unknown to me stranger, be like me? How often does it happen that two unrelated people resemble each other so closely? Well, I heard of "doubles" - people, that some dictators use to protect themselves from assassins. Is this one of those cases? And where did my dad get this photo, by the way? And why this man wears Nazi uniform? And what was the reason my dad kept it in his photo album? Maybe he wanted to amaze me? Maybe he wanted to show it to me one day and say: "Look my son, whom I found by an accident. I was extremely surprised when I saw this picture and wanted to show you how two total strangers might sometimes look alike."
But what if we are not strangers? Why didn"t I think about such a possibility? What if we... What if we are related to each other? What if this person is my brother and we got separated after birth? Brother? Well. Maybe. Or maybe... he is not my brother.
A piercing awful thought suddenly caught my attention and stung me like a bee: "What if my dad was not my dad, after all? What if my real dad is this person in the photo? That would be... awful. Impossible! But how could I find it out?"
The most competent person to answer these questions would be undoubtedly my mom. Except that she couldn"t. My mom hasn"t been in good health lately. She was living in the elderly housing in Brighton under the round-the-clock care of the medical staff, thanks to the help from Uncle Liam. Her doctor told us not to put her under any stress. Therefore I must keep this option only as a last resort.
But do I have another choice? Really. For sure I needed to find out who this person was. I had to.
I again read the word on the back of the photograph. "Šimkus". Šimkus. Hm. Why did my father write it? And what does it mean? Most likely it is the name of the person in the photo. But Šimkus. Do I know anyone by such a name? Think, I said to myself, think very hard.
I recalled that during my initial inspection of dad"s belongings I had a suspicion that I had heard it before. I was then almost sure I did. But where? When? It sounded like a Russian name. Or perhaps Lithuanian?
Lithuanian?
Sure. I suddenly recalled that during my trip to Lithuania many years ago I indeed might come across this or similar word. I ought to check it. Without a delay. Right away.
I went to my study room. In the box in which I kept computer detachments and accounting manuals, I found an old floppy disk labeled "my trip to Lithuania" and inserted it in the computer. Many years have passed since I looked at it the last time. Just like in case of my dad"s possessions. Only longer but it was the same pattern. Wasn"t this a sign of the looming discovery?
Outside the ajar window the autumn rain resumed its doleful song. In the next room Lucy was peacefully watching her sweet nightdreams. A cuckoo clock on the wall rang twice: the time was two o"clock in the morning.
And I sunk into the depths of my records to find out the answer to the troubling but exiting enigma.
Chapter 2
I made a big mistake by not taking with me on the airplane something interesting to read, like Stephen King's new novel or the latest issue of "Cars and Trucks" magazine. The little brochure "The Concise Traveler"s Guidance to Lithuania" which I grabbed at the last moment, I had finished at night as we crossed Atlantic Ocean and now I regret it very much: I didn't get enough sleep, I have a headache, and I can't occupy myself with anything interesting. Since we took off from the Frankfurt airport, the crew of the Lithuanian airplane had offered us nothing, except the terrible music, which they broadcast on Channel One, the only channel they have on their airplane. No movies, no magazines. It means I have no other choice besides writing down my impressions of the trip to this laptop - the gift from Uncle Liam for my birthday. The problem is - I have zero impressions so far. What am I going to write?
"Write everything," my uncle told me when I saw him before the departure, "otherwise you will forget or miss something. I need to know all the details of your trip."
Preparations for my journey began a couple months ago, at the time Lucy and I decided to separate. Well, if I want to be honest: she dumped me. She traded me for that arrogant asshole, her second cousin from Kentucky, Dick-the-idiot-the-Brick. He'd been in Boston for over six years now, studying first at Boston College and then at Harvard Medical School, and he had been buttering up Lucy for all this time, until he charmed her with his doctor"s degree. Yeah, well... It took me a while to get over it.
"Stop worrying," Uncle Liam told me, when he found out about my problems, "This won't be your last girlfriend, believe me. Think of women like of cars: you loved your old Oldsmobile, okay, but the time came to replace it for the new and shiny Porshe 911. Why is this so bad? That is life, my boy! And now, let us talk about something far more important than your love affairs. Many years ago, your grandmother"s parents owned a real estate in Lithuania, in the shtetl of Telz. They had a gorgeous villa in the center of the town and... I checked it out: we are the only remaining heirs. All others had perished either in Holocaust or died in Stalin"s camps. When the communists took over they expropriated everything, including our property and, as long as they remained in power, we had no chance of getting it back. But recently, as I read in a newspaper, a new law was adopted by Lithuanian government restoring rights of the former landowners. I contacted the Lithuanian embassy in Washington, but bureaucracy in that office was overwhelming. They demand this and that... To make the long story - short: after some inquiries it became clear for me that we need to go to Lithuania and delve into archives and perhaps to visit Telz and unearth the documents proving our ownership. If it were just a few dollars at stake, it wouldn't merit our efforts. But we're talking about significant value, Gene, possibly tens or maybe even hundreds of thousands of dollars which should rightfully belong to us: to you and to my family. Unfortunately, my hands are tied now with two pressing cases: one involves a member of Hezbollah organization accused of murdering a Jewish fascist, and another concerning a group of undocumented Mexican workers accused of gang rape. Both trials are coming soon, leaving me with no possibility to go there. That's why you, my dear nephew, will need to go there and accomplish this task, especially since you know Lithuanian language."
"You have forgotten, dear uncle, that I know a little bit Russian, not Lithuanian," I reminded him.
"That doesn't matter," he reassured me, "Lithuanian and Russian are very close languages. They are both Slavic. I'm sure that if you can understand Russian, you'll understand Lithuanian without a problem. My trust in you and your abilities is strong and solid. And remember - your mission is very important to us."
"I will do my best", I assured him.
"I have no doubt. I am sure you"ll live up to my expectations."
Uncle Liam! Ever since my parents divorced fifteen years ago he has been taking care of our family and especially of me. He paid for my tuition at Berkeley, helped me to get a summer job in the law office in downtown Boston. For this he asked his old college friend. Plus, he did a lot of other great things. Last summer, for example, he took me on a trip to Bermuda on board of his beautiful new yacht "La Belle Lisette". We sailed from Boston to Bermuda for two days, then we spent a week in the villa of one of his former clients: we fished, swam, sunbathed on the beach, went scuba diving, all these wonderful activities and then returned to Boston. All in all, I had a great time, needless to say. It was probably the best summer vacation of my life. Even the constant grumbling of Lisette, uncle"s third wife, the youngest but also the dumbest of all his wives, did not spoil my vacation.
Or take, for example, his birthday present - this new Mac laptop! I appreciate and respect my uncle very much...
But... hold it on... I detected a wonderful odor. Something smells very appetizing! I think the crew has started delivering our breakfast. Well, at least some entertainment!
...
Well, what shall I say? The food, of course, was yucky, worse than in McDonald. But what the beauties the flight attendants are! Truly stunning. No comparison to anyone I personally know, including Lucy-the-defector. Yes, each one of them could participate in a world pageant competition. And the girl who served me (her name is Laima, by the way) would be its winner. I am sure. Just imagine - golden color hair, blue eyes, breast... What can I tell you? Legs? Oh, her legs are spectacular! Indescribable. Never saw sexier ones. And the posture, the gait, lips, smile... Everything is perfect. I also noticed that she doesn't have a wedding ring.
"How did you like our Lithuanian food?" she asked me in her cute, charming accent, as she was taking away dirty dishes.
"To tell you the truth, not really," I had to admit.
"Ha-ha-ha," she laughed, showing two rows of perfect pearl-like teeth, "That's because this is not an authentic Lithuanian food. How do you say that in English? It's a commercial food. Yes - commercial. You should try our authentic Lithuanian cuisine. Have you ever eaten cepellins? No? When you will be in Lithuania and stay in someone"s house, ask to make them for you."
"What did you say the dish"s name?"
"Cepelinai"
"Se... What?"
"Cepelinai. Ce-pe-li-nai, in Lithuanian. Will you remember?"
"No. Not really. That's an overly complicated word. I won't remember it."
"It is like a blimp. You know - a zeppelin."
"Oh! Well... A blimp?"
"Okay, don't worry - I'll write it down for you. Be sure to give it a try."
And she smiled charmingly, trying to walk away.
"Hold on for one minute, please!" I was scrambling to figure out what else I may ask her, "I have a question for you... A-a... A very important question. I want to ask you... Tell me, please, could you give me advice where... or what should I see in Lithuania? You must have a lot of attractions in your country, don't you?"
"Oh yes, we have a lot of interesting places. In Vilnius, in Kaunas, in Trakai... Medieval castles, churches, beautiful parks and forests. Have you been anywhere in Europe before?"
"Well, I was born in Lithuania, as the matter of fact, but my family left it when I was less than five years old. I don"t remember too much. And... Well... I don"t really know. Last summer I was in Bermuda. Although, I'm not sure if it's America or Europe."
"You were in Bermuda! How fascinating! I've always dreamed of visiting tropical islands. Bermuda, Bahamas, St. Maarten, Jamaica ... It sounds so romantic. But, unfortunately, our airline does not fly to those places. In Lithuania we watched the American TV series "Love Boat". Have you seen that serial? It is about a cruise trip. Were you also on a cruise trip or did you fly to Bermuda?"
"On a cruise trip? What do you mean? You ask me if I was on a cruise liner? Oh, no, no, we sailed to Bermuda on our own yacht."
"On your own yacht? Waw... It must still be a pretty large yacht to sail the ocean."
"Well, not as large as Trump has."
"Still... To a tropical island, on your own yacht... That must be incredible nice!"
"Where do you spend your vacation; may I ask you?"
"Usually, I go to the local resort town called Palanga. It is on the Baltic Sea. But I think I'll skip it this year. I don't want to spend my vacation alone."
As she was saying these words she looked at me with such sadness in her eyes that I began to feel sorry for her. But then the old geezer on my right-hand side, a nasty fart from Austria, began to whine for help, and she shifted her attention at him. Damn me, I didn't have time to say even half of what I wanted to say to her.
"I don't want to spend my vacation alone..."
Why did she tell me that? Surely, she doesn't have a husband or a boyfriend. Maybe they had a fight. Who knows? But if I get another opportunity to talk to her, I should not miss it.
...
In the last half an hour, the significant events took place. I need to put them down while the details are still fresh in my head. I will need them for future reference.
Two women sit on my left, a mother, and her daughter. The mother appears to be in her forties, while the daughter looks like a high school student, either a junior or a senior. They're from Massachusetts, from the town of Medway and fly to Lithuania for some kind of celebration, at the invitation of the Lithuanian WWII veterans committee. I noticed them as soon as I boarded the airplane since they peered at me like "no tomorrow", like we had met before. But I don"t remember ever seeing them before.
After breakfast I noticed yesterday"s edition of Boston Globe in daughter"s hands and was about to ask to spare a few pages, like a sport section, when she said to her mother:
"Mom, look, here is another article about Liam Kochansky. He's being criticized once again."
The mother looked over her shoulder and exclaimed with indignation:
"Well, what kind of people work for those newspapers!? Those damned journalists...They have no hearts! It is unjust and rude to slander such a great man! Unfortunately we don't know his address; otherwise we'd send him a supportive card. It is so nice to receive a word of support at the time of such unwarranted persecution that has been waged against him lately in the press."
"I may be able to help you," I interjected.
Both women gazed at me with the attention I don't remember the last time I have seen in someone"s eyes.
"As luck would have it, I'm Mr. Liam Kochansky's nephew," I revealed to them, enjoying the expressions of astonishment on their faces, "and I know his address."
It took them quite a few minutes to come to their senses after my words.
"It is so incredible!" said the mother, "Of course, we'll gladly accept your offer. It's truly unexpected! Yes, indeed, we'll certainly use this opportunity to express our gratitude to your uncle."
"And why are you so grateful to him?" - it was my turn to wonder - "And how do you know him?"
"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't have time to introduce myself," the older woman responded, "But your proposal turned out to be such a pleasant surprise for us! We never imagined to be on the same plane with Liam Kochansky's nephew. And sit next to him. We"ve been wondering with my daughter since we got on the airplane ... Your face looked familiar to us. But we couldn"t figure out where we saw you before. Now we know it is because of your uncle. But we still can't come to our senses. Not yet. It was so unexpected. Well, before I forget, my name is Ruta. May I ask you, what"s yours?"
"My? Gene"
"Nice to meet you, Gene And this is my daughter, Mary."
Mary bent her head.
"You asked me how we know your uncle.", continued Ruta, "He helped us. Or rather, not us, but my father. He saved him from a certain death."
"What? Indeed? How?"
And she told me the following story:
"Before the Second World War, when Lithuania was still free and independent, my father studied at a military school and became an officer in the Lithuanian Army. Then Russians invaded Lithuania, then Germans did, then Russians did it again, and he joined the partisans, "forest brothers" as they were then called, to fight for the independence of his homeland. He often told us of those years: of ambushes and raids on the occupiers, of villagers who risked everything to hide them from the KGB, to share food, or to whisper precious news about enemy movements. For a time, they carried hope that the United States would come to their aid. But that help never came. In 1948, a traitor betrayed their unit. My father escaped only by fate"s grace-slipping away from the safehouse minutes before KGB agents arrived. For a week he wandered through forests and fields until he reached the Baltic shore. In a fishing village near Klaipėda, he revealed who he was. His name was known; among Lithuanians, he was already a symbol. At great risk to themselves, the fishermen smuggled him across the sea to Sweden, where he was granted asylum.
There, in Stockholm, he met my mother - she had fled Lithuania one year earlier. She also suffered a lot.
She was only twelve when the Soviets came. On June 15, 1941, she and her parents were torn from their home and packed into a boxcar bound for Siberia. She never knew exactly why their family was chosen, though she suspected betrayal by their Jewish neighbor, who heard her father criticizing Bolshevik commissars. They were released in the middle of the tundra and forced to settle in primitive barracks-ten families in each-shared with animals such as calves and sheep. Their task was to care for the livestock. They slept on the floor, on hay spread over cow manure, always hungry and exhausted from twelve- to fourteen-hour workdays. It was a life reduced to survival.
One of the officers guarding them became infatuated with her. When the war ended, he took her with him to his new post in Poland-against her will. While in Poland she made contact with the Polish anti-communist Home Army, and with their help, she escaped to Sweden.
That is how they both got there. And so, two lives marked by suffering and survival converged. From their very first meeting, love took root. Within a year they were married. Soon after, my mother"s aunt in America invited them to join her. In 1950 they left for Medway, Massachusetts. There they began anew. And soon after, I was born."
Ruta paused reflecting on her memory, sighed, and then continued:
"That was the life we lived for many years. My father found steady work as an auto mechanic, a trade he had learned during his time in Sweden. My mother devoted herself to our home. Life was modest, but it was peaceful.
However, in the 1960s a great misfortune befell us: my father was summoned to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The Soviet Union had filed an official request for his extradition. Their courts accused him of mass killings in Lithuania and Belarus during the war. It was a monstrous lie. Yes, he had fought the Russian occupiers, but he never harmed innocent people. That accusation was nothing more than revenge-Moscow"s attempt to punish the man they had failed to capture years before.
The case soon reached a federal court. My father now faced the terrifying possibility of being stripped of his American citizenship and sent back to the Soviet Union. My mother was overcome with despair. I believe that burden of worry hastened her untimely death. We were not wealthy; we could not afford a powerful lawyer, and the fate of the man dearest to us suddenly seemed to depend on money. And we knew too well what awaited him in Soviet hands: torture, a staged trial, and almost certain execution. We were devastated.
In our darkest moment, someone advised us to turn to the American Civil Liberties Union. It proved to be a lifeline. A lawyer named Liam Kochansky took my father"s case-without payment, purely out of principle. "For the sake of justice," he said. What a noble man he was and still is. I will never forget how he defended my father-with passion, with eloquence, with unshakable conviction. He laid before the court evidence after evidence of how the KGB had falsified documents and fabricated charges to destroy their old enemies. He showed that countless innocent men and women had been condemned by those courts, victims of a system where guilt was assumed and innocence impossible to prove. Have you ever heard of such legal term as "presumption of guilt?"
"No, I never did."
"I hadn"t heard either... before my father's trial. It turns out that unlike in our country, in the Soviet Union a suspect is presumed to be guilty until he can prove his innocence. Can you imagine? "How can we," your uncle said at the hearing, "trust the Soviet organs to administer justice if they have legalized lawlessness at the level of laws?" These were exactly his words. I remember them and I will never forget them. You ought to know - the Soviet secret police could come at night, enter a house, arrest an innocent person for no reason at all. Just like they did with my mother! And then that person would disappear without a trace; even close relatives often couldn"t find out anything about his whereabouts."
"It's so terrible - what you have just described and what your grandparents lived through. It's a good thing that my parents got me out of there!"
"Are they from Russia?"
"My father was born in Russia or rather in Belorussia. But my mother is from Lithuania. We immigrated to USA in the 70s when I was just five years old."
"Oh, she is also Lithuanian! How nice. Lithuanian, just like we are. I understand you perfectly well! Let me tell you this: Very often we, those who were born and have lived all our lives in America, do not realize how lucky we are. We are taking our situation for granted. Not so was for our parents."
"From what you have told me, I'm guessing, everything ended positively for your father."
"Yes, and we thank your uncle for this. He saved my dad. He proved to the authorities that this was the case of a wrong identity. Russians were looking for a different man with a similarly sounded last name. My dad wasn"t extradited to the USSR. I don't know what the result would have been if anyone else had taken his case. We are all very, very grateful to Mr. Kohansky. I think my father was exceptionally lucky to have him as his lawyer."
"How is he now?"
"My father? Sadly, he is gone. He passed away five years ago-peacefully, in his own bed, at home, surrounded by those people who loved him. That, in itself, is a blessing. For had it not been for your uncle, his life might have ended very differently: on the gallows, or in some dark, foul-smelling cell, tortured and alone, many years earlier.
Please, give us your uncle"s address. We will write to him to express our deepest gratitude. What he did for us can never be forgotten. He gave my father not only freedom but also allowed him to live the rest of his years with pride and dignity. He passed away embraced by his loving family."
"I have another idea. In a day or two, I will call my uncle from Lithuania. I can verbally convey your wishes to him. He, and I'm pretty sure of it, still remembers you well. What was your father's name?"
"Oh, what a great idea you have! Of course, we still will write to your uncle, but only when we return home. And now, and I am very grateful to you for your idea, please offer him our best wishes. My father's name was Bronius. Bronius Jodikis. Your uncle probably remembers me by my ex-husband's last name, Smith. Please write it down. My father"s name was Jodikis. I told you.... And... tell me please... I'm just asking this out of curiosity, if you don"t mind: are you flying to Lithuania for the similar reason? In other words, didn't your uncle send you to Lithuania to gather material for the defense of other Lithuanian patriots?"
"No, I don't. Why? No, I go to Lithuania for another reason - family business. True, it was my uncle who sent me. Why did you ask?"
"We are flying to attend the opening ceremony of the monument dedicated to the fighters for the freedom and independence of Lithuania. My father received the invitation. But because he passed away and my mother has a serious illness, we are going instead of them. We supposed to meet in Lithuania with another fighter, my dad"s comrade-in-arms. They both participated in the uprising in the summer of 1941 against Russians. His name is Alfonsas Svilas. Just like my father he had to run away from the Soviet Union after the war. But few months ago he called us and told that Israel had requested his extradition and said that he fears for his life. He got concern that he might be kidnapped by Mossad agents. During our conversation I advised him to contact the American Civil Liberties Union and ask for their help. They could do it as they did for us. And I thought maybe your uncle had taken that case upon himself."
"No, I haven't heard anything from my uncle. Are you going to Lithuania specifically for the unveiling of the monument?"
"Yes, but not quite. We were invited by the Lithuanian government in honor to my father. They paid all our expenses: plane tickets, hotel and extensive tour of the country. In addition to Vilnius, we will also visit Trakai, Kaunas, Palanga, and the homeland of our ancestors - the small town of Telshai, in the western part of the country. We are looking forward to it. This is the first time we are going to visit Lithuania. I and my daughter, we heard so much about it from my parents - they told us many wonderful things about their homeland. It must be a wonderful place."
"You are deeply mistaken, madam," my neighbor on the right side, a half-deaf Austrian geezer, the one who interrupted my lovely conversation with Laima, said with a heavy German accent.
For almost half an hour he nagged me with excerpts from his biography, with the long and boring stories about his family and friends. I learned from him, for example, that until his retirement several years ago, he worked as a taxi driver in Vienna. He learned English during his time as a prisoner in British POW camp after WWII and it helped him a lot in his work. He flies now to Vilnius to visit one of his sons ("the smartest one," as he put it) - a car broker. The guy, apparently, buys old junk cars for almost nothing at flea markets in Munich and Frankfurt and then sells them in Lithuania, making in the process good chunk of money. The old man told me that he is very proud of his son.
"He could become a millionaire," pompously bragged the old fart, "if it hadn't been for the Lithuanian custom duty inspector and for the police officer who extorts money, and for the arrogant judge and for all other crooks and thieves who must be bribed in this barbarous country."
After expressing his attitude toward the representatives of the authorities in Lithuania in such categorical terms, he sat in silence for a while, lulled by my conversation with Ruta but then, at the word "Mossad", he suddenly awoke.
"You are mistaken, madam, if you think that Lithuania is a nice place," he repeated his opinion, without giving us time to object. "It is a terrible country. Asiatic".
"What?" - Ruta's face stretched like a pear in a bewilderment, "Asiatic? I thought that Lithuania is in Europe."
"I can't hear you, madam." The old man put his palm behind his ear.
"I say: isn't Lithuania in Europe?" yelled Ruta, straining her voice to the limit.
"In Europe, in Europe, madam. It is uncivilized country."
"Uncivilized? Why...? How do you know?"
"What? I was in that area during the WWII war, madam. I saw it with my own eyes."
I heard the rattling of the denture in his mouth:
"Also, lady, my son now lives in Vilnius, and he informs me. He is the cleverest son. He sells old American Fords to locals, and they pay him the same price like for Mercedes. Ha-ha-ha. They are very primitive people, madam! They pay for "Ford" like "Mercedes! Ha-ha-ha!"
"Well, that doesn't prove anything yet."
"Huh? I can't hear you well, madam. My son makes a lot of money, and he has a good profit. He could be a millionaire, but he needs to bribe the custom duty officer and the evil tax inspector..."
"So what is he informing you about? Your son."
"What? I can't hear."
"I asked, what was he telling you?"
"Oh! Oh yah, yah, madam, he writes me a lot. My other sons don't write me. They're stupid and they don't know how to make money."
"But what does he write to you? About Lithuania."
"What? About Lithuania? He writes about his hotel, madam. He shares his room with the stranger. The Swedish gay. And the Swedish gay farts all night long. My son writes me he cannot sleep because of the Swedish gay. And he cannot clean himself in the morning with water because his room doesn"t have shower. There is only one shower for twenty rooms. And also they have a lot of bedbugs."
"Bedbugs! I heard about them but never saw one in my life! What are they?"
"They are small animals, madam. Like cockroaches. They come at night to beds to suck people"s blood."
"Oh, how this is awful! Cockroaches! Suck people"s blood! Don"t they have hotels in Vilnius without bedbugs?!"
"And he also writes about seltzer water wending machines, madam. In Vilnius exist many seltzer water machines. These are big metal boxes on the streets. And every wending machine has a glass. It connected to the box with the iron chain. Yes, with the iron chain, madam. It is done so that no one could steal the glass. Because in Lithuania all people are crooks and thieves. They steal glasses from the seltzer wending machines. That's what my son informs me. And all people who walk on the street - they drink the seltzer water from that one glass. All from one glass! Ha-ha-ha. They don't know anything about hygiene, madam. No culture. I saw this myself, with my own eyes when I was in the war. They didn't have toilets in their houses, madam, and we had to relieve ourselves in the yards or on the streets. It was terrible - no hygiene."
"Well, I think probably a lot, most likely, have changed since then..."
"Huh? Changed? Only to make it worse, madam, only to make it worse. You should know, madam, for many years, the communists and the commissars ran this country, and they taught the locals, who are lazy bums, to do terrible things. I saw it all myself during the war. The communists committed such terrible atrocities that I can't even tell you because you will faint. And then they taught these terrible things to the local people..."
"But why are the communists so bad?" Suddenly and passionately, Ruta's daughter Mary interjected into our conversation. I would never expect that she could act this way. All the previous time she was sitting silently, listening to our discussion, and staring at us. And now this sudden outburst.
We all looked at her with wide open eyes.
She blushed.
"I'm sorry," she stammered, apparently realizing how wild her outburst was. And then she tried to hide behind her mom's back.
"I'm very, very sorry....", she said, "I shouldn't have spoken... But "Mochute" told me so many things about the communists... How bad they are. And I can't understand. All human beings are supposed to be inherently good. Right? And then some of them become communists. Why?"
Poor Mary! I instantly remembered my professor of sociology at the University of California, with his crazy hairstyle a la the scientist from the "Back in the Future" movie, and his ecstatic eyes when he quoted Karl Marx's "Das Kapital". And I was ready to demonstrate to the girl the knowledge I had obtained during my studies, but the old fart came up first:
"It's very simple, mademoiselle," he said, for some reason this time, having heard the question quite well, "You must understand. The Bolsheviks and the Commissars teach stupid Asiatics how to become communists."
"What? Bolsheviks?" asked, not the first time befuddled Ruta, "Aren't Bolsheviks and communists one and the same?"
"Oh no, no, not at all, madam. Many people make this mistake. The Bolsheviks are the leaders of the communists. They fool ignorant people, and these foolish people become communists. It's very easy to fool uncivilized people."
"But why are they doing this?"
"Huh? What did you say? I don't hear you that well."
"Bolsheviks! Why do they try to fool people?"
"Why? Oh, for profit, madam, only for profit. Because the Bolsheviks are Jews. And the Jews always want profit - that's their nature, madam. They can't live without profit."
"My father also told me that all Bolsheviks were Jews, but I didn't believe him."
"In vain, madam, in pure vain. You must believe him - your father is a very smart man, and he is telling you the truth. All Bolsheviks are Jews: Trotsky was Jew, and Stalin was Jew, Kaganovich and Pol Pot, and Mao Tse Tung... all of them. Jews are crafty and sneaky people. I saw it myself when I was in Lithuania during the war."
"I'm sorry, of course, but it sounds a little bit," Ruta mumbled hesitantly, "how may I put it? Well... A little bit not nice. You can't say that all Jews are bad people, can you? Or someone might think that you are an anti-Semite."
"Anti-Semite? Me? Oh no, no, madam. We don"t have such thing in my country. My country is civilized country. We are not Asiatic country. We even had Jewish chancellor. Kreisky was his name. Bruno Kreisky. Have you heard about him? No country had Jewish chancellor; only we had, in Austria. He was a socialist, like me. He was a very good chancellor, and I respect him: he raised pensions for us, for war veterans. That's why I can travel now. However, he was an Austrian Jew, civilized Jew, not barbarian from Lithuania."
When I asked him why he himself was going to such barbarian and uncivilized country like Lithuania, he answered: "nostalgia". It turns out that during the Second World War, he served in Lithuania in an SS punitive battalion and, having recently received a lot of money on an account of his pension, decided to visit the place of his youth:
"Where I shoot Bolsheviks. Ta-ta-ta-ta."
An incredibly unpleasant individual this my neighbor on the right.
.......
Well, I missed another opportunity to talk to Laima. She came a few minutes ago and handed me a folded piece of paper and said:
"Don't lose it. This is the name of the dish we had talked about. When you have time..."
Whoops! What is this? The first pilot had just announced through the speaker a request to turn off all electrical devices. We're landing, we're landing in Vilnius - the land of my ancestors. How will it meet me?
Chapter 3
My eyes moved from a computer screen to the cuckoo clock on the wall. Its hands were showing half past two in the morning. Outside the house the night was still dark and ghostly, like a dwelling of evil spirits, and the rain was still singing its droning mournful song. The scent of the decaying foliage had penetrated through the slightly open window and brought into the room the aura of melancholy and yearning.
Many details of my visit to the place of my birth came back to me: the curiosity and excitement which engulfed me as soon as I stepped on the concrete pavement of Vilnius airport and a strange feeling that I had returned to my childhood, to a time when every single day was filled with new discoveries and expectations. I remember my heart singing as I walked along winding cobblestone streets of the old city and as I rode in a taxicab, gazing at trees, buildings and sculptures, trying to recall in my memory images of my carefree past. Never before have I had such a peculiar intimate sensation.
After many years of estrangement, the long-forgotten emotions once again squeezed my heart. Indeed, how could I forget all those features, discoveries and losses I made during my trip?
I went to Lithuania with the important assignment given to me by my uncle Liam and ended my journey without much of result to his utter disappointment.
Oh, Uncle Liam, Uncle Liam... I was very proud of him then. In my eyes he was an impeccable person, perspicacious and convivial, incapable of making even the slightest mistake or wrong judgment. He was a role model. Well, I still have respect for him, don"t get me wrong, but lately I have been looking at many issues from a slightly different angle. Years change people and change their perceptions.
At those times my uncle was still working for the American Civil Liberties Union. He was a prominent and well-established lawyer. He defended those unfortunate men and women who had been persecuted by the state, and who couldn"t afford legal representation due to the lack of money or for some other reason. These people included illegal immigrants, undocumented workers and other similar outcasts. My uncle"s work was courageous and noble. That is why he had so many friends, people whom he saved from expulsion, eviction or imprisonment, and who were sincerely grateful to him. He was quite popular among media personalities too. The newspapers often wrote about him in articles dedicated to law and order, and he was a frequent guest on many TV programs and shows.
There is nothing good, unfortunately, without evil. Occasionally he had been criticized by conservative media outlets for defending instigators and terrorists, as if terrorists and instigators are not human beings and don"t deserve to be defended and protected.
I recall one instance when he was questioned by an anchorman on a FOX news broadcast about his relentless opposition to the CIA interrogation method called "waterboarding" that was used on the terrorists. (And probably still in use). The sneaky anchor asked him:
"What if your son would be among the spectators at a football game and terrorists had planted a bomb under one of the benches there? Would you then favor those interrogation methods or rather you let your son be blown up?"
"There is no problem here", answered my uncle, "I would never approve these methods. Moral principles and human rights are the most important things to me. I would never allow the use of torture and legalization of violation of the basic human rights."
Granted, he didn"t have a son (he didn"t have his own children, period) but nevertheless...
Right now his declaration sounds to me a little bit too flaunting, pretentious, but then I was extremely proud of him.
I also remember how in response to his statement, his opponent on the show, that sly anchorman, reminded the auditorium of a similar story. He told it how during WWII Stalin"s son Yakov, a pilot of the fighter plane, was taken prisoner by Germans. They offered him in exchange for the recently captured by the Russians general Paulus. Stalin answered: "I don"t trade generals for lieutenants" (His son Yakov had a military rank of lieutenant).
The anchorman then asked my uncle: doesn"t this story reminds him his own attitude?
But my uncle held his ground steadfastly and didn"t give up on this silly provocation.
He himself often wrote articles about human rights abuses to the progressive Jewish magazine "Tikkun Olam". I remember one of them. It was about "Columbus Day" holiday. In his article my uncle reminded the readers of how white European colonizers stole the land from the indigenous American population and how they brutally treated them. He called it the greatest, known to the humankind, genocide and demanded from the government to abolish this racist and unjust holiday.
Even now, after many years, I still think that he was right when he claimed that the state is strong and powerful while individuals are weak and poor and therefore they constantly need protection. He had enough money to retire well before he turned to sixty-six but the ongoing instances of injustice toward the so-called "enemies of the state" were so frequent and so malicious, he claimed, that they had prevented him from having a well-deserved repose.
That is what kind of person he was.
Well, technically he was not my uncle; he was uncle of my mother, but a little difference in their ages plus the fact that both possessed no close relatives made this spontaneously settled arrangement, practical and convenient. It started instantly on our first day of acquaintance. My uncle visited us in Italy, in the town of Ostia, on our way to the USA, when we were waiting for the American visa. My mom and he had never met each other before, and they began to communicate among themselves like two siblings, leaving for me no other choice but to call him "uncle".
Initially we planned to settle in California, close to his place, but then there was some kind of quarrel between him and my grandma Reva (his half-sister). Knowing her cantankerous character and intolerance to other people"s sentiments, their feud didn"t surprise anyone. I am, actually, more amazed at how my parents were able to handle her for such a long time.
So, anyway, we ended up in Massachusetts and rented a small apartment in the city of Lynn. Later, when my grandma passed away and my parents got divorced, the relations between us and my uncle began to improve and we moved to his house in Newton. (He got it as the result of the settlement with his first wife, and it stayed unoccupied). (Besides this house, he had two more: one in San Diego, an impressive mansion with the view of the ocean - his main residence and another one on Martha"s Vinyard island - his summer retreat).
At approximately the same time he decided to take care of me as well. He paid for my tuition, first for the Latin school in Boston, and then for the University of California at Berkley. He hoped I would also become a lawyer, just like him, but the summer job in one of the law offices in Boston convinced me that this is not my cup of tea. And I switched, to his disappointment, into the field of financial management.
However, this is still not a trade I am looking at. I want to become a historian. Yes, I know, you may laugh, but it is true. Right now, this is just my hobby, the thing I do when I want to relax, but I hope sometime in the future to make it my new profession.
History, as you may know or may not know, is quite a versatile discipline: it addresses diverse geographical locations and epochs, deals with the entire nations as well as with concrete individuals, includes personal biographies, narratives and folktales, requires substantial knowledge of archeology, philosophy, psychology and linguistics, and itself affects related sciences, such as sociology and economy. In other words, contrary to the common opinion, it is a quite complicated subject.
I haven"t yet decided on which of historical topic and in which part of the world I should concentrate, but after reading my notes about trip to Lithuania, an interesting idea came to me. Maybe I ought to focus on the history of my ancestors and trace their lives? These people lived during tumultuous times in tumultuous places. Why not look deeper at the fate of my dad"s parents, or Grandma Reva and her relatives? Besides broadening knowledge about my own heritage, such inquiry could also lead to unexpected revelations and surprising historical discoveries in general. And, incidentally, uncovering identity of the mysterious Šimkus may bring greater insight into this foggy part of the human history in general.
And thrilled by the prospect of the beneficial aspects of my investigation I returned to the computer"s display.
Chapter 4
Several days have passed since I touched my laptop. I was too busy during that time and didn"t have a chance to write my notes. A lot has happened, and I hope I could recall everything and be meticulous enough to live up to Uncle Liam expectations. At least, I will be able to say: I tried my best.
My first task upon arrival to Lithuania was to find someone who could help me in getting more information about our property or, at least, give me a good advice. Therefore the first thing I did: I went to American embassy in Vilnius.
A friendly secretary gave me the list of recommended interpreters and guides. Boris Shmutzkis was not on top of it. He wasn"t the second one down either. Not even the third one. Apparently the friendly secretary was friendly not only with me. (Contrary to the impression I got during our brief encounter.)
"I would recommend hiring a professional guide", she instructed me as soon as I asked her for helpful tips, "This country is loaded with challenges. Especially for those individuals who are unfamiliar with the local customs and Soviet norms, which are still widely preserved by the local population despite the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Your idea of renting a car and driving it yourself may not be the wisest. Let"s start with the fact that we, in the embassy, cannot recommend you any rental agency - they are all quite dubious and problematic. The road signs are somewhat different than ours, the police employ methods inherited from the Soviet era and are still quite corrupt and abusive and the rules of the engagement on the roads are different as well. For example, if a police officer stops you, you should not remain in your car and wait for him to come. No, you should take your license and rush toward him. Failure to do it fast enough could result in your arrest and charges of contempt and disrespect for the authority. This is just one of many potential pitfalls. On the other hand, labor here is quite affordable, and skilled professionals are abundant. Why not consider hiring a guide?"
Needless to say - she scared me a lot. Just like that old Austrian fart on the airplane. Fortunately, he was, thank goodness, totally wrong about bedbugs. The hotel I am staying in ("Lietuva") doesn"t have them. The shower, however, is indeed only one for all twenty rooms on the floor which, obviously, creates a lot of inconvenience.
Another thing that I had discovered immediately after my arrival was the realization that my knowledge Russian language is almost useless. First of all, it is not as good as I thought. Yes, I can recognize many of the words, but I seldom can grab the meaning of the entire sentence, particularly in a regular chat. Another thing that surprised me even more was the fact that most of the locals don"t speak it at all, either because they cannot understand the language or because they don"t want to understand it. They insist on using Lithuanian (which is, contrary to Uncle"s Liam conviction, not even close to Russian) or, at least, speak with them in English, despite that majority of them can hardly comprehend it.
Later I realized that I made a mistake when I tried to communicate with Boris in Russian instead of English.
"Ало!", I greeted him on the phone, "Я хочет говорит с Борис Шмуцкис" (I want to speak to Boris Shmutskis.) (Distorted Russian)
"Ну, я Шмуцкис. Кто вы такой? И что вам от меня надо?" (I am Shmutskis. Who are you? What do you want from me?)
"Я Джин. Мой имя Джин. Я хочу тебя хайе, забрать." (I am Gene. My name is Gene. I want to hire..., to take you...)
"Что? Куда ты меня хочешь забрать?" (What? Where do you want to take me?)