The Dedalus Book of Lithuianian Literature

by Almantas Samalavicius

  ‘That will be the day when I beg for a Jew’s apology,’ the shepherd shot back. ‘Will there be Jews up there with us Catholics?’

  ‘When you end up in hell, you’ll find all kinds there: Jews, Catholics, gentry, and ordinary folk.’

  ‘What a laugh! Since when is it a sin to cheat a Jew?’ Marcela was certain of her righteousness. ‘They tortured our Lord to death and hung him on a cross.’

  ‘Oh, girl,’ Mrs. Gerdvilius replied. ‘We torture our dear Lord every day. We torture him and hang him on the cross. And he always forgives us.’

  II

  Marcela dreamed that she had arrived in heaven. It was beautiful, like the church in Pivasiunai. Everywhere candles and lanterns burned. The Lord God himself, grey-haired with a long beard, sat high on the altar, surrounded by angels. Some were tiny, like those in the painting of the Virgin Mary in Merkine, flying high and low circling around God, while others were bigger, with long robes and large wings. Kneeling at the altar, their hands were clasped in prayer as if they were young priests or clerics worshipping God.

  Everyone in heaven was dead. Marcela could not see one living soul. Her throat tightened at the sudden thought that she might have died and that’s why she had ended up here. But she could not remember when she had died. She didn’t have much time to wonder because more and more dead people starting pushing and shoving to get through the narrow gates where she was standing. They drove her into a corner, pressing her against a wall. There were as many dead people in heaven as in Merkine church during the indulgences of St. Roch. Men, women, gentry, priests and ordinary folk, they were all well-dressed, as if they had been buried recently.

  The gentlemen and the ladies were seated behind the grates, closer to God; seeing this, Marcela sighed: ‘My Lord, even in heaven the gentry are better off!’

  Marcela saw many of her acquaintances; some had been long dead, some had died only last year. There was Peter Lukosiunas, her godfather, for whom she had worked for five years as a shepherd and as a servant. She also spotted Mrs. Vaksas, her godmother, who’d given her a silk scarf when Marcela had made her first confession. Sure, the scarf was no longer new – a tiny hole peeked through at the very centre – but Marcela still wore it when she attended the more important rites. She saw many others whom she barely remembered.

  Marcela stood near the gates, pressed against the wall, and had a look around. Kneeling behind the gates was her own dear, old mother. With a pang she felt a longing for her mother so keen, so strong, that her heart seemed to be gripped by pliers. Now she would have a chance to talk with her, to pour out her heart, tell her of her woes like she used to when her mother was still alive and Marcela would visit her every holiday.

  Marcela elbowed her way with determination to where her mother was kneeling; pushing, shoving, stepping on toes, getting there any way she could. The souls were furious and cursed her. But she paid no attention and pushed herself forward.

  When she had made her way to the very centre of heaven and her mother was within reach – just a few steps remained – an angel stopped her. He was dressed in white with a red sash embroidered in gold across his shoulder; in his hands he held a large, golden sceptre.

  The angel reprimanded her: ‘What are you doing here pushing your way in like a boorish lout. You’re disturbing the souls’ worship of their Lord God!’ He looked her up and down and added, ‘You came here all filthy and you’re rubbing your dirt onto the souls’ white robes!’

  Marcela looked at herself: she was filthy indeed. She was wearing her everyday dress and the blouse she had not changed in over two weeks. She was humiliated, afraid even, and averted her eyes. But the angel stared at her ever more angrily.

  ‘Why did you bring those herring into the House of God?’ he asked, ‘Are you trying to make the place stink? Give me those fish. I’ll throw them out.’

  Marcela looked down; there were herring in her hands, the very ones that she’d stolen from Kuslius’s bucket. She had no clue how she’d gotten them and how she’d brought them here. She remembered only that she had already eaten them, and this made her even more frightened. Now Marcela felt the brine from the herring dripping from her fingers onto her dress. She stretched out her hands all the more quickly to give the angel her herring. The angel called over another smaller angel and said:

  ‘Take these herring and throw them out. We have our own food here in heaven; we have no need for earthly food. No need for herring here.’

  The smaller angel was reaching for the herring when an angry voice was heard from behind heaven’s gates:

  ‘Give me back my herring! That’s the fish she stole from me!’

  Horror-struck, Marcela recognised Kuslius’s voice. She noted that all the souls were moving away from her, and even God, sitting up high, was scowling. Marcela was afraid to raise her eyes, but she saw his fury from the corner of her eye. And that brazen Kuslius was still yelling at her from behind the gates. She’ll pull out his beard, she’ll even ask the shepherd to set the dogs on him! Doesn’t he deserve it? He should have told her privately, asking her to pay him for it, but not here in heaven, in plain view for God and the angels to see.

  ‘Is there no justice even in heaven? Why won’t she return my herring? Even here the poor Jew is oppressed.’ Kuslius wouldn’t stop.

  ‘You’re a thief and yet you’ve come to heaven? Bringing stolen goods into the House of God?’ The angel accused her, but Marcela was silent and dumbstruck – that’s how frightened she was. ‘You have nothing to say for yourself, no explanation for your actions? Let’s go see God. Let him punish you as you deserve!’

  The angel took her by the hand, and led her across the entirety of heaven, straight to God’s throne by the altar. Marcela was so humiliated she wanted to disappear. All the others were moving aside as if she had scabies, jeering, throwing insults at her.

  ‘Thief! She stole herring from the Jew,’ Marcela heard as she passed by.

  This is how the souls accompanied her with their angry glances. Most difficult for Marcela was that the angel was taking her past the very spot where her mother was praying. Although Marcela did not raise her eyes she felt her mother look at her dolefully. This look made her turn red as a Guelder Rose. Or at least she thought she was blushing.

  ‘Did you steal Kuslius’s herring?’ God asked Marcela as she kneeled before his throne.

  Marcela was silent as a deaf mute. She covered her eyes with her hand and quivered like an aspen leaf. God was silent waiting for Marcela to speak. When he received no answer, he turned to the angels and ordered: ‘Take her to hell and give her to the devils. Let them torture her for eternity.’

  The minute God said this, the angels darted toward Marcela and, without giving her a second to catch her breath, they pushed her out of heaven and locked the gates behind her.

  It was dark, gloomy and frightening outside the gates of heaven. The gates had barely clicked shut when she was surrounded by devils. They had horns and tails; flames burned in their throats like fire in a furnace. They were climbing over one another to get to Marcela. The most horrifying one of all was already poking his pitchfork at her. At the sight of this Marcela grabbed onto the gates to heaven and shrieked at the top of her voice and woke up.

  Marcela sat up in her bed, drenched in sweat and quivering as if burning with fever.

  Her first thought was to jump out of bed and run to Kuslius, confess and beg his forgiveness. But she saw out of her window that it was night, dark, and Merkine, where Kuslius lived, was far! How would she find him this time of night? And what’s more, people would think she’d lost her mind…

  Marcela sat in bed for a long time, cross-legged, fearfully looking out of the window from time to time to make sure a horned devil wasn’t climbing in.

  Finally, she made the sign of the cross over her bed, the floor, the walls on all four sides as well as the windows and the door. She made the sign of the cross over everything, and then she jumped up out of bed and walked over to
Mrs. Gerdvilius’s bed where she fumbled around looking for Mrs. Gerdvilius’s dress. She found it and, with hands shaking out of fear of waking anyone, she turned the pockets inside out looking for the key to the cupboard.

  She opened the doors carefully so that nobody would hear and went out into the porch. There, in the dark, with the utmost care, stopping every so often to listen and make sure that nobody had awoken, she unlocked the cupboard looking for the bowl where she knew the eggs were kept.

  She found one and stuck her hand in – it was a bowl of fresh milk. Then she stuck her hand into another bowl – her fingers felt sour cream; and then another – it was barley. Finally she found the eggs. She took six, locked the door to the cupboard and buried the eggs in the sand pile in a corner of the porch; the pile had been there since the autumn and they kept it so that there would be something to scatter onto the swept floor in the winter.

  After she hid the eggs Marcela went back into the cottage, as carefully as before. She returned the key to where she’d found it, lay down in her bed and peacefully fell asleep.

  The next morning, Mrs. Gerdvilius was confused why the doors to the cupboard and porch had milky fingerprints – her own dress did too. Had she been sleepwalking?

  She searched all the dishes and found some eggs missing. She blamed the shepherd. He defended himself, swearing that he had nothing to do with it, but Mrs. Gerdvilius would not believe him.

  Marcela heard everything and kept quiet. Now every evening she checks the sand pile to make sure the eggs are still there and she impatiently awaits her day off when she will bring them over to Kuslius and pay him back for the herring…

  Then she will no longer fear that that God will again order her to be thrown out of heaven for stealing!

  First published in Vincas Kreve, Siaudinej pastogej, Tilze: Lituania (1921).

  Translated by Jura Avizienis from Vincas Kreve, Siaudinej pastogej, Vilnius: Baltos lankos (1998).

  Vincas Kreve (1882–1954) is the godfather of modern Lithuanian fiction. He wrote many long works of fiction as well as the play Sarunas (1911), and the short novel Pratjekabuda (1913). He worked for many years on the epic Sons of Heaven and Earth (Dangaus ir zemes sunus, 1949) and established himself in Lithuanian literature with his rich and colourful short stories depicting the influence of a traditional, pre-Christian worldview on the mentality of village inhabitants. His work has had a significant impact on the development of the Lithuanian short story. He was a professor at Vytautas Magnus University in Kaunas and harboured political ambitions throughout his life. He played a controversial role in the loss of Lithuanian statehood when he was the prime minister of the first Soviet government. Later he emigrated to the United States where he worked as a professor at the University of Pennsylvania until the end of his life.

  The Light of Your Face

  Antanas Vaiciulaitis

  When Theresa lifted her head from the bed it was dark in the homestead. The wind murmured in the leaves of the oak tree, which brushed the roof. The wooden lever of the well creaked uncomfortably in the yard and the ash-grey cow mooed: its voice quickly dissipated in the storm, while inside the room a brisk and lively fire crackled. An ember fell through the slots, rolled down over the ashes and glittered on the dirt floor. The woman looked at the spark and recalled how she was forced to lie in bed because of sharp pains and tremendous exhaustion, which made her sight dim. But she was still alive! And to her, the spool of wool on the spindle and that little piece of sourdough bread in the tub in the corner seemed like new and distant things, things she had seen in childhood.

  She lowered her legs to the floor. Shuffling, she went to the fireplace. Her head was spinning. Her chest was empty and heavy. A pot hissed, puffed and bubbled. She raised the lid, which rattled quietly. Busying herself around the fire, the old woman raked the wood chips that constantly twisted and scattered into a pile. It was peaceful here, though a blustery wind blew and rattled the roof; it was so strong that it was as if it wanted to split the earth’s crust down the middle and fling the heavy clouds about like a shawl.

  Grandmother threw the sweepings into the flames. She was warmed up now and was satisfied like someone who had completed a useful task. She wiped the table with her apron and looked at the geraniums.

  ‘So!’ she said loudly. She scratched at the hardened, cracked soil in the vase and nodded her head: ‘They’ll certainly dry out.’

  When she returned to the flowers with a cup of water, the geese squawked in the yard. Someone stamped their legs on the porch and banged their shoes against the doorstep. Maybe it’s Vincas, the woman thought.

  The water sloshed and ran out of the cup, hiding in the cracks, popping in pale bubbles. Yes, she missed Vincas. He had been gone for a week already. Oh, those forests, those forests! And only he understood her and defended her from her daughter’s words.

  The door screeched plaintively. Smiling, Theresa slowly turned her head, and having turned around, she almost shrieked. She caught the cup on the vase and it fell on the dirt floor and smashed.

  Tall and slender, her daughter stood there saying nothing. She unwrapped her shawl. Her hair fell on her temples. She was angry. Good Lord! She was always angry and hard! Why do you hate me so, you, who I carried in my womb, she exclaimed in her mind.

  Agne stood there and didn’t say a word.

  Frightened, the old woman knelt down by the shards. Her eyes swam. She fumbled around with shaking fingers, raked up the pieces but could not grasp anything. She hunched her shoulders as if she were afraid of being hit.

  Agne still stood there.

  ‘It’s wilting,’ Theresa spoke.

  ‘Without you mother, it would never be tidy in here! I’ve said that many times.’

  ‘My little Agne!’

  ‘My little Agne, my little Agne! You’d laze about better in bed.’

  The old woman, kneeling and stooped over, raised her eyes at her daughter: ‘My dear, why do you hate me so much?’ she said.

  She sat on her heels and wiped a tear from her wrinkled face with her sleeve.

  ‘What isn’t there to hate?’ Agne said rudely. ‘Just don’t get underfoot.’

  ‘I won’t be here long.’

  ‘Mama, no one’s keeping you here.’

  Theresa rose, grasping onto the table, feeling weak and tired. She was jealous of the roof over her head! And gasping, so small and weak, she went to sit in the hallway between the barrels. It was cold there. The wind whipped about even more severely. It blew with full force and travelled from one end of the earth to the other. Yes, Vincas will return and find her here. She will complain to him, yes, she will complain. He will defend her. He will give that daughter of hers a good scolding. Rats scurried on the storey above, scratching and squeaking. The children, three boys, charged into the farmhouse. They hadn’t noticed her. But once inside the homestead, after clattering around for a few minutes, they began to ask:

  ‘Where’s grandmother?’

  ‘Did she go out somewhere?’Agne replied.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Opening the door she spoke sharply, mocking her: ‘You’re going to have to wait a long time before Vincas comes back.’

  Theresa didn’t reply.

  Then her daughter spoke again: ‘Well, are you there? Why aren’t you saying anything!’

  Receiving no reply, she lit a match. The faint light flickered on the barrels and on the thick beams of the ceiling and that black opening leading up into the attic. Pale and looking out in front of her with eyes full of dread, the old woman squirmed as though she wanted to disappear completely. The flame rose a little, flared brightly and then went out.

  A sharp voice spoke from out of the darkness.

  ‘Sit there if you like. But you should know Vincas isn’t coming today or tomorrow. He informed me through Francis from Stakniskes that he still has to finish up in the Didziagire birch forest and then he has go out to the Siksnine forest. You understand?’

  And she slammed the d
oor. In the hut, the children were quiet. The old woman hid there for another good hour and then said to herself: ‘Didziagire…’ She got up and went into the room, pulled a gnarled cane out of the corner and wrapped herself in a shawl. The little ones looked at her in the dark, afraid to utter a word. She turned around at the threshold and said: ‘Goodbye, children.’

  No one answered her; only little Joseph started to cry.

  It was brighter outside. In the west, far off near the edge of the valley, stretched a black cloud; the sky glistened through it and reddened in a plaintive and tearful way. Two ravens darted through the yard against the wind. They flew diagonally, climbing up and then rolling downwards and cawing. Now and again the storm hurled them backwards and the both of them stroked forward slowly, persistently, like a person swimming through water.

  For a short while the old woman took shelter near the dovetailed corner joint of the cottage, afraid to go into the wind. Leaning on her cane for support she then opened the gate. A raucous blow hit her in the chest. She almost fell backwards. With her head thrust out, she descended down the slope. The river loomed below. It was wide now, flooding the meadows. Lanterns were already lit in the village. Ducks clambered onto the shore. They bowed to the side, talking and looking ashamed that they were coming back so late. Going past the old woman they cackled, pulled their heads back and bobbed their beaks up and down. ‘Didziagire, Didziagire,’ the woman repeated. She could not see the forest in front of her. It was black, totally mixed in with the clouds. It was only from a flickering lantern off in the distance that she understood where the white of the birch forest should come into view. There were puddles on the path, clouded and muddy like dirty sheets. Mud splashed out from under her clogs. So that she wouldn’t step into a rut or hole she, keeping her eyes glued on the path, fumbled about in front of her with her cane – the way the blind do when they walk by themselves. Out there, once again, the windows glowed.

  And she thought about the people who were now sitting in their cottages. They were eating dinner. Children were squealing with delight while outside the wind whistled through the corner joints. The dogs lay in their doghouses, noses tucked between their paws, and the sparrows chirped and rested in their attics. All of them had their own homes. She stopped and bent over while gasping for breath. She coughed in that same hacking, whistling way as children suffering from whooping cough would do. When the attack subsided, she wiped her eyes and looked on in amazement. For one thing, the darkness was thicker. No, there was something there. She looked around fearfully, as if asking herself: where am I now? She wanted to see something familiar, be it a tree or a cross or at the very least the earth beneath her feet. She did not find anything familiar. But I was born and raised here, she thought. Eighty years. And now…