“Was the domovoi gone then?” Ona listened, her pupils wide and dark.
“Yes, it was gone, and we had a celebration. My papa danced with me for the first time and pointed to the lightning bugs, saying, ‘Look, Agotele, the lightning bugs are dancing with us.’ I loved when Papa called me Agotele, such a sweet way of saying my name, like when I say ‘Onute’ or ‘Jonukas.’” Agota realized that no one called her that anymore, not even Pranas.
Agota heard her husband noisily brushing his teeth. Why did he have to sputter and snort so?
“Mama, do you think we have a domovoi in our pantry?” asked Ona, looking around the kitchen.
Pranas came into the room. “What’s this talk of domovoi?”
“There are no imps in America,” answered Jonas very seriously. Agota realized that she felt the same way, as if America lacked the magic of demons. She thought of the skyscrapers and wondered how a domovoi could survive there.
Pranas laughed. “My son, the expert on imps.” He stretched and yawned. “I feel so lazy today.”
Agota turned to him. “I bought some tickets for a picnic at the Ragis farm, but I don’t feel like going.”
He perked up. “I heard about it at work. They’re raising money for a youth center near Marquette Park. The Matas family moved there. Maybe we’ll move there soon.”
Agota looked up. “Move?”
Pranas shrugged. “Come on, let’s go to the picnic. It’ll be good to get out into the country.”
When the bus arrived at the Ragis Farm, Agota stepped off and stood transfixed until Pranas asked her what was wrong. “It smells like home,” she said, looking at the fields and nearby forest preserve.
“Of course it smells like home. We’re at a farm, not the city,” he chuckled.
Agota smiled, breathing in the air like an old friend. She took Ona’s little hand, and together they touched, petted, and talked to all the cows and sheep. When her daughter ran off to play, Pranas asked if Agota wanted to go mushrooming.
She didn’t say anything, but her eyes sparkled as she looked at her husband. She hadn’t been mushrooming since she left her village. He took her hand, and together they walked through the cool woods like young lovers, dappled sunlight playing over their faces, as the leaves and twigs crunched underfoot. Agota felt drunk with the smells of the forest, caressing each tree until she spotted some mushrooms and ran to pick them, greedily gathering them in her skirt the way she used to with Teta Ona. Suddenly she stood up, and all the mushrooms fell to the earth. She fell to her knees, unable to breathe.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Pranas anxiously.
“I want to go home.”
“We can’t go back yet. We have to wait for the bus to take us.”
“Not there. Back to Lithuania.” Tears were streaming down Agota’s face. “I want to go home.”
“What are you saying? Dearest, you know we can’t go home.” Pranas stood there helplessly.
“We should have stayed in Lithuania.”
“We’d be in Siberia if we did. Do you think that the Communists would have allowed us to stay on our farms? My God, have any of our relatives stayed on their farms? They’ve all been moved to Communist collectives or the cities.” Pranas trembled in frustration. “Don’t you think I also want to return?”
Agota sobbed as he sat down next to her, stroking her hair as he held her, not saying anything, only feeling the sun warm their cheeks. The stillness seemed to soothe her until she finally quieted. When she heard an unfamiliar bird singing in a clearing, she turned to look for it, seeing a wisp of color. When she leaned over to get a better look, the bird flew to another tree. Behind her, she heard twigs breaking and when she moved, she thought she saw something. What was it? She pushed herself up to get a better look. Pranas stood up as well, brushing the leaves off his pants. The lacy sunlight between the trees was moving. The branches were swaying in the breeze. Agota held her breath, waiting for God knows what.
And suddenly there was little Irene Matas, holding a Negro doll and pulling Regina’s daughter, Magda. It was strange to see those two girls alone in the woods. Agota remembered Regina’s tragic story and thought of telling it to her husband when suddenly Ona ran out from behind the trees and startled them both. “Where have you been hiding?” asked her daughter. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Oh, you surprised me!” said Agota, laughing quietly.
“You thought it was a domovoi?” Ona stood beaming, her blond braids shining in the sun.
Jonas came from behind another tree. “Mama, she’s such a pest, chasing her friends, yelling that she’s a domovoi, and she’s gonna get them.” Jonas raised his hands and turned to his sister. “I’m going to get you, you little brat.” Ona screeched with delight and pulled her mother, who protested weakly but ran along. Jonas growled and threatened while Ona screamed and laughed until she caught up to Irene and Magda. “Watch out before the domovoi gets you.” When the girls saw Jonas chasing them, making horrible faces and sounds, they screeched and ran.
“Enough,” said Agota, between gasps of breath. “Let’s go back to the picnic.” She stopped, still laughing, marveling as if something in her had thawed ever so slightly for the first time in many years.
The sun was starting to slip behind the trees when they heard the women back at the farm singing the old songs. Marcele and Dora came out of Mr. Ragis’ kitchen with steaming pans of potato kugelis and smoked sausages with sauerkraut. “There you are! I was beginning to worry,” said Regina as she served cold borscht, giving Agota and Pranas extra helpings. Everyone ate until they heard the accordion begin to play the old songs.
The sun had set, and in the twilight a string of lights swayed gently in the breeze. When the accordion began to play the “Windmill Dance,” Agota and Regina joined the circle of dancers. The two women danced and whirled as if they were still young. Afterward, when Agota took Pranas’ hand, he looked up at his wife, a bit surprised, as she pulled him toward the other dancers. Suddenly the stout couple began dancing a fast polka round and round, as Pranas twirled his wife faster and faster while she laughed at the sheer physical pleasure of the dance, dizzy with the whirling. When the music stopped, they were both flushed with excitement. Magda and Ona clapped from the sidelines while Irene chased lightning bugs with a half dozen other children. When the band started playing a waltz, Pranas took his wife in his arms as they danced around slowly, both of their hearts still racing. He held her closely and murmured in her ear, “Agotele, you’re so lovely tonight.”
“What did you call me?” asked Agota.
“Agotele, why?” he asked.
“I just haven’t heard anyone call me that for so long.”
“Really? Well, then it’s about time,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
The couple bobbed and swayed softly to the waltz music. Agota pressed her flushed cheek close to Pranas as her eyes misted over with tears, but through the blur she strained to see if the lightning bugs were dancing along with them.
Blue Tango
Vida Bartulis, 1952
Each morning, Vida and her mama would watch Papa through lidded eyes like thieves, impatiently waiting for him to slam the front door and head for the bus stop. They would both wave goodbye to him through the dime-store lace curtains, and as soon as he was out of sight, Mama would whoop, “The critic’s gone.”
Sometimes they’d spend the whole morning cooking, making dozens of marzipan cookies and eating them all before Papa came home. Sometimes they’d fry up some of Mama’s favorite ponchkas, big dough balls filled with lingonberries. Once they spent a whole day making round wafer layers, placing them all over the house to cool—on tables, radiators, and dressers, even on the radio. Then Mama put all the wafers together with a delicious vanilla cream. She called it a Napoleon cake and it became Vida’s favorite. They ate half of it a
nd gave the other half to Regina Vitkus because Mama loved Magda, her sad daughter.
Mama played tangos all day long, stacked on the record player. That summer, she dressed both Vida and her friend Irene with scarves and jewelry, painting their faces with ruby lipstick and blue eye shadow. When Vida put on Mama’s fringed shawl, Mama called her a little Gypsy. Vida liked “Tango of the Roses” best, but in the end Mama always put one special tango on the record player. Whenever she played it, quiet tears pooled in her eyes. It was called “Blue Tango” and Mama said it was the song of lost dreams.
Some days they would walk with Magda down to the pond in the cemetery and have a picnic under the birch trees. A sad wooden statue of Jesus watched over them, sitting with his head resting in one hand, a troubled look on his face like an old grandfather, worrying about the sins of the world. Mama said all the country roads in Lithuania bristled with shrines of the worried Jesus.
Mama would put down a blanket and take out berries and canned whipped cream, and she’d spray mustaches on their faces. They’d march around like soldiers saluting one another. Afterward, they’d spend the day lying on the grass, watching clouds and eating donuts while Mama wove stories and sang her favorite songs. As she sang, a white butterfly flew from flower to flower and then fluttered in circles around Mama’s head. “In Lithuania they used to say the soul of one of your ancestors was visiting whenever you saw a white butterfly,” she murmured. “Maybe it’s my grandmother come to visit.”
The fun stopped when Papa came home. He’d give them that narrow-eyed look like they’d just stolen something from him. Mama tightened up when he walked in the door with his sly fox face. She got quiet and careful. Some days she could joke him up a bit, but if he wasn’t in the mood, he would chew her head off. Those were the times Vida saw Mama disappear, go somewhere far away in her mind. Mama would cook and talk, but Vida knew she wasn’t there. It gave her the heebie-jeebies.
The year Vida turned six, Mama got sick. Vida played with her even though Mama had to stay in bed. Vida would paint her face like they used to, and she’d play Mama’s favorite tangos on the record player. Vida and her friend, Irene, would run to the store to buy cookies and donuts, but Mama just didn’t get any better.
The afternoon in June when Vida tied twelve ribbons in her hair, Mama quietly died.
At the funeral, Vida watched her father crying, but she just couldn’t cry. She felt like she had turned to wood like that statue of Jesus down at the cemetery. As if something in her died too. Sister Kunigunda brought her class to the funeral home, but Vida didn’t want to see any of them, not even her friend Irene.
Vida stared at Mama in the casket, but it just didn’t look like her, more like a big wax doll someone had put in a box. Papa told her to kiss Mama goodbye, but she couldn’t. She walked up to the casket and tried poking Mama’s eyelids to see if they would open. They felt papery. At the cemetery, they put her in the ground under the birch trees like she wanted, but with no statue of the worried Jesus to look after her.
After Mama was gone, Papa hired a housekeeper named Marcele Gudauskas to cook and take care of Vida, but Vida wouldn’t have anything to do with the woman. Papa introduced her as the general’s daughter and told Vida to shake her hand and curtsy. “She’s quit her job downtown to take care of you. She’ll teach you good manners.” Mrs. Gudauskas of the arching eyebrows penciled in carefully, of the ruby lipstick that smudged on her horse teeth, and the cold blue eyes that bore into Vida. “Delighted to meet you, my dear,” Mrs. Gudauskas said. Vida stared at that grinning mouth and heard those soft words, but those icy eyes betrayed her.
And sure enough, the next morning Mrs. Gudauskas spent the day telling her what not to do. “Don’t slouch: sit up straight, Vida. Don’t talk with your mouth full, chew your food slowly, and no elbows on the table, dear.” The litany continued until Vida could hardly move without the woman barking orders.
The following week, Papa also brought home his friend Jurgis Pocius, who liked to be called Mr. George because he thought of himself as a sophisticated man like George Sanders in the movies. Vida thought his bow tie looked like it was strangling his red face. He became their pig-faced boarder, and together the men would drink whiskey and play cards at night. One night, Mr. George put Vida on his lap, and she could feel his fingers clawing her under her dress, but she didn’t say anything. She just pushed off his lap and went to her room, vowing never to let him near her again.
On Saturday, Papa and Mr. George brought two women home. Vida had never seen them before. She could hear them talking and playing cards. But when she heard the tango music, she peeked out her door and saw Mr. George dancing with a stout dark-haired lady in a ruffled dress. Pretty soon he was lifting her dress and clawing her too, but she didn’t seem to mind. She pulled him over to the crimson sofa, and they both fell on it like they were wrestling. When Papa took the blond lady to his room, Mr. George turned out the lights, and Vida could hear him making his pig sounds.
She snuck into the kitchen to get some cookies, but while she was there she got the white bread, soda crackers, and all the other dull food Mrs. Gudauskas kept around the house and took them back to her room. She sat on her bed and ate until she felt numb. Only then could she fall into a heavy sleep.
Some mornings Vida went to school with Irene. Sometimes she waited until Sister Kunigunda rang the bell for them to come in from the schoolyard, and then she would quietly leave. On those days, she would walk to the cemetery and sit with Mama all day. Sometimes Magda came with her because she never went to school. Vida liked her because she never said much, only held her hand when she was sad. Sometimes Vida would hum tangos for Mama or bring her donuts or cookies and leave them on the grave for her. Often she would eat her lunch while sitting on the part of the grave she thought was Mama’s lap. Sometimes she’d take a nap there and dream about Mama. One day she noticed how gray the headstone was, so the next time she brought crayons and drew pictures of flowers and trees on the cold stone. Once she even brought some ribbons and tied them around the headstone.
One day seemed to blend into another. The school year was coming to an end, but even Irene couldn’t cheer Vida up. And then one day the doorbell rang, and she opened the door to find a bulky man in a wrinkled coat, holding a scuffed suitcase. He had the beginning of a beard on his long yellow face. He grunted hello and walked right into the living room. When he took off his coat, she saw how dirty his shirt was. He asked where her father was, and she told him he was at work. “Good,” he mumbled as he collapsed on the sofa, curling up for a nap. She could hear his snores all the way in her room, and she wondered what other monsters were going to move into their house.
When Papa came home, Vida could see he was unhappy about their visitor, yelling that there was no room for him, but the man just yelled back for him to get rid of his intolerable boarder. Mr. George looked terribly offended and retreated to his room. They continued to argue and drink well into the night, but Vida could see Papa was losing. He seemed to be afraid of this strange man.
The next morning Papa told her that her Uncle Apolinaras was going to live with them. Vida was shocked to find out he was her uncle, but even if he was, she still didn’t want him living with them. Her father was about to wake Apolinaras from his drunken sleep, but at the last minute he changed his mind, and with a wave of his hand he left for work.
As soon as the door closed, Vida turned to look at her uncle, still sleeping on the sofa, feeling frightened by his bulk and strangeness. For the first time, she was anxious for Mrs. Gudauskas to arrive. She jumped a little when she saw his eyes pop open.
“Has the critic gone?” he asked. Vida was surprised that he knew the name Mama had called Papa.
“Yes,” she said tentatively.
“Great,” he said, getting up from the sofa, a wide-toothed grin on his grizzled face. “Let me wash up and shave and then we’ll find something to eat.”
When her uncle emerged from the bathroom, he looked like a new man: clean-shaven, hair combed, wearing a fresh shirt and pants. He was almost handsome, and he smelled good. In the kitchen, he went through all the cupboards and the refrigerator.
“Vida, there’s nothing to eat here, child.” He pulled out some flour and lingonberry jam he found hidden at the back of the cupboard and, rolling up his sleeves, he made a dozen doughy ponchkos filled with jam. They deep fried them and devoured them just as Mrs. Gudauskas of the-thousand-rules-for-living walked in the door.
“There, that’s better; now let’s visit your mother,” he said softly.
“Where are you going?” asked Mrs. Gudauskas, screwing up her face when she saw the mess in the kitchen.
Uncle Apolinaras and Mrs. Gudauskas glared at each other for a few uncomfortable moments. Then he smiled and said, “I’m Vida’s uncle.” He looked her over and rejected her. “I don’t think we’ll be needing your services in this house anymore. From now on, I’ll take care of Vida.”
“Look here, it’s not your place to tell me what to do.” Her face matched the color of her ruby lipstick.
“Yes, yes, well, get along now, out you go.” Her uncle ushered the general’s daughter out the door, with her protesting the whole way. After it was closed, he started laughing, and even Vida smiled.
As they walked to the cemetery, Uncle Apolinaras told her about his travels to France, Australia, and Canada after the war. He talked all the way to the cemetery, but he stopped when they got to Mama’s grave. He stared at the cookies and the moldy donuts, at the crayon-colored headstone, at the tattered ribbons flapping in the breeze. For a long time, he was frozen in his silence until Vida sat down on the grave and said, “Mama, your brother’s here to see you.” Suddenly her uncle fell on his knees, tears streaming down his smooth cheeks, as though he were the one who had lost his mother, not Vida. After he wiped his tears, he gave Vida a huge bear hug, holding her close, telling her how much she reminded him of his sister, how much fun they’d used to have as children. He said the war had changed everything and how sad he was that he hadn’t seen her before she died because he had promised her he would.
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