That night the Germans warned everyone to stay home. It was late when Antanas heard a distant shooting that seemed to go on forever as he sat listening by the small window. He knew then what had happened and was stunned into silence. That long column of people he’d seen were dead. Why? Why kill those innocent, wide-eyed children, hanging onto their terrified mothers or the grandmothers shushing them? Those poor, innocent people. He watched the cold stars winking without care, and he felt a sinking in his heart like a rock dropping to the bottom of a dark lake.
The next day the town was half deserted, and people walked around feeling haunted. Stores were closed, windows were broken, and the synagogue was empty. The war continued. The Germans requisitioned livestock and emptied granaries and larders. They began to round up men for forced labor and conscription. One day, Antanas and Stasys were taken. It was finally their turn to be put on trains. They didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye to their families. Antanas often thought about his wife on that day, quietly tending to chores, cooking supper, waiting for him to return from the fields, sending his son to tell him that supper was getting cold. She’d probably looked for him, wondering what had happened. They weren’t able to contact each other until years after the war, after the Soviets returned to stay when he was already on the other side of the world.
His wife’s letters were carefully written not to alert the censors. She had moved to an apartment in the city. Their farms were bulldozed, turned into collectives. In 1952, she started to work in a radio factory while the children went to school. She sent a somber family portrait. He hardly recognized his children. His wife looked tired and older but, to his eyes, more beautiful than ever. There was a gravity in her look that moved him. She had been so innocent, so lighthearted, always singing snatches of songs, laughing easily at the antics of her children. He put the photo back in his wallet and looked up to see his reflection in the dark window. His hair, though turning gray, was as thick and unruly as ever, the same stubborn cowlicks sticking up. His small eyes looked grief-stricken.
The sky was darkening as he boarded the bus with the other men who lived in his neighborhood. Today he stopped at the Little Touch of Kretinga Restaurant for some borscht and dumplings. Afterward, he had a few drinks at the Amber Tavern so his sleep would be untroubled. The neighborhood tavern was lively tonight with Willy the bartender telling jokes while Captain Eddie argued with Felius the Poet over politics. Antanas liked these regulars but felt too shy to join in their banter until he had a couple of drinks. He had his usual seat at the end of the bar, next to Jurgis Vitkus. Only after Willy brought out the accordion and started singing that sad song about the innocent girl with the flaxen hair weaving her wreath of rue did Antanas join in sorrowfully singing in honor of Old Juska.
Time sat heavily on Antanas’ soul and his days and nights were often too long. In the dark night while Chicago slept, he sometimes also slept, until he heard the lonely moan of the train whistle or the clanging sound of boxcars being pulled into motion. Then he would toss in his tangled bed sheets, dreaming of trains filled with anguished faces. In the daytime he lived a lonely life, but his nights were crowded with tortured souls—children in trains headed for the frozen wastes of Siberia, frightened children standing at the edge of a pit in the woods, children in trains to the ghettos or camps, young men in trains journeying to the war trenches. Each night they seemed to whisper their terrible grief to him while God never said a word.
Sylvia’s House of Beauty
Silvia Degutis, 1957
Silvia Degutis strolled down the rain-slicked streets of Chicago’s South Side, humming the “Blue Tango” as a light drizzle pinged a rhythm on her plastic rain bonnet. Last night, the band had played that song at the Patriots of Lithuania dance at the Auditorium on Halsted Street, where she had tangoed with Felius the Poet, the most elegant and cultured man in Chicago. For a plump woman, Silvia was amazingly dainty, jumping and skipping over the muddy puddles as if folk dancing. Magda, who was walking nearby wearing a hooded plastic poncho against the rain, watched Silvia for as long as she could stand it before she joined in, skipping and jumping alongside her.
“Hello Magda, what are you doing out in the rain?” Silvia smiled and waved gaily, but she felt her spirit sink whenever she saw the poor girl wandering the neighborhood, walking aimlessly all day long like a lost child. Magda shrugged, her face blank. Silvia’s good mood vanished as she sighed, and the South Side neighborhood once again resumed the gray and grimy look of a rainy October morning.
Together Silvia and Magda tramped past the Sinclair station, the Amber Tavern, and the other bars, restaurants, and delis that lined Sixty-Ninth Street, greeting the occasional neighbor with a nod. When she reached her beauty shop, Silvia said good-tbye to the ever-wandering Magda and unlocked the front door, turning on the lights and taking off her raincoat and rubber overshoes. Then she went over to the large storefront window and flicked on the pink neon sign that read: Silvia’s House of Beauty. In Lithuania, her name used to be spelled Silvija, but once she came to America, she took the J out so that Americans could pronounce it properly. The sign sputtered a few seconds and lit the window with a pink glow. Suddenly, the whole shop seemed happier, more alive with the promise of a day filled with beauty. The rosy light shone on Silvia’s hands, and when she looked up, she saw her face reflected in the large window—glowing, younger. Bathed in pink, she smiled at her reflection, her bleached hair floating around her head like a cotton-candy halo. Something about this pink neon always mesmerized her, making her unable to pull away from its spell. This was her shop, a refuge of beauty, a place filled with the potent smells of permanent lotions and powder dye—alchemy and transformation. No matter what went on in the outside world, here she had a power all her own.
Captain Eddie, wearing his factory overalls, stopped on the way to work and rapped on the window, breaking the spell. Silvia politely nodded hello. Captain Eddie always clowned and joked behind the glass, trying his hardest to make Silvia laugh, while she always pretended to shoo him away. As he did every morning, he puckered his lips and blew her a kiss, flirting with Silvia, often asking her out, but she never took the bait. He was a bit too vulgar compared to Felius, who was a poet, after all, and could declaim whole tomes of Lithuanian poetry. Felius smelled of Italian hair pomade on his golden goatee, and his shoes were as shiny as his hair.
As Silvia readied the shop for business, she found herself brooding about last night. She had worn her best purple taffeta dance dress and a new pair of see-through mules with purple bows. Her blond hair had been dramatically swept to one side like Lana Turner’s. She had done her best to look dazzling, but Felius had still flirted and danced the tango with Aurelia Norkus. If only that cow Aurelia would come to her beauty shop, she would fix her up good. She’d cut off her long chestnut hair and pull her nails out instead of painting them.
Some days it made Silvia gloomy to think about that perennial bachelor she loved. For four years, she had been trying to get this slippery man to the altar. A few more and she’d be too old to have children. But every time she mentioned marriage to Felius, he got as nervous as a bug under a broom.
A tiny bell tinkled as the front door opened to let in Elena Kazlas.
“Elena, sit down, my dear, get warm.” Silvia danced over to her. “It’s time for glamour.”
Elena waved her hand dismissively. “Who needs glamour at the factory? Just give me my usual permanent. I’m only going to Nabisco later.”
“Well, you never know. With my permanent you might catch yourself a nice Lithuanian husband.”
“Oh, Silvia, there’s no one at the factory. Besides, my father doesn’t like it when I date.”
Silvia knew Elena’s father was a hard man who fought some private demons, using the bottle as his primary defense. Another life shattered by the war, and yet we all carry on, thought Silvia as she dragged the giant hot-curl machine, a cross between Sputnik a
nd an octopus, over to Elena and began to clamp the tentacles to her head.
When she was done, Silvia went over to one of the mirrors to study her image, licking her finger to smooth the arches of her penciled eyebrows above her iridescent blue lids. She checked her thick pancake makeup to make sure not a bit of skin was left uncovered. Rubbing the little globs of accumulated lipstick from the corners of her full mouth, she thanked God she no longer looked like the refugee she had been after the war. Turning on the radio, she heard Harry Belafonte singing “Jamaica Farewell.” Silvia put one hand on her stomach and the other in the air as if she was taking an oath, and she started doing the cha-cha. The front bell rang again, and Dora Matas walked in. Elena sang along with the radio, “Down the way where the nights are gay…”
“Well hello, ladies, it may be damp and cold outside, but it’s tropical in here.”
“Hello, Dora, get comfortable while I heat up the beeswax.”
Dora Matas took off her fox-collared coat and sat down in a turquoise vinyl chair. Silvia came back with a pot of wax and applied it to Dora’s upper lip. She put a strip of gauze over the wax and waited until it cooled. Then she quickly tore the strip from her upper lip.
“Jesus and Mary,” yelped Dora.
Silvia examined the fuzzy hairs stuck in the wax. She touched Dora’s skin, which was red and puffy but successfully hairless.
Seeing Elena’s horrified face in the mirror, Silvia said, “If you want to be beautiful, you have to suffer.” She put some cream on Dora. “A man gets older when he feels it, but a woman is older when she looks it, true?”
“Yes,” said Dora. “And I resent it bitterly.”
“What’s new at the Lithuanian radio program?” asked Elena.
“Nothing! What a dreary little hour. There’s never any real news, just picnics and dances and deaths.”
“Dora,” said Silvia. “I love your program; Felius and I listen to it all the time.”
“I tell you I don’t know how much longer I can bear to read all that dreary Cold War news.”
“But you’re so good at it,” said Elena.
“Elena, you may be too young to know this, but there hasn’t been any good news since the war ended. And I’m not even sure that was good news.”
“The Korean War?” asked Elena.
“No, the real war. World War II.”
“But that was so long ago,” said Elena.
“Eleven years is not so long ago unless you’re twelve years old,” said Dora.
“It’s been eleven years since the war,” said Silvia as she mixed the powders for Dora’s brown hair dye. “Eleven years,” she repeated as she mechanically painted the dye on Dora’s head with a brush, her thoughts returning to the war that had separated her from her parents. She had thought it was only going to be a brief separation: perhaps a month or a year at most, not eleven years. She had been twenty-one when she had said good-bye to them. Soon she would be thirty-three.
“Silvia! You’re painting my forehead with that dye. Be careful. That stuff stains.” Dora mopped her forehead with some tissues.
“I’m terribly sorry, Dora. I was just thinking about my mother. I always worry about her as the winter approaches.”
“How is she?” asked Dora.
“How can she be? She’s alive, thank God. Not like my poor father, may he rest in peace.”
Dora smiled wistfully. “You know what I remember best about my mother before the war? She had twelve pairs of Bally shoes in all colors. Imagine an even dozen! All Bally. And I can’t even afford one pair.”
“Shoes are my weakness too,” said Silvia. “Not Bally, of course, they’re too costly, but I can never get enough shoes—the fancier the better.”
“What do they look like?” asked Elena from across the room.
Silvia’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Black velvet high heels with rhinestone bows all over. Bought those shoes for my first date with Felius. I have silk slippers with ostrich feathers, and red satin sling backs with stars on the heels.” Though Silvia wore a size sixteen dress, she was vain about her dainty feet.
“When did you first go out with Felius?” asked Elena.
“Four years ago, when I moved here from Detroit. I used to work at the General Motors plant. Made good money there, but once I came to Chicago and saw how many Lithuanians were here, I decided this was the place for me. And, of course, I met Felius.”
“So when are you two getting married?” asked Dora.
“When Lithuania is free.”
“What?” Dora was taken aback.
“Felius always says he’ll marry me when Lithuania regains its independence.”
Dora was outraged. “Is he crazy or just stupid? Look what happened last year in Hungary. Look how their revolution got crushed, for Chrissake. No, if Felius waits for that, you’ll both be gray before the wedding bells ring.”
Silvia frowned. “Come, let me shampoo you.”
“Listen, Silvia, I hate to be the one who tells you this, but that man goes from woman to woman like a bee in a field of flowers,” said Dora.
Silvia didn’t want to hear it. “Women always clamor to dance with Felius because of his fancy footwork, that’s all. He can work his way around the dance floor faster than anyone else.” Silvia’s face softened, remembering Felius’ flourishes. What a couple they made. “My dresses just fly behind me, my white crinolines showing.” Silvia sighed. “Dancing is my passion, you know.”
Dora shook her head in disbelief. “Well, Silvia, I have some news for you, and it’s not from the Lithuanian radio station. I think Felius is a confirmed bachelor, about as confirmed as they get. I think you better wake up before it’s too late.”
“That’s not true,” said Silvia, pouting.
“I’m saying even if Lithuania became free tomorrow, I don’t think that man would marry you or anyone else.” Dora slapped her thigh for emphasis.
Sylvia was taken aback by Dora’s pronouncement. “He would, I know he would.” Her voice quivered slightly, betraying her words. Silvia used to think Felius was so loyal to his principles whenever he stated his patriotic preconditions for marriage, but lately she didn’t know what to think. Her eyes filled with tears and the mascara burned.
“Silvia, I’ve got the most wicked idea,” squealed Dora, excited like a schoolgirl. “In fact, it’s brilliant. If he says he’ll marry you when Lithuania is free, then we will give him Lithuania’s freedom.” Dora had a mischievous grin.
“What? I don’t understand.” Silvia sniffed back the tears that were threatening.
“Silvia, don’t I read the news on the Lithuanian hour?” asked Dora.
“Yes, I listen to you every night.”
“Well, Silvia, make sure you listen on Saturday before you go to the Daughters of Lithuania dance. And make sure Felius is over that night. We’ll see what he says after he hears this news. The man’s a liar, and it’s about time you realized it. I’ll bet my job on it.”
“Won’t you get fired?” asked Elena.
“Only if I’m lucky.” Dora laughed shrilly. “Don’t worry, I’ll retract it all the next day. I’ll call it misinformation. But for one night we’ll all pretend it’s true. We could all use one good night of celebration, couldn’t we? And in the morning, we’ll all sober up again.” She laughed and pointed to Silvia. “Especially you.”
“If only it were true. I’d immediately go home to my poor mother in Palanga.” Silvia sighed deeply.
For Saturday’s dance, Silvia bought an iridescent, silver organdy dress and had some satin high heels dyed to match. She painted her eyelids blue, colored her lips red, and dotted pink rouge on her cheeks—finally achieving a face as colorful as an elaborate Easter egg. And to finish the effect, she dusted her blond hair with silver powder. Felius’ favorite dinner—roast duck filled with prunes and apples—w
aited in the kitchen.
Outside, it was cold and slushy. The wind was picking up and by night the slush would solidify into ice footprints and tire marks. Silvia sat with Felius in the radiator heat of her apartment listening to the Lithuanian Hour on the radio. Polka music and folk tunes followed announcements of deaths and weddings while Silvia was practically holding her breath until she heard Dora’s voice announcing the news. First she read the local news and then she announced that the Russians had captured the last Lithuanian partisan in the forests near the Baltic Sea. He had been in hiding since the end of World War II. The Communists blamed him for many acts of aggression against the government.
Felius stopped gnawing on a crispy duck wing. “Every year they capture the last partisan in Lithuania. How many of them can be left in the woods? How can they survive with the NKVD dogs on their trails?”
“Shh,” said Silvia, “Dora is saying something about Khrushchev.”
“In Moscow this morning, Khrushchev announced that he was removing the Soviet Army from the Baltics and finally restoring Lithuanian independence. Yes,” said Dora on the radio, “you heard it right, Lithuania is once again a free country.”
Silvia jumped out of her chair and flung herself on Felius’ neck. “Did you hear the news? Lithuania is free! That means we can finally get married, just like you said. When shall we set the date?”
Felius was completely stunned by the news. “My God, I can hardly believe it, after all this time, it’s free. And so suddenly, so unexpectedly. This calls for a huge celebration. Let’s buy some champagne and meet everyone at the dance.” He kissed Silvia and put on his jacket.
“Champagne, yes, we can toast our wedding,” said Silvia as she put on her coat. “Now there’s nothing in the way of our getting married.”
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