Felius was too astonished by the radio news to take in her words. “Can you believe it, Silvia? Free again! I can’t wait to see our friends. This will be some celebration tonight.” He turned around and went to the telephone. “But wait, first I’m going to call my boss at the printing press and tell him what I think of him.”
Silvia was alarmed. “Wait, don’t do that. You’ll get fired.”
“Ahh, I’ve hated that crappy job for years. If he doesn’t fire me, I’m going to quit anyway and go back to Kaunas.”
Silvia fretted and finally blessed herself while Felius called his boss and told him, in his thick accent, exactly what he thought of him.
The Knights of Columbus hall was filled with cheering people. Everyone was wild-eyed with disbelief at the good news. Champagne corks were popping every few minutes as every table stood to toast Lithuania’s newfound independence. Mr. George got misty eyed and sheepishly came clean to his dance partner that he had a wife left behind in Lithuania. Mr. Janulis had already made arrangements to sell his house. He said he’d called his brother in Boston, who had been waiting for years in anticipation of such a day. When his brother came to America he had refused to leave Boston to come to Chicago where there were better jobs, wanting to be closer to Lithuania so he could be on the first boat back to his homeland. After tonight’s news, his brother was taking all his money out of the bank first thing on Monday to buy his boat ticket. No planes for him, thank you. He came by boat from Bremerhaven and by boat he’d return, taking the first train to the Lithuanian border. He didn’t care if he had to walk the rest of the way to his village by the Baltic Sea. “Now there’s a true patriot,” said Felius as he climbed on a table to declaim some patriotic poems. Everyone sang the national anthem and got rip-roaring drunk, especially Felius. Finally, Silvia was able to capture him for one tango as he draped himself on her, swaying around the dance floor, his sweaty cheek plastered to hers. A mirrored ball was spreading tiny lights all around the room. Silvia kept cooing about weddings and children, while Felius cooed about getting a plane ticket to Kaunas.
When the music stopped, Silvia noticed that the silver powder from her hair had left a metallic sheen on Felius’ face and shoulder. He tried to brush the silver powder from his shoulder but only succeeded in spreading it onto his sleeve. Silvia sighed. So far things weren’t going as planned.
“Look what you’ve done to my good suit. Do you know how much this suit cost? What is this stuff in your hair? You look like one of those aluminum Christmas trees tonight. Get that crap out of your hair.” He excused himself to the bathroom as Silvia sat down, watching him cross the dance floor and detour over to Aurelia Norkus’ table. She watched as he complained about his soiled suit. She watched as Felius started to dance with Aurelia, and her heart sank as she watched him kiss her neck and take her into the coatroom.
Silvia sat alone at her table with the silver powder around her shoulders like magic dandruff. Her mascara trickled down her cheeks, her tears blending the silver with the blue of her eye shadow and the pink of her cheeks. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and her face looked like a smeared painting. For a long time, she sat there watching everyone in the hall rejoice at the news of freedom. She watched them dance and drink and kiss and laugh, feeling as if she could no longer be seen, as if she had simply disappeared.
When a cork popped behind her, Silvia jumped. The war came back in a flash as she remembered the morning she had left her home by the Baltic Sea. They packed food, buried their silver behind the back steps, and left their dog still tied in the yard, thinking they would return as soon as the Russians and the Germans left. At the bridge, a soldier was stopping everyone. Silvia’s father was held and interrogated. Her mother was frozen with fear and told Sylvia to get in their neighbor’s cart and that they would meet her on the other side of the bridge. Silvia did as she was told and never saw them again. She came to America like an orphan. By the end of the war both her father and her fiancé, Donatas, were dead. But she didn’t find this out until much later when letters were finally allowed.
“Can you believe this?” Dora sighed as she plopped down next to Silvia. “Everyone bought my story, and they’re all delirious. Oh, my Lord, I feel terrible. What was I thinking of to pull this hoax? I won’t be able to face anyone for months. And my husband’s going to kill me.” Dora buried her face in her hands.
“You did it for me, Dora. Thank you. You’re a good friend.” The two women sat dejectedly in a sea of celebration.
Dora looked up at Silvia and moaned. “And I saw that cad Felius in the coatroom with Aurelia. You know, they deserve each other.”
“Maybe they do,” said Silvia mechanically.
“You look a mess. Your face looks like it melted. Here, take this.” Dora gave Silvia an embroidered handkerchief that smelled of Evening in Paris, and Silvia wiped the smeared paint off her face.
Dora put her arm around Silvia. “Listen, don’t feel bad. I always say it’s better to know he’s a rat before you’re married than after you’re stuck with him. Look around, there are better men to be had.”
“I think I’ll go home,” said Silvia.
“Me too. I feel too guilty to face anyone.”
“Do me a favor,” said Silvia. “Get my coat out of the coatroom. I don’t want to go in there.”
“Of course, my dear. You wait right here.”
Silvia sat watching Valentinas Gediminas dancing a dramatic tango with Lucy Gudauskas in her green satin sheath. Curly-haired Elena Kazlas in a blue chiffon dress waved as she danced by with her father. It seemed as if hours had passed. It seemed as if Silvia had grown old in this dance hall. Dora brought her coat and left.
“May I have this dance, Silvia?” said a voice behind her.
Silvia turned to find Captain Eddie. “I heard the news today about Lithuania, and I wanted to celebrate. I came to dance with you.”
“Me? You came to dance with me?” squeaked Silvia in a small voice.
“Is there someone else here? Maybe you’re hiding them under your skirt?” He tried to pick up her skirt playfully. Silvia pushed his hand away. “Are you sitting on someone?” Captain Eddie smiled. “Of course it’s you I want to dance with.”
Silvia laughed a choking laugh, startled by the happy sound coming from her.
“Ha, I finally made you laugh.”
“It feels good, especially tonight.”
Captain Eddie took her in his arms and started dancing slowly, rocking back and forth like a father cradling his child. Spotlights of red and blue were swirling around the dance floor. A soft blue light landed on them, making Silvia’s hair shine like the moon.
“Silvia, you’ve never looked more beautiful than you do tonight. There’s a tenderness in your face.” Captain Eddie smoothed her hair and laughed at the silver sheen that remained on his hand. “Your hair is like snow in the moonlight. You women know such magic. Look, you’ve turned my hand to silver.”
Silvia looked at Captain Eddie, almost handsome in his brown double-breasted suit, smelling of spice. He was so solid and substantial, not like her slippery Felius. The blue spotlight stayed on them a bit longer, working its magic. Silvia sighed, her blurred face perched on Captain Eddie’s shoulder, smiling a crooked smile while little spotlights danced by like harbor lights on a June night near the Baltic Sea.
Sunday Dinner
Milda Gudauskas, 1958
That Sunday, like all others, the Gudauskas family walked to Nativity Church on Sixty-Ninth Street. Milda and her brother Paul looked like miniature versions of their parents—Paul wearing the same gray hat and coat as his father, Milda wearing the same white gloves as her mother, and the same patent leather purse hanging from the stiff crook in her arm.
As they passed their neighbors, Mr. Gudauskas greeted them with a dignified nod. Though he had been a lawyer in Lithuania, in Chicago he could only find
work at the Nabisco factory, a fact he tried to hide from the neighbors by wearing a suit over his factory overalls and carrying his lunch in a briefcase, saying it was important to maintain one’s dignity, no matter what circumstances life provided. Milda couldn’t figure out why he was so embarrassed, considering everybody else’s parents worked at the stockyards, which to her mind was a lot worse than Nabisco. Maybe it was to make up for his wild sister, Lucija, whom everyone called Lucy, who had a bit of a reputation in the neighborhood. Or maybe it was because his wife was the general’s daughter, a proud fact he dropped into as many conversations as he could.
When they had first come to America, Marcele Gudauskas cleaned office buildings downtown, and later worked as a housekeeper for the Bartulis family after Vida’s mom died. But recently she had quit because of her migraines. These days she chaired the Daughters of Lithuania meetings, taught at the Lithuanian Saturday School, and made sure her children practiced their piano and took dictation in Lithuanian daily so that they could read and write in their native tongue. In her spare time, she collected china teacups and embroidered the family crest on everything.
In church the family followed Mr. Gudauskas down the center aisle to the front pew, his head held high, not even a nod to friends. Just as Milda was about to slide into the pew behind him, she thought she saw something furry slithering on the floor and, trying to avoid it, she tripped over their neighbor, Magda, who always seemed to be in the wrong place. Milda caught herself before falling, but not before making enough noise for everyone to turn in her direction. When she saw Magda’s brother, Al, trying to smother his laughter, she was so embarrassed, she erupted in a nervous giggle. Her brother Paul tried desperately to suppress his bubbling laughter, but Magda didn’t even try to restrain her amusement, laughing loudly as she pointed to Milda.
Her father’s face tightened. “Milda, what the devil!” he whispered in her ear through clenched teeth. “People are staring at us,” he hissed, squeezing her arm so tightly she let out a yelp. “Shush, control yourself.” Her father gave her one of his narrow-eyed looks that riveted her in place. Milda got quiet, but she could see Paul’s shoulders still bobbing up and down with laughter. Paul never learned; he still sometimes got the strap from their father, but Milda never forgot those red welts on her legs. She had learned to be a good girl. Sometimes other kids thought she was too good, but the grownups always pointed to her as an example of excellent behavior.
After Mass, the family milled around outside the church, greeting friends and neighbors. Mr. Gudauskas argued with Mr. Matas and Mr. Vitkus about what should be done to help free the Captive Nations, as the Baltic countries of Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia were now being called. Milda just stood around smiling politely, watching Irene Matas chatting with Vida and Ona. With a familiar sinking feeling, she realized that they never even noticed her. How she wanted to simply walk over and join Irene’s circle of friends, but she didn’t have the courage, nor would she know what to say to them.
Soon everyone started to go home for Sunday dinner, which was early, in the European tradition, around two in the afternoon. Milda’s grandmother, Marijona, who no longer went to Mass because of her arthritis, had made a pot roast with potatoes and carrots. While Milda set the table with the good china and the damask tablecloth, her mother brought in the cold borscht and dilled cucumber salad, all the while clucking her new Russian phrases to her children. Since coming home with her new Russian phrase book, their mother kept encouraging Paul and Milda to repeat them because the Cold War was getting worse. They might expect the Russians on their doorstep at any moment and must be prepared.
“Great,” Paul whispered to Milda. “When they arrive, I’ll be able to look them in the eye and say, Eto karandash—this is a pencil.”
Milda smiled and was about to put another plate down on the table when she turned to ask her brother, “Is Aunt Lucy joining us today?”
He scratched his flat crew cut and gave her a look. “Are you kidding?” Most Sundays Aunt Lucy went to church with them, but stood in the back with the soccer players and left early to meet up with her friends at the Diamond Head Restaurant and Bar. She often brought Milda the colorful paper umbrellas from her tropical drinks. By now Milda had a whole collection of them.
At last they sat down to Sunday dinner, another formal occasion when no one said much. Milda was about to put a potato in her mouth when suddenly something furry brushed against her leg. She dropped her fork and let out a tiny squeak. It felt like a dog or cat had brushed against her, but they didn’t have a pet. Her father pivoted his irritated gaze her way. Ignoring him, Milda lifted the damask tablecloth to peek under the table and was shocked to see a hairy face peering back at her with an embarrassed smile. He put his finger to his lips to signal her to be quiet. The poor thing was covered with hair and had a long tail and hooves instead of feet. It looked like a cornered goat—eyes darting in all directions. Milda couldn’t take her eyes off him, even though her mother told her to get back up and eat like a lady.
“Milda, stop that this instant,” her father threatened.
She poked her head back up and told her parents there was some kind of animal under the table.
Her mother sliced her a look. “Really, Milda, stop being annoying,” she said, her lips compressed with disapproval.
Only her grandmother looked at Milda, totally perplexed. “What is it, dear?”
Paul bobbed his head under the table. “She’s lying,” he said flat as a pancake. “There’s nothing there.”
“No, I’m not,” she argued, poking her head back under the table to make sure she hadn’t imagined it. The goat-man was still there, curled up, looking uncomfortable, motioning for her to go away.
“Sit up and stop that nonsense, Milda,” her father raised his voice and eyed her suspiciously, as if she were playing nasty tricks. “This is all very annoying.” He ran a hand through his slick, dark hair. “You know it’s not good for my heart to get angry.”
“I’m sorry.” Milda decided to say no more.
Across the table, her mother carefully placed another bite of roast beef into her red-lipsticked mouth, trying to ignore the breakdown of their Sunday ritual, while Milda bit into a dilled cucumber and watched as their eyes glazed over. Only her grandmother studied her carefully as she sipped her Sunday glass of sweet wine, a mysterious half-smile on her face.
After dinner, her father went to his weekly meeting of the Lithuanian government-in-exile, a group of educated men who were the hope of Lithuania to carry on its government until the Soviets left. As soon as he left, Paul and Milda turned on the Ed Sullivan Show. During a commercial, Milda crept back to the dining room to peek under the table and see if the goat-man was still there. To her relief, he was gone.
That night she tossed and turned, dreaming that she was in a school play and when she tried to take her mask off, it stuck to her face, smothering her. In the dream, she tried to scream and woke making muffled animal sounds.
At school the next morning, Sister Bonaventura prattled on about the many miracles of Mary. When she asked for an example, Milda raised her hand but then behind her she heard Al Vitkus say under his breath, “It would be a miracle if we could get outta here.” The rows on each side started tittering.
“Algis Vitkus, was that you again?” asked Sister Bonaventura.
“No, Sister, I didn’t say anything.”
“Liar, come up here this instant.”
Every day it was the same thing. All through fifth grade Al Vitkus got clobbered by the nuns. Why hadn’t he learned to stop being so devilish? Milda nervously chewed the eraser on her pencil as she watched Al walk down the aisle to his doom. For a moment, he looked up at her, and when she saw the fear in his eyes, it made her stomach churn. Milda winced, closing her eyes as Sister Bonaventura awkwardly waddled her bulk over to Al. When Milda opened them again, she saw the goat-man sitting up on the file cabine
t behind the nun. It so jolted her that she almost fell out of her seat. He waved to her, smiling impishly, and jumped down. She looked around the room, but no one else seemed to notice him.
Next to the goat-man, Sister Bonaventura slapped Al, first with her forehand and then with her backhand. “This is your daily bread, Algis Vitkus,” chanted the nun as Al’s face twisted, but he didn’t cry.
Suddenly the goat-man picked up sister’s habit and peeked under her skirt. Milda could see the nun’s black stockings like giant sausage casings around her thick legs.
Milda stood up. “Stop it, don’t do that,” she hissed to the goat-man.
“Who said that?” Sister Bonaventura bellowed like a wounded elephant. The whole class turned to look at Milda, who looked around, feeling trapped. Al Vitkus was staring at her with his mouth open.
“Milda? That wasn’t you, was it?” Sister Bonaventura couldn’t believe it.
“No, Sister, I mean, I wasn’t talking to you,” she said in a nervous, squeaky voice.
“Well, to whom were you speaking, Missy?” Sister’s fat lip curled like a caterpillar.
Behind her, the goat-man laughed so hard he was holding his sides.
“Him,” Milda said pointing to the goat-man. Sister Bonaventura turned around in one direction and then in the other. The class started tittering again. Milda was beginning to realize that no one else saw him.
“Milda, is this some joke?”
“No, Sister.” Her heart pounded in her throat, as she wondered if the nun was going to slap her next.
“I don’t like jokers, Milda, you know that.” The nun listed down the aisle to Milda’s desk.
“Sorry, Sister…” She bit her lip to keep from crying.
“I’ll let you go this time.” She leaned over, and Milda could smell the sourness of her anger. “But no more outbursts or you’ll be next, do I make myself clear?” She wagged her arthritic finger in Milda’s face.
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