Lost Birds

by Putrius, Birute

  “What about Mr. George?” she demanded. “Where is that horrible friend of yours?”

  “He moved to Cleveland. Why?”

  Ema told her husband about the molestation. Her husband listened as long as he could until he broke down sobbing. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to find this Mr. George and make his life a living hell. Shrink his thing like a shriveled string bean.”

  Mr. Bartulis gulped and felt his privates pucker. He could only stare at his wife in awe. “You are quite a woman, Ema. I’ve always thought so.”

  “Well then, dance the tango with me and maybe I’ll consider forgiving you, old man.”

  He took a deep breath and held out his hand. Ema began to hum “Blue Tango,” and she twirled and dipped before she took his hand. Her voice rose and she sang the words with feeling as they danced around the kitchen to the old remembered steps and flourishes.

  Odell sat out in the backyard listening to Ema’s song, hoping they’d hurry and get this over with. She knew white folks were strange, but these Lithuanians were stranger than most. She had a headache, her knees hurt, and a storm was headed their way. Agota came out to join her, and the two women kept a quiet vigil in the backyard with the distant lightning flashing over the rooftops and the wind blowing the trees in a wild dance of their own.

  That night Ema Bartulis left Odell’s house, and once Vida made the Napoleon cake and brought it to her grave for a picnic, her mother went to Cleveland to look for Mr. George. Odell was so thrilled to have the first quiet night in her home that she went across the street to kiss a startled Agota on both cheeks. “You’re a miracle worker, you are!”

  The next evening Agota brought over her famous kugelis to Odell’s to celebrate, telling her it must be eaten with plenty of sour cream. “Honey,” Odell made a face and grunted. “I don’t know what in God’s name, that dish is, but I’ll tell you something right here and now. I can’t stand no sour cream. I don’t know how folks can eat that nasty stuff.”

  Odell put it on the redwood table and asked Agota to serve the potato casserole. Darrell came over to taste it and smiled sheepishly as he reached for the ketchup. Agota watched him, horrified, but said nothing. Odell followed his example.

  As was proper, Agota spooned sour cream on her kugelis. “I got a statue of Saint Joseph for Jonas and he buried it in the front yard like you told me, but so far, no offer.”

  “Well, you wait and see.” Odell seemed so sure of this remedy. She poured some beer, and the women toasted Ema Bartulis, proclaiming, “May she rest in peace.” Odell wasn’t so sure that Ema’s ghost had gone for good, so she waited each night but no one appeared, and she never heard “Blue Tango” again as long as she lived.

  The next day Jonas and Vida received an offer on their house and accepted it.

  Agota marveled at the mystery of life and death and wondered if she would roam the earth after her death. Some evenings she would look around the room carefully, fully expecting to see her dead husband or her long-gone parents. Now that she knew that the very air she breathed was filled with spirits, she felt less lonely. Sometimes she even found herself in snatches of conversation with them.

  Now and again Agota and Odell paid each other a visit. Sometimes, when the women sat companionably talking in Agota’s front room and a loud boom box passed by on the street, they would both part the nylon curtains and cluck their tongues in disapproval. And sometimes, on balmy summer evenings, they just sat in Odell’s backyard not saying much, just watching the lightning bugs blinking around them like tiny spirits.

  Homecoming

  Al Vitkus, 1991

  Al Vitkus had reluctantly agreed to fly to Lithuania with his mother and Magda. Though he’d spent his life hearing stories about the old country, he had never really expected to see it. But now, after almost fifty years of Russian occupation and separation from the rest of the world, Lithuania was finally free again. The Berlin Wall had fallen, and the Iron Curtain had lifted at last.

  The Finn Air jet was filled with a tour group of Lithuanian-Americans from Chicago. They were returning to visit their homeland like a disoriented flock following some genetic flyway to return to their natal nests. Al, however, had mutated into some new thing, no longer completely at home anywhere. The only reason he had agreed to this trip was to accompany Magda and his recently widowed mother, who didn’t want to make the trip alone. She was eager to reunite with the sister she hadn’t seen since the war.

  Flying over the Baltic Sea, Al started to feel a mixture of apprehension and curiosity about Lithuania and the relatives he had never met. As the plane began its descent into Vilnius, the group of Chicago Lithuanians began cheering. Elena and Bronius Lankutis both whooped for joy, which woke their young daughter. Agota Janulis hugged her granddaughter, Amy, as she pointed to the spires of the old city. Felius the Poet toasted the occasion with Valentinas Gediminas, lifting glasses to their homecoming. Then Felius began loudly reciting his latest poem, written en route. “My beloved motherland, your sons and daughters are returning to you at last…” When he finished, Silvia and Captain Eddie started to sing the long-forbidden Lithuanian anthem, and soon others joined in, tears flowing as they sang. Al twisted around to look at his fellow passengers, feeling like he was back at the Amber Tavern with all the regulars. Shifting uncomfortably, he whispered, “Motherland” hesitantly and found himself wondering how the White Sox were doing, suddenly longing to be back home with a cold beer, watching a game. Since Vietnam, he no longer liked to travel, and if he did travel, Lithuania would not be his chosen destination. Maybe Florida or Hawaii, or even California if he had to go someplace, but not the old country.

  When the plane finally landed in this forgotten corner of the world, everyone descended the stairs and headed toward customs. Outside, a large group of friends and relatives waited behind a chain-link fence, holding armloads of flowers. A group of old men, wearing their college caps, held a sign for Felius the Poet reading: “Class of 1939 Welcomes Felius.” Valentinas Gediminas knelt down to kiss the tarmac while Silvia broke from her husband Captain Eddie and ran to the fence, sobbing. “Mama, Mama.” Her mother reached out to her daughter through the fence, “Oh, my child, my child,” she said in a trembling voice.

  Agota Janulis spotted her brother, Viktoras, and stopped for a moment, shocked to see how much he had aged in the years since she’d last seen him, before the world erupted into chaos. “Agota,” he yelled through the fence to his sister, “you’re home at last! I’ve waited so long for you.” Al’s mother, Regina Vitkus, watched these scenes, choked with emotion as she looked around for her sister, Violeta. She couldn’t see her anywhere and began to fret to Al that she might not recognize Violeta after so many years.

  After they got through customs, Regina heard her name called and turned in every direction, seeing families tearfully reunited. Magda was standing alone, flapping her hands the way she sometimes did. Al came over to take his sister’s hand in an effort to calm her.

  Suddenly Regina’s arms were filled with red carnations as a plump old woman hugged her. It was Violeta, the sister she had last seen in her twenties. Regina held her tightly, shutting her eyes to keep in her tears, afraid that if she started crying, she wouldn’t stop.

  Violeta finally pulled back to get a good look at her sister. “Regina, how did you get so old?” she teased, shaking her head and shrugging. “My God, can I possibly be that old? I don’t believe it.”

  Regina smiled, though her chin quivered with emotion. “But Violeta, you’re older by three years!”

  “Then life must be hard in Chicago,” said Violeta, laughing as tears rolled down her cheeks like peas.

  “And you lived the life of the manor, I suppose?” Regina played the familiar teasing game from their childhood.

  “Must have,” Violeta laughed, patting her gray hair coquettishly, “since I look
so much younger.”

  Regina kissed her sister on both cheeks, so glad to be with her again, so filled with gratitude that her emotions finally gave way like a flood. Violeta held her, patting her gray hair and kissing her wrinkled cheeks until she calmed a bit. Then Violeta introduced her son, Linas, to Magda and Al. “Come, let’s get your luggage,” said the tall, lanky man in his forties. “You must be tired after such a long flight.”

  “I was tired until I saw you, Violeta. Now I feel reborn,” Regina said, not letting go of her sister’s hand.

  Violeta lived in a tiny three-room apartment in one of the ubiquitous concrete apartment buildings that stood like giant tombstones in every former Soviet city. Her two grown sons and their families managed to squeeze into the crowded living room. A tablecloth was put on the cocktail table, and plates of veal roulade and open-faced ham sandwiches with cucumbers and tomatoes sprinkled with fresh dill were brought to the table. Al wondered how long his aunt had had to stand in food lines for this small feast. As Linas opened a bottle of champagne for the homecoming, filling everyone’s glass, Al marveled that all of these strangers looked so much like family. Coming from a multicultural Chicago, he was amazed to see a city where everyone looked so Lithuanian, as if they could all be his relatives. In Chicago, so few Lithuanians had extended families. He had never given it much thought until he arrived here to find so many relatives who looked like his own small family.

  Regina told them about Chicago, the stockyards, and her job at the Kool-Aid factory. No one had heard of Kool-Aid, so Regina went to her luggage and pulled out envelopes of the strawberry-flavored powder. She ripped one open, and everyone dipped a finger in and tasted the red powder. Violeta wrinkled her nose. “Smells good,” she laughed, “but so sour it makes my uterus contract.”

  Linas raised his glass to toast the American branch of the family.

  Regina frowned. “What do you mean, ‘American’? We’re Lithuanian also.” This annoyed her.

  Al wasn’t so sure. “I was born in a DP camp after the war. What does that make me?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Violeta raising her glass, “we’ll take you DPs back. You won’t have to wander the world anymore.” Violeta had meant it as a joke but everyone looked so stricken that she regretted it. “A toast to the return of our family.”

  “You know,” Al said, “in Chicago I grew up feeling so Lithuanian, even though I had never seen it, but my parents had talked about it so much that I used to yearn for my homeland. But strangely enough, now that I’m actually here in Vilnius I feel so American.” That struck Al as funny until he saw everyone nodding and smiling sadly as if they felt sorry for him, as if life had played a dirty trick on him and now his family was cursed to be Chicagoans. One of the lost tribes. Al suddenly had that trapped feeling, like he’d like to call a friend back home, or maybe order a pizza. These were his blood relatives but they felt so Eastern Bloc, as if they had lived in a time warp, which, when he thought about it, they had—fifty years of isolation from the rest of the world.

  He decided not to say any more. He sat back on the sofa and Magda leaned against his shoulder.

  All his life, kids at school had given him a hard time about his accent, his clothes, and his strange school lunches. His parents wouldn’t let him speak English at home, afraid he’d forget Lithuanian and not be able to fit in once they returned to the homeland. Al had never wanted to return, striving instead to become as American as he could. Now he realized how well he had succeeded. He was American through and through. Lithuania had regained its independence, but it was too late for his generation. Being here made him feel like a displaced person again.

  Everyone drank and ate, and Regina told her sister how terrible the war had been for her family as they fled the oncoming Soviet Army. “We were so afraid of getting caught by the Soviets and killed or deported, or of my Jurgis getting taken by the Germans to the forced-labor camps, but the real tragedy for us was Magda. Allied bombs rained down on us until one hit near where we were hiding, burying Magda.” Everyone turned to look at Magda, who hid behind Al’s shoulder.

  Violeta listened and nodded quietly, saying nothing for a few moments. “The war was terrible for us as well, but the post-war period was even worse, as the Soviets covered Eastern Europe like a shroud. The deportations to the Siberian gulags started up again—young men joined the partisan resistance rather than join the Soviet Army and fought a brave but futile war. The villages were emptied into collective farms. We were constantly watched by Soviet agents. One wrong move could get you deported. Russians moved into the homes left by those who had run away to the West. My husband, Simas, helped the anti-Soviet partisans and was arrested in 1952 and sent to a work camp in Arkhangelsk, Siberia. He suffered from the cold, hunger, and harshness of those conditions, may he rest in peace,” she said, putting her face into her hands, trying to erase the thoughts.

  The next morning, a gray mist rose to cover the city, as Linas drove a borrowed Moskvitch to the outskirts of Vilnius, past Soviet-style apartment buildings. To Al, this was a grim landscape, as ugly and anonymous as any projects in the heart of Chicago. The rivers looked polluted; the stores looked empty. The Soviets had ruined the country. Regina was heartsick at the changes, seeing nothing she could recognize until in the distance she saw the familiar spires of the medieval old town of Vilnius. She rejoiced at finding the cathedral, the thirteenth-century castle of the Grand Duke Gediminas, and Vilnius University. When they strolled through the narrow winding streets of the medieval heart of Vilnius, Al saw the street that used to be called the Street of Jews. He realized that they were walking through what had once been the Vilnius Ghetto, where Jews had been brought during the war. He asked his cousin where the ghetto had been, but Linas didn’t know. He stopped and asked at the shops, but they didn’t know either. There were no memorial plaques, no commemorative sculpture—only small shops full of everyday items. His cousin told him that the history of what had happened to the Jews had been suppressed by the Soviets. Then down the street, he saw a group of teenagers in shorts, with Israeli flags on their backpacks. He went over to talk to the leader, who told him the students were there for a summer camp outside the city. They were spending their summer researching the archives to learn what had happened in the Jewish quarter during the war. Al shook the man’s hand and wished him well. When he told his aunt, she said that there were plans to reopen the Vilnius synagogue and the Yiddish Theater. It pleased Al that their tragic stories would be researched and told.

  Afterward, they drove to the Parliament Building, still barricaded on all sides with broken slabs of concrete to protect it from the Soviet tanks. Al and his parents had watched CNN as Soviet tanks had rolled into Vilnius in January 1991. People had stood outside in the freezing snow around the clock as human shields to protect the TV tower from the Special Forces flown in to take control of the media networks. The tanks had opened fire, killing peaceful demonstrators. Half a world away, in Chicago, Al’s father had watched this on the news and taken it hard, angry tears gathering. Lithuania had declared its independence almost a year earlier in March 1990, the first of fourteen Soviet Republics to attempt this. His father had been waiting for this new declaration of independence ever since 1944. After that, even though independent Lithuania had been erased from the maps of the world, he still waited, but not long enough. Two months after the Soviet tanks rolled back out of Vilnius, his father died a quiet death in his sleep, having never seen his homeland again.

  Near the Parliament, a group of school children had left notes of condolence for those who had died or were injured during those clashes, sticking their letters onto the barbed wire on the barricades in front of the Parliament Building. Three old women in babushkas lit votive candles and sang long-forbidden songs in thin, quivering voices. As Regina put roses at the makeshift memorial, she felt the weight of history that had rolled over their lives, blindly like tanks.

  Later,
as they were walking back to the car, Al thought he spotted someone familiar. She was standing near the barricades with an older man, reading the school children’s letters. Al called his mother over. “Mama, could that be Mr. Matas standing over there?”

  His mother took a few a steps closer. “Yes, I think it is. Let’s say hello.” Regina walked toward Mr. Matas, telling her sister about this neighbor from Chicago, while Al stood rooted to the spot, trying to work up the courage to go. Could that be Irene? Her dishwater-blond hair was sun-streaked and long, but he’d know that face anywhere, even though he hadn’t seen her in years. He stood watching his mother greet Mr. Matas, when suddenly Irene turned to look for him. Surprised by the strength of his emotions, he wanted to run and hold her, yet he stood rooted to the spot. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he still cared for her. He thought he had gotten over her long ago. After all, Irene had moved away, had married someone else. Now here she was, older but still so like his old Irene that he found himself overwhelmed with longing. Taking a deep breath, he told himself what an idiot he was, that this was not a big deal. He smiled as she slowly walked over to him, her smile spreading.

  “Al, I can’t believe it,” she said, hugging him warmly. “I never expected to find you in Lithuania.”

  “Irene, what are the chances of running into each other in Vilnius?” He swallowed hard, trying to tamp down his rising emotions.

  “I came with my dad. He wanted to return to his grandfather’s farm where he used to summer as a child. You know, it’s strange. The minute I saw that farm I felt like such a Chicago city girl, but at the same time I felt so at home there with the cows lowing softly, the goats bleating.” She laughed. “I felt as if I could move in and happily raise my son there.” The wind blew her long hair over her face, and she pushed it away.