The Last Girl

by Stephan Collishaw

  ‘Mama is happy this morning,’ she said.

  I simply smiled and thanked her for the drink. She left grinning, pleased with herself. I heard her taking the baby and then calling to her mother that she was going into the village. I got up, and dressed, and looked out of the windows across the green fields behind the house. Egle poked her head through the doorway and called me to breakfast.

  I wandered around the village that day, hoping its peace would calm my taut nerves. Jolanta had said nothing about the manuscript, but I knew I was going to have to broach the subject. As the hours passed so grew my dread of shattering the calm composure that Jolanta had managed to achieve. That evening, before sunset, I asked her to walk down to the river with me. She lifted the baby and carried it with her. It wrestled in her arms. On the gentle slope of the river she allowed Rasa to wander around, keeping a close eye on her. The fear that had afflicted me couple of days previously, when I had made my slow way to the restaurant, returned, constricting my chest so that my breath came in short, shallow gasps. Jolanta looked at me, concerned.

  ‘We walked too quickly,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m fine.’

  I explained to her then what had happened to the manuscript. She listened carefully. I told her of how I had gone to meet her at the restaurant, so fearful, and then come away even more fearful when she had not arrived. I told her of Jonas and his deal over the manuscript.

  ‘I will get it back, I assure you,’ I said, my face flushing with shame that I had not just given Jonas the one hundred dollars. ‘As soon as I get back to Vilnius I will get it from him.’

  At first she did not respond. She watched her daughter playing with some sticks. Finally she turned to me. ‘Well,’ she said, and then she seemed at a loss what to say next.

  Again I started to apologise and to reassure her that I would get it back, but she laid her hand on my arm.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I am sure you will. It’s my fault. I should never have imposed on you like that in the first place.’ She pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead. ‘I don’t know, all this with Kestutis, it’s been crazy. It’s so good to come out here and forget about it.’

  Rasa crawled up to her and she took the baby into her arms and clasped her tight against her breast. Her eyes screwed up and a tear slipped down across her cheek. Despite her words I could see how concerned she was. Earlier in the evening I had heard her speaking on the telephone, her voice soft, pleading, as her husband’s tirade drifted tinnily from the telephone receiver, audible across the room.

  ‘It was the only copy of the manuscript?’ I asked, hopelessly.

  She nodded glumly.

  ‘I will get it,’ I said, her misery piercing my heart. I reached over and stroked her hair. She leaned back against me and I hugged her. ‘The thing is, from what I read I was very impressed,’ I said. ‘I was moved by it.’

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely. There was a passage about him gripping a letter, fearing he was lost. It was good writing.’

  She smiled and wiped the tear from her cheek. The sun had set and shadows were creeping up from the river. The air had grown chill.

  ‘We should get back,’ she said.

  Chapter 18

  The next day I was in no rush to leave. I appreciated the quietness of the country and apart from wanting to get my hands on the manuscript found no other reason to want to hurry my return to Vilnius. I took a long walk in the forest then wandered to the village to buy a newspaper. The old woman who ran the shop, a wizened crone with barely a tooth in her head, quizzed me.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Daumantas,’ I told her.

  ‘You’re not from here.’

  ‘No,’ I told her, ‘I live in Vilnius.’

  ‘So for what are you here then?’

  ‘Visiting.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jolanta Rimkiene,’ I told her.

  ‘You mean Egle? Nu, a good girl.’ And she looked at me critically. ‘Her husband was a good man,’ she told me. ‘Oi, but life goes on.’ She looked me up and down again, assessing whether I was good enough.

  Walking down to the river I felt Rachael’s presence. Her ghost followed me. It was as though she were happier, here, out of the city, away from the horror of those narrow streets. Here was where she should have been. Here she would have been happy and safe. She had entreated me, but I had turned my back. Fearful, I had not taken her. But now, at last, she was with me. She hovered beside me, raven-haired beauty, with the small child in her arms. As I walked through the forest, the slim branches bent softly against the weight of her delicate body.

  Rachael.

  I sat beside her on the stump of a log.

  I’m sorry, Rachael.

  Sorry does nothing, she told me. Sorry means nothing. Sorry heals nothing.

  Still I’m sorry, I told her. Ihave no other words. The words of Marcinkevicius came back to me.

  I love

  with aching and shadows – oh, yes,

  I have not yet mentioned this,

  I love you with darkness and death,

  forgetfulness and light –

  with low grass on a sunken grave –

  I love

  Later I sat on the low wooden bench outside the cottage, thinking of her. The cherry-red, late evening sun shone on my face. Tears welled from my eyes and settled on the skin of my cheeks. Egle sat beside me and took my hand between hers. She wiped the tears from my cheeks, but said nothing.

  Later she said, ‘You came here to cheer Jolanta up and now you are the sad one.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all that I could say.

  ‘You don’t need to say you’re sorry,’ she said. ‘What is sorry for? Perhaps,’ she said, ‘you could tell me about it.’

  I shook my head. ‘For so many years I could not even tell myself about it,’ I told her. ‘For fifty years I have kept it locked up deep inside me, covered. I have buried it and I thought that it was lost, but now it’s here again. First I must tell myself. I am only beginning, just now.’

  She nodded. She stroked my cheek with her finger, softly and with care.

  The next morning, Jolanta came to my room with a smile. ‘Come,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, but she would not tell. Egle stood in the doorway. They smiled like conspirators. Taking my hands they led me out into the garden. We walked across the grass to the old wooden outbuildings, the sauna and the disused work shed. Egle took a key from her pocket and opened the door. The room had been cleaned. A desk stood by the wall draped with a neat white cloth. On the table stood a sheaf of paper and a collection of pens. Light streamed from a high window.

  ‘Jolanta told me you are a writer,’ Egle said. ‘I thought, perhaps, you should have somewhere to work while you are here.’

  Looking at the table, I felt my stomach turn to ice. Not that I feared trying to write, on the contrary, I realised that the time had come. I knew the words would flow. I had to start peeling back the thick layers of my life; layers carefully piled one on top of another. Deliberately obscuring. For fifty years I had struggled to bury it, but it would remain buried no longer. The spirits were calling and at last I would confront them.

  Still I procrastinated. After fifty years a few days, perhaps, would make little difference. I sat in the chair and looked at the blank sheets of paper. I weighed the pens carefully. I wan­dered the small wooden space examining the pine-clad walls, smelling its sweet fragrance. I listened to the quality of its silence. I did not think of her but I knew my mind was drifting across the years, slowly making its way back. Egle left me in peace, knowing, intuitively, that what I was to write had to be written and that it would need space and time and silence.

  Two mornings later I awoke, having slept well, without dreams. She no longer burst out at me, I felt her presence always. I got up and washed carefully from a bucket of cold, fresh water, on the grass, by the well. Before going to the room I w
ent for a short walk in the woods. The leaves rustled in a gentle breeze and, hearing a tap-tapping, I traced a woodpecker to the top of a gnarled old tree, digging for food in the dead wood.

  Returning to the cottage I made my way straight to the writing room. Pulling the chair up to the table I took a clean sheet of paper. Carefully I selected a pen from the small pile. After pausing for only a moment, I wrote a sentence. ‘In the summer of I938,’ I wrote, ‘I was living in a small village west of Vilnius, or Wilno as it was called then.’

  For the rest of the morning, I continued writing. When, at lunchtime, I paused, my hand was tired and my eyes ached from looking so closely and intently at the page. Egle had left a tray of food covered with a clean white cloth. I sat on the grass and ate the cheese and sausage and drank the beer. After, I returned quickly to the room to continue with my writing. Digging. Digging away at the layers of soil. Clearing the ground.

  II

  Svetlana

  Lithuania

  Mid 1990s

  Chapter 19

  Having spent the better part of the afternoon drinking hard, Svetlana went to the café late. As soon as she entered she noticed Daumantas. She was about to approach when she heard Jonas’ voice. She shrank back into a quiet corner. There, steadily, slowly, she drank, pacing oblivion, watching the old man.

  Daumantas was gaunt from too many cigarettes. His hair was silver, his blue eyes piercing. He was charming. Or could be when he wished. He sat draining a bottle of vodka. Glass after glass. Pausing only to draw hungrily on a cigarette. In front of him was a pile of papers, his head bent close to the page as he read. A man stumbled against him and he looked up, startled, dragged suddenly from another world. There was a haunted look in his eyes. Gathering the papers together he pushed them into a bag. He gazed out of the window into the night’s darkness.

  Svetlana brushed her hand across her face, poured another drink, her hand unsteady, the bottle chinking against the glass. She imagined walking over to him. A hand on his back. Hello. Drinking? We could drink together. Drown the darkness.

  He fumbled over his cigarettes, clumsily attempting to extract one from the packet, all thumbs. It dropped to the floor. Cursing, he bent for it, but overbalanced, knocking the plastic bag onto the floor. She almost rose to steady him.

  The waiter helped him back into his seat. Daumantas shook him off angrily.

  ‘Maybe you’ve had enough,’ the waiter said.

  Daumantas shook his head. He extracted a cigarette and tried to straighten it. It snapped between his fingers, the cheap tobacco scattering across the gummy tabletop.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Leave me be,’ Daumantas growled.

  ‘You’ve had enough.’

  Daumantas slammed his fist on to the table. The vodka bottle jumped and swayed, nearly toppling.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,’ Daumantas said. His voice shook and his tongue stumbled on the words. The waiter remained patient. He glanced over to the counter.

  ‘Get him out, Gintas,’ the girl called.

  Gintas nodded, smiling still. Taking Daumantas firmly under the arm he pulled him to his feet. He was taller than Daumantas. Daumantas struggled to free himself but the waiter propelled him to the door.

  Daumantas protested.

  He attempted to swing round to face the waiter but could not. They disappeared into the darkness. Svetlana pulled on her coat. She was drunk too, but controlled. She glanced over to where Daumantas had been sitting. The plastic bag lay on the floor confettied with tobacco. She hesitated. Jonas’ beetroot face glowed crudely as he leant over the table, close­ to his companion.

  Slipping through the tables she picked up the bag. Turning, she felt a hand catch her.

  ‘Svyeta!’ Jonas said.

  She pulled her arm free and glared at him. He grunted. She hurried to the door. The dark-haired waiter, Gintas, entering, held it open for her, smiling politely. She slipped out into the street. It was not well lit and she stumbled on the cobbles. Gripping Daumantas’ bag, she hurried towards the area of the ghetto where he lived. There was no sign of him.

  He had been too drunk to move so fast. She stopped a moment to consider where he might have gone. In the darkness she heard the sound of retching. Her eyes searched the entrance to a courtyard. Nothing was visible but, distinctly, she heard feet shuffling. She edged into the darkness, placing each foot carefully, straining her eyes.

  A man was supine on the cold cobbles. Instinctively she cried out. Bending to examine him, she pulled him up, cradled his body upon her lap. Turning him over, she pulled his face into a sliver of light falling weakly from a window. A raw, bloated face stared up at her. Repulsed, she pushed him away. The body rolled on the cobbles. She stood quickly, steadying herself against the crumbling plaster wall.

  Footstep clattered on the cobbles behind her.

  ‘Daumantas? Steponas?’

  A twisted grin flittered across the weak beam of light and disappeared. Before she could move fingers had grabbed her, thrusting her back against the wall. She grunted, the breath forced out of her. Jonas pushed his face into hers. Saliva speckled his lips.

  ‘How about it, Svyeta?’ he stammered, breathless.

  She tried to push him back, but he was all thrusting hands and legs. He groped at her clothes, his red and fleshy tongue protruding from between his lips.

  ‘Don’t you want it, Svyeta?’

  ‘Get lost, Jonas,’ she breathed.

  ‘But you like it, don’t you?’ he said, his hand slipping up into her blouse. The thin cloth tore. She pushed him hard with her knee and spat in his face. His grip loosened and she shoved him backwards into the darkness.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he shouted.

  She grabbed the bag and ran for the street.

  ‘Svyeta,’ he called. ‘I’ll pay.’

  She did not turn.

  Jonas was on his feet, stumbling after her.

  ‘Whore! Since when did you get so picky?’

  His voice echoed in the dark emptiness of the street.

  Svetlana hurried away.

  ‘Ivan is back,’ she shouted into the darkness. ‘Watch it, Jonas. I’ll tell him.’

  When she was sure Jonas was not following, she slowed her pace. She chuckled darkly at the idea of using Ivan’s name to defend herself. He had been back three days and already she had a black eye to show for it. Reaching behind her, she found the tear in her blouse.

  Museum Square was quiet. She walked slowly, listening to the sound of her heels on the paving. The buildings were springing to life. New plaster and coats of bright paint. Spruced up for the tourists after years of neglect. Stepono Street, half a kilometre away, crumbled still. The roofs sagged, the wood was rotting, the windows broken. Tourists did not go there.

  In her room on Stepono she found her two sons sleeping side by side on the floor. Misha with his arm·around his young brother. A thin blanket covered them. For a few moments she stood gazing at the gentle rise and fall of their bodies, illuminated by the thin light seeping through the window. Misha’s body had filled out. His arms were thick with muscles. Soft stubble furred his chin. Bending, she stroked his cropped hair tenderly.

  Undressing in the darkness she hung her blouse carefully on a wire hanger. Taking it to the window she examined the rip in the dim light; she would be able to fix it in the morning, she decided. She studied her body in the cracked mirror on the wall. Holding back her hair, she pulled the skin tight on her face. Not so old. Still attractive.

  She would take the package back to Daumantas. The writer. She knew he was, he had told her once.

  Pulling on some thicker clothes, she collapsed wearily onto the sagging bed. Ivan was not there. She pulled herself up close against the wall to leave him space.

  Chapter 20

  Svetlana woke with a start. Sitting up, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead. The sound of fists pounding on the door rang in her ears. A steady, forceful thud. The wind
was howling through the treetops and somewhere a dog was barking. She put her hands to her ears. She could hear their voices still, calling. Male voices. Edged with anger, sharp with malice.

  She shook her head and opened her eyes wide. She swung her legs off the bed and staggered over to the small sink. The water in the bucket was icily cold. She splashed it over her face, cooling her burning cheeks. Slowly the voices subsided. The pounding faded. She stood in the darkness listening to the sounds of the city. The occasional car, uncertain footsteps that drew slowly closer, passed the window and then faded into the distance.

  When she lay back on the bed, she was shivering. She wrapped her arms tightly around her. She did not sleep. In sleep, she feared, they might return. The thump on the door, the men’s voices. She lay watching her sons sleep on the floor. Gradually the darkness faded. A grimy light flushed the walls. Her eyelids relaxed and she felt the fear ebb and her muscles loosen.

  The door rattled and shook as somebody struck it hard. Svetlana sat up. Her head ached. Nikolai was in the corner reading a comic; Misha was gone. Ivan snored loudly beside her. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called, angrily, as the door rattled once more on its hinges. She pulled a coat over her rumpled clothes and staggered across to the door. Jonas’ face leered at her when she opened it.

  ‘What do you want?’ she hissed, attempting to close the door on him. He jammed his foot into the space.

  ‘I’ve come to see Ivan,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want with him?’ Behind her she heard her husband stir.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, his voice thick with sleep.

  ‘Jonas. He wants you.’

  Ivan sat up and groped for his cigarettes. Jonas kicked the door hard so that it sprang open, hitting Svetlana. He pushed past her.