Antanas Sileika - Underground

“You’ll never find her body if you haven’t found it by now, and as for dying here, what good is that supposed to do?”

“At least I’ll be in the same country.”

“Others would leap at a chance like this.”

“Not me.”

“No. But you’ll follow orders like anyone else.”

“Why choose me?”

“Because you have some English and a little French. Because you’re wallowing in depression. You’re dangerous to me here.”

“Then release me from my oath and let me go.”

“And lose a good fighter? Absolutely not. Listen to me. We need to re-establish ties with the West. At this rate we’ll be crushed slowly and no one will ever know the difference. Get to Sweden and find out if Lozorius is still alive. Contact the Americans and the English. Carry a letter to the Pope.”

“I’m not a diplomat.”

“No, but you speak well enough and you can write. Lakstingala will help you get out.”

“Is he coming too?”

“Only as far as Warsaw. I need him here.”

“And what happens once I get news out to the West? How am I supposed to get back here?”

“Any way you can.”

The old woman finally left the bakery, and through the window Lukas saw the shopgirl at the counter begin to take the short, dark rye loaves from a basket and set them out on a shelf. She turned to face him as soon as he came in, a working woman, economical in movement, a little reserved to discourage male banter.

She was a few years older than him, her dark hair tied up under a baker’s cap. Her name was Sofia, but he did not address her.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Andrew’s cousin sent me along,” said Lukas.

“What for? I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Julius said I should come too.”

Lukas heard the knob of the bakery door turning behind him. The cashier leaned toward him to speak quietly before another customer entered.

“We close for lunch in an hour. Come to the back door then.” She set half a loaf of bread on the counter. Lukas took it and left the bakery.

He walked down to the quay to look at the ships being loaded out on the piers. The port had been heavily bombed during the war, but most of the damage had been cleaned up, if not repaired. There were inner and outer harbours, a distant breakwater, and long piers with ships at their sides. It would not do to draw attention to himself by dawdling, so he walked as if he had some purpose, trying to memorize the layout of the port in case he ever needed it. After twenty minutes he turned back up toward the city and bought a glass of tea at a kiosk and ate some of the bread with it. Then he made his way back to the alley behind the bakery and knocked on the door.

Sofia unbolted the door and opened it, looked him over and beckoned him inside. They were in a warm antechamber with steps leading down to the bakery ovens below. She took him downstairs, where the baker was sitting at a small table with honey cake and three small glasses set out before him. The baker was a barrel-chested man named Dombrowski, a Pole, Sofia’s husband. He beckoned Lukas over and Sofia joined them at the table. He poured three measures of Zubrowka into their glasses, they drank it, and then Sofia poured tea.

“I have some bad news first,” said Dombrowski. “We might as well get that out of the way. One of your companions was killed on their way back in to Lithuania.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know.”

Lakstingala or someone else? One more to join the ranks of the dead. Lukas felt as if a kite string had been snipped and he was now in danger of zigzagging down to earth. He held the edge of the table to maintain his balance.

“How did it happen?”

“An ambush of some kind. Maybe the border patrol expected them.”

“So some of them got away?”

“We’re not sure. Someone might have been taken prisoner. But the point is this: if one was taken prisoner and he talks, there will be a description of you sent around to the police stations. There’s some chance we’re going to be watched, if we aren’t being watched already. Whatever the case, you can’t come back here.”

“I won’t put you in any danger,” Lukas said, and stood up and reached for his bag.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Sit down. Where would you go, anyway?”

“I have to get out to Sweden. I have a contact there.”

“Yes, I know. His name is Lozorius, and you’re in luck. He’s not far away, though not in Gdynia. He got tired waiting to see if you made it here without getting killed.”

“Lozorius is alive?”

“He’s had a few close calls, but he’s lucky. Sometimes the dead rise again.”

“But usually they don’t,” said Sofia.

Her face clouded. There was something bothering her. Dombrowski put his hand on her shoulder and Lukas wondered about the two of them. They were speaking Polish because Dombrowski had no Lithuanian; his wife was the Lithuanian one. How had he come to act as a letter box for the Lithuanian partisans? As a favour to his wife, but for what?

“How do I find Lozorius?”

“I’ll tell you, but keep this in mind: you must not come back here, no matter what trouble you might find yourself in. For all we know, the Polish secret police are sniffing around already.”

The modest city of Puck was a fishing port up the coast. Lukas was to ask for Lozorius at the kitchen door of a convent that housed a tuberculosis hospital just outside town. A sour old doorman in a torn cap barred the door, but the man was swept away by another, younger man who threw his arms around Lukas and embraced him as if they were brothers.

“Thank God you made it!” Lozorius said, and kissed him, an old-fashioned gesture more common among their parents than their own generation.

Lukas had had no such welcome for some time, one reserved for close friends or family, and he was overwhelmed by it and gratified. Lozorius was a demigod, the man who had moved a printing press across Kaunas while the rest of them were quivering in fear of deportation.

Lukas looked at the doorman, who watched them warily. Lozorius followed his gaze.

“Forget about the old man. He can’t do you any harm. Nobody knows who you are in this town, and nobody cares. You’re free here. Get used to it. Besides, none of them understands Lithuanian.”

Lozorius was not a big man, but he had the energy of a host at a country wedding, all good humour, and this exuberance made him seem larger than he was. His ears still stuck out from his head and the hair was receding at the part, making his skull seem very large. Lukas thought of a gambler on a winning streak; cockiness and well-being came off him like a glow, brightening Lukas in its light.

Lozorius had not aged much since Lukas had last seen him on the streets of Kaunas in 1944, but he looked fuller, more substantial, and certainly well fed. His skin had a healthy sheen to it even by comparison with the Poles, who looked better than the Lithuanians.

“I’m glad to find you alive. You’ve become some kind of legend,” said Lukas.

“Legend? For what?”

“You’re famous, our man in the West, but everybody thought you were dead because no news of you has come in for some time.”

Lozorius laughed. “They can’t kill me. I sent letters in, but the lines must have broken down somewhere. Did you bring things out for me too?”

“Yes, I have them in my bag, checked at the train station.”

“We’ll get them later. Let’s find you a room and something to eat and then we’ll have time to talk.”

In a whirl of activity, often assisted by distracted nuns who seemed to want to indulge him, Lozorius found Lukas a room in the hospital on the third floor, where Lukas could see the people coming in and out of the front door. It was a simple nun’s room, with a narrow cot and a table with two chairs, but it was warm and dry, the best room Lukas had stayed in for weeks.