Antanas Sileika - Underground

Lukas listened to Dunlop with half an ear, wondering what the right course of action was. On the one hand, he was making contact with a representative of the mythical West, as he had been instructed. It was not much of a reception, but it was something. But if the British were so eager to have him, maybe others would be too. And maybe they would provide him with a little more than what Dunlop was willing to give. The British were losing power, their empire deflating like a balloon with a slow leak, whereas the Americans were rising. Who knew, even the French might be interested. Back in the twenties they had provided training to the new diplomats of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. And this business of being a spy for the British stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to be a mercenary in his own country.

There was a gentle rap on the door and Zoly came inside. “I was just wondering if you wanted anything to eat,” he said. “It can’t be good, drinking on an empty stomach like this.”

Dunlop told him to sit down and join them. Ever the diplomat, Zoly took off his coat and accepted two fingers of whisky. The suggestion of food was ignored.

Dunlop did most of the talking and Zoly did most of the listening, prompting Dunlop and laughing appreciatively at his anecdotes. Lukas looked at Zoly, and the more he looked, the less he liked what he saw.

“Are you out of your mind?”

Lozorius walked in, leaving the warehouse door open behind him. He had his coat, gloves and hat still on, and he had not even greeted Lukas.

“Close the door and we can talk about it.”

Lozorius slammed the door behind him and threw off his overcoat. It was the middle of February, but the cold had not let up yet.

“I’m just keeping my options open,” said Lukas. “Why should I go with Dunlop? There are sixty thousand Lithuanians in Europe in displaced persons’camps. The government-in-exile is in Germany and the remains of the diplomatic corps are in Rome. What business would I have committing myself to the British when I haven’t looked around thoroughly yet?”

“But I have. What do you think I’ve been doing out here? The DP camps are full of people who want to emigrate to America. They don’t care about your war anymore. And the ones who do are not the best ones. They want to go home and rule the country once the Americans free it for them. You have to be a realist. The Brits are the only ones who are committed.”

“I didn’t like the smell of him,” said Lukas.

“I’ve been sniffing around longer than you have, and Dunlop stinks less than the others.”

“Who pays your salary?” Lukas asked.

“That’s not fair.”

“It doesn’t answer my question.”

“So let me answer it with a question. Who do you think is going to pay your salary? Do you think you’ll pass the hat at some émigré lecture and live from that? They don’t have anything themselves. The only ones who do are the governments.”

“But why the British?” asked Lukas.

“Because they know the territory. I understand you saw the boat.”

“I did.”

“How would you like to go for a ride on it?”

“How soon?”

“Very soon.”

“I’m not ready yet, and I’m not going to work for the British and save my country in my spare time. I wasn’t sent out to get crumbs like this. And neither were you.”

“You expected to rouse the West to help you? Is that it? You mean what I’ve been doing out here isn’t good enough? You just got here. You barely understand the place. I know the landscape and I represent the partisans out here. You might be missing a very good opportunity.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

Lozorius was furious. He gathered up his coat, hat and gloves, but he did not put them on. He stepped out through the door and slammed it behind him.

KEMPTEN

DISPLACED PERSON’S CAMP, BAVARIA

APRIL 1948

WHEN LUCAS STEPPED out into the yard that night, he could smell the late thaw coming on, finally sense the drip of melting water under the remaining snowbanks. He was glad to get some air after the intensely smoky meeting with the émigré Lithuanian government followed by a talk to the hundreds of persons who lived in the camp. He was getting used to speaking in front of audiences.

The place had been intensely cold during the first part of the meeting, but it heated up with all the bodies in the room. Three hundred people sat on chairs and as many again stood at the back or on the sides. Some of the seated women had children on their laps, and most of those who stood were young men, many around his age. They had all been eager to hear what he had to say about the partisan resistance in Lithuania, and that was gratifying. But the most pressing questions were ones he could not answer, requests for news of the relatives the refugees had left behind.

For all their interest in what Lukas had to say, after sitting in DP camps for four years the young men and women, the greybeard teachers, the low-level bureaucrats and farmers were all looking out to their own futures in the West. They missed their homes, but they were realists. They were willing enough to help out, but they had no money, no jobs and no influence. The way back was closed to them, and their contributions in cash barely covered his travel expenses. If they had one fear, it was that the Allies would return to their policy of repatriation. The ones who’d gone back willingly or unwillingly had been imprisoned, deported to Siberia or killed.

Lukas had been surprised to learn about the subtleties of the West, both among the foreign governments and among his own people. There were factions within the émigrés, a split between the government-in-exile and the old diplomatic corps, and, for all he knew, factions within the factions. He was mired in complexities here. Everything had been much simpler back in the bunkers.

And, as Lozorius had predicted, the Lithuanian government-in-exile did not have any money of its own. Lukas was a kind of trophy to them, a fundraiser on tour through the camps of Germany, scratching together loose change. Now there was talk about sending him to America for a lecture series—that was where the real money lay—but the American government was sticky about its visas and in no rush to let him in.

Not yet.

Things were changing slightly. There had been a Communist coup in Czechoslovakia, and so the Americans were far less enthusiastic about their old allies, the Reds. But would they actually do anything? It was hard to tell. They seemed to worry most about Reds in the State Department while not worrying about the Reds anywhere else.

Where did all this put Lukas? He was unsure. As he had toured the Bavarian town of Kempten earlier that day, medieval buildings unbombed, pushed up against the mountains, he had been astonished by the beauty of the place, and then felt guilty for his enjoyment of this moment, for being able to walk around as a tourist while Lakstingala and Flint waited for him to bring help to them. Maybe Lozorius was right. Maybe he should have taken the British offer. And yet the British offer rankled.

His feelings were becoming unpredictable, powerful and strange. Back home his feelings had been pure and straightforward. But ever since he had left Lithuania, and in particular after he left Sweden, his emotions had become unstable. Now that he was living free of danger, he felt worse than he ever had in Lithuania.

“Excuse me.”

A young woman had stepped out of the darkness of the camp courtyard, someone whose face he remembered from the audience at his talk.

“You were a neighbour of mine back in Lithuania,” she said.

He looked at her more closely. She was younger than him, around twenty-two he guessed, with light brown hair, a high forehead and high cheekbones. He did not remember her.