Irene Guilford - Waiting for Stalin to Die

Birute had gone to Vilnius once, searching for her little girl. Wandering the cobblestone streets, hoping for a glimpse, she had become lost. Jurgis knew where to find her just as he knew most things. He’d taken her home. Tucking her into bed, he had fed her warm milk from a spoon.

“Don’t worry,” he had whispered as their silent mother fumed behind the shut door. “I will speak to her. She’ll relent.”

Birute lay in bed sulking that her brother who had such a way with women had become a priest. He could have had a life filled with pleasures, a life in which she could have shared. He had let himself to be shepherded. He had grown pious. And eyes darting back and forth in secrecy, she wished he had not become a priest, a brother no longer totally hers.

No one’s going to make me do something I don’t want, Birute had thought, sliding further under the covers, her nose resting on its satin edge. No one’s going to do that to me.

They had always run together, united against Father and Four Mean Brothers. Even with Mother, he had stood up for her. He had been a priest but still also her brother. He had loved her best. But now, in this new country, he loved church and parishioners more.

Jurgis had taken on Dobilas as caretaker for the church, the Idiot as he was called, even by him though his word was vargšas , poor soul. Thinking her brother suffused with too much priestly goodness, she found Dobilas not so much a caretaker as a presence that needed constant watching. But Jurgis had promised. And the job had fallen to her. She resented it but didn’t mind the company.

She found him in the basement, sweeping the room used for catechism lessons. Low-ceilinged with a high row of windows that let in a thin strip of yellow light, it had been hand-dug by the previous generation of immigrants. Well, what can I do about it? she wanted to say to old-timers grumbling about newcomers pushing them out. She hadn’t asked to be landed here. They would have to move over and make room.

“What do you say, stupid?” she said, leaning against the doorjamb.

“I’m not stupid,” he said, moving his broom, his voice dull.

“Yes, you are. But I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t mind about you.”

She sucked in her breath. He knew about the baby. Everyone knew, even here. Birute nodded, mute. It only hurt if someone else mentioned it.

He started moving chairs left askew by children released from catechism lessons. Shifting them about, uncertain about where to place them, he seemed lost. Vargšas , she thought, her brother’s word dropping into her mind. He’s even worse off than me. And heart softening, she moved forward to help him.

They worked side by side, stacking chairs. Glancing at one another, they smiled in shy friendliness. When he picked up the broom, she picked up the dustpan. She stooped to hold it steady for him. And watching him sweep, she saw gratitude in every stroke.

After breakfast, she would make her brother’s bed, brush his spare cassock and shine his shoes. Having cleaned up after lunch, she would search out Dobilas in the basement. He would look up with a happy smile. He would set his hammer or paintbrush aside, eager and swift. And hearts lifting they would go out, two friends looking for mild adventure.

They would set out along the south side of Dundas, passing the open green pocket of Trinity Bellwoods Park. Approaching Lithuania House, a broad old building where parishioners had Sunday lunch, they would reach Ossington. At the intersection they would stop. They would look at Dundas dwindling into the distance. Then crossing to the north side of the street, they would turn around and go home.

They would pass Lakeview Lunch, a chrome-grilled diner with no view of the lake. Pressing their noses against the plate glass window, they would peer at the patrons perched on chrome and red leather stools at the counter. They imagined sitting in the high, straight-backed mahogany booths. They would order coffee. And just as they were imagining the easy banter with the waitress and the other customers, the gesticulating owner would emerge.

“Get your snotty noses off my window!”

They would race back to Gore Vale, giggling with delight. Turning into the park, they would make for its heart. They would sit away from the street but within sight of it. They would settle into the comfort of one another’s company. And passing an apple back and forth between bites, they would share injustices.

A landlady who had smacked him.

A priestly brother who was never there.

“You like him, don’t you?” Dobilas said, a naughty look in his eye.

“It’s not like that.”

“How then?”

She pondered. “Like a puppy. A puppy that you really really love and want all to yourself.”

His vigorous open-mouthed nod of understanding brought spittle to his lip.

“Don’t drool. Keep your mouth shut,” she said, lifting his chin with one finger.

He clamped his mouth shut in a goofy, light-hearted gesture of happiness and relief. Burrowing against her, his hand might creep towards her breast. He’s just a baby, she would think, lifting it away with a gentle kiss. A baby in a male, adult body. And they would sit together, loving but not lovers and no longer alone.

She would return to the rectory, giving Dobilas a parting peck on the cheek. Seeing the unease leap into her brother’s eyes, she knew he was thinking of the boy behind the barn. Well, Jurgis had given her the job of watching the idiot. And she was doing it. She didn’t want another baby, and certainly not with Dobilas.

One day she overheard Maryte and Jurgis whispering in the vestry.

“I’m worried,” Maryte said. “What if they get into mischief?”

“I will speak to her. You speak to Dobilas.” Surely he’s not that much of an idiot, his tone said. Vargšas . Poor soul.

Birute withdrew without making a sound. She said nothing to Dobilas or to her brother. Her life was her own. She would not have it controlled by others. She would decide for herself what was right.

One morning, having set her own small room in order, she sought out Dobilas in the basement. Bending over a screen set across two chairs, he was applying a patch to a tear in the mesh. He guided the short stiff wires through holes. He bent them under, tight. Jiggling the patch back and forth, deeming it not snug enough, he stepped back to ponder the problem.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she said.

He shook his head. “Father Geras asked me to do this today. The mosquitoes bite him at night.” He giggled. “He scratches during mass.”

“Oh Jurgis can wait one more night,” she said, irked that he had not set down his tools, eager and ready for play. And she refused to call her brother Father Geras even in front of others.

“But I promised.”

“Well, I’m not going to wait.”

I have to be the most important thing to somebody, she thought, pausing on the rectory steps, even if only to this idiot man-boy. Doesn’t anyone want to be with me?

She stepped into the street, entering the weekday working world. Passing men and women intent on their business, she noticed sideways, not-so friendly glances. What did they think of her? DP — that’s what. Well, she might be alone but she was not going to be afraid of them.

She walked along Dundas, passing brown houses, square and opaque. Reaching Ossington and Lithuania House, she went as usual no further. She looked at the pharmacy on the corner across the road. McCann’s. And plunging into the intersection filled with traffic and noise, she stepped into the street.