Irene Guilford - Waiting for Stalin to Die

I will send for you, he had promised Magda.

And we will come, she had promised. Julija and me.

Joe Druska fetched Magda’s letter, tossing it down in front of the priest. Julija, a grown woman by now, likely with children of her own, had never written. That would be Magda’s doing. He tried not to think about that.

I am leaving you. I was never in favour of your going and now I have an offer of another life here. I’m going to accept. For the sake of the child. It can never be marriage but it’s better than being a woman left behind by her husband. And who knows what you get up to over there. Knowing you, not much and nothing good.

Father Geras sighed at these ordinary, unnecessary cruelties of life. No wonder the man kept to himself. He was bitter and broken-hearted.

“Let me help you.”

“No one can help. Not you, Father. And certainly not God.”

“You’re wrong. You’re a believer. Aren’t you?”

“Doesn’t matter what I believe,” he said, tight-lipped. “Time for you to leave, Father.”

Father Geras rose. “Think about what I’ve said. No man wants to die alone. Not even you. Not even tough old Joe Druska.”

Joe Druska sat at the table, looking at a photo after Father Geras had left. Flexing it, he tried to make the faces jump. Magda, the only woman in the world he had loved. Julija, his little angel daughter. And reaching for the bottle, he drank until he could see no more.

Father Geras made his way to the three small booths at the back of the church, tucked under the iron staircase spiralling to the choir loft. Passing the line of waiting parishioners, he would see their uplifted, hopeful faces. He could sense their desire for relief. He welcomed the responsibility that the Lord had placed upon him. And opening the door of the middle booth, its carved open top-half lined with a purple curtain that jiggled with movement, he prepared to hear confession.

The first penitents would enter the booths on either side, lowering themselves to their knees. Waiting until they had settled, he would slide open one of the small panels. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. And looking straight ahead, seeing but not seeing the face visible through the fretwork, he would lean in and listen.

He heard the whispered confessions of grandparents and small children, the sins between husbands and wives. He assigned Our Fathers, Hail Marys, sometimes an entire rosary. He made the sign of the cross. He gave absolution. And sliding the panel shut, he would hear them rise less burdened.

He would return to the front of the church to say mass. Raising his hands in benediction, his wide white sleeves slipping back along his forearms, he would read from ancient and sacred texts. He would genuflect in slow reverence. He would lift the host high for all to see. And suspended within the prolonged ringing of altar bells, the parish clung together in the fierce closeness of a people far from home.

One Sunday after mass, Joe Druska appeared. Ill-at-ease even in the empty church, he came forward, carrying a pillowcase by the neck. He held it out. It was full of cash. And Father Geras’s heart began thumping with a fearsome joy.

“One condition,” Joe Druska said.

Father Geras waited, desperate for it to be a condition he could fulfil.

“A spot…” Joe Druska stopped, unable to continue.

“A spot in the cemetery,” Father Geras said. “You have my word. I will take care of it when the time comes. A place of honour.”

With deep satisfaction and no small pride, Father Geras returned to see Gerald Lambert. Scion of the Lambert family, supporter of two sisters and a good Irish Catholic, Mr. Lambert proved to be a man of his word. Money changed hands. The land was bought. And a dying apple orchard, its wizened trees no longer able to bear fruit, became a cemetery.

Birute continued to lose interest in rectory life. Shifting her attention to Dobilas, she settled with satisfaction upon a young man who was not constantly telling her what to do. In a world of priests and older brothers, this was no small pleasure. Here was the companion she craved. And watching him sweeping or hammering or rearranging chairs, her heart filled with warmth.

He welcomed her attentions with a sunny, open smile. Going out together, they did not hold hands in this most English city where friendly affection was not shown in the street. Men shook hands or lifted their hats. Women proffered white-gloved hands. And remembering Lithuania where women walked arm-in-arm, Birute missed the touch of bare hands and home.

She and Dobilas walked everywhere for the pleasure of one another’s company. Eating ice cream cones in Sunnyside Park, watching the summertime lapping lake, they licked the icy sweetness. They grew ever closer. They became, if not lovers, then brother and sister and friends. And pushing one another on the swings in High Park, they laughed with the gleeful happiness of children.

They would loll on a blanket, Dobilas resting beside her on his back. Propped up on one elbow, she looked down at him. His chest rose and fell in quiet contentment. His eyes were shut. And smiling slightly, he hummed Žirgelis , a tune about a young man urging his steed towards a farm gate where a maiden awaited courting.

He may be an idiot, she thought, but he’s my idiot. I like being with him.

“Do you want to get married?” she said.

“Yes!” Dobilas said, his eyes lighting up. They clouded over. “What about Maryte?”

“What about her?”

“She’s my sister. I can’t leave her.”

“And why not?” Birute said.

He pondered for moment. “It’s like your brother.”

For an idiot, she thought, he wasn’t so stupid. He understood much.

His face emanated an unhappy helplessness. He would never be able to speak to Maryte. She would have to do it herself. She would have to do it for both of them. And she would have to do it now.

Maryte opened the door, letting her in with a worried look. Following her up the stairs, Birute noticed the woman’s tired, heavy tread. She gripped the handrail to pull herself up. Each step seemed an effort. Standing in the corner kitchen with the small table and two chairs, she presented an exhausted, defeated face.

Birute came straight to the point.

“I want to marry your brother.”

“How can you think of such a thing? Can’t you see what he is? He’s not for marrying.”

“Meaning that you don’t want him to marry me,” Birute said. “But who will have him, other than me? Who would look after him if something happened to you?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Maryte said, her manner weary. “I’ve taken care of him since the day he was born. I will do so until the day he dies.”

“Don’t you want a break? Don’t you want your own life?”

“He is my life. Why do you want to make mischief?”

Birute paused.

“It seems to me that it’s Dobilas who gets into mischief sometimes.”

Maryte gave her a sharp look but said nothing.

“Until he has someone of his own, there will always be a Mrs. Moynahan.”

Maryte continued to remain silent.

“And I can give him something you can’t. A baby.”

“A baby?” Maryte was aghast. “What kind of baby will the two of you have? And how will he look after it. He can’t look after himself.”