Irene Guilford - Waiting for Stalin to Die

“Cut the grass,” she said.

“You stick to your business, woman, and I’ll stick to mine.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and rose. With a grunt, she returned to the kitchen.

Vytas and his parents came back from mass to find the lawn cut, the table set and the landlords waiting in the kitchen, the daughter in a white blouse, face freshly washed, hair smoothed back.

“Please sit down, Doctor,” Ona said.

He let himself be led to the place of honour. Jonas and Ona slipped into seats on either side of him. His parents were left to take up what spots remained. Danguole was left standing.

“Pour the drinks, Jonai,” Ona said.

Jonas needed no encouragement. He poured rye into small shot glasses.

“To the young doctor,” he said, raising his glass.

“To young people,” Ona said, lifting hers with a knowing look.

Danguole reddened. Vytas turned away, slightly embarrassed.

Juze watched Danguole hurrying between table and stove. Ladling out dumplings, spooning bacon bits over top, she grew hot and flustered. Such a silly girl, Juze thought. Sillier still to think of marrying my Vytas. Seeing her son taking no notice of Danguole’s efforts to please, she turned to her food which, she had to admit, was very good. As a cook, Ona deserved her reputation.

“Thank you for lunch, Šeimininke ,” she said the moment they were finished.

“You can’t go yet!” Ona said. “There’s cake.”

Oh, yes, we can, Juze thought. Feeling her husband’s touch on her arm, she glanced down at his face. Be patient, his look said. Be kind. With a small sigh, she sat back down.

Ona served medaunykas , a dark dense honey cake. Cutting through the glistening surface, she passed round thick slices. The doctor used his fingers. Just a matter of time, she thought, watching him licking at the sticky residue that no napkin could remove. And sitting back, she allowed herself a satisfied smile.

If she thinks my son is going to be caught like some fly, Juze thought, she’s crazy. Kvaila. Jonas wasn’t bad but the wife and daughter were impossible.

“Well really the time has come to go,” Juze said, rising with determination once the cake was eaten. “Vytas must study.”

“Mother,” Vytas said, “there is still coffee.”

Danguole shot him a look of gratitude. She served the coffee without spilling, though her hands trembled so.

Finally the luncheon was over. The parties rose from the table with contented sighs, declaring it a fine meal. Brunius praised the cepelinai , saying he had never eaten better. Juze echoed simple, empty words. Nice. Very nice. She couldn’t wait to get away from this unwanted hospitality.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Vytas said, taking Ona’s hand.

“ Nėra už ką, ” she said, flushing at his sincerity. It was nothing.

Vytas turned to Danguole, also taking her hand in his. Her face flushing also, she lowered her eyes. He put his other hand on top of hers. For a moment, he let it rest. A sudden silence descended upon the two sets of parents watching the young couple.

“Come anytime,” Jonas said, clapping Brunius on the back. “Come when the women are away. We’ll have a drink together. Just us men.”

Brunius laughed in soldierly camaraderie. Juze waited stone-faced. Vytas smiled in friendliness at nothing and everything.

Just a matter of time, Ona thought. Just a matter of time.

Ona lay in bed that night, considering her daughter’s prospects. Speaking across a divide larger than the space between their two beds, she addressed her husband. The doctor had held her daughter’s hand in both of his. He had smiled into her eyes. Marriage was a distinct possibility.

“What do you think?” she said.

“Don’t be stupid, woman.”

“Stupid? Anything’s possible between two young people.”

Silence filled the space between the two beds.

“It’s a foolish idea,” he eventually said.

Foolish? She had been called foolish when, on the run in Germany, she had set off on foot across the fields, carrying their bucket of lard. Approaching a farm, she had found only the wife. She had bartered. What did men know? she had thought, returning with bread and eggs to husband, daughter and wagon.

“Do something. Talk to the father,” she said, remembering her father’s trip to the farmer across the road.

“I can’t make the man fall in love with our daughter,” he said.

“Love,” Ona snorted. “What would you know about love?”

Jonas heaved himself over and fell asleep.

Danguole lay on her couch, listening to the discussion of her future. Hearing her father’s heavy breathing as he settled into sleep, listening to the clack of her mother’s rosary beads, Danguole felt a vague stirring of hope. Perhaps her mother was right. Perhaps a doctor could be hers after all. Please God, she prayed, bring me love. And murmuring her own private prayers, she too fell asleep.

Vytas sat in his room, studying at a table overlooking the back garden. Amid books lying open atop one another, thick books on anatomy and physiology, he studied as he had never studied before. He studied with the ferocity of second chances. He studied on behalf of lives lost. And squinting as if trying to discern a face through a mesh screen, he studied old material through a new language.

He was aware of his double-breasted suit hanging on a hook on the door, his polished shoes waiting side by side under the bed. Putting them on every morning before going to the university, these kindnesses from the DP camp in Germany and the Women’s committee in Toronto, he was grateful. They covered the reality pulsing inside. And sitting on his bed, bending to tie his shoes, he was glad of the false exterior which allowed him to function in the outside world.

Going on rounds at the hospital, white-coated among other student doctors, he would think of his colleagues back in Vilnius. Sitting afterwards in his landlady’s kitchen or in the living room with his landlord, he would think of private gatherings with family and friends. He had new acquaintances. He had the comfort of compatriots. And looking around at those who had lost more than just love, he was grateful for his parents.

Vyteli, don’t you think you should be studying?

His mother’s words had irked him. It was not what she’d said but that she’d said it in front of Ona and Danguole. He was not a small boy who needed constant watching. He was a grown man. He didn’t need to be told what to do.

He lifted his head from his studies, looking out at the garden. Jonas kept the lawn mown to green velvet perfection. In the narrow beds running down either side, Ona grew roses, peonies and dahlias, tomatoes, green onions and dill. The couple worked together, bending to their labours. They touched the comfort of the earth. And standing under the arc of trees at the bottom of the garden, Ona in her striped housedress, Jonas in his singlet, they would talk in the quiet peacefulness of evening.

Once, Ona had taken Vytas by the hand, leading him to a tomato plant. Bending in the bright sunshine, she had lifted a leaf. She had revealed the fruit beneath. It was red and ripe. And turning toward him, her face had been wide with wonder at the mysteries of life.

Danguole came out into the garden, carrying a bowl and knife. Bending to cut green onions, her hair falling into her face, her blouse coming out of her skirt, she looked hot, harassed and unhappy. Poor girl, he thought. It was hard not to feel sorry for her. Perhaps she would find someone to love, someone to love her. Everyone needed love, people like her perhaps more than most.