Underground

by Antanas Sileika

  Zoly took Lukas to a remote part of the harbour and along a quay that had three boats tied up to it. Two were fishing boats, but the third was a sleeker craft, something like a large customs patrol boat with a bridge, two lifeboats and quarters down below. Asking no one’s permission, Zoly took Lukas onto the deck and they climbed down a ladder to a narrow corridor with two doors. Zoly rapped on one of the doors and opened it.

  “Close the door behind you,” a voice said. “The cold air is blowing in here.”

  Zoly brought Lukas into a low cabin with a small table and four chairs. There was a bottle of whisky on the table and a Thermos of tea beside it. A large man in shirt sleeves was standing up, his broad, weathered face serious but the eyes genial. He had thick white hair, a little too long, and the girth of a man who enjoyed his food. He wore suspenders and his suit jacket hung on the chair behind him.

  “Leonard Dunlop,” he said, extending his hand. Lukas had worked on the farm since he was a child, and he had lived in the forest, so his hands were not exactly soft, but Dunlop’s were very big and meaty and hard, as if he handled rough goods often.

  “Zoly, I think the captain has some coffee on the bridge upstairs. He might enjoy your company.”

  Zoly nodded and went out, closing the door behind him. Lukas could hear the metal ladder creak as he made his way back up on deck.

  “Drink?” Dunlop asked in Russian.

  “Why not?”

  “What language do you prefer to speak?”

  “I have some English.”

  “Good for you. We’ll start in that, but we can speak Russian or Polish if you want, or Finnish or Estonian, if you speak those.”

  Dunlop poured small glasses of whisky for each of them and glasses of tea as a chaser. They drank the whisky neat and sat down and Dunlop launched into a talk about Lukas’s reports and then asked questions about the state of the partisans in Lithuania. They had another two glasses of whisky as they talked and Lukas felt the alcohol go to his head. Dunlop did not show himself to be any the worse for the drink.

  Where Lukas came from, and throughout the whole of Eastern Europe, alcohol was as common as tea, and had been more common during the war. It had caused the undoing of the best of plans, but was consolation for the failure of those plans and the murderous nature of history. Drinking was a way of life for Eastern Europeans. Although he had not been drinking much over the previous years with Flint, Lukas could hold his own as long as the drinking didn’t go on too long, in which case Dunlop’s superior body weight and years of practice would give him the advantage.

  “What do you think of this boat?” Dunlop asked suddenly.

  “I don’t know much about boats.”

  “It’s a refitted German E-boat. Now attached to the British fishery protection service, but it has the same German captain it’s had since it was launched in 1943. They used it to patrol the Baltic and drop agents behind the lines, and to torpedo our ships. Let me tell you, the captain saw a few of our own boys drown. But that’s all in the past now. We’re fighting a common enemy. This boat has been stripped of its armaments—no more torpedo tubes. It was overhauled in Portsmouth—twin Mercedes-Benz 518 diesel engines. We can guarantee a speed of forty-five knots, the fastest on the Baltic, and the quietest. The exhausts have been installed underwater.”

  “Do you use this boat very often?” Lukas asked.

  “From time to time. We hope to use it again.”

  “And what, exactly, are the English views on the Baltics in general, and Lithuania in particular?”

  “First, I need to know if you’re working with the Americans.”

  “No, not yet.”

  Dunlop smiled and poured them each a shot. “Good. The Americans don’t understand the subtleties of the Baltic. It’s too far away from them.”

  “I’m not sure I understand them either. I’m a simple man. We need allies, not diplomats.”

  “Unless you learn subtlety, you’ll just stir up the Reds.”

  “My people are dying, Mr. Dunlop. We aren’t concerned about stirring up the Reds. We’d like to annoy them so much that they pack up and go home.”

  “I know something about the Reds and the Baltic. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’d never be involved in anything that would harm you. My wife is Estonian. The real interest of Britain is to make the Baltic States independent again.”

  Dunlop was likely using some kind of mixture of truth and lies, but Lukas could not distinguish one from the other. His sixth sense, his nose for deception, which had served him so well back in Lithuania, did not function properly out here in Sweden. It was clear enough that Dunlop wanted Lukas and the partisans for some purpose. The question was, did Lukas and the partisans want the British, given that they would do nothing to free the country and were so much weaker than the Americans since the war?

  “We appreciate you,” said Lukas. “At least someone knows we’re dying and knows what we’re dying for. But what I need to know is what you can do for us. I’m beginning to understand that we shouldn’t hope for a war?”

  Dunlop’s look answered that question.

  “In that case I need to know what you can deliver. We need weapons, for example. With every passing year it gets harder to find new weapons, and ammunition for the ones we have. We need regular radio contact, crystals and at least two sets of radio transmitter/receivers, as well as men who can operate them and who have been trained in ciphers. We need money, preferably rubles, to buy food and other supplies, like printing presses. If there were some way of getting duplicating machines into the country, that would be very good for us too. We need medications: gramicidin for wounds, aspirin and morphine for pain, ether for operations, as well as cyanide capsules.”

  “That’s quite an order. Why should we give any of this to you?”

  “For compensation, for one thing, for letting us drop out of your conscience for so long. And you said you wanted to see the Baltics free.”

  “Spare me the discussion of my conscience. You’re not going to free the Baltics, not alone. We need something too. We need train spotters who will let us know the schedules. We need to understand the movement of troops, especially any massing that could mean mobilization. We need the command structure of the Baltic Red Army, including names of officers and descriptions of ones who can be turned if possible. We need general economic news—five-year plans and so on.”

  “You need spies.”

  “I need people who are clear they work for me first and for themselves second.”

  “I work for my country first.”

  “A very noble sentiment. We can discuss sentiments later.”

  Dunlop started to tell stories of the Russian Revolution, which had happened when he was a young man. He had intended to throw a bomb at Lenin himself, but his father, a Moscow merchant, had hustled him out of the country and soon enough there was no going back.

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.

  FOURTEEN

  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.

  “Are you from Rumsiskes?” he asked.

  “No, Kaunas. My parents had a house on the same street as the university residence, and I would see you and the other students going to lectures when you were in your first year. My sister and I were still schoolgirls and we used to admire you all from a distance.”

  “Admire us? What for?”

  “Because you were older and seemed so sure of yourselves. We didn’t even know what we wanted to do yet, and there you were, you and your friends, sailing along on the journey of life.”

  That period seemed utterly remote to him now. “What’s your name?” Lukas asked.

  “Monika, but sometimes they call me Monique, since I live in France.”

  Lukas had been approached like this many times in the last few weeks, and although it was flattering to have admirers, they made him feel awkward. They considered him many things: a hero, the embodiment of their anger, and a symbol of the life of resistance that they had not chosen because they had fled. He felt like a fraud in all these roles and he longed sometimes for the old friends who knew him from before. And yet that person was gone.

  In the eyes of the young people in particular, those his age, he seemed to represent what might have been. They were bored, these DP camp residents, over three years in barracks, some of them, caught between worlds and still unsure of the future. Some of the teenagers who had been schoolchildren when their paren
ts fled now wanted to go back with him to fight.

  The poor darlings. No one needed teenagers in the partisan fight, and in any case there was no easy way to get back there.

  “I wonder,” said Monika, “if you have any information about those who were deported to Siberia in 1940.”

  “Not in particular. None of them ever came back as far as I know, and a lot more followed them.” He hated to disappoint Monika, but there was no use in raising false hopes.

  She nodded sadly. “I wanted you to know that I found your talk very moving. I’m very impressed by everything you’ve done.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  She hesitated and then went on. “I don’t mean to be unfriendly when I ask this—I didn’t want to say anything during question period—but do you think it’s right to continue fighting?”

  “What do you propose instead?”

  “A whole generation is being cut down. Who will be left in the country in the long run if all of them are killed? Wouldn’t passive resistance be better than fighting?”

  “You’re not the first person to say that.”

  “I never claimed I was original. I was just wondering.”

  “It’s the line that the Chekists try to sell. They keep apologizing for the ‘excesses’ and telling us we should lay down our arms if we really love our country.”

  She reddened. “So you think I’m a Chekist too?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m sure your ideas are sincere.”

  “But naive?”

  “Completely. If you repeat the party line of the Cheka, then you’re helping them whether you know it or not. You must never become confused about your enemies.”

  “Maybe it’s no longer a time to kill. Maybe it’s a time to heal.”

  “Are you a Catholic?”

  “I’m not really all that religious. In my own way I’m a doubter. It’s the more honest reaction, don’t you think? Because if you are a true believer, your cause is assured. It gives you peace of mind.”