Too many young people had been taken too soon. It was devastating to think of the wishes and kisses left unfulfilled, the musical scores and stories left unwritten, the songs left unsung. With bone too new and bone too brittle buried and burned, there was no one left to mourn, no one left to say prayers for the dead. Daina was ready to join them now. She’d been ready for nine years. Being alive was paying penance.
The Lithuanian guards, in awe of this birdlike woman under their command, were speechless and afraid.
“Why is she here?” one of them asked.
“Who sent her?” Both men suspected that God had sent her to the jail.
“She’s an enemy of the people.”
“Do the people know about her wings?”
Another guard said, “What if she puts a curse on us?”
“She won’t curse us,” the police captain said. He’d gone with two others to pick her up. “She’s some kind of angel or something.” He crossed himself.
Daina heard what they said. Huddled in the cell’s corner, her wings cold against the bricks, she thought, Here I am to join my family; here I am to meet my fate. I’ve been found out.
The captain said, “Where are her clothes? What are you fools doing?” One of the guards retrieved her nightgown. The captain averted his eyes and passed it back to her. “I’m sorry.” It didn’t seem right or wise to put her in dingy prison garb. When she was deported, they’d do what was required, but for now, they wouldn’t demean the winged woman. Not until they had no other choice. The captain said, “We should have someone take her picture while we wait to hear from Moscow.”
A new guard, a kid on loan from the army, said, “I know someone with a Zorki. He’s a real photographer. He moved here from Leningrad.”
“Pick him up.”
The captain asked Daina if she was warm enough.
I’m waiting to die.
He got her a blanket. “I’m sorry it’s not softer,” he said. “They don’t issue anything of quality anymore. Are you Lithuanian?”
“From Vilnius,” she said.
The captain asked, “Are you an angel?”
“No. I’m not an angel.”
“But your wings.” His voice echoed. Wings.
She nodded. The cell was big and gray. Its distinguishing characteristics were six metal beds attached by iron to brick walls, a single lightbulb, four barred windows packed with sand for insulation, and the institutional ticktock of a clock manufactured in Klaipėda, Lithuania—a seaport city ravaged by war, then razed and resurrected as an industrial proletariat wasteland.
“I’ll get you some tea. Would you like that?”
Daina nodded.
While the captain steeped her tea, he sent one of the guards to his own home to bring softer blankets, to transform a stainless steel bunk into a cozy nest. The captain divided the dinner his wife had delivered. Whatever happened to this miraculous woman was out of his hands, but he could be good to her while she was in his care. He did not want to sin against one of God’s angels. He did not want to burn in hell.
Daina said little more than, “Thank you.” She hoped her death would be quick.
In the morning, a tall, thin man with wispy black hair and piercing blue eyes entered her cell. He held a camera. “Can I see them?” he asked. “I’m not KGB. I’m a photographer.” He handed her a stained, crumpled business card. Lukas Blasczkiewicz, Professional Photographer. He said, “We’re going to take your picture.”
“What do you want to see?”
He stammered. “Wings . . . your wings? Can I see your wings?”
“No,” she said.
Lukas Blasczkiewicz, professional photographer, said, “I don’t think you have a choice. I didn’t have any choice coming here. They made me bring my lights.” He gestured with his hands. “They woke me in the night and forced me to come.”
Daina said, “I’ll talk to Captain Vincentas. I’m sure there’s some mistake.” But there was no mistake. Everyone was in agreement that they wanted pictures, proof that an angel had been in their Palanga holding cell. “A flash of light won’t hurt her,” the guards agreed. They even took a vote, which was not the most Soviet-minded thing to do. Whatever Daina was—angel, girl bird, or demon—they wanted evidence, before Moscow or anyone else got to see.
“It’s indecent,” she insisted. “It’s obscene.”
Captain Vincentas explained, “You’re the one with the wings.”
She countered, “I don’t mean my wings. I mean,” and she whispered, “taking off my clothes for a camera.”
“You’ve got nothing to lose. You’re being transported to Moscow within the week. From there, you’ll probably be on your way to a gulag. If I could stop this from happening, I would. But I’m no one of importance.”
“Can you just kill me?”
“I would never do that. Of course not.” He held his camera up as proof that he was a photographer and not a murderer.
Daina refused to cry. She could undress by herself or the guards would do it—not Captain Vincentas—as there was some grace in being in charge. Daina chose the first option. To an extent, the policemen permitted her and the photographer some privacy. In the corner of the room, Captain Vincentas kept vigil to make sure that the photographer, whose hair and dress were unkempt, and whose eyes were eerily vivid, didn’t violate the winged girl.
The photographer positioned Daina in front of a flexible screen. Turning on one light after another, he said, “Just try to relax.” Then, he took a deep breath, glancing at the captain in the corner. Here we go. Lukas was nervous. He’d never taken pictures under these circumstances. He’d never seen a woman with wings. He’d never shot a naked woman. He took another deep breath and began snapping photographs, concentrating on the subject and light.
Daina heard the depression of the shutter and the film spindle turn. At first, she faced the photographer, one arm across her breasts, the other between her legs. To empty her mind, she recited in Latin Saint Casimir’s hymn to the Virgin Mary. She turned when the photographer told her to turn, but she wouldn’t move her hands. She bit her lip and blinked in the spotlight. All the while, she wished she might hide her wings, but there weren’t enough arms or hands for that. She imagined the nudie photographs being passed from one man to another. Disgusting. She knelt and she bent over. She stood on tippy toes and held very still. The wings were folded in on her back like a baby bird’s. Then Lukas Blasczkiewicz, the photographer, said, “Look at me. Look at the camera.” Daina’s face was hard. She stared squinting at the awful light. “Just like that,” he said. He thought he could see the wings expanding on either side of her long arms. Daina thought she saw Saint Casimir inside the spotlight. Despite the light’s intensity, she opened her eyes wider to see better. Lukas saw the orange starbursts in her eyes pop like fireworks. At the same time, Daina saw the saint’s robes and then his cherubic face. The saint stretched out his arms, unbelievably long, for her to come, to come and be brave, to have no fear. She was bathed in this heavenly light, and she heard him say, Don’t be afraid. Saint Casimir revealed himself to her. The prayer and words had come from her lips, and in turn, the saint had come to save her. The room glowed. The light from his embrace warmed her. Finally, he’d heeded her words. God had given her wings. No one could do anything to soil them. They were her birthright. She basked in Saint Casimir’s light, dropping her hands to her side, eyes wide. I don’t want to die. For the first time in nine years, I don’t want to die! These two men could take all the photographs they wanted. It didn’t matter. They would never know her or possess her. They would never take her faith. Her wings undulated and spread. There was no reason for shame. Not now. Not ever. Men will pass nudie pictures back and forth. That is what they do. So be it. Lukas Blasczkiewicz wanted to shout, “Turn around!” to get the wings in all their glory. This is the mother lode!
Bu
t his plea was unnecessary. Daina turned on her own. She spread her arms, her calloused fingers wide, like veins within the wings. This was between her and Saint Casimir and God. She was no longer afraid. Daina gave Lukas Blasczkiewicz the shot he wanted. His mother lode. His life’s gold. She turned her wings to his spotlight, feeling them open further, growing, spreading, extending, until they filled the room, until she and Saint Casimir touched in the cold, damp cell. Daina felt enormous, brilliant.
Meanwhile, Captain Vincentas and Lukas Blasczkiewicz were thinking the exact same thing: She is sent from God to right our wrongs. Captain Vincentas said, “I can’t breathe. I have the asthma.” He rushed from the room. The photographer mumbled, “You’re amazing. This is incredible. You’re an angel.” He repeated, “You’re an angel,” “Dear Lord,” and “miracle.” At one point, he ran to the bathroom, but when he came back, he mumbled some more about miracles and gifts from God. He mumbled, the letters losing their order, like speaking in tongues, until the film ran out. “Genius!”
Captain Vincentas returned, his hands on his heart.
Daina glowed. She did not want to die. God did not want her to die. She smiled at Lukas and Captain Vincentas. She was grateful that the police had come for her. She was grateful for another turn.
16
Lukas Blasczkiewicz
Lukas Blasczkiewicz, the photographer, could be a side note or an asterisk, but after he witnessed the illumination of Daina Vilkas Valetkiene, a desire and impetus to make all things beautiful took root in Lukas. From that day forward, he spent hours studying and basking in wonders that others overlooked, from starflowers to weeds, from inchworms to cockroaches and everything in between. He transformed his world into a shrine, a place of worship for breath and motion, and then the oddest thing happened: Lukas Blasczkiewicz stopped aging. Not one gray hair. Not one wrinkle. People noticed his wispy black spikes, like his hair had been whipped, and they regarded his long purposeful strides, the silhouette of a man on stilts. Lukas halted with the same purposefulness when something caught his eye, his upper body swaying forward like a reed.
I was born to a giddy Bolshevik in 1914. Few people know that there were giddy Bolsheviks, but there were, men and women with a fever for revolutionary change. When Czar Nicholas II sent Russian soldiers to fight in the Great War, it was a giddy time for those proletariat-hungry Bolsheviks like my father: a Marxist-Leninist man. A learned man. An earnest man, a real believer in the people. He’d traveled abroad. He’d met Lenin. He knew exiled theorists. He wanted to stake his claim in the reformation of a new Russia. He wanted to do something grand—to get rid of the monarchy. Who do they think they are? The world is aflame!
I was born taking pictures. I’m a photographer, and even as a boy, I saw things in pictures, moving and still. So picture a man, so happy that he is kicking his boots in the air, heel to heel, tap tap in your head, and he’s nearly horizontal. This was my father.
A prankster. He was not as serious as the other famous revolutionaries, like Lenin, Stalin, Dzerzhinsky, and Trotsky. He laughed too much. Like Dzerzhinsky, he was born in Poland, but unlike Dzerzhinsky, he’d never been tortured or jailed. His jaw was intact. And he was never famous. Just giddy. A jokester, a fool.
When Czar Nicholas II abdicated the throne, my father celebrated with spirits. He made merry. My sisters and I were babies. My mother told us these things. In 1918, when my father read in the newspaper that Czar Nicholas II, his wife, and their five children had been killed by the Bolsheviks, he hid his face behind his drafting hand. According to my mother, he said, “Well, it was necessary. We will discuss it no further. I don’t think.” He paused. “It’s terrible, but it’s for the people.”
She said, “That’s no good, killing children. We have three girls and a boy. The czarina had four girls and a boy. Her boy was not much older than Lukas. They used cold steel.”
According to my mother, my father told her that some evils are necessary, and that we should not think too closely on it. All his life, he’d wanted to think too closely, nose-deep in everything, but not this. “After all,” he said, “one of those children might’ve claimed the throne.”
“And rightfully so. It’s their throne.” Mother smacked our father. She did this whenever his notions infuriated her. She was not a revolutionary. She was a mother with a hot temper and swift hand.
The revolution came—just as my father had hoped. But what had he anticipated? There was no great parade. No celebrations. The churches were closed. The shops were rationed and nationalized. Food disappeared. Then there was the Red Terror, the Cheka—hundreds of henchmen donning long black coats, rounding up landowners, the top military officers, their wives and children, the clergy, the bourgeoisie. Everyday people on the street.
Thousands were shot on suspicion of being enemies of the Bolsheviks and then “enemies of the people.” The numbers were printed in the newspaper as a warning. According to Mother, Father justified these murders by saying, “Lenin can’t have another revolution. Russia can’t have another revolution. He’s doing what’s necessary.” Mother smacked him. In 1920, Father worked as an illustrator for Pravda, one of Russia’s newspapers.
Six years later, the men in dark coats came to our door. Perhaps Father expected it, but I don’t think so. Like I said, he was giddy with revolution, always wanting to be part of something big. We knew this. So when the henchmen came, we all wondered, Why are they here? Father is a Bolshevik. He is true to Lenin. Why is Father being arrested? I was twelve. My sisters were five, seven, and nine. I remember thinking that we might be going with him. I knew of other children who’d disappeared, but they did not want us, only Father. I had suspicions as to why we were spared. These notions had to do with my mother. With long black hair, and eyes like sapphires, she was exotic-looking. More importantly, she was admired by a man who knew a man who knew Joseph Stalin, Lenin’s successor. Thankfully, this man was not a friend of Joseph Stalin’s. To be Stalin’s friend meant that you would inevitably be suspected of trying to undermine him, which meant that you would be shot in the nape of the neck or sentenced to hard labor. These were the options. Stalin was a great liquidator and exterminator. He quickly learned that the cleanest and quickest way to kill someone was to have them bend over, to point the gun upward at the nape of the neck and pull the trigger. Less blood. Less mess. Less writhing and moaning. I think this was partly learned when the last czar and czarina and their five children were killed. Rumor has it that they fought. Rumor has it that bayonets ended their young lives. Too much mess. It was that cold steel Mother mentioned. I see these things in color. I always have. Too much red.
My father was sentenced to twenty years hard labor. It had something to do with one of his cartoons, some suspicion that he was spreading anti-Soviet propaganda. Father denied this claim until he was faced with death or prison. Admission meant prison. Denial meant death. With this in mind, he confessed to a crime he hadn’t committed.
The portly man who was a friend of a friend of Stalin’s was named Anton. He visited the house when my father was working in Petrograd—before Father’s arrest. My mother had told us that we were not to tell my father about Anton’s visits. We never disobeyed Mother. Besides, for some time, Father’s giddiness had been waning.
After the Cheka—the secret police—took my father away, Anton visited more frequently. I think he gave my mother ration coupons. I know that he gave her furs. My sisters and I pretended that nothing was wrong. We weren’t permitted to do otherwise. There were to be no tears. I understood that to cry, especially in front of Anton, meant that I might join my father in some tundra prison. Anton often said, “Tell the boy not to look at me. His eyes are like ice.” I had my mother’s eyes. I still do.
My mother drank tea and acted like the bourgeoisie we were supposed to despise. She met with other ladies who wore plumed hats, and she talked about Anton, waving her hands, the cuffs of her blouses adorned with gold thread.
She wiggled her pinky finger to describe Anton’s manhood. The ladies laughed. In his absence, my father’s giddiness had apparently taken hold of Mother. She took to drinking hard spirits and laughing too robustly for someone whose husband had been sentenced to hard labor.
I was thirteen when Anton bought me my first camera. I thanked him, averting my eyes, shaking his hand like the young man I was supposed to be. He bought my sisters all manner of dolls with eyes that opened and closed. Somehow, he had money. I knew too that he had his own wife and children in Kiev. My sisters and I called him Uncle Anton and sat on the front steps when he and mother went into our father’s bedroom. If you can picture us there, me and my sisters lined up smallest to tallest, all of us with our mother’s raven hair and blue eyes, licking our fingers, eating the sweets Uncle Anton brought—you’d see that we were smiling. I wish I had snapped our photo on one of those afternoons, but there was something deeply sad in us. I never thought of it then. Back then, I only thought of the sugar on my tongue, how lucky I was that there was a man bringing candy, but now I remember the sadness.
We grew up. Mother grew disoriented. Anton died. Father came home in 1944, eighteen years after he’d been taken away. I was thirty years old. My sisters were married. The oldest was a doctor. The middle sister was in a sanitarium. The youngest sister was in Siberia. She and her husband had been declared “enemies of the people.” No one knew why. When Father came home, he was no longer giddy. His jaw was intact, but he walked with a limp. His right hand had been broken three or four times, so he started drawing dark disfigured faces with his left hand.
I worked for a local newspaper, taking pictures of farmers and factory workers.
I lived at home with Mother and Father. In my spare time, I worked as a portrait artist, taking photographs of those who could pay for developer and lighting, plus a few extra rubles for necessities or extravagances for pretty girls. And then, in 1950, I was reassigned to the former Lithuania. The Soviet Union was deporting Lithuanians to Siberia and simultaneously sending Russians to Lithuania, repopulating the state.
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