Above Us Only Sky

by Michele Young-Stone

  Lukas Blasczkiewicz approached Veronica, who was studying a photograph of lemons spilling from a wheelbarrow. Above the lemons, there appeared to be a ring of fairylike creatures.

  “That’s a fake,” Lukas Blasczkiewicz said. By way of explanation, he added, “That photograph you are looking at now: I didn’t take it. I bought it for nothing.”

  Veronica said, “I like the shade of yellow.” Freddie stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

  Lukas set down his cat. “Those fairies aren’t real”—he rubbed his chin—“but I thought they were. Oh well. It’s some kind of trick photography. Still, the lemons are lemony.”

  The cat rubbed against my calf. “What’s the cat’s name?”

  “Cat. Kat˙e.”

  I knelt to pet the animal.

  Lukas said, “I feel that you’re what’s blown in from the east.” I was feeling the same thing. We all were.

  The Old Man answered Lukas by pointing speechless at a photograph hanging above my head. I turned to see where he was pointing. It was a photograph of a woman with wings. She was naked, both arms and wings spread horizontally across the frame, like if you were close enough to the picture, you’d get buoyed up by them. This woman was fierce. Right away, I recognized her, remembered her from beneath the waves, her long arms disentangling me from the pier’s pilings.

  Lukas spoke up. “She was very real.” He said to the Old Man, “Do you like that one? She is my life’s inspiration.” His eyes were a steely blue. “A vision sent by God to give me sight.”

  The Old Man pointed at the picture and then at Lukas Blasczkiewicz. His finger was bulbous, yellow from cigar smoke. “This is my sister in this photograph.” I wasn’t surprised by his proclamation because I knew her.

  Lukas Blasczkiewicz said, “I am seventy-five years old.” His butterflies flitted and his dragonflies zipped overhead.

  “How?” the Old Man asked. “How? You are young. When was this taken? This is my sister, I tell you!”

  Lukas tapped his lip, counting half seconds. “I met her thirty-eight years ago. On the eighth of January, 1951. I was thirty-seven.”

  At last, I felt my ghostly wings move, the tips tickling my back from within.

  “Where was she?” the Old Man asked.

  “I have a dozen pictures.”

  “Where? Where was she?”

  “I remember everything about that day,” Lukas said. “There was a new moon, and like today, it was snowing.” We followed Lukas to a small enameled table. Opening the drawer and taking a seat, he rifled through photographs. “She was to be deported as an enemy of the state, but then they discovered her wings, and the Lithuanians wanted pictures before the Russians had her.”

  Despite his only having two, his legs reminded me of spider legs, long and spindly.

  The Old Man interrupted Lukas. “Where?”

  Lukas Blasczkiewicz didn’t answer. He continued with his story. “At first, the wings were flat against her back, but then she saw something.” He held up a photograph. “I could see that she saw something or someone because she looked through me. She murmured ‘Saint Casimir,’ or I heard it anyway, somehow, and then her wings moved. They extended. You could even say they suspended her off the ground. There were only two of us in the room with her.”

  The Old Man put his hand on his heart. “Where was this? What if she’s still alive?”

  “She’d been picked up by KGB.” Lukas shook his head. “I don’t know how she would’ve survived an order from Moscow.” He crossed himself.

  We were all stunned that we’d found Daina here on a side street in Vilnius, and I remember feeling nostalgic for my own childhood, for those missed years with Freddie. Lukas stood up. I watched him closely, thinking right away that he should take a photograph of my wings.

  He slipped between an opening in the red drapes, and when he emerged, he presented the Old Man with a large manila envelope. He said, “These are copies of the photographs. No one told me her name. I don’t know her name.”

  “Daina,” the Old Man said. “Her name is Daina.”

  Even sixteen years later, I remember the sensation that I felt during this exchange. My body was raw, the nerve endings exposed, like I was being made over from scratch, handled adroitly by a new maker to be set on a new course. I wanted to ask him, Can you take my picture?

  Lukas Blasczkiewicz had a lot to tell us, beginning with the story of how Daina had changed his life. Before meeting her, he’d had no hope. He trudged through life, taking his photographs, perceiving men and women, his subject matter, as sad, pathetic creatures moving from filmstrip to filmstrip until the film ran out and they left this world. After he met Daina, hope was like white chalk on black pants. There was no getting rid of it. On this chilly afternoon in Vilnius, Lithuania, a stone’s throw from the Museum of Atheism, his hope passed to us. He was part of our constellation now, an important star never to be forgotten.

  He told us in detail of his salvation, how birds came to him in red, ocher, blue, and tan, landing in his courtyard, resting on his head—how the starlings had done with me—drinking from his palm, perched on his arms and legs. He told us that when he was granted permission to return to Russia, he chose to move here, near the university. Lithuania was his home.

  It was ours too.

  When I was sixteen, I felt fortunate and blessed, and now that I am twice the age I was then, and the Old Man is apparently on his deathbed, I feel cheated and sad, and I know what Lukas Blasczkiewicz would say to me. He would tell me that everyone has a time to meet his maker. I am not Lukas Blasczkiewicz. I am selfish.

  In Lithuania, the Old Man spoke in the present tense. He said, “Daina is our songbird, the youngest and most adventurous in our family. Her precociousness is encouraged because she is the baby.”

  Lukas made a sad taa noise, a verbal resignation that she was gone. I spoke up, telling him, “I was born with wings like her.” Nervous, I slipped my hands in my pockets. “Would you take my picture, please?” This man was like Wheaton. He saw what others failed to see. Maybe through his camera lens, he would see my wings.

  Freddie said, “No, Prudence. You don’t need to have your picture taken.”

  Lukas said, “I will take her photograph.”

  I pointed my finger at Freddie, probably how the Old Man used to point his finger at my father, and I said, “You have no say-so here.” It was too late for him to start acting like a doting father. One of the zipping dragonflies caught in my hair.

  “You’re trapped,” Lukas said.

  I struggled to free the dragonfly from my hair while explaining to Lukas that my wings were taken when I was a baby. “I must’ve inherited them from my great-aunt Daina.”

  “Your birthright,” Lukas said. He flung the red curtain back and said, “Come this way. Follow me.” I was afraid, but not of Lukas, his cool eyes and willowy gait. I was afraid that he wouldn’t see my birthright. I wanted someone else to see. Not just me and Wheaton. The cat ran ahead of Lukas.

  There was a short hallway. I followed Lukas to a doorway that led to a room situated beneath the stairs. From the opening, which required Lukas to crouch, the room stretched back to an exposed brick wall. As we walked farther into the room, it expanded. The ceiling was tall and growing taller. Lukas Blasczkiewicz’s voice echoed when he asked me, “How about here?” He pointed to a white screen on wheels.

  “Here is good.” It is all very familiar still, like it could’ve been yesterday when he took my picture, but it wasn’t yesterday. It was 1989, and I was a girl desperate for beginnings, as many as I could gather and hold in my arms, stuff deep in my pockets, tangle in my hair. I didn’t know if the Old Man’s sister was alive. Truthfully, I thought she had to be dead, if not from the police, then from old age. I remember thinking that what had made Daina special wasn’t just the gift of wings, but the fact that they still
existed in pictures. Forever, she’d be a photograph, a score of photographs. Forever, there’d be the story of the girl in a jail cell in Palanga, a girl with wings. There’d be the story of the blue-eyed photographer who took her picture. And then there were the photographs and the copies of the photographs and the copies of those copies that proved she existed. They proved that she hadn’t died in 1941 as the Old Man thought. Pictures, I understood, were important. Daina would live on forever in this way.

  I wanted to live forever. At sixteen, you think you might be dead by the age of thirty. Fortunately, I did not die at age thirty. I grew up.

  We were in a big room with high white ceilings like a glass of milk. The exposed bricks were mossy in spots and purple in other places. Lukas called it the Great Room. I pulled my shirt overhead and unhooked my bra. “Do you want a stool?” he asked.

  “No thank you.” I turned so that Lukas could see my scars. My back. Maybe my wings.

  Lukas clicked on one light and put the camera strap around his neck. My hands were tucked beneath my arms, covering my breasts. I felt vulnerable, but it felt good. I thought he would see my wings, but all of a sudden, I could not feel them. It was strange.

  After ten depressions, Lukas stopped. Letting my hands fall to my side, I looked at him. I was angry. Sad. He put the camera to his face and started taking more pictures. I remember feeling like I’d been possessed, like one of those forest bears, fierce and growling, had taken hold of me. Why? Because this man couldn’t see me for who I was. He couldn’t see my wings. I knew it. And what did he see when I stared at him, when I turned angry, baring my teeth, on the verge of pouncing?

  I couldn’t think straight, and then he clapped his hands together. “We are done. That’s enough.”

  It was like waking from a dream. I felt confused. My clothes were at my feet.

  He tapped his foot, the cat encircling his calf. “I wonder if your wings are with God.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I wonder if he’s holding them for you.” He tapped his lip.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me neither. It’s a thought.”

  Lukas had things to do, so it was time for us to go. The Old Man embraced him. Lukas gave Veronica a smaller print of the lemon picture with fairies. “For the lemon-yellow color,” he explained. “You can hang it up somewhere, I bet.”

  Ingeburg kissed Lukas’s cheek. He said, “You are a beautiful woman.” I felt that he could see my Oma for the girl she’d been before the war. I’m sure of it. He shook Freddie’s hand. Lukas said to my father, “Not every good story needs a fool.” I think Freddie was offended, but he said, “It was nice to meet you.”

  To me, Lukas said, “You are with the birds. Soaring. Flying. Don’t worry about what used to be. If you lose something, you let it go. Do you understand?”

  I nodded that I understood, but I didn’t. Not then.

  Lukas ushered us into the white night, bolting the door behind us. He was wonderfully smart and strange.

  As we trekked back to the hotel, the Old Man said, “I’m sure that my sister is still alive. If she was alive in 1951, I’m sure that she’s alive now.” There was never anyone as optimistic as the Old Man.

  When I was twenty-four, Lukas sent me his first published collection of photographs. It included multiple images of my scars. In stark black-and-white, they were rendered as seams. In soft blues, as zippers. In red, as knife wounds. My aunt Daina’s photographs also appeared in the book. Treated with milk, they were white like Wheaton’s eyes when his visions came. It was only after Wheaton disappeared that I realized how similar he and Lukas Blasczkiewicz were.

  25

  The Old Man

  The Old Man told Natasha Sluska, “We have to go to Palanga.”

  “It’s not on our itinerary.”

  “Put it on our itinerary.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know if I can say the truth to you.”

  She rolled her eyes before blowing her nose. “What is it?”

  “I want to see the Baltic Sea.”

  “In November?”

  “Please, Mrs. Sluska. I beg of you.”

  “And you lie to me. You don’t want to see the Baltic. Why do you want to see the Baltic?”

  The Old Man was not in the habit of begging for anything. He put his hands out in front to steady his footing and crouched down, trying to get on his knees. He would convince the Russian official with the sniffly cold to change her mind, but the Old Man was off balance. With one knee on the floor, he toppled over, his burning cigar singeing his beard. In the fetal position, his black socks and garters showed. He reached for the rolling cigar.

  “We’re going to Kaunas,” she said. “That’s on our itinerary.”

  “Please.”

  “In November, comrade? What is the real reason you want to go to the Baltic?”

  “Can you ask for permission, please?”

  “Palanga is not on our itinerary.”

  “But it’s important.”

  “Why?” Natasha coughed.

  “It just is.”

  The Old Man was still on his back on the floor, but he’d gotten his cigar and put it to his lips.

  Natasha Sluska lit a cigarette and frowned. “Tell me why. Tell me the real reason why you want to go to Palanga.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “In confidence?”

  “In confidence,” she agreed.

  “There is someone I need to see. Someone very important to me.”

  “Who is it? Was she a girlfriend of yours?”

  “I have no girlfriends.” The Old Man rolled onto his side.

  “Who is it?”

  “I can’t,” the Old Man said.

  “I can’t either,” she said. “I can’t help you.” She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, blew her nose. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  The Old Man rolled onto his back. “Good night,” he told Natasha Sluska. He couldn’t tell her the truth. If, God willing, his sister was still alive, if she’d somehow managed to escape the KGB, they might go after her again. They’d be suspicious of an American brother. The KGB wouldn’t care that Daina was old. They had never cared about such things. She’d be the same age as Ingeburg: sixty-four. It seemed impossible that she would’ve survived, but the Old Man now believed wholeheartedly in impossibilities. He had to go to Palanga. He had to know what became of her.

  The next morning, they rode in a van toward Kaunas. During the Polish occupation of Vilnius, Kaunas had served as Lithuania’s capital. The Old Man had no use for Kaunas. He remembered it as a nice-enough city, but he needed to get to Palanga. He had been up all night strategizing. Perhaps when they returned to Moscow, he could petition the government for another tour, and they would assign him someone new and allow him to visit the seaside resort. His wife was talking about a future trip to Berlin. “Yes, fine,” he told her. They would go to Berlin in the future, but for now, he had to figure out how to get to Palanga. In the van, his granddaughter read aloud from a small pamphlet about the Ninth Fort in Kaunas. “ ‘Built by Russia’s tsarists, it was later used as a Nazi extermination fort.’” Prudence looked up from the pamphlet. “Will we visit the Ninth Fort?” she asked Natasha Sluska.

  Looking back from the passenger’s seat, Natasha said, “No, we will not go there. We are not going to see the Ninth Fort because we are not going to Kaunas. There has been a change of itinerary.”

  “Where are we going?” Ingeburg asked.

  “To Palanga for the salt air. It’s been terrible weather, and I’ve felt very poorly. I arranged our lodgings last night.”

  The Old Man couldn’t believe it. He had been wrong about the Russian woman. She was a fine person. “Thank you.”
r />   “Don’t thank me. For what? I didn’t do anything.” Natasha Sluska turned back around.

  “Thank you,” he said again.

  “Just leave it.”

  In Palanga, the Old Man walked a cracked sidewalk that he remembered from when he was a boy. There was an herb store and a fish market. These places were familiar, but they’d taken pictures of their Palanga vacations, and his father had kept those in a book, so the Old Man might be remembering a photograph and not an actual time. He knew that memory could be tricky like that.

  They were far from Moscow, and Natasha Sluska had ventured off on her own. The Old Man could not stop thanking her, and she told him that if he did not stop, she would change her mind. He didn’t say another word. Walking the seaside streets, the Old Man tasted the salt on his lips. He was excited but scared. He didn’t know what he’d find. He told his family that he would have to search for her on his own. This was something he alone must do. A whole group of foreigners would certainly attract suspicion, and besides, only he knew Daina.

  Before he left the others, the Old Man kissed Ingeburg and joked with Veronica and Freddie that they never should’ve divorced. Prudence had a worried expression on her face. “Be careful,” she advised.

  The Old Man’s first stop was the police station, where he found an old police captain named Vincentas. The on-duty officers told the Old Man that Vincentas had been at the station since it was built. “If anyone would have information about an arrest in 1951, it’d be him.” Besides, they were too busy to help him. No one had time to search for some old file that had probably been destroyed. From 1951? Yeah, she’d be long gone.

  No longer of use to the police force, Captain Vincentas sat in the back room drinking tea and pretending to be of importance. He had a tan face and green eyes. His salt-and-ginger moustache was curled up at the ends. Vincentas informed the Old Man, “Of course, I remember the girl with wings. She lit up. It was a miracle, and then she was supposed to go to Moscow or Siberia or somewhere, and there was a telephone call saying we were to release her. Just like that.”