“I knew it!” The Old Man made a fist and bit his knuckle. “I just knew it.”
The captain continued. “Things never happened like that. She is the only one ever released. But how often do you see a girl with wings? Never! Right? Of course! So it isn’t so surprising that she was released, not when you think about it that way. Of course it isn’t.” Vincentas smiled then, remembering her. “Do you have another cigar?”
The Old Man did not. “No. Sorry.”
“What do you want with her?” the captain asked. “She’ll be an old woman now like I’m an old man.”
“We were friends,” the Old Man said, “before the war.” He was afraid to tell anyone that Daina was his sister. He didn’t know if that might raise suspicions of some sort.
Rising from his chair, Captain Vincentas said, “Let’s take a look.” The captain limped down a dark corridor, the Old Man trailing. Then dropping his keys, the captain stopped at the last door. “This one,” he said, reaching down for the keys. “There should be something in here.” He struggled to separate the keys and looked back at the Old Man. “How did you say you knew her?”
“We were friends.”
The captain found the right key and turned the lock. Before the light switch was flipped, the smell of dusty old paper met the two men. Then the sound of fluorescent lights coming to life. “I hid her in here,” the captain said. “I think I did. We were supposed to throw her away.” He looked into the Old Man’s hopeful blue eyes. “Who throws people away? She’ll be here somewhere.” The captain slid the keys into his front pants pocket and surveyed the room. In the back corner, atop an old wooden table, there was an unlabeled cardboard box. He sorted through the folders, his fingertips gray with dust. “I remember that there was a man who picked her up. He was her husband, although she seemed destined for something greater than marriage. Not me. Did you know my wife?” He looked at the Old Man.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“How would you? . . . Your old friend was a beautiful girl. My wife made food for her.” Captain Vincentas was nostalgic, while the Old Man was anxious. “My wife was good-hearted, always wanting to feed the prisoners because none of them were guilty of anything except maybe stealing a piece of bread or bad-mouthing Stalin.”
“Are the files in alphabetical order?”
The captain laughed. “Of course not. That would make sense.”
“Sorry,” the Old Man said.
“Who are you again?” the captain asked, his fingers moving from file to file.
Before the Old Man could say anything more, the captain said, “I found her: Daina Valetkiene. I’ll write down the address for you.”
The Old Man didn’t know the name Valetkiene, but he trusted the captain. “Thank you so much,” he told him.
The captain pulled a scrap of envelope from the file cabinet and jotted down the Valetkys address from January eighth 1951. “Of course, you mean her no harm?” he asked the Old Man.
“Absolutely not. Of course not. She was my good friend.”
“Here.” Vincentas handed the address to the Old Man. “I hope that you find her. And if you do, tell her that I’m sorry she had to come here. It wasn’t my fault.”
The Old Man did not know what to say. He was holding his sister’s last known address. His sister Daina had survived! For a second he considered that Nelly could have been wrong. Maybe all three sisters had survived.
The captain flipped off the light switch and pulled the records room door shut. They went back to his chair. “I never got to tell her that I was sorry. You didn’t do that then. If you find her, will you tell her for me?”
The Old Man said, “Of course. I give you my word.”
The captain grabbed on to the Old Man’s forearm. “My wife died five years ago this month. It started me thinking about the angel who was here.” The captain’s eyes drooped. “About the afterlife, if there is one. I’m waiting now, biding my time to join my Lila. We have no children. I wanted children, but Lila didn’t. She said there was too much death for children. I miss Lila.” Captain Vincentas dozed off.
The Old Man sat for a minute watching him sleep, glancing at the scrap of paper, his sister’s address. His heart felt like it might explode. He was elated but also sick to his stomach. Folding and unfolding the address, he perspired. He couldn’t lose it. He couldn’t rub the ink out. He slipped it into his coat pocket.
Out on the street, the Old Man had to steady himself against the brick exterior. A car sped by and splashed slush on his shoes. He had to think straight. It was hard. Pulling a tourist brochure from his back pocket, he searched for his sister’s street on the map. It was nearby, less than a mile probably, and the Old Man liked walking, but now he walked slowly, afraid of what he’d encounter. Daina might’ve moved. It’d been nearly four decades since she’d been arrested. She might’ve passed away. The Old Man made the sign of the cross. Probably, she moved. He rolled the piece of paper, now moist, in his pocket. He remembered Daina’s wings responding to the sun, his mother singing arias, her voice carrying over the dunes. The birds flying overhead. He could picture Danut˙e and Audra playing music. And tag. Running on the beach and in the surf. He remembered his mother as silly and wonderful, chasing after her girls. All at once, he longed for Ingeburg. He was grateful that he was not an old man alone. There was someone who loved him unconditionally.
The Old Man’s feet and heart pounded faster and faster as he approached his sister’s address. He breathed heavily, stopping and looking at the two-story walk-up. The Old Man paced a good ten minutes before knocking on the door. He waited, his palms sweaty. Can she actually be here? Will she know me? He brushed his fingers through his beard and cleared his throat.
When Daina opened the door enough to see beneath the chain, the Old Man, no longer feeling like an old man but feeling like Frederick, the boy he’d been, recognized his little sister. She, however, did not know him. She was not born where he was born—on the outskirts of Vilnius in a well-appointed brick home. Daina was born two decades later in a jail cell when Saint Casimir came to her in a vision.
In Lithuanian, Frederick said, “May I speak with you?”
“What about?”
“I knew your family.”
Daina unlatched the door and called for Stasys, who was editing a hygiene pamphlet.
“There’s a man here who knew my family.”
Removing his cap, Frederick smoothed his hair. “Am I familiar to you?”
“No,” she said. “Should you be?”
“I hoped.” He felt the address in his pocket.
Stasys said, “How can we help you?” His features had remained small. His hair was thick and moppy. The scar above his left eye was barely visible. “Who are you again?”
“I am a friend of the family.”
“I don’t know you,” Daina said. Her face was weathered from walking the sea, but her eyes were as big, as filled with orange starbursts, as Frederick remembered.
Daina wore her hair long, how Frederick remembered it. She had it plaited beneath a red kerchief.
Frederick said, “I am pleased to meet you.” He rubbed his palms down the front of his slacks. Despite the damp cold, he was sweating. Addressing Daina, he said, “I saw a photograph of you. I’m traveling here with my wife, and when we were in Vilnius, there was a picture of you and your wings, and I knew your wings.” He hadn’t known what to say, where to start. Despite his nerves, he hadn’t rehearsed what he’d say as he thought he should’ve because it seemed a jinx, like if he imagined seeing her again, it would not come true.
“What do you mean you saw a photograph of her? What do you want with us?” Stasys asked the Old Man. “How do you know about my wife’s wings?” His face reddened.
“He doesn’t know about anything,” Daina said. “No one knows.”
The Old Man couldn�
�t hold it in. He was desperate. “I am your brother, Daina. It’s me, Frederick.” He hadn’t meant to confess his identity so suddenly.
“You are a liar.”
“I met the photographer. He will be so happy to know that you are well.”
“I am making dinner.” Turning to Stasys, Daina said, “Please show this gentleman to the door. I am making dinner.”
“And I met the captain at the jail. He said to tell you that he is sorry.” Frederick followed Daina into the kitchen.
Stasys said, “You need to leave,” and tried to block the way. Frederick was stockier and nudged him to the side. Frederick continued, “I’m sorry, but please, Daina, this is important.”
Daina’s wings, which hadn’t extended in years, pressed against the wool fabric of her blue shift.
Stasys said, “Are you all right, darling?”
“I don’t have a brother,” she said, adding a pinch of salt to the boiling pot. “And I’m fine except for the stranger in our house. He should leave.”
“I am your brother,” Frederick said. “I can prove it.”
“He should leave now.” She turned to the stranger in her house, her expression like a wild animal about to pounce. “The Russians shot my brother alongside my father.”
“No, not me. The Germans took me,” Frederick said. “Everyone said that you had died. Everyone said that the whole family was murdered.”
Daina’s wings pulsed against the blue shift.
Frederick said, “I knew you by the orange starbursts in your eyes.”
Daina picked up two plates, one in each hand.
“I’d know you anywhere, Daina.” Frederick showed her his palms. “Do you sing like Mother? I don’t know why I was surprised to hear that you were in Palanga. I remember how much you loved the sea. I still remember that first time the sun shone on your wings, and we all saw them move. Do you remember?” He could show her his family portrait. It was in his back pocket.
Daina held on to the plates even as she trembled, pink water creasing her brow, potatoes sliced, piled on the counter, a pungent cheese beside them. On a wood block, a sheet of pastry and pile of red currants waited to be wrapped and baked. Daina’s blue shift was stiff and suffocating, the room warm with steam. The window ledge, piled with snow, insulated them from everything beyond.
“You should go now,” Daina said.
“Do you remember Nelly? She was our neighbor. She was your age. You must remember her, Daina!” Frederick dug through his pockets. “I have a photograph.” He couldn’t find it. “Nelly brought me potatoes and broth, some bread. The family hid me before the Nazis came for them.”
Daina looked pleadingly at Stasys. She held on to the porcelain plates embossed Made in Klaipėda as if they were her hands.
Frederick said, “I didn’t know you were alive until we were in Vilnius. I brought my son and my granddaughter to see where I am born, where we are from.” He was still searching his pockets, sweating more profusely in the warmth of the kitchen.
“You aren’t from here,” Daina said. She slammed the plates into the sink. They splintered and cracked, the name Klaipėda remaining among the shards. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
Stasys’s voice boomed: “Get out!” He took hold of the Old Man’s wool collar. “You have to leave. Now.” Stasys was a slight man, but his stature belied his strength and love for Daina. He practically carried the Old Man down the steps and onto the street. “Leave her alone,” Stasys said. “She doesn’t want you here.” He locked and chained the door, turning to rest against it. He could hear Daina crying upstairs.
On the street, the Old Man was crushed. He pressed his palms to the latched door. His sister was beyond that door. His sister was beyond his reach.
26
Prudence
The Old Man returned defeated to the hotel room in Palanga’s resort district where I was waiting. Ingeburg, Freddie, and Veronica had gone for a late lunch, but I’d remained behind, anxious to hear what the Old Man had discovered. My Oma had tried to convince me to go with them for a bite. She kept saying that this was a time for champagne and parties. Didn’t I know that the wall was coming down?
When he returned, the Old Man’s look was one of resignation. He explained that as much as he wanted his sister to know him, to see beneath his white hair and lined brow, he would not persist. After all these years, he could not defy her wishes. She did not want him there. She did not want to know him. He claimed that it should be enough for him to know that she had survived the war and an iron curtain. It ought to be enough to know that she was well, that she’d married and returned to her beloved seashore.
I had only known my grandfather since June, but this was not the man I knew. “No,” I told him. “You can’t just give up.”
He kept insisting that he couldn’t bother her if she did not want him there. He would not do that.
“But you have to try and know her,” I explained. “She’s your sister.”
He sat on the bed, dropping his chin to his chest, and started to cry. “I am a fool. I left her behind.” He wiped his face with his shirt’s collar.
I didn’t know it at the time, but a few short blocks away, Daina was confessing to her husband that she shouldn’t have sent her brother away. She told Stasys, “What if he doesn’t return? How will I find him?”
The Old Man told me, “She doesn’t want to be found. She doesn’t want to know me. Can I blame her? I am her big brother, and I do not see her for forty-eight years. Why should she know me? I failed her. I failed all of them.”
“You have to go back.” I was going too.
While I knocked, the Old Man looked skyward. From the force of my knock alone, the door blew open. The Old Man remained beyond the threshold while I entered, perching on the bottom step and looking up. Daina and Stasys were poised on the top step. I saw them. In the darkness, I couldn’t see her eyes. Nor could I see her wings, but I knew her. I even felt that I knew him. It made no sense, but often life is like that. That’s the miracle of all this.
I didn’t think. I didn’t have to. I remember saying, “I’m Prudence. I’m like you.” The Old Man came up behind me. In Lithuanian, he told his sister, “This is the granddaughter who wants to meet you. She was born with wings.”
Daina descended one step and I saw her eyes in the dim light. Over and over, I’d been told that my eyes resembled hers, first from the Old Man and then from Lukas Blasczkiewicz, but now I could see for myself. Except for my hair, which I got from Freddie, I resembled no one in my family. But now I did.
I moved behind the Old Man to pull the door shut. We were letting in the cold. “Go on,” I told him. “They haven’t told us to leave.” I nudged him, but he was a stalwart, and he didn’t budge until Daina said, “Please come upstairs.”
“I don’t want to bother you,” the Old Man told her. “Are you sure it’s all right?” Later, he would translate everything spoken between them.
On the landing, Stasys reached out to take our coats. I handed him mine and hugged the old woman I knew through the Old Man’s stories. I felt her stiffen. I had her gooney legs and starburst eyes, but she was sixty-four and not the young woman who’d freed me from the piling.
She turned toward the kitchen, and we followed. Stasys pulled two chairs out from a round table indicating for us to sit. In Lithuanian, the Old Man told Daina that he was sorry, that he hadn’t known she was alive.
Steam encircled Daina’s face. She was making dinner, pounding dough for currants, small beads of sweat at her temples.
The Old Man asked if she recognized him now. He wanted to know if that was the reason she’d changed her mind and let him in. He began to cry. “I wanted to save you. I wanted to save everyone. I failed you. I went for help, but Father was killed.” The water on the stove boiled and bubbled up to the edge of the stainless steel pot.
Even without knowing the language, I could infer what Daina said next. She asked the Old Man if he’d abandoned them. “Did you run and hide while I watched Audra and Danut˙e die?” Her voice cracked. “Did you leave us to die, brother? Mirtis?” She bent forward and I saw serrated tips, sharp as knives, cut through the blue shift she wore.
The Old Man was Frederick now, a poor beast, and for the second time in less than a week, he tried to get to his knees, but off-kilter, he fell over. “I didn’t run away. I didn’t know. I would never run away,” he told her.
I got up from the chair.
Stasys returned to the kitchen. “Daina?” He was scared. His wife’s wings were like two fat butcher knives cutting through her shift.
From the linoleum, Frederick said, “Father was killed. I tried to save him. When I came home, the neighbors told me that they’d taken Mother away and that your bodies had been put in a wagon.” Pressing his palms to the floor, he got to his knees. “I went to the house. There was no one there.” He folded his hands together. “I beg you to forgive me.”
Daina went to Frederick and placed her hands on his shoulders. With her wings extended in the warm kitchen, she looked like a visiting angel. “Nothing is your fault, brother.”
He pressed his tired face against the inside of her forearm. She told him, “I hid. I built a nest and waited. And then I met Stasys. Remember your story about the bear? I thought that Stasys was a bear. Do you remember your bear, brother?”
Of course he remembered his bear. He kissed the inside of her forearm. Daina turned to me. I stood beside her kitchen chair. I have wings like you. Five syllables, thumb to pinky.
Her hands fluttered above her chest like she was trying to keep her heart in place. Her wings unfurled even further, like her father’s accordion, a sweet, high timbre, the glint of a stainless steel knife spreading layers of steam through the kitchen. She stroked my cheek. Her rough fingertips reminded me of Freddie’s, but their coarseness was not from music, but from labor—needle and thread. She felt my face, my jawline, the swoop of my nose and the shape of my eye. Everything was new and strange. I told Daina that I had scars but no wings.
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