“Fend for yourself then,” Steponas had said. And yet he could not just leave an old man who could be dead soon, if not from war then from drink.
“Father. Come with me. Please. Together we will manage.”
His father had raised his head, shaking it like a surly bear.
“No! I will never leave my country. If you want to go, you snivelling puppy, then go. I will fight to the end. I will die fighting.”
And he’d brought his fist down on the table.
Steponas took a last look at the room in which he had lived his entire nineteen years. He saw his mother cowering behind the green ceramic stove, felt her shoving him out the way of his father’s blows. There was no reason to stay. He could carry with him anything worth remembering. And visiting his mother’s grave to ask forgiveness, he left.
Chapter 3
Every Sunday, Maryte took Dobilas to mass at the Lithuanian church, a modest building at the corner of Dundas and Gore Vale. In the small chapel rather like a low-ceilinged extension off to one side, she would pray to the Virgin Mary, her blue-robed head surrounded by a starburst of gilt. God could be of more practical help, Maryte would say to the ornate icon. But rising from her knees, she always felt calmed, uplifted and refreshed.
They would drift west along Dundas among parishioners heading towards Lithuania House and a good lunch. Sitting at round tables for ten, they would eat soft beef patties or potato pudding topped with sour cream and fried bacon bits. They would trade news. They would gossip and laugh. Then fortified by friends and food and good cheer, they would return home.
They would turn down Crawford Street towards Queen, walking past pretty houses, narrow and tall. Approaching the mental hospital, she would draw her brother closer. She did not want him to see the poor souls living there. She did not want him going near. And steering him off the street, they would enter the sanctuary of the park.
They would walk beside a row of tall balsam trees, moving as if behind a line of soldiers holding guns. Passing behind their backs, moving through protection, they would emerge into the open heart of the park. They would step off the path into the freedom of the grass. They would walk through the memory of their meadow back home. And imagining the soldiers gunless, their palms holding aloft the canopy of leaves, she knew it would never happen.
Their landlady would be sitting on the front porch, leafing through her women’s magazine. Lifting her head, she would greet them with a friendly wave. Her smile would be slightly rueful. Brother and sister walking together, she would murmur. And jesting, she would say that a husband was needed.
Maryte didn’t mind. She had Dobilas. She had work. She had a place to live and a good landlady. And she had this little patch of earth.
One Sunday afternoon Maryte turned to see Mrs. Moynahan standing in their doorway. Maryte never ventured into her landlady’s domain, always leaving the rent on the little hall table. Mrs. Moynahan came upstairs only to use the bathroom. Their friendly co-existence relied upon a mutual respect for distance. Now their landlady stood in the doorway, a look of friendly interest on her face.
“Could we talk? Just us girls?”
Mrs. Moynahan wanted to talk to her? Perhaps she had boyfriend trouble.
Maryte hurried to the sink, filling the kettle. Setting cups and plates on the table by the window, she gave Mrs. Moynahan the rose plate and herself the cup with the chipped lip. She put out an apple torte freshly baked. She sent Dobilas to the park. They would be two women together discussing womanly things.
Mrs. Moynahan sat down, lifting her face to the sun. Her complexion was clear as glass, its perfection effortless. Maryte did not begrudge the natural advantages that eased life in small ways. Attractiveness could also bring unwanted attentions. And settling down across from Mrs. Moynahan, she offered her a thick piece of apple cake.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Mrs. Moynahan said. “Got to watch my weight, though.”
What a problem, Maryte thought, having so much to eat that weight was a worry.
She and Dobilas still ate as they had during the last winter of the war and the four years in the DP camp. Unable to get rid of the fear that tomorrow there would be no food, they ate slowly and carefully. They tasted every morsel. They waste nothing. Sweeping crumbs into their hands, they licked their palms.
Mrs. Moynahan’s pink tongue flicked at the corners of her mouth. Moistening her finger, she lifted the crumbs left on her plate. She sipped delicately from a cup. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Then waving away offers of more cake, more tea, she leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
“We have to do something about your appearance. Otherwise, how are you going to get a man?”
Maryte looked down at her grey wool sweater buttoned along its length, her straight dark skirt falling well below her knees, her comfortable black laced oxfords. Sewing for the fine ladies of Vilnius, she had learned to remain invisible, the touch that pinned and tucked. She had no money for fabric. She wore what she was given or came across. She had no interest in her appearance or in men.
“First things first,” Mrs. Moynahan said, getting down to business. “That hair has to go.”
No! Maryte thought, her hand flying up to her hair.
Every morning she braided it, her dreamy fingers moving down the length of hair. Every evening Dobilas brushed it out, the strokes pulling her head pleasantly back. Her father had done the same for her mother. She loved the remembered rhythm and the touch. She shrunk from anyone touching it, even the well-meaning Mrs. Moynahan.
“No offense,” Mrs. Moynahan said, taking command, “but you look like a little old lady.”
Maryte did not wish to offend. Submitting like a child to a mother’s hand, she let Mrs. Moynahan brush, pin and spray. She could put her hair back into braids afterwards.
“Pucker up,” Mrs. Moynahan said, swivelling open a tube of lipstick.
Maryte obliged. She never wore lipstick. In the laundry, sweat ran freely. Lipstick would not stay put. She could explain that.
“Now I’m going to get something from downstairs. In the meantime you get out of those drab things.”
Undress in front of Mrs. Moynahan?
Maryte’s hand went to the white bra strap mended with black thread. It didn’t matter in front of farm women who wore thick sweaters and boots or refugees who had only the clothes in which they had left home. No doubt Mrs. Moynahan wore peachy satin underwear next to her flawless skin. Mrs. Moynahan, a Canadian woman with dresses such as the one with which she now returned.
The dress was red and white polka dots with a tight fitting halter top and a circle skirt cinched by a wide belt of white patent leather. She had never made such a dress. She had never seen such a dress. It was a dress for women who could afford to give away such things, women who had sent parcels overseas to refugees in DP camps. Women like Mrs. Moynahan. It was not for her.
“Put it on,” Mrs. Moynahan said. “Go on. I can’t get into it anymore but it’ll fit you.”
Maryte could see that she must.
“Was I ever right,” her landlady said, zipping her up and turning her around. “Now these.” And she brandished a pair of red high-heeled peep-toe shoes.
How was Maryte supposed to walk in those?
She was on her feet all day long. When she got home, she just wanted to put them up. She would never wear such shoes. She hoped they wouldn’t fit. Unfortunately, they fit perfectly.
“You could use a pedicure,” Mrs. Moynahan said.
Pedicure? What folly was this? Polish would chip inside her shoes as she walked between washers and dryers. What vanity and idleness. What a waste of money. Maryte stared down at her feet and said nothing.