They walked across the grass lying before them like their meadow at home. Settling upon a bench, they remembered the whispering swish of grasses, the blueness of meadow flowers, the summer sun upon their smiling faces. She spoke of Ponia Pauliene and Ponas Baliunas, the old widow and widower who had looked after him. He remembered his mischievous twirling in the field. And giggling together, they remembered the old couple’s joint enjoyment of grumpiness.
She turned to him. She took his hand. She told him that he would be staying at the church. Father Geras and his housekeeper sister would look after him. It would not be forever.
“Dobilas bad,” he said, hanging his head.
“No,” she said. “You are not bad.”
It was the world that was bad, Nazis and Communists causing the convulsion which had cast them across the ocean. Running, they had left behind the villagers who had kept a firm eye on her brother, the good-natured farm girls who had seen most of life and laughed at it. Danger still lurked here. Dobilas still needed protection. Even if it took separation, she would keep him safe.
“Time to go,” she said.
He slipped his hand once more into hers. And her heart broke at his trust.
She returned home, passing the long line of cars parked along one side from Dundas to Queen. Entering the room she and her brother shared, she looked around at the silent emptiness. No soup would simmer on the stove. No brother would wait all day long for her return. And lowering herself into the chair on her side of the table, she sat in a room now only hers.
In his room in the rectory, Dobilas stared at the foreign bed. Lowering himself onto the edge, he looked down at his shoes. If he unlaced them, he would have to take them off. If he took them off, he would have to put his feet on the unfamiliar floor. He would have to lie down. He would have to stay. And humming to himself and rocking on the edge of the bed, he waited for Maryte to fetch him home.
JUSTINE
TORONTO
1951
Chapter 1
Justine and Uncle Povilas stood on the front porch of 2429 Dundas Street West, waiting for their knock to be answered. Their previous landlords, unsettled by Justine’s night time cries, had asked them to leave. They are your histories not ours, their uneasy faces said. We wish to sleep. And waiting under the porch overhang, Justine and Uncle Povilas hoped for a new home.
The semi-detached house was painted white and cream, the dark green window trim holding the inharmonious colours together like ribbon around a badly wrapped parcel. The roof sagged where it met its neighbour in the middle. A picture window of plate glass faced the street. The sky was hard blue, the day bright.
“Uncle and niece? You don’t say,” Doris said, a frowsy unkempt woman in a dark green sweater over which she had tied a soiled cotton apron with thin strings. She removed the cigarette from the corner of her mouth. “Well, it’s no business of mine. Live and let live, I always say.”
Justine and her uncle exchanged amused smiles.
“You’re lucky,” Doris said, showing them the room with the picture window. “Nice view.”
Close to the street and the noise, Justine thought.
“Main floor,” Doris said, tapping her cigarette ash into her palm. “Lucky again.”
Footsteps overhead, Justine thought. Evenings. Saturdays. Sundays.
“And it’s the biggest room in the house,” Doris said.
“Ve take,” Povilas said. The city was packed with DPs. Not everyone would take them. They were lucky to find a room at all.
“What’s your name?” Doris said, looking around for a place to stub out her cigarette and setting it down on the edge of the windowsill.
“Povilas.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Paul. But I am Povilas.”
“Can’t get my tongue round that,” she laughed, revealing dull grey teeth. “I’ll just call you Paul.”
And I’ll respond to Povilas.
“And your lady-friend niece?”
“Yes, my niece. Justine.”
Perhaps we should call ourselves husband and wife, Justine said to her uncle in Lithuanian.
“Welcome to my house, such as it is,” Doris said with a wide sweep of her arm, her rough laugh giving way to a smoker’s cough and a fierce pounding on the chest.
Justine stood in the unoccupied room, surrounded by sunshine. Staring down at the bare wooden boards, she saw the forest floor. Bodies lay hidden amid leaves on the ground. If she stirred they would sit up. Holding still, she avoided the soft memory and the dark.
Doris and her husband Jimmy lived on the main floor at the back. Occupying the kitchen and back bedroom, they rented out every other room in the house. One day we’re going to up and sell this dump, Doris would laugh. Move to a better locale. And Jimmy, a small man with greasy hair and darting eyes, would laugh along.
Jimmy was a mechanic at the TTC, working nights and sleeping during the day. Rising at 4 p.m., he would wander around the house in his bathrobe, the cord loosely tied at the waist. He would saunter out to the front porch. He would sit and smoke. And relaxing on his veranda, he would view the world of late afternoon.
“How’s it going Jimmy-boy?” his neighbours would call out in passing. “How’s tricks?”
“None too bad,” he would call back, his arm lifted in a lazy wave.
Doris was a haphazard housekeeper, cigarette dangling from her lip as she cleaned. Paying no attention to her husband’s sleeping habits, she banged the cupboard doors and wielded the carpet sweeper. She dislodged dirt with rags not themselves clean. Dust shifted to settle elsewhere. The air was grimy with the smell of cooking oil and cigarette smoke.
One day, Justine came up the front steps to find Jimmy sitting on the front porch. Nodding to her landlord, she passed quickly inside. He got up and sauntered in after her.
“Hello, honey,” he said placing a hand on her arm. “Feeling friendly?”
She stared down at his hand. Far away from soldiers and war and still not safe.
“C’mon, honey,” he said stroking her arm. “A man just can’t help hisself, you know? Besides, women like you, well, you kinda like it, don’t-cha.”
She glared at him. His grey-brown face had as many folds as a bulldog’s.
“I tell vife.”
“Okay, okay,” he said backing off, hands lifted. “Didn’t mean nothing by it. You’re probably frigid anyway. I bet your uncle has no fun with you.”