He resumed his work, his heart hanging like a lead anchor inside his chest. Studying at his desk, hearing the slam of cupboard doors or the rush of running water from the kitchen below, he knew she was right. They were alive. They were safe. They were free. And life was continuing.
When memory ambushed him at night, he did not fight it. Pressing his face into his pillow, he would turn to the soft darkness where he could still feel her. He had lost her in life. He would not lose her in death. Welcoming grief, he held her close.
The household kept a quiet and respectful distance. Ona made his favourite food — kugelis, potato pudding. Jonas offered the newspaper before reading it himself. Danguole left him alone. She followed his movements with watchful eyes. When he started his solitary walks in High Park, they sighed with collective relief.
He walked, placing one foot in front of the other. Staring down at his shoes, seeing their tips coming in and out of view, they seemed not to be his. He walked through the greenness of July, the gold of August, the freshness of September and a rustling, leafy October. He passed through a grey November and entered the swirling whiteness of winter. He followed her steps in the snow, placing his feet in her hollows. Then the footprints ended. And there he placed his heart.
He passed his exams, becoming a doctor once again. Establishing an office on the main floor of a building on Bloor Street, he had a waiting room crowded with patients eager to consult this young doctor of whom they were so proud. I’m a doctor, he would think, but I failed to save the person I loved most. And with soft compassion, he tended those who came to him.
He made house calls to grandmothers sitting up in bed, paisley head scarves tied under their chins. Listening to their chests and their complaints, he would write prescriptions and speak words of quiet comfort. They would grasp his hands. They would try to kiss them. And gently disentangling himself from their gratitude, he would promise to return soon.
The toothless old ladies recovered. Meeting one another in the street, they nodded in agreement. The heart-broken young doctor needed a wife. They sized up one another’s daughters. And planning chance encounters at church, they cast willing daughters his way.
He took no notice. He had work to absorb him. He had Lidia, alive and dead. He had memory, guilt and grief. There was no room for love.
Chapter 4
When Ona heard that Juze was planning to move to the flat above Vytas’ office, she thought the woman was crazy. Leaving the practicality of shared accommodation for the splendour of independent living was foolish. Life could take a turn for the worse, as it often did. Family had to stick together. And seeing them already as one family in one house, a handy arrangement in the event of children, she tried to forestall.
“We’ll have to find new tenants,” Ona said. Did this woman not know that they needed the income? Had this high-and-mighty mother-of-a-doctor suddenly forgotten the value of money?
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Juze said, breaking the news with no small pleasure. She’d had enough of six people living in one small house. She’d had enough of these people. She wanted privacy and ease. She wanted to have their lives to themselves.
She gazed calmly at her landlady, enjoying the upper hand for once. She would meet her only at church. She would not have to keep her eye on Danguole. Vytas would be safe. She could stop watching and worrying.
One month, Ona thought. We have one month.
Vytas sat at his table, studying. Sensing Danguole in his doorway, he looked up. She hovered, holding her stomach and complaining of vague pain. She just wants to come in here, he thought, seeing her eyes darting past him into the room which he always took care to vacate when she cleaned. Quick to tell real sickness from false, he stepped out into the hallway.
“Let’s go downstairs.”
Her face fell.
“Where are your parents?” he said, glancing around the empty kitchen.
She shrugged.
He took her into the living room, sitting her down on the couch. Taking her pulse, he pronounced her likely to live. Just because I’m a doctor living in your house, he wanted to say, it doesn’t mean you can do this. And smiling to himself at a ruse which had fooled no one, he prepared to go back upstairs.
She placed a hand on his sleeve.
“Doctor, would you teach me a little English? In those Eaton’s sewing rooms where I work, it’s Polish and Ukrainian all day long. The rest of the time, I help mother. Even if she would let me, there is no time for schooling. I so want to learn. Please, teach me a little?”
What a cocotte, Vytas thought. He did not like her touching him but did not want to be rude.
“How much English do you know?”
She released him, sitting up like an eager child on her first day at school. Clasping her hands in her lap, she recited name, address and telephone number, date and time. She’s not stupid, he thought. Maybe she just needs a chance. And flattered by her deference, he found himself touched by her earnest desire to learn.
“As you can see, my English is not very good,” she said, laughing.
He softened at her sweet way of making mistakes, as if putting herself down without really meaning it.
“Alright. A couple of lessons. On Sunday. After lunch. In the kitchen. We don’t want to give our parents the wrong impression, do we?”
“Oh no, of course not,” she said, lowering her lashes. “Thank you, Doctor, for helping a silly country girl.”
He smiled at these clumsy but engaging attempts to ensnare. Poor girl, he thought. What harm could it do? After a few Sundays, they’d be gone.
The following Sunday, Juze watched with consternation as Vytas and Danguole sat at the kitchen table, heads together over an English grammar. Seeing Danguole leaning in close, following his finger down the page, consternation grew to dismay. There was hunger in the girl’s every move. Vytas seemed blind. And hearing them settling into relaxed laughter, Juze’s dismay turned to fear.
“Bruniuk, did you see that?” she said afterwards.
“Yes my love, but you must trust your son.”
“I do trust him. It’s them I don’t trust.”
The mother might be set upon a union but the father would see it was no good. He was sensible. He would see reason. It would be better discussed man to man.
“Would you speak to Jonas?” Juze said.
She burrowed into him, playing a dog seeking attention. She nudged him with her nose. She planted a kiss on his chin. Rubbing the stubble on his cheeks, she smiled up at him.
“Please?”
Brunius looked at the woman gazing up at him with affection, possibly even love. He remembered the desperation in her face when she first saw him, rather than her lover Alex, coming towards her on the station platform. Out of war’s carnage, somehow, she had ended up his. It was still inexplicable. He would do anything she asked.
“Of course, my dear.”
Brunius held her close. He understood little about the mysteries of love but knew it did not do the bidding of others. It could not be made to come or go. It landed wherever it wished. And encircling the most precious gift life had bestowed upon him, he promised to speak to Jonas.
One night after the others had gone to bed, Jonas and Brunius sat in the darkened kitchen. Passing the bottle back and forth, they poured rye into short stubby glasses. The thin handles were too delicate for their stocky fingers. The fluted skirting was too feminine to their eye. And surrounded by a silent house pretending to sleep, they remained quiet themselves.