Above Us Only Sky (14 page)

Olga laughed as the dog trailed her to the brick row house where she rented a room from a blind man named Bohdan. All day, Olga had been happy, anticipating Daina's arrest and her own union with Stasys. She turned the doorknob and checked to see if the dog was still behind her. Pets were not permitted, but she did not care. She would do what she liked. The blind man was as anti-Soviet as they came. One day a week, he collected the rent, and then he got drunk and listened to American jazz records like Benny Goodman, Billie Holiday, and Louis Armstrong. He'd be arrested sooner than later. Olga thought daily about turning him in. He was flaunting his wealth with booze and music when the money belonged to the state. She often thought that her landlord was the perfect subject for a propagandist poster:
Capitalists are stricken blind because they do not serve the common good
.

The mutt followed Olga through the front door past the blind man rubbing furniture polish on a banister and past a little neighbor girl sitting cross-legged, reading a book.

Shutting her bedroom door, Olga retrieved a handkerchief from her bureau and wiped the dog's eyes. As she cleaned, the dog licked her face. “Look at you,” she said, wiping the muzzle next. “You're a pretty girl.” The dog sniffed Olga's bed and walked in three circles before jumping onto the mattress as if it had lived there always. Bohdan knocked at the door.

“What is it?” Olga said.

“I need to speak to you.” It was the blind man.

Leave me in peace.

“I'm not decent,” Olga said. She was never exactly decent.

“What do I care? I don't see.”

To the dog, Olga said, “I'll call you Emma.”

Since she was a little girl, Olga had imagined living the life of the bourgeoisie. She'd imagined having a horse and a little dog or a kitten to love.

Bohdan knocked again.

“Go away!”

Olga was on her knees scratching the dog's neck. “It's all right. You'll see. You're safe.” The dog whimpered. “But you will need a bath.”

Bohdan knocked harder. This time, he said, “Is there an animal in there with you?”

Olga said, “Leave me alone. I paid my rent.”

Turning on her hot plate, Olga cracked an egg for the dog. “A little something on your stomach. That'll be nice.” The mutt closed its eyes, rubbing its paw against its nose.

Olga put the egg down on the floor, and the dog eyed it and then Olga.

“It's all right. I'm not going to poison you.”

Later, Olga took Emma outside to the spigot and, using a sliver of lye soap, lathered her fur. She pressed her head against the wet dog's neck. This sentimentality toward an animal was new. In Moscow, she had not been afforded such luxury. She knew some girls who'd had pets, but they were thinner, less prosperous than Olga, because they weren't just worried about feeding themselves.

That first night, the dog slept at Olga's feet.

In the morning, the blind man knocked.

“Leave me alone,” she said. To the dog, Olga said, “Shh.” She put her finger to her lips. Bohdan was blind, but he wasn't deaf. He said, “I brought some breakfast scraps. A bit of sausage and egg. Can I come in?”

When Olga opened the door, Bohdan said, “We used to have dogs when I was growing up.” He felt for Olga's hand and gave her the plate of scraps. “What does the dog look like?”

“Like honey. But with dark eyes like Egyptians in the films. I'm calling her Emma.”

“Can I pet her?” He got down on his knees. Surprisingly, Emma came to him, and Bohdan settled on his haunches hugging the dog's neck as Olga had done. “Nice dog,” he said, pressing his cheek against her wet nose. To Olga, he said, “I can help you take care of her.”

“I don't need any help.” But she did. She worked all day. The blind man was home, doing whatever it was that a blind man does all day in a creaky house. Dusting? Drinking? She didn't know.

“Okay,” Olga said. “All right.”

“I'll walk her when you are at work.”

“Okay.”

Bohdan smiled. Olga stared at his vacant gaze.
I'm never going to report this man to anyone, capitalist or not. Maybe I want to be a dirty capitalist.
At the thought of this, she laughed unabashedly.

Ignoring her laughter, Bohdan stood up. “We'll take good care of her. Bring the plate to the kitchen tonight. And if you want, I can let her outside later. Or I can take her for a short walk.”

“That would be helpful, comrade,” Olga said. This was Olga's way of reminding him of her allegiances. His position as a landlord could be a cover. He might be Soviet police. She couldn't trust anyone. No one could. It was always wise to say “comrade.”

Bohdan smiled and bent down to feel Emma again, but the dog had returned to Olga's bed.

He patted Olga's hand. “Thank you.” He didn't call her comrade.

She stopped him. “Your surname is Straivinski. That's Polish.”

“Lithuanian.”

“You're Russian.”

“No,” he corrected her, “I'm Lithuanian. My mother was Lithuanian.”

Olga rolled her eyes. “But your father was Russian? You are a Soviet now.”

“
Like all men, my father was whatever they called him.”

“All right,” Olga said. “Never mind.”

“All right,” he said. “Never mind to you too.”

15

O
n Sunday, January 8, 1950, the secret police came to arrest Daina. She was twenty-five. In her pretend world, thirty-one. She was painting a tiny bird on a teacup. When the men in black trench coats grabbed her by the arms, the teacup dropped from the table, smashing into pieces. Red and blue paint splattered the floor, the paint bleeding lavender.

“What are you doing with my wife?” Stasys demanded.

“She's being taken for questioning.”

Daina felt her wings move. Just a smidgen, but it was enough. A sign. She was going to die now, nine long years after her family's murders. In the Heaven she imagined, there was the beach, like in Palanga, but without secret police. Without bullets. At the Heaven beach, children laughed. There was no shortage of food. There was no shortage of fine wool or silk. There was ice cream. Her fingertips were uncalloused, brand-new, perfect for dancing hand to hand. Her face was smooth—no windburn—perfect for dancing cheek to cheek. Her mother was there, happy, singing. The little Jewish girl was there, holding on to her porcelain doll once more. Daina smiled as the Lithuanian police, acting on orders from Vilnius, orders that had originated in Moscow two months ago, carried her, similar to how they'd carried her mother, her slippers dragging the floor, from the house. Daina was a slight thing. One of the policemen put his hand on her head, guiding her into the backseat of the hearse-like car. Everything was white with new frost. Stasys saw that Daina was not upset by her arrest. He stood on the front stoop, knowing that the neighbors, every one of them, were wiping at their windows to see. It was like the windows themselves, the two rubbed-out circles, were eyes. Soon the frost would fill them in again. Everyone would know, and no one would say anything.

On Monday, January ninth, Stasys paced his office and waited for Olga.

She brushed snow from her sleeves and started unbuckling her galoshes. “It's freezing out there.” For two months, she'd left Stasys alone, and he had been glad for it.

Stasys said, “You reported her, didn't you? You fucking reported her!” He wasn't prone to using expletives.

Olga had forgotten what she'd done. She'd forgotten the plotting that had finally taken root and grown from one phone call to three men tromping up Stasys's steps to steal his wife. “Calm down,” Olga said. “I didn't do anything. I didn't report anyone.” She hung up her coat. There was a lump in her throat.

“You're like a snake.”

“Oh, Stasys, don't say that. I didn't do anything.” But she had done something. She remembered the phone call all too clearly now.

And Stasys could imagine Olga doing something terrible. She was from Moscow. She must've done it. Who else would've done it? “You need to get her back,” he said.

“I'm not the secret police. I can't ‘get her back.'”

“Just get her back.”

She showed him her hands. “There's nothing I can do.”

“What do you want? I'll give you anything. I need her back.”

“I don't want anything.” She searched the desk for her cigarettes. “I only wanted you to be sweet to me, Stasys. I only wanted you to love me how you love your precious wife, but I don't want anything anymore.”

“You did it!” Tears formed in his eyes. “I need her back.”

“I'm sorry about your wife, but I had nothing to do with it.” She fumbled with her cigarettes, dropping them on the floor.

“You're a liar.” Stasys crushed them with the heel of his boot, then bent down and picked up the crumpled pack. “I'm sorry,” he said, “but please help me.”

“I can't do anything. I'm sorry.”

“Is there a chance?”

“I didn't do anything.” Her palms were sweating. She rubbed them down her slacks, and Stasys grabbed on to her hands.

“Help me, please.”

Groveling, in all its forms, disgusted Olga. Such overt displays of weakness were sickening. She said, “Your wife is probably working for one of the resistance movements.”

“No, she's not.”

“You can't know everything about your wife.”

“But I do know that.” Stasys pulled Olga's coat from the rack. “Fix it. We're running out of time.”

“I can't
fix
this.”

“You have to help me.”

Begrudgingly, she took her coat.

When he heard Olga's heels on the stairs, Stasys got down on his knees. He wasn't a praying man, but he prayed now. Pressing his ink-stained knuckles to his lips, he prayed,
Dear God, bring her back to me. I can't live without her.

In a holding cell in Palanga, Daina's wings were discovered, literally uncovered as she was ordered to strip. Pale in contrast to the rest of her sand-and-wind-worn limbs, having been bound by undergarments and coveralls, the wings were slightly askew, the right wing fuller and higher than the left. Daina favored her right hand, and the wing was in proportion to the difference between her right and left breasts and her right and left forearms. She was tired of guarding them. For the nine years she'd been tangled up with Stasys, she had not acknowledged them to him, to anyone, whereas at home in Vilnius, they had been commonplace, envied by Audra and Danut˙e, who, in their own right, were gifted, in possession of beauty and brains: Danut˙e, the scholar and musician, and Audra, the caretaker and beauty. Their father used to tease that Audra would never have any girlfriends because they'd all be jealous of her looks, so she'd better be good to her sisters. Audra was beautiful with pink bow lips, blue eyes, and hair like wheat. She never had a cross word for anyone, and then, Daina remembered, she'd laughed at her murderer's impotence. Daina missed Audra. She missed all of them, but soon they'd be together. Finally, Daina would meet her maker.

Too many young people had been taken too soon. It was devastating to think of the wishes and kisses left unfulfilled, the musical scores and stories left unwritten, the songs left unsung. With bone too new and bone too brittle buried and burned, there was no one left to mourn, no one left to say prayers for the dead. Daina was ready to join them now. She'd been ready for nine years. Being alive was paying penance.

The Lithuanian guards, in awe of this birdlike woman under their command, were speechless and afraid.

“Why is she here?” one of them asked.

“Who sent her?” Both men suspected that God had sent her to the jail.

“She's an enemy of the people.”

“Do
the people
know about her wings?”

Another guard said, “What if she puts a curse on us?”

“She won't curse us,” the police captain said. He'd gone with two others to pick her up. “She's some kind of angel or something.” He crossed himself.

Daina heard what they said. Huddled in the cell's corner, her wings cold against the bricks, she thought,
Here I am to join my family; here I am to meet my fate. I've been found out.

The captain said, “Where are her clothes? What are you fools doing?” One of the guards retrieved her nightgown. The captain averted his eyes and passed it back to her. “I'm sorry.” It didn't seem right or wise to put her in dingy prison garb. When she was deported, they'd do what was required, but for now, they wouldn't demean the winged woman. Not until they had no other choice. The captain said, “We should have someone take her picture while we wait to hear from Moscow.”

A new guard, a kid on loan from the army, said, “I know someone with a Zorki. He's a real photographer. He moved here from Leningrad.”

“Pick him up.”

The captain asked Daina if she was warm enough.

I'm waiting to die.

He got her a blanket. “I'm sorry it's not softer,” he said. “They don't issue anything of quality anymore. Are you Lithuanian?”

“From Vilnius,” she said.

The captain asked, “Are you an angel?”

“No. I'm not an angel.”

“But your wings.” His voice echoed.
Wings.

She nodded. The cell was big and gray. Its distinguishing characteristics were six metal beds attached by iron to brick walls, a single lightbulb, four barred windows packed with sand for insulation, and the institutional ticktock of a clock manufactured in Klaip
ė
da, Lithuania—a seaport city ravaged by war, then razed and resurrected as an industrial proletariat wasteland.

“I'll get you some tea. Would you like that?”

Daina nodded.

While the captain steeped her tea, he sent one of the guards to his own home to bring softer blankets, to transform a stainless steel bunk into a cozy nest. The captain divided the dinner his wife had delivered. Whatever happened to this miraculous woman was out of his hands, but he could be good to her while she was in his care. He did not want to sin against one of God's angels. He did not want to burn in hell.

Daina said little more than, “Thank you.” She hoped her death would be quick.

In the morning, a tall, thin man with wispy black hair and piercing blue eyes entered her cell. He held a camera. “Can I see them?” he asked. “I'm not KGB. I'm a photographer.” He handed her a stained, crumpled business card.
Lukas Blasczkiewicz, Professional Photographer.
He said, “We're going to take your picture.”

“What do you want to see?”

He stammered. “Wings . . . your wings? Can I see your wings?”

“No,” she said.

Lukas Blasczkiewicz, professional photographer, said, “I don't think you have a choice. I didn't have any choice coming here. They made me bring my lights.” He gestured with his hands. “They woke me in the night and forced me to come.”

Daina said, “I'll talk to Captain Vincentas. I'm sure there's some mistake.” But there was no mistake. Everyone was in agreement that they wanted pictures, proof that an angel had been in their Palanga holding cell. “A flash of light won't hurt her,” the guards agreed. They even took a vote, which was not the most Soviet-minded thing to do. Whatever Daina was—angel, girl bird, or demon—they wanted evidence, before Moscow or anyone else got to see.

“It's indecent,” she insisted. “It's obscene.”

Captain Vincentas explained, “You're the one with the wings.”

She countered, “I don't mean my wings. I mean,” and she whispered, “taking off my clothes for a camera.”

“You've got nothing to lose. You're being transported to Moscow within the week. From there, you'll probably be on your way to a gulag. If I could stop this from happening, I would. But I'm no one of importance.”

“Can you just kill me?”

“I would never do that. Of course not.” He held his camera up as proof that he was a photographer and not a murderer.

Daina refused to cry. She could undress by herself or the guards would do it—not Captain Vincentas—as there was some grace in being in charge. Daina chose the first option. To an extent, the policemen permitted her and the photographer some privacy. In the corner of the room, Captain Vincentas kept vigil to make sure that the photographer, whose hair and dress were unkempt, and whose eyes were eerily vivid, didn't violate the winged girl.

The photographer positioned Daina in front of a flexible screen. Turning on one light after another, he said, “Just try to relax.” Then, he took a deep breath, glancing at the captain in the corner.
Here we go
. Lukas was nervous. He'd never taken pictures under these circumstances. He'd never seen a woman with wings. He'd never shot a naked woman. He took another deep breath and began snapping photographs, concentrating on the subject and light.

Daina heard the depression of the shutter and the film spindle turn. At first, she faced the photographer, one arm across her breasts, the other between her legs. To empty her mind, she recited in Latin Saint Casimir's hymn to the Virgin Mary. She turned when the photographer told her to turn, but she wouldn't move her hands. She bit her lip and blinked in the spotlight. All the while, she wished she might hide her wings, but there weren't enough arms or hands for that. She imagined the nudie photographs being passed from one man to another. Disgusting. She knelt and she bent over. She stood on tippy toes and held very still. The wings were folded in on her back like a baby bird's. Then Lukas Blasczkiewicz, the photographer, said, “Look at me. Look at the camera.” Daina's face was hard. She stared squinting at the awful light. “Just like that,” he said. He thought he could see the wings expanding on either side of her long arms. Daina thought she saw Saint Casimir inside the spotlight. Despite the light's intensity, she opened her eyes wider to see better. Lukas saw the orange starbursts in her eyes pop like fireworks. At the same time, Daina saw the saint's robes and then his cherubic face. The saint stretched out his arms, unbelievably long, for her to come, to come and be brave, to have no fear. She was bathed in this heavenly light, and she heard him say,
Don't be afraid.
Saint Casimir revealed himself to her. The prayer and words had come from her lips, and in turn, the saint had come to save her. The room glowed. The light from his embrace warmed her. Finally, he'd heeded her words. God had given her wings. No one could do anything to soil them. They were her birthright. She basked in Saint Casimir's light, dropping her hands to her side, eyes wide.
I don't want to die. For the first time in nine years, I don't want to die!
These two men could take all the photographs they wanted. It didn't matter. They would never know her or possess her. They would never take her faith. Her wings undulated and spread. There was no reason for shame. Not now. Not ever. Men will pass nudie pictures back and forth. That is what they do. So be it. Lukas Blasczkiewicz wanted to shout, “Turn around!” to get the wings in all their glory.
This is the mother lode!