Darkness and Company Read online

  The language used was that of a statement, the facts set out with indifference. Indifference, that is the most terrible thing. Complete indifference. That is how I wanted to portray the killers.

  The director Peter Brook conducted an interesting experiment in the 1960s. He gave a student an extract from Peter Weiss’s play Die Ermittlung (The Investigation) about Auschwitz. In the extract there is a section about the bodies of people who had just been killed. The student read the piece with feeling, and his distress was felt and understood by the audience. He asked another student to read an extract on the Battle of Agincourt from Henry V, in which the English and the French who died are named. The student made the mistakes typical of an amateur. He read the piece in an elevated tone, with pathos, putting the emphasis in all the wrong places. The audience did not know what to make of it. Then the director asked that the impressions raised by the Auschwitz victims be used to imagine the dead at the Battle of Agincourt, to realize that they were not just figures from literature but living human beings, as alive as the victims of Auschwitz, like ourselves. When the student read Shakespeare’s text again, the audience became attentive, because the reader, now feeling an emotional connection with the characters in the play, read the piece in a simple and appropriate manner. Following this experiment Peter Brook formulated some important questions. How much time has to pass before a corpse becomes a historical corpse? After how many years does mass killing become romantic?

  What, in truth, can literature do to remind us, to resurrect memories, to connect those memories with the feelings of human beings today, to revive the relationship with the past, with suffering, with repentance? So that those memories are not obscene and a writer does not fall under the suspicion of wishing to profit from a tragedy? In truth, are our lives not a continual profiting from the dead? We are parasites living off the bones of our ancestors, and there is nothing we can do to change that. Human beings today, in all manner of ways, try to avoid suffering.

  I do not know if suffering has a cleansing, healing power. Let us take Russia as an example, where people suffered so much during the Second World War. But it does not seem that they understand what a misfortune it is to suffer continually – today they rattle their sabres and threaten anyone who dares not go along with their policies of aggression. You would imagine that the person who has suffered greatly would be more understanding, more aware, better able to comprehend the suffering of his neighbour, but the opposite can be true. A person who has suffered a lot can become even more terrible, more cruel; he can become vengeful and resentful.

  During the presentation of my novel at the Centre for Tolerance in Vilnius I was asked if I had any Jewish friends. I wasn’t able to answer the question. I don’t have any Jewish friends, but I couldn’t come up with an answer. Why? It was only later that I understood. They had all died. On 25 August 1941 all my potential Jewish friends had been shot and buried in pits not far from a small town in the north of Lithuania. On the other side of the small town there are only the dilapidated headstones of the graves of their ancestors.

  Frances A. Yates, in her book The Art of Memory, writes about a mnemonic device. It’s quite simple. A person wishing to remember information puts images into places he knows well, and then, walking through those places in his thoughts, he can quite easily reproduce large amounts of information. Where a person is born and grows up is often the place he or she knows best. Let’s agree that the small town of Obeliai is just such a place in my memory, a place I know well, but, alas, images are missing, over a thousand Jews are missing, Jews who were erased from the life of that small town, but they have not disappeared from my memory nor, as a consequence, from the map of existence.

  To tell the truth, after everything I’ve written here I have a bad taste in my mouth. As if I’ve turned myself inside out trying to appear sincere, but I don’t believe in the sincerity of writers. A writer is very rarely sincere, he can’t really be sincere, particularly if he wants to be a good writer. He only exploits that sincerity, he doesn’t give in to it. He uses sincerity as a stylistic device. But there is one unpleasant and strange thing I can grasp – perhaps it’s just a feeling – that the impetus behind this text of mine coming into being – and, I repeat, it’s only a feeling – is an ember of anti-Semitism deep inside me and the fear and the shame of admitting it.

  My mother still lives on the edge of that small town, on the former manorial estate. She is in her eighties, she attends church diligently, likes to watch soap operas on television, sympathizes with all the poor souls and unfortunates of the world. I recently visited her, and the subject of streets came up – she doesn’t like the name of a street close by her house. I said to her, what if we changed the name to Jewish Street? After all, the Jewish cemetery isn’t far away, and, besides that, so many of them lived here before the war. My mother looked at me as if I’d said the most foolish thing imaginable. What are you talking about? she asked with a dismissive gesture. And, in truth, what am I talking about?

  Sigitas Parulskis

  Vilnius, May 2015

  Translated from the Lithuanian by Romas Kinka

  DARKNESS AND

  COMPANY

  PIGS

  My life is like a cigarette butt, thought Vincentas as he gathered the crushed, soggy ends from the ground. As though not he but someone else had lived his life, had smoked it – Vincentas’s life – then tossed it away and walked off. Leaving Vincentas smouldering. It wasn’t completely over, but the best part was destroyed, lost, gone for ever. In any case it wasn’t easy to find cigarette butts in the British zone. You could go for a few kilometres before coming across a single decent one. In the past he had smoked rarely and not much. After taking a good photograph or making love. He had always smoked after making love. It was a way of extending the pleasure, crowning the achievement. But that was another time, before the war. It might have been a thousand years ago, before Christ even.

  It was a day like any other, he was walking along the lake, the sun was shining, he would have liked to take off his clothes and bathe. And he might have done so if he hadn’t been startled by a strange noise. His first thought was to turn and leave, but then he changed his mind. He heard female voices. Bathing women – he was sorry that he hadn’t brought his camera.

  A small group of people had settled by the lake. Through the bushes he could see the women’s blonde, shimmering hair; their ringing laughter rolled over the smooth surface of the lake; they were completely naked, swimming and splashing and constantly looking back over their shoulders at the shore where three men in army uniforms sprawled on the grass. He couldn’t tell if they were Brits or Americans. With their air of victory they definitely weren’t Germans. The girls were German, hungry and yearning, their vigorous young bodies undamaged by the war; he stared through the branches trying not to move, but neither could he withdraw; a painful longing flooded his chest; he thought about Judita, about her white body glowing in his embrace, that he might never again smell her wonderfully fragrant skin or see her moist, slightly parted lips, inviting, unpredictable, intoxicating; the soldiers had brought food, canned meat and bread and chocolate, and there were a few bottles of something – from a distance he couldn’t make out the labels, but it looked like wine, red, lip-bloodying, inviting, sensual, unpredictable – the girls ran out of the water, bare and shameless, and lay down by the men and drank from army flasks and laughed with their heads thrown back to the sky, and their lips were bloody like the sunset over the lake, over Europe, he was hungry, but even more he craved a cigarette, they were smoking and tossing long cigarette butts as though they were Americans, maybe they were Americans, it was only in their zone that he would find cigarettes barely a third smoked, the Brits were a bit more frugal, but women can turn your head and upset habits, they could have been Brits, but they definitely weren’t Russians. One pair split away from the others and moved in Vincentas’s direction, dangerously close to his hiding place, she didn’t know a word of English, he
understood no German, but it looked like they understood each other perfectly without words, the language of the body is very simple, instinct doesn’t need words or explanations, everything that stands in the way of desire is insignificant, unless, of course, it is the Church or the law or the girl’s father with a gun in his hands, he had already unbuttoned his shirt, she was gently slipping it off his shoulders, and then the two of them lay down in the tall grass, the young man was smiling, the girl looked focused, as though she was planning to undertake a task that required concentration, she unbuckled his belt, slowly pulled off his trousers and froze for a moment, as though in shock, as though what she discovered was not what she had hoped for or that it exceeded her expectations, Vincentas’s hiding place was uncomfortable, he couldn’t move or he would be found, and the branches in front of him prevented him from seeing clearly, the girl began to caress the man, he arched his neck, threw his head back and closed his eyes. The remaining couples followed their example and went off to lie in the tall grass a little further away, he heard the women’s sighs, the men’s moans and saw the rhythmic rise and fall of white buttocks shining in the sun, he felt very weak and for a second thought he had lost consciousness, his eyes went dark, or perhaps a dark cloud had cloaked the sky, a strong wind swept the lakeside, he closed his eyes and held his head in his hands so that it wouldn’t explode, he knew that if he let go, his skull would shatter like an eggshell crushed by a heavy soldier’s boot, then everything stopped, the wind calmed down, the clouds dispersed, his eyes were still closed, but he now felt that everything around him had changed, that he could move, and although his eyes were still closed it got brighter, he carefully released his palms from his head, a sound reached his ears and forced him to open his eyes – he clearly heard a grunting, as though pigs were grazing near by, and, sure enough, he could no longer see the lovebirds playing their games, strange creatures had strayed near his hiding place, neither pigs nor humans, a girl with a pig’s snout, a man with pig’s legs, her large plump breasts sprouting thick, whitish bristles, he had cloven hooves instead of hands, and their throats released an awful grunting that sounded like a death rattle, and, unable to bear this ghastly spectacle, he leaped out from the bushes waving above his head a stick he had just grabbed, and the creatures jumped out of the tall grass and all ran back towards the water, hooves thudding and raising dust, and they dived into the lake, disappearing under the waves.

  Although overwhelmed by horror and fatigue, he gathered cigarette butts with one hand and the remains of the food with the other. There was a lot of food, but he was more concerned with the cigarette butts. When he had gathered a handful he heard a rustling in the bushes, got scared and ran from the lake shore, frightened for his soul – but even more by the prospect that someone might take his haul.

  And then – he leaped out from behind the bushes. He wouldn’t have called him a man, because he didn’t look like a man, more like a ghost. Filthy, covered in rags, growling and brandishing a weapon that looked like a trident, like a sharpened, seven-branched candlestick attached to a pole. The candle spikes had been sharpened, and, even though they lacked the barbs that there would have been on the tines of a trident, he was so alarmed that at first he couldn’t make out what the ghost was growling, essen, essen, shouted the creature, but Vincentas had barely any food left, in one hand he held the cigarette butts, in the other a crust of bread he hadn’t yet swallowed, he didn’t have the energy to fight the armed madman so he tried to skirt around him, but he slipped, fell on one knee and then suddenly felt a dull thud against his side, and then, now on his back, he saw the white clouds and couldn’t understand why his body suddenly felt so heavy, like lead, that he couldn’t get up, as though he were an insect pinned down by a giant needle, as though he had suddenly become an injured and powerless giant beetle.

  When he finally sat up the creature had disappeared, and it was only then that he realized that his – the creature’s – voice was somehow familiar, that it was probably Aleksandras’s, yes, it was definitely him, the same Aleksandras who should have been dead, who couldn’t have risen from the dead, and yet if he had somehow risen from the dead he had disappeared, and with him his entire treasure – the handful of butts, the crust of bread and all that was left was a stabbing pain and blood gushing from seven little holes, but luckily he found one cigarette butt in the grass, it had fallen from the sleeve of his jacket, the jacket he had at some point taken off a corpse when he had needed to replace his ruined clothes, he had told him you don’t need this any more, but I could really use it, and it did come in handy, as a cigarette butt had become stuck in the sleeve, and so now he could have a smoke, he could savour the moment, and then, he could no longer remember what happened next, he came to in a basement wrapped in strange rags, a doctor was telling him that he had been at death’s door but that the critical days had passed and everything that had been worth living for was in the past, all that was left was the hope that Our Lady of the Gates of Dawn and the memory of Judita would take care of him and protect him.

  It had probably been Aleksandras. He was supposed to have died at the beginning of the war, but he hadn’t gone anywhere. His shadow constantly hounded Vincentas and would not let up. It didn’t matter what people called it – a ghost, a spectre, guilt. Oh, where is my beloved Judita now, he wondered, lying in a dark basement somewhere in Germany, far from home, from light.

  THREE KINGS

  He should have died three times by now.

  The first time was before he was even born. His father, a construction engineer, was driving while drunk; as his mother tells it, they had been to a party celebrating the completion of a building. His mother had been seven months pregnant, but that hadn’t stopped her from being the centre of attention, and after one especially passionate dance with a tsarist general his father had made a scene, drank more than he should have and then they had left.

  They argued as they drove, his father apparently castigating her, suggesting that the child might not even be his. At a turn the car slid off the road and into a pond. His father, a tall man, was stuck behind the wheel, the car sank, his mother had struggled out of the vehicle but couldn’t make it to the shore. She lost consciousness and was pulled out by some nearby fishermen. He was born in an old wooden rowing boat among worms and dead, freshly caught fish.

  When the war started he went out into the streets to take photographs. He was arrested by partisan rebels and accused of spying for the Bolsheviks. They wanted to shoot him on the spot but then threw him in the lock-up. When they led him out and stood him against a wall he was spared by an SS officer.

  The third time he had escaped death had been quite recently. He had gone out to gather cigarette butts and might not have returned. He couldn’t have sworn on his life – and life was worth so little in those days – that it had been Aleksandras, Judita’s husband, but he suspected that it had been him. And that he had wanted to kill him, something that Aleksandras would have had every right to do.

  He knew that Aleksandras was dead, or that he should be dead, but after everything that he had seen he wasn’t surprised that the dead were more alive than the living, that the living were more dead than the dead.

  But was he still alive?

  He wanted to die. He felt weak, helpless and useless, he wanted to end it all because he saw no point in going on. But then, from somewhere very deep, from the darkest corner of his unconscious, came the realization that the only reason for which it was worth living and suffering was his son. He didn’t care any more what future generations might think of him; he didn’t know those generations and never will. The most painful thing was that he would probably never know his son either. And then a strange desire arose in him, took hold of him – the desire to explain to his son who his father was, who he was. This simple, clichéd thought had saved his life. He began to resist death, and death withdrew a little. Sometimes he felt its presence, sometimes he even imagined it standing in a corner, but in its hand it hel
d not a traditional scythe but a seven-tined harpoon. When he felt better he thought about his life; he couldn’t blame the way he had behaved on the times he had lived through. To him it was as colourless as developing fluid. Only individuals can dilute an era with the colours of their own various emotions and experiences. But over the last few years most people had done their best to soak that strip of time in blood. He did not want to ask for forgiveness. He wanted to see his son, to touch him, smell the warmth of his skin, talk to him. Adults speak to children as if they are halfwits. He didn’t want that kind of conversation. He imagined a reserved conversation between two men … Of course, he was not sure what he could speak about with a son he had never seen, with whom he never spent even a damned second. People hide the truth from children, not because they want to spare their delicate minds but because they want to conceal the truth about themselves for as long as possible. The only person Vincentas had been able to speak to as he lay on his deathbed was the doctor. In his thoughts he had referred to him as ‘the butcher’, but he was a good doctor, who had listened to him, nursed him, believed him. He was so perfect that Vincentas sometimes wondered if he wasn’t a figment of his imagination. That there was no doctor, that there had been no war, that he was still waiting for Judita to walk through the door, undress quickly, slip under the covers and press her icy feet against his warm calf.