For all their interest in what Lukas had to say, after sitting in DP camps for four years the young men and women, the greybeard teachers, the low-level bureaucrats and farmers were all looking out to their own futures in the West. They missed their homes, but they were realists. They were willing enough to help out, but they had no money, no jobs and no influence. The way back was closed to them, and their contributions in cash barely covered his travel expenses. If they had one fear, it was that the Allies would return to their policy of repatriation. The ones who’d gone back willingly or unwillingly had been imprisoned, deported to Siberia or killed.
Lukas had been surprised to learn about the subtleties of the West, both among the foreign governments and among his own people. There were factions within the émigrés, a split between the government-in-exile and the old diplomatic corps, and, for all he knew, factions within the factions. He was mired in complexities here. Everything had been much simpler back in the bunkers.
And, as Lozorius had predicted, the Lithuanian government-in-exile did not have any money of its own. Lukas was a kind of trophy to them, a fundraiser on tour through the camps of Germany, scratching together loose change. Now there was talk about sending him to America for a lecture series—that was where the real money lay—but the American government was sticky about its visas and in no rush to let him in.
Not yet.
Things were changing slightly. There had been a Communist coup in Czechoslovakia, and so the Americans were far less enthusiastic about their old allies, the Reds. But would they actually do anything? It was hard to tell. They seemed to worry most about Reds in the State Department while not worrying about the Reds anywhere else.
Where did all this put Lukas? He was unsure. As he had toured the Bavarian town of Kempten earlier that day, medieval buildings unbombed, pushed up against the mountains, he had been astonished by the beauty of the place, and then felt guilty for his enjoyment of this moment, for being able to walk around as a tourist while Lakstingala and Flint waited for him to bring help to them. Maybe Lozorius was right. Maybe he should have taken the British offer. And yet the British offer rankled.
His feelings were becoming unpredictable, powerful and strange. Back home his feelings had been pure and straightforward. But ever since he had left Lithuania, and in particular after he left Sweden, his emotions had become unstable. Now that he was living free of danger, he felt worse than he ever had in Lithuania.
“Excuse me.”
A young woman had stepped out of the darkness of the camp courtyard, someone whose face he remembered from the audience at his talk.
“You were a neighbour of mine back in Lithuania,” she said.
He looked at her more closely. She was younger than him, around twenty-two he guessed, with light brown hair, a high forehead and high cheekbones. He did not remember her.
“Are you from Rumsiskes?” he asked.
“No, Kaunas. My parents had a house on the same street as the university residence, and I would see you and the other students going to lectures when you were in your first year. My sister and I were still schoolgirls and we used to admire you all from a distance.”
“Admire us? What for?”
“Because you were older and seemed so sure of yourselves. We didn’t even know what we wanted to do yet, and there you were, you and your friends, sailing along on the journey of life.”
That period seemed utterly remote to him now. “What’s your name?” Lukas asked.
“Monika, but sometimes they call me Monique, since I live in France.”
Lukas had been approached like this many times in the last few weeks, and although it was flattering to have admirers, they made him feel awkward. They considered him many things: a hero, the embodiment of their anger, and a symbol of the life of resistance that they had not chosen because they had fled. He felt like a fraud in all these roles and he longed sometimes for the old friends who knew him from before. And yet that person was gone.
In the eyes of the young people in particular, those his age, he seemed to represent what might have been. They were bored, these DP camp residents, over three years in barracks, some of them, caught between worlds and still unsure of the future. Some of the teenagers who had been schoolchildren when their parents fled now wanted to go back with him to fight.
The poor darlings. No one needed teenagers in the partisan fight, and in any case there was no easy way to get back there.
“I wonder,” said Monika, “if you have any information about those who were deported to Siberia in 1940.”
“Not in particular. None of them ever came back as far as I know, and a lot more followed them.” He hated to disappoint Monika, but there was no use in raising false hopes.
She nodded sadly. “I wanted you to know that I found your talk very moving. I’m very impressed by everything you’ve done.”
“Thank you very much.”
She hesitated and then went on. “I don’t mean to be unfriendly when I ask this—I didn’t want to say anything during question period—but do you think it’s right to continue fighting?”
“What do you propose instead?”
“A whole generation is being cut down. Who will be left in the country in the long run if all of them are killed? Wouldn’t passive resistance be better than fighting?”
“You’re not the first person to say that.”
“I never claimed I was original. I was just wondering.”
“It’s the line that the Chekists try to sell. They keep apologizing for the ‘excesses’ and telling us we should lay down our arms if we really love our country.”
She reddened. “So you think I’m a Chekist too?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m sure your ideas are sincere.”
“But naive?”
“Completely. If you repeat the party line of the Cheka, then you’re helping them whether you know it or not. You must never become confused about your enemies.”
“Maybe it’s no longer a time to kill. Maybe it’s a time to heal.”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“I’m not really all that religious. In my own way I’m a doubter. It’s the more honest reaction, don’t you think? Because if you are a true believer, your cause is assured. It gives you peace of mind.”
“What a ridiculous statement. I’ve had no peace of mind for years. I’ve watched my generation die out in the forests in order to save those behind us. Don’t make me seem like a simpleton.”
She was going to respond, but the door was thrown open and two men came out. “Lukas,” one said, “you can flirt all you want later. But now you have to come back inside and answer more questions.”
Regretting his sharpness, he turned to offer softer words, but Monika had slipped away.
Lukas spent the following morning in a meeting with the émigré government, establishing the groundwork for their relationship with the partisans. There was a shortage of coal in the camp and so the room was very cold, all of them working at the table in their coats and hats, the recording secretary wearing gloves with the fingers cut out. Twenty men representing the various pre-war political parties worked together uneasily, intensely competitive among themselves.
All the discussions about future governments of Lithuania had an air of unreality about them, of detachment from anything that might happen any time soon. Lukas felt ungrounded, as if he were floating in a sea of words.
When the morning meetings ended and Lukas was eating canned corned beef sandwiches with the others, he looked up from his long table in the cafeteria and saw Monika talking by the exit door with another woman her age, a similar-looking woman who must have been her sister. Both had light brown hair and something French about them, a hint of style in the way they wore their scarves.