My dearest Jim,
I have not written for several days for two reasons: a genuine exhaustion and lack of time, and fear. I cannot write what I must write, what must be expressed or my mind will stop functioning entirely. I want so badly to tell you exactly what I have been doing, what and whom I have seen and how, and without telling you what has happened, how can I tell you what I think and feel about it? I cannot, and I feel like a fool, all the more so because my sorrows and frustrations are comparatively nothing. . .
When did I last write, in the middle of the week sometime, yes? Since then I've had a lecture on the national environment, (i.e. geology, biology) and one on attempts to publish the 15? volume dictionary. Both of these, they must have been on Friday because I remember them best, were genuinely inspirational. They have brought back the buffaloes, not American buffaloes but Polish ones (stumbras) and the man was pretty enthusiastic about it. He also spoke of pollution control, although apparently he did not tell us everything, from conversations about it with my scientist relatives. But . . . It's not all that bad yet and the local people (Lithuanians) are very seriously concerned about it, perhaps things are changing . . .
The second lecture was given by the man who is primarily responsible for the huge dictionary getting published. His enthusiasm for the Lithuanian language was incredible, I've never seen so great a professional joy in my life. He gave us his home telephone in case of us wanting to acquire any books (finding a specific book is often impossible in the city—all of the copies are bought as soon as they are off the press, or sooner). He was apparently a student in the times before of our great men such as Salys, who he mentioned—Salys died in Cleveland? last year. I really, really liked this man. I'm getting pretty good at recognizing that which is genuine from that which is not, and this man was obviously neither insulting nor injuring, a man after my own heart, so to speak.
My own heart—this evening on Friday was spent with my brother and his family and other relatives kept coming and going, apparently simply to catch a glimpse of me. Old photograph albums . . . I saw quite a bit more, my brother has traveled quite a bit in the USSR because of his scientific abilities.
And then I went home early, which means before dawn, to sleep for the trip to Kaunas about which I can tell you absolutely nothing except that it may have been the most moving day of my life. Unfortunately I felt very ill in the morning and could not go with the excursion. It is forbidden for me to go outside of city limits without the excursion, so I can tell you nothing of what they would have shown me. Kaunas is a place to see much, you know, my father's sister married to his closest friend, just returned from Siberia. His name is Leonas Raciunas, the composer's brother, he is apparently a man without equal on the face of the earth, he is—he lives in the house where my father lived, he cried when he knew I was here, he loves me and my father very deeply, and I have quite a few relatives in that direction, and I love him very, very much, and all of them . . .
I am making a terrible mess of this. I'm sorry—I want you to know everything that happens to me. I try, but it's impossible, it comes out as something neither you nor anyone else will understand. Subtleness is not one of my strong points, especially as I am seriously forgetting English, and good riddance. Now there's a fine English expression.
Oh, my very dear Jim, you seem much farther away than on the other side of the world. It's frightening. I need some contact with you very badly, although throughout my trip I feel my trust for you very strongly. That trust—it is nothing, it is theoretical, I need a gentle word, a hand on my shoulder, not a love and trust as far away as the moon. Although Alfonsas (whose brother was a priest before he died and is a very saintly sort of man) tells me he can see New Haven reflected in the fullness of the moon. I cannot see you in the moon, Jim, although sometimes I can see you by my side. Perhaps I should write more about the weather. I wonder whether you receive these letters—Or the scenery—it is very different here, but perhaps another letter, you would like that? I wonder whether I will see you again sometimes—no, that's not true, please don't worry.
With much, much love,
Vaiva
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