Postcard from Vilnius—1973

The final communication to me on this Vilnius trip was this postcard of a Ciurlionis painting. Vaiva's message is scanned below (click it to enlarge).

Mushroom hunting

Vaiva referred to this mushroom hunt in the letter below.

Bridge crossing.

A most unusual mushroom.

The Vilnius mini-camping trip again

On the family camping trip, everyone helped mow and rake the hay.

Here's the lunch, Alfonsas is to Vaiva's left.

I believe that this is Vilija between Vaiva and the car, and the baby is Vilija's daughter, Giedre.

I've found my people and my home—August 8, 1973

rugpiucio 8d 1973 m.

My dearest Jim—

I miss you. Receiving your letters reinforces that a thousandfold, and also brings the frustration of going back much closer. Damn it—I don't want to. And I do want you. It doesn't matter, anyway, I'm leaving in less than two weeks.

It worries me, I don't know whether my letters are any good for you whatsoever . . . so much of me has gone into them, love, both in terms of time and emotion, no matter how badly written they may be.

So. It is one day later now, I've been sick in bed all day and I'm feeling fine. . . a shower, a cleaning the room orgy and fourteen hours of sleep later. I've lost a day, I suppose. But then I could not have gone on as before. . .By the way, I went camping with about a dozen of my family this weekend, learned how to find food and prepare it . . . sang by a campfire in the late evening with a fine mist in the air. It was a fine, fine experience. I wish—and this is not only an old line but also an honest sentiment—that you had been there. I've finally met my sister's daughter, her husband, their child, all of them were there. Stasys is an integral part of the group as am I. It was a happy time, I spent the afternoon mushroom hunting, the evening swimming in a small river, the night watching clouds disappear. Like Neringa, only Neringa is a poor imitation. . .

Yesterday there was an excursion to Kaunas. We saw a gallery of stained glass and sculpture—interesting, some of it was really excellent, some of it was utter shit. For some reason, sculpture seems to touch me emotionally much more strongly than most other art forms—I may love the thing or despise it, but there is always something. I am constantly amazed at the amount of hate that burns within me, waiting . . . I've been writing a lot of poetry about waiting.
I also saw Ciurlionio galerija—an experience that will stay with me, seeing it for the first time, although I hope to be there again and again. There was a guided tour, as always, through the homes and by the churches of some of our commonly famous writers . . . and three free hours to visit all of my relatives in Kaunas. Bread and salt and cognac—Love and pain and bitterness—my father's sister—She looks much like him but is small, she was an agronomist. More, but this is not the place.

By the way, if any of the times are confusing, it's not an error.

Thank you for your letters. I have received three up to now. They come very sporadically, through very many dirty hands, but they come, and they are good. In fact, they are almost essential for me to remain as myself. Thank you, love.

Don't worry about our parting, or about our meeting—these are not essential things. The essential ones, I think, we both are sure of. Much has changed in me and much will not become clear until I leave. I have now more purpose in me than I had thought possible, more of everything. More hate, more love, more grief, more joy. I've found my people and my home. Although I'm missing my first home nevertheless, and you—in a thousand different ways I am with you each and every day and night, even when I am completely here. I don't yet know myself when I am coming back, I will probably see you in Boston . . . until our meeting, be well, be happy, know that I have been with you throughout, know that I love you.

Pretty moon tonight . . . . for you, it is midday.

When you sleep, sleep well. Yours,

Vaiva

Back to the Vilnius photos

There are a few more photos of Vaiva's first visit to Lithuania, and two more letters to enter.Vaiva with her sister Silvija, brother-in-law Alfonsas and their sons.

The woman in green is Vilija, Vaiva's niece, who would later spend summers in Durham while Vaiva was in Vilnius. Her husband is on the left. The nextletter refers to this meeting.

The Vilnius mini-camping trip

These photos seem to be from the mini-camping trip that Vaiva refers to in the letter below.

Alfonsas is on the left, Silvija is in the middle. I suspect that Evaldas took the photo.

God help me if I should forget a single moment—July 27, 1973

1973 m. liepos 27 d.

My dearest Jim—

Forgive the handwriting—I am becoming used to writing in script. It seems forever since the last letter, but I have no concrete idea of how long it has been . . . So much happens each day. And I cannot tell you anything that matters, I must keep it within. God help me if I should forget a single moment. In any case—I spent most of the weekend with my relatives, intensely packed days, the most intense of my life (not excluding Rush Week). I saw an incredible amount, in them and with them, and on Sunday we went on a mini-camping trip (within Vilnius) where I found my first chance to write since coming here. It seems that a thousand songs should pour forth at the first opportunity—but no. One half-finished poem. Still, I am pleased, I can still catch something, it means . . .

My relatives are really enough, as far as being with people goes . . . as for the rest, no murmurs of the heart. I miss you badly, I have your letter here with me, it really helps sometimes. There are moments when it seems that here is the only place in the world. God knows.

The courses are helpful in my—what do you call it—enunciation. The rules of grammar—that is not the way for me to gain a practical command of the language. That only comes from talking to people, and I'm trying to do quite a bit of that. Jesus, it's half gone. I am so scared, Jim, I don't want to face MIT or Sigma Nu or the USA. Each person has their own battle.

They are showing us a lot of nice factories around here. Silk thread, 70% export. Interesting questions, oh Jim I need you. It's cold here, really cold for a summer. But I cannot criticize the weather, for all of the weather is beautiful when one is at home—and I am at home.

I'm really tired, seriously exhausted, there are no free minutes anywhere. A hot bath, or even warm water, would be so fine. [A sentence from this letter has been removed at the request of Aras Vebra.] Jim, I would like to pour out my heart, but I don't think I could even if I were free to. When am I going to sort it all out, to take it apart and put it back together? In poetry, in the end? This is probably the last letter . . . I don't know if they are reaching you, touching you, and I am only beginning to realize my situation. I will see you soon, after you see this, my love.

I'm trying hard to live, and I'm well, and I love you.

Good dreams, dearest.

Vaiva

Unknown Kaunas monument

There are several photos of Vaiva at this monument,
including one where her head is bowed, resting on the stone gate frame.
Unfortunately, Liepa and I didn't recognize it.

I have about four separate "families" here—July 17, 1973

July 17, 1973

My dearest,

I miss you very badly. I was thinking of telegrams and telegraphs and similar things this afternoon. My love . . .

Ah, I'm feeling quite a bit better right now, 11:40 pm, slightly and healthily drunk. I had dinner with Audre's relatives and they are really nice, her uncle especially . . .

It seems as though these six weeks are running like sand through my fingers. I won't want to go back, I know, although I miss you seriously and painfully. America seems almost as far away as Lithuania once did. Though it is still impossible to believe I am here, there are flashes of understanding and appreciation of how incredible this is, but most of my living is a superficial, day-to-day experience. But . . . my sister Silvute had to keep lending me her handkerchief, now I have learned to carry my own. Many, many tears.

My God, this is incredible. While I attempt to write you this letter, I am talking to the current sweetheart of Sigma Chi at McGill University. It's hilarious—she's Lithuanian, at the courses here, and kind of neat. Totally different from me—painted toenails, false eyelashes, we're discussing fraternity—she noticed my rushbook. Incredible. [Vaiva would be Rush Chairman for the fraternity at MIT the following September. —Jim]

July 18

I've had a wonderful, wonderful day. I went water skiing, and singing and being happy, of course not what I was supposed to be doing. My relatives and their friends are really good at making me happy. I feel in love with all of them, as they obviously without boundary love me. I have about four separate "families" here, and I spend a great deal of time with them. I don't sleep—from what could I rob the time—my classes, friends, brothers and sisters, or letters home? Or sleep? I am getting along on 4-5 hours a night, less than at MIT.

July 19

I'm sorry, my love, the days run away from me. I wasn't in particularly good shape to write last night, as you can probably tell. It was a truly wonderful day, but I was truly seriously drunk, more than I ever have been at home—except once. And—what can I say—it was good. The song-singing especially—fragments of songs run through my mind continually now, perhaps I will yet learn to sing. That, and being among people I can trust, people that will laugh and cry with me without hypocrisy or shame. Yesterday I saw Lithuania, the Lithuania of our parents and their parents, for the first time. Audre and I held on to each other and wept, and spoke with a very old man and wept, and then we sang. Jesus. I don't know how to tell you—I really don't—we sang songs they no longer sing here and have "forgotten" while we have preserved them as in a glass case at home. But here they come alive. I had begun to understand my love for the culture, the nation. Yesterday I learned my love for the land. I am going to return a pretty growed-up person, my love . . .

O Dieve, Dieve, Dievuleli, I love this place so much, more than I ever realized I could. Jim . . . I hope you are well and happy, and I am sorry if my letters are just run-on sentences about myself. I can barely manage a letter to you—this was written at least six separate times and believe me, love, it is not for lack of desire—I simply cannot manage, there are times that I would like to throw a shoe at anything that moves, I would like to spend more time alone. Or with you.

The water has been freezing for several days—I think your going to get back a hardier, healthier Vaiva, if I don't turn to drink. No fear—there is too much to live for. . .

I love you, I love the people here, I love the better part of the world. The rest I hate with a fury you've never seen. But . . . ah well.

Sleep well tonight, my love,

Vaiva

Context

In addition to the background for these letters from Vaiva mentioned here and here, I thought I should note that at that time, in 1973, telephone calls between Lithuania and the U.S. were effectively forbidden. Letters were the only form of communication (and they were being read by the KGB). That's why Vaiva's letters seem at times like journal entries.

Even when I made my first trip to Lithuania with Vaiva in June 1980, international calling was restricted. Vaiva and I went to a "telephone building" across the park from our hotel, where she ordered a phone call from a clerk behind a teller's window. We waited until her name was called, and then she was allowed to go to an assigned telephone booth. I think she prepaid for some number of minutes, 5 or 10, and she called her parents in New Haven, to let them know we were OK. We assumed the KGB was listening to the call—after all, they were not shy about tailing us.

After Lithuanian independence we could talk on the phone when we were separated by the ocean, and we did. But the result is that I don't have the kind of written record for the 1990s that I have of this earlier period.

. . . the most moving day of my life—July 15, 1973

Sunday, July 15

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

Outdoor photo

On the left is Vaiva's brother Valdas,
then Leonas, then Vaiva's sister Silvija,
then of course Vaiva. I don't know the rest.

More from the Kaunas meeting

With Leonas Raciunas. I don't know what they are looking at.

Ready for dinner, the woman to Vaiva's right
is Teresa, I believe, her father's sister.

I am worried about causing trouble—July 10, 1973

Tuesday, July 10, 1973

My love—

Vilnius is incredible. I really do love this city, although it is only 45% Lithuanian. They say it is becoming more so. I want it to be "mine," in a sense, to know and understand as well as love it. The University, the buildings, (many remaining from 14th 15th centuries) is right. It is as it should be. But much is not as it should be, and I am worried about causing trouble, internal or external.

I wrote that I would like to have free time . . . I won't. Seven days a week, 8 to 6, I will usually have an "activity" to go to. Many, many of them will be worthwhile, excursions and meetings with prominent people and "documentary films."

But that is not the important thing, although it's very, very important. The important thing is that I met my brother Valdas yesterday (I've already written you about Silvute, Evelina? I'm sorry if I haven't, I'm still really disoriented.) Valdas looks like my father might have, forty years ago. . .

I had dinner with Silvija and Alfonsas and their two sons, clearly a special dinner arranged for me. They had Jello, which is priceless here, a gift from my father in a package. It was a very fine evening, to be followed by many similar ones, I expect. The two sons are shy and won't talk to me. They (the children) have pictures of Julie (Eisenhower) on the walls. They think like me but more so, we listened to the radio together, they are good people.

Wednesday, 6:00 AM

I didn't write yesterday because too much happened, and now I don't remember it. I came home at seven and have slept til now. I don't "not remember," there is just too much conflicting stuff to write down or even keep in my head. Yesterday . . . I didn't see any relatives, there wasn't time. There were two lectures in the morning— 9-12:30, one of which was seriously upsetting, I remember. During the lunch break a friend (Audre) and I sat in a park, fed the pigeons, watched the people watching us as though we were crazy, to give bread to birds. And in the afternoon there was a tour of the old University (they're building a new one), which was truly fine because they showed us the University Church (15 - - ) [note, Vaiva's Vilnius funeral was held in that church —Jim] to be a museum and we had an enthusiastic guide. I'll tell you the details . . . And we came home and my friends went somewhere or other and I went to sleep. No clothes hangers in this city.

And now I write in the afternoon, and again it is useless because I can tell you how I feel now, but I can't tell you how I felt ten minutes ago or 10 hours ago and it is hopeless to try to explain, although I feel an amazing need to . . .

This is not the place for someone with easily expressed emotions, or shown, and mine are, as you well know. In the space of this day I've felt joy and nostalgia and gaiety and peace and sorrow and anger and bitterness and that feeling which I feel when I am beyond those last three. It's not one that you have ever seen. There were 3 lectures today and eight "documentary films"—the day lasted from 7 to 7, more or less, and now it is 10. They brought an old woman to sing for us, and that was very, very beautiful. The speaker that was respectable (by me) this morning gave me a gift—I went up to him and spoke to him after class and he wrote in his book on folklore essentially "Until another meeting very soon" and gave it to me, which means very much to me and generally more than it may seem.

The films are not writable aboutable in this letter. And after it all ended, Julius (my father's sister's husband's brother's son) took me home for dinner and a ride on his morocycle, which was really fantastic and the first time in my life. He's like a brother . . .

Write to me, love. Yours,

Vaiva

Vaiva meets her Kaunas relatives

Note the picture on the wall behind Vaiva in both photos. It depicts the chemical engineering laboratory that Vaiva's father helped to design, architected by Landsbergis, where he worked until he was taken by the Nazis. Made of inlaid wood, this treasure was carefully preserved by the family through the 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s as a memorial of Vaiva's father. It hangs in Durham now.

The man standing is Leonas Raciunas. I believe he was the husband of Vaiva's father's sister, Teresa.

"I will repay"—July 8, 1973

Sunday, July 8, 1973

Dearest Jim—

I am in Vilnius, this is the first day here, my thoughts and emotions are as jumbled as ever in my life. It is hard to believe that I am on the other side of the world, and even harder to believe that I am here.

Moscow was awful, I hated it, it was supposed to make me feel gay and carefree (the largest hotel in Europe?). . . .

Today I swam in the Neris, I wonder if you can conceive of the significance of that to me. I've met my sister and her husband and about ten other relatives who appear to be ready to give me all, everything that they possess. They are pretty wonderful people—trying incredibly hard to make this pleasant for me.

There are red signs everywhere, with exclamation marks, printed in Lithuanian and Russian. The signs are very enthusiastic about the friendship of nations—you will excuse me, I will stop here, I am about to go too far. The courses begin tomorrow morning at nine and last until one each day. That's not bad, a good amount of free time, and much to see and ponder. I'll spend part of it walking . . .

When I live in Boston, I don't miss muy parents much. I certainly don't actively long for them. Yet here, as I was sitting in the garden of my father's other daughter, I suddenly realized how wrong, how stupid it is for me to be here alone. I know now what genuine sorrow and grief feel like—I could almost see my father sitting there, among his children and grandchildren, it was a tangible image. I cried but it meant nothing, this is a sorrow beyond sorrow, and anger beyond anger. I have never felt an emotion of this strength before, towards anyone or anything.

Where does the quote come from—oh—Anna Karenina, "I will repay." For this, no one could repay. I have no words, nothing to hold onto, there is no point to feeling anything.

Now I know how much I love my father. It boggles the mind.

I will write very soon dearest,

Vaiva

Vaiva's family background

For those who are unfamiliar with Vaiva's family, here's a very short summary. The context is needed for the letters to make sense.

Vaiva's father, Juozas Vebra, was an army colonel in Lithuania between the wars, running a chemical engineering lab in Kaunas. (He was the science advisor during the building of the lab, the architect was Landsbergis, whose son would, fifty years later, help lead the drive for Lithuanian independence. Small world.) Juozas was married with two sons and a daughter.

He was arrested by the Nazis for his anti-Nazi activity, though he never was told specifically what his crime was. (He was, needless to say, anti-Nazi.) Sentenced to die, he was liberated by the Allies just in time, days before the sentence was to be carried out.

By this time, waves of Lithuanians had left their homeland, fleeing the invading Russians. Juozas' family did not leave, however. They stayed behind, but he could not return to them, because he faced the certainty of death or deportation at the hands of the communists.

Accordingly, he went to a displaced persons camp, I believe in Germany, where he found the Zidonis family, whom I believe he had known before the war as well. He and Genevieve joined forces then, but I'm not certain when they married. They traveled together and lived in France for a while, later they emigrated to the U.S. and settled in New Haven.

Vaiva was born in 1954.

Although he could not go back, Jouzas did not abandon his first family. He sent packages of stuff to them for years--canned goods, clothing, coffee, things that would be hard to obtain or that they could use for trade. This amounted to many tens of thousands of dollars worth of material support over the years. I imagine that in the 1950s he hoped to return one day, but this hope must have dimmed over the years.

Vaiva participated, accompanying her father when he went to arrange for another package. (I went along once also.) Therefore, she considered his first family to be her own family, she considered her half-siblings to be her own brothers and sister, though she had never met them, didn't know if she would ever be able to meet them. What a strange circumstance for growing up.

Against this backdrop, Vaiva's first visit to Lithuania, her first chance to meet the rest of her family, must have been as terrifying as it was potentially exhilarating.

On a more serious note

I have more photos to post from our student days, but for a week or so I'm going to shift to something that will be more difficult to do, but perhaps more important.

I'm going to post about Vaiva's first trip to Lithuania.

Vaiva was accepted to a program for visiting college students in Vilnius for six weeks in the summer of 1973, when she was 19 years old. It was her first trip abroad. Vaiva had finished two years at MIT, and she was already emerging as a force in the Lithuanian-American Community. For example, in June 1973, before this trip, Vaiva was asked to make a speech comemorating the June deportations and the self-immolation of Romas Kalanta the year before, protesting the lack of Lithuanian freedom and independence.

I don't have that speech. But I do have the letters that Vaiva sent to me from Lithuania, and I have some photographs of her from that trip. I will post excerpts from the letters, and Liepa has helped me identify some of the people in the photos.

Keep in mind that some self-censorship was necessary. The Russians opened the incoming and outgoing mail—we marked our envelopes, and they did not try to hide their espionage. Rather, they flaunted it, to be the more intimidating. But they did let the letters through.