Digging up the Past in Lithuania
Ike joined me at the hip Double Coffee shop on Pilies Street, Abie was running late. It took me a few moments to acknowledge him, my attention being focused on the buxom black-clad brunette waitress with the short bangs, carrying a tray full of large beers. Ike cleared his throat, whiplashing my attention, and I turn to face a thirty-two year old guy, my age, with a stern face, thin channels of life already carving themselves around his eyes. He’s somehow managed to instantly get a pint of Utenos ale , so we raise our bushy eyebrows, and take a sip in silence. Seconds later, Abie comes in, smiles at the waitress, deposits his hat on the hook James Bond style, dances across the room and takes his seat next to Ike.
“So what are you doing in Lithuania anyway,” he asks me, heavily accented.
I begin to explain. My grandparents on my dad’s side were both Lithuanian (although my grandmother was born in South Africa, her parents were Lithuanian), and my grandfather on my mom’s side, also Lithuanian. Through fate, luck and mercy, I’ve been given a ticket to travel the world, so why not see where they come from, and by extension, where I come from too?
“It’s not going to be all fun and gaming,” remarks Abie, drops of rain still falling from his curly hair onto his stylish leather jacket. They really know how to dress in this part of the world.
“Most people don’t even know where Lithuania is,” says Ike, one eyebrow curiously arched.
“Then, as a travel writer, it’s my job to tell them,” I say, signaling the waitress for another beer.
I thought it was a small Baltic country (population 3.3 million) in north-eastern Europe, but scientists have determined that the geographical center of Europe lies just 26km south of Vilnius, the nation’s capital. Twice the size of Belgium(”and we all know the size of Belgium,” ribs Abie), it borders Latvia, Poland, Belarus, Russia, and 99km of the Baltic Sea. Picture flat, green farmlands, fresh lakes and pine forests, towns with medieval cobblestone squares, aristocratic palaces and fairy-tale castles. Much like other countries in Eastern and Central Europe - Poland, Czech Republic, Hungary - only a little cheaper, less recognized, and with fewer tourists. History dates Lithuanians back to the 11th century, mired in an ongoing series of regional wars with larger neighbours Russia and Poland. The country was also the last remaining pagan outpost in Europe, although today it is mostly Roman Catholic. Jewish history begins in the 15th century, and due to brilliant scholars and large Jewish schools, Vilnius became known as the “Jerusalem of Lithuania.” Lithuanian is one of the world’s oldest surviving languages, regarded by linguists as the oldest link to the original Indo-European tongue that gave birth to most of the languages of Europe and beyond. It is also closely related to Sanskrit (”that might help me find myself, should I get lost in India,” mutters Ike). Lithuanians, a proud and industrious lot, have given the world notables like actors Sean Penn, Sir John Geilgud and Charles Bronsan, singers like Anthony Keidis of the Chilli Peppers, not to mention Bob “Zimmerman” Dylan, fictional serial killers like Hannibal Lechter, and writers like Nadine Gordimer and Anthony Sher. “And, although it remains to be seen, maybe you,” says Abie.
Autumn has lined the streets with red, yellow and green leaves, which incidentally match the colours of the national flag. The October Sky has been watching a tragic love story on cable TV, and frequently cries raindrops (when it blows its nose, a chilly wind rushes up the streets of Old Town). I’m looking at the Litvaks Abie and Ike (hukking about the kakameyme schlep to get here in free flowing salty Yiddish), and realize that for once I’m a physical fit in a foreign country - pale, blue-eyed, average height, biggish nose. I’m told Lithuanian girls love foreign men, but that doesn’t help me since I don’t look foreign at all. We’re on to our third deceivingly strong unpasteurized beer, so I order a round of a local herb-based liquor as a sort of yardstick. The waitress brings them over swiftly. I’m trying to flirt but Abie seems to be doing a better job.
“There are three Abrahams in my family, so they call me Abie Bachelor, since I’m already in my 30s and not yet married,” he says. “I have been thinking about this Polish girl I met, but hey, if I was in a hurry, I would take a bus.”
“‘Spose that makes sense, hey, l’chaim!”
We touch glasses, make eye contact, snap our heads back, drain the elixir. I’ve always thought that anything that tastes this disgusting has got to be good for you.
“So, you both come from Vilnius?”
“No, I was born in a little village called Kupiskis, or, Kupishok, or Shuk, or Shik, or however you want to say it,” Abie says, chasing the shooter with a sip of beer.
“I am from nearby, a bigger town, Panaveyz. Today it’s the 5th biggest city in the country, used to be bigger. But I suppose a lot of things used to be something here,” says Ike, glancing over at Abie, who looks down into his glass. It is quiet, for a moment, but this uneasy silence continues to talk.
“Look, Gonzo, this is not all partytime. This country has seen a lot of pain, …we…have seen a lot of pain, what is it you are looking for?” says Abie, and for the first time since he entered, I see his face take a serious turn. “People around the world are travelling to see where they come from, digging for roots, trying to understand a little about where they sit on the family tree. Hell, it’s become an industry, with software, websites, tourist agencies specialized to help westerners trace their European heritage. It’s a good article to write for my travel editors, and better yet, I get to figure this stuff out too.”
Ike purses his lips, says something in Yiddish, Abie shakes his head, a brief discussion, then a grimace, a smile, and Abie’s face returns to us from Serious Street.
“OK, you like, you want, it can be arranged,” he says, “but first let’s give our regards to Broadways”.
