By March there was a rumour of green in the trees and bushes. The city uncoiled tentatively from the numbness of winter. It snowed again, briefly, in the middle of March, the small crystal flakes glittering in the nascent spring sun. Children appeared and their shouts sounded oddly loud in the streets after their long absence. By April the last of the grimy snow drifts, packed in dark comers, had melted away.
Jerzy managed to get his hands on a car and we drove out to Trakai, with Rita and Lunski. The lake shimmered in the sunlight and the trees were fresh with colour. We hired a small boat and rowed out onto the lake. We did not speak of the war. We had all heard the rumours, the stories, speculation, but we spoke of art, of plays, of poetry and beauty and all the things that normal young people may speak of in times of peace.
In the afternoon a sudden shower surprised us and we were forced to row to a low, wooded island for shelter. We sat beneath the trees and listened to the rain approach us across the surface of the water. I lay on my back, cushioned by thick layers of pine needles, and Rita lay by my side. Listening to the softness of her breathing and the patter of rain on the water it struck me that I should be content. While half the world was fighting, I was there beneath the trees savouring the loveliness of being. However, rather than feeling joy, a heavy weight oppressed me. I closed my eyes and thought of her – the soft swell of her belly, the quiet pride that flushed her cheeks.
‘You’re crying,’ Rita whispered in my ear.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s just my eyes watering.’
When the shower had moved on we rowed back to land and drove into the small town of Trakai. Whilst Jerzy and Lunski settled down to a beer in a café overlooking the lake, Rita and I wandered across to the section of the town inhabited by Karaites. Their houses shone brilliantly in the sunshine, yellow and blue, each with three windows looking out onto the road. Legally the Karaites were not Jews though they were great Hebrew scholars. They differed from the Jews in that they rejected the Talmud. Legend had it that the Grand Duke Vytautas had brought them back from Asia, and they retained their Turkic culture. I sat on a grass bank and watched as Rita sketched their prayer house.
Vilnius was enjoying a wary spring. We drove back to the city, the car loaded with flowers. So overpowering was their perfume to our deprived senses that we had to open the windows. Rita arranged bunches around her studio, and their petals were liked polished gold in the sunlight. Jerzy wanted to take an armful to sell, but Rita refused to give them up.
‘Go fuck one of your shop girls, if you want bread,’ she said to him.
‘You don’t need to eat?’ he answered morosely, eyeing her.
Rita had lost weight over the winter. She had lost the soft fullness of her body; her shoulders were sharp and her cheeks slightly sunken. The paleness of her skin had begun to look unhealthy as opposed to richly virginal.
‘I need to see something beautiful,’ she said, her hands ranging delicately over the fresh petals, caressing the swelling buds with a hunger she did not display for food.
‘Artists!’ Jerzy spat, angrily.
Late one afternoon I returned from drinking with Jerzy to find her painting a young woman. The woman was bent with her back to the door and I did not recognise her. Rita, seeing me, looked around uncomfortably. With a swift, deft flick of her arm, she turned the canvas that she had been working on and covered it with a loose cloth so that I could not see.
The young woman straightened up, her arms resting at the base of her back, as though she found it difficult or painful to rise. I noticed then the large swell of her stomach, the way that her hair fell back across her shoulders, and before she turned, recognised her.
‘Rachael,’ I said.
She glanced over at me, surprised.
‘Steponas,’ she exclaimed and sneezed. She grinned and sneezed again.
I noticed then that she had been bending to smell the flowers. She must have pushed her face deep into the bunch as it was dusted all over with golden pollen. Rita noticed and stepped over to her. She drew out a handkerchief and caught Rachael’s face in her hand to wipe away the pollen. My chest tightened.
‘Rachael has been sitting for me,’ Rita explained.
She was heavily pregnant. Whilst Rita looked drawn and pale, Rachael was radiant with health. She sneezed again, and laughed.
‘The pollen has got up my nose,’ she explained.
Rita smiled and handed her the handkerchief, which was prettily embroidered, with Rita’s initials in the corner.
‘Keep it,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ said Rachael. She admired the needlework then slipped it into her pocket.
Rita took her arm and moved her past me before I could say anything. She turned at the door and smiled. I slumped into a chair. The mixture of feelings that assailed me was bewildering. At the same time I both loved and hated her.
I longed to go after her, yet felt a mounting, irrational fury that Rita had invited her here.
Hearing their voices, soft outside the door, I jumped up quickly and strode over to the canvas stood on its easel in the light, by the window. Stealthily I pulled back the cloth to look at the painting. Rachael sat looking out from the picture, her hands resting gently on her swollen stomach.
I heard the door close and turned, letting the cloth drop. Rita watched me. She was angry, I could see, that I had stolen a look at her painting, but she said nothing. She turned from me and busied herself cleaning some brushes at the sink.
I longed to speak, to ask about Rachael, to talk about her, but I knew that if I said anything it would come out angrily. I paced about the room for some minutes. Rita did not turn to me. She was tight-lipped, her attention focused on the yellow paint running into the sink as the tap water washed through the bristles of her brushes. I left.
She came around to see me later. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
Rita raised a finger to my lips, silencing me. ‘I don’t know what you have got against her, it isn’t my business.’
‘I haven’t…’ I began.
‘Don’t, Steponas, I don’t need you to explain. She, too, is tense when you are around. She told me you knew each other back in the village, but she didn’t want to talk about it more. So let’s forget it. Leave it.’
We said no more, then. We went for a stroll in the town. At Rita’s suggestion we walked to the Dawn Gates. The upstairs grotto was thick with people: peasant women, crying out in Polish and Russian. The warmth of the day, the candles that burned in profusion, the incense and the heavy stench of perspiring bodies made me feel nauseous. The Black Madonna gazed down upon us, impassive, regal. The gold of her gown glowed against her dark skin. The sword-sharp rays of glory, which haloed her inclined head, were at odds with the peaceful grace of her crossed-hand posture.
Rita bent to her knees by the side of a wrinkled Russian woman, who was beating her breasts, and weeping, reciting her petitions to the mysterious, beautiful Mother of God. Rita closed her eyes and I saw her lips stir in silent prayer.
‘Come on,’ I said, after a few minutes, unable to stand any longer the smell and the heat. Rita looked up and grinned.
‘I can never tell if you are serious or not,’ I said. ‘About what?’
‘The pictures, the icons and all this,’ I said.
‘Do you ask Jerzy if he is serious about his poems?’ ‘That’s different.’
‘Because he’s obscene to cover his embarrassment?’
There were other times, I knew, when Rachael went to the studio. Her baby was born, a girl, Rita told me one day. Though she didn’t tell me when Rachael would be sitting for her, she would at times cautiously suggest I occupy myself for a few hours away from the studio, and, understanding, I would.