Vincas Kreve
It was the middle of Lent, turning to spring. The days were warm and sunny; the snow was melting and the hilltops were losing their snow cover. Rivulets coursed through the valleys, roads and furrowed fields; with a roar they told the story of spring, announcing it was just around the corner.
‘Ladies, do you have any herring, chickens or eggs?’ Kuslius asked, rapping on the window one day.
He was an old Jew with a long, bushy, red beard that went right up to his eyes. His hair was all grey, his beard only partly so, but this half-greyness couldn’t hide the hair colour of his birth. He was shortsighted and couldn’t even see what was under his feet. That’s why he used his cane to feel his way like a blind man; he was especially careful when carrying eggs.
‘Why don’t you get yourself some eyeglasses?’ the people asked him on many occasions.
‘Eyeglasses? Where would I get money for eyeglasses?’ he’d say with a heavy sigh.
The village children must have caused him much suffering. Their favourite prank was to stick something under Kuslius’s feet to trip him. How funny to see him fall to his knees! But Kuslius would anticipate their tricks and was on guard whenever he saw the children playing or the farm hands nearby.
‘Why are you so unkind to an old man?’ he would ask reproachfully, using his cane to push aside the stick or the stone that had been intended to trip him. ‘Would you be happy if I fell and killed myself?’
But he never held a grudge; perhaps his heart had grown accustomed to this kind of ridicule.
Whether it was winter or summer, he dressed always the same, and would walk among the farmsteads carrying his basket and his bag – a veritable store on his shoulders. There wasn’t a farmstead he wouldn’t visit.
Now he was standing at Gerdvilius’s window, listening with his ear pressed against the glass to hear what the women were saying.
‘Do you have boar’s liver?’ teased the shepherd. He was seated on a bench outside the window whilst making a fishing net. But Kuslius, used to hearing such jibes, didn’t take his words to heart. He waited a moment. When he didn’t get a response, he knocked on the window a second time.
‘Do you need soap, needles, matches or herring?’
‘Come in, come in. We’ll see.’ Mrs. Gerdvilius invited him into the cottage after conferring with her daughter-in-law, who was leaning over the cradle nursing her child.
As Kuslius made his way through the yard to the porch, the shepherd dashed over to the oven, pulled out the thickest stick from under it and placed it in the doorway.
‘Remove that stick! Remove that stick!’ Mrs. Gerdvilius scolded. ‘Do you want to get an old man killed? You shameless boy!’
‘He doesn’t matter – he hasn’t been baptised!’ jeered the shepherd and sat down by the window. ‘These pranks are nothing compared to what we used to do to him when I worked in Silakiemis.’
Monica, Gerdvilius’s daughter, a girl of about fifteen, leaned her bundle of flax against the wall and, jumping up quickly – Kuslius was already walking into the porch – she grabbed the stick and threw it into the fire.
‘You wicked boy! I’ll give you such a beating. Then you’ll know!’ she berated the shepherd, before returning to her place by the flax.
‘You don’t dare. Are you aching to become Kuslius’s daughter-in-law? Is that why you’re standing up for him?’ The shepherd taunted her.
‘Beast! Gloating like a dog with two tails.’
‘Whatever were you doing there in Silakiemis – there will be none of that here,’ Mrs. Gerdvilius scolded him as well. ‘Only scamps make fun of old men. Don’t laugh. You’ll be old yourself one day. It’s a sin against God to make fun of old age. God won’t let you live to see your own golden years.’
‘It’s hardly a sin against God to laugh at a Jew,’ Marcela, the hired servant, chimed in. ‘After all, they tortured our Lord and put him to death.’
And now Kuslius, sighing, walked heavily across the threshold. He seemed exhausted.
‘Blessed be the Lord,’ he said, not taking off his cap.
‘Forever and ever, amen,’ answered only Mrs. Gerdvilius.
Having come inside, Kuslius moved closer to the window. He removed the pack that contained his merchandise from his shoulders and placed it all on the table. He put the egg basket under the bench after checking the spot with his cane. He placed the bucket of herring at his side on the bench, pulling off the ragged cover to reveal the fish.
‘Come, take some herring,’ he invited the women, placing the smallest ones at the top of the bucket. ‘How many do you need? Two? Three?’
Mrs. Gerdvilius stepped away from the stove, smoothed her dress, and went over to the bench. She stuck her hand in the bucket and chose the herring that looked best to her.
‘My, oh my, you’ve taken the very best ones. Who will buy the little ones?’ Kuslius murmured.
‘Come now. They’ll take the little ones, if that’s all there is.’
Mrs. Gerdvilius chose five herring and placed them on the bench.
‘How many eggs do you want for these herring?’ she asked Kuslius.
Kuslius picked up the herring and examined them, turning them, lifting them up and down, weighing them in his hands.
‘How many eggs? Eggs are cheap these days, and you took the choice herring. Look, they’re as plump and juicy as chickens. He showed the herring to Mrs. Gerdvilius.
‘Don’t shove them in my face. I’m not blind. I can see. These herring are as thin as rails.’
‘These are good rails! I never ate better ones in my whole life. Fine. Give me fifteen. Agreed?’
‘Not a chance, you infidel! You expect me to pay that much for these rails! Take your herring. Keep them.’
She picked up the herring from the bench and threw them back in the bucket; then she turned and went back to the stove where she had left her spindle board on a small bench.
‘Well, how much will you give me? Tell me how much.’ Kuslius yelled as he pulled out the very same herring from the bucket and put them back on the bench.
Mrs. Gerdvilius wiped her hands on her apron and sat down at her spinning wheel.
‘If you’ll take eight,’ she offered to Kuslius, ‘then I’ll do it.’
‘Eight eggs for these five herring?’ Kuslius was astounded. ‘Would my worst enemy have it so good! I paid more for them myself. How about fourteen?’
‘No. Take nine if you want. Not a penny more.’
Bringing her spindle board upright, she pulled it close to her, lubricated it with a bit of spit on her hands and began spinning as if she had forgotten the herring.
‘How about a baker’s dozen?’ Kuslius asked. ‘That’s the best I can do. On my life, that’s the best,’ Kuslius swore, but he did not put the herring back into the bucket.
‘Ten is my last offer. Not a single egg more.’
‘If only the herring were quality herring,’ said her daughter-in-law, coming to her defence. She had finished nursing her baby and swaddled him. Walking to her spinning wheel, she glanced at the herring on the bench. ‘Tiny, skimpy, like roaches.’
‘On my life, I swear that they cost me more than what you’re offering.’
Kuslius put the herring back in the bucket, threw his portable store over his shoulders, attached the basket with eggs to the corner of the bag and, sighing heavily, he made his way towards the door.
‘How about twelve?’ he asked, stopping in the doorway.
‘Ten, I said. No more. Don’t waste my time haggling. I’m not a child.’
‘I can’t do it. God knows, I can’t.’
‘If you can’t do it, then don’t,’ the daughter-in-law blurted.
Out in the yard Kuslius went over to the window and asked one last time:
‘Missus, how about eleven?’
‘And still he bothers me. I said ten.’
Kuslius stood thinking for a moment: should he go home or go back? But how could he not go back – there would be profit either way: five or six cents, maybe even ten.
Kuslius went back to the cottage, returned his wares to the same spot and unpacked the herring.
‘All right, bring me your eggs and take the herring,’ he shouted, placing them on the bench.
Mrs. Gerdvilius, resting the spindle board against the wall, took a bowl for the herring down from the shelf.
‘Which herring are you giving me? Do you take me for a fool? I will not take such herring!’ Mrs. Gerdvilius was angry, sorting through the herring on the bench. These much smaller ones had been chosen by Kuslius.
‘Which herring do you want?’ Kuslius shouted. ‘This is best herring I’ve seen in my life.’
‘Take them, take them, I don’t need herring like that.’ She pushed them back into his hands. ‘Just look! He gave me the worst ones!’
‘For ten eggs you want the finest herring,’ Kuslius grumbled and switched two of the herring for better ones. ‘These are better ones. Take them and bring me my eggs.’
Mrs. Gerdvilius sat by her spinning wheel, refusing to look at the herring.
‘I don’t want them. If you can’t give me good ones, keep them all.’
The Jew was looking through the herring in the bucket again. Selecting them, smelling them, he replaced two more.
‘Will you take these, Missus? I don’t have time. Why are you wasting my time?’ Angry, the Jew yelled. ‘Here, take the ones you picked out last time.’
Mrs. Gerdvilius noticed that he had now selected the best ones for her.
‘Marcela, take the herring from him,’ she ordered her servant as she carried her bowl to the porch to the cupboard where the eggs were kept.
Marcela, without getting up from her spinning, reached for a lid used to cover up pots of hot stew and protect them from flies and placed the herring on it.
When Mrs. Gerdvilius brought the eggs, Kuslius looked each one over, lifting them up to the sun, shaking them and placing them next to his ear.
‘What kind of eggs did you give me?’ This time it was Kuslius’s turn to be demanding. ‘Who has ever seen such eggs? I wouldn’t even get two cents for them.’
‘If you don’t like them, don’t take them. I’ll sell them in Merkine.’ Mrs. Gerdvilius retorted. ‘Marcela, give him back his herring.’
‘My, oh my. Why so hasty?’ Kuslius’s voice was now softer and more obliging; he placed the eggs in his basket. ‘Just give me some fried potato. I haven’t had a thing to eat today.’
‘Monica, give him some potato.’ Mrs. Gerdvilius turned to her daughter.
Monica brought a handful of potatoes and placed them on the table. Kuslius peeled them and ate two, then a third. The rest he put into his pockets.
While the Jew was peeling and eating the potatoes, Marcela pulled out of his bucket one, two, then three herring – so slyly that nobody seemed to notice when she pulled them out and hid them behind the spindle board. But the shepherd did. As she was hiding the herring he winked at her, roaring with laughter.
‘What are you splitting your sides about?’ Monica looked at him. ‘He’s laughing so hard he’s howling.’
‘He’s laughing at an old man. He’s laughing at the old man’s hardship,’ Kuslius lamented as he devoured his potato. ‘It’s cruel to laugh at someone’s suffering.’
Marcela glanced at the shepherd and also had a laugh. Realising that he had seen everything, she winked at him to ask him to be quiet.
Kuslius put the remaining potatoes in his pocket and explained: ‘I’m bringing them home to my wife. She’s very sick.’ He then tied up his sack, threw his bag over his shoulders and sighed deeply. ‘Missus, do you have a chicken to sell me? A chicken or a rooster?’
‘No. Nobody’s selling chickens these days.’
‘My wife is sick; she needs a chicken, but there is no chicken.’ Kuslius sought the women’s sympathy. He picked up his bags and went towards the door. The old man sighed, for his load was heavy; he was barely dragging his feet along, and yet he had to wade through the slippery muck. He was wet, muddy up to his knees. And back at home was an old lady who was sick, alone and without anyone to help her.
‘Oh, if only my enemies had a life as easy as mine,’ Kuslius exhaled noisily as he trudged along.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, the shepherd and Marcela burst out laughing.
‘You curs, what prank did you play on him?’ Mrs. Gerdvilius asked. ‘Did you steal his entire day’s wages? With a sick wife. Don’t you fear God?’
‘The devil take him!’ Trying hard not to laugh, Marcela justified herself. ‘It’s not the first time they’ve cheated one of us.’
‘It’s their job. We’ll see what the priest says when you go to confess.’
Marcela fell dead silent at the thought of the priest. It occurred to her that perhaps Kuslius and his family might actually be starving. She remembered how hungrily he had devoured the fried potato.
‘You’ll be laughing, the both of you, when you meet St. Peter with herring in your mouth, begging Kuslius to take them back from you,’ Monica threatened.
‘That will be the day when I beg for a Jew’s apology,’ the shepherd shot back. ‘Will there be Jews up there with us Catholics?’
‘When you end up in hell, you’ll find all kinds there: Jews, Catholics, gentry, and ordinary folk.’
‘What a laugh! Since when is it a sin to cheat a Jew?’ Marcela was certain of her righteousness. ‘They tortured our Lord to death and hung him on a cross.’
‘Oh, girl,’ Mrs. Gerdvilius replied. ‘We torture our dear Lord every day. We torture him and hang him on the cross. And he always forgives us.’
Marcela dreamed that she had arrived in heaven. It was beautiful, like the church in Pivasiunai. Everywhere candles and lanterns burned. The Lord God himself, grey-haired with a long beard, sat high on the altar, surrounded by angels. Some were tiny, like those in the painting of the Virgin Mary in Merkine, flying high and low circling around God, while others were bigger, with long robes and large wings. Kneeling at the altar, their hands were clasped in prayer as if they were young priests or clerics worshipping God.
Everyone in heaven was dead. Marcela could not see one living soul. Her throat tightened at the sudden thought that she might have died and that’s why she had ended up here. But she could not remember when she had died. She didn’t have much time to wonder because more and more dead people starting pushing and shoving to get through the narrow gates where she was standing. They drove her into a corner, pressing her against a wall. There were as many dead people in heaven as in Merkine church during the indulgences of St. Roch. Men, women, gentry, priests and ordinary folk, they were all well-dressed, as if they had been buried recently.
The gentlemen and the ladies were seated behind the grates, closer to God; seeing this, Marcela sighed: ‘My Lord, even in heaven the gentry are better off!’
Marcela saw many of her acquaintances; some had been long dead, some had died only last year. There was Peter Lukosiunas, her godfather, for whom she had worked for five years as a shepherd and as a servant. She also spotted Mrs. Vaksas, her godmother, who’d given her a silk scarf when Marcela had made her first confession. Sure, the scarf was no longer new – a tiny hole peeked through at the very centre – but Marcela still wore it when she attended the more important rites. She saw many others whom she barely remembered.
Marcela stood near the gates, pressed against the wall, and had a look around. Kneeling behind the gates was her own dear, old mother. With a pang she felt a longing for her mother so keen, so strong, that her heart seemed to be gripped by pliers. Now she would have a chance to talk with her, to pour out her heart, tell her of her woes like she used to when her mother was still alive and Marcela would visit her every holiday.
Marcela elbowed her way with determination to where her mother was kneeling; pushing, shoving, stepping on toes, getting there any way she could. The souls were furious and cursed her. But she paid no attention and pushed herself forward.
When she had made her way to the very centre of heaven and her mother was within reach – just a few steps remained – an angel stopped her. He was dressed in white with a red sash embroidered in gold across his shoulder; in his hands he held a large, golden sceptre.
The angel reprimanded her: ‘What are you doing here pushing your way in like a boorish lout. You’re disturbing the souls’ worship of their Lord God!’ He looked her up and down and added, ‘You came here all filthy and you’re rubbing your dirt onto the souls’ white robes!’
Marcela looked at herself: she was filthy indeed. She was wearing her everyday dress and the blouse she had not changed in over two weeks. She was humiliated, afraid even, and averted her eyes. But the angel stared at her ever more angrily.
‘Why did you bring those herring into the House of God?’ he asked, ‘Are you trying to make the place stink? Give me those fish. I’ll throw them out.’
Marcela looked down; there were herring in her hands, the very ones that she’d stolen from Kuslius’s bucket. She had no clue how she’d gotten them and how she’d brought them here. She remembered only that she had already eaten them, and this made her even more frightened. Now Marcela felt the brine from the herring dripping from her fingers onto her dress. She stretched out her hands all the more quickly to give the angel her herring. The angel called over another smaller angel and said:
‘Take these herring and throw them out. We have our own food here in heaven; we have no need for earthly food. No need for herring here.’
The smaller angel was reaching for the herring when an angry voice was heard from behind heaven’s gates:
‘Give me back my herring! That’s the fish she stole from me!’
Horror-struck, Marcela recognised Kuslius’s voice. She noted that all the souls were moving away from her, and even God, sitting up high, was scowling. Marcela was afraid to raise her eyes, but she saw his fury from the corner of her eye. And that brazen Kuslius was still yelling at her from behind the gates. She’ll pull out his beard, she’ll even ask the shepherd to set the dogs on him! Doesn’t he deserve it? He should have told her privately, asking her to pay him for it, but not here in heaven, in plain view for God and the angels to see.
‘Is there no justice even in heaven? Why won’t she return my herring? Even here the poor Jew is oppressed.’ Kuslius wouldn’t stop.
‘You’re a thief and yet you’ve come to heaven? Bringing stolen goods into the House of God?’ The angel accused her, but Marcela was silent and dumbstruck – that’s how frightened she was. ‘You have nothing to say for yourself, no explanation for your actions? Let’s go see God. Let him punish you as you deserve!’
The angel took her by the hand, and led her across the entirety of heaven, straight to God’s throne by the altar. Marcela was so humiliated she wanted to disappear. All the others were moving aside as if she had scabies, jeering, throwing insults at her.
‘Thief! She stole herring from the Jew,’ Marcela heard as she passed by.
This is how the souls accompanied her with their angry glances. Most difficult for Marcela was that the angel was taking her past the very spot where her mother was praying. Although Marcela did not raise her eyes she felt her mother look at her dolefully. This look made her turn red as a Guelder Rose. Or at least she thought she was blushing.
‘Did you steal Kuslius’s herring?’ God asked Marcela as she kneeled before his throne.
Marcela was silent as a deaf mute. She covered her eyes with her hand and quivered like an aspen leaf. God was silent waiting for Marcela to speak. When he received no answer, he turned to the angels and ordered: ‘Take her to hell and give her to the devils. Let them torture her for eternity.’
The minute God said this, the angels darted toward Marcela and, without giving her a second to catch her breath, they pushed her out of heaven and locked the gates behind her.
It was dark, gloomy and frightening outside the gates of heaven. The gates had barely clicked shut when she was surrounded by devils. They had horns and tails; flames burned in their throats like fire in a furnace. They were climbing over one another to get to Marcela. The most horrifying one of all was already poking his pitchfork at her. At the sight of this Marcela grabbed onto the gates to heaven and shrieked at the top of her voice and woke up.
Marcela sat up in her bed, drenched in sweat and quivering as if burning with fever.
Her first thought was to jump out of bed and run to Kuslius, confess and beg his forgiveness. But she saw out of her window that it was night, dark, and Merkine, where Kuslius lived, was far! How would she find him this time of night? And what’s more, people would think she’d lost her mind…
Marcela sat in bed for a long time, cross-legged, fearfully looking out of the window from time to time to make sure a horned devil wasn’t climbing in.
Finally, she made the sign of the cross over her bed, the floor, the walls on all four sides as well as the windows and the door. She made the sign of the cross over everything, and then she jumped up out of bed and walked over to Mrs. Gerdvilius’s bed where she fumbled around looking for Mrs. Gerdvilius’s dress. She found it and, with hands shaking out of fear of waking anyone, she turned the pockets inside out looking for the key to the cupboard.
She opened the doors carefully so that nobody would hear and went out into the porch. There, in the dark, with the utmost care, stopping every so often to listen and make sure that nobody had awoken, she unlocked the cupboard looking for the bowl where she knew the eggs were kept.
She found one and stuck her hand in – it was a bowl of fresh milk. Then she stuck her hand into another bowl – her fingers felt sour cream; and then another – it was barley. Finally she found the eggs. She took six, locked the door to the cupboard and buried the eggs in the sand pile in a corner of the porch; the pile had been there since the autumn and they kept it so that there would be something to scatter onto the swept floor in the winter.
After she hid the eggs Marcela went back into the cottage, as carefully as before. She returned the key to where she’d found it, lay down in her bed and peacefully fell asleep.
The next morning, Mrs. Gerdvilius was confused why the doors to the cupboard and porch had milky fingerprints – her own dress did too. Had she been sleepwalking?
She searched all the dishes and found some eggs missing. She blamed the shepherd. He defended himself, swearing that he had nothing to do with it, but Mrs. Gerdvilius would not believe him.
Marcela heard everything and kept quiet. Now every evening she checks the sand pile to make sure the eggs are still there and she impatiently awaits her day off when she will bring them over to Kuslius and pay him back for the herring…
Then she will no longer fear that that God will again order her to be thrown out of heaven for stealing!
First published in Vincas Kreve, Siaudinej pastogej, Tilze: Lituania (1921).
Translated by Jura Avizienis from Vincas Kreve, Siaudinej pastogej, Vilnius: Baltos lankos (1998).
Vincas Kreve (1882–1954) is the godfather of modern Lithuanian fiction. He wrote many long works of fiction as well as the play Sarunas (1911), and the short novel Pratjekabuda (1913). He worked for many years on the epic Sons of Heaven and Earth (Dangaus ir zemes sunus, 1949) and established himself in Lithuanian literature with his rich and colourful short stories depicting the influence of a traditional, pre-Christian worldview on the mentality of village inhabitants. His work has had a significant impact on the development of the Lithuanian short story. He was a professor at Vytautas Magnus University in Kaunas and harboured political ambitions throughout his life. He played a controversial role in the loss of Lithuanian statehood when he was the prime minister of the first Soviet government. Later he emigrated to the United States where he worked as a professor at the University of Pennsylvania until the end of his life.