Rimas Rackaitis: partisan
1920-1946
Vilnius
Petras Barakauskas: partisan
Gvidonas Stravinskas: partisan
1918-1946
Anykščiai
Edmundas Veiverys: liaison
1930-1946
Tadas -: partisan
1907-1946
Klaipėda
Dainora Talaisyte: liaison
Audra Giraitiene: liaison
1926-1946
Šiauliai
January 30, 1946
I remember the last time I saw you.
You were sitting alone, amid the twisted wreckage and the carnage and the crumbled brickwork. Your beautiful city was being razed to the ground, and there you were, praying as if it were Sunday mass.
Even with your back turned, even with a helmet on your head, I knew it was you. You were caked in so much filth that I could only tell by the subtle shifting of your shoulders, and the way your head was not bowed, but tilted towards what remained of the soaring rafters of the cathedral. The watery sunlight filtered through the ceiling, ethereal, fragile.
I almost regretted loading my Soviet rifle and aiming it at your head.
You stole my capital, and I destroyed yours.
It was a fair trade at the time.
You crossed yourself then, and stood up, and turned to face me as if you were merely inconvenienced.
"Good morning, Litwo."
"Lenkija."
You were lighting a cigarette - I hadn't seen you smoke since the twenties - grinning at me, but there was only hatred in your eyes. I wanted to break your jaw.
I readjusted my grip as you took a step towards me, and your laugh was cold, careless.
"Go ahead, Litwo. You're a lousy shot."
Oh, I could have shot the lighter right off the rim of your stolen helmet.
Instead I lifted my head and dropped the gun. I wanted to kill you. I wanted to take you up in my arms.
But as easily as I could have shot you, Poland, I couldn't have shot Feliks. Enough of us had already done that.
Beneath your façade I could see the desperation. I could see the sleepless nights and the agony and the hurt. You welcomed death.
There was a bullet tearing through my abdomen before I realised you had pulled a pistol from your tattered jacket.
Then you ran.
