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Chapter 4
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Tauragė, Lithuania, 1863
Tauras' world blinked in and out.
He was hardly aware of his feet moving or the guards holding him by the arms as he was brought out to a post in the middle of the customs house courtyard. The iron cuffs binding his wrists were strung to a rope, his arms pulled up as his shirt was cut open, exposing his back.
The lash came next. Whistling as it split the air. Tauras instinctively tensed moments before it cracked across his back. The pain was instant, a stinging current lancing up and down his spine. He wrapped his fingers around the rope, clinging to it for dear life as his body arched and twisted with each successive blow. He counted each one — the space between, drawn out and deliberate, just enough time for his skin to begin to feel the warm summer air, the light breeze in the courtyard, before the next stroke landed. Tauras gripped the rope, imagining it as a rosary, and prayed — actually prayed — it would be over soon.
Something inside him fractured that day. Something that could not easily be put back together. Later, whenever his mind would recall this ordeal, it was not the pain he remembered distinctly so much as the humiliation. The feeling that he was somehow less than human. That these soldiers were wielding a power over him he did not know men could possess. And he was helpless to stop it.
When it was finished, the soldiers untied him. He could hardly stand. They dragged him back toward the customs house, the captain barking orders Tauras could not comprehend for the fire of pain scorching across his back. Black dots swam at the edge of his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut to clear them. The air was hot. His skin was hot. He wanted desperately to crawl out of it, to shed it and crawl away, but the soldiers held him firmly.
The grey clouds that had been gathering while he had been in the captain's office, while he had been tied to the post, finally broke. It began to rain, the drops thick and heavy. A summer deluge. The men that had been milling around the courtyard shouted and ran for cover. The two supporting Tauras yanked his arms trying to get him inside faster. But his feet slackened, heels digging into the muddy yard. He threw his head back, feeling the rain splash his face, the cool droplets a welcome relief to the heat now coursing through his body.
One of the soldiers kicked his shins to get him to move. Tauras stumbled forward as the two men managed to pull him through the door.
He was taken to the top floor, cuffs removed, and dropped in a room that was empty save for a table, chair, and cot. An improvised cell. With what strength remained, Tauras pulled himself over and onto the bed moments before blacking out.
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o
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When he came to, he was stayed by a gruff Russian voice ordering him not to move. Immediately Tauras thought of the captain, but soon recalled Braginski's voice had been oddly light for a man of his size.
Tauras turned his head and saw a much older man sitting beside his cot. His black hair was streaked with grey and his thick mustache and eyebrows lent a serious expression to his face, though his blue eyes were not unkind. The man was holding a stained rag. He dipped it into a bowl of rust-colored water by his feet and gently applied it to Tauras' back.
Tauras bit back a scream, sucking air through his teeth as his hands gripped the sheets. It was an iodine and water solution, and it stung like hell.
"Sorry," the man said. "I should have warned you. But I'm almost done cleaning your wounds."
Tauras took deep breaths, fighting the urge to be sick. He focused on the man again — anything to distract him from the godawful sting on his back.
"You are not a soldier?" he asked, noting the man's civilian clothes.
The man's mouth twitched. He might have smiled, though the bushy mustache made it difficult to tell.
"No. I'm a doctor. The captain sent for me to patch you up."
"W-why?" Tauras winced as the rag was again lightly pressed to his lacerated skin.
The doctor shrugged. "A small mercy, I expect. It is a long journey to Kara." He set the rag in the bowl and stood, going over to the table. On it was a leather case. The doctor took out some gauze, then helped Tauras sit up so he could begin wrapping the young man's back.
Tauras let what was left of his shirt fall from his arms, noticing vaguely it was nothing but rags streaked with a deep reddish-brown. He stared blankly ahead, the pain receding a moment, replaced by that reminder of the second half of his sentence. Kara. He almost wished the Old Testament had been right — though he had not received the supposed final, fatal lash. The captain had been prudent, not wanting to waste effort on extra lashings, ensuring his captive would survive — at least until the rest of his punishment could be meted out.
And what of his family? Would they ever know? Moreover, would he want them to? His father had written him off for good the day he found out about Tauras and Feliks. His mother had still sent him letters and small packages when he had been away at the seminary. But now...Would she continue to stand by her son, or take the side of her husband and his politics?
Tauras all but wished the lash had been enough to kill him. The thought of losing what little family he had left hurt too much — almost as much as losing Feliks.
The doctor finished his ministrations. The dressing, while not tight, gave just enough pressure to be uncomfortable. The renewed ache drew Tauras' attention back to the cot and his makeshift cell.
"I'll be back to check on you tomorrow," the doctor said, packing his leather case. He then picked up the dirty bowl and rag and knocked on the door. When it opened, Tauras saw the two soldiers who had brought him up there standing just outside. The doctor looked back at him a moment, something flickering in his blue eyes, and then he was gone.
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o
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The sky beyond Tauras' window was already turning a deep blue when the doctor arrived the following evening.
"The captain says you haven't been eating today," he said, frowning at the plate sitting on the table in the small room. It had not been touched since the guard brought it that morning.
Tauras sniffed and turned his head to face the wall.
"Starving yourself only weakens the body. It will not help your back heal."
"Maybe I just don't have a taste for Russian food."
"You are strong-willed. But that alone won't be enough to last in a place like Kara. Your body needs strength, too."
"And what if I'd rather die?"
The doctor sighed, setting down his case and taking a seat beside the cot. "No man truly believes such things. Survival is instinct. It is in our nature."
Tauras turned back around, eyeing the man. "What would you know of it?"
"As a doctor, plenty. I've heard men on their deathbeds promise God anything if He would only spare them another year, another month, another breath of life. As a prisoner" — the doctor's voice lowered as he held up his right hand for Tauras to see. Half of his index finger was missing. "— I also heard these things whimpered softly at night by the roughest of men."
Tauras' eyes widened. "You were at Kara?"
The doctor shook his head, his eyes sad and haunted. "Nerchinsk. For suspected revolutionary activities. I was eighteen."
The two men watched each other for some moments. Tauras, caught up in the thrill of revolution, the idea that his country could finally be free from its Russian oppressors, had forgotten what those oppressors did even to their own countrymen.
"Now, will you eat?" the doctor asked.
Tauras carefully raised himself up. His back still hurt, but the pain had dulled to an all-over numb sting. He winced, taking shallow breaths, as he tried to find a comfortable position to sit. The doctor handed him the plate, and only once food was in front of him did Tauras realize how hungry he had been.
When he was done eating, the doctor redressed Tauras' wounds, cleaning his back with only water this time. He sat back in the chair after he had finished, studying the young man. It seemed he had something he wanted to say, but like the previous night, he simply stood, retrieved his case, and left.
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o
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In the intervening days before his departure for Kara, Tauras passed the time staring out the window, watching the street below. He learned during the doctor's last visit the only reason he was given a room in the customs house, instead of the border prison in the courtyard, was due to the fact the prison was at capacity, having been filled with other captured Lithuanian revolutionaries and contraband smugglers all destined for Kara. He supposed he should count himself lucky he had been afforded the small luxury of having his own room, but being with other people and commiserating over a shared fate seemed a far better trade than being locked in a room with nothing but his own thoughts for companions.
He contemplated escape more than a few times, seizing on the idea like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. The thought — the possibility he could still somehow make it across the border — was a ray of light piercing through the dark places in his mind.
Yet its luminescence was only temporary as reality crashed around him again. The way he saw it, there were only two means of escape: through the door or through the window. But he knew he could not overpower the guards outside his door. Not in his current state. And even if by some miracle he managed to get by them, he would then be at the mercy of an entire garrison. There was simply no way he could manage to slip by all those soldiers undetected. That left the window. Fortunately for him, he was in a room facing the main street instead of the courtyard and its four meter high wall. Unfortunately, however, he was on the top floor with no way down except for a drainpipe within an arm's reach of the ledge. But even the slightest movements ended in pain searing across his back. Would he be able to reach the drainpipe and shimmy down without passing out from the exertion? Tauras had no answer, though the question dogged him more as his days dwindled ever closer.
The doctor visited one last time two days before the departure. Tauras noticed his case seemed to be bulging a bit more than usual.
"I brought something for you," the doctor said, unfastening the leather strap. He took out a cotton shirt. It was a tan-striped, half-placket pullover with four buttons ending in a banded collar. "One of my son's old work shirts. He's not as thin as you, so it should fit nice and loose on your back."
Tauras thanked him and took the shirt. The doctor then removed the old bandaging and redressed his wounds. He helped Tauras with the shirt, studying the young man with the same intensity as before. He placed a hand on Tauras' shoulder and drew him near.
"There is a wagon carrying rye bound for East Prussia that's been cleared to leave tomorrow morning. I know the wagon driver. His name is Semyon. A good man, even if a bit of a drunk. He likes to set out early, though — before the sun rises. His wagon is parked by the inn near the bridge; the grain is under a linen tarpaulin. Do you understand?"
Tauras' eyes widened. "Yes," he breathed. "But...how am I supposed to get out of here to meet it?"
The doctor's eyes flicked to the window behind him. He then reached into his case, took out a glass flask filled with vodka, and handed it to Tauras. "For the pain."
Tauras took it, understanding the doctor's meaning. There really was only one way out: through the window and down the drainpipe.
His heart pounded in his chest, his body numb with the rush of adrenaline. He was certain at that moment he could have withstood a hundred lashings and not felt a thing.
Tauras uncapped the flask and took a swig to calm his nerves.
"Whatever belongings you had with you," the doctor continued in his low, gruff voice, "consider them lost. The soldiers will most likely have traded it for whatever they can get their hands on."
"I still have money," Tauras said, hands reflexively going to his pockets.
"Good. Also, that cross on your neck — you might want to think about selling it."
Tauras' hand went to his shirt's collar, feeling the small necklace resting just underneath. "I can't do that."
"Then hide it."
Tauras unfastened the topmost button, unclasped the golden chain, and slipped the necklace into his boot. The doctor refastened the clasp on his case and rose to leave.
"Why are you doing this?" Tauras said. "Why are you helping me?"
The doctor's eyes were sad as he answered: "We're not all monsters, despite what you may think. And...knowing what fate awaits you in Kara, I could not live with myself if I had a chance to save one soul from that hell and did not take it."
Tauras stood and held out his hand.
The doctor took it. "Best of luck to you."
"And you."
The doctor left.
Tauras sat on his cot, leaning his shoulders gingerly against the wall. He needed to rest as much as he could before attempting this escape, but his veins continued to buzz with excitement. This was it — he had a way out!
He closed his eyes, pushing the thought from his mind. He was not free yet and had seen too many mistakes made by men in his old squadron from overexcited nerves.
Tauras let his mind wander until it eventually settled on the ancient myths Nanny used to tell when he and Eduard were boys. His father dismissed it as pagan nonsense, forbidding Nanny from uttering those heathen tales. But Tauras always begged to hear them before bed, fascinated by the magic and the pantheon of gods and goddesses. It became a secret between them — he and Eduard and Nanny.
He remembered the story of the seasons — how Saulė the sun goddess had been stolen by the selfish god of the dead, Velnias. He locked her in a tower, wanting her light and warmth for himself. Saulė was rescued by her daughters, the planets, and by Perkūnas, god of thunder, and his hammer. But so weakened had she become during this ordeal that the blacksmith god forged her anew as a brilliant disk and set her in the sky. But each year after that, the darkness of winter came as Saulė was reforged and given the strength to continue her work...
Tauras' head drooped forward, his neck muscles catching, jerking his head back up as he snapped awake. He blinked, taking in the darkened room and regaining his bearings. For a moment, he thought he was Saulė. He had been her in his dream, and his current imprisonment in the top floor of the customs house had lent a certain similarity to the sun's predicament in the story. But no god of thunder was coming to save him. He must also be Perkūnas and set himself free.
Tauras edged himself to the end of his cot and stood, carefully stretching his arms and legs. He looked out the window, at the stars above. Their light was nearly faded as the grey of dawn reached up from the horizon. Below him, the deserted street stretched on.
This was the time.
He slipped his boots off, then his socks, tucking them in with his stash of money and cross necklace. He flexed his toes, remembering how he used to climb trees barefoot as a boy. He hoped his feet still had that grip — he would need them to steady his descent down the drainpipe.
Tauras tied his boot laces together and hung them over his neck. He picked up the flask the doctor had given him and swallowed down a measure of vodka. He pocketed the bottle, went over to the window and eased it open, his upper back momentarily flooding with pain. Tauras pressed his forehead to the glass, drawing deep, steadying breaths until it subsided. He took another quick sip of vodka then stepped up and out onto the ledge. He angled himself so his torso and face were pressed against the brick, one arm still wrapped around the window frame. He leaned to his right, fingertips inching closer to the metal pipe. The arm still holding the window began to burn, his muscles protesting at the strain, but he was so close. Just a little further and...
Pain tore through his shoulder blades.
Tauras bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.
In desperation — wanting the pain to just end — he flung himself forward.
His hand wrapped around the pipe as his foot kicked out, toes hooking around and finding their own purchase. Using the strength of his lower limbs, he pulled the rest of him off the ledge, holding the narrow pipe firmly between his legs and hands.
The gashes on his back flared to life. The pipe blurred as his head began to spin. Black dots swam at the edge of his vision. Tauras squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to hold on. He drew a few shaking breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth, his head no longer feeling as light. He opened his eyes again, focusing on the pipe, and began to lower himself, the pain roiling in waves up and down his back.
With just three meters to go, Tauras could take no more.
He let go of the pipe, dropping to the ground beneath, landing inelegantly on his hands and feet a moment before pitching to the side. His stomach lurched, threatening to spill last night's dinner, but Tauras held back his nausea. He unslung the boots from his neck and pulled them on along with his socks. He then stood, orienting himself, soon finding the bridge, and began making his way toward it on unsteady feet.
The inn stood charcoal black against the gradually lightening sky. Tauras feebly wondered if he'd been too late. It would not be the first time his body's need for sleep had cost him a chance at escape...
But soon he saw the wagon, just as the doctor had said. He lifted the tarpaulin. Underneath were dozens of bushels of rye.
Tauras scrambled up and into the wagon, burrowing down under the golden yellow sheaves. He slipped the flask from his pocket and took one final drink to dull the pain coursing across his back.
Now that his body had stopped moving, his mind took over, giving a greater voice to a thought that had played at the back of his mind ever since last night, ever since the doctor had told him about the wagon: this was nothing more than some elaborate ruse. A set up by the doctor and this Semyon fellow hoping to profit off the capture of an escaped fugitive. But thinking back to his interactions with the doctor, his intentions seemed genuine. There was an earnestness in his eyes as he told Tauras about the wagon, as he had shown the young man his mutilated hand. Or maybe Tauras was just so desperate to believe in the man's good nature. After all, Ivan had seemed that way too. At first.
Fear bubbled up inside him as he waited in the still of early dawn. Fear that he was making an even bigger mistake.
It was only seven kilometers to the border. A two hour walk. If he left now, while it was still somewhat dark and quiet, he could find a place to hide until nightfall and just cross then. There were plenty of woods along the way...
But as Tauras was turning this idea over in his head, he became aware of the sound of approaching feet. He held his breath, listening hard. He heard a man's voice muttering a slurred song in Russian, followed by the clop of horse's hooves.
The singing stopped, replaced by the sound of metal clinking.
Tauras' first thought was of the iron cuffs the soldiers had put around his wrists. He tensed, ready to bolt, when he felt the wagon dip and resettle, its wooden seat creaking.
"Ready, Pasha?" the man said. He snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward.
Tauras' heart leapt into his throat. This was it! He snuck a glance from under the tarpaulin just to be sure. And yes, the inn was behind them now as they crossed the bridge. They were not turning around. They were leaving!
Tauras watched the town recede from view. They were soon out in open country. He rested his head against the grain, feeling the wagon's gentle sway as it trundled along the road. Over the soft crunching of the wheels, he could hear the driver humming a folk tune, and beyond that the sighing of the trees in a summer wind. Had it really only been ten days since the ambush? A week since his capture? It felt like a month had passed. And he had been running the entire time. His whole body ached, begging for rest. But Tauras forced himself to remain alert, remembering what had happened the last time he let his guard down even for a minute. As soon as he was over the border, he would slip out of his hiding spot and head for the nearest tree cover. Then find something to eat and a place...to bed down...for — the — night...
The sound of Russian voices startled him awake.
Tauras' eyes shot open, searching for any shadow, any sign he was about to be discovered. But all that stretched above him was a hazy blue sky filtering through the linen canopy. His body was too numb to move except for his heart, which seemed to be beating a thousand times louder and faster. He was sure the Russians would hear it...
"What have you got there, Semyon Aleksandrovich?" one of the voices said, addressing the driver.
"Just some bushels of rye for our neighbors. You know those Prussians can't grow anything in that swamp they call home."
There was a solid round of laughter following this statement.
"But you boys look thirsty," Semyon said.
Tauras then heard a rustling sound, as if someone was rummaging through a sack.
"The weather here is never forgiving," Semyon continued. "Especially on a dusty border road."
There were murmurs of assent all around, soon followed by the uncapping of a bottle. But Tauras' ears perked up the moment Semyon mentioned "border". He had a feeling that was directed at him — but how could Semyon know of the stow away hidden in his wagon? Tauras held his breath, listening hard and willing his heart to stop thudding so loudly.
The bottle clinked as it passed hands. Tauras could only imagine it was most likely vodka — a useful bribe for tired border guards with nothing else to pass the time. And even though Semyon's wagon had been cleared for passage, Tauras had yet to hear any of the guards ask him for his papers.
A few more pleasantries were exchanged before the wagon lurched forward. Tauras let go of a long-held breath and sank back against the rye, his limbs heavy. The rush of energy he had felt as his instincts had taken over now drained out of him. A dull ache pounded in his head, replacing the thudding of his heart only moments before. How could he have been so foolish to have fallen asleep again? As if in answer, pain flared across his back. Tauras reached for the flask the doctor had given him, surprised to see it nearly empty. He cursed to himself as the pounding in his head grew. The drink the doctor had given him had been strong.
Tauras estimated a half hour to have passed from their border crossing and lifted an edge of the tarpaulin to see what was around. It was at that moment the wagon slowed to a stop again.
Tauras froze, muscles coiled as his instincts ratcheted up, ready to jump out and run.
"You can come out now," a voice said. The driver's. "We're far enough away from the border."
The wagon creaked and shook as the driver — Semyon — stepped down from his seat. He went around back and lifted the tarpaulin, grinning down at a pair of dark green eyes and a disheveled head of hair poking through the sheaves of rye.
Tauras moved a bundle and sat up. "Where are we?"
Semyon sniffed and spat into the dirt. "Laugszargen. A village in East Prussia. Just over the border."
Tauras stood, climbing out of the wagon with a wince. He looked around. There wasn't much — a church, a few houses doubling as stores, and an inn.
"I'm going all the way to Tilsit, if you want to keep riding. It's bigger. More of" — Semyon's eyes raked over him — "your kind there."
Tauras swallowed, eyes narrowing a fraction. When he first saw the driver, he was not sure what to make of him. Now he knew he did not like him, despite what the doctor had said. The grin had not left Semyon's face, but it did not meet his eyes, which were clever and calculating.
"People here are more likely to turn someone like you over to the border guards, and receive a nice bit of coin to line their pockets," he continued, and Tauras couldn't help but notice the way the man's eyebrow quirked up at the word "coin."
"Yes. Forgive me," Tauras said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a few rubles. He handed the money to Semyon.
The driver took it and began to count, his deliberation more than irksome. His eyes slid up when he was done, studying the Lithuanian, the ever-present grin unnerving. Tauras sighed and handed over a few more bills.
"That's all I have," he lied, thinking of the stash hidden in his boots.
Semyon shrugged. "It'll do. You look like hell, by the way. You want to grab something to eat? It's another four hours 'til Tilsit. My treat," he added, waving the money Tauras had just given him.
"Let's just keep moving."
"Suit yourself. Here." Semyon took an apple out of his pocket and tossed it to Tauras. "I usually save those for Pasha." He patted the horse, then climbed back in the driver's seat.
"Thanks," Tauras ground out, settling next to him.
Semyon reached into a bag at his feet, taking out a yeast roll and some cheese and stuffing them greedily into his mouth. He picked up the reins, giving them a light crack.
Tauras took a bite of his mealy apple. This was going to be a long trip.
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o
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Tilsit, East Prussia, 1869
It was after midnight by the time Tauras collapsed into bed. He had been working well into the night nonstop for almost two weeks. Business had picked up as February drew ever nearer. The Lenten season would be starting soon and for reasons Tauras could not quite figure, he found himself flooded with requests from the local churches for printing prayer cards. Usually those went to the German print shops closer to the center of town. Tauras wondered if the clergy had somehow found out he had once been on the path to joining their ranks and were perhaps feeling sympathetic. Or maybe it was something else. His sign, he had noticed, still looked pristine, the golden letters glinting in the winter sun's pale light. Maybe the sergeant-major had been right: having a clean sign seemed to have improved his business prospects.
Whatever it was that caused the sudden uptick, though, was also causing the other half of Tauras' business to falter. The printing of all Lithuanian publications to be smuggled across the border had to be put on hold until after his shop closed for the day. At least then he could lock the door and continue working in peace without the sudden interruption of a customer dropping by. But Tauras — and Raivis — were so tired at the end of the day, it was all they could do to haul themselves to their feet after dinner and start work all over again. Eduard helped as much as he could, though most of the time he stayed in his room, altering his shirts and pants, adding extra padding and pockets to keep the books concealed. In his darker moments, Tauras would catch himself glaring after his cousin's retreating back as Eduard disappeared up the stairs, feeling he ought to be doing more to help with the printing.
One month. That was their agreed upon deadline after two days of arguing. One month. Three weeks for Tauras to print the books and one week for Eduard to cross the border on foot. It was still too tight for Tauras' liking, but his cousin — for reasons known only to him — absolutely refused to push it back any further.
Tauras curled onto his side, staring at a patch of silvery moonlight spilling across the attic room floor. In the far corner, he could already hear Raivis' light snores. He envied how fast the boy could fall asleep. Though his own body was tired, his mind could not seem to shut off. The timeline was dwindling, but at least the second run was nearly done. And then Eduard would be on his way.
Tauras thought back to the one — and only — time he had crossed to border, hidden in a wagon under bushels of rye. He shifted his shoulders, his cotton nightshirt ghosting over the scars on his back and tried not to think about the same thing happening to Eduard — or worse. He hoped Ivan had kept his word. That no harm had befallen his family. Though that agreement had been made in exchange for the admission of his guilt. His escape most likely rendered it forfeit. But his father had always been loyal to the tsar — and maybe that loyalty would have saved them. Tauras had no way of knowing, not wanting to risk sending a letter in the event it somehow led to his capture. And would his father even spend the effort to read it? No. It would be tossed in the fireplace without a second glance.
Still.
Tauras couldn't help wonder if they ever knew what happened to him. If the captain ever told them.
He had thought about asking Eduard to enquire after his family more than a few times — the Laurinaitis name being so well known in Tauragė. He never did, though, knowing of his cousin's own misgivings regarding that branch of the family tree.
Tauras' eyes eventually slipped shut, his dreams rushing by in blurs of sunlight and green leaves. He was a boy, chasing his cousin through the forest that edged his family's estate. But every time he got within an arm's length of reaching Eduard, his cousin suddenly shot forward a greater distance ahead. Tauras ran to catch back up, but a voice was calling his name. He stopped, turning towards the sound, following it out of the woods. He was no longer a boy but a young man, dressed in ragged clothes, a rifle slung over his back. His face was slick with sweat and grime; his long hair clung to his neck, his brow. He approached the estate. None of the other men from his squadron were there. It was only him now. But the closer he came, the more he realized something was wrong. The gardens were overgrown. There were cracks in the terrace steps. Weeds poked up along the pebbled path. The terrace door was open and he could hear the sound of a piano, but the windows on either side had been broken out. The curtains hung, sun-bleached and torn. How long had he been away? Tauras let the rifle clatter to the ground as he climbed the terrace stairs and entered the open door. Inside the house was dark and cold, the light outside suddenly dimming from afternoon to evening. The piano had stopped the moment he went inside. Tauras went over to it, his finger striking a key, but there was no sound. The keyboard had turned to wood. A desk. He was in his father's study. He looked up, expecting to see Juozas, his father, seated on the other side. Instead his gaze fell on eyes like a frozen lake. Ah, Mr. Laurinaitis. We meet again.
Tauras jerked awake, sitting up with a gasp, and nearly knocking into Raivis who was standing over him.
Raivis stumbled back, catching himself on a nightstand.
Tauras' eyes were wild and wide as he took in the garret room, his heart thudding furiously against his throat. It had been a dream. Just a dream. Though the image of captain Braginski sitting in his family's ruined estate was a hard one to forget. Tauras squeezed his eyes shut a moment. When he next blinked them open, he saw Raivis huddled against a wall, watching him with a wary expression.
"I tried to wake you," the boy said. "I thought you were having a fit."
"It was a bad dream. That's all."
"But you were tossing about. And talking."
"Oh?" Tauras said distractedly. Fragments of the dream continued to linger like cobwebs. He could not shake the feeling something was wrong. "And what did I say?"
"I...don't know. I didn't recognize the words. Except you said Eduard's name once or twice."
"Hm. Probably cursing it, I suppose," Tauras muttered darkly. He rubbed a hand over his face. His muscles, tensed and ready for action, now unwound, leaving him more exhausted than he'd been. He wanted nothing more than to curl back up and go to sleep, but Raivis was still looking unsettled.
Tauras tried to smile, to put him at ease. "I apologize. I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's all right. I was up anyway."
It was then Tauras realized Raivis was already dressed for the day, that the light streaming through the window was not the early dawn grey. The sky outside was a crisp blue.
He had overslept.
Tauras ran his hands through his hair and sighed. He rose, shuffling over to his dresser, and took out some clothes. He then hung his quilt on a line that stretched the width of their shared room, creating a makeshift curtain for privacy so he could change.
Once dressed, Tauras tied his hair back with a strip of leather cord and checked his reflection in the small mirror that stood on his dresser. His eyes, usually a warm moss green, had darkened, their luster fading. Deep lines were gouged underneath, telling of the nights he had not slept. His lips were pale and cracked.
Ever since he fled his country, the face looking back at him did not seem like his. It belonged to a stranger — one Tauras did not know if he was becoming or had already become. Though he might have still felt like himself, the years were weighing heavily.
Tauras set the mirror facedown, a guttural sound escaping his throat. He tore the quilt down from its hanging and flung it onto his bed.
Raivis had already gone downstairs. Tauras pulled on his boots and followed suit.
The boy was at the small press in the back, cranking out more prayer cards, when Tauras came down.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
Raivis nodded. "Eduard made breakfast. There still might be some left over."
Tauras pushed open the kitchen door with unintended force, his mood and exhaustion barely making him aware of his own actions.
Eduard jumped, sending half a mug of tea spilling down the front of him. "Dammit, Tauras!"
He was seated at the table, the remains of his breakfast still on his plate. Tauras did not even bother hiding his amusement as Eduard patted his shirt — and scraggly new beard — dry. A few tea leaves still clung to the whiskers above his lip. Using the blade of a knife, Eduard checked his reflection and plucked out the dark specks. He then scratched his cheeks, making the bristly hair stick out even more.
"I forgot how itchy these damn things are," he grumbled.
"The beard was your idea," Tauras said, helping himself to meat and eggs. He would never admit it aloud, not wishing to feed his cousin's ego any more than it deserved, but Eduard was a far better cook than himself. No doubt a product of their disparate upbringing.
Tauras settled himself across from his cousin, the silence between them growing thick — as it so often had since the day Eduard came home, already spinning plans to leave again. Tauras still thought he was being too reckless, going on another smuggling run so soon after his most recent trip. But he could not deny Eduard was good at what he did. Charismatic, evasive, clever. Traits his cousin had developed and honed during his time in Germany — first swindling the boys at the boarding school his father had sent him to, then expanding to the citizens of Leipzig, Dresden, Chemnitz, wherever his charms had not worn out their welcome.
Eduard rubbed his cheek again. Tauras kept his eyes fixed on his plate. He could feel the question his cousin wanted to ask. And sure enough:
"When do you think?"
Slowly — deliberately — Tauras set his fork and knife down. A small, spiteful part of him wanted to play dumb, to pretend he had no idea what Eduard meant by his vague inquiry. But doing so would only incense his cousin and possibly further stoke whatever desire led to this impetuous decision to return sooner — and by a means Eduard had not traversed in over two years.
Tauras reached for the pitcher of water on the table, pouring a measured amount into his cup. "We should be able to finish tonight."
Eduard clapped his hands. "Excellent!" He rose and began clearing his side of the table.
"You're still not going to tell me what this is all about?"
Eduard's posture stiffened momentarily. "It's not about anything." He set his plate down so hard Tauras was surprised it did not crack. "We were paid to do a job, and that's exactly what I'm doing!"
He stormed from the room, leaving Tauras to clean up.
.
o
.
It was nearing half-past eleven that night when Tauras and Raivis finished trimming and binding the next five books Eduard would take on his upcoming run. Tauras' hands ached. Dark circles marred the underside of Raivis' eyes. He sent the boy to bed while he gathered up the books and took them to the second floor and set them on a table beside the sofa. Tauras considered just leaving them for Eduard to find in the morning, then thought better of it and knocked softly on his cousin's door.
It opened soundlessly, wordlessly, and there stood Eduard, his room lit with the warm amber glow of an oil lamp beside his bed.
"The books are done, if..." Tauras trailed off, gesturing at the table behind him.
Eduard nodded. "Thank you."
"...Are you — " Tauras paused, clearing his throat. "Will you be leaving tomorrow?"
"Yes. In the evening."
Tauras swallowed and tried to smile. "Well. Safe journey." He started to go, but was stayed by his cousin suddenly calling his name.
"I know this is important to you," Eduard said. "I know you're worried. And...I know why." His gaze drifted over to settle on Tauras' shoulders. They shifted, ever so slightly, under his shirt. Most people would not have noticed. But Eduard was not most people. He had learned to find and to read the nuances of body language. Everyone had a tell — something they did when they were uncomfortable or trying to hide a deceit. And Tauras' tell was always his shoulders and the subtle way they would unconsciously move, as if adjusting the fit of his shirt. But Eduard knew better. He knew of the marks cutting across his cousin's back — and why Tauras bore them.
"Please believe me when I say this is important to me, too," Eduard continued quietly. "It's just...for different reasons. Reasons I can't...I don't know how to explain. And maybe after I'm done with this run, maybe then I'll be able to. Just...please don't ask me anything more."
Tauras felt himself nod, seeing the stricken look on his cousin's face.
Eduard placed a hand on Tauras' shoulder, giving it a light squeeze a moment before pulling his cousin into an embrace.
Tauras tensed, as he always did, but Eduard would not let him shrink away.
.
o
.
The Tuesday following Eduard's departure was the last day before the start of the Lenten season. The Germans called it Fasching. The Lithuanians called it Užgavėnės. But to them both it was a day of celebration, of dressing up as devils and fools and parading through the streets, and the last day to partake of any final pleasures before the forty day abstention began.
At least for the more devout, anyway. Tauras' father had been a zealous adherent, forgoing any wine or meat and only permitting one meal on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday — which just added to his irascibility. Everyone in the house — staff and family alike — were always thankful when Lent ended.
For Tauras, that Tuesday was nothing more than a well-deserved day off. He had stopped obeying church strictures the day he left the seminary. And he had never seen an Užgavėnės festival. His father had forbid it, condemning the practice of burning an effigy representing winter as pagan foolishness. A few of the servants still snuck down to the village to watch and Tauras would press them for details the next day, fascinated by the stories of a culture his father never showed any love for.
He smiled down at Raivis as he shut and locked the print shop door, ensuring the small sign on the front read "Closed" before setting off up to the high street and the market square.
Clouds hung in the overcast sky, thick and grey, forming soft mounds that reminded Tauras of rolling, snow-covered fields. The cold, biting air nipped at his cheeks and neck. Tauras turned his coat collar up and adjusted his scarf. Raivis did the same, hunching his thin shoulders against the chill as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
Vendors had set up stalls in the square, selling a variety of food and drink. There were already lines forming in front of ones selling bratwurst and hot, jam-filled donuts. But Tauras' eyes were on a small stand strung with red banners of a knight on horseback. Vytis. He made his way over with Raivis trailing behind, hungrily eyeing the donut stand.
Tauras greeted the vendor, slipping easily back into his native tongue. Raivis watched, brow furrowing at the words he did not understand, the carefree way Tauras smiled and laughed at something the vendor said. There was an almost — almost — familiar cadence to it as memories of his mother — and the language she spoke — flooded his mind. He heard her voice in the words Tauras and the vendor exchanged. Heard her singing to him in a language he must have once known — a language that now only lived in his name.
Raivis' eyes stung, and it had nothing to do with the cold. He turned away, wiping them with a gloved hand.
"Are you all right?" Tauras was asking, and Raivis picked his head up eagerly for a moment, thinking the language had come back to him, only to realize Tauras was speaking German again.
The boy sniffed and nodded. "'M fine," he mumbled.
Only a faint whisper of a smile remained on Tauras' face as he handed Raivis a pancake with a plum topping folded and wrapped in paper.
Raivis took it, his hands warming as he held the steaming treat.
"I'm sorry it's not a donut," Tauras smirked, mis-reading the frown creasing Raivis' brow. "We can get one later, if you like."
"It's not that," Raivis said quietly. "It's — " His eyes darted up to Tauras', then back down.
"What?"
"Teach it to me." Raivis chanced another glance up at Tauras. The smile was gone now, replaced by the familiar thin line.
"Teach what to you?"
"...Your language."
Tauras sighed, his green eyes darkening as if a shadow had passed behind them. "Why?"
Raivis shrugged a shoulder, hoping to appear casual, but a lump was settling firmly in his throat. "It...reminds me of home."
All Tauras could do was stare silently back at the brutally honest answer, his chest sinking. Because he knew. He knew that ache that only came from clinging to something, no matter how small, because it was inextricably linked to that word: home.
Tauras swallowed, wanting to answer, but was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a cream-white horse as it drew up in front of them.
Tauras blinked, ready to tell the interloper off for coming to a stop while they walked, when he noticed the rider — and the point-topped helmet on his head.
Tauras put a hand on Raivis' shoulder, ready to steer the boy around the horse, when a voice called out: "Good morning, Mr. Laurinaitis."
Tauras drew his shoulders back, standing to his full height, as Sergeant-major Beilschmidt swung a long leg down, dismounting his horse.
"Good morning," Tauras returned tersely.
"How are you enjoying our little market so far?"
"We've only just arrived."
The sergeant-major swept the helmet from his head, a gloved hand scratching through his short, pale hair. The tips of his ears and nose were already red from the cold. He tucked the helmet under his arm as he gave the horse a pat. Raivis was staring at the creature as if he'd never seen one in his life. And maybe he hadn't, Tauras thought. At least not this close.
The horse shook his head, snorting and pawing the ground. Raivis jumped, ducking behind Tauras.
Sergeant-major Beilschmidt chortled as he took hold of the bridle, rubbing the horse's neck to soothe it.
"You know," he said, looking over his shoulder at Raivis, "animals can sense when you're uncomfortable around them. It makes them uncomfortable, too." The horse flicked its tail, pushing its muzzle into the sergeant-major's hand.
Raivis edged out from behind Tauras, watching the animal with an apprehensive curiosity. "Then...how do I get it to like me?"
The sergeant-major's eyes were alight, almost playful, as he addressed the boy. "Food is always a good place to start." He nodded to a pouch hanging from the saddle. "There are some oats in there. You can take a handful out and feed him."
Raivis still hung back, reluctant to approach.
"Here, watch," the sergeant-major said, demonstrating. "Would you like to try?"
Raivis chewed his lip and nodded. He approached, reaching into the pouch for the oats. Sergeant-major Beilschmidt kept one hand on the horse's neck, then shifted to rub its muzzle as Raivis offered it the oats. The boy gave a breathy laugh as the horse ate, its breath warm as it nuzzled against his hand. He reached a tentative hand up to stroke it.
The sergeant-major backed away, coming to stand beside Tauras. "You're not afraid of horses, are you Mr. Laurinaitis?"
Tauras shook his head. "I grew up around them."
Sergeant-major Beilschmidt quirked a pale brow. "I take it, then, printing was not your family's profession?"
Tauras' jaw tightened. "No."
"Farmers?"
"...Of a sort."
Out of the corner of his eye, Tauras saw the sergeant-major look at him, no doubt wondering at the vagueness of his answer, but was stayed from giving his thoughts voice by Raivis' sudden laughter. Having finished with the oats, the horse was now nuzzling the pancake in the boy's other hand.
"Kaspar!" Sergeant-major Beilschmidt admonished. Tauras could only assume he was talking to the horse, and sure enough, the Prussian strode over, putting himself between it and Raivis.
The sergeant-major led his horse — Kaspar — over to a hitching post and looped the reins through a metal ring.
"Will you walk with me, Mr. Laurinaitis?" he called over his shoulder.
Tauras finished his pancake, mind casting about for any excuse to not join the sergeant-major but coming up empty. He reluctantly agreed and the three of them made their way through the crowded market square, with Tauras feeling more like he was being escorted by the gendarme rather than simply accompanying him on a stroll. Tauras set his gaze on the crowds ahead, trying not to let his consternation show. He wondered why the sergeant-major had sought his company and hoped the man would not press him for any more information regarding his business. But the gendarme seemed to have just wanted someone to walk with — he remained quiet as they meandered through the market, which only unnerved Tauras more, having no indication as to what the sergeant-major was after.
A few flurries drifted down as they walked. Tauras tipped his head back, watching the flakes spiral down. Eduard would be in Tauragė by now, he thought, wondering how his cousin was faring in the February chill. Would he have gotten a room at an inn? Or maybe he was staying with one of his contacts in the city...
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sergeant-major Beilschmidt watching him. Tauras glanced over. The Prussian looked away, turning his attention back to the market around him, though Tauras thought he saw the faintest trace of a smile cross the gendarme's lips before settling into the haughty expression he usually wore. Tauras bowed his head, hunching further into his scarf and coat. A thick silence settled around them, seeming to block out every sound, even that of the shouts from the crowds in the market. Tauras felt he ought to speak, but words were escaping him.
"I'm thirsty," Raivis announced as he finished his pancake, and never before had Tauras welcomed the boy's bluntness more than in that instance.
Sergeant-major Beilschmidt led Tauras and Raivis to a stand selling hot drinks. He ordered first, and as Tauras was debating getting a coffee (or something stronger), the sergeant-major spun around, handing him a cup of dark, spiced wine and Raivis a hot chocolate.
Tauras blinked. "Oh! Um, th-thank you, s—" He was about to say sergeant, but the designation seemed suddenly too formal for such a friendly gesture. He faltered, mouth opening and closing a few moments.
"Gilbert," the sergeant-major said. "That's my name." His haughty expression softened into the smile Tauras had seen when the gendarme had come to inspect his print shop. And he could not help but return it.
"Tauras," he offered by way of introduction.
"I know," Gilbert said simply.
Tauras furrowed his brow at that, wondering what else the Prussian knew, as he sipped his mulled wine. Did Gilbert know about his cousin, Eduard? That Tauras had been part of the revolution in his homeland? That, in addition to his native tongue and German, he also spoke Polish and Russian? Would he have even believed the Lithuanian came from a noble family? Decidedly not, Tauras thought, recalling Gilbert's guesses as to what his family did for a living. And he could hardly blame him. Standing beside the Prussian in his crisp uniform, his thick coat with its polished buttons, Tauras looked every bit a poor man's son. The collar of his coat was fraying at the edges, his gloves were threadbare and could not even keep his hands warm. Two of his fingers poked through holes at the top, revealing nail beds outlined in black from the printing ink sunk into his skin. No amount of washing ever seemed to fully clean it away. Compared to him, the sergeant-major was fastidious in appearance. Even when he scratched a hand through his hair, it all fell perfectly back into place. Back into order.
Tauras swallowed, curling his fingers around his cup, hiding them from Gilbert, surprised the Prussian had not chastised him for the state of his clothes like he had done with the sign hanging above the print shop door. Again came that feeling he was being escorted — no, paraded — down the street as he finished his drink. Almost as if to show off their stark contrast — the poor Lithuanian and the polished Prussian. Why had Gilbert wanted to walk with him?
The flurries thickened into a light snow as Tauras contemplated ways he and Raivis could slip away from the sergeant-major without seeming impolite. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a wave rippling through the crowd. Sergeant-major Beilschmidt's sharp eyes had seen it as well.
"Duty calls," he muttered with a sigh, fastening the helmet back on his head.
Tauras was ready to slip away then, but Raivis trailed after the sergeant-major, keen on seeing what the commotion was all about. Tauras cursed under his breath and followed.
The crowd parted as Gilbert approached. In the middle of the street, two men were scuffling on the ground, one on top of the other, throwing punches and yelling something about being pickpocketed. Tauras gathered the one on the ground getting pummeled was the accused thief. He looked not much older than Raivis — seventeen or eighteen, perhaps — while his assailant was every bit of forty, or more.
Gilbert grabbed the older man by his arm, pulling him away from the younger one. But the man's other fist flew, hitting Gilbert in the mouth just as two more gendarmes broke through the crowd. Gilbert shoved the man at them, the guards twisting his hands behind his back, restraining them with iron cuffs. The man continued to struggle as the guards held him, yelling curses at the young man on the ground.
Gilbert worked his jaw, gently prodding where the man had punched him. He then turned and spat, a red stain shining on the snow-dusted cobblestones. He turned to the young man and held out a hand, helping him up.
"Would someone care to explain what is this about?"
"He robbed me!" the older man cried. Tauras could tell from the slur in his voice he was drunk. "He picked my pockets clean! Now I've no money for the collection plate at tomorrow's services. My wife'll surely throttle me when I get home — "
Gilbert held up a hand and the man stopped. He turned to the accused thief. "Is this true?"
The young man looked at the sergeant-major, his eyes holding a momentary confusion. He started to answer, his German broken and accented.
Tauras' stomach sank when he realized. The young man was Lithuanian.
Gilbert realized it, too. His eyes instantly sought Tauras', a silent petition for help. "Mr. Laurinaitis, would you please translate?"
Tauras stepped forward, eyes drifting from the sergeant-major over to the young man and back again. He did not want to get involved in this, but what choice did he have? He only hoped the young man had not taken anything.
"Ask him if what the man claims is true: Did he steal from him?"
Tauras swallowed, and asked.
The young man shook his head, launching into a lengthy explanation, one hand clutching his bruised side, while the other flew in wild arcs as he spoke.
"He says the man is mistaken. He bumped into him, that's all. It was an accident."
The older man let out a derisive laugh. "Bullshit! I know what happened! My wallet's gone! And he stole it!"
"Quiet!" Sergeant-major Beilschmidt commanded. His mouth set into a grim line as he looked at Tauras again. "Ask him to turn out his pockets."
Tauras did, but the young man balked at the request.
"Well?" Gilbert asked.
"He won't do it. He maintains he is innocent."
"Does he understand if he won't do it, we will have to search him?"
Tauras made sure he understood. The young man's eyes blazed, shooting a glare at Tauras, as if to ask why he was helping them, these Prussians. With the slightest shake of his head, Tauras answered back: This was not the time to do anything foolish. Though he knew — he understood — the indignation thrumming through the young man's veins because he had felt it all before, watching as foreign powers bled away his culture and his homeland. But this was not his country, and that notion left him feeling powerless to outright challenge any authority here.
The young man's shoulders sagged, and he complied.
His pockets were empty.
Gilbert looked at his guards, at the man held between them. With a jerk of his head, he gave the order: Take him.
"No!" the older man fumed, struggling against the gendarmes' grasp. "He took my wallet! I swear! Search him! Don't believe him, he's lying! Search him!"
It was then Raivis noticed something laying near the gutter, between the edge of the sidewalk and the market street. It was the size of a cobblestone, but brown in color instead of grey. A leather wallet. He picked it up and approached the older man. "Excuse me, is this yours?"
The crowd around them burst into laughter.
The man's face went crimson as he spluttered out an explanation, trying to save what little dignity he had left.
The gendarmes looked from Raivis to Gilbert, wondering what to do.
"Take him to a cell. Let him sleep his drink off," Gilbert said. "The magistrate can decide what to do with him after."
Raivis handed one of the guards the man's wallet as they left, dragging the man down the street. The crowd, sensing the spectacle now over, began to disperse. Tauras and the young Lithuanian exchanged a few quick words, the latter stealing a glance at the sergeant-major.
"He can go," Gilbert said, intuiting their discussion.
Tauras looked at the young man and nodded. The Lithuanian hesitated a moment, then turned and ambled away through the crowd, one hand still clutching his side.
Tauras watched him go, his insides roiling, burning at what he had just seen. He imagined the young man going home, explaining to his family what had happened. He saw the shock on the mother's face, the sadness in the father's eyes. His hands clenched at his sides, caught between keeping peace in his expatriation and wanting to throttle that drunkard himself.
"Is he all right?"
Tauras startled and turned. Sergeant-major Beilschmidt was looking at him, his expression somber. Red blossomed at the corner of his mouth.
"You're bleeding," Tauras said.
The sergeant-major winced as he tried to smile. "Occupational hazard, I'm afraid." He took out a handkerchief and pressed it to his lip. "Is the young man all right?" he asked again.
"Yes." Tauras' breath was a puff of fog in front of his face.
"That's good." The sergeant-major tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket. Then he addressed Raivis. "Thank you for your help today. You have very sharp eyes. And a bold manner."
Raivis' cheeks burned pink. He looked away, mumbling something that sounded like "You're welcome" into his scarf.
The sergeant-major sighed and rolled his shoulders back. "I'm sure I'll soon have paperwork to see to regarding that little incident. Please excuse me, Mr. Laurinaitis. I did enjoy our walk," he said, then turned and began making his way back to his horse.
"He's a strange one," Raivis said.
Tauras arched a brow, watching as Gilbert disappeared in the crowd. "...Yes. He is."
.
o
.
That night, after Raivis had gone to bed, Tauras heated a kettle of water on the stove. Borrowing Eduard's nail brush, he poured the hot water into a bowl, soaped his hands, and scrubbed in earnest. The tips of his fingers were soon bright red. But at least the ink was starting to come off.
.
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.
A/N Aaaahh, Tauras, you idiot, hahah! But seriously.
Not a whole lot of notes for this one, so here we go!
- Lithuanian mythology: there are a whole slew of stories regarding Perkūnas, Velnias, and the capture of Saulė, so if you're interested definitely check them out! One of them comes from the missionary Jerome of Prague while attempting to Christianize Lithuania who reportedly witnessed the hammer used to free Saulė.
- Lithuania/Prussia border: it was actually a lot closer to Tauragė than it is now. The current border between Kaliningrad Oblast and Lithuania is at the Neman (Memel) river. But back in the day, East Prussia extended into what is now present-day Lithuania. The town the wagon driver mentions — Laugszargen — is present-day Lauksargiai, Lithuania.
- Fasching and Užgavėnės: Germany and Lithuania's version of carnival (or Mardi Gras, here in the U.S.). It's basically like a big party until the start of Lent, and the Tuesday right before Ash Wednesday is the final day. There's usually parades and back in the day people would dress up as animals, devils, or fools. I read in Germany one of the traditional foods are jam-filled donuts, while in Lithuania, people eat pancakes topped with fruit or sour cream.
- Vytis: symbol of Lithuania — a charging knight on a horse depicted in white against a red background
Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this one. Please let me know what you think!