By Ed Staskus

   My uncle Justinas was a short man with a long face and a bald dome fringed with tufts of gray hair. He lived in Marijampole, which is in southern Lithuania. Whenever anybody in our family visited the motherland they stayed at his house, even though his house didn’t have an indoor bathroom or running water. He was always in hot water, though. Everybody loved Justinas. That was the problem. At least, that was the way his wife saw it.

   “He’s always coming home with bobby pins in his hair,” his wife Janina complained.

   Plenty of women liked him. He was silver-tongued. They wore their best dresses whenever visiting. Even Rasa Jurgelaityte, his niece, looked swank when she dropped by, clad in a bluish-purple shag sweater, sitting at the table drinking strong tea in the afternoon. There wasn’t anything untoward about it. Justinas had an Andy Kaufman meets Roger Moore vibe about him.

   When he moved from Gizai to Marijampole fewer than 20,000 people lived there. It was a small town. More than forty years later about 40,000 people lived there. It was still a small town. He always wore a sports coat or an old suit jacket. When the weather was bad he wore a herringbone newsboy cap. He was good working with his hands, deft and quick. His face was wrinkled, he could look gnomish slightly hunched over, but he was usually on the uptake.

   Nobody ever told him how young he looked, so he never heard how old he was. He was born a year after World War One ended, on a family farm near the border with East Prussia, one of eleven children, six of whom survived infancy. He was a cavalryman in the Lithuanian Army when World War Two broke out. “He was so handsome in his uniform,” my mother said. In the end, however, his war lasted only a few days after the Red Army in 1940 sent a half million troops and three thousand tanks into the Baltic states. It was Goliath vs. David, except David didn’t have a nearly big enough slingshot.

   He trained as a tailor when he was a teenager. He went back to that line of work after his horse was shot dead. “What did I ever do to you?” the horse wanted to ask the Russian who shot him. After the war, and all during the annexation, he took in or let out seats and waists, replaced zippers, buttons, and liners, and made custom pants and jackets. He got married and raised four children. The Russians controlled the money supply, however, and he was hard-pressed getting ahead, at least in any straightforward way.

   Justinas played the accordion like any minute was a good time for a good time. He couldn’t read music, not that it mattered. He knew what it was supposed to sound like. Squeezebox skills back then were passed on generation to generation, one-on-one. He belted out songs, too, even though his voice was thin and scratchy.  He could be the life of the party. He wasn’t planning on going to the grave with any music left inside of him.

   He was in good spirits most of the time, which was surprising. Until 1990, when the Soviet Union finally got the boot, Lithuania was a gray country, surly Russians and unhappy Lithuanians in the grip of the Russians. Even the post-war reconstruction looked miserable. There were busts and statues of Lenin everywhere. The tyrant didn’t look remotely happy in a single one of them. Justinas was happy enough to be alive, somehow staying on the sunny side of the street behind Lenin’s sour Iron Curtain.

    No matter how affable he could be, if you messed with his private Idaho museum or his pigeons, you would get yours, for sure. He dropped the hammer on the occasional black rat and red fox in the wrong place at the wrong time. When a neighbor’s cat mauled one of his favorite birds, Justinas got his shotgun and hunted the cat down. He shot it pointblank in the street where he found it. The neighbor never said anything about it, either to him or the police. The rest of the neighborhood warned their cats about the madman in their midst.

   My uncle’s home was a small two-story house. It was painted green. It backed up to railroad tracks. They had an electric stove, but no basement or furnace. They heated the house with a fireplace and a Franklin-style stove. They burned coal and dried turf. Justinas said the stove could burn anything with hardly any smell. His driveway and the road in front of the house were hard-packed dirt. The road was slightly higher than the surrounding terrain but there were no side ditches for rainwater to flow to. Whenever it stormed the pathway turned into a quagmire. When it was dry, except for an occasional man-eating pothole, it was like driving on rock bed.

   Justinas owned a four-door early-1970s Lada, manufactured by Fiat in collaboration with the Soviet Union. It was black. Everybody’s Lada’s were black. It had heavy-duty steel body panels and cheap components. It rode like a tank on the bumpy roads. It was a manual four-speed with slightly elevated ground clearance. It was made to be worked on by its owners, which is what my uncle did. The Lada was not a hot car but it ran hot. He changed the oil once a month. He replaced the muffler and the drum brakes when he had to. He installed a rack on the top and kept the outside of the car reasonably clean, although the inside was a dump. It wasn’t filthy dirty, just trashy, like a teenager owned it. 

   Justinas pumped his gasoline from child-sized pumps set on cinder blocks with fifteen-foot long snaky hoses. The concrete islands at their neighborhood gas station were unusually wide. The station looked like it had been built before the beginning of time. Motorists pulled in willy-nilly. They tried to ignore the long lines for fuel.

   Lithuanians are keen on wolves, bears, and moose. According to legend, Grand Duke Gediminas dreamt an iron wolf told him to create Vilnius and make the city his capital. The bear is a symbol of Samogitia, one of the country’s regions, and is part of the coat of arms of Siauliai, another region. The Lazdijai region features a moose as its hero, although when it shows up uninvited townsfolk stay behind closed doors. Birds don’t take a back seat. Everybody likes the cuckoo because its call is said to sweep away the last bits and pieces of winter. The pigeon, which is called balandis, gets its own month, which is April, or balanzio menuo.

    There was a barn-like garage behind Justinas’s house. He kept his old sewing machines and tailoring goods on the ground floor. Upstairs, up a ladder, he kept a coop of rock pigeons. Even though they can always find their way home, even when released blindfolded from no matter where, navigating by the earth’s magnetic fields, and even though they had carried messages across battlefields for armies during both world wars, Justinas never let his pigeons go anywhere without him. They weren’t prisoners, exactly, but they were there to stay.

   He loved his birds and they loved him. He fed them as well as he fed himself. He and his friends bred and traded them. Thieves sometimes tried to steal the pigeons, so there was a padlock fixed to the garage door. He kept a dog on a long leash chained to a stake in front of the garage, just in case. The dog was ready to bite whenever strangers approached.

   Behind the garage was a chicken wire enclosure brimming with white rabbits. My uncle raised them for the family’s dinner table. When the time came he would catch and pin one of the rabbits to the ground, put a stick across its neck, step on one side of the stick, quickly step on the other side of it, and pull the rabbit upward by its hind legs, breaking its neck. After cutting off its head he hung it upside down to clean it. Janina seasoned and cooked the bunnies, frying and braising them and mixing them into stews.

   His private Idaho museum was on the second floor of their house. Nobody had ever stolen anything from it, but God pity the fool who tried. Justinas might have committed murder in the event. The door was never locked, but you had to be invited to get in. He never gave anything in his museum away, either, not even to his own children, although he traded with his friends, just like he traded his birds with them.

   There was a glass case filled with gold and silver coins, military medals, and men’s pocket watches. There were framed pictures of Catholic saints, Lithuanian kings and politicians, and British luxury liners on the walls. He had carved figures, including an eagle, talons and wings outstretched and its head thrust forward. He had a restored Victrola with a new needle, new springs, new crank and motor, and a burnt orange sound horn. There were a dozen clocks, which were his prized possessions. They were grandfather wood wall clocks with pendulums and chimes. Every one of them was set to a random time of day. They all worked whenever he wanted them to work.

   Two smaller rooms adjoined the museum on the second floor. They were bedrooms where his four children had grown up. Both of the rooms had pint-sized windows. The rooms were stuffy, filled with dust motes and memories.

   Justinas and Janina were always accusing each other of having extra-marital affairs. She made great-tasting potato pancakes morning, noon, and night. One day while they were having a pancake lunch with two neighborhood widows in the living room, since there wasn’t a dining room, she told her husband to go outside for a minute. 

   “Oh, my God, he’s such a womanizer, always chasing women,” she said out of the blue. The two widows didn’t know what to say. She was in her late 60s and he was in his early 70s. He never talked about his wife, but she talked about him constantly. Somebody said she was the one having all the affairs. Nobody knew what to believe.

   When he walked back into the living room he was smiling. “What were you talking about?” he asked innocently enough. He wasn’t planning on living a century-or-more and giving up all the things that make you want to live that long. He believed it was best to die in the prime of life at a ripe old age.

   Justinas had a water well operated by a wheel pulley in the backyard. There was a red plastic bucket to get water and bring it into the house. Whenever anybody wanted to brush their teeth or wash their face, they took from the bucket. The outhouse was beside the garage. Everybody called it the little house. They kept cut-up scraps of Russian newspapers on a ledge inside the side door of the little house. Whenever relatives were visiting Janina gave them a vessel to keep beside their bed in case they needed to go in the middle of the night and didn’t want to go outside. Everybody made sure to not drink too much too late into the evening.

   They didn’t have a tub, either. They went to a nearby public bath to take showers once a week. Once when my sister was visiting she declared the outhouse was more than enough. She wasn’t going to any public bathhouse. Justinas told her he had a lady friend who had a bathtub. When they got there, it was full of turnips. The lady took them all out, but the water never warmed up above tepid. She took a bath anyway, since it was better than nothing.

   Even when Justinas retired from tailoring he was always out doing something, up to something. ”I have responsibilities,” he would say. It was never clear what those responsibilities were, although he stayed busy fulfilling them.

   My uncle Sigitas and his wife Terese had a pig farm near Gizai, near where my mother’s side of the family had originally come from. Terese worked for the Russians in a building supplies warehouse. She smiled politely and stole them blind. Nobody knew what my younger uncle Juozukas did. He had a truck and could fix anything, including stoves and electric circuits. He never got up in the morning at the same time and never went to work to the same place.

   He had patched together a kiosk and attached it to the side of his house. The hand-painted sign said, “Odds and Ends.” He and his wife sold soft drinks, chocolate bars, gum, and cigarettes. On the first of every month he had to pay off the local Lithuanian mobsters. They demanded a cut of everything, including gum. It was like Spanky and Our Gang.

   Everybody in Lithuania complained about everything and they especially complained about money. It was easier and more prudent to never ask anybody what they did. “This and that,” is what many of them said. They were always going to Poland and across the Baltic Sea to Sweden and bringing back clothes, food, prescription drugs, as well as cigarettes and more cigarettes. They smuggled contraband goods across borders without declaring anything, traversing forests and crossing rivers on the sly. Whenever they bootlegged cars or trucks they drove the long way around at night with the headlights off.

   After the fall of the Berlin Wall, the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the resumption of Lithuania, we collected financing from family members and sent enough to Justinas and Janina so they could get an indoor bathroom built and running water installed. The lady of the house absolutely wanted a toilet and faucets. She was more than happy when she got the funds. She even stopped complaining about her supposedly over-sexed husband for a while.

   When Justinas found out about the proposed toilet he said thanks, but no thanks. He said he had grown up and lived his whole life without the modern convenience. “What was good for my father is good for me,” he said. He wasn’t hidebound but wasn’t going to change anything more than he had to after all the years of his life. “I was coming down the ladder from the coop just now carrying a drink in one hand and a pigeon in the other hand,” he told anybody who asked about his reasons. “Don’t try that when you get to be my age.” His explanations were often elliptical.

   He was swimming upstream with Janina about the plumbing. She eventually got what she wanted. Over time, given Lithuania’s long and cold winters, he learned to like the indoor bathroom more than his wife or anybody else. He was an old dog who had sussed out a new trick. He never gave up visiting his lady friends, though. He didn’t forget how to make hot water.

Photograph by Rita Staskus. Juozukas Jurgelaitis, Justinas Jurgelaitis, and Rasa Jurgelaityte, 1994.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the Rust Belt in the 1960s and 1970s.

“A collection of first-person street level stories blended with the historical, set in Cleveland, Ohio. The storytelling is plugged in.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

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