Waiting for Stalin to Die

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Though not a joking man, Vytas would say years later that he had become a doctor again by accident. Surrounded by family in his Baby Point garden, sitting in the deep greenery, he would tell a story which happened to be true. His three married daughters would be setting out a summer lunch. His three sons-in-law would lift their heads from quiet political talk. And while the grandchildren sat at his feet, spellbound by events, the adults heard the oceans of meaning behind the words.

Every Sunday morning, I used to walk in High Park.

He had stopped before Lidia’s picture as always before going out. Gazing at her love-filled face, aching for her presence in just the next room, he turned his Swiss army knife over and over in his pocket. Won’t be long, he wanted to call out. And hefting the smooth red enamel handle, feeling the weight of the blades hidden inside, he wondered if he would become one of those lonely old bachelors who absentmindedly jingled coins in their trouser pockets.

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