Freedom?

Like every person of this century, whether a great lyricist or a misunderstood artist, the young twenty-year-old poet X suffered from some inexplicable, and perhaps not understandable to all breathing beings, illness. He was not the exception that should confirm the rule. Unfortunately. It was a disease of pseudo-intellectuals who know how to read, a “God syndrome”, similar to the one that pulsated Nietzsche. The idea that it is “you” who are the free mind of the world, it is your thoughts, ideas, headache that is the future. This pain makes every child think about suicide at least for a moment, and this is precisely the illness of this generation of children. They are all tragically tormented by nothing but the flow of their own thoughts. In part, this is an escape from meaninglessness, turning the core of their lives into suffering. Ironically, but often freedom limits more than anything else. This happened to this generation of poets X. And neither I nor they understand whether it's true or not.

That's how the aforementioned young writer suffered on that rainy September midnight. Why? Only God knows. How hard – everyone knew. Pain was his work and his life, although it sounds unconvincing. Like every self-respecting poet of this century, he lit up a cigarette that drove him crazy on that treacherous September midnight. The shelter in which he tried to hide, whether from the rain or from his thoughts, was dark, wet and smelled of matches, it was his sphere, because such was his soul. However, no matter how brave and a lover of darkness poet X was, the rustling he heard after his thoughts fell silent made his cigarette tremble a little:

– When I was your age, I smoked maybe fifty of these a day because I wanted to die slowly.

It was precisely this destruction of silence that seemed appropriate for the poet X, who did not communicate with many people, to decide to share silence with the elderly, gray-skinned, but tolerably well-preserved Mr. Y. He continued:

"Would you treat a stranger to one of these? I could tell good tobacco from six feet under, and it's rare these days."

Poet X casually handed Mr. Y his selection of rolls. The two strangers enjoyed the harmony of tobacco and the moon. Night, rain, cigarettes, it seemed that life could not be more beautiful… And it was not. At least not for those strangers. Despite the granted request, Mr. Y continued to successfully disturb the peace of poet X:

– You know, it killed my whole generation. Smoking, this little madness, it will kill you too, I understand, it's all that damn symbolism... freedom, independence, revolutions, bohemian life. It's all bullshit. Have you heard of lung cancer?

The question was followed by a silence that affected both sides of the nightstand. Mr. Y did not receive any verbal response from poet X for a long time. What followed was what could only be called, with pity, the monologue of a madman. However, the young poet X had a weakness for the older generation, so the situation changed:

– I’ve heard it, dark, no matter how shocking it may sound to your gray head. But you see, dark, you yourself mentioned, “I wanted to die little by little.” This is a chronic death and not any symbolism. You are so dissatisfied with your life that you kill yourself little by little, because you are too much of a coward and egocentric to simply commit suicide. One two and that’s it, you are ashes or dust, forgotten by everyone. It’s scary for everyone to think about it. Therefore, later you look for an excuse like addiction or some other crap, because everyone is ashamed to admit how cowardly they really are. Isn’t that right?

Mr. Y did not expect such a verbal reaction to his trailers. The man was used to the indifference and insults of young people, because he had seen and experienced a lot. However, he was not used to this phenomenon, a thinking young person. Mr. Y was surprised that everything that was of epochal significance in that child was different and unstable, and he liked it very much. These two eccentrics felt a strong, mutual suffering that united them. You can think what you want, but in fact it was so, they suffered differently (more) than people of this age. Having started chatting, the night owls got to know each other, talked about art, literature, life. They smoked many cigarettes, the conversation developed into something deeper and more detailed, until the poet X asked the fateful question:

– And how did it happen that you, a person like Tamsta, ended up in this alley in the middle of the night and without a cigarette in your mouth? It's clear that you are, or at least were, a big fanatic of this process.

This, at first glance, boring question from the young man had a surprisingly strong impact on their nightly discussions. From Mr. Y's stony reaction and long silence, one could have assumed that that was all. This was the end of this surprisingly interesting acquaintance. Finally, when it became so quiet that you could almost hear the answer to the question of why the sky is crying, Mr. Y spoke up:

– .. Of course, you are taught history in Aukštoja and, as you mentioned, you are a lover of it, but what you read and learn as faceless, dry facts and statistics does not leave any deep value. I will tell you a story that will be a direct historical broadcast for you, dear poet, you will understand the true price of your life and freedom, what it meant to create at the time when I was young.

Poet X was puzzled. This “hard man” suddenly felt his heart pounding, his palms became damp. The only question was why he couldn’t rest. I think it was because for the first time in his life he truly realized the futility of his suffering, its synthetic origin, and what could make his entire generation feel ashamed of the dead. The pain that flashed in Mr. Y’s eyes seemed real, while the child’s seemed imaginary and meaningless. He was silent, and Mr. Y slowly, with watery eyes and a voice that was raspy from cigarettes, began to tell…

                                                                                   ***

It was the mid-eighties, I was twenty. A crazy kid with a lot of gunpowder in his ass, we were all like that. I didn’t cut my hair, I only grew it out to annoy university professors, I wore jeans and played in a rock band, which may sound more banal. Looking at the facts, you can understand that we were enslaved and could do practically nothing without permission “from above”, but despite this, our souls had all the freedom we craved. We were the wind blowing leaves in the fields and in the Kremlin.

I was halfway through my second year at university, but I wasn't thinking about my studies, you see, rock marches and the Lithuanian National Movement were on my nose, so Makar and I, that was my best friend's nickname, felt the urge to participate. So strong that I had a fight with my parents about it and lived in Makar's garage for maybe four months, and today I remember the conversation between my father and me:

"I'm tired of all of you fearing and explaining to me and others how they should live their lives. Nothing changes because nothing changes."

The father spoke angrily:

– What do you think you can change, shepherd boy? Without seeing the horror. What do you even know about the system and about life? – He started smoking. – About the life of the system. It’s funny to me to listen to you. But it’s also scary, because with your behavior you can screw up everything that my mother and I worked so hard for.

– Because of what, because of communism? Because of the wonderful and free life? Because my uncle lives in the West, and we are stuck here. You don't try anything, you don't even pretend. Or rather, that's all you do.

My father slammed his hand on the table, silencing me for a moment. I remember how my blood boiled that evening, literally, I was angry and disappointed, scared and confused.

Father:

– Do you need to be reminded again what happened here? Because with your mind full of romanticism, you forgot how to think? I can no longer write the way I want to, because they see Western propaganda everywhere. And they haven't put me in prison yet, because I started lying on time. So loudly and so often that they finally believed me. You think I believe it, you think my mother believes it? Why do we listen to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones every night? Because that's who we are.

And despite everything, you still say you want to change the system,” he laughs, “you want to change the world.” He blows out smoke with a smile. “Before you try to change the world, you have to realize that you, yourself, are a part of it. You can’t stand inside and see what’s happening outside.”

These words of his rang in my head every time I started to be afraid, but strangely, it encouraged me even more, I wanted freedom so much that it seemed that I would rather die than be enslaved. Don't laugh, I was and remained a doomed romantic. Music, jeans, later Sąjūdis, that's how we sought freedom, although ironically, I never felt so free in my life as when it actually didn't exist.

After a fight with my parents, I ran away to my friend's place, the same Makar I mentioned earlier. The day is etched in my now gray-haired head. I remember, I was walking down the street smoking, I heard a noise, at first I couldn't understand what it was. After dropping the cigarette, I started running towards the sound and at the corner of the street I was stopped by a sight.

Four policemen were beating a girl with sticks who was drawing birds and a sign on the wall with paint, I still remember it today: “Those who are free fly.” Teenage romanticism and the perception of freedom, but back then it was the only freedom you could feel.

The policemen dragged away the bloody, unconscious girl. I wanted to help her, I wanted to help more than I wanted to breathe, but fear stopped me. Internal struggle and hatred, I didn’t understand myself, why I didn’t dare to help the girl or those I was afraid of. I started shaking with rage and burst into tears like a baby. I cried for the girl, for the world, its troubles, because they had wounded that which cannot be enslaved or imprisoned, that which is in your heart… I’m talking about that true freedom of the soul, child.

I remember that evening when my friend and I smoked so much tobacco that even now I feel sick remembering it, we talked about upcoming concerts, a free Lithuania... I was strumming my guitar and was very scared. I remember a conversation with Makar:

"You know, old man, I'll admit it to you: I'm scared, I'm scared beyond belief. Sometimes I'm so scared it's hard to remember why we're doing this."

My friend, somewhat annoyed, tried to remind me:

– For what? For freedom, precisely because they forbid all this, because it is better to fight than to sit comfortably in a Soviet armchair and passively, dully observe everything. That's how parents do it. You know what, I don't believe all that crap they spout about how they love jeans, rock and freedom. They are fine, they have adapted to the damn system and are no longer able to think freely, about what life could, should be.

We were preparing for the concert for two whole weeks, someone at the university leaked information about our activities, I received a lot of warnings and threats, I noticed that they were following me, my parents received a warning about me, my situation in Aukštoja. It was very difficult at that time. I remember that a few days before the public concert, a few activists and I organized a small concert in Makar's garage, after which I was terribly beaten when I returned home, and after finishing their bloody work, those shadows whispered to me: "If you commit another crime, you will be a corpse." Because creativity was a crime. I could not understand how the security forces began to persecute me, an ordinary student. However, this did not break me, I continued to write songs, harass activists and play. Makar did not break either, although there were never any bruises or scratches on his face.

The aforementioned rock march, concert, and everything else was a miracle, I don't know how else to describe it. Before and after the concert, we all sang the anthem, no longer a few activists, but a crowd of thousands. Not to blink an eye was a challenge then. It was all I could have wanted, it was my freedom and no one could take it away. The threat about this concert and my life did not come true, but I was caught by the KGB. I had to give some names, places, and times of protests organized by all sorts of activists, including our concerts. I was silent as the silent graves. I remember that the officer, who could not stand my silence, mocked me contemptuously:

– You won't give up? The great revolutionary, right? If others don't perish, don't worry, they won't drown. You will perish, because you live by feelings, not reason. The great romantic, the expert on human souls, do you think anyone believes in people like you? You laugh away, that's your inner freedom. People need to believe in something and they believe in people like you, the damned poor things. They're easy to control. You're studying, your parents have jobs, what else do you need?

I snapped angrily:

– Freedom.

Later, I was expelled from the university, and my father and mother from their jobs. Makar stayed to study, I was very happy that at least he was lucky. Now I can safely say that life really fell apart at that time and I felt guilty about everything. But I did not give up and luck did not abandon us, after a few years we regained our independence, both homeland and spiritual. Almost everyone received their KGB files, and I was among them. In mine, which was surprisingly thick, on the first page was written the name of a KGB informant who had passed on information about me and my activities. The person who greatly damaged my health and my family life was Karol Marakovsky.

                                                                               ***

Strongly interested in the story and deeply moved, poet X could not stand Mr. Y's pause:

– Karol Marakowski? Who is he? Did you find him later?

– The informant was Makar… My best friend, for whom I was ready to die, with whom we talked about freedom, about everything, the way only brothers can talk.

Boy, you asked me why I was smoking a cigarette today, and in the middle of the night. After twenty years of not smoking and not talking to my best friend and enemy, I found out today that he died.

Lighting another roll of tobacco, he continued:

– Guys, really, now from everything I told you and what we discussed, I could moralize how your generation is lost, how you don’t feel anything and how you don’t love freedom, what robots you are, if necessary, you shout “will”, if necessary you condemn, but I won’t do that. I will tell you one thing that I have dedicated my whole life to the pursuit of freedom and justice, but over all these years I have not been able to forgive Makar. The sad thing is that I simply missed my friend like hell, and he is no more, and this burning sadness will never go away, because I was unable to pick up the phone and call him. And only now do I truly understand what freedom is, although I thought I knew it all my life. Freedom is forgiveness.

Mr. Y fell silent, his silence speaking louder than any sounds or words in the world, it was a crushing sadness and loneliness. Poet X mourned along, wanted to say something intelligent and apt, but there were no thoughts. There was only silence.

Author: Audrė Gruodytė