Laimutė Adomavičienė

REPRESENTATIONS OF THE CHILD IN LITHUANIAN EXILE PROSE

Abstract In the present article, a comparative method is used to compare works of three writers of Lithuanian exile literature of the 20th century: the novella Surūdijęs garlaivis Kauno prieplaukoj (A Rusty Steamboat at the Kaunas Pier, 1955) by Julius Kaupas; the story Saulėtos dienos (Sunny Days, 1952) by Antanas Škėma; and the novella Žodžiai, gražieji žodžiai (Words, Beautiful Words, 1956) by Algirdas Landsbergis. These authors have become a 'tradition' of Lithuanian exodus culture, and therefore their works were read on the basis of cultural codes, according to cultural categories as provided in the History of European Mentality: individual, family, society. The writings of these authors have distinguished the differences in 'thinking' of child and 'thinking' of adults about a child. Comparison of writings by J. Kaupas, A. Landsbergis, and A. Škėma shows that the representation of children has changed: more attention is dedicated to the psyche of a child, and problems get more complicated. A. Landsbergis and A. Škėma show children in an especially complicated environment, consigning to them a path of inner quests that is too complex for their age and an unadorned encounter with brutal reality. The novella by A. Landsbergis presents the problems of an alien language, culture, and identity as encountered by little Lithuanian in exile. Protagonists of novellas by J. Kaupas and A. Landsbergis solve problems that are more specific to everyday life, while A. Škėma elevates a child up to contemplation of metaphysical problems (death, God). The paradigm of child representation in exile literature depends on the personal experience of the authors, the prevailing cultural understanding of individual-family-society, and the aesthetic aims of each author.

Keywords: Lithuanian exile prose of 20"' century, representation of the child, cultural categories: individual, family, society. Introduction

The twentieth-century crisis of two World Wars, and achievements in science, particularly in the fields of physics and psychology, changed the conception of both the individual and society in Western culture. Cultural changes encompassed the representations in art of the individual, including the child. An accustomed norm dominated Western art until the first half of the twentieth century—to represent happy children and repeatedly to render the motif of a fortunate childhood (Peter Paul Rubens, Diego Velazquez, Joshua Reynolds, etc.). Once the surge of expressionism was established, the representations and evaluation of reality changed.' The choice of children as characters, or the representation of childhood, is not unprecedented in the Lithuanian literary tradition. This is illustrated in the work of Jonas Biliūnas, Šatrijos Ragana, Vincas Krėvė, Petras Cvirka, and others. From the 1930s, children's literature shifted toward more intense psychological tendencies. Transformations in the representations of the child also became apparent in the work of Lithuanian exile writers. This article refers to modern literary theory (Hawthorn 1998), the cultural studies work of Vytautas Kavolis, Dinzelbacher's Europos mentaliteto istorija (The History of European Mentality, 1998), and psychological research. The literary texts are read as the 'decoding' of cultural codes according to the categories presented in Europos mentaliteto istorija: individual, family, society. In cultural studies, the meaning of men and women is distinguished; there are different approaches to the substance of men and women (Kavolis 1992: 12). This article presumes that it is possible to differentiate a child's meaning and to identify the substance of a child. The goal of this article is to explain the transformation of representations of the child in Lithuanian emigrant prose. Using a comparative method, works written in the 1950s by three exodus writers will be analyzed: the novella Surūdijęs garlaivis

1 A picture by Austrian artist Oskar Kokoschka (1886-1980) entitled Children playing (1909) in which a girl and boy are portrayed with body forms that are out of proportion and children are melancholy Illustrates this tendency. Kauno prieplaukoj2 (A Rusty Steamboat at the Kaunas Pier) by Julius Kaupas; the story Saulėtos dienos1 (Sunny Days) by Antanas Škėma; and the novella Žodžiai, gražieji žodžiai* (Words, Beautiful Words) by Algirdas Landsbergis. The choice of these particular authors was prompted by V. Kavolis's verdict: they (the authors) are individual persons who have become part of the tradition of exile culture (Kavolis 1986: 185).

Various conceptions of exile

Many Lithuanian writers, among them Julius Kaupas (1920-1964), Algirdas Landsbergis (1924-2004), and Antanas Škėma (1910-1961), fled Lithuania in 1944. For A. Škėma, this was the second emigration, because during the years of the First World War he lived with his parents in Russia and Ukraine, and returned to Lithuania only in 1922. These writers had to confront a foreign world: culture, language, society; and to 'fight against the existential alienation of themselves and others' (Kavolis 1992:125). The writers were able to integrate their work in a foreign space, universally interweaving their Lithuanian experience within a multicultural, multilingual context. It is characteristic of the work of J. Kaupas (along with several other Lithuanian exile writers) to avoid themes of life's 'ruins'. He moves the action to Lithuania (with rare exception), as though the threatening wars and humanitarian crises are imagined. J. Kaupas was among those writers in exile whose work was dominated by the 'paradise lost' of the 'past' (Škėma 1994b: 437). In both the Displaced Persons camps and in the United States, J. Kaupas nostalgically created stories about the lost homeland, for example Daktaras Kripštukas pragare (Doctor Kripštukas in Hell, |Freiburg] 1948) and the novel Saulėgrąžos mėnulio šviesoj (Sunflowers in the Moonlight). He consciously chose the dimension of fantasy. The writer's neo-Romantic view of life is an

2 Lietuvių dienos, 1955, 8. 1 Škėma, Antanas, 1952: Saulėtos dienos, Šventoji Inga, Chicago, Terra. ' Landsbergis, Algirdas, 1956: Žodžiai, gražieji žodžiai, Ilgoji naktis, London: Nida integral part of his world outlook. J. Kaupas, in a letter to his friend Henrikas Nagys, wrote that when one looks at the world through dreamy eyes, a different reality unfolds: T know that today you are not the only one disappointed in life. Many young people question and seek. Many of our childhood dreams were broken in the stark reality of life, though even those broken dreams seem somehow more valuable than the gray, everyday reality' (Paplauskienė 2006: 5). In the novella A Rusty Steamboat at the Kaunas Pier, which was written during his time in America, a discourse of the past, not the present, prevails. He does not focus on harsh realities, nor is it an adaptation of society, but instead he writes about the period of Lithuanian independence, the world of the individual.

A. Landsbergis and A. Škėma, who also experienced feelings of exile, did not avoid actual problems of emigrants in their works. According to A. Škėma, a writer of modern literature, the goal of every decent writer is to exist in your epoch, and also in the eternal tenor of a persons life' (Škėma 1994c: 498). A. Landsbergis was especially troubled by the problems faced by Lithuanians whose language and native land was uprooted. A unique, foreign paradigm is apparent in his work: the world, language, inhabitants, and culture. A. Škėma, who experienced several dramatic upheavals in his childhood, sought to transform reality in his work (he did not like to portray 'things the way they are'). He created an original logic, where the T' no longer exists, but conditional scenes demonstrate a sense of the world, dramatization, disillusionment in God, lack of meaning, and the existence of suffering. The children in his text are a part of the absurd world: truly, a child's experiences leave him with such a tragic sense of life, which scarcely corresponds to the adult sense of life. An adult usually has a defensive shield. A child does not have this armor. Weaponless, a child experiences the temporary 'for what?' from Kafka's The Trial, or else Van Gogh's crazy stars whirl in the heavens above. This is one psychological moment. The brighter moments do, in fact, arrive, and the child forgets the nightmare he experienced. Relatively forgets. It would take too long to address the various feats of the subconscious, which later manifest themselves in different forms—no matter which representative of psychoanalysis you choose. It is unfortunate that elite critics select and brighten up childhood memories, their succession, and consciously (or maybe unconsciously) philosophize it. And yet, the poets themselves are not entirely averse to the analysis of critics. Seeing as they are poetically strong and ideological: it is guaranteed that, though gracefully, they will address futility, nothingness, and death' (Škėma 1994b: 434). A. Škėma is open to the world, to cruelty, suffering, and disillusionment, which even an innocent child encounters. Children are not insured, protected, they are more easily hurt and crippled. There is no sunny childhood—it is only the beginning of suffering.

The chronotope of the works

The settings of the works by J. Kaupas, A. Landsbergis, and A. Škėma are localized in an urban environment. Time is not concrete; it is reconstructed according to corresponding historic realiae, except in the story by A. Škėma, Sunny Days, where an exact date is given—1918. In J. Kaupass novella A Rusty Steamboat at the Kaunas Pier, the action is concentrated in Lithuania between the two World Wars, in the temporary capital, Kaunas. Sunny Days by A. Škėma takes places during the civil war in the Ukrainian town Rostov- on-the-Don, and in the city Selo Pokrovskoe. New York in the 1950s-'60s is the setting for the novella Words, Beautiful Words by A. Landsbergis. This author's chosen chronotope befits the peculiarities of the socialization of Lithuanian emigrants and the examination of problems in the United States. In each of the author's works, time and setting are a superficial background, because the primary concern is directed at the internal development of the main character—the child. The most pessimistic and most tragic child's existence is revealed in the story by A. Škėma. The problematic individual

A child is a developing person, therefore, from various standpoints, this age is especially important. In the works by J. Kaupas, A. Škėma, and A. Landsbergis, the central figure in the creative world is the child. The physical appearance of the children is almost nondescript, except in the prose of A. Škėma, who writes about the main character in detail:

Martynukas stands at the edge of the pit, a tall, intelligent boy, with a sharp chin, large, dark eyes (he inherited a slight slant from his mother) and his father's small, straight nose. His hair is light and his plump lips are slightly parted with curiosity. It seems as though this boy is always asking a question, but doesn't get an answer. You could say he's handsome if not for those formless, colorless lips. With his head thrown back, he looks at the sun for the first time after the illness. His blue sailor's uniform is clean, his shoes polished, and his neck is wrapped in his mother's scarf (Škėma 1994a: 124-125).

The narrators focus their attention on the character's way of sensing, on changes in consciousness. J. Kaupas' novella introduces Petras Saldukas—a student at a Jesuit high school. In Sunny Days, A. Škėma writes about the experiences of a maturing boy named Martynukas, who, in the beginning of the story is in pre-school, and then later is nine years old. The main character in A. Landsbergis' short story Words, Beautifidl Words is four-year-old Petrukas. An eloquent narrative situation is conveyed at the beginning of this story: the child becomes acquainted with the world, which is symbolized by his turning globe. A. Landsbergis chose the pre-school age, which is particularly complex, because at this time foundations of personality are formed and a cultural self-consciousness awakens. It is characteristic of children from about the ages of four to six to develop an emotional language; there is a creation' of a distinct language. Young children create neologisms, think associatively, and like to imitate adults (Dailidienė 1997: 24). Aside from which, the pre-school age is very dangerous because the child is extremely susceptible to the influence of other people's language. A. Landsbergis was able to successfully convey Petrukas' sensitive perception of language: 'He loves words. He liked to touch them, to feel them in his mouth. Some were warm, others cool; some coarse, others smooth; some hissed, others sang. Words were more precious to him than all the toys in the big box. There were so many of them; nothing else compared. He tried to give words to everything he saw through the window. Those things for which he didn't find words remained distant and strange. Those that he did name approached him and became his friends' (Landsbergis 1992: 280). It is evident that the main characters in the analyzed texts are boys. In A. Landsbergis' novella, the young girls Marytė and Daivutė are mentioned as secondary characters. In J. Kaupas' novella, the girls are imaginary, and in A. Škėmas tale there is a short episode when Martynukas plays with a five-year-old 'skinny girl'. A feature of the narratives of A. Škėma and A. Landsbergis is that the narrator and the focus (the child) are constantly alternated. At the beginning of J. Kaupas' text, the hero is fearful of his father, but is able to overcome it naturally by believing in an illusion offered to him by his peer Vincas Brinką. In the text by A. Landsbergis, the boy encounters problems with communication, alienation, and understanding: his parents, grandparents, peers, and family do not understand him. Petrukas seeks contact with the 'other', though unsuccessfully. A child's natural desire to be understood comes up against several obstacles: people do not understand him, but he is incapable of understanding the other, who speaks in an unfamiliar language. At the end of the story, this problem remains unresolved. There is apparent value in the character's self-analysis and search for self-identity. The reader is faced with a dilemma, what will it be like to further associate with Petrukas? Will he just become reserved, closed off, or will he be able to independently seek out a solution? The author places the responsibility directly on the boy's shoulders because his friends and relatives are unable to help; they are not faced with the same problems. The most complicated resolution appears in Sunny Days by A. Škėma. The child, after confronting death and God, dies. It is characteristic of modernist works to end the story with a tragic denouement. Several specific characteristics of children are accented in each of the writers works: for J. Kaupas—fantasy, desire for adventure; A. Škėma—naivete, sensitivity; A. Landsbergis—curiosity, intuition, creativity. Children and adults are differentiated by their dissimilarities; there is a different conception determined by generational and individual/societal levels of self-consciousness. The thoughts and experiences of adults are not presented; they are deciphered through movement and action or the narrators irony and humor. The temperament of the children is characterized by change, by an amplitude of contradictory emotions: courage/fear, love/hostility, sympathy/antipathy, joy/sorrow, friendliness/enmity, openness/isolation, trust/distrust, optimism/pessimism.

Family and Peers

A child's microenvironment is comprised of family and peers. The progressive self-realization and individualization of the child occurs in the microenvironment, which then determines the later integration, successful or unsuccessful, into the macro-environment. It is important that the young child within the family feels loved, understood, safe, and is able to express creatively. J. Kaupas, A. Landsbergis, and A. Škėma present a model of the urban family in the examined texts. Various relationships between members of the family, in their roles, are assigned. Men and women are differently individualized. On one hand, in the work of J. Kaupas the family takes on a secondary role: only the father is mentioned, who enters the boy's consciousness as angry. The father's physical appearance is described as the typical patriarchal family representative (with a pipe and newspaper in the 'salon' [Kaupas 1997: 199]). The mother's role is minimal because she does not figure in the text. On the other hand, minimal parental influence encourages the child's independence. The children depicted in each author's stories first sense a fear of their fathers. The character in the novella by J. Kaupas is afraid of the father's punishment for failure to complete term in school, and of comparisons of himself with the father. A. Landsbergis' main character is fearful that his parents would wake up 'weird strangers' (this is how they look when they're asleep, [Landsbergis 1992: 279]). In the story A Rusty Steamboat at the Kaunas Pier, Petras' world unfolds among his peers. His friend Vincas Brinką invites a saddened Petras to a boat, enticing him with a secret—they will sail away in the spring. At the end of the story the narrator states: 'Petrukas laughed. The anticipated adventures filled his heart with a strange courage' (Kaupas 1997: 203). Petras has a childish perception of the world. The issue of fear is solved in the suspension of reality—a bright illusion—then the subsequent return to reality ('his father will boast to the neighbors: that's my son' [Kaupas 1997: 203]). The development of the individual's subconscious in J. Kaupas' work was influenced by the psychoanalysis of Sigmund Freud. A. Škėma depicts a family of intellectuals: the 'blue-haired' mother Vera Aleksandrovna is a cultured native of Kyrgyzstan married to a foreigner. The father, Antanas Vileikis, is a Lithuanian teacher. The father, caught up by the events of the war, urges his wife to flee to Lithuania, but she dreams about the expansive steppes of Kyrgyzstan. Besides, she is in love with a Ukrainian, Medvedenko. Both parents are sickly and cannot come to a decision about fleeing. Compared to the women depicted in A. Landsbergis' Words, Beautiful Words, the character Vera in A. Škėmas story is seemingly the most independent: she fell in love with a foreigner—Antanas, disobeyed her father and ran away; she tries to be attentive to her feelings and is not afraid of expressing her opinion. The mother loves Martynukas very much: during the shooting on the tramway she protects her son and is concerned about the effect of this violent experience. At the same time, the unpractical father is more concerned with the issues of moving than with his sons experience. The family is unable to protect Martynukas from a brutal life. The boy runs away from home and overhears a conversation about violence between two nine-year-olds, Saška and Mitka: — I'll stab him in the stomach, and his guts will fall out. — You're stupid! You have to rip the eyes out. — I'm going to rip his tongue out and hammer it to his forehead. — You're stupid! First, you have to rip out the eyes. — Why the eyes? — Svolačius won't be able to see. When he's blind, stab him in the stomach. (Škėma 1994a: 124).

The conversations become violent 'games' with the criminals. When the family moves to the city, Martynukas meets ten-year-old Vaska, who mocks the naive younger boy. A Škėma depicts the character Martynukas as an individual who at a young age encounters an unfamiliar, inhospitable world and has to solve adult problems. The novella Words, Beautiful Words by A. Landsbergis depicts a Lithuanian emigrant family: a father, mother, and four-year-old Petrukas. The father is the head of the family and his word is final. The mother feels a close emotional relationship with her son and tries to listen attentively to his language. In this manner she reveals the traditional attitude of woman-mother. The professions of the parents are not concretely indicated. There are allusions that the parents do work (the mother leaves for work early and returns late), except on the weekends. Peter's father is a typical man—content with traditional concerns: to satisfy the materialistic needs of the family (food, clothing, etc.). The father's physical appearance is painted as a person stuck in everyday life: 'unshaved face, a blue night-shirt and thin, long legs,' 'grumbling,' 'he bathed with sharp movements,' 'while yawning he warmed his coffee and scrambled the eggs with an indifferent hand' (Landsbergis 1992: 280-281). The internal good qualities of the mother are: singing, gentleness, and love for her husband and son. The text depicts a superficial relationship between members of the family and the child. When the father, grandmother, and several others hear Peter's new word 'kalala'/'mupunas', they do not ask what it means because they have a predetermined opinion (the words are Turkish and English). The family does not try to grasp the peculiarities of the child's stage in development, his experiences, and doel not provide the necessary attention. If the child does not get the needed answer, or support from his family and peers, the child's desire to interact wanes. This has an influence the child's future individual character and his relationship with society (Dailidienė 1997: 113).

Society

A. Landsbergis, in his novella Words, Beautiful Words, reconstructs the social life of Lithuanian emigrants, which is marked by reticence. The visiting relatives in Petrukas' parents home are Lithuanian emigrants. English-speaking men, women, and children, among them little Aleksiukas, represent the Lithuanian exile community. Their national identity is defined by the use of Lithuanian names and through expressions of longing and memories for a lost Lithuania. Women are valued differently in the story: 'bobule (old woman) is the embodiment of patience and has accumulated a wealth of folklore. The younger women are identified by the accentuation of their bodily and material relationship with the world: aunt Adelė is 'round and forever laughing,' 'kisses with big, wet lips,' aunt Emilija 'with long, thin fingers... and lip stick stuck to his cheek' (Landsbergis 1992: 290). Their roles as wife and mother are emphasized. The women also better understand their children: Petrukas feels his mother's love, he feels safe in the room of his younger cousins. A good emotional climate provides conditions for the child to feel safe. The women's aspirations—Laimutė does not work because she has an important position in society—entertaining her husband. She is also able to attain things: 'she no longer has to work, she says, she bought this long-sleeve robe' (Landsbergis 1992: 293). Masculine individuality is depicted in various ways. The older generation differs from the other men in terms of values. The representative characters are the grandfather, who is distinguished by typical Lithuanian qualities—diligence and quick wits (he installed a room in the basement) and uncle Antanas, who is able to occupy the children. The young boy is taught according to outdated conceptions of Lithuanian men to scornfully value the female gender: — Peter, go play with your young (female—L.A.) cousins. — What is he going to do with those old ladies? You're better off without them, right, Petrukas? (Landsbergis 1992: 294).

When portraying men, similarly to women, the author accentuates the materialistic side of the world. The men are ironically characterized by their trousers and stomachs: uncle Antanas—'gray trousers', 'with a round little stomach;' uncle Vytautas—'big big trousers', 'his stomach bulges on all sides', his eating is also ironically depicted; uncle Jonas—'in brown trousers', entirely without a stomach' (Landsbergis 1992: 291-293). The emphasis on the stomachs portrays the men as consumers. The signs of a good life: television, telephone, set tables. Memories of Lithuania are characteristic of the Lithuanian emigrant community. The connecting chain—a romanticized past, longing, the inert unwillingness to integrate in a foreign country. Their national identity is perceived in a rather narrow and isolated medium. The characters mention emigrant actualities, they discuss average themes: VLIKas [the Supreme Committee for the Liberation of Lithuania], criminals, and betrayal. The Lithuanians are presented ironically, are caricaturized, and the minutiae of their living conditions overshadows metaphysical aims, which are not mentioned in the text. The typical Lithuanian emigrant—mediocrity.

The inattentive adults suppress Petrukas' desire to speak the native language. The words of uncle Vytautas resound paradoxically: 'The best way to teach children to hate language' (Landsbergis 1992: 294). The relatives also do not attempt to understand Petrukas, they laugh at his feelings, though the mother does not act this way. The child breaks down, he feels strange and unsafe. A destructive personality forms because of inappropriate childcare provided by the adults (Dailidienė 1997: 9). The older generation, stuck in recounting memories of Lithuania, does not grasp the present, language barriers, and the problems faced by children born abroad. This crisis affects the society. This tragedy is the fate of all emigrants, even the one writing this. Their loss is tragic; their stubbornness to hold on to a collective identity is heroic. Their environment, in many ways, is absurd, because the residents do many things differently than they are done in the 'real' world of emigrants' past. The language of the new environment is comically imperfect because it does not have the native language nuances and associations connected with the childhood and youth of the emigrant. For this reason, Lithuanian emigrants are continually surprised (and sometimes angered) that other people live and think differently than Lithuanians. This makes them very serious. And like serious clowns in the rarified world of silent films, they inevitably become tragic-comical (Landsbergis 1994: 241).

The author actualizes societal and individual problems and urges the community's collective responsibility for the fight for their language by revealing its present crisis. A. Škėma, in his story, reveals how a child's consciousness is traumatized when it meets with society's cruelty: shootings, criminals openly conversing. The main character comes across the unfortunate Nastė, singing romances, the constantly drunk yard-keeper Steponas, 'the Armenian hunched in a corner', a woman crying on the tramway and so on. All of this affects the growing child's consciousness and behavior: he becomes closed off, serious, strangely devout:

He lay down: Mother, is there really a God? — Of course there is, I answered.

— Well if he really does exist, then he's bad. (Škėma 1994a: 147)

The writer urges the child to contemplate adult questions:

The young person thinks about the eternal questions. — What is love, who is that Mister God? He begins to contemplate questions we all contemplate. (Škėma 1994a: 149) For J. Kaupas' main character Petras, the death of a stranger ('a mournful funeral procession went by') incited the desire to be dead, so that he would avoid his father's punishment (Kaupas 1997: 200). The author examines a typical problem faced by schoolchildren. Though, in A. Škėmas story Sunny Days, the child confronts death at a young age and is not capable of comprehending it. Martynukas trusts the words of his friend Vaska and dreams about jumping toward Mister God: he climbs up a ladder and asks God three times to appear. Martynukas experiences the death of his parents and is himself shot at. There is no balance between good and bad, human values no longer exist. Watching a funeral procession and then later experiencing death, especially the death of loved ones, creates an imbalance. The author, in revealing the suffering of the individual, perceives only one outcome—death. 'This is why death is necessary, like ecstasy, which lifts a person to the highest level of perfection' (Šilbajoris 1960: 78). A. Škėma asserts that the true, unadorned child's reality is misery, pain, and suffering.

Conclusions Changes in the representations of children in Lithuanian prose writing of the twentieth century are clear: from ordinary situations, typical of the age of the child (J. Kaupas), to very problematic (A. Landsbergis) or unsolvable (A. Škėma). In each of the author's texts a greater attention was given to the child's psyche, and to more intense psychological tendencies. The children in the stories by A. Landsbergis and A. Škėma are presented in especially complicated environments. They must advance on a road to self-discovery that is may not be appropriate for their age. Their encounters with brutal realities are unadorned. The child in A. Škėmas story is elevated to the contemplation of metaphysical problems: death, God, love. The difference between a child's conception and adult conception was highlighted in the texts. It is apparent that family/peers/society are unable to help the child (A. Landsbergis) or to protect him from the world's cruelty (A. Škėma). The responsibility is transferred to the maturing individual: he has to search independently for identity and solve problems himself. References Dailidienė, Joana Judita, 1997. Vaiko kalba—vaiko dvasia. Kaunas: Šviesa.

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MOVEMENT AND IMPRISONMENT IN SOVIET LITHUANIAN TRAVEL NARRATIVES UNTIL 1968

Inscription on one of the interior walls of the Orthodox church in the Solovki camp: "With iron hand we shall drive mankind into happiness." "Железною рукою загоним человечество к счястью."

Abstract Soviet Lithuanian travel writings contain the spatial configuration of a prison (as an invariant of Thomas Mores Utopia) that is embodied in the perception of the world space and represented in the division of the space of the Soviet state. Both these types of texts lack the object of reference (in the semiotic sense) and have the same recurrent set of thematic constants: the isolation of place, the confrontation with the enemy world', the observing and controlling centre, the export of ideas for the purpose of disseminating them in the world, the pathos of the world-wide revolution. The writer becomes an exclusive representative of the Communist Party who is allowed to travel without restraint both within the Soviet republics and socialist block countries, and to the states of the opponent West. The military and propaganda language of the post-war years eventually turns into a more stylistically sophisticated hidden strategy of persuasion. There emerges a so-called grey zone where the opposition friend vs. enemy often fuses. The paradoxical union of motion and imprisonment (where the first one is directed by Communist Party aiming at a global revolution and the second one marks the attachment to the stable centre, i.e. Moscow) embodies a Utopian projection of the Soviet person into eternity. Keywords: socialist realism, travel writing, strategy of persuasion, motion, imprisonment. Similarly to all fictional genres of the socialist realism, the Soviet travel writing was written according to strict principles of formal logic, and that largely determined the inertia of the narrative. And yet, paradoxically, this inertia had accumulated the energetic forces of the world change employed in advertising the global Communist revolution. The transformational stage of the global revolution was expected to be crowned by the Communist victory, associated with eternity, an endorsement of absolute stasis, in other words, the embodiment of a Utopian state. As pointed out by Dorota Tubielewicz Mattson, 'the space of the addresser's movement was defined by the final perfection of the idea' (Tubielewicz Mattson 2002: 136). The contradiction between movement and stillness, or rather imprisonment, poses a question of whether the genre of travel writing is likely to appear in a culture where the government restricts the freedom of movement to a bare minimum that cannot possibly challenge the totalitarian regime. According to Arnas Anusauskas, travelling in the USSR was under constant regulation: 1953-1956 were the years of total post-Stalinist control; 1957-1967—selective preventive control; 1968-1985—enhancement of political surveillance in the face of new challenges (directed against the defence of human rights) and the combination of propaganda, prevention, and repressions; 1986-1990—control reform and a partial dismantling of regulations. Foreigners were forbidden to enter the Baltic countries; carefully selected groups of foreigners had been allowed to visit Vilnius only since 1959. The rest of Lithuania was a closed space. Later on some people were permitted to visit their relatives, but they had to comply with the strict conditions of staying in Lithuania; besides, they were always watched by the KGB. Obviously, travel writing could not ignore the propaganda purposes of socialist realism either. Records of the travels within the USSR were meant to convince the local reader that the documented Socialist reality really existed, whereas travel abroad—moving beyond the boundary between the order of Socialism and the chaos of capitalism—had to sustain the image of a degrading enemy that corresponded to the prevailing world-view—the bipolar reflection of positive VS. negative. Propaganda exploited the documentary discourse because it was highly flexible and easily assumed the stylistics of a travel narrative, a party officials report, and a passionate narration that accompanied the universal theme of travel literature, that of the travelling person's identity quest. As noted by Evgenij Dobrenko, we may start analysis by asking the baffling question of whether we can truly maintain that Socialism existed at all, and whether what we now call Socialism may not, in fact, have been only an image created by the Socialist art that had no relation to reality. People who have had opportunity to experience the true glamour of Socialism are not so baffled by the context of this question, which involved mainly the creation of Utopian social projects and attempts at their realization. Socialism as a Utopian agenda had truly turned into nothing short of a sign without a signified. If we paraphrase a Russian joke about the establishment of collective farms (kolkhozes), we might describe Socialism as an empty sign sustained by the slogan 'the kolkhoz is ready—send in the farmers'. In the same manner it is possible to say that the texts were already created, they lacked only the Socialist reality they were supposed to signify. Soviet travel narrative became one of the documentary genres fully able to accommodate Soviet reality. This reality was reflected in the images of young, healthy, and aspiring people, cosiness, welfare, and optimism, together with a simplified system of norms, a specific hierarchical structure, the pathos of struggle and labour, the global revolution projecting the concern for the future of mankind, and the myth of never-ending social progress that was oriented towards eternity. Symptomatically, today's Lithuania experiences a certain nostalgia for this image of a Soviet person as a simplified human being and his/her restricted possibilities.

Paradoxically enough, in this culture of stagnation the genre of travel writing became an almost indispensable testimony as to the quality of life's universities. It is not surprising, therefore, that in year 1960 the American film The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad (1958) received severe disapproval from the Central Committee of the Lithuanian Communist Party. The Committee must have perceived the danger of the socialist fable and myth-making fading in the face of a lavishly illustrated (without using any photos!) film poster propagating a creative work of the Capitalist enemy (Lietuvos kultūra... 2005: 281). In their programmatic speeches Party officials demanded that literature should help to make a reality that did not exist—or so says Jonas Šimkus (1906-1965) quoting Maxim Gorky (Šimkus 1951: 46-47). Writers were attributed a double role—both that of prisoner and that of prison guard. On the one hand, the writer had to renounce the topics traditionally important for the intellectual elite and to Join the working class. On the other hand, the writer became a representative of those who could travel freely, i.e. the privileged class, and was turned into a Party's trustee, or rather, its emissary. This dual 'engineer of souls' took his/her place at the literary loom, producing the vessels of the socialist reality. Most of these texts were emblems of the author's loyalty to the Party and showed no sign of aesthetic intentions. Such travel accounts made ample use of documenting stereotypical events and characters (who almost always had names and surnames, but never individual destinies) and statistical calculations as a trope of creating reality. Gradually they also developed characteristics of popular scientific tales behind which the author's idiosyncrasy and individuality could be easily hidden. Despite the fact that the socialist imagination seemingly ought to have been vivid because it was not constrained by the reality that did not exist, their literary invention, unlike that of a fairytale text, was scant here. Even the uniqueness of the very act of travelling was forced into an anticipated framework, which was only slightly modified towards the end of 1968. For example, the travel account gradually abandoned the convention of its triple composition: the declaration of the traveller's loyalty to the Party and accepting such declarations from others (if travelling within the USSR); the veneration of the working-class people and the goods they made (this was the visual part, which was often also the most idyllic one, sometimes introducing the figure of a temporary enemy who was always punished in the end); the glorification of the Party and the use of a spell-like formula never to forget the travel impressions or new friendships which brought the progressive part of mankind (those believing in Socialism) closer to one another. For instance, the travel accounts by Antanas Venclova (1906-1971) evidently show his fidelity to this structural triad, but Vidas Žvirdauskas (1929-1985) slips trough these conventions. The value of their travel narratives, much like the value of all socialist literature, depends on the readers belief in Utopia. They offer a choice between two possible perspectives: either to accept the socialist patch of Disneyland, which allows one to enjoy only a simplified model of the world, or to admit the attempt to understand the texts' hermetic mechanisms that cannot be dismantled without recourse to other texts. One of the texts that help us to reveal the modes of socialist travelling may be Thomas Mores Utopia', which paradoxically reminds one of the structures of imprisonment modernized in the 18lh century and discussed by Michel Foucault in his Surveiller et Punir: Naissance de la prison (Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison). Both texts demonstrate the same image of the world that was largely adopted in socialist travel accounts—the image of the world as an artificial island isolated from the influences unwelcome by the system. The island is surrounded not only by the sea, but also by a different system of thinking, i.e. chaos. The time and direction of movement in this world are restricted, with the observing eye looming in the centre or the 'board of syphogrants' (More) watching everything and making it public. The 'board of syphogrants' corresponds to the Communist Party (More 1949: 41). Mores Utopians cross the borders of the island only for the purposes of trade, science, and political activities; within the island itself they move only for one day and only for the purpose of work and self-improvement. The foreigners on this island are always accompanied by the Utopians, because the interior channel is dangerous to use for those who are not familiar with it. As travelling makes it possible for the Utopians to leave temporarily the system of observation that makes everything public, they see travelling as a special privilege. If, however, the traveller wanders further than he had been allowed to and 'is caught without a passport from the prince, he is treated scornfully, brought back as a fugitive, and severely punished. If he does it again, he is made a bondman' (More 1949: 41).

1 The map of Mores Utopia Utopiae Insulac Figura has a similar structure of the space as Soviet Lithuanians travel narratives (Scott 2004: 116). Mores Utopia does not reveal why the strict control of travelling allows free departure: 'If, as is seldom the case, they wish to leave, they are not detained against their will, nor are they sent away empty-handed' (More 1949: 57). This suggests a seeming parallel to the exiling of the Soviet citizens who were considered to pose a threat to the system. The end of the existential journey in Utopia, however, is seen as a joyous event—this has a strong resonance in Socialist realist texts, where the ambition to revive the dead by means of their legacy is especially conspicuous. This is characteristic of the Soviet eulogies of the dead—and therefore eternal—socialist leaders:

They think that the dead, in keeping with their happy condition, can go where they want, and in affectionate loyalty visit those they loved and esteemed during their lives. They also believe that in good men these affections, like other good things, are increased rather than decreased after death, and that the dead come among the living observing their words and deeds. Consequently they enter into their undertakings all the more confidently because of their trust in such protectors. And they are deterred from secret wrong-doing by the belief that their forefathers are present (More 1949: 73-74).

A similar optimistic projection of eternity laid the foundation for the retrospection of the whole mythical history of socialism. Even travel accounts, which emphasized the present moment or at most gave prominence to retrospection, toyed with the obligatory, timeless topics: the heroic acts during the Second World War, the spark of the October Revolution as the hearth of the global revolution, the everlasting light of Lenin and other saints of the Communist Party, etc. Towards 1968, these themes found a new and indirect expression in the heroism of the socialist people. In this sense, the hierarchical summit of the Communist Party, much like that of Utopia, had a single issue to solve—that of the control of human liberties and their property:

[...) no man has any other property than what the king out of his goodness thinks fit to leave him; the king should leave him as little as possible, as if it were to his advantage that his people should have neither riches nor liberty. For wealth and freedom make men less submissive to a cruel and unjust rule, whereas poverty dulls them, makes them patient, and bears down and breaks that spirit which might otherwise dispose them to rebel (More 1949:21).

Almost all the socialist accounts of travelling abroad feature the obligatory theme of the evils of capitalist wealth and the liberty of their social norms. The on-going reunion of the brotherly Soviet republics—the never-ending approaching the Soviet welfare in a centralized state—on the other hand, was in perfect tune with the image of Utopia as an integral family, an image persistently used in Soviet travel narratives. As More notes in his Utopia: 'the whole island is, as it were, one house-hold' (More 1949: 42). Next, we must speak about the hierarchy of government and the division of the world. By comparing how the travel accounts that are distant in time establish hierarchical structures and imagine concentric areas of influence, we may explore the changes in the socialist hierarchical system and the division of the world into us vs. them. In the narratives of Petras Cvirka (1909-1947) and Juozas Baltušis (1909-1991), we see that Baltušis no longer resorts to the myth of the hero-guide of the nation who personifies the controlling eye, or more precisely, head or heart, of the Communist Party (these are the metaphors used by Cvirka and Venclova in their anthropomorphizing of the country: 'Moscow—the head of our Motherland, its brain' (Cvirka 1947: 18). Cvirka offers a gradation of the zones of government influence: Stalin, the great October (saintly figures associated with the mythological inauguration of socialism); the Communist Party and Soviet government; Russians (Russian writers, Maxim Gorky as the chief representative of Russia's working class); the Commonwealth of Nations; Soviet Lithuanians; Lithuanian emigrants (they have to be pulled into the socialist centre; both Cvirka and Baltušis show the same attitude to Lithuanian emigration; Cvirka elaborates on this relationship through his drawing parallels to Armenian emigrants). The hierarchy in the enemy's zone is as follows: internal enemies—the chroniclers of bourgeois Lithuania; the war of the classes and the damaging activities of the fascist-nationalist cliques; external enemies—tyrants and capitalist countries (in the early accounts by Baltušis we still find a statement that the perpetual enemies of the Lithuanian nation are the growling German knights). Cvirka sees writers as diplomatic envoys to the socialist countries: in his opinion, writers have first and foremost to emphasize the reunion of nations, which is mediated through the figures of kinship (brothers, sisters) rather than the mutual differences. The division of time here is characteristic of the literature of socialist realism: the enemy zone is associated with the past, whereas the Communist zone is associated with the present/future (eternity), acquiring also the meaning of progress. The hierarchical system imagined by Baltušis reminds us of a clepsydra: in his travel accounts, the Utopian island of the USSR is connected to the anti-island of the USA. After his journey to the USA in 1964, Baltušis broadened and elaborated his image of the enemy zone. For him, the enemy zone moved from Western Europe (the fascist Germany that was successfully defeated) to the USA. However, even though Baltušis, like Venclova in his war narratives (Venclova 1943), feels as if going to war himself, he no longer glorifies the Party and its invariant figures (the Party remains only the implied, unnamed centre of control). Here at the top of the hierarchical system the sun, the creating genius, and the woman are located. Although still mythical figures, they no longer impose the myth of socialism. Further down in his hierarchy is the friendship of nations; the writer is given the status of a Party official and intelligence officer looking for technologies to improve the life of the working people. For Baltušis, Lithuanians become more important than other Soviet nations (during his journeys to Asia Baltušis is admired precisely for his Lithuanian identity); Lithuanian emigrants, who will be accommodated in the new Lithuania, turn into Baltušis-Orpheus' desired objects; even the working people, artists, and abstractionist painters of the capitalist world, who are hostile to the capitalist social order, become the travelers allies. The internal enemies, Cvirka's bourgeois nationalists, in Baltušis accounts turn into profiteers, while the external enemies take the form of Wall Street businessmen. The Wall Street invariants—Hollywood cities-decorations, the Guggenheim Museum of Modern Art, and especially Disneyland—captivate Baltušis. He is fascinated by the masterful illusions of Disneyland, and despite being one of the key ideologists of socialist realism in Lithuanian literature, does not try to conceal his spontaneous euphoric cries when admiring the enemy's ingenious manipulations of the consciousness. Baltušis, himself a great master of illusions, remains undeceived, but cannot resist them either. This is the locus of the subversion of the USSR—non-USSR clepsydra in Baltušis' narratives: the enemy world becomes ambivalent. By describing Disneyland in such ecstatic terms Baltušis did away, albeit ambivalently, with the passionate exposure of capitalism in Socialist realist literature propagated by such authors as Algimantas Čekuolis (1931), Jonas Dovydaitis (1914-1983), and Albertas Laurinčiukas (1928). Čekuolis' travel accounts stand out in this context as providing an idiosyncratic image of the internal enemy: the protagonist himself has the features of the enemy; he looks exotic because of his peculiar aristocratic character; the psychologically hyphenated protagonist becomes two-fold: worker-sailor and writer-diplomat (1964: 67). The prison guard remains invisible. Although the Russian nation in Lithuanian socialist writing emerges as a super-nation patronizing all the other nations, the journeys of Lithuanians to Russia and Moscow are surprisingly scantly reflected in travel narratives. The nucleus of the central government remains hidden. The existence of the centre can only be assumed through the regular expression of attachment to it. This goes in line with how Foucault describes the institution of prison guards that observe, but cannot be observed themselves. Socialist realist writers become not unlike the institutional organs of sight, who assure the coherence of observation and surveillance. For example, in Venclovas frontier reports, Moscow is an organic, invisible, and unconscious feature of his own identity (Venclova 1943). In all the Lithuanian socialist narratives about Moscow, the city appears as a mythic organizing centre—the ruby star. In terms of space, Moscow is presented in a two-fold manner: travellers associate it with the underground (subway)—Mykolas Sluckis (1928; Sluckis 1950: 84), Antanas Vienuolis-Žukauskas (1882-1957; Vienuolis 1988:437), less often—with the celestial sphere (Šimkus 1954: 33-46). To paraphrase Foucault, this centre (the organizing force of Utopia) is neither a particular territory, nor a place at all; it is a disciplinary principle which localizes the governed bodies in the network of power relations:

The unit is, therefore, neither the territory (unit of domination), nor the place (unit of residence), but the rank: the place one occupies in a classification, the point at which a line and a column intersect, the interval in a series of intervals that one may traverse one after the other. Discipline is an art of rank, a technique for the transformation of arrangements. It individualizes bodies by a location that does not give them a fixed position, but distributes them and circulates them in a network of relations. (Foucault 1991: 145-146)

In Venclovas accounts this almost-invisible Moscow invigorates the power of the writer as the Party's observing eye. Venclova identifies with this location of control to such an extent that he temporarily even 'forgets' about his nationality.2 Towards the end of 1968, the travel writer starts to retreat from the disciplinary centre and relax his ties with the central government: he had to gain more spontaneity and independence in crossing the borders of the USSR and the socialist republics; the changes in the traveller's situation required that he resort to more persuasion and creativity in his writing. The strategies of persuasion also made less use of the bipolar opposition and started adopting ambiguity, doubt, narrative subjectivity, even restrained criticism of socialism. The travel accounts by Cekuolis, Dovydaitis, Laurinčiukas, Juozas Požėra (1927-1997), and Baltušis no longer provided the observing lens of the writer-guard, but the all-documenting lens of a writer-spy-anthropologist who was trying to retreat from the observing eye of the centre. Although all of these writers still felt obliged to survey the enemy world and thus to remember their allegiance to the centre, the travelling

2 Lithuanian identity starts to prevail only in his later accounts about Scandinavia, such as Northern Silver of 1961. figures in their accounts were different: they wanted to become part of the new environment, to comprehend the cultural other and to learn the new things offered by the other rather than just collect negative information. Moreover, all of these travellers understood very well that by crossing the boundaries of the isolated zone they exposed themselves to evil influences. Much like post-war writers, who travelled to the frontier in order to write war reports, they shaped the image of a martyr who sacrificed himself for his nation, thus endorsing a socialist variant of the Orpheus myth. These travel accounts made ample use of the images of the fear of death. The travellers were enchanted by the exoticism of a different world; they were looking for the positive traits of the desired otherness and composed their narratives as a silva rerum—an amalgam of things that amazed the traveller and thus became valuable by themselves (it is especially visible in the narratives of Laurinćiukas). Curiously enough, Lithuanian writers and journalists who told about their travels within Lithuania and the USSR had to comply with a ritualised course of movement: their narratives followed an anticipated framework and rather abstract conventions of representation. Regional romanticism and historical retrospection were banned and obligatory centres of attraction had taken the shape of new constructions and kolkhoz idylls. In essence, such narratives did not need travel experience at all—the narrative scheme was too obvious. Even Kazys Boruta (1905-1965) and Vienuolis—the two classics of Lithuania literature who integrated legends and fairy-tales into their travel narratives—could not escape this obligatory scheme. The expressionist aesthetics of their pre-war narratives, the pathos of urbanization and mechanization characteristic of Bauhaus, were genetically akin to socialist realism, thus they became a bridge between pre-war and Soviet Lithuanian travel narratives. Of course, this happened after both writers had been violently re-educated by the Soviet regime: Boruta spent five years in the GULag; Vienuolis was bound by the hope of freeing his exiled son. After his return from prison, Boruta paid tribute to the socialist realist construct; however, the unpublished manuscripts of his accounts of travelling around Lithuania uncover a very different story. They painfully reflect the state of veridiction in the background of the dying Lithuanian countryside. Borutas Šiaurės kelionės (Travels to the North, 1957, 1973) may be considered an ambivalent retreat into Ultima Thüle, as the work turns away from obligatory ideology-making. Although formally consistent with the veneration of the socialist superman and the romanticizing of the new man's heroism, this narrative also offers an opportunity to withdraw from the praising of the hierarchy imposed by socialist ideology—to withdraw into the realm of death and the immortality of heroic deeds. Among the socialist realists' journeys around the USSR, another narrative that stands out by its departure from ideology is Požėras Tofalarijos mohikanai (The Mohicans of Tofalaria, 1968). Here the traveller is looking for the lost wisdom of the ancient Siberian tribes erased by civilization and for the ability to communicate with the ancestors' souls. This must be the only narrative which makes use—not in an emblematic way, like Baltušis in his triad sun-genius-woman—of the figure of destinateur (sender)—the ancestors' ghosts—that intervene in the Soviet reality. Travels beyond the boundaries of the USSR, beyond the limits of the Soviet imagination, brought out the saisie of exotic otherness, which had to serve as an instrument of persuasion, yet reinforced the image of the isolated and concentrically organized island as a self-sufficient and self-functioning world (Venclova 1955). Despite its being a consciously twisted reflection, the visual construct of the world beyond the socialist island had established itself in the world-view of the Soviet individual. Does it suggest that around 1957 the phantom of socialism was successfully implanted? Most likely, yes. The slogan 'Man transforms his soul', suggested by a Lithuanian Communist emigrant, is indeed symptomatic (Mizara 1959: 122). Around this time, the identification with Communist ideas, earlier declared openly through obligatory unified formulas of glorification and thematic cliches, gradually lost its transparency in the narratives of the still-privileged travellers. This ideological identification was obscured by 246 BACK TO BALTIC MEMORY: LOST AND FOUND IN LITERATURE 1940-1968

more individualized images of travelling. Alongside the image of the bourgeois countries as a negative reflection of socialism, there emerged signs reflecting ambivalence, silence, and subjective nature of the narration. Soviet writers (Baltušis, Venclova, Lankauskas, Čekuolis, Dovydaitis) started to use these propaganda tropes, although not always explicitly, with the intention of expressing solidarity with the reader, who was not allowed to travel anywhere. We may conclude that the contradictory nature of Soviet travel narratives—simultaneous horizontally expansive movement and focus on the static centre—is directly related to the socialist simulacrum of world-division. The fact that the narrative shifts away from unified formulas of glorification uncovering the pull of the centre, turning towards a more individualized narrative, which implies the subjects growing self-esteem, suggests an attempt to open up the boundaries of Utopia. Yet it is done with a view of serving the myth of irrevocable socialist progress oriented to eternity. This opposition between movement and imprisonment and their interconnection in Soviet architecture has been beautifully summed up by Vladimir Papernyj in his book Культура "Два" (Culture "Two").

In the culture of stagnation, the future is postponed indefinitely. Thus it becomes all the more desirable and wonderful and the movement towards it—more joyful, but the movement seems to have no end; the movement itself becomes a value. [...] by moving forward, nothing changes, the sun keeps shining like before, which is why it becomes impossible to distinguish between movement and stillness, as this movement has no point of reference. Movement in a new culture is equivalent to stillness, and the future—to eternity (Papernyj 1985: 34).

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Baltušis, Juozas 1981. Kas dainon nesudėta. Sveika būk, sese Kirgizija. Kodėl dainuoja poetai. Tėvų ir brolių takais. Raštai. Vol. 3. Vilnius: Vaga. Boruta, Kazys 1957. Šiaurės kelionės. Vilnius: Vaga. Cvirka, Petras 1947. Gruzijos širdis. Vilnius: Tiesos leidykla. Cekuolis, Algimantas 1964. Noriu grįžti į Kubą. Pergalė. No 12: 67. Dovydaitis, Jonas 1957. Kelionė į Angliją. Pergalė. No 10, 12.

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