Words on Fire

I nodded. It was the right thing to do now. It’s what my parents would’ve wanted. What Ben wanted. And if I was being honest with myself, I wanted it too.

Then I looked up at Lukas. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

He pressed his lips together. “When my father is well enough to travel, I’ll escort him home. I’ll go home, Audra, at least for now. My father saved your life in that river, and if it means he’s trying to change, well, I’ve got to give him a chance. Maybe I can do some changing of my own, be a tad less stubborn, break fewer laws … that sort of thing.”

Tears filled my eyes. “Then once we say goodbye here, I’ll never see you again.”

Lukas only smiled. “You’ve been writing your own story about Rue and the boy who lived on her land. How does it end?”

I could answer that question now. “They continued to work and to fight against the snake, never once giving up on their dream that Rue’s land would one day belong only to her. And one day, on the day she least suspected it might ever happen …”

“The snake left for good,” Lukas said. “It had to leave. For Rue had grown so strong, so intelligent, that the snake was no threat to her any longer.”

I drew in a slow breath. “What I don’t know about my story’s ending is if Rue will ever see the boy again.”

Lukas smiled, as if the answer was obvious. “Of course she will.”

“I need something to write with,” I said, glancing down at the heavy book on my lap. “Before I finish that story, I want to complete this one.” He must have had a pen ready for he immediately put it into my hand.

And there, below the names of my parents, Henri and Lina, and beneath the name of my grandfather, I wrote A-U-D-R-A.

On my final journey toward the border, I spent the hours between sleeping and waking reading from the locked book. Years earlier in his life, Ben must have recorded the full story of his role in the uprising, the catalyst for the ban on our books now.

The uprising had failed—catastrophically failed—and Ben had never gotten over that. He didn’t consider himself a hero for the role he had played back then, nor did it matter that they had come so close to gaining freedom. Instead, he felt guilt, wondering if they had never fought, would Lithuania still have its books, its language?

That’s why he smuggled, constantly hoping to undo the damage done to our country because of the uprising.

My heart ached for Ben. He had gone to his death believing that the smuggling didn’t matter, either, that his defense of the church in Kražiai didn’t matter. How wrong he was.

The church never was burned, and after the news of that night spread throughout the country, our relationship with Russia became worse than ever before. Which meant the demand for books—for knowledge and ideas—became stronger than ever as well.

Russia’s hold on us was weakening. Every year we pushed harder for our independence, and every year their laws softened. But not enough to allow us our books. Still not enough. So there was always more work to be done.

From the first day I returned to Milda’s home, we devoted every waking moment to preparing books to be smuggled into Lithuania. We raised funds for printing, collected book donations, left books in drop points near the border, and managed the orders that flooded in.

I met dozens of book smugglers, those who continued to risk their lives to carry the books into the country. They were heroic and determined and passionate about their work. Every smuggler who walked through our door lifted my spirits.

But not once did Lukas ever come through that door.

I watched for him every day, and the days of missing him turned to months, which became years. He must have stopped smuggling; perhaps he had even become a respectable person in his father’s home. In his Russian father’s home.

Milda and I spoke often of Lukas, of our favorite memories of him. The way he laughed, the way his eye turned to food whenever it was nearby. His kindness, his bravery. Milda seemed to have a new story of him every time his name came up in conversation.

Until conversation became too difficult for her. Until she became confined to her bed, unable to speak more than a few words at a time, but with a mind keen on listening to every page I could read to her.

Until one day, when the last words of the book I was reading said, “The end,” and I looked up to see Milda’s eyes closed, a pleasant smile on her face, having reached the end of her own story.

I had her buried in a church plot as close as I dared get to the border. As close to her home as she could ever be again. Then the entire task of getting books printed fell to me.

And not only books, but I wrote for the newspaper about the power of words and why the fight must continue. My words were true and came straight from my heart, although deep inside, beyond thought and reason, in that place where there were only feelings, I wondered if the fight mattered. I wondered, like Ben, if maybe none of it would ever make a difference. Because how could a nation as small as ours ever defeat an empire?

I got my answer on the one-year anniversary of Milda’s death. The year was 1904 and I was now twenty-three years old. I had a wreath of flowers for Milda, but when I went to lay them on the arch of her gravestone, I saw a bouquet of rue already there. Curious, I stopped. Who would have brought these … and why? The bouquet wasn’t appropriate for remembering a death. They would have come from—

Drawing in a sharp breath, I set my wreath down, then began looking around. “Lukas?” I knew it must be him!

He was standing directly behind me, as grown up as I’d become, more handsome than I remembered, but with the same playful grin as always.

“I haven’t seen you in more than ten years and all you bring me are flowers?” I asked, a twinkle in my eye.