by Sergejus Kanovičius
“Šeduva? Oi, oi, oi. What’s your name? Sergejus? Oi, great, come, I’m waiting. When will you arrive? Tomorrow. Really? Šeduva? Come. Oi…”
That’s how I rang into her life last spring. Neither I nor she knew what to expect from our unexpected meeting. I have knocked at the chambers of people’s memories knowing for some the trip back into the past will be pleasant, while for others it will perhaps not be such a joyful return to memories stashed away in the most remote drawers,
I found Frida’s house easily enough, after all it wasn’t very long ago, just two decades ago, that I lived almost right there. She opened the door for me, so fragile, so small, always smiling. After listening to my short introduction about how some strange people were concerned with recording her life and those of her neighbors, their deaths and the disappearance of their home town, she sighed and looking somewhere far off in the distance, as if at the Milky Way of memory, said:
“How long have I waited for you. How very long. All my life.”