It had been an eventful drive from Vilnius to Varena that sun-drenched spring morning in May 1985.
First was being pulled over by the USSR highway patrol. It looks fearsome just to see it here in writing on the Bernard Olcott story. But Boris the driver managed not to collect S&H green stamps from the patrolboy.
Second was a stop at a World War II massacre site to learn a lesson about oppression. A moment of irony in the USSR.
Next up was our ostensible destination, the town of Varena, Dzūkija region, in Southeastern Lithuania. My Dad’s cousin Eugenija lived there with her husband in the old part of town. Their broom-swept house turned out to be at the top of a T intersection, a few feet away from an ominous looking empty small guard tower. Asleep in the tall grass at the base was a disheveled drunk, who was quickly roused and sent away.
