Wendell Mayo
In Lithuanian Wood
Buffalo, New York: White Pine Press, 1998. Pp. 224. $14.00
Reviewed by Diana Spokiene

Some books that we consume with pleasure and delight evaporate from our minds just as quickly as they are read. The good ones convey a quality that carries them beyond the mere pleasure of the moment, enabling them to have a lingering effect on us. Such works make us think and allow us to identify with their content. These qualities can be found in Wendell Mayo’s novel-in-stories In Lithuanian Wood.

At first glance, this book could be considered as a work dealing with the problems common to all former Soviet republics in Eastern Europe after the collapse of the totalitarian regime in 1990. But Wendell Mayo’s book is different. By recovering the folktales about the country’s history, its suffering, its long-denied and hidden human spirit, Mayo’s book paints a picture of Lithuania-the first Soviet-occupied state to reestablish its independence after the bloody confrontation with the Soviet army in January 1991-that clearly also touches upon more universal issues.

In Lithuanian Wood is a collection of stories thematically linked by one character, American teacher Paul Rood, who endeavors to bring Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself” to the Lithuanian people. However, when he meets his interpreter, Vilma, in order to translate the poem, the wonderful Lithuanian stories she tells him take up all their time and seem to be truer and more important than any translation of Whitman. They end up translating stories drawn from the traditional roots of Lithuania, Baltic mythology and folklore, and the histories of the human heart. For example, “The Ceiling of Saint John’s” is the story about an unemployed sculptor and veteran of the war in Afghanistan working in Saint John’s Cathedral in Vilnius. He is curious as to what he will find when he washes off the Soviet whitewash covering religious frescoes. Metaphorically, he eliminates “the dirt of the Soviet occupation” (35) and wonders what to expect from a country that has lived in isolation and under Soviet repression for almost half a century. “The Gravedigger of Marijampole·,” one of the most compelling stories, describes the experiences of a former teacher who now works in a cemetery. Every time he begins to dig in the ground he uncovers the fingers, femurs, and bones of Jews murdered during the Nazi regime. He cannot find a spot of ground “void of history.”

On the formal level, In Lithuanian Wood is divided into five parts: “Rytas” (Morning), “Vidurdienis” (Noon), “Popiete·” (Afternoon), “Vakaras” (Evening), and “Vilko valanda” (The hour of the wolf). Symbolically, it reflects the country’s history and traditions, its past, present, and future. The technique of montage allows Wendell Mayo to combine Lithuanian folksongs, tales, and poetry with the stories, and invites the reader both to read and to enjoy the book on many different levels.

There are a few typographical errors, misspellings in both Lithuanian and German. The ones in Lithuanian are “Is sveikata!” (36), “Mendininkai” (65), and “Atsi pras?au” (184), which should read “I? sveikata!,” “Medininkai,” and “Atsiprašau.” The ones in German are “Ein klein Nachtmusik” (167) for “Eine kleine Nachtmusik” and “Ånnchen von Tharau” (161) for “Ännchen von Tharau” (or Annchen von Tharau, if we are following the original text attributed to the German poet Simon Dach). In addition, the name of the Lithuanian who set himself on fire with gasoline in May 1972 in protest against the Soviet regime is also incorrect and should be written as “Romas Kalanta” (149).

Setting such things aside, In Lithuanian Wood is a truly remarkable book, written with love and compassion. Some stories first appeared in other magazines and journals, and “Three Stories of Beauty” won First Prize in the Mississippi Valley Review Fiction Competition.