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ZIGMAS ZINKEVIČIUS
Research interests: Baltic studies, the history of the Lithuanian language, dialectology, onomastics.
ODDITIES OF LITHUANIAN LINGUISTICS DURING THE BOLSHEVIK ERA. A FEW RECOLLECTIONS
As the Second World War was drawing to a close, all the theoretical linguists working in the field of language history withdrew from Lithuania to the West to escape the approaching Bolshevik terror. Essentially, only practical linguists remained in Lithuania, the most important of whom was Prof. Juozas Balčikonis.
Jonas Kruopas and Juozas Senkus—the only two among those who remained who were able to teach theoretical subjects in Lithuanian studies at the University—were hounded by the Bolsheviks and eventually driven out of the University altogether. After that, the theoretical level of Lithuanian studies lectures declined considerably.
One of the most important “apostles” of Bolshevism in Lithuania, who helped drive J. Kruopas and J. Senkus out of the University, was Stanislovas Lazutka. He was born in Siberia and was a descendant of people exiled in 1863. He appeared in Lithuania in the autumn of 1945 and enrolled at Vilnius University. He studied history. He was my fellow student, so I knew him well at the time, especially since I suffered quite a lot at his hands. At first, he spoke Lithuanian poorly. Officially, he went by the name Stanislav Lazutkin. While still a student, he was already working as a lecturer in Marxism-Leninism. He soon became the University’s party organizer (as a student!). From then on, Stanislav Lazutkin became Stanislovas Lazutka once again.
Seeking to Bolshevize and Russify Lithuania and instill the “faith” of Bolshevism in all Lithuanians, he acted without restraint and with no regard for anyone. He devoted much attention to higher education. He removed from it all those lecturers whose views were not Bolshevik. Lithuanian studies scholars probably annoyed him most of all. He persecuted them everywhere.
S. Lazutka was assisted by “vagabonds from the wide homeland,” such as V. Kulešovas and Valentinas Neupokojevas, who for a time served as faculty party organizers and persecuted Lithuanian lecturers.
Many newcomers to Lithuania settled at Vilnius University. They had no intention of learning Lithuanian. They taught Marxist subjects, naturally, in Russian. At the time, students barely understood that language. They examined students through a Lithuanian interpreter, some of whom were decent people. This is illustrated by the advice they gave an examinee: “You say whatever you like, and I’ll translate it as needed.”
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There were also newcomers who seemed to express a desire to learn Lithuanian, but nothing worthwhile came of it. The following example illustrates this. I had received a “public service assignment” to teach Lithuanian to Professor Henry Gabrielian, who had turned up from Armenia (I hear he had been expelled for some “deviations” from the party line). I took on this task enthusiastically. But after a few lessons, the professor declared that he already knew enough Lithuanian and would not be attending any more lessons. Shortly afterward, an amusing incident occurred. Gabrielian would require students taking an exam to show him an outline of the works of the Marxist “luminaries” that they had prepared themselves. When the Lithuanian philologist Kazys Pakalka showed him such an outline, Gabrielian glanced at the notebook cover and began scolding Pakalka for bringing not his own outline but that of another student, whose surname was Summary. After this incident, Gabrielian’s command of Lithuanian was mocked for a long time in the faculty.
There is no doubt that the Soviet and Russifying “activities” of the newcomers under Lazutka’s leadership impeded the progress of Lithuanian studies (Baltic studies) in Lithuania for a long time.
At first, scholarly linguistic literature published abroad hardly reached Lithuania. Lithuanian studies books sent from abroad ended up in the so-called special collection and became virtually inaccessible to researchers.
Later, we received some Baltic studies literature from Western Balticists, usually those who managed to obtain permission to come to scholarly conferences in Lithuania. There were no Lithuanians among them, so foreign publications in Lithuanian, which interested us most, hardly reached us at all. Exceptions did, of course, occur. There were courageous men willing to undertake this sacred task. I will tell you about one of them, with whom I had much contact.
Around the 1980s, Western tourists visiting Vilnius began stopping by my department and handing over linguistic books published in the West, including books in Lithuanian. They did not know who had sent the books. They said they had received them from an unknown person. Since the books were very valuable, mostly written by Lithuanian émigrés and greatly needed by us, I sensed that this clandestine transfer of books was being organized by someone well versed in Lithuanian linguistics. It was only much later that I learned that it was Aleksandras Dundulis.
In 1983, he visited Lithuania with a group of Lithuanian Americans. I met him at the airport. I managed to bring him home for a couple of hours (this was not allowed). That gave me a chance to get to know him better. We met several more times later. During one of A. Dundulis’s visits to my home, wanting to repay him, I asked what he wanted most. “To visit my parents’ grave in Tverečius” was his answer. I contacted Vytautas Zenkevičius, then Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Lithuanian SSR, whose surname differed from mine by only one letter. We were both from Ukmergė, but not related. We had studied in the same class. He did not finish gymnasium and became a prominent Bolshevik official. At my request, he allowed A. Dundulis to go to Tverečius, but insisted that I take him there myself in my car and not stop anywhere along the way.
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Acta Linguistica Lithuanica LXXI
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Lietuvių kalbotyros bolševikmečiu keistenybės. Keli atsiminimų epizodai
Visit to Chicago (early December 1985). Seated: Janina Zinkevčiūtė-Rupeikienė, Aleksandras Dundulis, Stasė Vaškelienė, Aleksandras Tornau; standing (from left): Bronius Kviklys, Zigmas Zinkevčius, Gražutė Šlapelytė-Sirutienė, Julija Švabaitė-Gylienė, Jesuit Father Juozas Vaišnys, standing at the edge—Sofija Jelionienė and others.
We reached the cemetery safely. I cannot forget the sight that moved me then—Dundulis kneeling in the mud (a light rain was falling) by his parents’ grave, holding a small clump of earth taken from the grave and tied in a handkerchief.
A tractor was driving past. It stopped beside us. It was the son of A. Dundulis’s late brother. He offered to tow my car across the waterlogged field to Dundulis’s childhood home, which he had not seen for more than 40 years. Dundulis’s eyes gleamed with joy. I decided to take the risk. Fortunately, we did not get stuck. At the door of the house, we were met by the wife of Dundulis’s late brother, who, deeply moved, could barely stammer: “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus.” “Not Jesus, but Aleksandras,” Dundulis said calmly. We were seated at the table. The neighbors gathered. They faithfully carried out my request not to tell anyone about this meeting. We returned safely to Vilnius. No one reported us.
When I was recovering from a heart attack in 1985, Dundulis took great care of me and sent me medicines from the United States.
At the end of that same year, I was to take part in the World Lithuanian Symposium on Arts and Sciences in Chicago. Dundulis and his friends met me at O’Hare Airport.
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I had the opportunity to attend the celebration of his 75th birthday. I was moved by the “Zinkevičius corner” set up in his apartment, which he rented from the Tamulis family, and which also had a section for MiMi (my grandchildren Mindaugas and Mildutė). Dundulis had become a kind of member of our family. When the national revival began, Dundulis was beside himself with joy and called me constantly. After the Supreme Council, headed by Vytautas Landsbergis (later renamed the Reconstituent Seimas), declared the restoration of Lithuania’s independence, the telephone rang in my apartment that very evening. Dundulis congratulated us and said he was happy to have lived to see this hour—the happiest of his life. “Now I can die in peace,” he managed to say in the faint voice of an ailing man.
Aleksandras Dundulis
A. Dundulis died in Chicago soon afterward. Engineer Arvydas Tamulis fulfilled his final request—he brought back the urn containing the deceased’s ashes, which we buried in his parents’ grave. He had made that urn himself before the national revival—a box in the shape of a book bearing the inscription “God, save the homeland of Lithuania.”
I handed over A. Dundulis’s manuscript and other legacy, sent to me from Chicago, to the Manuscripts Department of Vilnius University.
I last visited A. Dundulis’s grave in the Tverečius area on October 18, 2003, together with members of the Švenčionys club in Vilnius.
Throughout his life, Aleksandras Dundulis quietly carried out work of profound significance. He did not seek publicity. He contributed no less to Lithuanian studies than those whose names are widely known.
While organizing the distribution here of literature banned under the Bolsheviks, he showed extraordinary resourcefulness. Like Bishop Valančius’s book smugglers. Absolute secrecy! The literature he received was rarely shown to anyone. Only when absolutely necessary. Yet it brought immense benefit to Lithuanian studies. He supplied Lithuanian scholars, isolated from the world, with Lithuanian-studies literature published in the émigré community—especially works on linguistics—which at the time were more precious to us than gold.
