Edited by Rasa Ardys-JuškaBooks to NoteRasa Ardys-Juška is the editor of BRIDGES. Source for this article is Amazon.com. Excerpt from No Salutes for Your Surrender by Antanas. Copyright (C) 1999. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
A new novel has entered our midst, and it is worth the read. Very seldomly do we see new literary works come from Lithuanians in the English language, and more seldomly bearing a glimmer of familiarity with the subject and the country. No Salutes for Your Surrender by Antanas freezes the World War II time period to allow its main character to explore and investigate it in the present. Readers will appreciate the sentimentality along with the realism presented so well in the story. A reviewer on Amazon.com, an internet-based book retailer, commented that "this tale is much more of an enthralling show of how virtuous character can be won through nefarious exploits than it is a mere telling of an old warrior's deepest troubles and darkest secrets. By besieging the protagonist, Vince Oskaunas, throughout his quest to rescue his ailing father with a series of ethical conflicts that challenge conventional perceptions of how integrity is won, Antanas shows us that heroism is not necessarily a result of adherence to admirable duty, but more usually the natural consequence of mixing obstinacy with selfishness. Such is, I suspect, the author's subtle way of suggesting that everyone can be made into a hero in one way or another and here is precisely where his story becomes significant to all." (Dr. Tom Parker from Nova Scotia, Canada) The author, Antanas, was born (1966) and raised in Edmonton, Alberta. After serving in the Canadian Armed Forces, he traveled extensively throughout North America, then ventured on to Eastern Europe, at the time of Communism's collapse. Here it was that he fell into free-lance journalism. The political upheaval throughout the region provided an excellent opportunity for a career, but he sacrificed it to return home, in 1993, where he immediately began working full-time on his first novel, No Salutes for Your Surrender. The following excerpt from Chapter 11 will give you the mood of this novel, along with the author's use of suspense and story-telling technique. Chapter 11He was side-tracked again from fretting when they had crossed back into Lithuania. Isakas, perhaps lulled by the Mercedes' engine, hardly purring enough to interfere with the trio's absolute silence, had become complacent with his gun. Held listlessly in his hand, which was resting on the back of his seat, Vince saw that it might easily be snatched up so he turned it around a bit. But, again and again, the gangster re-tightened his grip on it just as he was on the verge of making the grab. Whether these instances were inadvertent or instinctual, Vince could not tell, but in the acuity of the wonder, minutes could easily have drawn out into centuries, if it was not for the frantic beat of his heart within the temptation. Instead, almost one hundred kilometers had flown by in a very short half-hour, in which Isakas had finally made a guess as to what the American's darting eyes were all about. With his hand still alongside the headrest, Isakas had tilted the gun up to point it squarely at Vince's ear. Smirking, he stroked the trigger with a finger as he used his thumb to flip a lever. Stealing glimpses through the mirror, Robertus watched the gangster for the flinch before the flash and, while he had tried not to let poor Vince's shorter and sharper breaths interrupt, he prayed that the Mercedes would remain more or less immune to the potholes in the old township back-road. Here again, one would think that time should have been near stilled, but in Vince's mind raced an infinite number of earth-spinning thoughts which were all quite natural to someone just a bump, burp or sinister whim away from his brains, spraying out of his skull like water from a thumbed garden-hose. In the few seconds that Isakas had toyed with him, just before flicking another lever to let the gun's magazine fall out of its grip into his other hand, poor Vince had lived his dear life over several times. When the gun then fell over his shoulder to slide down his chest and into his lap, Vince was distracted from getting on with his main worries yet again. The nickel-plated canon, an Israeli-made Desert Eagle, reflected too much of the dashboard's orange glow and had balanced too perfectly in his hand to have had any care beyond that of what kind of a gaping pit one could blast out of a head with it; too, and even more impressive, was that Isakas should be so friendly as to trust that his sidelong glances at the fine weapon were to sneak appreciation of it rather than to gauge the best time to snatch it. It also occurred to him that the golden crew-cut was merely showing off. He had not met a gangster who could contain his pride for the size of his gun they were always whipping them out to compare, but there was something in Isakas' wide placid smile that told Vince that he was wrong. The grin was just like that of a child innocently trying to connect with another of which he had been made to play with and it, right behind the sharing of his toy, had disarmed him completely, at least for the long while that he had fooled about with the awesome thing. It was only when he returned the gun that Vince had begun to question the goon's true intentions. Isakas had not said a word up to that point, except to tell Robertus which turns to take, and so the sharing of his toy suddenly seemed to be very curious, to be more of an expression of pity than any valiant try to accomplish the impossible in friendship. An alarming notion, it was. It nudged him onto the idea that perhaps the gangster's silence was born of some underworld decretal, or at least some typical Slavic superstition, against becoming too intimate with one that may sooner than later be disjoined from his soul. So here it was that Vince had finally got on with his worries. He was doomed indeed. Whether he would be made to do a task too hazardous for a clan member as payment for his life saved, just weeks ago, or would be tossed straight into the Baltic Sea to rot with the nuclear submarines for having played a part in the theft of the gold, he was surely taking in his last few breaths just then. One would think that, with this, Vince should have been thrust into a woe so acute that time should easily have stopped cold and, in fact, he nearly was, but he had more than enough regrets to keep his clock wound up tight and running as fast as ever. The first of those was Andrius, of course. Vince was instantly sure that he was about to beat his father to St. Peter and that ,while waiting there, at the gates, for the eternity it would be before the angel could make up his mind, the Old One would show up to condemn him for yet another lie. "You was make promise! I was wait and wait -- who in hell you are to take back your word?" he would start ranting, and it would go on and on for the eternity that the Old One would surely be made to wait too. Then there were a million other things left undone back home, then there was cousin Robertus dragged down into a grave right alongside him, and solely because of him, but most of all, there was Viktorija... who in the end was quite right to have bitched about the lunacy of all the evil business. If ever there was a highway to hell then Vince had every reason to believe that he was speeding along it and the very fear flared up still more when Robertus was told to turn the car into some bush that was barely open to a gravel road. To order this book, log onto Amazon.com or send a request to: Jogaila Publications Ask for No Salutes For Your Surrender by Antanas ISBN# 0-9685373-0-8. Please pay with money orders (no personal checks) to Jogaila Publications. 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