By Matthew Vasiliauskas

Seeing my father as a wallet was a bit strange.

Even now, decades after first glimpsing his altered state, I find the matter almost unbelievable. It should be a fantasy. A curious dream that I occasionally relay to friends and laugh about. But the reality is far more bizarre. My father, once tall and athletically built, a person who would fashion rue flowers into elaborate wreaths as gifts for my mother, had transformed into a brown, bi-fold wallet. As a child, when I looked at my father, there was a sense of comfort knowing that he could protect me. Now all I feel is regret that his days are spent at the bottom of a drawer.

As a child in Vilkaviškis, I remember looking at old stamps and pieces of currency with my father. In his workshop, we would examine his collection. Coins, banknotes, and stamps from past eras. My father’s favorite piece was a 1,000 ostmark note from 1918. The front of the green paper depicted Mercury holding a sword in his right hand and the caduceus in his left. On the back was an allegorical scene of a woman holding an axe and a gear, symbolizing industry.

For my father, money was the often-overlooked art. Not in the financial systems it supported, but rather its aesthetic and patriotic power. He didn’t appreciate what people would do for money, but he did admire the craftsmanship of currency. And so we would spend hours hunched over these retired notes, discussing the choices of colors and figures as if we were observing a painting in a museum. These were the most peaceful moments for us.

Things changed, though, when war broke out.

Our country was one that celebrated para-militarism. So when the Soviets invaded, my father declared that he would join the partisan movement in the Kalniškės forest. Smells dominate the memory of that final evening. Cepelinai and šaltibarščiai on the kitchen table. My mother’s raspberry perfume wafting past me as she handed my father his jacket and cap. Before stepping out the door, my father handed me the 1,000 ostmark note, telling me to take good care of it and that he would see me soon. The door closed, briefly allowing the damp cold of night to seep in.

We would occasionally receive letters from my father. He began describing a growing form of resistance amongst the partisans. The Soviets were known for desecrating corpses. When coming across the bodies of our soldiers, it was not uncommon for them to violate the remains. To prevent this, and in an attempt to achieve a greater degree of influence after death, partisans began having their flesh fashioned into everyday objects. When a soldier died, their body was quickly transported to a local leather smith, where they would undergo the process of salting, slicing, tanning, and dyeing. The objects would then be delivered back to relatives and loved ones. During this time, our village would receive deliveries of these anthropodermic articles. New lampshades, gloves, belts, and book covers appeared in the homes of our neighbors. One evening, there was a knock at our door. Expecting a letter, we were surprised to find my father’s friend, Algis Ajauskas, standing there holding a brown, bi-fold wallet. This is what my father had been transformed into.

It was a deep, dark brown. Almost cherry with white stitching, creating a series of parallel lines over the surface. Algis told us that after being killed, my father was whisked away to a local artisan named Liudas, who had helped to reshape many of the fallen partisans. When the process was complete, Algis traveled days without sleep to return my father to us. My mother insisted that we speak to the wallet. She believed that this wasn’t just an inanimate object made of my father’s skin. According to her, my father could still communicate with us. As the war dragged on, it was clear that the Soviets would take control of the country. My mother and I needed to flee. Despite the chaos surrounding our flight, I was able to pocket my father’s ostmark note. The wallet, though, had somehow, had been misplaced.

We relocated to Chicago. I became successful in the textile trade and used my money and resources to search for my father. I became a regular at the illicit, underground auction houses. There were familiar competitors I would encounter. There were those searching for a morbid relic to add to their collections. Then there were the family members. Tired, sunken faces drifting in and out of darkness as they peered at the objects for sale. For years, I wandered these ruined spaces. Until finally, one evening at an auction in an abandoned library, I found my father.

That night, there was hardly any competition, and I bought my father for a reasonable price. The deep, dark brown of the wallet with the parallel lines of stitching was just as I remembered. The feeling of guilt was almost immediate. I considered the wallet my responsibility, and I had lost it. My mother believed that my father could still hear and communicate with us. And so I spoke to him. I told him about my triumphs and struggles. About my failed marriage and my mother’s death. As I listened to my words echoing throughout the space, the feeling of guilt subsided. Instead, I felt a transference of power. A kind of parentification where I was now the protector of my father. Our connection had been restored, and I would not lose it again.

I wanted to reunite my father with some remnant of his old life. It was then that I took his 1,000 ostmark note, the one that had represented the epitome of artistic accomplishment, and placed it inside him. With the note secured within the compartment, I placed him at the bottom of a dresser drawer, where he remains to this day.