He worked here from 1967 to 1973 (with a forced two-year break in the army), starting his career as a set decorator. Later, as he himself says with a smile, he gradually climbed the career ladder, working as a stage machinist, lighting electrician, and finally even as the chief administrator.
Read more The dietitian says – here is what you should eat for dinner: it will help regulate blood pressure
“I probably would have worked much longer. I was soon supposed to get an apartment in Vilnius, but I left the theater due to flu complications and a long illness. Now I can say that I did the right thing,” recalls B. Kerys.
He gladly agreed to share with 15min readers his own written memories from working at the then Youth Theater more than six decades ago. This story is full of many forgotten or even completely unknown facts, funny and strange stories, everyday life of the theater at that time, portraits of prominent past actors and directors, tours, and adventures.
The first part of the text: Bronislovas, who worked as a stage worker at the Youth Theater during the Soviet era: “Salaries were very low, the work was strange and irregular”
The second part of the text: “Your face turned pale”: how stage worker Bronislovas surprised the legendary actor Šurna
***
After returning from the army, from May 16, 1972, I worked again at the Youth Theater. Only the lighting electrician position was free, so I became an electrician. With the play “Fire in the Pocket” (1972) and other plays, I went on tours. There was also an experimental play “Aesop” (1971) on tour, in which Melita was the actress Janina Matekonytė.
The theater electrician took a large box with spotlights, cables, and other necessary items on tours. For example, in “Scapin’s Deceits” it was necessary to create an explosion. For that, we had to bring gunpowder, an electric fuse, and a cable with a switch. In small halls, a few brought spotlights were enough for stage lighting, but in larger stages, there were also some local lighting devices. Some stages had transformers, and in a few stages, I found so-called “switchboards” — stage lighting transformer control units. It was necessary to adjust the local equipment with the theater’s brought equipment. Arriving as the only theater electrician, I had to know everything, be able to do everything, connect everything correctly on time, and test it. Sometimes such experiments were quite interesting.
***
In 1972, the theater director was actor Algimantas Mažuolis, and the chief administrator had been missing for some time. The director began persuading me to become the theater’s chief administrator. I immediately refused categorically. By temperament, I am a melancholic and cannot do a job where you have to communicate with people, be shrewd, where you have to drink coffee, where you have to drink cognac or something else. You have to organize so that there are always many spectators, negotiate for paper supplies, advertisements, and other printed materials, organize tours. Everywhere coffee and other drinks, acquaintances. No, no.
But the director did not stop persuading me. The job as an electrician had no prospects, but as an administrator, there was prestige, a higher salary, and I would get an apartment faster. I realized I was making a mistake, but I agreed. This mistake determined my entire future life. It was my biggest mistake.
My life at that time was hard and very hard. Since returning from the army, since starting work at the theater on May 16, 1972, I lived illegally in Vilnius, I had nowhere to live. From the very first day, I spent nights in the theater electricians’ room in a storage room where a folding bed barely fit. Now it is hard to even imagine how I survived then.
After becoming an administrator, I had to move out of the electricians’ room. I moved to the chief director’s office. During the day, the office was just an office, but at night I took bedding out of the wall closet and made the sofa into a bed. I don’t know if Vytautas Čibiras knew that I spent nights in his office. Probably he did, but he never said a word to me.
After becoming an administrator, I had to move out of the electricians’ room. I moved to the chief director’s office.
All documents were arranged from both the Youth Theater and my side so that I could live in the dormitory where many Youth Theater actors had lived before. The room where I could live was empty. But the dormitory warden was stubborn and declared that he would not accept me until Vilhelmas Vaičekauskas and Antanas Naraškevičius, who had lived there before, deregistered from the dormitory.
Vilius from the Youth Theater had disappeared. I asked everyone who met Vilius to ask him to deregister. They said they passed on my request, but nothing changed. Only now from the internet do I know that V. Vaičekauskas also had hard times then. I did not know A. Naraškevičius and did not even know where to look. But the dormitory warden said both had been asked many times to deregister. Now from the internet, I know both were talented, gifted, and left good memories to friends. And both then pushed me down. I lived in the theater and waited for them to deregister.
***
The first three months of the administrator’s job were new to me and sometimes quite interesting. When I was the chief stage machinist, my photo hung next to the actors’ photos near the auditorium. Now my photo was found and hung again with the others. The theater tailors sewed a good suit, and during performances, I managed the whole theater. Cashiers, ticket controllers at the doors, the cloakroom, and cloakroom attendants. I negotiated with the play’s host about the start of the play, breaks. I solved problems with spectators and their seats if there were any.
Once I got a call from the Council of Ministers that the Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers, possibly also the Minister of Foreign Affairs Leokadija Diržinskaitė, would watch the play. I reserved the seats she requested in the sixth row. I marked those seats on the hall plan. The cashier did not look and sold tickets for those seats. That one time I got into an unpleasant situation. Leokadija Diržinskaitė went to sit down, but the seats were taken. The woman sitting there got angry and started looking for equality. I barely calmed her down and seated her in the seats reserved for security officers.
The ninth row in the auditorium was reserved for invited guests. Four seats and security officers were left there.
The ninth row in the auditorium was reserved for invited guests. Four seats and security officers were left there. Before the play, the theater director introduced me to the security officer responsible for the Youth Theater. I laughed when he introduced me to a familiar Lithuanian language specialist who had started studying a couple of years before me. We had gone together on a trip to writers’ homesteads.
There were not enough ticket controllers, and three were needed. Once, instead of a controller, a bearded friend of an actress stood in. When he needed to go somewhere, I stood for a few minutes. At that moment, a couple of people approached, introduced themselves as being from the ministry. We talked, and I let them into the hall without tickets. But they wanted to repay me and slipped some money into my upper pocket. The returning friend of the actress saw this and was very upset. Without looking at how much money there was, I took it out and gave it to him. He ran to those people and returned the money; I didn’t hear with what words because I had to serve the arriving spectators.
***
Composer Feliksas Bajoras, who created good music for many Youth Theater plays, was anxious before the play, walking from the hall to the stage to the actors and sound operator. At the beginning of the play or part, when the lights in the hall go out, at the moment when it is dark in the hall and on the stage and the actors stand in their places in the dark, music usually plays, and under no circumstances should the auditorium doors be opened because the foyer is lit, and light would shine through the doors onto part of the hall and stage, ruining the start of the play or part.
Once I was standing in the auditorium by the doors. The lights were going out, I closed the doors, and through the door gap, I saw that F. Bajoras ran out of the actors’ room and headed toward the hall doors. And it was already dark in the hall. I grabbed the door handle, lifted it up, and held it so no one would open it. The next moment, I felt F. Bajoras bending the handle down. I held with all my strength and did not give in. So we struggled — F. Bajoras on one side of the door, me on the other. The rules were the same for everyone.
Composer Feliksas Bajoras, who created good music for many Youth Theater plays, was anxious before the play, walking from the hall to the stage to the actors.
F. Bajoras let go of the handle first, probably realizing that the moment he wanted to see or hear had passed. The action on stage had already started. I also let go of the handle and stepped away from the door. F. Bajoras entered, sat down, and said nothing more to me. And there were other doors at the back of the hall, in a darker place, which no one held, and it was possible to walk through them during the play.
Read more Latest research – unbelievable: here’s what «just one glass» per evening does to the human body
***
The literary part host at that time was Aušra Sluckaitė. She had to prepare play programs. I didn’t know where to look for them and didn’t look. At that time, significant premiere programs were not needed, and I prepared simple programs myself. I signed them, the director stamped the theater’s round seal, and I took them to “glavlit” — the censorship organization. There, an elderly man read them for a long time and stamped them. Then, after buying cognac, I took them to the printing house.
When I worked as an administrator, there were only two complicated play programs. The set designer V. Mykolaitytė prepared three programs for the play “The Day of the Iron Princess.” Yellow, orange, and blue. The layout of the yellow program and all three programs are now on my desk. All are written in a font that I still find hard to read. And each program had six pages of text and drawings.
The program for the play “Dinner for Five” was cursed by ticket controllers. Before selling, each program had to be folded complicatedly. The set designer K. A. Piumanas left me the layout of this program and went home to Estonia. In the layout, actor photos were glued one on top of another. I was a bit of a photographer and immediately noticed that one photo violated the composition. Probably R. Karvelis’s photo was too close to V. Bagdonas’s photo. I thought I was very smart and re-glued the photo. The photos were glued with poor glue and easily came off, so I succeeded. Now I look at this program and don’t remember what I changed in it.
I took posters from the printing house to an institution that managed poster posting in the city. Everywhere I had to ask, negotiate, somehow bribe.
It was worse with posters. First, it was necessary to go somewhere to get the required paper. That was not easy. The easiest was to get a roll of newspaper paper, but printers did not want to print on such paper; you had to ask nicely.
I also wrote the poster text myself. The theater emblem was with the printers; I only had to indicate where to put it. I took the posters from the printing house to an institution that managed poster posting in the city. Everywhere I had to ask, negotiate, somehow bribe. I really didn’t like that.
***
When there were many spectators at the play — the administrator was good, when there were few spectators — the administrator was bad. There were times when the Youth Theater was not very outstanding, and there were usually not many spectators. Since we thought all Youth Theater plays were good, the administrator was blamed for the lack of spectators. You had to be a well-looking important gentleman, have many influential friends, communicate with directors, chiefs, and deputies of Vilnius companies, institutions, and other entities just so they would “buy” a play or a certain number of play tickets. You had to know how to please everyone with some “bribe,” drink a bottle of some expensive drink with everyone.
You had to know how to please everyone with some “bribe,” drink a bottle of some expensive drink with everyone.
You also had to take care of play photos, their exhibition on several stands in the city and near the theater. Inform newspapers about the plays. Advertise the theater and plays in every possible way. I had even started writing to newspapers myself. You had to do everything so that there were always many spectators at the plays. But I failed. Because I could not be what I needed to be.
And I was a complete teetotaler. Increasingly, despair and depression overwhelmed me. I went out to a nearby small square and sat without seeing any way out. Not one administrator before me, in the same situation, brought home a bottle of tasty drink. I couldn’t…
***
Everything ended suddenly. At the beginning of January 1973, I got the flu. I didn’t lie down because there was nowhere to lie down. I only spent nights in the director’s office. After a few days, having slept on the sofa in the director’s office, I heard that the theater’s duty officer had already come. I tried to get up, and suddenly a heart attack began. Somehow I got to the door: “Ambulance…” The duty officer understood from one word and my appearance.
I never got up again, lying in the director’s office during the days. After the third attack, I was taken to the hospital. After the hospital, my health did not improve, maybe even worsened. Having nowhere to go, I still lay in the director’s office. I could only lie down; sitting up brought on an attack.
Increasingly, despair and depression overwhelmed me. I went out to a nearby small square and sat without seeing any way out.
After a while, I lived with actors Nijolė Gelžinytė, Saulius Sipaitis, then with actor Leonas Ciunis. It seemed I would recover soon, but I did not, and there was a reason to move elsewhere. In March, I wrote a resignation letter. My sister came and took me to Viekšniai. Most of my things probably stayed in the theater for another six months, locked in cabinets in the corridor.
Director Vytautas Čibiras may have been unhappy that I occupied his office, but he said nothing to me. When I still worked as a stage worker, machinist, we stage workers carried out the director’s demands without grumbling. It was interesting to listen to him during rehearsals. He was an authority to us.
***
Many years later, studying at the Vilnius librarians’ advanced training institute, I decided to go to a Youth Theater play. Long ago, in the place where the Youth Theater is now, there was the so-called “Horse Club.” When it was decided to make the Youth Theater there, theater director A. Mažuolis, I, and a few others, maybe architects, went to inspect the place. Everything was already ruined. I only remember many stairs’ remains and ruins. There was nothing to look at.
I had not been to the new Youth Theater yet. I took an old Youth Theater employee ID and went to the administrator. I did not need to show that ID. I said who I was, and the administrator wrote an invitation to the play without asking anything. I wanted to see more, but I didn’t dare to wander anywhere, I remained an ordinary spectator.
The director Dalia Tamulevičiūtė saw me walking in the foyer. Although many years had passed, she recognized me, came over, and we talked. I remembered that when I worked as a stage worker, stage machinist, we were most afraid of the theater’s chief director Aurelija Ragauskaitė. If something was not liked, you could be fired. We worked without grumbling.
I had not been to the new Youth Theater yet. I took an old Youth Theater employee ID and went to the administrator. I did not need to show that ID.
We also listened to director Vytautas Čibiras without grumbling. And when director Dalia Tamulevičiūtė worked, we dared to grumble. Maybe because she was usually cheerful and kind. It was possible to agree with her on what and how to do things.
And we were not bad workers at all when director Irena Bučienė worked. She tried many things on the spot, and sometimes it seemed to us that she herself did not know what she wanted. So we also came with suggestions like “we can’t do this, we can’t do that.” I saw her more often worried than happy. Sometimes I wanted to comfort her but didn’t dare.
That day I said goodbye to director Dalia Tamulevičiūtė for the last time and went to the hall to watch the play she directed.
