Not for publication: A story for posterity

Wearing a red vest and a smile, Al Vaicius approached Bob Sather in Target one day: "Interested in opening a credit card account?"

Sather wasn't, but the two talked briefly. During that conversation and a few encounters in the following weeks, Sather sensed that this man had a story.

Turns out he was right.

Aloyzas Vaicius' cheery childhood in Lithuania was interrupted by his parents' divorce, his father's death, months in an orphanage and enlistment during World War II. All that before age 17, and much more following.

Since that day in Target two years ago, Sather has been writing Vaicius' story. The two men -- Sather lives in St. Louis Park, Vaicius in Plymouth -- have met weekly, sometimes more often, for coffee and conversation. Then, using notes but mostly memory, Sather has transcribed Vaicius' tales. His wife, Kitty, typed them into chapter form.

The result: a 100-page biography meant not for publication, but for posterity.

"As he was telling me these things, I asked, 'Do your children know about this? Do your grandchildren know about this?'" Sather said. "It's one heckuva story, and it's too important to be lost."

'Dear John'

Vaicius, now 80, endured a difficult adolescence in a difficult country, but it was later -- after leaving Lithuania, after immigrating to the United States, after serving in the U.S. Army during the Korean War -- "when my whole world fell apart," he said.

During the war, he received a "Dear John" letter from his new wife. "Dahlia's letter began, 'Dear Al, I don't love you any more.' It was as though a bomb had been dropped in his lap," the biography reads in a chapter titled "Divorce, drinking, and desperation."He sat with the letter in his hand, tears streaming down his face. Christy [a friend] saw Al's devastation, and thinking he was helping, produced a bottle of whiskey."

The bottle proved to be Vaicius' destruction. He repeatedly lost jobs, made mistakes and, at one point, stayed in flop houses for 50 cents a night, with his only belongings being those on his back.

"People read in newspapers now about GIs coming home who are homeless," Vaicius said. "I was homeless. I was drunk. I lived on skid row."

He has an easier time speaking about the time when his world came back together. He and his second wife, Ann, went on a religious retreat meant to strengthen marriages. It did that and more: He never drank alcohol again.

As part of the weekend's exercises, Vaicius had to write down the story of who he was and why. "You had to tell your story -- your true story, your real story," he said. "Even if it hurt, you had to tell it."

The tough times

At first, Vaicius was hesitant to tell Sather about the tough times. Even after agreeing to share his story, Vaicius assumed he would skip the period following his service in the Korean War, he said.

"I mulled over it all night long," Vaicius said, "and then it just came out, sort of slowly, until it was all there."

Now, Vaicius' story is Sather's as well. Giving what they both consider "the thumbnail sketch" of his life, Vaicius often checked things with the man alongside him: "Was that '89?" he asked Sather at one point.

"Gorbachev? Yes, I think so," Sather responded.

Another time: "My niece Nijolita ..." Vaicius turned to Sather. "Or is she my cousin?"Nijolita's your niece," Sather said.

The biography, titled "The Lithuanian: A Survivor's Story," is Sather's first manuscript of its kind. He's 75, a retired surgical instrument salesman and a bit of a World War II buff.

After checking Sather's drafts and suggesting small changes, Vaicius gave Sather what he considered "a high compliment" -- that it was entirely possible, after this process, that Sather knew him better than anyone.

"This man was so traumatized by many very difficult events in his life," Sather said. "He has every reason to be bitter, but is instead the opposite -- spiritual, compassionate, generous. That in itself is remarkable."

Name change

Just recently, Vaicius surprised Sather. His last name? It wasn't truly Vaicius.

After fighting in World War II, Aloyzas Vadeisa was trying to gain admittance to a displaced persons, or refugee, camp. There were no openings, but a friend, whose last name was Vaicius, had a relative in the camp.

"So I lied, said we were all relatives, and we got in," Vaicius said. "I thought I'd change it back later."

Sather shook his head and gave a low laugh. "After two years, he just revealed it," he said. "He said, 'It's been like a rock in my throat not to tell you this.'"

Jenna Ross • 612-673-7168

Jenna Ross • jross@startribune.com