So, being Lithuanian always pulls at me and always makes me conscious. It makes me see the world in a different way. It makes me see American politics in a different way.

There is a certain rhythm, a certain musicality in Lithuanian that English does not have. So when you want to have that thematic flow, that linguistic flow, that melodic flow, Lithuanian is very appealing.

But the irony is that the farther I got from Lithuanians, the more I began to miss them. I started dreaming about them, wanting to write about them. I began remembering the stories I was told.

Every book, every story is different: each author, writing style, theme, and vocabulary is unique. There is always the challenge, or the puzzle, of conveying these differences in a way that would sound natural in Dutch. It helps me stay sharp as a translator.

When I think of myself, I think that maybe because I have lived in so many different countries and represent different things for different people that others construct my identity for me. But the happy childhood I had in Vilnius has shaped my inner identity. I am the perfect wandering Jew. I am lucky that life has enriched me in so many ways.

In my first memoir, I wrote about how when Lithuania didn't exist on the map, I felt as though I didn't exist. That's partially why I became a writer, in order to exist. So, before Lithuania was independent, you had to make Lithuania exist somehow, or remind the world of Lithuania's existence. But now Lithuania is on the map. It exists. So, what comes next? So, what comes next is how these tales of how its existence illuminate the human condition in this strange place where these where terrible things happened on a small stage.