House of Orphans

by Helen Dunmore

  ‘Fortunately?’

  ‘Yes, fortunately. Because we are the ones who will see the whole thing swept away. We don’t need to rely purely on our own strength. We can rely on their stupidity too. It’s our greatest asset. It’s like a lever, Lauri. You don’t need an equal weight to shift a boulder. You don’t even have to be all that strong. As long as you’ve got sufficient leverage, then you can use the boulder’s weight against it, until you see it topple and roll away.’

  Sasha laughed. He looked very young when he laughed, like a boy who’d got away with playing a fantastic trick against the adults. His face shone with life. When Sasha looked like that, everyone wanted to be on his side. Doctors cutting out cancers, levers moving boulders… Sasha had such a way of describing things.

  ‘Have you ever killed a man?’ Lauri asked abruptly.

  Sasha’s glow of life didn’t fade, but his gaze sharpened.

  ‘Have you?’ he countered.

  ‘No. But I think –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been in a room when a death was planned. Long ago, when I was a child.’

  ‘Where was that?’ Sasha was always so quick. Too quick sometimes.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Maybe it never happened. I was just a kid, you know how kids are.’

  ‘Was it in Helsinki?’

  ‘Leave it, Sasha.’

  Sasha leaned back in his chair. ‘Sorry. I was just curious.’

  ‘It’s not the kind of thing you should be curious about. It’s better not to know. You always wonder if you could have done anything – if you should have done anything. Or maybe just said something. And if you had, everything might have been different. You’re better off not knowing.’

  Sasha sat forward. A little smile still rested on his lips, and his eyes glistened.

  ‘One day you’ll have to know,’ he said.

  ‘Have to?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not going to happen like you’re hoping, Lauri. Come on. Who’s going to give up what they’ve got, and let us have it without a struggle? You can’t keep your purity for ever. You’re not politically naive, Lauri, you’re part of the struggle. You’ve already made your choice.’

  Somehow these conversations with Sasha failed to still his doubts. He felt uneasy when Sasha talked about ‘political naivety’ and ‘failure to analyse the situation correctly’. There was no doubt that Sasha meant every word, in spite of the teasing warmth in his voice.

  It was easier when they went to meetings. Sasha always knew where to go, when to set out, which courtyards to slip through and how to wait so that they could drift in at the door one by one, seemingly without purpose. At meetings, Lauri began to burn with the same fire as all the others. He drank in speeches and applauded until his watchful thoughts were swept away and he rose and fell on the wave that was lifting them all, ready to hurl them into the future. He wanted to topple, to overthrow, yes, to change everything utterly. He was sure with the same sureness. Yes, he knew all about the insults and injuries they described.

  Years ago, he’d seen a man’s arm drawn into a roller and crushed because the guard was off. The metal guard slowed production, and so it was always left off. The man was careless. It was his fault, but they paid for a doctor and gave him a job sweeping out the factory floor. They were good employers and he was glad of it. Grateful. They might easily have turned him off.

  When a thing like that happens, you don’t understand what it is at first. You hear shouting and turn and see a man in the wrong place, his face almost in the machine. And when they carry him out his face is grey-white but he isn’t saying anything.

  One day when he’s sweeping the floor he shows you the shiny red skin over his stump. The skin looks tight to bursting point, as if another arm is waiting to push its way out. But of course it’s not. The man says that he feels as if he still has an arm, a shadow arm. Lauri can’t even remember his name now. He is just ‘the man who lost his arm’.

  He should be here, Lauri thought. He should be here, clapping with his one hand and shouting himself hoarse in agreement with the speaker. It’s him we’re working for, him and all of us. Yes, there was no room for doubt. And there was Sasha at the speaker’s side – he’d had the honour of introducing him – his forehead damp with sweat, his eyes shining, looking out over the packed room in triumph.

  But later, in the quiet, Lauri’s watchful thoughts would return. He tried to crush them, as Sasha must have crushed his long ago. Sasha was whole, complete and untroubled by a double self.

  Lauri tried to organize his mind, as Sasha did. He would analyse his own situation objectively, as Sasha urged. Yes, he was a worker and a nationalist, but the fact that he was a worker would always come first. He didn’t hate ‘the Tsar and his lackey Bobrikov, Governor-General of Finland’ purely because they were Russian. No, how could that be, when so many of his comrades were Russian? He hated the Tsar and men like the Governor-General, who made themselves tools of his Empire, but it was not as men or as Russians. No. It was because of what they wanted to impose. The dead hand of a decaying autocracy, that’s what it was. He’d read that exact phrase and every fibre of him tingled with agreement. Yes, they wanted to crush Finland, just as they wanted to crush the workers and peasants of Russia itself. They wanted to destroy the policies which for decades had allowed Finland to be part of the Russian Empire and yet separate from it.

  This policy of Russification meant exactly what it said. Everything was now to be shaped to the mould of our Great Neighbour, the moribund pattern of Church and Tsar. It was Sasha who had said that: ‘moribund pattern’. If something was moribund, then it was as good as dead already. How could it be a crime to kill what was already dying? That was Sasha’s argument.

  Nationalism was not enough. Lauri knew it. That knowledge was part of the hard, clear thinking he had to aspire to now. What use to him was an independent Finland with its class structures intact? There were mills in Finland, too, where men lost their arms and were turned off when trade was poor. There were children barefoot and hungry in the courtyards of Helsinki, TB running through entire families, people emigrating in their thousands because there was nothing for them at home. He had read and studied and listened, and he knew that nationalism could never ensure the rights of the workers. More was needed: the unification and common purpose of workers and peasants everywhere, beyond the barriers of language or nation. What would die would die, because its time was up.

  He talked it all over with Sasha and was rewarded with the warmth of Sasha’s smile. And from that moment he stopped discussing his doubts, even with Sasha. Sasha could trust him absolutely, and he could trust Sasha. They were like brothers, working for the same end.

  Maybe, if he’d never lived in St Petersburg, he could have swallowed the nationalist package whole, and believed that everything would be fine as long as Finns were in charge. But now he knew it wasn’t so. He’d had comrades in Petersburg whom he’d trust with the last drop of his blood. Who would give their lives for him without question, just as he would give his life for them.

  Or so he said, and so they said. Could you really use those words until you’d been tested? Probably not. Maybe those pledges could never be spoken truthfully, except by the dead. Those dead who were taken away and mangled by the Okhrana, and then executed either in public or somewhere out of sight.

  Death. Yes, that was it, that was the heart of the question. It was death that his mind grated on, like a boat on a sandbank. Why should he beach himself on the thought of death, when as far as he could see other comrades, Finnish or Russian – Sasha, Hannu, Eero, Fedya, Mitya – seemed to sail straight on, their keels skimming the water. Yeah, that’s right, when you come to it we all die, and it’s for ever. So? What’s new about that?

  Death. What does it really mean to die? We’ve all got to do it some day. How repulsive it is, Lauri thought. A prickle of dread ran over his skin. How can life really be arranged like this, so that it ends in death with no alteration and no app
eal. And yet if life didn’t end in death, what would life be?

  Lauri looked down at his hands. They were clenched, and he made them relax. This was a good place. He’d come down to the sea to untangle his thoughts. There was space here, and the open horizon, the faint, sweet smell of water. He needed to think. Yes, there was death, always, like a friend you couldn’t get rid of, grinning by your side wherever you went. When Eeva’s father died she had crossed his hands on his breast while they were still warm. How did she know to do that? Where did such knowledge come from?

  It was past ten o’clock now, and the sun was low, the light promising to fade but never fading. A clear, perfect evening, with a green tint in the sky. In the distance people were strolling, some alone, others arm in arm. Each of them looked absolutely distinct, as if God wanted to point out the importance of each of his creatures.

  But Lauri didn’t believe in God. God was there to keep people content with their lot. He knew that. He sat on the bollard with his knees apart, his fists resting on his knees, like any Finnish boy dreaming of emigration. The harbour water was calm. Everything was so vast, so peaceful. A couple of sparrows pecked the dust at his feet. How tiring it must be, to be a bird at midsummer, he thought suddenly. Of course they roost, but not for long. All the long day they peck and flutter and fill the bushes with cheeping. But they seem happy, he thought, watching the dusty, slender sparrows as they bathed their wings in the dust. They’re alive, that’s all.

  If I took three steps, Lauri thought, I’d be in that water. It’s not so cold. Someone might hear the splash and look round, but if I waved back cheerfully, they’d walk on. And then, if I swam out as far as I could, I’d reach a point where I wouldn’t be able to swim back. I might turn and look at the shore of Finland, but I’d know I couldn’t reach it again. What does it feel like when you look at the shore and everywhere you’ve ever known and all the people you’ve ever known too, even though you can’t see them, and you know for sure that you must say goodbye to them?

  He shivered. Sometimes you frightened yourself with things that would never happen. If he drowned, he would sink through the calm water, his lungs waterlogged now and not buoyant with air. After a while he would swell up with his own gases. As his skin softened, crabs would move in on him, and fish would eat out his eyes. He would be thrown up on shore, and maybe a fisherman would find him and spit with disgust at the sight. Or maybe the sea would carry him where he’d sink so deep he’d never be found. Soon his flesh would be gone. His skeleton would emerge. How strange to have a skeleton all your life, and yet never to see it, Lauri thought. What would it look like, his own skeleton? Would it have any mark on it that would say Lauri, and make it different from any other jigging armful of bones? Probably not.

  And then, after a long, long time, his bones would dissolve. How long that took Lauri didn’t know. Hundreds of years maybe. But in the end even the bones would be gone.

  Even that would only be the beginning of death. It would be less than a blink of an eye, for death. Death would have only just begun, and it would never end. Death would soon be tired of him, and he’d certainly be tired of death, but they’d be stuck with each other for ever.

  But I’m still here, all of me, thought Lauri. My hands are on my knees. I have a cracked nail, and my shoulders hurt from lugging that stack of books yesterday. I’m here, all of me. But even if I live for a hundred years, death is soon, because that empty neverness is everything that my life is not, and it is all around me. Only three steps away now.

  When we talk of taking away a man’s life, it’s not so simple. He has his life, as I have mine. He’s walking about at this moment, just as I am. Maybe he’s sitting at his table, swallowing some delicious little meat patties for supper after the theatre. If there’s grease on his fingers, he’ll lick them and taste his own skin as well as the meat juice. And he’ll know how good it is to be alive.

  Lauri raised his right arm. It was tanned, and muscled. As he raised his arm, and lowered it, his muscles moved beneath the skin. He’d always been interested in how his body worked. Maybe, in another life, he’d have been a doctor. He’d read a book about anatomy once. There were illustrations which showed how the muscles ran under the skin and were tied to the skeleton. Half of the body in one illustration was human, facing forward with one eye, half a mouth and half a nose. The other half was flayed, to show what lay beneath.

  Lauri looked at his own arm. Yes, death was what lay beneath. Now his arm was strong and could lift and haul and handle machinery with fine, quick decisions that he didn’t even need to think about. He had work because of it, and because of the knowledge that old Pavlov had put into his brain and his hands. Lauri smelled the familiar smell of his own skin. Yes, this was what it was like to be alive and warm, and able to smell your own smells and taste your food.

  Maybe he was drinking at this moment. Raising a glass of beer to his lips. No, it would be wine, or more likely champagne. All Russians drank champagne whenever they could. He would see his own arm lifting the glass, just as Lauri did.

  He would drink the whole glass, and then pour another so as to deepen the pleasure of alcohol going through his body and making it warm and excited and relaxed all at the same time. He’d be chatting to someone. A friend, perhaps, or a colleague. Or someone in his family.

  No. Better not think about his family.

  Who was he? Who was this man who had to be removed from the body of society so that it could flourish? Sasha wouldn’t say It wasn’t yet time. ‘A Russian in an important position. Very important. Almost, you might say, as senior as possible…’ And Sasha had looked at him with a smile, making it clear that it wasn’t necessary for Lauri to make guesses, not now, because he’d be told everything he needed to know, when the time was ripe. And Lauri had known that Sasha wasn’t teasing or testing Lauri, or trying to make himself sound more in the know than he really was. He was serious.

  A very important Russian official. No, Sasha hadn’t said he was an official, but that he was ‘in a very important position’. So who? Who was he, this man who was living but already had death’s fingerprints all over him?

  The fact is that he has to die. Not now, not immediately. But every time he raises that glass to his lips, he’s raising it in the light of his death. He’s going to die and he doesn’t know when or how. He’s just like the rest of us, then. But the difference is that we know more about his death than he does, even though I don’t even know his name.

  How strange and horrible it is that a man can fill his stomach and not know that an hour later he’ll be emptied of his blood.

  No, not an hour, Lauri promised the man. You’ll have more than that. Days, weeks, months even. From the way Sasha spoke, it’s not going to be yet. But you are going to die, even though you don’t know it. Hardly anybody knows. Not Fedya, nor Mitya, not Hannu or Eero. They know nothing and will continue to know nothing. But Sasha knows.

  16

  But the next day everything changed, when his father’s old workmate brought Eeva’s letter. She hadn’t disappeared. She hadn’t forgotten him.

  He read it once, fast, grabbing at the words. The paper shook in his hands. When he’d finished he smoothed the letter carefully, spread it out on the card table where Sasha worked, and sat with his elbows on the table, to study it.

  … Sometimes I think I can’t remember what you look like, and when I do remember, your face is angry, just as it was the last time…

  ‘I’m in service…

  You remember how they were always telling us the world was changing? Here, it hasn’t changed at all…

  When I see you, maybe you won’t be the Lauri I remember… You won’t have your blue cap… and you’ll say, ‘Where have you been, Eeva? I gave up thinking of you long ago

  And she signed herself, Your friend, Eeva. The paper blurred. No, he wasn’t going to cry. He hadn’t cried when they took her away. He hadn’t cried when his father died. He had knelt by the bed with his father’s hand i
n his, until it grew slack. And then he rested his forehead on that hand which had given him life, and stayed there for a long time, even though the old woman who’d nursed his father said that it was time to lay him out.

  Dad had never been the same since the Okhrana took him away. He walked with a limp and he was hurt inside, in his stomach or maybe his liver, Lauri didn’t know and his father couldn’t say. But he couldn’t eat meat any more. Only porridge and crusts of bread soaked in hot water. He couldn’t stomach vodka. The one time he tried, it doubled him over. They’d given him a kicking, on the floor of his cell. But he’d been lucky, he said: ‘I was lucky. I know how to handle myself. Besides, I’m not a young man. I’ve had my life.’

  Still, he had bad dreams, right up to his death. They’d planted something in him and he couldn’t get it out.

  ‘Animals,’ he said once. ‘Animals, that’s what they are. And the Tsar’s the zoo-keeper, don’t ever forget it. He knows what’s going on. Don’t ever fall for that rubbish, boy, that the Tsar’s up there above it all, with his arse smelling like angel breath.’

  Dad, Pekka, Eeva. Dad and Pekka gone, and here was Eeva, who’d been as good as dead, writing to him. This was her handwriting, he knew it. She’d made these letters with her own living hands.

  No, he hadn’t wept then, and he wasn’t going to now. It was the shock, that was it. He’d thought her gone, along with everything else. And now she writes that maybe he’s given up thinking about her.

  Has he? Did he ever give up thinking about her? No. No, surely that’s not possible.

  But he knew it was. You have to turn away from the dead or else you go down with them. He’d thought of her as one of the dead, like his father and hers. He’d hidden her in that corner of his mind where the dead have to go, so that the living can carry on with their lives. She’d been thinking of him all this time, but he hadn’t been thinking of her.