Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  And now, today, he was due back, back at her side, safe for a few short weeks.

  But he had not arrived.

  A glimmer of light caught her eye. She leaned forward. Lit by guttering torchlight a patrol of Russian soldiers was coming down the road towards the house. They looked huge, great bears of men in their greatcoats and fur hats, their heavy boots trampling the fresh fall of snow. The winter windows were in; she could hear nothing. Tensely she stood and watched them come. Their long rifles were slung across their shoulders, collars were turned up; grotesque shadows stretched and capered upon the snow.

  Kaarlo appeared at the kitchen door, silent and watchful.

  On they came, a dozen or so men, straight towards the house.

  Her hands were cold, and clenched to fists. When she tried to relax them she could not.

  Even as they trudged on past the house, without so much as a glance in the direction of the window where she stood in darkness, she still could not hear anything. The double panes, as always, worked well, keeping out sound as well as cold. She took a breath, her first for several long seconds. And then she saw it – again, a shadow amongst shadows – a movement, sensed rather than seen – a fleeting glimpse of a tall, familiar figure, hunched and shapeless in fur.

  ‘He’s coming,’ she said, nervelessly calm. ‘He’s gone round the back. Open the door, Kaarlo.’

  Moments later he was there, in the room, cold-flushed, very much alive, grinning, shaking off the frozen furs, his arms about her, cracking bones, before she could exclaim at the bloody gash on his forehead, the dirty, reddened bandage on one of his hands. She clung to him in total silence, feeling him, breathing the scent of him, her face crushed against the filthy shirt, hearing his heartbeat, wanting quite simply never, never to let him go. She heard the quick exchange, in their mother tongue, above her head between Jussi and Kaarlo, understood a little – for difficult as it was she was learning his language – cared nothing in that moment for what they said. Until this moment she truly had not realized how very much she had feared for him. Dear God, was that what happened? Was it to become worse each time?

  ‘Well, chicken, what’s this?’ Gently he put her from him, looked down into her face. ‘Tears?’

  ‘Of pain,’ she said, collectedly. ‘You nearly broke my back, you great clumsy Finn.’

  ‘The company is set up?’ Kaarlo was saying.

  Jussi was looking at Katya with clear, pale, searching eyes. ‘It’s set up,’ he said, almost absently. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And – the raw materials? The consignments are getting through all right?’

  ‘Of course they are. I told you they would. Our friends are nothing if not efficient.’ The steady eyes had not moved from Katya.

  ‘What happened?’ Kaarlo asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your head, numbskull. Your hand. Did you cut yourself shaving?’

  ‘Ah. No. A skirmish, that’s all. Nothing serious.’ He smiled a very little. ‘Not for us, anyway.’ Jussi lifted a dirty hand and touched Katya’s face, a fleeting, almost tentative touch. ‘Kaarlo. I have a suggestion.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Go.’ The bright, tired eyes, turned suddenly to his friend, took the edge from the word. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ll hear everything then, I promise. It’s been a very long day. It’s been several long days as a matter of fact. I need rest.’

  Kaarlo pushed himself away from the wall. Dark eyes flicked sardonically from Jussi to Katya and back again. ‘Rest,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘Yes. I can see that.’

  ‘Out, Kaarlo.’ Wearily Jussi reached for Katya, rested his face for a moment on her soft hair. ‘Someday I’ll do the same for you.’

  For a moment longer the other man stood, then he shrugged and reached for the filthy sheepskin jacket that had more than once tempted Katya to a bonfire. ‘Unlikely,’ he said. At the door he paused. ‘Just reassure me,’ he said. ‘All’s well?’

  Jussi’s look was level. ‘All’s well. I promise you. There are still –’ he paused ‘– reservations. No, Kaarlo!’ The other man had turned, hands outstretched. ‘I’ll not discuss it tonight! Tomorrow. Tomorrow will do.’

  ‘The separate peace shit?’

  Tired, exasperated, Jussi ran his hand through too long hair, dirtied and tangled by the wearing of his battered fur hat. ‘Yes. Of course. Be reasonable. They have to try.’

  ‘And us? What about us?’

  Calmly Jussi let Katya go, stepped towards his friend. ‘We are where we always were, Kaarlo.’ A long arm shot out, a bloodstained, grimy hand gripped an equally grimy collar. His smile was wide and friendly. ‘Suomi is the nut in the cracker. The cheese in the mouse trap. The scorpion – under – the rock.’ As he spoke he propelled the other man, twice his bulk if not as tall, into the kitchen. ‘Any help we might receive –’ he paused by the table to pick up Kaarlo’s hat and set it gently upon his head ‘– will not be because we are lovable, nor because we deserve it, nor because there is a just God in his heaven, but because we are useful. And at this moment –’ he pinned the unresisting Kaarlo to the wall beside the back door, let go of his collar to button his coat ‘– it is our good fortune to be, potentially, more useful than ever before.’ He stepped back. ‘Off you go, Kaarlo. And pray for our Little Father the Tsar. Pray harder than you’ve ever prayed for anything. Believe it or not in that precious, stubborn, stupid man lies our salvation. Now, out!’

  Grinning, Kaarlo quite deliberately reached up and ruffled Jussi’s already wild hair, not avoiding the crust of blood that split the hairline. Jussi could not prevent himself from flinching away. Kaarlo bunched his fist, crunched it none too gently into the other man’s chest. ‘Till tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Till tomorrow. And remember – pray for the Tsar.’

  Kaarlo’s reply, perhaps fortunately, was beyond Katya’s grasp of the language.

  ‘One day,’ she said quietly into the silence after the door had shut, ‘I’m going to feed rat poison to that man.’

  ‘He’d thrive on it.’ Jussi turned. In the comparatively bright light of the kitchen she could see now just how awful he looked. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes and at least a day’s growth of beard on the lantern jaw. The, weal upon his head showed dark, the skin blue-black about it.

  Ignoring the turning of her heart Katya surveyed him with lucid exasperation. ‘What in the world did I do,’ she asked the ceiling, thoughtfully, ‘to deserve this?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Must have been something pretty bad.’ Neither made a move towards the other. Yet as their quietly smiling eyes met a warmth filled the simple room about them, as close and as intimate as a touch.

  ‘Look at you.’ She took two small, graceful steps into his arms, laid her head very lightly upon his chest, her lifted arms about his neck. ‘I wouldn’t give you houseroom if I weren’t married to you.’

  She felt his laughter, through his body. Felt his exhaustion too.

  ‘I suppose I must award the returning warrior the prize he most desires?’ She tilted her head to look at him.

  His arms tightened about him. ‘Sounds reasonable. Even promising.’

  ‘It’s a shame it’s so small.’ The tone was innocence itself.

  He waited, refusing to rise to the bait.

  She cupped his rough chin in her two still-soft hands. ‘The sauna,’ she said. ‘You’re a Finn. I’d go so far as to say that you’re the most Finnish Finn it’s ever been my misfortune to come across. Surely the first thing any good Finn would want under the circumstances is a sauna? It’s ready. It’s been ready all day.’

  For the barest moment he allowed her to suffer. Then he bent to kiss her. ‘Second,’ he said. ‘The sauna comes second.’

  They made love on the couch beside the stove; not fiercely, as she had so often imagined in his absence, but in a manner that suited the tenderness, and in Jussi’s case, the exhaustion, of the moment. It was a slow and lovely act of joining; lying in the
darkness, Jussi’s head a dead weight upon her breast, the reflections of the snow-world beyond the window glimmering upon the ceiling, Katya found her face wet with tears, her emotions such a tangle that she could not herself discover if they were of happiness or of sorrow.

  Later she bathed the nasty cut on his head and tended the wound on his hand. He brushed aside her questions. While he took his sauna at last she cooked fish in creamy egg sauce, checked on the pan of ternin maito that baked gently in the oven, filling the air with its spicy cinnamon smell.

  ‘God in heaven. I leave a Russian termagant and come home to a Finnish housewife.’

  She turned. He leaned in the doorway, dressed in a shabby bathgown, the shaggy, too-long hair damp and clinging to his head, his fair skin flushed and shining. His face was full of amusement.

  ‘Not in the least,’ she said. ‘I’m a Countess, remember? I’ve had three maids and five footmen preparing this feast all day. They were going to wait at table too, but I decided you were too disreputable to be seen. One must always put on a show for the servants, you know. Your head’s bleeding again.’

  ‘Is it?’ He put an absent hand to his forehead, winced a little as his exploring fingers did indeed come away stained with blood.

  ‘Sit down. I’ll plaster it for you again. It’s that damned steam. I’m sure it must be awfully bad for you. Almost certainly thins the blood.’

  He sat down, flinched a little beneath her brisk ministrations.

  ‘Don’t say it. As a nurse I’d make a good vet. Kaarlo’s already told me.’

  ‘What else has Kaarlo told you?’

  The movement of her fingers stilled for a moment, then busied again. ‘Not much. You know Kaarlo.’ She stepped back. ‘Jussi – you have to trust me, you know. Sooner or later.’

  He smiled, very gently, put out his hand to link his fingers with hers. ‘Yes. I do know. But later, Katya, later. For now, can we not simply enjoy the moment?’

  She leaned to kiss him lightly. ‘And the food. I’ll murder you if you don’t enjoy the food. I’ve been practising for weeks. It’s the only thing I can cook.’

  ‘I’m starving. I’ll eat anything.’

  ‘Really?’ she smiled, sugar-sweet. ‘How very flattering. I find that I wish I’d cooked you whaleblubber. I’ll bet you didn’t get that in Stockholm?’

  * * *

  They made love again later, upstairs beneath the sloping eaves in the big, comfortable bed that Katya had dressed with the crispest and prettiest linen she could find, and this time their loving was fierce, savage and not in the least light-hearted. Afterwards Jussi lay for a very long time, sprawled across her, so still that she thought he must have gone to sleep where he lay; but at last, with a long-drawn breath he rolled off her, onto his back. She felt him stretch, settle himself into the feathers of the mattress with a sigh that was almost a groan of pleasure. His hand reached for hers and she took it, holding it lightly with both her own, resting upon her breast. Silence settled about them. His breathing was regular and quiet. But yet she knew he was awake.

  ‘Jussi?’

  She sensed his hesitation, the temptation to feign sleep. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You haven’t been to Sweden, have you?’

  His stillness held a different quality now. He withdrew his hand, gently. ‘Yes. I have.’

  ‘But not only to Sweden.’ It was not a question.

  The bedclothes rustled a little as he moved. ‘No. Not only to Sweden.’

  She waited, but he said no more. ‘It’s Germany, isn’t it?’ she asked at last, very quietly. ‘You’ve been to Germany.’

  She felt movement again, saw the faint pale oval of his face in the darkness above her as he leaned on his elbow to look at her. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  There was a very long silence.

  ‘Katya,’ Jussi said, ‘listen to me. We’ve tried the others – you know it. We get sympathy. Understanding, even. We get words. Kind words. Soft words. But we get no help. Both Britain and France agree that Finland should be independent; but they’ll do nothing – nothing! – about it. They’ll not move against their ally, nor do anything to weaken Russian arms. Very well; we understand that. But this is our war too. And in war, friends and allies are where you find them. Katya, a whole generation of our young men have never served in the Russian army; we have no training, no military skills, no weapons. The Germans have agreed – are on the point of agreeing – to raise, arm and train a battalion. A battalion of young Finns. To come back to fight for Finland. For her independence.’

  ‘But, Jussi! – the Germans? We’re at war with the Germans!’

  She saw the faint movement as he shook his head. ‘No, Katya.’ His quiet voice was grim. ‘We are not at war with the Germans. The Russians are at war with the Germans.’ He lay back upon the pillows. There was another long silence. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ he added, at last, softly. ‘And I will use any weapon he puts into my hand.’

  ‘The “company”,’ she said. ‘The – “raw materials” that Kaarlo spoke of?’

  We are negotiating under cover of a company set up in Stockholm. The raw materials are the men we’re smuggling across the ice to Sweden, and thence to Germany.’

  Later still, lying wide-eyed in the darkness she said, ‘Why did you say the Germans are on the point of agreeing? Has something held it up? Was – was this what Kaarlo meant – a separate peace? Between Russia and Germany?’

  ‘Yes.’ She could tell from his voice that despite his exhaustion he was no nearer sleep than she was herself. ‘If the Germans could close down the Eastern Front with separate peace negotiations they could concentrate their whole might upon the Western Allies. Until he loses all hope of that the Kaiser won’t risk the Tsar’s good will by arming insurgents behind his back.’

  Katya thought of Dmitri, of Sasha, of other young friends and relatives under arms in far places. ‘And is it likely to happen?’

  ‘A separate peace? No.’ Jussi’s voice was positive. ‘No, Katya. While the Tsar lives the war will go on. And Germany will arm and train our Finnish Battalion. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘And – this battalion will fight? Fight against the Tsar’s army?’

  ‘Yes. The battalion will come back to Finland and will fight.’

  ‘And – you’ll be a part of it.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ She echoed his words in a soft, desolate voice.

  He reached for her, drew her to his shoulder, stroked her hair.

  It was a very long time before either of them slept.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dmitri Shalakov was killed in the summer of 1915, during the disaster of what became known as the Great Retreat, as the Tsar’s battered armies were pushed inexorably from the line of the Eastern Front deep into the heartland of Russia. Dima’s family never discovered the manner of his death, nor where the human remains of the young man whose second son was born six weeks after his death had been buried, if indeed they had been buried at all. Perhaps, for their peace of mind, it was just as well; there was no easy death to be had on those battlefields. Most of those that fell in that debacle received scant ceremonial. Dima’s was simply one small tragedy in the midst of a much greater one; few of the hard-pressed, often inexperienced field officers caught up in the bloody shambles of the Retreat were able to observe the niceties; shell-shocked and exhausted, they had little time or energy left for the living, let alone for the dead.

  The year was a catastrophe for Russian arms. Casualties were measured in millions, and at least another million were captured by or surrendered to the enemy. Poland was abandoned. Steadily, amidst shaming scenes of slaughter, extortion and brutality inflicted upon the civilian and refugee populations by the frightened and ill-disciplined retreating soldiers, the Russian armies were pushed back, forced to a stand at last once again upon the sacred soil of Russia herself. The cavalry, the best-armed and best-led pride of the Tsarist forces, found themselves worse than
useless in the grim business of trench warfare and against the iron might of modern arms. There was simply no part for them to play; but with their aristocratic connections, their assumption of superiority and their insistence upon priority they clogged up the military machine and stretched the already sketchy and ill-organized supply services to breaking point. And all to no effect. In this war no personal valour, no courageous charge, no gallant self-sacrifice could make up for a lack of field artillery, a shortage of shells and of rifles – in many cases infantrymen going into battle had to rely on the rifles and ammunition of their fallen comrades. Facing a modern, well-equipped and well-trained army the Russians had no properly efficient transport system, no aerial support, no well-organized modern communications system. Sabres and swords had become outdated overnight, and those that trusted to them died in their thousands, or fled in confusion. As an incompetent and factionalized Russian High Command squabbled, intrigued, and sent out a stream of contradictory orders a swathe of misery and death was cut through Eastern Europe; vast areas of Russian territory were abandoned to the enemy; the Germans were stopped at the very gates of Riga, and Petrograd herself was threatened. Desertions assumed massive proportions; regiments on occasion surrendered as a unit, officers and men together. Under such circumstances the death of one nameless, faceless conscript could easily pass with no impact upon anything or anyone but his own family.