Lace Weaver

by Lauren Chater

  *

  I must have dozed. A sound woke me, a small noise like a satin ribbon sliding through a woman’s hands. I sat up. The sky outside the window was pitch black. The oil in the lamp sputtered, throwing shadows across the walls. Although our apartment was one of the lucky few to have electricity, Olga preferred the peasant romance of an old-fashioned lantern, insisting that the Ilych lamps, naked electrical bulbs designed to hang from the ceiling, could never set the right scene for her tales.

  Mamochka? Are you there? I let my mind become quiet, imagining I was standing beside a curtain in the stalls, like the one always reserved for Olga and me at the Bolshoi ballet. I imagined my mother on the other side, her shadow falling across the heavy crimson drapes, her hand just out of reach. I waited, holding my breath. I had a feeling that if she did not speak now, she never would again. I hesitated, wanting to be angry with her, but also afraid that if I banished her, she would not return. Mamochka, I forgive you.

  Nothing.

  I sighed. A vast emptiness yawned inside me. This was the truth, then. I was now all alone.

  And then very faintly, I heard her. I am here. I sat up, my skin tingling. Her voice was soft. I strained to listen. The tin!

  I jumped up and kneeled beside my bed, drawing in a sharp breath as my knees banged on the floor. Thrusting my hand beneath the frame, I felt around until I found what I was after; a loose board, its edges worn smooth. I wedged my thumb beneath its lip, levering until I felt the board give way and I could thrust my hand inside. My fingers met the rough surface of the metal. I pulled. It slid out into the pool of light thrown by the lamp: a biscuit tin, speckled with age.

  As I flipped open the lid, dust flew into the air. It singed my throat, but I didn’t care. I waved it aside, impatient for it to clear, my mind focused only on the objects nestled inside.

  When the air settled, I could see them clearly. An old lace shawl wrapped around a tattered book. A photograph, its edges curled with age.

  They were the only items of my mother’s I owned. I had salvaged them as servants moved back and forth the week after her death, carrying her belongings out of the room. My uncle had ordered everything to be removed. Her beautiful takhta: the vanity table with its gilt-edged mirror. Her fur coats, her silver-backed brushes, the nylon fibres still woven about with long strands of her white-gold hair. Everything was piled up in a lorry downstairs, ready to be taken away. Watching between the banisters of the staircase, I had known that if I did not hurry, there would soon be nothing left. Waiting until the men were distracted by the bulk of an ornately carved armoire, I darted in, my heart beating like a thief’s, grabbing blindly at whatever came to hand. The result lay before me now; perhaps not what I would have chosen had I been given time to think. But the combination seemed a message in itself, or perhaps it was that I had never looked at them in quite the same way, thinking of them only as touchstones to a past I could not reclaim. At first, I had hidden them in my cupboard, bringing them out each week to pore over, trying to glean every last memory, imagining my mother’s hands placed over my own. But with Uncle’s surveillance everywhere, I grew fearful they would be discovered. When I had stumbled on Stepanov, one of my uncle’s bodyguards, reading my diary after school, I knew I needed a better place to store them.

  The book was a small volume of Estonian poetry and folklore, some of it handwritten. Flicking back the cover, I read the inscription recorded inside. The ink had faded from black to brown but some of the words were still visible. They were written in Estonian, the strange symbols such a contrast to the Cyrillic we used.

  For dear little Ana,

  A gift for you from your fatherland to remind you always. Until we meet again.

  PS. Do not drop your stitches!

  The signature had faded. I ran my finger over the page, wondering for the hundredth time who the mysterious writer had been. Who had given this book to my Mamochka? I had never thought to ask until it was too late and she was gone. Skimming through the book of poems now was like meeting a long-lost friend. I understood most of the Estonian words from the lessons my mother had given me in secret as we sat in her boudoir each morning while Olga stood guard outside. As she read from the book’s pages, Mama’s beautiful language had flowed around me like dust motes in the air, the words settling on my skin. After each session, Mama had sworn me to secrecy. She’d told me that the poets featured in the book were all dead now, but they had been the forebears of Estonian culture, inspiring their countrymen to rise up against their oppressors, back then the Baltic Germans and the Russian Tsar, and to demand their independence. No wonder Uncle had not liked to be reminded of my mother’s culture. It was too close for comfort, too great a reminder of the power of ordinary people to do extraordinary things.

  The photograph showed my mother as a girl of seven or eight, clothed in a white summer dress, standing outside a large building – a town hall with fluted columns and dormer windows. The sun beamed down on her shining hair and the oversized bow tied on one side of her head. I remembered my mother telling me it had been taken in Haapsalu, on the coast of Estonia. The Town Hall was where my grandfather worked, along with his brother, my great-uncle, who had a large estate that included a farm, a sauna and a little lake where my family would go in summer to picnic beside the shore. It was there, in Haapsalu, that my mother had been taught to knit by the local women. Her lessons were interrupted when my grandfather had a falling out with my great-uncle and moved the whole family away to Moscow when my mother was fifteen. My mother told me that her aunt and uncle later lost the farm and moved away without letting anyone know their destination. One of her greatest regrets, she often said, was never going back to search for them or to speak again to the women who had shown her how to bind off a single strand of yarn to make the lace edges sewn onto the centre of the shawl I now held in my lap.

  Draping it across my hand, I marvelled again at the shawl’s tiny stitches. The pattern was a mystery. It ran in a series of repeated images down the middle, finishing in small bobbles knitted to the corners. Although it was soft, its weight was comforting. I remembered the way my mother had thrown it into the air as I sat in her room, allowing the folds of it to settle upon my shoulders like snowflakes.

  What would she say now, my Mamochka, if she could witness me trapped here in this place at the mercy of my uncle? Would she advise me to stay put, as meek as a mouse, or to find shelter elsewhere until he came to his senses and forgave me my indiscretions? What if my Olga was arrested next on some made up charge? I could not bear to imagine her locked away. The guilt would be too much. Where could we go, though? Any place we tried to run in Moscow would not be far enough, even if I did have friends who would be brave enough to defy my uncle and take pity on me. His guards would find us and I would be dragged back to face a greater punishment than the one I had endured yesterday.

  As I ran the shawl through my hands, an image appeared suddenly before me. A pine forest. A farmhouse. A sauna nestled deep in the woods. Waves lapping at a shoreline.

  A seed of an idea began to unfurl. What if I went to Papa? What if I begged him to shelter me?

  Putting the shawl back in the tin, I rummaged in my drawer, moving aside my stockings to take out the book Joachim had lent me; a worn copy of Crime and Punishment. Inside were roubles he had asked me to put away for safekeeping. The apartment he lived in was shared with six others, and it was not safe to leave personal belongings about. Although I was allowed a monthly stipend from my uncle, it was carefully meted out, each account recorded in a ledger. Another form of control.

  I hurried to Olga’s room and knocked on her door. ‘Olga?’ She appeared in the doorway, her silvery hair loosened for sleep. I saw her flinch and remembered how my face must look, the imprint of Uncle’s hand on my cheek darkening.

  I shoved the roubles into her hand, and she looked down at them in surprise.

  ‘I want you to go to the train station first thing tomorrow,’ I whispered. ‘And buy us two
tickets.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Papa,’ I said. ‘In Estonia.’

  ‘Estonia?’ She looked horrified, as if it were the other side of the world. Casting a look up the empty hallway, she dragged me into her room. The lamp beside her own bed was lit. A book lay open on the bedspread. ‘But your uncle, Lida!’ she hissed. ‘He won’t allow it.’

  ‘I will write to him,’ I said. ‘I promise. Once we’re away. Papa, too. We must write to him before we go, to let him know we are coming, but we mustn’t give him a chance to say no. We must send word and then leave straightaway.’

  Olga was shaking her head. She pushed the roubles towards me. ‘I cannot.’ She lifted her chin. Her eyes flashed. ‘I will not let you do this, Lydochka. It is madness.’

  ‘Is it madness for me to want to see my own father? Is it madness to want to see with my own eyes the place my mother was born? I have questions only Papa can answer.’

  Olga’s lips pursed. I knew what she was thinking but I fancied I could also see a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes, a tiny scrap of doubt. It would be easy to give up meekly and return to my bed. But I could not stay here any longer. I would not die alone, like a flower pressed behind a glass.

  I forced myself to speak coldly. ‘If you won’t help me, I will have to go alone.’

  Olga’s shoulders stiffened, but then her eyes filled with tears. ‘If I promise to help you, you must follow my instructions, Lida. No lying. You do exactly as I say. Agreed?’ She held out her hand. I pressed the money into it. Leaning forward, she hugged me, taking care not to press her face against my bruised cheek.

  When Olga left the next morning, I flew around the apartment, packing the things I thought we would need. Into my suitcase went Mamochka’s shawl, her photograph and book. Enough clothes to last me a week. I dragged out an old school book, tearing a page loose and scribbling my note to Papa on its lined surface. When I was done, I folded it and placed it in an envelope, ready to be sent. I spied the copy of Joachim’s book still on my bed and put it in, too. Crime and Punishment; a reminder of what he had sacrificed. A reminder of my uncle’s cruelty, his despotism. Soon I would be free of him.

  *

  A day later, we crossed the border from Russia into Estonia. I felt the air change.

  It was subtle. It began with a tingling in my feet; a feeling of spreading warmth that twisted around my ankles and climbed steadily up my body until I felt my heart begin to thaw. The fear of being pursued and the heavy guilt of leaving Joachim behind were beginning to fade, at least for now.

  We had slipped into Serafimovicha Ulitsa just before dawn, hurrying through the empty lobby of the building complex during the handover between the night and day security officers, when both men were distracted. Moving through the back streets of Moscow, we had caught an early trolley car to Kazanksy Station and waited in the shadows until it was time for our train to depart. Although Olga grumbled about being tired and the weight of her suitcase, she had done as I asked, organising our passage and sending the letter.

  As the train thundered along, I rubbed my hands together and wriggled my toes, pressing them against the inside of my sandals. I was glad of them now; I could not imagine travelling in heels, even if they were fashionable. Through the window, I could see a pine forest, the trees spreading their arms wide as if to touch each other and the snaking form of the train as it rounded a bend, leaving the border checkpoint behind, a grey plume of steam ribboning up from the funnel into the sky.

  Impulsively, I jumped up and lifted the sash.

  Smoke and coal dust filled the compartment, speckling the air with tiny black dots. I gagged, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth. Pine trees scraped past, scattering fir needles onto the compartment floor. The fresh scent of them rose up, zesty and intoxicating. It was the scent of my freedom.

  ‘Bozhe moi! My God!’ With a hand tented across her face to shield her eyes, Olga shoved me aside and slammed the sash shut. She turned, her face red, her expression aghast. ‘What were you thinking?’

  I straightened up, willing my chest to stop hitching as the air cleared, one hand still pressed to my mouth. ‘It was . . . hot.’

  In her haste, Olga had knocked my suitcase to the ground, spilling Joachim’s book along with my mother’s shawl. Olga saw it and her eyes narrowed. Bending down, she plucked at a corner of the lace. Her mouth fell open.

  ‘This was your mother’s,’ she said. ‘How on earth did you find it?’

  ‘I – I stole it from her bedroom. The day her things were taken away.’

  Olga peered closely at it. ‘Extraordinary! I thought it was lost!’

  I moistened my lips. ‘I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to get into trouble.’

  Olga was rubbing the lace between her fingers. ‘She loved this shawl. You know, she made it herself. A woman taught her.’

  ‘She told me.’

  ‘I envied such talent. Me, I will never be one to sit around and knit. Eating, perhaps, I can do. Cooking a little. Stories, certainly. But knitting? I have not the patience. Here,’ she held it out, strung between her hands. ‘You should wear it.’

  Her fingers brushed my neck as she wound the lace around my throat. Now that the air had cleared, I caught the scent of dust in the shawl, like the lingering whiff from old books or parchment and the faint sweet scent of biscuits from the tin. Reaching up, I adjusted it, so that the fringes hung down my back in a triangle, the way my mother had shown me when I was a child.

  When I stepped back, one hand against the wall to steady myself as the train swayed, it was to find Olga’s eyes glistening with tears.

  ‘Your eyes are so much like hers,’ she said. Then seeming to remember herself, she rubbed her nose with the heel of her hand and turned to her own large suitcase. ‘Well. If we are confessing to things we were not supposed to keep . . .’ She rummaged through the contents, emerging a moment later with a huge bearskin coat bundled in her arms. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I saved it for you!’ It gleamed in the swaying sunlight from the window, the edges of it trailing on the ground. I recognised it at once, and my stomach lurched. It had never occurred to me that Olga would keep something so awful. Now I understood why she had grumbled about dragging her bulging suitcase with her.

  ‘Olga, please . . . no.’ I bent to pick up Joachim’s book. Its cover was wrinkled, the pages dog-eared. Joachim’s fingers had folded them. I imagined him lying on his bed, the book propped up in his hands, surrounded by the sounds of the other tenants in his block laughing and arguing. What would he be hearing now? The screech of train wheels? The voices of men and women sobbing for the lives they had left behind? With trembling hands, I placed the book carefully back in the bottom of my case. I would have to trust that wherever he was, Joachim would want me to seek safety. He would not want his sacrifice to be in vain.

  ‘You must wear it.’ Olga’s face startled me as she appeared around the side of the coat. ‘You promised you would listen. Do you think I want your father to know how I have neglected my duties?’

  I threw her her an exasperated look.

  ‘It’s spring! It’s warm.’

  ‘The air is changeable.’ Olga glared at me. ‘Your mother might send a demon to punish me. She will know I have failed to take care of you. How I have undone the promise I made to her the day you were born and I held you in my arms for the first time. Your mother was weak from childbirth. She bled so much she thought she might not survive. Of course, she did, but she made me promise then that I would care for you if she was gone.’ Olga stared solemnly off into the middle distance. ‘Olga Andreyevna Konstantinova, she said, do you promise to protect my child, Lydia Volkova; to stay with her, no matter where she might be sent; to do everything in your power to keep her safe from illness and violence, from the vile intentions of men who would corrupt her with evil words and deeds?’

  Her voice had grown louder with every word. Now it boomed around the sm
all compartment, audible over the clatter of train wheels. She lifted her hand, fist curled, a fiery glint in her eyes. For a woman of sixty-five and of diminutive height, she was an impressive figure.

  Bundling up the coat, she sank onto the seat. ‘I suppose I should not complain. I’ve been lucky. You have grown into a beautiful woman. Your mother would be proud. The end is the crown to any work.’ Pressing her lips together, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  My heart gave a sharp, guilty twist.

  I had promised her I would listen.

  I took the coat from her hands. The fur strands clung to my skin as I lifted the coat and shrugged it on. The heavy folds swallowed up the silky fabric of the pleated black skirt I had pulled on this morning and the cream-coloured blouse with pearl buttons and scalloped collar. It fell in swathes to puddle around my feet. Slipping one arm into a sleeve, I felt the weight of it against my shoulder. The satin lining slithered against the bare skin at my wrist.

  Thoughts buzzed like flies in my head, looping around and around in disconnected circles. I remembered the warm afternoon at the dacha in Zubalovo when my uncle, smiling triumphantly, had emerged from an afternoon’s hunting with my father, dragging the body of the brown bear he had shot, vowing to have it made into a coat for my mother. I remembered seeing my mother wear the coat for the first time, her frown as she examined her reflection in the long mirror that hung over the takhta in her room.

  Had she felt it too, the suffocating weight of the coat, the claustrophobic crush of the fur that seemed to constrict movement, squeezing tighter with every breath?

  Sweat beaded my forehead. I reached up to brush it away.

  Outside in the train corridor, the conductor called out, informing passengers that the next stop would be made within the hour to allow passengers to disembark, and that a short time after that, we would arrive at our destination in Tartu.