Lace Weaver

by Lauren Chater

  His eyes raked over me, coolly assessing. The train huffed and puffed on the track nearby, hissing steam. I felt exposed. I wrapped my arms around my body, wishing suddenly for the bear coat, with its imposing pelt of shining chestnut fur. But the coat was now buried at the bottom of Olga’s case. ‘I need to find a car,’ I said at last. ‘Well, I need a driver too. My companion and I are here from Moscow to visit my father. But there seems to be some mix-up. Perhaps it was the incident this morning at Tiksoja that caused the delay.’

  He tilted his head. ‘I heard about Tiksoja. There are crazy rumours flying around everywhere; the station master said it was resistance fighters. Forest Brothers from Tartu. Did they do that to your face?’ He sounded shocked.

  I lifted my fingers to my cheek, frowning. I had forgotten about it.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, they didn’t hurt me. That was . . . someone else.’

  ‘Oh.’ He seemed relieved. He unfolded his arms. ‘I see. I can give you a lift.’

  ‘You have a car?’ I could not help but look down at his shabby pants, which were faded to a dull grey.

  Jakob shrugged. ‘It’s not fancy. But yes. I run people back and forth sometimes, diplomats, visitors . . . I even offer a guide service for an extra fee. Assuming, of course, you are interested in a small place like Tartu. Many people pay me extra just to stop talking.’

  ‘Well . . .’ I stared at him, chewing my lip, my mind searching and discarding an ever dwindling array of possibilities. Suddenly, something warm pressed itself against my side.

  ‘Lydochka?’ Olga lifted her chin to scrutinise the man. ‘You’ve found our driver?’

  ‘Someone to take us, yes,’ I said, coming quickly to a decision, wrapping an arm about her as the train wheels began to grind, pulling the train out of the station. It was my fault Olga was here. I could not ask her to walk. I held the man’s gaze. ‘We would very much appreciate a ride. Thank you.’

  Jakob’s face relaxed. ‘Excellent. It would be a pleasure to escort you.’

  I caught the quick flash of his smile before he turned his head, steering us towards an old vehicle with scratched panelling and windows darkened so that the interior was strangely obscured.

  ‘It’s not the finest vehicle around,’ Jakob was muttering, opening the passenger door. ‘But it will get you to your father’s office. Here.’ He extended his hand for my case. Nestling it below the front passenger seat, he helped me in, shielding my head with his hand to avoid bumping it on a flap of fabric that had come loose from the car’s roof.

  Muttering an apology, he tacked the roof back up, pressing it into place with his thumb. He ran around to open the back door for Olga. ‘Are you comfortable?’

  He seemed so anxious to please, I did not have the heart to complain about the cramped space or the faintly sour whiff of body odour lingering in the fabric seats. ‘I am. Thank you.’

  Grinning, he slammed the door closed. I heard the boot open behind me and the sound of Olga’s heavy case being pushed inside, then Jakob climbed in and started the vehicle. The engine coughed and sputtered, an alarming sound. Olga cleared her throat pointedly and I read what was in her mind: this was not how she had imagined arriving at my father’s office. But it was too late to change my mind now. I fumbled in my skirt for the remaining roubles. Jakob pocketed them and then he was turning the wheel, the car circling the small car park to join the traffic on the road outside.

  Tartu was a city of cobblestones and high whitewashed walls. Hidden gardens flashed past, screened by iron gates. The streets were not as crowded with people as those in Moscow. I saw mostly soldiers, their grey uniforms and gleaming guns. On a street corner, I spied a group of women in faded coats huddled together, white scarves knotted around their heads. I swivelled in my seat to catch a better look, but the car moved off and they were gone, just a blur of white lace and drab clothes in the distance.

  Jakob kept up a steady stream of chatter, only pausing every now and then to ask a question about Moscow. What did people think of the war? How did Muscovites view the annexation of the Baltics? Did my father talk much about what was happening? He kept his gaze fixed on the windscreen as I tried to answer. I was sure he was only asking to be polite, and when I told him I had not spoken to my father in some time, he did not reply.

  At an intersection he pointed past a building to a set of ruins high on a hill. The broken brick battlements stuck up from the ground like sharp teeth. ‘Dorpat Cathedral,’ he said. ‘Built in the . . .’ He screwed up his face. ‘Twelfth century? No, that can’t be right. Anyway, it was captured by Prince Dimitri of Pereslavl. He was the son of Alexander Nevsky.’ He spun the wheel, rounding a corner so the cathedral vanished from view. ‘Fourteenth,’ he said suddenly. ‘Fourteenth century. I was wrong.’

  ‘I thought you said you were a tour guide,’ I said.

  He grinned apologetically. ‘I never said I was a good one. My sister Kati is the historian and folklore expert in the family. She knits, too.’ His eyes swivelled to the lace shawl around my throat. ‘Shawls like that.’

  ‘Oh.’ I looked down in surprise and touched the shawl’s hem. I’d forgotten I was wearing it. It weighed almost nothing. ‘Do you think she could identify the pattern? My mother knitted it when she was a girl.’

  Jakob snorted. ‘There’s nothing my sister doesn’t know about knitted shawls. Nothing.’ He took his eyes off the road to peer at the lace, and suddenly I was conscious of his gaze on my throat. Olga coughed again and Jakob looked away quickly, then turned the car into a wide avenue where tall government-looking buildings stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘Almost there.’

  A moment later, we pulled up in front of a tall grey office building with arched dormer windows hedged on either side by similar-looking buildings. A Soviet flag hung on a long pole over the doorway. Jakob jumped out to open the doors for us.

  I looked up at the building where my father worked. It was only now, facing the grey building that seemed to stare back at me, the windows striped with bars and the huge doors looming imposingly, that I realised how cold I was, despite the warmth of the shawl at my neck. I wanted to banish my fears but they continued to crowd about me.

  ‘Will you be staying long?’ Jakob was standing at arm’s length, holding out my case. His fingers brushed against mine as I took it. They were warm. I fought an unnatural desire to climb back into his shabby car and stay there. But Olga was at my back, and Jakob was watching me.

  ‘I don’t know.’ What would Papa say when he saw me? Would he be pleased or worried? Unconsciously I reached a hand up and bunched the lace at my throat.

  Jakob nodded. ‘Well, I wish you luck.’

  He turned back to his car. I heard the engine cough twice before it finally turned over. Then the car was gone, sliding around a corner and lost to view. I realised with a shiver that without its presence, the street was silent. No pedestrians. No trilling birds.

  The silence was absolute.

  Kringle Pattern

  Kati

  ‘I suppose I should be getting home.’ Stretching my arms above my head, I tried to stir the life back into my limbs. The lace I’d been unpicking slipped sideways across my lap. I hooked it with one finger just in time, before it could slither in a soft silvery pile to the floor.

  ‘And I should be getting ready for work.’ Etti put her own knitting on the faded armrest and began to struggle out of her chair. ‘Since Tiina Tamm disappeared last month, I’ve been taking on her housekeeping shifts as well as my own.’

  I paused, suddenly curious. ‘Does the Partorg ever talk to you?’

  Etti gave me a strained smile. ‘He’s never there. I haven’t seen him since the agency first sent me. It’s just Tiina and me.’ Her eyes clouded over. ‘Or it was. Now she’s gone.’

  Gathering her things, Etti hurried out, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.

  Perhaps the other women were also thinking of Tiina. I saw some of them cast a glance at the place she used to occupy n
ear the long window casement when she joined us at the knitting group. Her husband had circulated pamphlets on behalf of the Forest Brothers, calling for action and the need to support the old Estonian home guard army, what was left of it. Tiina had begged him not to be so foolish, to keep his mouth closed. But he hadn’t listened. Maybe he had hoped Tiina’s position as housekeeper of the Partorg’s apartment meant that they would be spared. He had soon discovered his mistake.

  Calling out my own goodbyes, I hurried to the door of the apartment, my mind already racing ahead to the sheep, which would need to be let out when I reached home. I twisted the handle and crashed straight into something hard outside in the hallway. Too shocked to cry out, I could only mutely register the brown curls and the checked jacket, the long thin fingers clasped like a manacle around my wrists.

  ‘Jakob!’

  Before I could say more, my brother leaned around me, closing the door firmly behind my back so we were alone in the corridor. In vain, I struggled to free my hands but Jakob’s grip was as tight as I remembered it.

  ‘Thank God it’s you,’ he said, brushing back his hair with one hand. ‘I thought I would have to wait hours. I had to hide in the shadows when Etti came out. I’m probably covered in cobwebs.’

  ‘Why?’ I demanded. ‘What are you up to?’

  My brother put his finger to his lips, a frown deepening the groove between his brows. ‘Hush! I don’t want the whole knitting circle after me. I don’t need their questions.’ He began to lead me down the steps, taking them two at a time, our footsteps clattering in the stairwell.

  ‘Not so fast!’ I wrenched my hand away.

  When we reached the bottom I turned him back to face me. ‘Well?’ I hissed, rubbing my wrist. ‘What’s the big secret?’

  There were circles beneath Jakob’s eyes, I realised. He had jammed his hands into his pockets. His jaw moved back and forth as if he were chewing invisible gum, a habit I knew from childhood. It was the same gesture he made whenever he was debating the best course of action, usually the kind that involved the fastest way to absolve himself of chores so he could join his friends fishing at the riverside.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he said suddenly.

  The question startled me. ‘Not since last year.’

  Jakob grinned, but the smile was wonky. It made the hairs prickle on my arms.

  ‘Funny.’

  I let out a breath. ‘No. You think I have roubles to waste on food?’ I couldn’t resist the chance to highlight the advantages he had been given. ‘You think our parents give me an allowance the way they do you?’

  Jakob stared at me for a fraction of a second. And then he turned. ‘Come on.’

  The door groaned loudly as he pushed against it.

  Outside the wind had come up, whipping through the branches of the linden trees lining the courtyard and stirring up dust, making golden motes dance in the cold sunlight. The shadows were lengthening.

  ‘I have to get home, Jakob.’ My shoes slipped on the cobblestones as I hurried to keep up with his long strides. ‘I shouldn’t even be here.’

  ‘We aren’t going far.’ He threw a glance back at me over his shoulder. ‘Did you catch a ride in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  I looked up in surprise. ‘You bought a car?’

  ‘No.’ His gaze shifted. ‘It’s on loan from a friend.’

  ‘Which friend?’ I demanded.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Are you coming?’

  I sensed his growing irritation but it only made me want to stand my ground. ‘Besides, shouldn’t you be in class?’

  Jakob came to an abrupt halt and swung around. ‘Stop asking so many questions. Just trust me. Can you do that?’

  I raised my chin, but the seriousness in Jakob’s eyes made the retort die before it reached my lips. We crossed the courtyard in silence, heading back towards the towering university buildings and then down a street that ran beside the marketplace.

  Jakob stopped outside the big glass window of a cafe, one I had passed before but never entered. A striped awning extended over the entrance, the colours bright strips of green and grey. The name ‘Werner’s’ was written in curly script across the tinted window. I frowned. Back before the start of the occupation, it had been bursting with students; now the only ones who could afford such luxuries as coffee and beer were the Soviets who had been assigned good jobs at the university or the men who were lucky enough to work for the Partorg or the NKVD.

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘A cafe, Jakob? Really?’

  Jakob didn’t reply but grasped the door handle. The scent of tobacco unfurled from the open doorway, along with the faint hum of voices and – overpowering, intoxicating – the rich mahogany scent of coffee. Real coffee, not bitter ground-up hazelnuts.

  ‘Hurry up. You’re letting the draft in.’

  Still frowning at him, I stepped inside.

  It was dark inside. An old man with whiskers sat snoring in an armchair, while at a long counter that ran the length of the room four Russian men in business suits nursed steaming cups of coffee. Their voices carried on the swirl of their tobacco smoke. They turned to us as the door slammed shut, cigarettes still dangling from their lips, and I felt my cheeks colour. But we were of little interest – just another shabby-looking pair of students – and they soon turned away.

  ‘Stay here.’

  I watched Jakob weave between the tables, his knees brushing against the backs of chairs. I realised with a pang that he was thin, too. His trousers and jacket did not cling as they had when Mama presented them proudly on his last day at the farmhouse. They hung loosely, the jacket too short in the arms. When we were children I had teased him about his height, calling him stork-legs, asking him if the air in the clouds above was warm or cool. I had missed him since he stopped visiting. The months at home had been lonely. He began to talk with the man behind the counter, gesticulating with his hands.

  I pushed away the small guilty niggle that whispered I should be heading back to the farm, and sank down into a chair near the window. I should not be here with Jakob, indulging my senses in the long-forgotten aroma of coffee. The noise of footsteps outside made me glance up sharply. But it was only a group of soldiers marching past, filling the street with the sound of their boots.

  ‘Surprise!’

  I stared in disbelief down at the plate Jakob had set in front of me.

  ‘A kringle?’ Glistening and caramelised, the pastry was heaped on a small white china dish, a powdery pelt of sugar coating its gentle curves. I looked up to find Jakob grinning.

  ‘I told you this was a special place. Remember how you used to ask for a kringle every birthday instead of a cake? You even created that special stitch with Grandmother, “kringle stitch”, and you knitted Papa a scarf full of little pastries. You told him the kringle stitch was magic; it would protect him from sickness and bolting horses, and highwaymen who intended to rob him. What a funny child you were.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said. My eyes were drawn back to the plate. I could not recall the last time I had seen a kringle, let alone had one placed in front of me. The ingredients alone must have cost more than six months of Jakob’s yearly allowance. It took all my strength not to reach out and press my thumb against the sugar-flecked china. Jakob’s eyes were still eagerly on me, his expression as bright and boyish as a child watching presents being opened on Christmas Day.

  ‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘Aren’t you going to eat it?’

  My mouth was watering, and with an effort that surprised me I pushed the plate away with one knuckle and then sat on my hands, crushing my fingers to stop them betraying me and creeping out to snatch up the whole pastry and cramming it in my mouth.

  ‘Jakob, what is this about? Where did you get the money to buy such a thing?’

  Jakob’s smile froze. ‘What are you talking about?’

  I was about to reply when a waiter appeared carrying a tray laden with cups of steaming co
ffee. He was a young man with a thin moustache. His hands trembled slightly as he set them down, the teacups rattling. My brother thanked him and a secret look passed between them.

  ‘Danke,’ my brother whispered, so softly I almost did not hear him. The waiter’s lips tightened in a small smile before he withdrew and moved away. I watched him return to the counter, my curiosity kindled. The café was called Werner’s; a German name. I wondered if the waiter was one of the few Baltic Germans who had stayed behind when the war between Germany and Europe began. Hitler had called them home after the signing of the pact with Stalin, keen to unite all the German-speaking people together. Those who had remained behind in the Baltics risked the same fate as the rest of us who were minorities. There was no protection from the Russians and their campaign to convert everything and everyone to their side.

  I turned to ask Jakob to confirm my suspicions about the waiter but he was staring out the window, blowing on his coffee, one of his long legs folded over his knee, maddeningly calm.

  He glanced over at me and smiled. ‘Aren’t you going to try your coffee?’

  The coffee sat between us, dark as treacle. There was no milk. Scented steam rose up from the surface, a bittersweet aroma mingled with memories of better days before the invasion, when such things were readily available. The idea that Jakob might have been here in Tartu enjoying himself while we suffered at home festered inside me. How could I indulge myself knowing Mama and Papa would not eat today until they finished delivering apples to the factory depot and made their way home?

  My voice shook. ‘Is this where you’ve been wasting Papa’s money, treating yourself while we’ve been slaving away to keep you in your studies?’

  Jakob’s nostrils flared. He spread his hands out on the table, his nails digging into the timber. ‘I haven’t touched Papa’s money. Not for months. I’m surprised at you, Kati. This is how you thank me for taking you out?’ He shook his head, disbelief etched in every feature. ‘Maybe you like eating broth every night. You’ve grown accustomed to it, so you think everyone else should be starving too.’