A dull ache throbbed in my head. If my ‘father’ was truly mad, what hope did I have of surviving?
‘Comrade Volkova? Did you hear me?’ Lieutenant Lubov tapped the edge of the window.
‘Why shouldn’t we leave the complex?’ I said. I could not go back, but I would not be given a choice. I would be dragged back. I was not a person. I had no more freedom than the prisoners in the holding cells.
‘The operation I was telling you about . . . it is due to begin tonight. So, there may be a little disruption.’
‘What kind of operation?’
A muscle flickered in his cheek. ‘A standard one. Relocation of undesirables. Weeding out those who would help the Partisans – like the bandits you saw earlier today. Their families assist them. Their neighbours hide them and then tell bald-faced lies in the interrogation room. Not everyone complies easily, as you just heard. I would hate for you to be hurt or caught up in any resistance. I’ll be overseeing things at the train station. I won’t have time to check on you.’
Something snapped inside me. ‘I don’t need looking after!’ I said. ‘No matter what everyone may think. I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant. But I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. And I have Olga.’
‘Ah yes.’ His lips twitched. ‘The nursemaid.’ Straightening up, he glanced up at the high façade of the Grey House as if he could hear the Partorg calling him like a master summoning his dog, his voice an invisible beacon that only Lieutenant Lubov could discern. ‘I meant no offence. Simply thought you should know.’
Before I could say more, he walked away, his shoes clipping the cobblestones.
Pearl Pattern
Kati
Jakob and I drove home to the farm in silence. When we reached the house, Jakob switched off the engine and sat staring through the windscreen. I watched his expression darken as his gaze swept across the mouldy thatch on the roof and down to the house’s windows. A few months ago, a huge thunderstorm had swept over us, throwing hailstones like cannons and pouring rain down between the thatch to stain the floors. The largest hailstones had cracked the glass in some of the windows, leaving holes the size of my fist and a cobweb of fractured lines that radiated out towards the timber frames. Shawls had been stuffed into the holes – not delicate lace ones, but my mother’s thick old woollen ones with the frayed ends. Jakob’s gaze burned. He turned to me, his eyes narrowed in accusation.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘What good would it have done?’
Jakob shook his head, then climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him and stalking into the house. I let myself out and went to the barn to release the sheep. As I heaved the barn doors apart, I tried not to see the broken windows, or the rust that peppered the iron door handles and left smears of blood-red speckles against my palms. It had been my father’s plan to renovate the farmhouse; he had been saving for years, storing all of his kroons in the Estonian National Bank, waiting until the time was right, until the farm could spare him. But when Papa had gone to line up outside the bank one day in March, he’d been informed that all our savings were now worthless. Kopeks had replaced cents, roubles instead of kroons. Estonian tender was now worth less than a withered apple skin.
I could hear my brother banging around in the rooms upstairs and wondered if perhaps I should go in and speak to him. But my parents would be home soon. He could say what he had to say to them without me. I was not his keeper. He was old enough to join the resistance group. Old enough to make his own choices.
I led the sheep outside into the paddock, watching their flickering tails. They were restless after so many hours cooped up inside. Grass stalks snapped beneath my boots as I drove them out to the very last paddock, the one furthest from the house. Let Jakob be the one to greet my parents when they returned from another degrading trip to the factories to give away our apples for the good of the state, I thought, switching the grass savagely with my birch stick. Let him be the one to tell Papa about his subversive activities. I could not shake the feeling of helplessness. We were at the centre of a storm; no matter which way the currents pulled, we were destined to follow. The peace I had experienced briefly at Aunt Juudit’s this morning was gone, the threads of it scattered like a shawl unravelling in the wind.
I saw Jakob emerge from the house and begin dragging things out of the barn, cleaning them with a rag and sudsy water. The timber crates made from sanded birch logs which we used for storing apples, to prevent them being jostled. The old milk canisters we filled with water and dragged inside when the frosts arrived so we had a source of water always and could avoid the shocking sting of the cold pump on our hands. When he lugged the old dogsled through the barn doors, I almost called out. It was still sturdy, despite many years of use, with enough room for two people to sit side by side with room for the crates behind. We had used it until last year to transport goods to our neighbours when the snow fell thickly. Rasmus Poska from town always hired his dogs out to us. But the Russians had seized them two months ago and slaughtered them for barking through the night. There would be no dogsledding this year.
Jakob slapped the rag against the side of the sled and scrubbed vigorously. Guilty, I thought. He feels guilty that he’s left all the farmwork to us, that he’s been at university all this time. I did not feel smug for being the one who had stayed while Jakob went ahead. When he glanced up at me, I turned away, unable to bring myself to tell him his efforts were wasted.
My anxiety about Mama and Papa increased as the day began to fade. I’d driven the sheep as close to the road as I dared, watching for a glimpse of Papa’s white lorry. The field here was mostly brown, full of stones and tangled bushes. The clover was so shrivelled that the animals did not nibble at the ground but huddled together in a knot, bleating with displeasure each time a truck roared past.
I stopped before my brother, squeezing my hands together. It was useless to pretend any longer. ‘Where are they?’
‘Perhaps they stopped in at Tartu.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
I tried to still my racing heart as I handed my brother the birch switch. ‘Help me bring in the sheep. I’ll need to see to supper. If they aren’t home by then, we’ll drive back to Aunt Juudit’s and look for them.’
My brother frowned but took the birch switch and followed me, poking at the sheep, who tossed their heads and glared at him. When I commanded them, though, they began to move as a unit, their feet stirring up the mud, straining their necks as they shoved and jostled their way towards the farmhouse and the safety of their pens.
We had just reached the last field when I heard it – the distinctive splutter of the lorry’s engine.
I whirled around.
There it was, jerking across the ground, the tyres churning.
Sheep bleated around me, clamouring for protection. I broke through the circle of their warm fleecy bodies and ran towards the fence. I was up and down the other side before my father had even brought the lorry to a stop, careless of the way my muddy skirt slapped against my shins.
‘Mama!’ I ran straight to the passenger side and reached up to wrench open the door. My mother was hidden in the shadows of the lorry’s cabin, but I saw her hand, tanned and speckled from the work she now did in the orchards with Papa. Leaning in, I clutched it with my own. Mama’s skin was cold. I rubbed her fingers, trying to warm them, but she did not move or react. She was still as stone.
My father appeared behind me, his face stricken.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I stared at her still form leaning back against the fabric seat of the cab. Her eyes were closed.
‘She’s fine.’ My father pushed me aside and braced himself against the open cab door. ‘Marta.’ He leaned in and gently shook her. ‘Marta. We’re home.’
My mother did not open her eyes, but jerked her head away from Papa.
I heard Jakob’s feet squelching in the mud. ‘Kati, what’s the
matter?’
‘Mama’s ill.’
‘She’s not ill. She’s in shock.’ My father lowered himself from the lorry. His face was shiny with sweat.
‘Jakob?’ I heard my mother call, her voice faint.
‘He is here,’ my father shouted. Gasping, he reached forward and grabbed my brother by the shoulders, pulling him hard against his chest. ‘Thank God.’
Jakob looked over Papa’s shoulder at me, his eyes wide. ‘What’s going on?’
My father pulled back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘They’ve commandeered the lorry. The Partorg’s men were waiting for us in Kobratu. I’m supposed to report tonight in an hour’s time at the Town Hall to hand it over. Juhan Vunder refused to give them his vehicle. They shot him and arrested his son and took it anyway.’
‘But why?’ Jakob said, his face shocked. ‘Why do they need the lorries?’
My father’s hands shook. He ran them through his hair. ‘Elvi Tamm said he saw railroad cars lined up at the station. Dozens of them.’ Railroad cars. The memory of the first deportations rose up around me like hissing steam. They take the educated ones first, that old woman had said. The government officials, the teachers. I looked at my brother, his face ghostly pale, and realised my father was staring at him.
Perhaps he was thinking of the old woman’s words, too.
‘They expect us to help them.’ Papa drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘But we’re not going to. We are going to run. The way we should have done last year. I was wrong. We’re not going to stay and be part of this crime.’
‘We should fight,’ Jakob said. He curled his fists by his sides. ‘We’re not alone in this. We should stay and show them we are not afraid.’
From inside the lorry, I heard my mother moan softly.
Papa ran a hand across his shiny forehead. ‘Jakob.’ His voice shook. ‘You aren’t thinking clearly. I’m the head of this house. Stop talking nonsense. I will decide when we fight and when we go.’
Jakob’s jaw tensed. ‘It isn’t nonsense.’ He turned. ‘Tell him, Kati! You agree with me, don’t you? We can’t leave! We must just hold out until help arrives. We are part of this family, too, Papa.’
‘Kati?’ Papa swivelled to face me. ‘What do you have to say?’
I looked between my father and my brother. I was torn. How could I leave Oskar without telling him goodbye? I could imagine his pain when he found our house empty, all of us gone. His heart would break, as my heart was breaking. I’d slept last night with Oskar’s gloves beneath my pillow and woken with them clutched in my hands, the soft wool wet with tears. What if Oskar knew I had gone without resisting? Yet how could I stay when Papa, my strong Papa who had weathered so much, was staring at me with wild, shining eyes as if he might suddenly cry? How could I cause him more worry and heartache by asking him to allow us to stay behind?
Another second passed before Papa shook his head. ‘You see?’ he said to Jakob, as if my silence was confirmation.
‘I have weapons,’ Jakob said, stubbornly. ‘A pistol. A knife. You have a shotgun. I know you do, I know where you hide it—’
Papa looked shocked. Then his face lengthened. ‘A pistol, Jakob? A shotgun? These are your weapons? Against their rifles? No. Enough.’ He held up his hand as Jakob started to answer. ‘You’re upsetting your sister. Your mother.’ He called up to Mama. ‘Marta, hurry!’ Swinging himself up, he helped her to climb down from the cabin.
Mama’s colour was better, but her legs still shook as we ran towards the house and began to gather our things. The farmhouse was dark and quiet. The only sounds were our feet scuffing the floor, and the bang of cupboard doors.
‘We will drive north,’ Papa said. Objects rattled in his knapsack as he swung it up onto his back. ‘I know a man in Tallinn with a boat. We will have to cross the Gulf and hope we can find a safe way into Finland. And from there – who knows?’
I looked down at my own knapsack, hoping I had brought the right things for a journey to an unknown destination.
‘You are a good man, Erich. We trust you to guide us.’ Mama tapped my shoulder and passed me the last of our dry food, clothes and candles. My fingers fumbled with the strings on the bag. The room was dark with shadows. There was no time to light the lamps.
‘Here.’ Mama reached across and deftly knotted the bag closed. For a moment, her fingers stayed on mine. I could smell the familiar scent of home on them; the earth on her hands, the pine tar soap on her skin. The bittersweet tang of apples.
‘We don’t have to go.’ Jakob’s voice floated out of the darkness. ‘We could stay.’ I could just make out his shadowy form. He stepped forward, drawing in a long, slow breath. ‘Papa, please. Listen. I came home to convince you to join the others in the forest. We could fight. We should fight.’ My brother’s face was shadowed but his eyes burned with purpose. He raised his chin. ‘We don’t have to run like cowards.’
‘And what,’ my father said softly, ‘do you think will happen to Kati and your mother? Do you think they will fight with us to dispatch the Partorg’s men and the hundreds of Soviet soldiers they’ve been sending into the forest this year?’
‘Hundreds?’ Jakob’s face was pale. His mouth faltered. ‘I thought . . . perhaps a few dozen. Oskar said—’
My father moved suddenly. I flinched, thinking he might strike my brother. Instead, he embraced him. Jakob stiffened, but after a moment he wound his arms tightly around Papa as if he were a child again.
‘I am not a fighter, Jakob,’ my father said, his voice slightly muffled by Jakob’s hair. ‘I’m a farmer. I could not hold a gun to a man’s head or shoot him in the back. I’m sorry.’
They stayed for a moment locked in the embrace. Finally, my father straightened up and shouldered his pack. The darkness blurred his edges. It was as if he were already disappearing, our presence swallowed by the night. ‘If there was another choice, I would take it. But there isn’t. This time it’s our turn to run.’
*
‘Did you pack them?’
In the cab of the lorry, my mother clutched my arm. She seemed to have revived a little but her hands were still cold. Outside, I could hear my father and Jakob in the yard, ushering the sheep out into the field. Although we could not take them with us, Papa could not bring himself to keep them penned indoors.
‘Yes. I brought them.’ From my pocket I drew my grandmother’s pearl earrings, passed down to her from my great-grandmama. They glimmered in the starlight, as perfect as two teardrops made of ice.
‘No. Not those,’ Mama hissed. ‘The samplers!’
I gaped at her. My mother made a clucking noise. ‘Your grandmother never cared for those earrings. It was the lace samplers she always fretted over. Did you bring them?’
I was too surprised to speak. I had emptied the lace fragments into my sewing bag along with Oskar’s gloves and left the beautiful oak storage box on the dresser in my room. The box was too heavy to carry, too bulky to fit in my knapsack. ‘Yes,’ I said finally. ‘I have them.’
My mother cleared her throat. ‘Good girl.’ She paused, worrying at her shawl with her fingers. ‘I know she asked you to take over the knitting group. And to look after her lace. I – I was never trusted with those things. I was not a good knitter. My stitches were clumsy. I was impatient. But I want your grandmother’s spirit to rest easy, knowing they are safe.’
She turned her face to the window so I could not see her expression, but her words circled around in my mind. I saw her suddenly the way she must have been as a child, sitting by my grandmother’s knee, growing more and more frustrated as the lace in her hands refused to flourish. My grandmother’s sharp voice commanding her to re-pick the rows she had muddled. My grandmother had always said that anyone could learn to knit, but we both knew this wasn’t really true. A real knitter had an eye for patterns, and hands that remembered. A way of looking further ahead than just the stitch or row of the moment. My mother had neither of those things. I could imagine he
r throwing down her work in a temper and never taking it up again, rejecting my grandmother’s traditions. How my grandmother would have been hurt, and how that pain might have hardened into distrust. When I was born, my grandmother must have seen it as a chance to try again. She had been more careful with me, perhaps, more patient. And to her delight, I had been the one with the eye, and my hands itched if I went too long without knitting. I could see now how Mama’s disappointment might have simmered into resentment. My grandmother and I had been close in a way she could not understand. Our knitting had bound us, as had my grandmother’s stories and the history she had brought to life through the hours we spent together. Those lace shawls and those tales had formed a bond between us that Mama could never break.
I looked at my mother anew, wishing I could apologise for the times Grandmother and I had laughed at her, or teased her about her crooked stitches, but I couldn’t make my mouth form the words I needed to speak.
Too late. Footsteps stirred the pebbles outside. Jakob pulled open the door and climbed up next to me and Papa clambered in on the other side. Squashed between my mother and Jakob, I found it hard to breathe. The air was close, tinged with sour sweat.
With a sharp pang, I thought of Oskar again. I would have to trust that he knew I’d not wanted to go; that we’d had no choice but to run.
Outside, the darkness had spread, eating up the fields. Cars and trucks were visible up on the road, their lights flickering. How many were carrying people back to their homes, where they would eat their meagre dinners and fall into bed, exhausted, unsuspecting of the fate that awaited them in a few hours’ time? The fatal knock, the indignity of being given only minutes to gather their things and pushed outside in their nightclothes. If only we could warn them . . . But as the lorry’s engine rumbled and I listened to the strained breathing of my family, Papa’s grunt as he shifted the gears and propelled the lorry away from the house, I pushed away the guilt that weighed on me. It was just as Papa said. It was our turn to run. We would escape. That was what mattered.
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