Etti’s expression was sombre. ‘I’m not sure that she will return, to be truthful.’
‘Oh.’ Grasping her meaning, I fidgeted with the hem of my blouse. An awkwardness stretched between us. Had Tiina been yet another victim of my father’s tactics?
Etti filled it at last. ‘In any case,’ she said, ‘you can ask me for anything you need. I will go now and prepare your supper.’
‘I will help you,’ Olga said. Etti raised her eyebrows and looked from Olga to me, her curiosity clear.
‘My husband was a chef,’ Olga offered. ‘He worked in a grand hotel. Sometimes he would sneak me in and I would help him prepare the food before a particularly important guest arrived. This was years ago, of course, long before I came to look after Lydia, at her mother’s request.’
‘A grand hotel?’ Etti pursed her lips. ‘Then I’m sorry, you will find our meals and our ingredients meagre by comparison.’
Olga shrugged. ‘I have not cooked in a good while. And besides, that does not matter,’ she said. ‘My husband used to say it is not the ingredients that are important, but how we use them. Kneading dough, slicing vegetables, making bread dumplings for the soup. These are all the things he taught me.’
‘I would be glad of your help,’ Etti said. ‘But it would be unconventional for a guest to cook for herself.’
‘Nonsense,’ Olga said. ‘I miss cooking. Zoya did not like me to interfere with her methods. She was always offended if I tried to help.’ She began to roll up her sleeves. ‘Let me make myself decent first with some water on my hands. My dear friend Ana, Lydochka’s mother, often spoke of the delicacies of the Estonian palate. She knew how much I appreciate food.’
Etti still seemed uncertain. ‘Well, if you insist.’ She began to move away but turned back as she reached the stairs. ‘You are not what I expected,’ she said, her brow furrowed. ‘Either of you.’
*
The unmistakable scent of frying fish engulfed me as I stepped out of the tiny bathroom. Saliva flooded my mouth. What had I last eaten? Breakfast on the train: a pot of coffee and lumpy biscuits studded with raisins. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Running my fingers through the waves of my damp hair, I hurried to the bedroom. Olga had laid out fresh clothes for me. As I buttoned on my skirt and blouse I spied a figurine of a provincial milkmaid on a nearby shelf. A mantle clock ticked the seconds quietly away, behind a glass dome surrounded by spinning golden baubles. Beautiful objects. Someone with taste had selected them. Curious, I pulled open the wardrobe door. It was filled with women’s clothing, dresses and gloves. Hats and shoes. I realised that they must have belonged to the person who had lived here before. They must have left in a hurry. Perhaps the captain did not realise their things were still here, cluttering the wardrobe. I let the door fall closed.
When I turned to leave, I saw my mother’s shawl folded on an old rocking chair near the window. As I drew it towards me, something caught beneath it fluttered to the carpet. It was an envelope which had once been cream. Now it was yellowed at the corners, mottled with age. I wondered who had left it there. Perhaps the person who had owned this room before had forgotten it, in their hurry to leave? I turned it over. My breath caught suddenly.
It was addressed to my mother.
The handwriting was faded, drawn across the paper in long elegant loops. Olga must have left it for me. I stood frozen with the letter pinched between my fingers. Although I wanted to rip it open, some part of me was hesitant. I could not suppress the fear that some further stain upon my mother’s character would reveal itself. How many more secrets had she kept?
My stomach gurgled with hunger. I slipped the envelope into my skirt, resolved to read it once I had eaten and bolstered my courage for what lay in its folds.
*
The working kitchen was situated at the back of the townhouse. Copper pans hung from hooks on the ceiling. Late afternoon sunlight flooded the room. In here, the smell of fish was both rich and delicate, perfumed with spices.
Etti and Olga stood side by side in front of the stove with their backs to the door. They were peeling potatoes and chatting as I entered, tossing the skins into a bucket. I heard Olga say her husband’s name.
‘. . . candelabras everywhere,’ she continued. ‘And a great circular pool with lights and fat carp swimming around.’
Etti drew in her breath. A slippery spiral of potato peeling flew from her hand to the floor. ‘I cannot even imagine.’
‘Yes. And sometimes Ivan would come out and catch a fish for a special guest. And sometimes a guest would join the fishes for a swim if he’d consumed too much vodka. And Ivan would be sent in to fetch him out, all dripping.’
Etti burst out laughing. Olga laughed too.
Steam swirled from a pot and Olga bent over to stir it with a spoon.
Etti paused in her peeling, her finger on the blade.
‘I remember when David was alive he would often rise early to make challah. He would sprinkle it with spices and brush it with egg yolk. The smell of it baking would warm the house. I think he enjoyed baking.’
Olga tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot to loosen the sauce. ‘David? He was your husband?’
Etti nodded. Her lips were pursed. ‘He was a good man. He would have been a good father. Now it’s just the two of us.’ She looked down at her stomach.
Olga tutted. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Etti shrugged but I could see she was trying not to cry. Her distress made me think of Joachim. How could I ever forgive myself for not fighting harder for his release?
I remembered Mama telling me once that Estonian women were proud. They did not like to cry in front of others.
I stepped forward. Olga turned, smiling.
‘Lida. You look much happier.’ Her voice grew softer. ‘Did you find the letter I left for you? Your mother’s?’
I nodded. My throat ached as if a fever burned inside. I could not bring myself to tell her I had not had the courage to read it. She seemed so pleased.
‘I found it when I was unpacking my things,’ she said. ‘It was in the pocket of the fur coat all this time! Who could tell?’ She shook her head in wonderment and glanced at the bubbling pot. ‘I think we are nearly done here. Just the potatoes to go.’
‘I can tell.’ I sniffed again at the rich aroma. Fat sizzled and popped in the pan. ‘It smells heavenly.’
‘Our friend here was showing me the way to make mulgipuder,’ Olga said, lifting the spoon in the pot near her elbow to reveal a dripping lump of barley groats. ‘I remember your Mamochka saying it was her favourite.’
Drying her eyes on her sleeve, Etti picked up the chopping board and slid the potatoes into the boiling water. ‘And your companion certainly picked up some tips from her time at the Metropol. I would never have thought to use dried parsley to bring out the flavour of salted fish.’
She shot Olga a grateful smile, the fading light glinting on her bronze hair. ‘I appreciate the help. Tiina was a better cook than I am. I suppose I’ve been spoiled; my mother was always good with the stove. But I find it difficult. Trying to coordinate everything to come out at once. If you’ll both be seated, I’ll serve you shortly in the dining room.’
‘Please don’t fuss on our account,’ I said, wishing my blunt words were prettier, more convincing. ‘I’m sure Olga and I would be happy to eat here.’ I glanced around at the plain timber table and the scarred chairs I’d spied shoved into a shadowy corner. ‘There’s no need for such formality.’
Etti’s forehead crinkled. ‘Are you sure?’
I thought of the dinnertime rigmarole we endured back home; the silver knives and forks, the various courses each set out on their own dishes. Somebody had to clean it all up when we were done. Back home, there was an army of invisible service personnel who saw to it. Here, there was only Etti, belly straining against the folds of her housecoat.
‘Quite sure,’ Olga said, as if she had read my mind.
Etti pursed h
er lips but the wrinkle between her eyebrows disappeared as if an invisible iron had smoothed it out. ‘If you insist. It’s for both of you to say.’
Turning away, she grasped the handle of the frypan and slid the fish out onto two plates, then poured the bubbling sauce from the pan across a ladleful of the mulgipuder. Catching up the plates, she waddled over to the table and set them down, returning a moment later with knives and forks clutched in her fist.
I hadn’t realised just how hungry I was until the food was before me. My hands shook as I separated the fish as cleanly as I could from the bone and shovelled a forkful of the flesh into my mouth. Etti watched me, stroking her distended belly absently with one hand.
‘You must be hungrier than you thought,’ she said, but a teasing smile lit up her eyes.
Olga ate more gracefully, picking at her food with care, her fingers moving elegantly around the plate as if they were dancing.
After watching us another moment, Etti hauled herself to her feet and began to wash the pans, first filling the sink, then sliding the cooking utensils in one by one so they didn’t splash. She started to hum as she worked, scrubbing energetically at the pan that had contained the fish, picking at the black bits with her nail until they lifted away. Suddenly she recoiled. The pan sploshed into the sink. Etti spread both her hands on the cabinet bench for support. A waiting plate rolled off the edge of the bench, teetered and then arched over, splintering upon the floor.
Olga and I sprang to our feet.
‘Etti?’ I said.
She gave no sign she’d heard me, but moaned softly. Her knuckles were white, her body tensed like a cat’s, the muscles of her back straining against the fabric of her dress.
After a long moment, she relaxed and drew in a breath. Her shoulders slumped. ‘I’m sorry.’ Pulling out a crumpled handkerchief, she dabbed at her face.
‘You should be resting,’ I said.
She shook her head but her skin was white.
Olga took Etti gently by the arm and I took the other, and together we guided her to a chair. She grunted as we eased her into it. ‘Where is the broom?’ Olga said.
‘In that cupboard.’ Beads of sweat rimmed Etti’s hairline. I heard the door of the cupboard open and Olga rummaging inside. The shards of porcelain chimed as she swept them together.
‘Does that happen often?’ Although nobody close to me had ever had a baby, I could recall Mama talking to Olga about women in their social circle who had recently given birth. It had fascinated me at the time: the blood, the ritual, the prayers for mother and child; always whispered, since religion was frowned upon by the Communist state. Now that I was older, though, I also understood how dangerous a time it might be. How a woman could lose her mind with worry or allow fear to paralyse her body at the critical moment.
Etti’s colour was beginning to return. She dropped her eyes, embarrassed now. ‘More often this past week.’
‘It’s your body preparing for the rigours of childbirth,’ Olga said, tipping the contents of the broken plate into the bin. ‘I remember Lida’s mother describing it to me as if it were yesterday.’
Etti grimaced. ‘I can only hope it will be over quickly. If this is the warm-up, I imagine the real thing will be quite something.’
Olga nodded. ‘You will need every bit of strength,’ she warned, the dustpan still clutched in her hand. ‘I remember Ana saying it was like a gigantic mountain she had to climb and each step felt as if she was not moving forward. It seemed she would never reach the other side. Then all of a sudden, at twilight, just when she said she could no longer go on, Lida was born. Sometimes you can’t see your progress until you look back.’
‘Did you never have children?’ Etti said.
‘No.’ Olga’s eyes shifted to me. ‘It was not my fate. But I have my Lida. She is my daughter now.’ Replacing the dustpan and broom in the cupboard, she fetched a dishcloth and ran it beneath the tap, then wrung it out and handed it to Etti, who wiped it across her face.
‘I will take my bath now,’ Olga said. ‘And leave you two to talk. I imagine Lida will have questions to ask you, Etti. Ana was Estonian, you know.’
Etti cocked her head. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. You should ask her about the lace, Lida,’ Olga prompted. ‘She might be able to tell you about the pattern.’ We watched her disappear out into the hallway. A moment later the floorboards overhead creaked.
When I looked back at Etti, it was to find her studying the lace shawl around my throat.
‘Did your mother knit this?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘It’s lovely.’ Etti’s fingers wound through the lace. ‘It’s an unusual pattern, but not altogether uncommon. Different to mine.’ She touched her own shawl. ‘As you see, mine is a lilac leaf pattern. It’s a very old pattern. Estonia is full of lilac bushes and we use the wood to make knitting needles. Who taught your mama? Where did she learn?’
‘Somebody showed her how. A woman – a friend – from Haapsalu. Mother lived there for a short time with family.’
Etti’s face brightened. ‘Haapsalu? You know Haapsalu?’
‘Only the little my mother told me about it.’
‘Perhaps your mother’s family are still there,’ Etti suggested.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know anyone here; I haven’t met any other Estonians anyway. Except for you and a young man called Jakob Rebane.’
Etti froze, her hand still wrapped around the lace. ‘Jakob? You know my cousin?’
I stared at her. I felt my mother’s shadow pass behind me. ‘I wouldn’t say I know him, exactly,’ I said, my mind wondering at this unexpected connection. ‘I met him today, very briefly. He gave us a lift from the station when we were stranded.’
Etti sighed. ‘That sounds like our Jakob. He can never resist a pretty face. Oh—’ She frowned suddenly. ‘I didn’t mean that to sound as if he’s impulsive, or that he has a lot of girlfriends. He doesn’t – I would know; Tartu is not such a big place.’ After studying the shawl a moment longer, she let the lace fall. ‘Are you a knitter yourself?’
I shook my head. ‘No. But I would love to learn. Mama taught me to speak Estonian. I think she always hoped we would come back together.’
Etti’s gaze was thoughtful. ‘That is impressive. It’s a difficult language. One of the hardest to master. You should learn to knit, if you can. It will give you something to do here in the evenings. A few years ago, everybody knitted or carded the wool. In the winter, there’s little else to do. Now everybody is busy working, scraping to get by. Even children are expected to work in the mines or pull turnips at the kolkhoz – the collective farms, you know. People don’t have time for knitting. And there’s a shortage of wool to contend with, too, which is a shame. But there are more important things than knitting to think about. Who even knows if I’ll have a job to come back to once this little one is born?’ Her expression clouded. ‘While they’re replacing Tiina they may replace me as well. There’s plenty of others who’d love to have a job like this; one that doesn’t carry the risk of the mines or breaking your back in a soggy field. All we can do is make the best of our time, I suppose.’
‘But doesn’t it bother you?’ The question burst out before I could hold it back.
‘Does what bother me?’
I thought of all the things I had learned about the Estonians today; the desperation of those men to do what they did at the train station this morning, the anxiety Etti must feel at the uncertainty of a future dependent on the Partorg’s favour.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I said, eventually. ‘And yet you are punished. You and your family, your fellow Estonians. How do you stand it? Don’t you want to – to fight back?’
Etti’s gaze flicked towards the kitchen doorway, but it was empty.
‘No,’ she said, loud enough to make it obvious she was speaking not just for my benefit. ‘I do not want to fight back.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But since you are int
erested in our shawls, let me explain it this way.’ She unknotted the shawl around her shoulders and held it up. ‘I think of life here as being like this shawl, Lydia. A triangle. Before, it was us on top. We were the tip of the triangle. Now . . .’ She flipped the shawl upside down and draped it across my lap. ‘We are on the bottom. But one day, perhaps we will be on top again. For now, we must make do.’
I bit my lip and looked down at the shawl Etti had spread across my skirt. The pattern was different to my mother’s; it was a series of small triangles, with lace bobbles attached at each of the points.
Etti pushed back her chair. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, worrying about us,’ she said, quietly this time so that even if Olga did happen to be treading down the stairs, she would not be able to discern the words. ‘If you’d like me to, I can take your shawl with me to knitting circle the next time I go. My cousin Kati would be excited to see how far this shawl has travelled. She’s about your age. It’s so rare for any young people to be interested in these things now. Especially half-Russians.’
She smiled to let me know this was not an insult. Removing her hand, she bent and gathered up the shawl, draping it around her shoulders. ‘Well, I should start for home. Mama will be finished her shift soon and if I’m not there, she will worry. It’s her—’
The sound of sudden, wild screaming filled the air. Etti and I exchanged frightened looks.
‘Stay here.’ The bobbles on her shawl bounced as she crossed into the next room. I heard her inhale sharply, and I jumped up. Through the window, I could see purple dusk sifting down over the trees. Sounds filtered in: birds lifting from the trees, boots running on the pavement outside.
‘What’s happening?’
As if in answer, a man began to shout in Russian, his voice filling the street outside. ‘Get your hands off me!’
There was the sound of scuffling and then a grunt of pain.
Etti and I hurried to the window, where we saw a man behind the long iron bars of the fence. His arms were being held by a soldier in uniform. Beside him, a woman stood silently, hugging a small child to her chest.
Lace Weaver Page 17