Lace Weaver

by Lauren Chater

  Oskar grinned. Strawberry seeds glinted in his teeth. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Well then.’ I settled back, still watching him, and pinched a blade of grass between my fingers. ‘There was a woodcutter who went into the forest. He went to cut down a birch but in a human voice it shouted, “Do not kill me! I am young! I have many children!” So he took pity on it. He chose an oak-tree instead. But the oak-tree called out, “Do not kill me! I’m not fully grown! If you kill me now, no oaks will ever grow here again!” Next he tried an ash-tree. “No, no!” cried the tree. “I was married but yesterday! What will become of my bride?” It’s no use, thought the woodcutter. I can’t do it. My heart is not made of stone. But what shall I do? If I don’t cut down trees, I shall starve. Just then a little forest spirit appeared and, in reward for saving the trees, gave the man a golden staff not several inches long and no thicker than a knitting needle. The staff had magic powers – it could summon food and beat his enemies and make barns spring up from nothing. And so the woodcutter never wanted for anything ever again.’ I scrunched the grass blade up in my hand.

  ‘And he lived happily until the end of his days,’ Oskar said softly.

  ‘So he did.’ I tossed the grass away and watched a flock of spotted skylarks swoop over the trees. From the distant farmhouse came the sound of someone calling.

  ‘Your mother wants you,’ I said.

  Oskar’s smile faded. ‘Probably needs me to cut more firewood and bring the cows in.’ He sat up, shaking his hair out of his eyes. ‘It’s not her fault.’

  I picked up our schoolbooks and climbed to my feet. When I looked back, I was surprised to find that Oskar had not moved.

  ‘I wish I had a golden staff,’ he muttered. He reached out and plucked the whittled acorn from the grass. Rolling it in his palm, he said, ‘I would use its magic to summon up a feast every night. And to give Aime a new dress each month. And to buy new tools so I could make furniture to sell and mend the holes in our roof. I’d use the money to buy you the finest gold necklace and you’d be happy.’

  He sounded so low it made my heart ache. Kneeling down, I placed my hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t need a gold necklace.’ I plucked the acorn from his hand. The timber was warm, the top ridged and the bottom smooth. ‘I’m happy here now, with you. I’d rather have this acorn than a gold necklace. Where would I wear it? And the trees might object to your felling them just to buy me things. They might cry out in protest. Listen.’ I inclined my head. ‘I think I can hear them now saying “Please Oskar, have mercy! Think of our poor wives!’’’

  Oskar wrinkled his nose but his lips were pinched together, as if he were trying not to laugh. I stood and held out my hand to help him up. Our palms met.

  An owl screeched loudly. An owl? Owls did not fly in the day.

  My eyes snapped open. Everything rushed back with horrible clarity. Mama and Papa were gone. The Russians had shot them. Grief flooded my body like bitter poison. My chest ached with loss as I replayed their final moments, watching them die over and over again. Not only were they gone, but Jakob and Oskar were gone too. And I was in the farmhouse with Hilja.

  My neck was stiff on one side. The candle near my feet guttered. Beyond its puddle of light, I could see Hilja’s outline. She shifted, drawing up her legs and then stretching them out.

  ‘You were dreaming,’ she said. ‘I could tell.’

  She hadn’t slept, then. I tried to brush off the vague discomfort I felt as I imagined her watching me while I dozed. ‘What time is it? How long did I sleep?’

  Hilja leaned forward and rolled her shoulders, then slumped back against the wall. ‘Not long. It’s still night. There are many hours—’ She sat up suddenly, her face alert. ‘Did you hear that?’

  My pulse quickened. Yes, I had heard it – the swishing of branches being pushed aside. Feet vibrating the ground. Loud whispers and panting gasps, like the collective breath of a hundred different voices erupting all at once.

  Hilja sprang up, and I scrambled to my feet. She turned as someone tapped on the door, the edge of her boot catching the candle. For a second the flame danced, a quivering orb of crimson and orange.

  Then the door fell open, snuffing out the light.

  The sudden darkness breathed in ragged gasps. It shifted and cursed and cried. It was muffled sobbing, the squeak of shoes, a child’s questions cut short by a stifled hand. The acrid stench of body odour and dirt in a confined space.

  Hilja’s torch flickered on. Its beam crossed the floor and swung in a wide arc across the refugees who had flung themselves into the farmhouse and now stood pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the room. Old lined faces, young tired ones. A woman with a toddler slung across her chest, its face buried against her shoulder. They all turned away from the light as it roved across them, as if seeking the protection of the darkness.

  Something touched my leg, and I started. All my nerve endings sang with tension.

  A man stepped forward, shielding his eyes. ‘Hilja?’

  Hilja froze the beam on him. ‘Yes, Jaak.’

  He lowered his hand as Hilja swung the beam away.

  ‘How many?’ Hilja said.

  ‘Around twenty. We picked them up near the station.’

  Hilja muttered something under her breath. The torch beam wavered. ‘Any injuries?’

  Somebody whimpered softly.

  ‘None that I could see.’ Jaak shuffled his feet. He seemed nervous. Before the beam had left him in shadow, I’d caught the sheen of his ragged hair and, more worryingly, a long scarlet stain near his jacket collar. But Jaak did not seem injured. Was the blood Oskar’s? Was it Jakob’s? I imagined their bodies laid out like Imbi and Aime’s; Jakob’s back hunched, the too-small jacket stretched across his frozen shoulders. Oskar with his arms flung out, eyes clouded with death. I thought of asking Jaak for news, but he was already backing away, as if he did not want to linger. ‘You’ll be leaving soon?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Good.’ Jaak glanced behind him again. ‘Be careful.’ He gave her a curt nod. The wind blew through the open door as he slipped away.

  Hilja trained the torchlight on her own face.

  ‘I’m Hilja,’ she said, speaking in Estonian. ‘I will take you to the camp. You need to keep up. Anyone who doesn’t will be left behind.’ The newcomers muttered quietly as Hilja reached into her knapsack and passed a slim water bottle to the nearest person, an old man with unkempt white hair. ‘We will stop once for water. Once for food.’

  ‘We have nothing,’ one of the women said, her voice quivering. ‘There was no time to gather anything.’

  ‘I have dried cakes you can share,’ Hilja replied. ‘They’re not appetising but they’ll have to do until we reach camp.’ She paused. ‘You must know that there can be no going back once we reach the camp. Your lives, as you knew them, are over. Until Estonia is returned to us, you will be outlaws. Shot on sight by the Soviets. If you betray us, we will kill you. There is no middle ground. You are Forest Brothers now, or Sisters. Eventually, when things settle, you will take an oath. You may be given new names, if it is considered too dangerous for you to be known by your old one. Is everybody of the same understanding?’

  The group was silent.

  ‘Good.’ Hilja handed me the torch, tracking its beam onto the floor. ‘Kati, can you organise them? Single file. Women with children at the front, elderly in the middle. Men at the back. I need to check outside. I will wait in the trees across the glade; when I give you the signal, we will move out.’

  Obediently, I moved among the group, examining them to determine which place they should occupy. The task was a welcome distraction from the images of Jakob and Oskar’s corpses which replayed themselves in my mind. When the weak torch beam hit the last two figures – two women, holding hands – I gasped and dropped the torch. It rolled away, sending fractured light spinning in all directions.

  ‘Etti?’ I leaped forward, clasping my cousin to my chest. Her rounded belly nudged my h
ip. ‘What happened to you?’

  Etti did not respond, and immediately I felt the beginnings of dread creep through me. I said her name again, shaking her gently, but she turned her head away.

  ‘She’s in shock,’ said a voice from the darkness. ‘We all are. Please. Aita meid. Help us.’ I scrambled to retrieve the torch. Its light spilled over the features of a young woman. Her hair was the shade of stewed berries, a deep auburn, almost black.

  ‘Who are you?’ I frowned at her, trying to place her face. Etti did not have friends I didn’t know. Our world was small; and yet this woman, this girl, was clasping my cousin’s hand as if they were sisters who would not be wrenched apart.

  She sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters to me.’ I stepped closer to her. ‘You are Russian, I can tell by your accent. How do we know they haven’t sent you in here to gain our trust? How do we know you won’t go running to the nearest outpost as soon as we stop?’ Fear made me bold. I snatched at her arm, forcing her to turn towards me so I could push the light into her face. ‘Who are you?’ I repeated, louder this time, forgetting the others lined up outside, waiting for Hilja’s signal to move into the trees.

  The girl dropped Etti’s hand, and lifted her tired, defeated eyes to mine. ‘I’m Lydia Volkova.’

  I realised with a start that her orange skirt was stained with blood. And then her words registered in my brain. ‘Like the Partorg?’

  She nodded, her shoulders slumping. ‘He’s . . . my father.’

  Cold spread through my body and I turned away, unable to look at this woman. ‘I must tell Hilja. She’ll know what to do with you.’

  I took a few steps towards the open door where the others were huddled.

  ‘Kati, Mama is gone.’ Etti’s voice was soft. It was the voice of a lost child, of someone who has become untethered from the world. In the torch’s fragile light, she shook like a leaf bent by the wind. Her eyes stared at the ground, seeing nothing. ‘They shot her. She’s dead.’ Lydia and I moved towards her at the same time. Our hands met around Etti’s shoulders and I pulled away, feeling as if her skin had burned me.

  ‘Lydia must come.’ Sobs now racked Etti’s body. ‘You must bring her, Kati. She’s not one of them. She’s like us. I won’t leave her behind.’

  ‘The signal,’ somebody hissed through the open door. ‘Hurry!’

  ‘We have to go,’ I said. I began to shuffle Etti towards the door. I shot a dark look at the figure of the girl who had stayed behind, her shadow already blending into the darkness. ‘Etti, you’re delirious. The grief – I know, it is—’

  ‘No.’ Etti dug her shoes into the sticky floorboards. ‘I won’t leave her, Kati. She tried to help Mama. And her mother was Estonian. She is a friend.’

  I sighed. No matter how I tried to force Etti forward, the bulk of her would not shift. ‘Etti, please.’

  ‘What is going on?’ Hilja’s razor-sharp voice hissed in the doorway. ‘I gave you the signal, Kati! What are you doing? This is not a game!’

  Sweat was forming all over my body. ‘I found my cousin. She’s in shock.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Hilja grabbed Etti’s arm roughly. ‘Get her out, then. Get her moving. We don’t have time for this.’

  She marched Etti towards the door. The moonlight rimmed Etti’s face as Hilja shoved her outside. My cousin gave me one last, despairing, pleading glance.

  I took a step forward and then another, the torch beam shimmering ahead.

  The darkness gathered in the room behind me, a thick wall, silent save for a small noise, coming in mechanical intervals. The short, sharp intake of breath; a deep expulsion of panic from the lungs.

  I swallowed, trying to calm myself and make a decision. I looked back at the darkness that held the Partorg’s daughter. Hilja would kill her. I could leave her here; she would find her way to somewhere, eventually. This safe point would no longer be safe, but at least my conscience would be assuaged.

  Beyond the open door, the trees shifted and swayed. I heard the low hum of voices.

  My cousin’s face swam before my eyes; her eyes hollow, leaden. Aunt Juudit was dead. My parents, too. Oskar’s family. The women from the knitting circle would be gone too. Even if they had survived the purge, we would probably never see them again. To try would be to put their lives in danger. Jakob was somewhere in the woods, perhaps wounded or dying. Etti was the only one I could protect; and in her grief she had attached herself to someone who could turn on us at any moment. What had she said? Like us. The girl was like us.

  Another thought rose up. Something my mind had missed in the shock of seeing Etti again and the overwhelming anger the Partorg’s daughter had stirred in me.

  A lace shawl. The torch beam had picked it out, wound around the girl’s shoulders. And she’d spoken Estonian, although the words were strangely curt, heavily accented.

  I turned back, swinging the light across the floor. She was standing against the wall, her hands grasped beneath her chin. Her blue eyes stared straight ahead and although she could not possibly see me, standing behind the glare of the torch, I had the strangest feeling of connection.

  It was as if I were seeing my wolf, made human. Alone, hunted. Something in me recognised that ache, the hunger that would never cease. She shrank back. A corner of her shawl slipped, and she tugged it up over her shoulder. The white lace enswathed the cream blouse she was wearing. The torch beam trembled as I moved towards her until we were inches apart. She smelled of faded perfume.

  It couldn’t be, and yet it was.

  Lightning pattern, long rows of it. And at the very bottom a wolf’s paw, half-hidden in the lace like a footprint buried in the snow.

  ‘Where did you get that shawl?’ I demanded.

  The woman flinched as I reached out and fingered the lace. I rubbed my thumb over the wolf’s paw and felt a surge of response, a current travelling through a wire. Up close I could see the stitches were not my grandmother’s; they were not fine enough. But the wolf’s paw . . . It could not be a coincidence.

  ‘It was my mother’s.’ Up close, I could see dust smeared on the woman’s face. A branch had torn the skin of her cheek. ‘Ta oli eestlane. She was Estonian, as Etti said.’ She lifted her hand and wiped it across her forehead. ‘Leave me here,’ she said. ‘Go. I would not blame you.’

  An owl screeched again outside. A warning? I licked my lip, tasting salt.

  I should leave her. Why risk taking someone who would be searched for, hunted? I had no doubt the Partorg would come looking. I let the lace shawl fall from my fingers and the woman shrank back, nodding, as if she’d already decided her fate for me.

  I began to turn away.

  My grandmother’s voice came back to me, loud and clear as if she was standing behind me, hidden in the shadows. Why do we make shawls? Not only for ourselves but to send our Estonian traditions out into the world.

  Here was a shawl which had come back.

  Before I could change my mind, before I could quieten the voice of warning screaming in my head, I seized her shoulder and dragged her outside with me, into the night.

  *

  ‘Over there.’

  Hilja’s voice rasped. I rubbed at my bleary eyes, trying hard to focus where she was pointing. The others shuffled around me. I gazed down at the twisted nest of fallen birch logs. The grey light of dawn turned their trunks the colour of faded bruises.

  ‘Climb up.’ Hilja grunted as she hoisted herself onto the nearest trunk, then straightened. She held her arms out for balance. ‘Walk to the end. Then make sure you jump across to the other side. We can’t leave track marks for the Soviets to find.’ She jerked her head at the copse of trees ahead. ‘Camp is there, beyond those spruces.’

  A buzz of excitement thickened the air.

  ‘Etti, we are close.’ I turned to look at her. ‘We are here.’ My cousin’s face did not change. She still wore the same weary expression. Dark shadows were gathered beneath her eyes. Her dress was s
tained with mud. Spider webs clung to her hair. When I brushed them off, she closed her eyes and drew a long breath in through her nose. I kissed her cheek. It was cold. The faint scent of vomit lingered on her breath.

  For hours, we had stumbled along, slapping at bugs, fighting the branches that scratched at our faces. We hadn’t spoken, too busy concentrating on following the flash of Hilja’s torch.

  Only once had we heard a volley of shots break the silence. Hilja had pulled us into the undergrowth, where we had lain for what seemed like hours on our stomachs, unable to move as the insects crawled across our skin, waiting for Hilja to tell us it was safe to keep moving.

  Etti had been the last to emerge. She had shaken off my grasp on her shoulder, wanting to stay curled beneath the bracken and the coiled fronds.

  ‘I can’t move,’ she said, her voice edged with panic. Her arms were wrapped about her waist. ‘Something is squeezing me! It won’t let go!’ Her breathing came in short gasps. I watched helplessly as she shuddered, arching her back against my hand, her sobbing muffled by leaves.

  ‘Please try, Etti.’ I could feel sweat soaking into my hand. I looked in desperation at the line of refugees moving away from us, through the trees. What if we were left behind?

  ‘You must get up!’ I said. ‘Come, I’ll help you!’

  Etti twisted and writhed. When I put my hand under her arm, she ripped it fiercely away. I was on the verge of calling out for Hilja when Lydia appeared, her white shawl gleaming in the darkness.

  ‘Etti is ill!’ I said, although the words seemed so insufficient. ‘I can’t get her to move . . .’

  ‘Let me see.’ Moving the ferns apart, the Partorg’s daughter kneeled beside Etti’s prostrate form. I heard them whispering and moments later, Lydia stood up and helped my trembling cousin to her feet.

  ‘It’s gone, now,’ Etti said. She sounded weary and exhausted. ‘The feeling.’

  ‘You are sure?’ Our breath mingled in the darkness.

  ‘Yes.’ She took a wobbly step forward, clutching Lydia’s arm. ‘Come on, Lida.’