Lace Weaver
Page 23
The line of refugees was already disappearing through the trees. Hilja’s torch beam bounced off the trunks of white aspens. We hurried to join them. When we stopped for food, Etti took one bite of her cake before thrusting it at me and stumbling away to be sick. She returned, wiping her mouth with her hand, her legs trembling and shaking like a child who is learning how to skate on ice for the first time. Hilja had not noticed, too busy handing out the cakes. Sometimes we had lagged behind, waiting for Etti’s pain to pass before we moved again. The long night stretched out taut as a length of yarn, broken only by moments of panic where I prayed we would not be left and times when I almost wished we would, so that Etti could rest.
At long last, the sky had begun to lighten, the birds warbling their dawn songs. It was both a relief and a source of sorrow. So many would not wake this morning. So many were gone.
I pushed down my grief. People began to help each other climb up onto the fallen trees as Hilja had instructed, edging their way towards the spruce trees. Some people crawled on hands and knees, afraid of slipping.
Levering myself up on my belly, I managed to stand, only wobbling a little before I gained my balance. ‘Etti.’ I reached down a hand.
She glanced away. ‘Where is Lydia?’ she said.
‘Here.’
The Partorg’s daughter melted out of the line of people waiting behind me, as pale as a spirit, her hair like a streak of dark blood spilling onto her shoulders. Hiking her skirt over her knees, she crawled up beside me. Etti stretched out her hand, and Lydia grasped it. Together, they struggled onto the log.
A pang of jealousy stabbed at my side.
Turning away from them, I shuffled forward. A breeze danced through the trees, shaking the leaves, stirring up the scent of warm pine and balsam. The day would be warm and cloudless, as beautiful as any ordinary day. But everything had changed.
I leaped lightly across the gap as Hilja showed us, my boots slapping the shelf of rock, and squeezed myself between the spruces. I heard Lydia and Etti behind me; Etti’s grunt as her feet hit the rock. I wanted to turn and ask her if she needed help, but I feared she would shun me.
I entered the camp alone, and as I stepped into the clearing, my heart sank.
Sometimes when Jakob and I were children, we had camped in the forest near our farmhouse. A tent, a bed roll. A fishing line. We had not needed much to keep ourselves happy. It was the very act of being in nature that delighted us; the warmth of the sun filtering through the leaves, the sandy riverbed where silver fish darted or came to nibble at our bait. The thick perfume of musk flowers and the tang of mushrooms hiding beneath tree roots. We had found an old sauna and placed hot rocks inside and stripped naked, daring each other to see who could stay in the searing heat the longest, emerging at last to feel the night air tighten against our skin. We had declared ourselves wild spirits, refusing to return home when Mama hollered across the fields, demanding we fulfil our chores. It had never occurred to me that the appeal of it all was the possibility we could return home whenever we liked.
Now, that illusion was gone.
The Forest Brothers’ camp was a dreary place. Dozens of lean-tos dotted the landscape, roughly constructed from bark and timber logs and lashed together with coils of wire. A blackened fire pit lay half-submerged in front of them, wind skimming the ashes. People moved around, speaking softly, their gait stiff and wooden. Those not in uniform wore grey, shapeless outfits, faded and scrubbed from many washes in a tub of black, scummy water. Their limbs were thin, faces gaunt. A child emerged suddenly from one of the makeshift shacks. Her hair was a tangled bird’s nest, eyes bright with the kind of fever that comes from having too little to eat. When she saw us, a group of newcomers, she did not move but stared with her lips pressed thinly together.
I read her mind as keenly as if I had stared into her head.
More people. Less food.
I glanced away from her challenging gaze, searching for Hilja. I saw her talking to two resistance fighters, rifles slung across their backs. She caught my eye and although she did not break off her conversation, she inclined her head ever so slightly.
Suddenly, she broke away from her companions and strode towards me.
‘You’ll want to know about your brother.’
My stomach lurched. ‘Yes.’
‘The shots we heard last night.’ She lifted her chin. ‘They were partisans. Two Soviet groups were killed in the forest. Your brother is safe. He did well, it seems.’
I let out a breath, my thoughts immediately turning to Oskar.
‘He’s on his way, with Oskar and the others,’ Hilja continued. ‘They should be here before—’ She broke off as a commotion behind us interrupted her thoughts. I followed her gaze.
Etti was squatting in the dirt, with Lydia beside her. Her face was white, covered in a sheen of sweat. As I watched, she gave a long groan. Her hand tightened around Lydia’s arm, the knuckles whiter than her face. Dirt clouded up around me as I ran to her.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
Lydia looked up at me. ‘It’s her time, I think. She told me. She’s certain.’
Etti gave another groan, loud enough that the other deportees stopped and began to whisper.
‘She can’t.’ I looked around. The trees seemed to be gathering, crowding around us. ‘She can’t have her baby here.’
For the first time, the stench of the latrine hit me full in the face. It was the rank stink of rotten meat in summer, mixed with the dead scent of river water dried to muck in the sun. My mind was a sudden frenzy of churning thoughts. I had seen many sheep born, had even once watched Papa pull a lamb from its mother’s body. I remembered his arm reaching deep inside the ewe, the tautening of his shoulder muscles as he twisted the lamb this way and that, carefully guiding it through the birth canal before at last it spilled out, slippery with fluid, the birthing sac a shrivelled skein around its throat.
I swallowed. This was not like those times. A baby was not a sheep.
Hilja was frowning at us. I ran back to her.
‘My cousin’s baby,’ I said. ‘It’s coming. Are there any doctors here?’
Hilja shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. But there are plenty of women. There’s bound to be someone who can help you.’ She called out to a group of women watching us. ‘Johanna!’ An older woman with eyes like chips of ice and knotted hands came forward. A lace stole was netted around her shoulders; not a shawl, but a narrow scarf. A pattern of snowdrops swirled across the fabric.
Hilja jerked her head. ‘This is Katarina. She thinks her cousin is in labour. Johanna has a daughter here, Liisa, and three grandchildren she delivered herself,’ she told me. ‘She was a midwife in her village outside Kulli before the Russians killed her son.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said, worried that my words would sound callous. ‘But my cousin is having a baby. It’s her first time. She’s frightened. And I don’t know anyone here except the other woman we came with.’
Johanna pushed back her sleeves and turned back to the other women. ‘Liisa. We are needed.’
Her daughter Liisa was a fair-skinned girl with a sleeping toddler draped over her shoulder. She handed the child to another woman and came towards us. Her eyes were small like Johanna’s, her nose a slim stroke beneath fine pale hair; the soft Danish features of the people from northern Estonia who had mixed less with the Russians and so retained their pale fairness. I led them both to where Etti was crouched in the dirt, Lydia still holding her hand. With surprising flexibility, Johanna kneeled beside her, her hands moving across my cousin’s stomach, prodding gently. Etti let out a sob, which became a long cry. It sent the birds in a nearby bush flapping into the air. Johanna waited until Etti’s pain had passed then, with a swift look around, lifted the rim of Etti’s dress and peeked beneath. When she let it fall, she was frowning. ‘This girl has been in labour for some time. Did you never notice?’
‘She didn’t say anything,’ I said, guilt s
uddenly weighing on me. ‘I didn’t know.’ Etti had been running all night, pausing when the pain became too much. And I had yelled at her to hurry, pushing her along. I had not seen what was happening, too terrified of being caught and captured to notice the early signs of her labour. And Lydia had said nothing.
I glared across at the Russian woman. Johanna’s eyes followed my gaze.
‘And you?’ she said to Lydia, raising her eyebrows. ‘Did you not notice?’
Lydia shrank a little, bunching up her shoulders. ‘She asked me not to say anything. Made me promise.’ Her Russian accent was even more pronounced since we were surrounded by women speaking only Estonian. I saw Johanna and Liisa exchange a look of surprise. ‘She didn’t want to worry you,’ Lydia said, directing her words to me. I saw a flash of something in her eyes; defiance? Or guilt?
I continued to glare at her. If Etti had only told me. Why had she not confided in me? Surely she knew I would want to help her. But in the same instance, I knew that I would have kept pushing her, too afraid of Hilja leaving us behind if we lagged. I would not have changed a thing.
Johanna held Etti’s other hand as she whimpered. ‘Liisa, find them a lean-to. Some blankets. Clean water. And fetch me a knife.’
‘Lydia can help you,’ I said, my voice prickly.
‘No.’ Etti’s voice was taut with pain. She gripped Lydia’s hand. ‘I want both of you to stay.’
‘Hurry,’ Johanna warned, as Etti began to whimper again, squeezing Lydia’s hand until the Russian woman’s lip curled in pain. ‘It will not be long now.’
‘It’s all right, Etti,’ I said, trying to soothe her, but I had to force myself to ball up my fist in the pocket of my skirt to resist slapping the Partorg’s daughter across the face.
Stork’s Foot Pattern
Lydia
‘How is she?’
From the doorway of the lean-to Kati’s shadow loomed over me. Her voice was brittle, shards of ice. I could see her hands were tightly clenched. She was angry. One word to Hilja and I would be dead.
I brushed Etti’s hair back from her face, hoping that the small gesture would serve as a reminder that Etti needed both of us. Heat flared in Etti’s cheeks as if a fever had her in its grip. She was panting, her gaze unfocused. ‘The same,’ I said.
Etti had stopped speaking some time ago. Now she only growled or grunted, guttural animal sounds of pain interspersed with laboured breathing.
‘That is normal,’ Johanna had said. The Estonian woman was sitting at the edge of the cassock, every now and then laying her palm across Etti’s belly, murmuring reassurances. I wasn’t sure if Etti even knew she was there; she had retreated into a place we could not follow. The minutes dripped past in agonising slowness. I could not help thinking of my mother. Had she suffered giving birth to me? Olga had told me she laboured for hours and had bled badly afterwards. Had it been like this, each contraction hemmed in by these waves of calm where Mamochka drifted in a trance, unaware of her surroundings? I saw Olga’s hands where Johanna’s lay on Etti’s stomach and imagined my old nursemaid kneeling beside my mother. I wished she was here now. Olga would know what to say and what to do. Grief squeezed my heart like a fist. Where was my Olga? Where had the train taken her with its cargo of screaming, crying children and their exhausted mothers?
Of all my losses, I knew Olga’s would cut the most deeply. Olga had been the last link to Mamochka. Now I was alone, surrounded by strangers. The only one who’d shown me kindness was Etti and she was floating in her own mind, distracted by the brutal pain of childbirth. I’d seen the other women’s faces when I opened my mouth to speak my badly phrased Estonian; the curiosity written on their features. Would Kati tell them who I was? She’d thrown me such a look of hatred earlier, I could not now be sure.
I risked a glance at her, wondering if she was here to denounce me. But she was still standing in the doorway, her hand squeezing the wet cloth Johanna had sent her to fetch while it dripped a puddle onto the dirt.
Etti’s breathing changed, and once again her body shook. I felt my bones grind together as she squeezed my hand. A scream wrenched itself from her throat. Kati’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Johanna said, rubbing Etti’s back. ‘Wait for the pain to pass.’ When it did, Etti eased back, her eyes open but sightless.
‘You seem so confident,’ Kati said, shifting her legs beside the old woman so that they were tucked up beside her. Her pale hair was pulled into a thick braid like a sheaf of wheat that hung down her back. It was the sort of style I had worn when I was younger and I had attended the Young Pioneers, the kind of style the girls at Model School No. 25 would have teased each other for wearing. But it suited her, softening the sharp yellow-green of her eyes. A few knotted strands of pale hair had escaped the weave. She tucked them in away with impatient fingers. ‘I always imagined Aunt Juudit would be here, doing this, helping to bring Etti’s baby into the world. Now I find it is me who must help her. And strangers. And a Russian girl.’ She lifted her chin, levelling her gaze at me. ‘She trusts you.’
‘I don’t know why,’ I said. ‘I don’t deserve any of her pity. Or yours.’
‘She said that you helped her save Aunt Juudit.’ Kati spread one of the blankets out on her lap, picking stray hairs from it.
‘I tried.’ I lifted a shoulder. ‘I failed.’
‘It’s not what your father would have wanted you to do.’
‘Sometimes we have to do what is right,’ I said. ‘Sometimes it’s more important to do right, than to be right.’
Kati said nothing.
Etti’s breathing shifted, changed. She began to low like an animal, the sound digging under my skin and entering my bones.
‘The pain is coming now,’ I said, partly to her, partly to myself. I could feel it cresting within her, like a wave carrying a tiny shell on its lip. I was hardly aware of how I knew, but I was somehow certain that the crescendo of agony ripping her apart must soon reach its peak.
Kati watched us, her eyes wide.
Etti’s scream filled the hut. It seemed such a long time before she released my hand. When she did, we were both gasping.
Johanna moved herself, lifting up onto her haunches. ‘You must unplait her hair,’ she said to Kati, who merely stared at her. ‘It will ease the birth pains,’ Johanna continued, rubbing her hands with a cloth Liisa had given her. ‘We should really be in a sauna.’
‘I will do it.’ Letting go of Etti’s hand, I carefully unknotted the strands of her hair, allowing them to fall across my lap. I used my fingers to unfasten the tangles, stroking with smooth movements before remembering with a wrench of my heart that this was the way Olga had always soothed me. The enormity of her sacrifice was like a sudden blow. My fingers seized, tangled in the copper strands.
Holding Etti’s skirt over her knees, Johanna spread a blanket across her own lap. ‘You will need to push soon,’ she told Etti. ‘There will be great pain, but listen to your body – it will guide you.’
Etti tossed her head, her hair spilling over my knees. ‘I can’t. Kati!’ Her voice cut the air, as thin as a razor. Kati shifted instantly to her side. She clasped her cousin’s hand, wincing at the intensity of Etti’s grip.
‘I’m here, dearest.’
Etti screamed again and then sank back onto the pallet, her breaths filling the air. ‘You promised to sing for me,’ she said at last, her voice a croak.
‘I did?’ Kati’s hand fluttered to her throat.
‘Yes. You said, if Mama forgot the words, you would do it. Remember?’ Between the cries, Etti’s voice was dry from the effort of voicing her pain. Another scream tore itself from her lips, whirling around the makeshift room, howling like the wind caged in a glass lantern.
Kati cleared her throat. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but a squeak, a tiny sound that fizzled then died like an ember winking out.
In the sudden silence, Etti began to cry. ‘I want to die,’ she sobbed. ‘Please. I can’t endure th
is.’ Her body bucked, driven by invisible forces. I looked desperately at Kati but she was frozen, helpless to do anything but watch. Rolling onto her knees, Etti clawed at the ground beyond the pallet, her fingers raking the earth.
I could not bear to see her suffering, this girl I had met just a day ago, this girl who had no husband, no parents. Something kindled in my throat. It started with a word; I strung it together to make more. Soon it was a sentence, a song I didn’t even know I could remember. I heard it in my mother’s voice, and it was as if she were moving through me, her spirit pouring out in a gush of song. Or as if we were singing an old lullaby together in Estonian, walking through the avenue of linden trees towards the greenhouse outside the Kremlin’s walls.
Slumber gently my birdie
I am watching over you
I will not leave your bedside
Now, go off to sleep
In the morning, the wing of an angel
Will wipe sleep from your brow.
I paused to wait until Etti’s next screams had subsided and she lay back, sobbing.
Sleep gently my birdie
You are without worries
Your eyes are still innocent
The world is still undiscovered
In the morning, the wing of an angel
Will wipe sleep from your brow.
It was a song Mamochka had sung to me, taught to her by her aunt.
My voice lifted and died until I could not go on. The pain of memory was too raw. I imagined my birth, my mother’s voice hoarse with labour. I imagined her holding me, a shiny newborn child in her arms. She had not cared that my father did not want me. Everything that I was, it was due to her and to Olga. I wanted to thank her, for the things she had given me, and to thank Olga for being my mother when I had nobody left to care for me. But it was not possible. They were both so far now from where I was. I could only hope that what Mama saw in me and what Olga remembered did not disappoint them and that perhaps, wherever they were, they could hear my singing and it might soothe them.