Lace Weaver

by Lauren Chater

  ‘At the farmhouse,’ I told my cousin. I felt a little frisson of anticipation shiver across my skin.

  Etti was still looking at me. ‘So? You should go there.’

  I hesitated. The farmhouse still held terrible memories for me. But Oskar was waiting for me.

  ‘You don’t need me?’ I said.

  Etti heaved a long sigh that reminded me of Aunt Juudit. ‘Do you plan to make a professional career out of worrying once Estonia is restored, Katarina Mägi?’ She pushed me with her free hand, using the other to hold the sleeping Leelo against her. ‘Go!’

  I made myself move, pushing people aside until I found a man with a lorry who was unloading his truck with crates that contained loaves of grey bread as hard as concrete. When I told him where I needed to go he motioned me up into the back of the vehicle. I squeezed myself between the rows of empty crates, the faint loamy scent of the bread drifting over me. The lorry started with a rumble. Seconds later, we were pulling out onto the road.

  *

  Oskar stood outside the farmhouse with one hand raised, his shirt a white smudge against the timber. The sound of hammering echoed across the clearing. As I reached the gate my foot snapped a twig in two. The sound reported like the whip-crack of gunfire.

  Oskar spun around, his features tightening. Then his face broke into a smile. He dropped his arms to his sides and called out to me, the hammer still clutched in one hand.

  ‘Mrs Mägi. You came.’

  It was strange to hear him call me that. In my mind, Imbi had been Mrs Mägi until now.

  I walked slowly across the clearing until I reached the garden and the little path that led up to the house. Most of the garden had been weeded, I realised, the soil turned. I made my way to where Oskar was standing at the top of the porch.

  ‘I did.’ I glanced up and my breath hitched in my chest. The house had been partially restored, the broken panes replaced, new shutters folded over them. The broken front door had been removed and another of solid oak stood in its place, painted a bright cheery yellow like melted butter. The porch had been painted, too, and by the side of the door sat a new rocking chair. New thatch gleamed on the roof.

  Oskar leaped down the steps and dropped the hammer in the grass. He took my hand. ‘It’s not finished,’ he warned.

  I stared in wonder. ‘How did you manage this?’

  I moved up the steps as if I was dreaming, running my hand along the wooden railing which stretched the length of the porch. The smell of paint and varnish filled the air.

  ‘You like it, then.’ Oskar’s arm encircled my waist.

  ‘Like it?’ I could not stop smiling. ‘It’s wonderful!’

  I tried to peer into the window which belonged to Oskar’s bedroom but Oskar moved in front of it, blocking my path. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘There’s more?’ I pretended to peek around his shoulder, but he caught me and drew me to him and pressed his lips to my mouth. Desire leaped in my stomach. We stayed like that for a long moment, our lips joined, sunshine dancing on our skin.

  When we broke apart, he looked so young, so much like the old Oskar it was almost impossible to believe how much had changed from that fifteen-year-old boy who had first kissed me in the field I could see beyond the porch railings.

  ‘It’s only the start,’ he said. ‘I intend to improve it further, in time, not just clean it. But I only have a few hours a week. And limited resources. What you see here is the result of what the Germans gave me in exchange for my services to the Home Guard. Whatever else I need I will have to trade or barter for. I want to fix up the garden, of course. I’ve cleared out most of the sodden boards inside. And the cobwebs are gone, you’ll notice. No more spiders.’

  And no more ghosts, I added to myself, unable to stop myself thinking of his mother, his sister and Hilja. And the others. All of them gone.

  ‘I pity spiders.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Everybody thinks so badly of them.’ I leaned against the porch, the timber pressing against my shirt to warm the skin on my back. ‘But they’re clever. They know how to play dead, how to wait and when to feed. And of course, they make lace. A sort of lace. They’re weavers. And often overlooked. Do you remember the tale of the spider and the wind?’

  Oskar raised an eyebrow. ‘I must have forgotten it.’ He kissed my hand. ‘Will you tell it to me?’

  ‘If you like.’ As the scent of rampant weeds and wild juniper blew over us, I told him the story of the little spider who went to find the wind and was tricked by the fly.

  ‘That’s a sad story,’ Oskar said, but he was still grinning.

  ‘At least the spider always eats first,’ I said. ‘That is her consolation. And of course, she can make lace cobwebs. Like me.’

  Oskar leaned over and kissed my neck. ‘Enough about spiders,’ he said. His breath on my skin made me shiver. ‘Come in, now. There’s something I want you to see.’

  We stepped inside.

  I was aware of my body tensing. My eyes strayed to the corner where Imbi and Aime’s bodies had lain. But the floor was clean and dry, the cobwebs gone as Oskar had promised. Was it possible that the ghosts of the past had finally found peace?

  ‘Watch the boards.’ Oskar’s voice tickled my ear. ‘I’ve removed the waterlogged ones, but I haven’t replaced all of them yet.’

  He guided me across the floor, nudging my leg with his knee if I came too close to a missing plank. Slowly, we made our way past the kitchen, heading towards the back of the house where the bedrooms lay. It was not so very different to skating, to moving as one across the ice while the wind blew cold enough to make our ears ache. In the old days, we had spent every winter sledding through the snow or spinning in circles across the glassy surface of the river beyond Oskar’s farmhouse. Those memories glowed as brightly as baubles hanging on a Christmas tree. They were scented with cinnamon and spiced apple, laced with Aime’s happy laughter and Imbi’s scolding when we stayed out past dusk. One night we had witnessed an amazing spectacle as ribbons of light twisted across the sky – starry violet, glacial aquamarine, pink as brilliant as the rambling wild roses that burst into bloom in summer. My grandmother had once told me that the aurora lights were reflections of a celestial marriage feast taking place in the sky. The shimmering colours mirrored their glass sleighs and gilded plates and the coats of their giant stallions racing over the land. Unable to draw ourselves away, Oskar and I had clung together, our clouded breath mingling, children marvelling at a miracle that might never occur again in our lifetime.

  We reached the door to the bedroom Oskar had once occupied. When he pushed it open, I expected the lingering smell of dust and rotten timber to envelop me. Instead, only the pungent scent of fir trees unfurled. I stepped inside, glancing up at the beams where bunches of pine needles had been tied. Their crisp menthol scent washed over everything, burning into my lungs, making my blood race and my heart pound. My feet creaked on the new floorboards below. I spun in a half-circle, taking in the other details of a room that had once been as familiar as my own. The bookshelf was still full of books, juniper branches twisted between them to ward off mice. A new timber bedstead had been pushed against the wall and a double mattress lain over it, covered in soft sheets and a knitted quilt.

  ‘What do you think?’ Oskar batted gently at a clump of pine needles, causing some of them to scatter. The sound was like falling rain. ‘Do you remember when your papa would not let you camp in the forest with me, so I got Mama to help me hang fir branches from the roof so we could have our own forest for the day?’

  A ghost smile teased his mouth. ‘We were finding them for weeks; pine needles folded in my clothes, pressed between the pages of books. But the look on your face . . .’ Bending, he grasped a pine needle between forefinger and thumb. The bruised scent of the fir made me want to cry. ‘You were so happy. I think that was the day I decided I would marry you.’ His smile became frozen for just a moment. ‘How simple everything seems when we are
children.’

  Oskar closed his hand around the fir. He looked away from me towards the window where the sun was starting to shrink down behind the tallest trees. I sensed he was thinking of Imbi and Aime. He had stored up his grief after their death and there had never been a chance for him to release it. Like me, the memory of what had happened had become a poison running deep beneath his skin. Only by sharing the truth of what happened could he be free.

  I moved towards him at last, fighting the desire to reach up and kiss him. Instead, I touched his shoulder gently.

  ‘Oskar. Did you see them die?’

  He stilled, one finger on the chest of drawers. I sensed him gathering the words, crushing them to his chest until the thorns pricked so hard he must release them or bleed.

  Eventually he nodded. In a voice that shook, he described the way he had gone out early to collect blueberries for his mother. The terror when he returned in time to see the Russian agents enter the house. The screaming. The silence that followed. The guilt that had woken him each night as he lay shivering in the forest, imagining the ghosts of Imbi and Aime stood beside him, unable to rest due to the violent nature of their deaths. ‘I’ve lived with it every day,’ he said. ‘Asking myself: what if I had come back earlier? What if I had taken my father’s pistol from the box and killed those men when they appeared?’

  He gripped his hands together tightly. I could see his knuckles straining through the skin. I laid my hands over his.

  ‘You would be dead, Oskar,’ I said softly. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  Oskar nodded. The bed groaned as he eased himself down on it, resting his elbows on his thighs. ‘I’m sorry I never came to you,’ he said, looking up at me. ‘I couldn’t stand for you to think I would do that. It ate at me like an illness and yet, I couldn’t put you in that danger. I had to wait, and I knew that perhaps I would be waiting until I was an old man. And now you’re here. We are married. You know the truth about my mother and Aime. But I’ve changed. I’ve done things . . . I don’t deserve . . .’

  He broke off, lowering his chin, clasping his head in his hands.

  Leaning down, I drew his face close and kissed him. His lips were soft. He tasted of rain and sodden berries. At first he resisted, but slowly, he began to respond.

  I sank to my knees, and his arm slid around my middle to grip me tightly, as if I were the precious ballast on a ship that might suddenly disintegrate and leave him swirling in deep currents. When we broke apart, it was only to fill our lungs with air. Oskar’s cheeks were flushed. I kissed his closed eyes, allowing my lips to linger before I moved my mouth to the soft curve where his jaw met his ear. Feather-light, I kissed the skin there, my body prickling as I heard him sigh. I drew back slightly and let my hands fan out across his back, delaying the moment of surrender.

  Oskar’s hands were warm around my waist as he drew me closer. In some distant part of my mind, I knew my knees were aching on the timber floor. I gasped as he moved my skirt aside and nudged my legs gently apart. He lifted me in one movement so that I was straddling him and his hands cupped my bottom, fingers splayed. As he pressed against me, heat shifted to my groin and a wave of longing crested through my body. Distantly, I was aware of my hand reaching down to unbutton his trousers. Perhaps it was Oskar’s. I could no longer tell where I ended and he began. It was as if our pleasure had melted us together. When he paused to look at me, his hand resting between my bare legs, I could not tell if it was me who spoke, urging him on or if it was he who mouthed the words, seeking permission. I couldn’t tell if it was really me who answered, in a voice so raw I imagined my skin peeling away, stripped to nothing by the fever pitch of our desire now allowed free rein.

  I did not make a sound as he entered me, too lost in warm oblivion. There was nobody to stop us this time; no interruptions. Each moment was its own perfect prism, relief and solace combined. As our rhythm quickened, I felt my control slip. Tears stung my eyes. I gave in and heard myself cry out.

  At last, when the tremors had subsided, we slipped apart. Our breathing slowed. Our hands were pressed together, our bodies cooling. I wriggled up to lay my head against his chest.

  ‘Kati.’ Oskar’s breath stirred my hair. ‘That was—’

  He swallowed. Cleared his throat. I squeezed his fingers.

  ‘I know,’ I said. His lips brushed against my forehead. What could we say that we hadn’t already told each other? I snuggled against him. I could easily have slept. My limbs felt heavy, my thoughts circling drowsily, reliving each moment of our love-making. But I forced myself up onto one elbow. The afternoon sun was beginning to cast long shadows against the wall.

  ‘We should get back. Curfew starts soon,’ I said.

  Oskar grunted, one hand propped beneath his head, then he ran his thumb along my collarbone. I smiled as he shifted, moving down my body to draw lazy circles with his tongue over my breast. ‘Just a few more minutes, then,’ he said, his teeth grazing my skin. ‘We’ve had such little time to practise being married.’

  He resumed his licking and I lay back, drowning beneath the sweet sensations he conjured with his tongue. ‘Just a few minutes more. Otherwise they’ll look for you,’ I said. ‘You don’t want to annoy the German officers. You know what they’re like; such sticklers for rules.’

  Oskar pulled away. I sighed. What I had said was true. The Germans did not forgive rule-breakers. When I opened my eyes, I realised Oskar was frowning.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘Kati, there is something I want you to promise me.’

  ‘Anything.’ I said. I could not stop a smile twitching the corners of my mouth. ‘Is it something you want me to do for you? Because I—’

  Oskar interrupted me. ‘No. It’s the barracks. I don’t want you to go there. If you need me, just send word via telegram and I will meet you here. It’s not safe. There are so many German soldiers in Tartu now. I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you. So, you will promise, yes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He looked so worried that I reached down and grasped his fingers, bringing them slowly to my mouth to kiss the callused tips, the small whorls that creased his skin.

  ‘I promise,’ I said. Very gently, I drew his finger into my mouth. I half-expected him to laugh but instead, he groaned. A sense of power such as I had never known rippled through me, setting my limbs aflame.

  ‘Kati.’ He said my name with reverence.

  A tiny network of scars shone in the hollow of his collarbone. I could not draw my eyes away from them; a tiny web that marked his skin. I would be the spider now. I would spin the lacy web that concealed us both and led him away from death and into the light.

  Egg Stitch

  Lydia

  Joachim.

  I heard his name in every step I took up the staircase to our apartment. Each excited thud of my heart felt like treachery. The squeak of my hand sliding up the peeling banister was the sound of Joachim’s shoes slipping on the pavement as the agent dragged him into the Packard. Help me. I shook my head, trying to dislodge his voice, but I could still hear it, a wordless cry.

  I had left him, abandoning him to death or deportation. It didn’t matter much which one. I did not deserve the happiness I felt whenever Jakob was around. I certainly did not deserve the tingle of pleasure that ran up and down my spine as Jakob reached for my hand and led me out onto the landing. I fumbled in my pocket for the key and then took my time fitting it to the lock, twisting it this way and that, delaying the moment when I would have to choose whether to make the betrayal of my former lover complete.

  ‘Here. Let me.’ Jakob’s fingers moved over mine. One twist. The door swung open.

  Jakob extended his arm, waiting for me to enter.

  ‘It’s safe,’ he said, when I didn’t move. I almost smiled at his presumption. He thought I was uncomfortable when in truth, I had experienced so many firsts in this apartment in the past two months that it seemed to me almost as familiar as m
y childhood home. I’d grown used to the bare furnishings and the chipped mugs and the kettle which did not whistle when it reached the boil but shrieked loudly. I’d cooked my first broth here, with Kati’s help, and sewn a button onto one of the blouses Etti had lent me. I’d started my own lace shawl, copying a pattern Kati had shown me in one of her samplers.

  I knew all of the apartment’s rooms; the sad one where Juudit had slept and which neither Kati nor Etti wanted, choosing instead to share a bed in Etti’s bedroom while I took the small guest room. The tiny kitchenette with its peeling varnished cupboards and mismatched teacups. The courtyard with its view over Tartu and the geranium plants, the flowers now shrivelled and fading as autumn took hold.

  The parlour was my favourite. When we’d returned after the Germans took over, it was to find that Helle and the others had swept up all the broken things and organised for the ripped armchairs to be thrown away. With so little furniture left, the room seemed a decent size and the big windows let in the warm sunshine, driving away the darkness of the deportations and the sad memories Juudit had left behind.