‘Take them,’ she said. She handed me a ball of yarn. It looked dark in the dim glow from the lanterns. I realised it was not white but the crimson red of the light breaking over the Kremlin’s walls in high summer.
‘Kristiina gave it to me,’ she said. ‘She dyed it with blackcurrants. You can use it to start your own shawl. Here,’ Kati said, teasing out the thread. ‘I’ll make the first stitch for you.’ She made a small loop and slipped the needle through. Then she handed them to me. ‘Try the pasqueflower,’ she said. ‘Just like we practised.’
As the sky continued to rumble, she drew out her own needles and a ragged length of yarn from an old shawl she had unpicked before we left Tartu. I saw some of the women stop sobbing and look up as her needles clicked steadily.
Kristiina had taken her hands away from her ears. Now she reached into her own bag. Her needles were short and chestnut-coloured. She shot me a smile as she hooked the loop stitch. She was making a fragile lace glove; I could see the shape of it already, half-formed, wavering like a silvery cobweb. Following Kristiina’s example, other women, those who had brought their satchels with them, drew out their knitting. The children grew quieter as they listened to the familiar sound of the needles, the low murmurs of women exchanging stories about where they came from. Tales their mothers had taught them. Even the men in the hall were silent. One woman began to hum, and then the humming became words. Soon, others had taken up the song. I tried to tease out the melody but it was like trying to pin down the wind. The rhythm shifted and changed as the women sang, their voices lifting and falling, their words overlapping. I gave up and instead, let the melody wash over me.
When I looked over at Kati, I realised she was crying. ‘It’s runo song,’ she said, swiping at the tears with the back of her hand. ‘I never thought I’d hear it again.’ Her fingers were shaking, and for the first time I saw her drop a few stitches. Wriggling closer, I leaned my shoulder against hers. We listened together. It seemed fitting, almost, that we were sheltering in a concert hall that must once have contained the harmonic strains of an orchestra or a string quartet that sent their notes heavenward. Now, it was the strength of those women’s voices that filled up the space, soft and defiant, tender and comforting. I felt the ghosts of many women crowding close, listening too; my mother beside me, and Kati’s. An old woman; the grandmother she and Jakob always talked about. I laid my hand over the place on my belly where I knew my child was sleeping and wondered if it too could hear this miracle and if it stirred, awakened by the echo of voices from so long ago.
*
I woke in the grey dawn to find my face damp, as if I had been crying. In the hall around me, people were moving, raising their heads from the makeshift pillows they had fashioned from knapsacks, and staggering to their feet. Leelo grumbled as Etti lifted her from the small nest of blankets we had found to cover her. Kati stretched her arms over her head, arching her back like a cat.
‘Are we still alive?’ I said.
‘I think so.’ She twisted her spine one way and then the other. ‘But I am stiffer than the second day of harvest.’
A German soldier at the doorway started to shout that it was safe for people to return to their homes. As we collected our things and spilled out into the square, our breath clouded in front of us. The sky was grey, a cold mist hanging over everything. Away in the distance, a scribble of smoke etched itself above the remains of a blackened building. The reek of burnt timber drifted towards us, blown by the cold breeze.
Kati squinted. ‘That must be the supply depot,’ she said. ‘At least the town seems mostly undamaged.’
Kristiina and Heldur caught up with us near the fountain at the centre of the square, and together we began to trudge back to their house. As we passed a small church, I chanced to look up at the sky, drawn by the church’s steeple that glittered like a glass lancet piercing the sky. My eye snagged on the body of a bird mid-flight, its dark wings fanning the air. It circled the steeple, calling. Its tune was mournful, more like the piping of a flute than the cheery singsong of robins and sparrows.
I felt Kati stop beside me and follow my gaze.
‘A stork,’ she said. ‘I think. I’ve never seen a black one before, though.’
Cold spread up my body. The stork continued to circle, its feathers like soot.
‘It’s so cold – I thought all the birds were gone by now,’ I said.
‘Perhaps he was injured,’ Kati said. ‘And he had to wait. He’d best hurry. If he gets caught in a snowstorm, he’ll die.’
As we stood there watching the stork circling I heard my mother’s voice. Her words were woven together with the stork’s soft cries. I strained hard to listen, to distinguish the two. And then with a dreadful start I realised she was saying Jakob’s name.
I saw Kati’s eyes widen. ‘What is it?’
‘Jakob,’ I croaked. I squeezed my hands tightly. ‘There is something wrong with Jakob.’
Mamochka, I pleaded. Help me! I waited, listening to my own heartbeat drum and to my mother calling him. And then I was weeping.
In that moment I had grasped the truth. Jakob was dead.
I turned away from Kati and from Kristiina and Etti. I forced myself to look up, to search for the black stork that had soared above us, the stork who had waited until winter to leave behind his homeland.
But the sky was empty.
Jakob’s bird was gone.
The Wolf Shawl
Kati
Lydia was still sobbing when we reached Turu Street. It was almost deserted. There were only a few people about, returning to their homes, heads bowed against the cold.
The collar of Lydia’s coat was spattered with tears. She could not catch her breath. Her boots kept slipping on the ice. I supported her on one side and Kristiina the other, both of us whispering encouragement as she said my brother’s name again and again. Kristiina mouthed at me: ‘What’s wrong?’
I could only shake my head, surmising that the stress of not knowing what had happened to my brother was taking its toll. Jakob could not be dead. Could he? A small voice of doubt whispered in my ear but I shut it out. I would know. I would know if my brother was gone. Just as I would know if Oskar had been arrested. When Jakob had first gone to live at the university dorms, I had missed his cheery face at breakfast and chores. I had even missed his teasing. His empty room seemed a sad reminder that he was gone. But in spite of the pain, I had known he was still out there. This was like one of those times. He must be hiding with Oskar in the forest. When it was safe, he would find Heldur and then join us. We would go on ahead, but eventually we would all be reunited.
I clung to this hope. I had to.
Etti and Heldur hurried on ahead to reach the house before us, and a German truck roared past, splattering mud across the snow.
Kristiina stiffened, but held firm to Lydia’s arm until it had disappeared. The presence of the truck seemed to have startled Lydia back to reality. Shaking us off, she trudged towards Heldur’s house. We stepped into the little front yard. Something caught my eye; a patch of scarlet glowing brightly against the snow near the front door. I blinked, uncertain if I was imagining what I was seeing.
Oskar’s glove. The one I had given him back at the barracks. Its mate was still crushed in my pocket.
I bent down to touch it, just as Kristiina ushered Lydia inside. The wool glove was stiff in my fingers, the threads frozen. I picked it up, the cold biting into my palm and glanced up to scan the road. Where? My heart pounded painfully. Houses. Trees laden with snow. Telegraph poles. I waited, alert to any movement, any sound.
A figure lurched into view, staggering out onto the footpath from the shadows a few houses away. I recognised the set of his broad shoulders, his sharp nose. Oskar. I cried out, bringing my hands to my mouth to stifle the sound in the quiet street and ran towards him, so full of relief I thought my chest might burst. When I reached him, I flung my arms around his waist.
‘You’re alive!’ I buried
my face against his chest, unwilling to release him. I will never let you go again. His arms moved around me. The buttons on his coat dug into my cheek, but I ignored the pain. ‘You’re here!’ I said again, my breath clouding. Oskar’s chest rose and fell against my ear. I heard the rattle of each breath, long, laborious. It made the hairs rise on my arm. I looked up at him. Through the fog of happiness, I took note of his razor-sharp cheekbones, the shadows beneath his eyes. The eyes themselves were dull and sunken, the flesh around them tightly stretched. A little pinprick of fear niggled at my back.
‘Kati. Is it really you?’ Oskar’s voice rasped. ‘Or am I dreaming? I left the glove there, but I didn’t want to stand in the doorway in case a patrol came past.’
He stroked my cheek with his thumb, and continued to look down at me, one arm still draped about my shoulder. His chest vibrated as he drew breath, the sound like buttons clattering in a jar.
‘Yes. It’s me.’ I brought his hand up to my mouth and kissed it. It was shaking, the knuckles bruised. ‘What happened to you?’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you come sooner? Where is Jakob?’ I looked around, expecting him to lope out and join us. Instead, I saw Heldur emerge from the house. He took Oskar’s arm and gently pulled him inside. I followed behind, elation turning to worry.
Inside the house, Lydia was sitting in a chair. She was still crying, her mouth hanging open and her eyes glazed. Etti, with Leelo cradled in her arm, murmured softly about shock and tricks of the mind, but Lydia seemed unable to hear her.
The kitchen was cold, the fire burnt out to nothing more than a few embers. Kristiina hurried to relight it, fetching wood from the basket and fanning it with her breath, while Heldur barred the door and checked the window. Oskar was shivering, trying to warm himself beside what little heat remained in the grate. He was thinner than I had ever seen him. I went to him and took his hands in mine, trying to rub the warmth back into them. He winced and I looked down. The skin on the backs of them was cracked and peeling. I kissed them tenderly. I bent my head to his, and despite the cold in his hands, his forehead was warm, flushed by fever or shock, I wasn’t certain.
‘Here, Oskar.’
Kristiina thrust a mug of liquid between us. Oskar took it and drained it in one gulp. Kristiina took it and refilled it and passed it silently back.
‘He’s dead,’ Lydia said suddenly. ‘Isn’t he?’
Oskar’s head jerked up. He stared at her.
‘Jakob.’ Lydia spoke calmly. ‘He’s dead. I know it.’
Oskar’s hands began to tremble, and I wanted to reach out and hold them but I could not move. Not true, I thought. Oskar will tell her it’s not true.
Oskar’s tongue darted out to moisten his cracked lips. ‘They caught us at Haapsalu,’ he said. ‘We were running messages back and forth to Stockholm. Using safe houses when we could. Barns. Sleeping under the stars sometimes. Putting people in contact with other runners. A man contacted us, asking for help. Said he needed to get out. He had two daughters. Could we help.’ He shuddered. ‘I didn’t want to. I had . . . a feeling. But Jakob; you know how he is. How he – was.’
His voice broke and he looked at me. His eyes were heavy with pain and pity.
Trusting. Caring.
I remembered my brother cradling the scrap of puppy to his chest, nuzzling his ten-year-old face into its mangy coat. My mother’s shriek of horror. The squeak of the door as she thrust it out into the yard.
But I’ll clean him! I’ll take care of him! Nobody wanted him; he would have died.
‘Where did he fall?’ I heard my own voice but didn’t recognise it. It was the voice of someone hard and bitter, spoken through gritted teeth. It was the only way I could speak, though. If I allowed myself to process things properly, to feel, then I would come undone, entirely.
‘They were waiting for us on the promenade. Cornered us beside the bathhouses.’ Oskar stared down at his jerking hands. ‘They shot Jakob in the chest. I saw him go down. Everyone started screaming. I ran.’ His throat moved convulsively. ‘I just kept running until I reached the safe house. I kept moving after that, never resting. I found a man who took me to Sillamäe. I walked here from there. I didn’t stop, for anything.’
He ran his hand across his bloodshot eyes and then looked directly at me. ‘I just wanted to tell you. It didn’t matter if I was caught. I’m sorry, Kati. I promised you I would care for him and I . . . I failed. Jakob is gone but he . . . he died bravely.’
The room swam.
I felt as if I were sitting in a bubble that was shrinking, growing smaller with each inhalation of my breath. The air in my lungs would have to last. I felt my heart fluttering, beating against my ribs. The truth pressed in, circling, squeezing around me until at last I could not deny Oskar’s words. Jakob was gone. The man who knew my childhood, who shared the last memories of my family. I was the only one left.
I groped blindly for Oskar. All I could think about was my brother’s face, cheeks flushed warm by his blood, his beating heart. All gone now.
Arms snaked around my body and Oskar’s bristled cheek pressed into my neck, and finally I felt myself break.
*
The air outside was as sharp as razors. Each breath I drew seemed an effort. Frost glittered on the trees and a thick pelt of fresh snow carpeted the ground.
I rubbed my arms against the cold. The street and everything beyond it was black, the curfew already in force. Etti’s breath huffed in the air as she cuddled Leelo to her for warmth. The child’s mouth hung open. The sleeping draught we had given her had worked quickly, softening her limbs. We could not afford to have her cry out and give us away, or wake up at a crucial checkpoint.
Only the scrap of moon left in the sky revealed the outline of the man before us.
‘You are ready?’
Oskar drew us towards him, holding me awkwardly with his gloved hand. He was so thin, I could feel his bones beneath his coat. He looked at me. ‘Kati?’
I nodded. ‘I will fetch her.’
Lydia was standing in the kitchen near the warmth of the fire, clutching her bag. She had drawn her mother’s shawl around her head and tied it beneath her chin. Her eyes were downcast, dark lashes spread against the mottled pink of her cheeks.
A pulse thudded in my throat. I felt sick, now that it was time to leave. The magnitude of our flight had not imposed itself upon me until this moment. Everything familiar would now be different. We had no choice but to turn away from the place where we had been born. We were the last living members of our families – Oskar and Etti. Lydia and me. Our dreams were buried here, along with those who had not survived. My heart ached bitterly for Jakob.
I went to Lydia and slipped my arm through hers. I squeezed gently. ‘It’s time.’
A tear rolled down Lydia’s face. When she spoke, it was barely a whisper. ‘I’m carrying his child.’
Shock rippled through me. I turned to stare at her. Before I could ask more, though, I heard Oskar’s gentle cough. There was no time to talk now. I pulled Lydia out into the garden where the others were waiting.
Our guide led us through the banks of snow, his footsteps so light I was ashamed by my own clumsy ones.
I glanced back at the townhouse, searching for Kristiina or Heldur. But the house was dark and silent, receding as we marched away. All traces of us had been wiped clean. It was as if we had never been there at all.
The stars swirled overhead, polished clean and bright by the cold.
We walked until my legs ached, past blacked-out houses and down silent streets. It was strange and surreal, as if we were the only people still living.
‘We should pray for no bombs tonight.’ Jaan’s voice was a thin thread. I searched to find it in the darkness; he was ahead, guiding us, Etti following close. I could hear Lydia’s boots crunch behind me. Although my heart ached for her, I did not turn around. I was afraid she would disappear, like the girl in the story my grandmother used to tell who married a farmer and yet could not remember who
she was or where she came from. When he told her, she vanished, leaving him to care for their children.
When we reached the river, Jaan left us beside a copse of trees. A small shoulder of black sand cupped the edge of the water. Jaan’s boat was hidden beneath a pile of broken, twisted trees, their trunks ghostly in the dim light.
I felt Oskar shiver beside me, shifting from one foot to the other. I pressed against him, hoping that some of my warmth would leach into him, or at least that he would know he was not alone. In response, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. I felt his lips bruise my forehead, the wind carrying away the sound of the kiss.
I wished Lydia would come to us, too. But she stayed rigid at the edge of the trees, her hands balled in her coat, staring down at the waves lapping against the shore.
The sound of heaving and grunting echoed up the shoreline, along with the whine of the cord being pulled uselessly as the engine failed to catch.
‘Damn!’ Jaan appeared before us. He smelled of saltwater and sweat. ‘She won’t start.’
Oskar’s arm fell away. ‘Let me try.’
He strode down towards the boat. A moment later, he’d returned, Jaan at his heels.
‘It’s no use,’ he said.
‘I have another hidden a little way upriver.’ Jaan did not sound concerned. I wondered how many times he had done this, that he could sound so calm in the face of disaster. ‘But it’s a fair walk and the snow is beginning to fall.’
‘We can’t carry Leelo far in the snow.’ I looked across at where Etti was standing, swaying back and forth with the sleeping infant in her arms. ‘We will have to go back to Heldur’s . . . and try again.’
‘I have a friend not far from here with a sled.’ Jaan blew out a breath that hung in the air. ‘If you can wait here, I will fetch it. It will make things quicker. Faster. Then we can be on our way.’
Lace Weaver Page 36