Deep River

by Karl Marlantes

  Aino felt a thrill of excitement mingled with fear.

  Gunnar stood up from the table, his jaw set. “What about the Finnish workers inside the compound?” he asked.

  Rauta’s eyes bulged as he turned to Gunnar.

  Voitto quickly interposed. “Comrade Långström,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “We have repeatedly let it be known, through flyers, newspaper articles, even speaking with these people directly, that collaborating with Russian imperialists and capitalists is morally reprehensible. These people chose easy money.”

  “You know my mother’s sister works there.”

  “People make choices,” Rauta said. “They live with the consequences.”

  Rauta’s face settled once again into its cold mask. He addressed the group, his voice going soft but intense. “At this very moment, the people are rising with the tide of history. Nothing will stop the revolution. Those who fight the party and history will die.” He looked directly at Gunnar.

  With murmurs of approval, hands thumped on the table in solidarity with Rauta.

  Gunnar sat down.

  Aino’s heart was now pounding in her throat from excitement.

  The attack was set for April.

  8

  By the first week in April, the sea ice was fast disappearing. Aksel’s father was driving him and Gunnar hard repairing the net for the spring runs.

  Aksel pulled a knot tight with his hand-carved wooden netmending needle, twisting his wrist to put friction on its inner tongue so the twine wouldn’t slip. He wanted to talk with his brother, who was at the other end of the net rack, but he was afraid. Ever since that February morning when Gunnar had come back from spending the night in Kokkola “visiting friends,” he’d become grim, as when a seal got in the net and he had to club it to death.

  The night before, Gunnar had slipped out of the bed he and Aksel shared, and Aksel had lain awake most of the night. At the noon meal, Gunnar had been uncharacteristically sharp, arguing with their parents about socialism in general and in particular the assassination last summer of Nikolai Bobrikov, the governor general of Finland. Their mother and father weren’t pro-Russian, but their father kept saying to Gunnar: “You can’t just kill people.” When Gunnar gloated openly about Russia’s defeat by the Japanese at Port Arthur, their mother pointed out that Finns and Swedes had gone down with the Russians. Gunnar said he didn’t care. You couldn’t stand in the way of history. Their father told him to leave the table, which he did, slamming the door.

  Aksel looked over his shoulder to make sure their father was gone. “You were out again last night,” he said to Gunnar.

  Gunnar pulled a knot tight and grunted.

  Aksel continued to cut and tie, filling in the holes so the net would neither sag nor be pulled too tight after the mending. Aksel usually liked mending net—if the weather was warm. With the thaw just ending, however, his hands ached with the cold.

  “What are you doing at night?”

  Gunnar stopped working. Looking gravely at Aksel, he said, “For your own good, no more questions. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Aksel hadn’t promised not to follow Gunnar. Like most Finnish boys, Aksel was a good hunter. Following undetected was a cinch.

  He watched from the woods as Gunnar met someone on the road to Kokkola. Something was exchanged. Then he followed to where Gunnar hid the something beneath a pile of brush about four hundred meters into the woods just north of their house.

  The next night, Aksel crept out of the house while Gunnar slept. The waxing moon was almost full behind scudding clouds, so it was easy to find Gunnar’s hiding place. When he saw the dynamite and two pistols, fear coursed through his body. Aksel knew that with Gunnar it was never about capitalists and workers, despite his socialist rhetoric; it was always about Russia and independence. The target had to be the Russian army base just up the coast road.

  Two days later, a Saturday evening, the fifteenth of April, Aksel and Gunnar were washing blood and fish scales from the boat when Gunnar said, a little too casually, “I told mother and father that I’m going into Kokkola to see about a pair of boots that Alvar Johansson’s uncle left behind when he migrated to America.”

  “So, they assume you’re drinking.”

  “Yes.” Gunnar put both of his hands on Aksel’s shoulders. “You assume it, too.”

  Gunnar hardly ever touched him. Why now? Aksel’s stomach felt a lift of anxiety. The anxiety grew when he saw Gunnar leave for Kokkola with a knapsack too large for boots.

  * * *

  As Gunnar was walking toward Kokkola, Voitto and Aino were whispering angrily outside the house of Aino’s employer, looking up and down the street every so often.

  “You can’t do this to me,” Aino whispered.

  “I can, and I will.” He grabbed her by her arms, looking intensely into her eyes. “It’s no place for a girl and if we fail …” He swallowed.

  “If we fail, I will fail with you. You can’t leave me alone.”

  “They’ll do horrible things to a girl.”

  “They’ll probably treat me better than the boys.”

  Voitto shook his head at that. “Stubborn,” he said.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “And wrong.” Voitto reached his arms around her, pulling her close to him. “We won’t fail. Trust me, we won’t.”

  “Then take me with you.”

  “If you’re there, I won’t be able to keep my mind on the job and we will fail.”

  “That’s not on me.”

  “Nor me. It’s the way it is. It’s how we’re built.”

  They stood against each other, feeling their body heat coming through the wool of their clothes and the quilting of their jackets, as a cold April wind blew all around them.

  “I promise you,” Voitto said. “As soon as it’s over, I’ll come to the Laakkonens’ on your Sunday visit home or get word to you there if I can’t come. Kokkola will be crawling with police and soldiers.”

  “Just come.”

  He pushed back from her and she leaned after him, seeking him with her mouth. He pulled her in close and kissed her. Then he pushed her back more firmly and held her at arm’s length. They looked into each other’s eyes, knowing it could be the last time, ever.

  Aksel knew that the sun would set just after nine and that it wouldn’t be dark enough to see stars until after ten, so whatever Gunnar was up to would probably happen around eleven. Just after Gunnar left, Aksel told his older sister, Anna Britta, who was hanging clothes, that he was going to check out the salt lick for any moose activity. Anna Britta’s eyes were troubled. She touched the back of Aksel’s hand.

  Aksel grabbed the family bicycle and caught up to Gunnar, but he was careful not to reveal himself. He waited in the trees by the road for Gunnar to return from the hiding place. When Gunnar emerged from the forest, Aksel pushed the bicycle out from the trees and confronted him.

  Gunnar was savagely angry. “You go back home. Now!”

  “You have dynamite in that rucksack.”

  “Do not get tangled up in this. You go home. I mean it. I’ll beat hell out of you if you don’t. You’re not so big yet that I can’t.”

  “It’s the army base.”

  Gunnar stared at him, lips sealed.

  “Finns are working there.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Gunnar, Aunt Jennie works there.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Go home,” Gunnar said. Aksel had never seen Gunnar so intense. “Any slip of the tongue, the slightest hint, could bring the Russians down on the whole family. You must understand this. Army intelligence and the Okhrana have informers everywhere.” He held Aksel’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You must know nothing about this.”

  “Gunnar, it’s murder.”

  The two brothers stood looking at each other, Aksel standing astride the bicycle, Gunnar, his jaw muscles working, slightly hunched under the
heavy pack. Finally, Gunnar spoke. “I know you don’t understand, but I have to do this. There’s no turning back. Aksel, if you love me, go home and say nothing.”

  Aksel’s throat tightened. Don’t cry now, damn it. He grasped the handlebar grips so tightly that his fingers were white and his forearms trembled.

  Gunnar gently put a hand on one of Aksel’s. “I’ll be all right. I promise you I’ll be back, maybe not for a while, but I’ll be back and everything is going to be better.”

  Aksel watched Gunnar disappear around a bend. He gave a cry of anguish and grabbed a large rock. Remounting the bicycle he pedaled furiously after Gunnar. Gunnar turned around to see him coming and his eyes widened in fear. Aksel hit him square on the forehead and Gunnar went down like a poleaxed cow.

  Aksel careened to a stop and ran to his downed brother. He tore open the rucksack and found, along with the dynamite, a rope and grappling hook. They were obviously planning on going over the walls. He took the rope and bound Gunnar, hog-tying him wrists to ankles; slung him over his shoulder; and dumped him into the bushes. He threw the rucksack and its dynamite even farther into the brush and pedaled up the road to the army base.

  Aksel lay beside his bicycle just off the road and studied the front gate of the compound. It was all going too fast. He’d pedaled up the road thinking he would tell his aunt Jennie so she could quietly warn the others. He soon realized that if he told her, she might go immediately to the Russians. After all, she had chosen to work for them. Even if she did try to help, someone else could tell the Russians. They would trace the warning back to Jennie and she would quickly be frightened into saying who told her. The army intelligence people for sure, maybe even the Okhrana, would be at the house in a matter of hours.

  Aksel realized he didn’t even know where in the compound Voitto and his people would be likely to strike. Maybe several buildings were targeted. How many people were involved? He knew next to nothing. He put his face down on the earth and held his head in his hands. What was he doing here?

  He looked up at the sound of harness bells. A wagon was coming, spurring an idea. If the wagon contained food or anything bound for the post’s kitchen, it would go directly to the cooks. They were all Finns. Maybe he could get a note inside one of the bags somehow. He knocked his forehead against the ground in frustration. He never carried pencils or paper.

  With the wagon nearly in sight, he pulled his puukko out and quickly sliced off a slab of bark from a birch. Hurriedly he carved a message on the soft inside of the bark. “Finnish patriots attack tonight.” If he had written socialists or communists, whoever found the note would be far more likely to go directly to the Russians. But how was he going to get the note to that someone? He would need to trust the driver to deliver it. The odds were too high that the driver would be afraid and tell the Russians.

  The wagon had the name of a local flour mill on it and carried large white bags. Aksel again lay there, face to the dirt. Only one way seemed possible and it was dangerous.

  He cut a strip of cloth from his shirttail and bound the bark to a rock. Setting off in a loop through the woods, well out of view of the road, he worked his way carefully up to the low wall of the compound. He waited. No one walked along the perimeter. As far as the Russians were concerned, this was just a sleepy post inside their own country. The only guards were at the gate.

  Aksel climbed up a young fir tree, using the branches to conceal him. When he could see over the wall, he paused. The wagon was approaching a building with several chimneys emitting smoke. It had to be the kitchen. Where else would the flour go?

  He tried to control his breath. He waited until the flour was unloaded and the wagon left the compound, memorizing the layout he’d seen. He moved up to a point on the wall nearest to the kitchen. He threw the rock over the wall and heard a welcome thud as it hit a wooden wall. He turned quickly and disappeared into the forest, again looping from the road to return to the bicycle. He had done the best he could. Now it would be up to the finder of the note and God.

  He met Gunnar on the road. Gunnar had managed to get himself loose and had found the rucksack. Aksel halted in front of him. Gunnar looked at him, his hair matted with drying blood. “You warned the Finns.”

  Aksel nodded yes.

  “Aksel. Aksel.” Gunnar looked at him with anguish. “You’ve killed me.”

  Dread coursed through Aksel’s body. “What? What do you mean?”

  Gunnar took a deep breath, looked up at the cool twilit sky for a long moment, as if saying goodbye to it. His eyes moist, he looked down at Aksel with nothing but love.

  “You told Jennie.”

  “No. I realized they’d trace it back. I wrote a note and threw it over the wall to the kitchen.”

  Gunnar looked back up at the sky. A bird flew from one tree to another. He bent in close to Aksel and smelled his brother’s hair, nuzzling his nose in it, taking in all he could. He stepped back, his hands on Aksel’s arms. “If it gets to the Russians, they’ll be waiting for us. If I tell my comrades before the raid that you warned the Finns, the party will kill me for telling you and they’ll hunt you down and kill you for betraying the raid. Discipline will require it. If I don’t show up tonight and the Russians are waiting for them, they’ll think I sold them out and they’ll hunt me down for that.”

  “Gunnar.” Aksel had started crying. “Gunnar. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean—”

  Gunnar tightened his grip. “You listen. Your life depends on this. Are you listening?”

  Aksel nodded yes through his tears.

  “I’m already under suspicion because I spoke up about the Finnish workers in front of a very scary man from Helsinki. They’ll torture me before they kill me. If I’m captured by the Russians …” He hesitated. “Only a fool would believe that I won’t talk. Either way, I’ll be executed and the Russians or the party will come after you. If I know you’re safe, I’ll feel a lot better when I finally break.”

  Aksel started to talk but Gunnar put his hand on Aksel’s mouth. “You must get out. Tonight. Father has a cousin in Stockholm.”

  “I won’t go.”

  “If you don’t go, I will die knowing you’ll be next. Will you leave me to die like that?”

  Aksel shook his head no.

  “Of course not.” Gunnar held him to his chest, soothing the back of Aksel’s head. “Of course not.” Hugging Aksel close, Gunnar whispered in his ear: “I will never, never hold this against you. Go home. Tell Mother and Father that I”—he took a quick, deep breath—“that I …” he momentarily choked. “And tell our sisters, too.”

  Holding him at arm’s distance he said, “I’ll always love you.” Gunnar squeezed Aksel’s arms hard and walked away. Aksel held forever the memory of seeing his big brother turn to wave as he disappeared at the bend in the road.

  Although Aino knew no details, she knew the raid was tonight. She was barely able to abide the chatter of her fellow servant and the conversation of the merchant and his wife as they placidly ate their Saturday night supper. When the couple rose from the table, Aino curtsied and asked permission to go home so she could attend church in the morning with her mother, which was granted. She was able to leave around ten and half walking, half running in the darkness made it to the Laakkonens’ barn after midnight. Maíjaliisa had fallen asleep with some of Mrs. Laakkonen’s mending in her lap.

  Aino didn’t sleep the whole night.

  After early church, she tried to pretend that everything was normal as she went about her chores, struggling to ignore a terrible sinking feeling that pulled deep in her body’s core.

  Late that afternoon the Laakkonens’ dogs started barking and Aino ran out of the barn door, her heart soaring. It had to be Voitto, alive, alive.

  It was two strange men in a small trap. Maíjaliisa came to the door, her face questioning. The men walked up to the two women.

  “Aino Koski?” one of the men asked without the trace of a smile. He spoke with a Russian accent.


  Aino nodded, her heart pounding. Something must have gone terribly wrong. She wanted to run, but she was rooted to the ground, her heart sinking, wanting to know what had happened to Voitto, but knowing she couldn’t ask for fear of implicating herself.

  “You’re under arrest for treason and sedition.”

  Aino and Maíjaliisa gasped, both grabbing at their throats.

  “No,” Maíjaliisa croaked. “This must be a mistake.” She was ashen faced. “Aino,” she pleaded. “What’s going on? What have you done?”

  Aino looked down at the ground, her lips compressed.

  “Aino!” Maíjaliisa cried, grabbing her arm, trying to pull her around to face her.

  The men didn’t even acknowledge Maíjaliisa. Jerking Aino away from her, they handcuffed her arms behind her back and pulled her stumbling to the small trap. Mr. Laakkonen, who’d been spreading hay for the cows, watched from a distance. Mrs. Laakkonen stuck her head out of the house and quickly pulled back inside.

  One of the men lifted Aino and threw her onto the floor of the trap, wrenching her shoulder. She would not cry out.

  Maíjaliisa rushed toward the trap and grabbed Aino by her skirt, pulling on her. The man who’d thrown her down was mounting beside the other man who’d already taken up the reins. He shoved Maíjaliisa with his boot and drew a pistol.

  “Where are you taking her?” Maíjaliisa cried, running alongside.

  The men did not answer her. The driver whipped the horse into a trot, leaving Maíjaliisa alone on the road.

  As Aino lay on the boards of the trap, Aksel and his father were ten kilometers out to sea, the sail fluttering slightly at the luff, moving the little fishing boat with maximum efficiency. Aksel’s father hadn’t spoken in over two hours.

  Earlier that day, Aksel had waited, saying nothing, filled with anxiety and guilt, letting his parents believe that Gunnar was missing because he’d drunk too much the night before. By midmorning, however, their anxiety started to rise and Aksel broke, blurting out the story.