by Sofi Oksanen
Parts decided to refresh himself with a sprat sandwich and padded into the kitchen. In the hallway his foot struck a mousetrap his wife had set. There was a wad of handkerchiefs on the floor, including some stolen from his shelf. He kicked them farther down the hallway, then changed his mind and used a towel to pick them up and throw them in the trash. As he made his sandwich, his mind grew clearer. Parts didn’t believe Roland had any interest in poetry. At least not so much that he would write it by the page except for some specific reason. Parts remembered a passage in the journal about a poem on the meaning of art, something titled “Dog Ear.” Roland said Dog Ear was too individualistic, no use to the movement, disloyal. He questioned Dog Ear’s purpose, then started to bad-mouth all the poets in the country. Parts remembered the passage clearly: “Creatures of little talent who call themselves poets. They use their melodious language to swim right in with the Soviet writers, join their circles, where the most minuscule merit can get you something to put on your bread, can buy you a good life. I have nothing but contempt for that. My Heart curbs my hand. Dog Ear isn’t worth it.” And there it was. Roland had misled him again. Dog Ear wasn’t a poem, it was a poet. Roland doubted Dog Ear’s loyalty because Dog Ear was a person, not some random line of poetry.
If Dog Ear had turned legal later, he might be easy to find, might know something about this Heart. Maybe he could add Dog Ear’s name to the list he’d requested from Porkov. His flimsy justifications for requesting them wouldn’t be made any weaker by adding one more name. But he couldn’t make it a habit.
Parts mixed himself a glass of sugar water and picked up his sprat sandwich. The milk was spoiled again.
PART FIVE
Known as one of Linnas’s henchmen, Mark earned a reputation for cruelty at the Tartu camp. But who exactly was Mark? None of the eyewitnesses or survivors of Mark’s horrible treatment knew his last name. Perhaps we ought to define Mark, to learn something about his background. He was an ordinary farmer until he got caught up in Fascist ideology and started attending Fascist meetings. He found a bride who shared his opinions. They felt a particularly strong hatred toward Communism.
—Edgar Parts, At the Heart of the Hitlerist Occupation, Eesti Raamat Publishing, 1966
Reval, Estland General Commissariat, Ostland National Commissariat
THERE WERE ONLY a few hours left. The adults sat awake on bundles made with sheets and pillowcases, the children slept in the iron beds. Or pretended to sleep. There was no sleep in their breathing; one eye shone brightly open and clamped shut as soon as it met my gaze. I noticed Juudit watching the refugees. I was watching her. Juudit crouched down near an older woman and their whispers tickled my ear as if they were full of secrets, though Juudit would hardly be sharing her personal affairs here, among strangers. She went to help a man with sores on his back. He had taken off his shirt in front of the stove, and she was spreading sulphuric acid on his skin with a goose feather. The smell stung my nostrils. The crowded room was already charged with tension, sighs echoing through it like breaths in an empty bottle, but Juudit’s soothing hands reassured me. She seemed to have found the right words for these panicked souls, to know what to say so none of them would lose their heads when it came time to get into the trucks. I couldn’t have chosen a better person to receive them. The others had been doubtful when I announced that I’d found an apartment to use as a gathering point and a new person to be there to meet the refugees, telling them her name was Linda. I’d sworn that she was trustworthy, and hadn’t said anything about her relationship with a German. I also hoped that the deeper she was involved in the operation, the more likely she was to keep her mouth shut about it. She had started to let crumbs of useful information slip out, and her opinion about everything connected to the Germans seemed to be starting to falter.
This was a particularly restless group of refugees. Hjalmar Mäe’s speech had aroused something like hope. According to Mäe, the mobilization would be the first step toward sovereignty. I could see uncertainty in the refugees’ eyes, a desire to believe his words. It never ceased to amaze me how gullible people could be. Or desperate. But the numbers of those who didn’t trust in a German victory or the Reich’s promises of Estonian independence and autonomy were growing day by day. No one wanted to stay and wait for another slaughter. They were sure the Bolsheviks were coming. The pastors were talking about the return of a godless state.
In the coming year we would provide transport to a lot of men seeking to avoid serving in the German army—there were already some in the group, recognizable by their posture. They were brave boys with burning eyes, ready for battle as soon as the boat reached Finnish waters. I secretly hoped that they would form our Estonian corps, the seeds of a new Estonian army, once Germany withdrew. Then we could use the situation to our advantage like we had in 1918, when the Germans left and we struck back at the Reds and won our independence. Captain Talpak was already in Finland organizing the unit. My faith in him was great, and I invoked his name when the boys asked about Estonia’s having its own army. The captain had refused to cooperate with the Jerries and many were following his example. Before he fled the country, Richard had written references for our boys, which allowed them to avoid the front and be sent instead to Riga for the Wehrmacht’s military intelligence radio training and then return to our forces. The first few had already done that and were just waiting for the moment to spring into action.
Just a few more hours and it would be time. Juudit tiptoed shyly over to me. I made ample room for her. She sat an arm’s length away, took the paperossi I offered, and lit it on my outstretched match. A curl was stuck to her cheek. The shadows of her trembling eyelashes showed her anxiety. I noticed that the blue, black, and white enamel ring was back on her left hand.
“What should we do with the pigs?” she whispered in my ear. A drop of spit struck my earlobe. I wiped it away. I could feel the warmth of her body and it felt like a German’s warmth. I didn’t like it. “The pastor’s family refuses to leave them behind.”
“Tell them they’ve been stolen.”
She nodded. Arranging these transports was getting more expensive all the time; prices were rising and gougers were playing the market with people’s panic. Those without money ended up finding their own means of escape, or staying. But that wasn’t enough. Even among the refugees some ugly things went on. There was limited space in the boats, and there were plenty of people like this pastor. Most of them had the sense to slaughter their animals before leaving and pack the meat to bring along, but this pastor apparently thought he could get a better price for a live pig in Sweden.
“You keep watch here,” I said, getting to my feet. I could take the pigs to the cellar to wait for someone to come and get them.
“Watch over what? I’ll come with you.”
In the dark hallway, she put her hand on my shoulder.
I shook it off. Her voice tightened. “I know you have a problem with me, but don’t we have more important things to think about?”
“You’re just like the others.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Fixing up a nice little future for yourself,” I said with unnecessary gruffness.
“Roland, I still think in Estonian.”
We started down the stairs carefully, holding on to the railing. There was no moon; it was a perfect night for a transport.
“Germany isn’t going to disappear,” Juudit said.
There was mockery in my snorting breath—she could hear it.
“And I’m not even getting paid for this,” she said, “unlike that weasel Aleksander Kreek, charging a fortune to smuggle people out, and who knows who else. You, for instance.”
“I’m not doing this for the money,” I snapped.
She stopped, and started to laugh. The laugh spread up and down the stairs and burned up the oxygen until I couldn’t get a breath. Did she think I was collecting money for myself, so that I could escape across the sea? Was she just tea
sing me because I taunted her about her German?
The railing shook as Juudit leaned on it, and I had to let go. The stairs groaned under the weight of her uncontrollable giggles. A door downstairs opened and closed. Someone had peeked out into the hallway. I grabbed Juudit by the shoulder and shook her. The smell of her Baltic baron, his heat, his sickening stench, came out of her gaping mouth, and I had to put one hand over my nose, the other hand squeezing her arm until her delicate elbow popped. She didn’t stop, her laughter jerking through my body, mocking my powerlessness. I had to keep her quiet, but I didn’t know what to do, feeling her close to me, like a little bird in my hand.
“Are you trying to get us caught? Do you know what they would do to you? Is that what you want? Is that what you’re hoping for?”
I tried to listen with one ear for the downstairs neighbor or any noise from outside. Maybe someone had already called the police, maybe we should empty the apartment, but there were still hours to go before the truck arrived. I fumbled for my Walther and my shaky balance faltered. Juudit was limp, not even trying to get loose. We fell onto the landing. Her light body was on top of me, my hand still clutching her arm. Her open mouth closed over mine, her breasts pouring out of her blouse. It was so silent that I could hear the change in her odor, salty as sea stones, her tongue like a slippery tail swimming into my mouth. My body betrayed me, my hand let go of her arm and moved to her hips, and then the thing happened that shouldn’t have happened.
WHEN WE GOT OUTSIDE, I adjusted my clothes several times. Juudit washed her hands in the freezing water of the rain barrel. We didn’t look at each other.
“Do you think the neighbor will call the police?”
“The neighbor?”
“Your neighbor came to the door.”
Juudit may have flinched. “No. She knows my mother. I’ll go talk to her once we’re back inside.”
“Should we pay her off?”
“Roland, she’s a friend of my mother’s!”
“These days you have to pay even your friends. There are all kinds of people coming and going, and I assume your mother doesn’t know anything about what’s going on.”
“Roland!”
“Pay her something!”
“I can give her some ration stamps. I’ll tell her I don’t need them.”
I took hold of her wet hand and pressed it to my lips, which still tasted of the pure sweetness of her mouth. Her skin smelled like autumn, like raindrops on a ripe apple. I fought back a sudden desire to bite her hand. Where had the smell of her German gone? She smelled like my land, like she was born in my land, like she would molder in my land, my land’s own bride, and suddenly I needed to ask her forgiveness for how hard I’d been on her, so many times. The stars sifted through the clouds into her eyes, and her eyes were like forest doves bathed in milk. Darkness covered my awkwardness; I didn’t open my mouth. Tender feelings didn’t fit the time.
I put my hand on her neck and wrapped a curled wisp of her hair around my finger. Her neck was soft, like peacetime.
Reval, Estland General Commissariat, Ostland National Commissariat
EDGAR GLANCED AT SS-Hauptsturmführer Hertz sitting beside him. Hertz leaned against the Opel’s headrest, his graceful, manly legs spread. He looked tired of traveling; he was constantly checking his watch, clearly wanting to get where they were going and back to Tallinn as soon as possible. It was a bad sign. Edgar had prepared himself well for the visit. Up-to-date figures waited in his portfolio, neatly arranged. He’d organized a tour to present the progress at the Vaivara manufacturing facility. And there were other matters that needed to be resolved. He’d made arrangements ahead of time with SS-Obersturmführer von Bodmann regarding which things to emphasize. He should talk about prisoners of war—without them it would be tough for Vaivara to succeed. The next prisoner convoy list was once again full of Jewish names. This was a manufacturing camp, administered by the Organisation Todt military engineers—Jews weren’t under their jurisdiction. But there was nothing Edgar could do about it unless the others agreed to discuss the matter. They had to find a solution, to get Hauptsturmführer Hertz to listen to Bodmann. He was the head physician of the camp, after all. But Edgar’s mind kept coming back to Hertz and Juudit’s relationship. In this same car, the man’s hand had lifted to touch Juudit’s ear; Juudit’s hand had perhaps been on this door handle, her handbag on that cushion. On this very seat, Juudit had bent toward her lover, nestled against him, pressed her cheek to his collar insignia, the hem of her skirt perhaps revealing her knees, where the man had perhaps put his hand, Juudit calling him by his first name.
The Hauptsturmführer’s collar wasn’t smudged with powder this time, his uniform braid didn’t smell of a woman who’d rubbed up against it. He would return to Germany or tire of his war bride before long, like they all did. But the gesture of his hand when he’d brushed Juudit’s ear still troubled Edgar. The city was swimming with finer ladies, but Juudit had managed to catch a man who could slurp up oysters in Berlin while meting out death sentences in Ostland, a man whose accuracy with a Parabellum would no doubt be just as amazing. She’d caught a man fit for someone better than her. The situation was problematic.
Edgar leaned against the car window, which banged his forehead with every bump. It felt pleasant, shook his thoughts into place, shoved the brain-corroding obsession to the back of his mind. He had never been this close to Hertz—SS-Hauptsturmführer Hertz. The driver’s neck was sturdy; his voice was ringing as he hummed and sang. Juudit hardly would have discussed her marriage, but how would Hertz feel if he knew her husband was Mr. Fürst? He would hate him, that went without saying, and it was exactly what Edgar didn’t want.
“Bauführer Fürst, I heard that you’ve had some problems with food smuggling—some of the Todt men bringing food for the prisoners.”
“It’s true, Herr SS-Hauptsturmführer. We’re trying to break the chain. On the other hand, the subversive activity can be kept to a minimum if—”
“We can’t allow any exceptions. Why are they doing it?”
Edgar concentrated on staring at the collar insignia. He didn’t want his words to come out wrong. It wasn’t clear what kind of answer Hertz wanted—something to reinforce his own opinion, something in opposition to it, or something else. The memory of Juudit’s gesture brushed Edgar’s temple again and he wished he knew what kinds of conversations she had with Hertz. Was she an honest lover, or did she tell him what he wanted to hear?
Edgar coughed. “These people are an unusual case, a disgrace to the race. But it’s possible they were attempting to bring food to the camp for Estonians only, not for Jews.”
“According to the reports, local people were giving them food as well when they were sent to work outside the camp. Where did such sympathies come from?”
“Outliers, Herr SS-Hauptsturmführer. I’m sure they mean to feed only the prisoners of war. They know that the Jews led the destruction battalions here in 1941. The State Commissariat for Internal Affairs and the Bolshevik Party were led by Jews, we all know that. The politruks and the commissars were all Jews. Not to mention Trotsky, Zinovyev, Radek, Litvinov. The leaders’ Jewish backgrounds are well known! When the Soviet Union occupied Estonia, the country was flooded with Jews. They were particularly active in the political reorganization, Herr SS-Hauptsturmführer!”
Hellmuth Hertz opened his mouth and breathed in, as if he were going to comment on the tone of Edgar’s defense. But then he didn’t. Edgar decided to take a risk.
“Of course the situation is affected by the fact that some Estonians knew people in the destruction battalions, and those people weren’t Jews.”
“I’m sure there were non-Jews among them, but the most important ones, the ones who made the decisions—”
“Were Jews. I know.” Finishing Hertz’s sentence was cheeky, but Hertz didn’t seem to notice. He just took out a silver flask and two schnapps glasses. The sudden brotherly gesture delighted Edgar, and the heat of th
e cognac dispersed the doubts he’d felt in formulating his answers. He couldn’t be completely sure whether Untersturmführer Mentzel had kept quiet about his activities during the Soviet days, although he’d given his word. The irony was that Edgar’s experience during his years with the Commissariat for Internal Affairs had proved abundantly practical in his work at Vaivara, which was why he dared to assure the Germans that the labor transports would go without a hitch. And they did. He’d had many stimulating discussions on the subject with Bodmann, who had an interest in psychology. People were too afraid of trains. Every car was a reminder that if the Germans withdrew, the next trains would take Estonians straight to Siberia. Some daredevil might bring some bread and water if a Jew managed to tear open a window and thrust a mug out, but Edgar didn’t report those incidents, even to Bodmann. Some risks were necessary for the sake of productivity. But what if Hertz’s comments about the destruction battalions were meant as a hint? He of all people knew that the talk of Jews in the Soviet army was greatly exaggerated, but did saying so make Edgar questionable? Or was he worrying about nothing—was he just infected by the Germans’ worried mood? All around him, faces were growing taut and shrunken, day by day, like mushrooms drying in the oven.
SS-HAUPTSTURMFÜHRER HERTZ carefully lowered his shined boots onto the muddy ground of the camp, his nose wrinkling slightly. Edgar glanced at the guards, among them many Russians, which was good—they wouldn’t recognize him. SS-Obersturmführer von Bodmann stepped into the administration barracks as soon as Hertz and Edgar arrived. Greetings, the clicking of heels. Bodmann and Edgar exchanged a glance—they would get right down to business as soon as the formalities were over. Bodmann and Edgar had been on a first-name basis ever since Bodmann realized that they shared the same concerns about what was needed for the camp’s success. Sometimes it seemed as if they were the only ones who cared if it succeeded. The labor force was weak and a typhus epidemic had taken a heavy toll; a saboteur had even collected lice from the infected in a matchbox and purposely spread the infection. Bodmann had sent repeated requests for clothing and medicine, but to no avail. If Edgar saw locals giving food to the prisoners, he looked the other way, since there was no danger of being charged for dereliction of duty. The German engineers who had been stationed there with their families, on the other hand, were amazingly strict. An engineer’s wife had beaten the Jewish cleaning woman senseless for nothing more than swiping the key to the bread box. With Bodmann he could at least discuss the food problem—with the engineers he clearly couldn’t.