When the Doves Disappeared: A Novel

by Sofi Oksanen

  AT TIMES Parts was sure he was about to make a breakthrough, absolutely certain that his wife was the Heart mentioned in Roland’s diary. At those moments he dreamed of a day when he would present his wife with the evidence of her anti-Soviet activity during his time in Siberia. He imagined the scene, enjoyed the fantasy. He would be calm and polite—perhaps standing under the orange lamp in the living room, his back straight, his voice firm and low, presenting his facts with careful exactitude. The expression on her face would break open like an eggshell with his very first irrefutable statement, and by the time he finished she would be lying on the carpet like a stillborn calf he’d dragged forth with his own hands, the rope still in his grasp.

  IN HIS HOPE for such a moment Parts had even traveled to the Armses’ old house in Taara Village. The landscape there had been strange and familiar at the same time. He could smell the hogs on the kolkhoz from inside the bus. Ash trees still lined the avenue to the manor house. There was a smell of smoke in the air—they were burning winter hay near the apple orchard, and piles of leaves farther off. He saw the swoop of a goshawk between the trees. The chickens had been let out and were dashing around the yard, some basking in the sunshine. He noticed that the yard at the Armses’ house didn’t have a rooster. Feed was too precious to waste on useless mouths. The Office had probably already gotten word of a new joke going around: The new farming system was so strict it wouldn’t even grant a hen her rooster.

  DISTANT RELATIVES OF LEONIDA’S had moved into the house and were standoffish with strangers. When they all sat down to dumpling soup, the mood was a little lighter, and Parts mentioned in passing the times his wife had come to help on the farm. He spoke confidently, as if he knew what he was talking about. His wife’s name wasn’t familiar to them, but then he got the idea to ask about the photos from Anna’s funeral, which had to be among the possessions Leonida left in the house. Just as he’d suspected, Roland wasn’t in the photos. Funerals, weddings, and birthdays were always closely watched and had been the downfall of many forest men, who couldn’t all stay away from important family occasions. Roland was an exception. The idea that at Auntie Anna’s funeral her children were nowhere to be seen brought tears to Parts’s eyes. It was a wrong that couldn’t be righted. He didn’t let the others see how upset he was, and got up to leave. As he left the farm, he stopped by the still house. It, too, was occupied by several people, who directed him to the stable to speak to the head agronomist. Parts found the man at the kolkhoz office in the former manor house and told his story again, said he just happened to be in the area and was looking for someone who had known his aunt before she passed away, someone he could talk with about her last moments. The agronomist remembered the former tenants of the still house, and remembered that one of the women was now living in the new silicate house with her daughter, who worked as the kolkhoz bookkeeper. When Parts went to knock on the woman’s door, she was distrustful. It wasn’t until he started talking about his years in Siberia that the woman mentioned Rosalie, and said that she’d wondered about Rosalie’s fiancé, who had fled to Sweden but never sent his old mother a package, adding that of course that was how things were in those days. Parts couldn’t get anything else out of her, just that same story Anna and Leonida had made up to hide Roland’s whereabouts, or because they wanted to believe it.

  Parts also went to Valga, looking for old neighbors and orchestrating chance encounters at the market. Over a glass of beer he steered the conversation to the past and lamented that he hadn’t been able to find his dear cousin, who had often visited his wife at home while Parts was away in Siberia. The neighbor in question had tried to bring to mind Parts’s wife’s guests. After wrinkling his brow for a bit, he apologized. He didn’t remember the cousin, or any visitors at all. From what he’d heard, Juudit had preferred to keep to herself. Parts believed him, and squashed his feeling of frustration like a cockroach. He’d wasted a lot of time for nothing. It was time to get out of this backwater and back to his real job, and behave like a professional.

  He did, however, continue to study his wife, analyzing over and over the impression he’d had of her right after he came back from Siberia, going over the Valga years in his mind, the couch springs, the mousetraps in the corners in every room, the cries from the neighbors’ baby, the intimate noises that had carried through the walls and kept her awake at night, the set of her hands as she lit the stove or washed the milk bottles to take them to the store. He remembered the original owner of the house, the wife of a man who ran a bus company, her submissive demeanor, her old-fashioned dresses, how his wife had always apologized for disturbing her whenever they happened to be in the kitchen at the same time, to show she understood that she was a guest in the woman’s home, acknowledging that they were the only Estonians in the house. But he didn’t remember her doing anything suspicious. She hadn’t cared about picking up the mail herself, she was never called to the phone, had never met with anyone or had visitors, had always stayed at home.

  She had been silent about the days of German rule, except for a brief episode when Parts had found out the fate of Hellmuth Hertz. It was a few months after he returned to Estonia. Parts found his wife at home with a bottle of vodka and a candle lit. When he asked what the occasion for celebration was, she announced that it was her German lover’s birthday. Parts asked whatever happened to her German, and she answered that he’d been shot on the beach like a dog. She said it as if it were self-evident, as if she assumed that Parts knew all about her adventures, and Parts behaved as if he did know, including the part about when they were caught trying to escape, how she had shot at the Germans who were after them, but missed, was such a bad shot that she hadn’t been able to save him. She started laughing, poured the contents of her glass down her throat, shook her head. She would have liked to kill every one of them she could hit. Parts thought back to the movement of the German’s hand when he caressed her ear. He didn’t feel anything anymore when he thought about it, just longing, and he got up and left, walked through the night and came back in the morning. When his wife woke up, she didn’t seem to remember their conversation of the night before. They never talked about the German again. Afterwards, of course, he had wondered if she’d been a bit too mild, considering that she had lost her lover and her new life, but perhaps time had done its work. After all, Parts didn’t cry about Danzig anymore. He’d managed to move on. But what about Roland? Had time cooled the memories in his mind, too? Parts remembered well how when the hammer and sickle was hoisted up the flagpole at Pikk Hermann on September 22, 1944, the flag that was taken down wasn’t Hitler’s—it was Estonia’s own flag. Five days of independence. Five days of freedom. Parts had seen the flag himself, although in his manuscript he naturally didn’t mention it, because the Soviet Union had liberated Estonia from the Hitlerists. Had Roland seen that same sight, and if he had, had he been able to let go of it?

  The noises from upstairs interrupted his thoughts again. Maybe the Office didn’t realize how willing Parts was to send his wife someplace where she wouldn’t be a danger to anyone. But no. The Office must know his situation. They must have had his home under surveillance. They probably still did. Every single word he and his wife exchanged was likely recorded, everything, including the time she suddenly threw a jar of sour cream and hit him right in the head. Parts had cleaned up the mess. He closed his eyes. What if his wife had been recruited to spy on him?

  Parts opened his eyes, went into the bathroom, took one more gulp of Hematogen, and splashed water on his face, patting it dry and plucking the bits of terry cloth from his cheeks. He looked tired; his hairline was receding. He picked up his wife’s mascara, spit on the brush as he had seen her do, and dabbed it on his temples. Then he rinsed away the dandruff that floated down into the sink and looked at the result in the mirror. The mascara freshened up his appearance. The scar on his cheek that his wife had given him was fading quickly. There was no reason to feel down, even if he hadn’t yet had a breakthrough in he
r case as he had hoped. Sometimes you just had to accept that you’d come to a dead end. Sometimes your suspicions were groundless. Maybe he didn’t need to lock his office door before going to sleep. On the way back to his desk he stopped to look at the mousetrap in the corner of the entryway. If his wife didn’t have anyone to worry about, why did she always check those traps—she who was usually so careless about household chores?

  Tallinn, Estonian SSR, Soviet Union

  THE SMOKE OVER the table was so thick that Evelin couldn’t make out the faces of the people introducing themselves. One with too much beard, three girls wearing pants, one with overgrown bangs. She forgot all their names immediately and before she had time to even sit down she was already involved in a conversation. The Lithuanians had their own man in the Kremlin who knew a lot, knew how to go along with the authorities, but not too much. We should follow Lithuania’s example. They didn’t have hordes of Russians coming into their country like Estonia did. What had they done right? Poles were pouring into Lithuania. Just Poles. Imagine!

  “We didn’t kill enough Russians, that’s why. There’s not a Russian left who would dare go to Lithuania.”

  “And all those new factories—they only accept Lithuanians, no Russians. Why can’t we do that?”

  “If we act like Lithuania, the situation might change. Get all the young people into the Party, like they did there.”

  “Just like in Lithuania.”

  “That’s the only way to fix our own country. There’s no other way.”

  “No other way.” A sigh went around the table. “No other way.”

  Evelin kept quiet; she didn’t have anything to say. Rein’s fingers had let go of hers. They fluttered over the table in rhythm with the excited talk. A few hours earlier he had pressed his lips against her hand on Victory Square and blown air between their palms, said that was where their shared heart was, where it would always be warm and loving. His good mood blew through Evelin’s hair like the summer wind at Pirita Beach and he smoothed her curls and they laughed and Rein invited her to Café Moskva to meet some of his friends. Evelin had looked at the glass door of the café just a stone’s throw away. She would be spending an evening there. All because she had told him that she’d written to her mother and said that Rein would be coming to visit after exams. He had stopped in his tracks, and at that moment Evelin was sure she’d made the right decision. Nothing could go wrong from now on. After this she would never have to reassure Rein that she loved him, that she was serious, not toying with his feelings, not teasing him, would always be his. Rein would start telling her the things he told his friends, about the books recorded on microfilm that the man in the spectacles developed for him in the darkroom at the gray house. She would find time to arrange things at home for Rein’s visit. She had to. Maybe during haying her father wouldn’t have time to drink. Her grandmother could be sent to visit relatives. Her mother was sure to understand that it wasn’t good for a young couple to be apart all summer. Now Evelin was in Café Moskva in her best blouse but she didn’t know what to say although she was trying feverishly to think of something, anything. The talk around the table was strange. She didn’t like the way they whispered, spoke in lowered voices. She felt a tightening in her throat and tugged Rein’s sleeve. She wanted to go home.

  “But why? The night’s just started.”

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “Not from the cognac, I hope.”

  “I just don’t. Sorry.”

  Rein walked her to the stairs and she glanced out of the corner of her eye at a man they had been talking about at the table. KGB. Naturally. Good God. These people were crazy. Her Rein was crazy, too. She should have known, should have guessed from all the precautions he took, all his secrecy. As she walked past the KGB man’s table he tapped his stack of papers, not looking at her as his hand brushed the tablecloth and dropped a crumpled truffle wrapper onto the floor. Evelin could see the dandruff on his forehead, the sharp part in his hair, his shiny nose, his pores, a little scar on his cheek, and she felt weak and squeezed Rein’s hand. It was dry. Rein wasn’t worried. He was used to being watched by the KGB every evening. Lunatics. Evelin pictured her mother’s horrified expression if she’d known what kind of company her daughter was keeping.

  COMRADE PARTS COULD STILL feel sleep pressing against his eyes and he decided to go to the men’s room to wash his face while the Target sent his pasty fiancée home with a pat. He would have plenty of time. It would take the Target a while to placate her. Parts had never seen the girl in the café before, but the Target’s behavior showed that this was the kind of girl he could introduce to his parents, the kind he could marry. She was different from the other girls at the café: dressed up for the evening, careful of her clothes, like a girl from a poor family who knows she won’t get another dress until next year. Her demeanor was slightly tense, her face watchful, her expectations high. Parts was certain that the Target wouldn’t take the time to walk her all the way home, even though he should, even though most girls would be terribly hurt by such neglect, but she was one of those girlfriends who were always ready to forgive, and the Target was one of those young men who were well aware of the bottomlessness of that forgiveness. Couples like them rarely offered any surprises. They were always the same. It was just a matter of time before the Target managed to enlist her into his foolishness.

  Just as Parts was pushing the men’s room door open and inhaling deeply so he could hold his breath as long as possible from the toilet stench, his ears caught something. Two of the boys in the Target’s circle were arguing in a corner of the leaky, slippery room. Their talk cut off when he walked in, but he had already heard the word and the phrase that followed it, and although something lurched inside him, he walked over to the sink like any man would, turned on the tap, waited for the water to bubble into the basin, wet his hands, patted his face, and went into one of the stalls. He closed the door and leaned against it. The lock was broken. The young men left. Dog Ear. He knew he’d heard it. One of them had clearly said that Dog Ear’s new collection of poems had already been sent to the West and had garnered a lot of interest.

  Parts stared at the graffiti on the stall wall, the curve of the letters, the obscenities and counterrevolutionary quips. Some of the handwriting was easy to recognize. It made him feel sorry for his colleagues who had to hunt down the culprits. He wasn’t one of them and he never would be. That fear had faded in a moment. He knew he was on the right track again. He stepped out of the stall, rinsed his hands, and threw a ruble to the washroom attendant, making a mental note of her face but unable to tell if she was someone who might work with him. Maybe. Could Dog Ear be so stupid that he always used the same name? Or was this Dog Ear an imitator of the original? Even if he was, an imitator would have to know something about his predecessor. Parts would figure it out. As he walked back into the dining room, he was already smiling, and every step had a little more bounce in it. He should never have lost faith that scum will pile up in one place all on its own.

  Tallinn, Estonian SSR, Soviet Union

  THE WASHROOM ATTENDANT WAS no use to him. She was a religious old lady and apparently a sincere one, or she wouldn’t have been assigned to watch over the lavatory. But Parts had better luck at the student apartments. He met his new informant at Glehn Park, not far from the dorms. The informant arrived limping, complaining of an injured leg. Parts barely managed to listen civilly to her, tried to get her to hurry up and spit it out. She had proven herself surprisingly capable and patriotic, so there was no reason to pretend friendship anymore. In addition to collecting mail, she had copied the Target’s telegrams in neat black letters. Parts thanked her effusively, promising to return the bundle in a week as he slipped it into his briefcase, leaving her to rest her shaky legs with the Russians spending the day among the shady shrubbery, unwrapping the newspaper from their boiled eggs and chomping on their onion tops, the students studying for exams, the couples making love in the ruins of Glehn Castle.
The Office never would have shown him copies of the letters the Target received—or at most would have given him selected excerpts, typewritten—unless they’d wanted him to start up a correspondence in the Target’s name, and he wasn’t going to get that kind of assignment, at least for the time being. There were a few letters from the fiancée in the bundle, but Parts didn’t dare to hope that any of them would mention Dog Ear. He didn’t believe she knew very much, but even a few pages would be enough for a handwriting sample, and maybe something else of use would turn up. Then he could forge letters as evidence or lure Dog Ear out of hiding.

  AS HE CAME IN his own front door, he stumbled over a pile of his wife’s shoes. His wife’s footwear bulged where her corns were and although she could manage with sandals in the summer, in the winter she needed boots, and it was impossible to find any. She would rub her aching feet in the entryway and nag him about it, demanding to know when they were going to get access to the restricted shops—in the next life?—making snide remarks about how in spite of his big talk the only new development she could see was the downward trend of his career; he couldn’t even get them any rat-free ground meat. Parts untangled his slippers from a sandal and threw it in the corner. She was right. The situation had to be remedied before it was too late. If nothing else worked, he could buy some bismuth salt and put it in the Target’s letters. If he remembered correctly, American spies used something similar. The lab at the Office would find it and increase their surveillance.