Lace Weaver Page 3

  The light from the oil lamps glinted on his face. Half-hidden behind Mama, I was able to study him.

  His face had lengthened, the angled cheekbones more pronounced, although we all looked thinner. He wore a uniform of mushroom brown in a style and texture I had not seen before. It was wool; I could tell from the way the material absorbed the light, muting it so that if he stepped away, into the shadows, he might disappear altogether. His hands were encased in gloves. Crimson yarn, woven through with a pattern of white winter berries.

  Somewhere in my body, an invisible, familiar drum began to beat, its steady rhythm pulsing outwards until I could no longer hear the snuffling sheep below us, nor taste the greasy residue of my mother’s turnip broth. There was nothing else.

  I put out a hand and gripped the back of the nearest chair. The oak beam was solid, but a loose chair leg wobbled beneath the weight and squeaked. The sound made Oskar turn his head.

  ‘Kati.’

  Our gazes connected, and a wave of memory caught me up.

  Burnt sugar. The mournful lowing of cows waiting to be milked. A band of golden sunlight illuminating the varnished floor. And blood.

  I turned away as nausea filled my stomach.

  Swallow. Breathe.

  Oskar’s mouth twisted. He took a step towards me but Papa coughed and he froze.

  ‘The Russians say you killed your mother and sister.’ Papa’s voice was heavy.

  My mother flinched and glanced away. I too, wanted to turn my head, but could not bring myself to do so in case Oskar thought I believed what the Russians said. In the awkward silence that stretched on, I heard again the voices of the soldiers in my mind when they came to see us the day of Imbi and Aime’s deaths. The harsh guttural sound of their words. Murderer. Outlaw. Criminal. I remembered their faces as they spun us their version of what had happened, telling us that Oskar must have killed his family after arguing with them about resisting the order to hand over all weapons. It was not so surprising, they’d said, considering his socialist sympathies. Some passing soldiers heard what was happening and chased after him, but it was too late; he had already run into the forest so they went back into Tartu to alert their superiors. Those socialists would kill their own grandmothers given half a chance, one soldier had told us. If anyone from town was caught helping him, they would be arrested and tried at once.

  All through their speech, I had wrestled with my desire to shout that they were wrong, to defend Oskar’s innocence but Papa’s hand on my arm was firm and so I kept my own thoughts locked away. But in my heart I was grieving, not just for Imbi and Aime, but for Oskar, too. They had covered up their own crimes by pinning the murders on him. They might as well have shot him.

  ‘I didn’t kill them,’ Oskar said softly now. His gaze darted to Mama. ‘Please, Marta. You must believe me.’ Beneath the hard lines in his face, I caught a glimpse of the old Oskar, the one who had played Vikings and built castles with me in the rambling orchard beyond his house and walked me home each day after school. The boy who turned his face away at choir practice so the other children would not see how the music moved him. The boy who had endured the teasing of my brother and his friends without ever raising his fist in retaliation. The boy who always brought his mother the first sprays of wildflowers when they appeared in Spring and gave his sister half his roll at lunchtime to ensure she had enough to eat.

  Mama could remember that boy too. Her eyes were wet with tears. She brushed them away. ‘Of course we believe you,’ she said softly, ignoring Papa’s warning look. ‘Erich and I discussed it, once the soldiers were gone. Poor Imbi. And little Aime. She was too young.’ Her eyes filled again. Averting her face, she scurried to the cabinet and snatched up a mug. Filling it with water, she thrust it into his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ Oskar said. He looked down at the mug, as if surprised by this sudden kindness. ‘I heard that you found them, Erich,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I could have done something to spare you the shock.’

  Papa shook his head. ‘It wasn’t me, Oskar,’ he said. ‘It was Kati.’

  Oskar’s eyes widened. ‘Kati? Is that true?’

  I dropped my gaze, afraid to look up and see the suffering this news might cause him. It was hard enough to face the memories I had to endure alone.

  It had been spring when I found them, warmer than the one we were now experiencing. The wildflowers had bloomed early. Their spiciness mingled with the green scent of the rain that had left the river swollen and washed the sky a clear, cloudless blue. As I’d trudged the forest track that led between Oskar’s house and our own, I had brushed my hands along the edges of the fir trees. Their trunks soared above my head. They had set down their roots long ago, before the first settlers arrived, when Estonia was just a belt of wild forest filled with beasts. That Estonia was the one of Vikings and of the sagas of Iceland, her coasts a harbour to shelter in on the way to hunting waters, her islands stepping stones among the tides. It was the Estonia of men with the strength of ten plough horses and women who foretold their own destiny in dreams.

  In the quiet of the forest, it was possible to imagine not much had changed at all.

  The scent of fir needles lifted into the air, engulfing me as I walked the track I knew as intimately as the pattern of my grandmother’s lace. There was no chance I would linger idly, enjoying the breeze as it wafted through the trees. Oskar was waiting.

  I could picture him pacing the small porch that wrapped around the farmhouse, eager to escape his chores, perhaps rubbing his toe against a loose board, eyes searching the track. His mother too would be awaiting my arrival. She’d always been fond of me, but lately she had been nervous. The presence of the Russians in Tartu disturbed everyone. She would grab my arm when I arrived and pull me indoors, her worried expression clearing until her round face was again as smooth as the dough resting in its bowl in the sun.

  The dozen apples in my knapsack jostled and bumped against the small of my back. Mama had sent them for Oskar’s mother, a gift. In exchange, Imbi would send back the berries that she and her daughter Aime had picked. Thinking of Aime always brought a smile to my face. Although there were six years between us, I’d known her so long I sometimes felt she was my little sister, too. Once during the autumn holidays, Oskar had fallen ill with the measles and Aime had come to stay with us. She shared my bed and risen early to help me prepare breakfast and unpen the sheep. Although she found knitting difficult because of the long hours of sitting, it was a pleasure for her to tramp into the forest to harvest fruit. She delighted in showing me how to peel back the moss to reveal a clutch of fenberries hidden beneath. Imbi had taught her which berries were safe to eat and which must be left behind. Cloudberries, small orbs of shiny copper with a lingering honey flavour, were the most prized, for each plant only grew one stalk.

  ‘You should make a cloudberry shawl,’ Aime had once advised, her eyes sparkling as she dropped one of the precious globes into my hand and tucked the rest away in a soft sack for her mother to preserve.

  Imbi was the queen of preserves. My mouth was already watering in anticipation of the sweet seeded strawberries she soaked in elderflower wine and served with thick slices of malty brown bread. She was my champion, always encouraging Oskar to invite me over, pressing jars of pickled blueberries into my hands. I had given her a knitted scarf for her last birthday, covered with vikkel, travelling stitch, the edges woven through with braided ribbon. I could tell Oskar was pleased, although he would have preferred for us to meet in the wild, overrun orchard beyond the house or in the paddock where they kept a few straggly cows. Imbi was not one to be argued with, though, and she liked my company so the farmhouse was where we spent most of our time, telling stories or helping Aime with her schoolwork while Imbi plied us with small battered cakes she had fried on the griddle and doused in her own special syrup; an assortment of berries steeped in the honey of wild forest bees. It was only in the midst of preserving that Imbi seemed to forget we were there, too busy prepa
ring the sugar-water and instructing Aime on how to steep the fruit to notice the sound of our footsteps and the squeak of the door as Oskar and I slipped into the forest to be alone.

  Once there, we could sink down among the mossy tussocks and watch the clouds race by, imagining how our lives might be, if nothing stood in our way. Although I couldn’t go to university, I wondered aloud if I could one day write a book, a collection of all the stories my grandmother had told me. I would still have to mind the sheep, of course, and help my parents with the farmwork, but in my spare time, I would run the knitting circle and perhaps even take trips outside of Estonia to see the world. Oskar would be a carpenter like his father had been before he grew ill and died, leaving Imbi to raise their children alone. Imbi had been forced to sell Oskar’s father’s tools at the flea market to make ends meet but that did not dampen Oskar’s plans to one day rebuild his mother’s cottage from the finest oak, with heart-shaped windows and a grand kitchen where Imbi could spend her days preserving without worrying about milking the cows and churning butter until her hands ached. There would be a shelf in the parlour so Aime’s dolls could watch over her as she studied and a room with large windows facing the garden which let in plenty of light so I could knit in comfort, without ever having to squint down to check that my stitches were even. It was a dream-house, a fantasy built from years of refinement and the countless hours Oskar and I had spent lying side by side, lost in our thoughts beneath the peace of the clouds.

  In all our dreaming, we always spoke of our future as if we intended to live it together. Our pairing felt as natural as the shifting of seasons. My parents, I hoped, would not deny the match. Imbi, I felt sure, would be overjoyed.

  A grin spread over my face. A twig snapped beneath my boots, pulling me out of my daydream.

  And then I heard the cows.

  The sound echoed across the forest, slipping in between the trees, filling the space and freezing me in my tracks. Their cries were loud, desperate.

  I paused at the edge of the clearing that held Oskar’s farmhouse. From where I stood, it looked unchanged. The funny crooked windows, the small barn tacked on to the side, the fragrant herb beds nestled against the path that led up to the front door. But then that sound came again, loud and shrill, full of pain. The cows were trapped in their barn. There was nobody to milk them or set them free.

  My feet seemed to move of their own accord, propelling me towards the house. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. When I reached the door, it swung open.

  I bent my head, listening. I wanted to call out. I wanted to hear anything but those pitiful cries from the barn. But my voice was trapped in my throat.

  I stepped inside. Sunlight slanted across the floor, illuminating the dust on the old floorboards, carving up the room into light and shade. I squinted, waiting for my eyes to adjust. That was when the smell reached my nostrils, the cloying scent of burnt sugar. Something had been left bubbling on the stove, now nothing more than a blackened sugar crust.

  I moved towards it, intending to lift the pan but as I skirted the table, my boots met something soft. I looked down.

  Imbi lay on her back. Her face was frozen, eyes staring up as if she could see through the roof to the sky. Bullets had torn holes in her dress and there was a wound near her forehead. Her arms were flung out in warning or surprise. In contrast, Aime was curled on her side, arms wrapped around her middle. Her eyes were closed, the skin on her eyelids a pale crinkled blue like the crushed fabric of her doll’s dress. The sun streaming in caught the rosy highlights of her hair. She might have been sleeping.

  I squatted down and reached out my hand to touch her shoulder. It was stiff and unyielding. Understanding struck and I shot to my feet, gagging.

  Oskar, where was Oskar?

  My face was hot. I forced myself to lurch towards his room. It was empty. Relief was quickly followed by terror. I needed to find him, but I could not do it alone. My hands shook so hard I could barely turn the door handle to fling myself outside.

  I stumbled home in a fog of panic.

  My father was inspecting fruit in the apple orchard. One look at my face and he ordered me to go into the house and find Mama and wait for him to return. Mama was in the laundry shed behind the house, plunging Papa’s soiled shirts into a bucket of grimy water. She looked up in surprise as I ran towards her. The shirt fell from her hands and splashed back into the bucket.

  ‘Kati! We weren’t expecting you back till tea time.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and came towards me. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I tried to speak. My teeth chattered. Nausea churned from the base of my stomach up to my mouth. The words finally came in gurgles and gasps, like water running from a broken tap. I watched Mama’s face grow ashen and then her cold hands wound around me and she held me as if I was a child, smoothing back my hair with fingers which smelled of soap and tea.

  ‘Oskar,’ I managed to say. ‘Papa must find him!’

  We went together into the house and I stood at the window at the back, my gaze fixed on the far paddock where the path which led to Oskar’s farmhouse began.

  It was less than an hour before Papa returned, but it felt like so much more. Every moment he was gone had shown me Imbi and Aime’s bodies on the farmhouse floor interspersed with visions of Oskar lying bleeding somewhere in the forest. Even the warm milk Mama pressed into my hands could not melt the chill that spread through my body. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.

  At last, I saw Papa emerge from the forest and cross the fields towards the house. His movements were slow, his body bent inwards as if he was walking into a strong wind. We hurried down the steps to meet him.

  ‘Well? Did you see them?’ Mama said when he reached the farmhouse. ‘It can’t be true. They’re not—’

  She stopped, caught herself. Papa’s skin was the colour of oatmeal. ‘It’s true.’

  Mama began to cry. A wave of dizziness made my head spin and I clutched at Mama’s hand to steady myself.

  ‘Did you find Oskar?’ I said.

  Papa’s gaze swivelled towards me. There was a strange look in his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I did not.’ He said the words carefully, sounding each one out as if he was speaking for someone else’s benefit. ‘When I got to the farmhouse, there were NKVD agents already inside. They are coming to speak with us later.’

  ‘Perhaps they will find him.’ I hugged myself. ‘They will look for whoever killed Imbi and Aime, start an investigation.’

  My parents exchanged a look.

  ‘We don’t have long,’ Papa said to Mama. ‘Let’s bring the sheep in. The cars might startle them.’

  Something about his tone made me search his face. ‘Papa?’

  He was already turning away. He looked back and his shoulders slumped. ‘Kati, there won’t be an investigation.’ I stared at him blankly. His mouth twisted. ‘Think; there can only be one group of people who hate Estonians enough to slaughter innocent women and children.’

  I felt sick. A curl of anger twisted inside me.

  ‘We must be prepared for the worst,’ he continued. ‘Oskar is gone. We may never know what happened to him.’

  ‘But what reason would anyone have to hurt him? To hurt Imbi and Aime?’

  Papa’s face darkened. ‘I ran into Johannes Tamm this morning. Did Oskar tell you that he whistled an Estonian song as the Russians marched past the market in Tartu last week? The soldiers did not hear but Tamm’s Russian neighbour did and he recognised Oskar and reported him. Tamm told me so himself.’

  ‘No.’ I tried to conceal the surprise and hurt in my face. Oksar had voiced his disapproval of the Russians to Imbi and me in private but I had not thought him so foolish as to publicly endanger his family. I could only guess that he’d thought the Russians would not hear him. If he considered himself in trouble, he would surely have told me. We had promised we would not keep secrets from each other. ‘He didn’t say a word.’

  Papa looked towards the road, as if he he
ard the crunch of tyres. ‘When the soldiers arrive, we must say nothing to incriminate ourselves. You understand? You saw what happened to Oskar’s family. That is what happens to anyone who opposes them. Or worse. Think of your mother.’ I flinched. His voice gentled. ‘You must forget that boy, Kati, and hope for his sake and ours that he never returns.’

  He wrapped me in a tight embrace. I wanted to hug him back, but I could not force my hands, my limbs stiff with shock and fear, to move.

  *

  Now, a year later, here was Oskar standing before me. How many nights had I dreamed of him, willed him back? But I had never imagined it like this; my parents standing silent, my father’s wary gaze. So much was different. So much had been altered by the continuing Soviet influx. Estonian families exiled or deported, their properties broken up into collective farms. Others ordered to leave their office jobs to work in the fields or consigned to the darkness of the mines. Villagers had been encouraged to join the Communist Party; anyone who didn’t was viewed with suspicion. Cars and horses, even bicycles, were confiscated. Families came home to find their belongings flung out into the street and strangers sleeping in their beds. Whatever the Russians needed, they took for themselves. Anyone who resisted was beaten violently or taken to the NKVD headquarters for interrogation. Papa was right; it was best to try to forget. If only it was so simple.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Oskar said. ‘I’m so sorry, Kati. I didn’t realise.’ His voice was low, edged with pain.

  I glanced up and our eyes met again.

  I’d forgotten the paleness of Oskar’s blue eyes. In the lamplight, they were almost grey, a stream reflecting an autumn sky. They were the eyes of the man who knew me best. They could see past the thin barriers I had built to protect myself. Once, I had been able to read Oskar too. Now there was a veil drawn between us, a darkness that clouded my judgement. I had no way of knowing; had he missed me as desperately as I’d missed him?