Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  Guy smiled. ‘Katya, as I remember her, is one of those people who could make a drama out of eating breakfast. You’re surely not surprised?’

  ‘No. I’m not. But Mama says that Uncle Mischa is terribly angry.’

  ‘He would be, of course. It certainly seems to be a very silly thing to have done.’

  ‘Guy?’ Anna walked to his chair, laid an arm about his shoulder, resting her cheek upon his still-thick hair. Beyond the windows a drifting rain veiled the gardens. ‘I’d like to go home, for a visit. Perhaps next summer?’

  ‘Of course, my dear.’ His voice was calm. ‘But – home?’

  She laughed a little, hugged him again. ‘You know what I mean. And, of course, this is home. But – Papa isn’t getting any younger. And I have nieces and nephews I’ve never seen.’ She counted them on her fingers. ‘Lenka has a girl and a boy, Dima a little girl and another baby on the way – I’d like to see them, that’s all. I’ve never even met Margarita’s handsome husband. Yes, I should like to go back.’ She had not in her four years of marriage once heard from Lenka. The news she had received from her mother had been sketchy at best. But surely – surely! – her sister could not still be harbouring the childish grudge that had caused those last distressing words that had passed between them? And Andrei – she could face him now, she was certain, the pain, the destructive and dangerous emotions behind them; indeed, she realized suddenly, she needed to face him, needed to prove to herself and to him that it was truly over. ‘Next summer,’ she said. ‘I’ll write to Mama and tell her. I’ll visit them all next summer.’

  ‘We,’ he said. ‘We’ll visit them.’

  ‘Are you sure? You of all people know how trying the journey can be, and you know you haven’t been terribly well.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ His hand reached out for hers, still strong, still warm. ‘You’re not getting away from me that easily, my girl!’

  She touched his cheek, suddenly serious. Andrei’s name hovered between them, unspoken. ‘You don’t have to,’ she said. ‘I promise you don’t.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, and smiled. ‘But I’ll come anyway.’

  * * *

  It occurred to Katya to wonder, uneasily and more than once in the days that followed their arrival in Kuopio, if the locked door were not almost as much for her protection as for her restraint. ‘Stay close to me. All the time,’ Jussi had said; but now? What control had he, on a sick bed fighting for his life? And supposing he died? The thought brought nightmares. On the first morning of her captivity she heard Kaarlo’s voice outside the door, persistent and angry, and with it a woman’s voice, calmly arguing, the voice of the woman who had greeted and sheltered her. Since they spoke their native tongue she could not understand exactly what they said; but the man’s voice was fierce and far from friendly, and she stood listening by the door, her heart beating in fear.

  Later the woman came to her with milk and porridge, cheese and coddled eggs. Her face was grave, she said little. Katya waited until the last moment, until the woman was at the door, before she could bring herself to ask, ‘Jussi? How is he?’

  The woman, who had told Katya she was called Tilda, hesitated. Shook her head. ‘He isn’t good. He’s fevered.’

  Katya stared at her. ‘He won’t –’ Her voice cracked a little. She cleared her throat. ‘He won’t die, will he?’

  The woman did not hesitate. Her face was calm. ‘We can’t tell yet. I’m afraid he might. The wound was left for too long.’

  Katya pushed the tray away, her appetite gone. The woman turned to the door. Stopped. Came back to the bed. ‘Eat it,’ she said, gently.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Shrewd blue eyes measured her. ‘Don’t be afraid. August – my husband – and I won’t let anything happen to you. For our own sakes as well as for Jussi’s. This is our home. You’re safe here.’

  Katya thought of Kaarlo’s dark, unfriendly eyes and could not help but doubt that. She said nothing.

  Tilda laid a plump, firm hand upon hers. ‘Eat. I’ll bring you some clothes. We have nothing very suitable, but something of my daughter’s might fit you, with a little adjustment. She’s in Helsinki. She won’t mind.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Katya’s voice was dull. Her brain was dull. She could not think.

  ‘You’ve had a hard time. Sleep.’

  She thought it impossible, but strangely sleep she did, on and off, for all of the day and most of the night. The exhausting journey had taken its toll; her rest, in the feathered nest of the comfortable bed, was far from peaceful but it at least defended her from thought, from the need to face the bizarre situation in which she found herself.

  She woke to a warm and lamplit room, shadowed, strange; for a moment she could not recall where she was. Then recollection hit her and her stomach churned. She sat up.

  The figure in the armchair, set by a lamp on a round table that held a bubbling samovar, lifted her head. ‘You’re awake,’ Tilda said, calmly, setting aside her needlework.

  Katya dragged her tangled fair hair from her eyes. ‘Jussi?’ she asked.

  The woman shrugged a little. Her eyes were shadowed. ‘Still bad.’

  Katya lay back on the pillows.

  ‘Would you care for tea?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  With neat and composed movements Tilda mixed the tea, brought the glass to the bedside on a small tray. ‘I’ve been sitting with Jussi. Heimo’s taken over. I couldn’t sleep. I –’ she hesitated ‘– I thought it a good idea to sit with you for a while?’ Her voice was oddly tentative.

  ‘Thank you. That was kind.’ The tea was strong and lemony. For a devastating moment it reminded Katya of home, of safe and blessed normality. She took a deep breath, nibbling her lip, fighting the weak tears. The brew cleared her brain of the fog of too-long, too-deep sleep. Tilda had settled back into the chair, sewing. Silence settled about them for a while, calm and not unfriendly.

  ‘More tea?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Katya accepted the tray. Looked up into the lined and weathered face. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to Finland. I’ve been often. I’ve read of course about – about the extremists. But Jussi? You?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s because you are a Russian.’ The words held no animosity. Tilda sat upon the bed, watching her, her face serious. ‘My dear, what you have to understand – what the world has to understand – is that Finland is not a part of Russia. She never has been. Finland is a Duchy, an independent state, with her own laws, her own Constitution. Since the early part of the last century we have simply been – it is an irony I think to say it – under the protection of the Russian crown. That’s all. We had guarantees. Treaties. But now, in the past thirty years, the Russian monarchy has abused the power that has been vested in it. The Tsar outlaws our language, our culture, our Constitution. He mistreats our people, our public servants. We are to be –’ she spread square, expressive hands ‘– Russified.’ She shook her head. ‘He misunderstands us. The world misunderstands us. Badly. Finns are not by nature passionate people perhaps, but they are determined, they are not lacking in courage, and they are strong for justice. They are slow to anger, slow to react, as damp kindling is sometimes slow to burn; but once roused, once burning, the fire is deep-seated and impossible to extinguish. Unrest has been smouldering for years. Our young men refuse to serve in your army. We demand that once again our courts, our schools, our cities should be run by Finns, not by Russians. Our language is precious to us. We are not a subject nation; your government acts illegally and unconstitutionally in trying to subject us. We will be free. There are those who counsel caution still – those who rely on the good will of Britain, France, Germany, who all pay lip service to our cause but do nothing to aid us for fear of angering the Tsar – many of our older folk detest and fear the thought of violence. But there are others, like Jussi, who seek the direct way. I don’t know who is right. My own nature bend
s to caution and to the way of the law –’ she smiled a little, gently ‘– I fear I am a typical Finn! But I love Jussi dearly. His mother was my closest friend, closer than a sister. And even I, and many like me, are becoming tired of waiting. Perhaps the young people are right. Perhaps it will be necessary that we fight.’

  ‘Fight?’ Katya asked, faintly. ‘Fight the Tsar? And all his army?’

  The rosy, weathered face smiled. A shoulder lifted. ‘Perhaps. Who knows? There is no more just cause than ours, and no more corrupt regime than the one we face. Change is coming. But enough.’ She smiled her kindly smile. ‘I didn’t mean to lecture. For now, rest, my dear. And try not to worry.’

  The shadow of Katya’s usual bright smile lit her face. ‘Hard to do with Kaarlo on the other side of the door. He doesn’t like me.’

  ‘I have told you; you are a guest under our roof. And as such you are safe.’ Briskly the woman moved to where she had been sitting, shook out the material of the skirt she had been sewing. ‘There. I had to guess the size – our Milja is rather bigger than you – but I think it will fit. Sleep now, and in the morning we’ll talk again.’

  ‘My parents,’ Katya said. ‘May I write to them?’

  Tilda turned. ‘We spoke of it,’ she said. ‘Kaarlo and Heimo thought not. For fear you sent some secret message, betraying us. I suggested that a brief note, scrutinized by all of us, could do no harm.’

  Katya watched her as she folded her sewing. ‘Who won?’

  Tilda’s smile was serene. ‘They may be young men, and strong, and they may, to their eternal glory, be challenging the strength of the Tsar himself.’ She laid the skirt tidily over the back of the chair, collected the tea glasses. ‘But in Tilda Heikkala’s house Tilda Heikkala rules. I’ll bring pen and paper tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you.’ A little comforted, Katya lay back upon the pillows. The sound of the key in the lock disturbed her not at all.

  * * *

  Her comfort did not last. The next day she knew from the tension that pervaded the house and from Tilda’s quiet that Jussi was sinking. That night, after concocting a bright and deceitful note that would at least serve to relieve her parents’ worry, or so she hoped, she sank to her knees by the side of the bed and prayed more fervently than she had in a very long time, for his life and for her own; she could no longer look any further than those simple needs. There was another tension too; that afternoon she had heard a disturbance in the street outside, shouts and cursing, a shot. From her window the view of the street was restricted, but she saw Russian uniforms, heard the hammering at a door, saw a young man dragged struggling away. The Heikkala house quietened; it was as if no inmate breathed, for fear of attracting attention. A young maid brought her meals, which on the whole she left untouched. Tilda brought her books and magazines, shook her head when Katya enquired after Jussi. ‘He’s bad. But there’s still hope.’

  The day was endless, the night that followed worse. Heimo came in the morning to replenish the stove. Tilda, he told her, had been up all night with her husband, nursing their patient.

  ‘How is he?’

  Heimo shrugged. He looked tired and drawn. ‘Not good.’

  She could settle to nothing. She spent long hours at the window, which looked onto a small courtyard garden, surrounded on three sides by the immaculately painted cream-boarded walls of the house and on the fourth by the stables. It was through the stable arch that she could see a little of the street. The courtyard was kept clear of snow and was neatly swept each day. It contained a single tree and a few bare, tidily-clipped bushes against the far wall. The sky was stormy and dark; often it snowed. The house was of one storey, as were its neighbours. The tall, shuttered windows, their surrounds and sills white-painted, were double-glazed against the fierce chill of winter, the protection cutting off sound as well as cold. She saw movement through the arch; sledges passed, people hurried by, but all in utter silence. And behind her too the house was still.

  She went to bed in the early darkness, miserable and afraid.

  Tilda came the next day. Katya was sitting by the window when she heard the key turn in the lock. She jumped up, facing the door, scanning the woman’s face anxiously as she came into the room. Tilda smiled, tiredly. ‘The worst would seem to be over. August thinks he’ll be all right. He needs rest now.’

  Relief overwhelmed Katya. She sat down, very suddenly, in the chair again. ‘Might I be allowed to see him?’

  ‘Perhaps. Later. But for the moment, no. It’s best you stay here, I think.’

  Katya glanced at her, sharply. ‘You think? Or Kaarlo thinks?’

  ‘For the moment Kaarlo has gone. There are arrangements to be made. Jussi cannot go back to St Petersburg with an unexplained wound. He must regain his strength. Even Kaarlo has been brought to see that you are an advantage in this. Elisabet has written to tell us that no-one has questioned the story of the elopement. Your parents are angry, but they have no fear for you.’

  Katya nibbled her lip.

  Tilda put out a sympathetic hand. ‘Try not to worry.’

  ‘How can I help it?’ Katya pulled away, turned back to the window. The sky was leaden with snow; in the dreary half-light the already familiar view looked depressing and restrictive. ‘I’m not stupid, whatever you might all think.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘I’m convenient, yes. For the moment. But afterwards? Will Jussi be content to keep me locked up for ever? And if not, then what?’ She turned again to face Tilda, chin up. ‘An even more convenient “accident”? “Madcap young bride falls into lake?” “Tragic shotgun accident”?’ It was the first time she had allowed herself to articulate her fears; the very sound of the words brought a rise of panic. She folded her arms tightly across her breast, gripping her upper arms fiercely, fighting it down.

  Tilda could not disguise the fact that she had no reassuring answer for her. She could only say, quietly, ‘I don’t believe that Jussi would allow that.’

  The memory of Elisabet’s cool eyes, steady above the levelled pistol, the awareness of Kaarlo’s undisguised hostility, were too strong to accept that as comfort. ‘Are you sure that Jussi will have the last say?’

  The woman did not reply.

  Katya turned away again.

  ‘When Jussi is strong enough they’ll go into the forest for the winter. His family have some land – the house is small and almost derelict, but it will serve. Kuopio isn’t altogether safe. There is a big Russian garrison here, and there are people who are not friendly to our cause. August and I have made enemies, for we are outspoken and have brought some small trouble to some. Jussi and the others will be safer away from here.’

  ‘And I?’ Katya asked, bleakly. ‘Where will I be safe?’

  The silence behind her was telling. ‘Try not to worry,’ Tilda said again, quietly, after a moment. Katya heard her move to the door. Stop. ‘I’ll do my best for you,’ she said.

  Katya said nothing until the door had closed behind her. Then she threw back her head in sudden miserable frustration of cooped energy and fury. ‘Damn it!’ she whispered. And then, again, ‘Damn it!’

  * * *

  In the event she did not visit Jussi, he visited her, three days after the start of his recovery. Those days had been a strange time for Katya, a time of boredom broken only by Tilda’s visits and by her own fiercely-recurring fears; yet there had been one small relief when her monthly period arrived, flooding and uncomfortable but infinitely welcome. It had been overdue, a circumstance which had further deepened her misery and fear, and its arrival lifted at least one worry from her overburdened mind. It was in the dying light of the early afternoon of the third day that she looked up, hearing the key turning in the lock, and saw him there, leaning in the doorway. His tall, always slight frame had shrunk to skin and bone. His right arm was in a sling. His face was thin, his eyes dark-ringed, his shock of pale hair tousled as straw. But the smile, the graceless, mocking smile that had so often infuriated her was the same. And still it infuriated her. />
  ‘Well,’ she said, tartly. ‘The bridegroom. How nice.’

  His grin widened, though he winced as he closed the door very quietly behind him and walked cautiously into the room, lowering himself into a sitting position on the bed. ‘As a matter of fact that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wedding,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘I really think I ought to make an honest woman of you, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Furiously she turned away from him. ‘Can’t you ever be serious?’

  There was a very short silence, ‘Just for once,’ he said, very quietly, ‘I am.’

  The silence that followed was much, much longer. She turned. Studied his face. Almost laughed aloud in sheer disbelief. ‘You mean it,’ she said at last. ‘You – you actually think I’ll marry you!’

  ‘I don’t think you have any choice.’

  It took no time at all for the truth of that to sink in. Katya’s soft mouth tightened angrily.

  ‘Katya, listen to me.’ All humour had gone; without the smile his face was sunken with pain and tiredness. ‘You must realize the difficulty – the danger – of your situation? Through no fault of your own you know things that could destroy us all. That could have us all arrested, tortured, executed. That could endanger our friends and our families –’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I know. It wasn’t through choice. But it happened.’ Jussi put a long, pale hand to his forehead, rubbed it absentmindedly. ‘We have to go on from there. I can’t think of any way to protect you but for us to marry. At least then perhaps I can take responsibility for your silence. But – I have to tell you – even that isn’t guaranteed to work.’ His voice was sombre. ‘There are those, you must know it, who simply think that your knowledge is too dangerous to us for you to live.’