Below the Surface

by Leena Lehtolainen

  One late summer evening I was on my way to my shift at guard post number three in Ström. That was when I saw the girl for the first time. She stood behind the barbwire fence on the other side of the border zone and looked at me curiously. She wore a blue dress and had thick, light-brown curls. I shouted to her not to come any closer, in Russian of course. To my surprise and wonder, she responded in Russian. I heard her voice clearly, even though the distance between us was dozens of meters. There were barbwire fences on either side of the border, with a patch of sand about ten meters wide running down the middle between them. The sand was raked once every guard shift, so smooth that it even betrayed the tracks of mice.

  The girl’s name was Rauha, she told me, which meant “Peace.” She missed her old home. Did the squirrels still collect nuts under the back eaves? Did the swans still come to Degerö Bay?

  What’s the name of the house? I asked.

  Smedsbo, Rauha said, and based on the description I could tell it was the same house I lived in.

  Of course I shouldn’t have talked to the Finnish girl. But her voice was so bright and happy even though she spoke of sad things. Later I got so close to her that I could see how blue her eyes were, like the sea on a summer day. Of course there were women on the base too, the officers’ wives, the teachers, and the cooks. None of them lived at Smedsbo, though, and besides, I was a shy boy. When I told the other men stories about my exploits, they were only stories. The officers had prostitutes, and some of my barracks mates had spent time with girls in Baku, but I’d never dared. I immediately became infatuated with this girl, though: she wasn’t afraid and she didn’t treat me like an enemy, even though I was one of the people who had driven her from her home. When she smiled, I didn’t need any other sun. I fell in love without knowing what the word even meant.

  Later I learned that Rauha and her parents had often come to the border, especially in the early days of the lease. The guard at that time, Artur, had been a nice old man, Rauha said, easily paid off with cigarettes and chocolate.

  Paid off to do what? I asked.

  To let us over the border to the hills at Malm where we could see our house, she said. Have they cut down any more of the forest?

  I didn’t know, since I didn’t have any point of comparison. I told her how the trees looked, even though Rauha didn’t understand the more complicated expressions I used. Her father had taught her Russian so she could read Tolstoy in the original language. Father is a wise man, Rauha said. He doesn’t hate anyone.

  Do you want to come across the border again sometime? I asked, even though I feared someone would see us. The guard posts were only a few hundred meters apart, and the border zone had been razed. On our side of the barbwire there were openings spaced one kilometer apart so we could get in to rake the sand strip. I didn’t know about the Finnish side, though.

  Yes, the girl said. Whenever is best for you. Will you always be the one on this guard shift?

  I don’t know, I replied.

  Of course I was afraid. I’d seen how rule breakers were punished. Maybe I’d be shot along with the girl’s family. In the early days of the base the Finns and the Soviets had had more contact. The children had played together and swum in the Siuntio River. Later the army had built a swimming barrier across the river.

  When I came on shift the next day, I waited for the girl, but she never came. Three days passed before she returned. Now she was wearing a blue-and-white striped dress with a slender waist and flared skirt. I’d never seen anything more beautiful.

  What do you want in return? she asked.

  I don’t want anything, I said, although I would have liked to touch her, her soft cheeks, her smiling lips, the hair that the summer breeze blew into her face.

  When will it be possible? she asked.

  I don’t know yet. Maybe when Sasha is on shift with me. Sasha is a good man. I’ll speak to him. But only to the hills. Anything else is too dangerous. Tell your parents that.

  I thought it was strange that anyone could long for a place the way Rauha and her parents did. The family had lived on the farm for more than two hundred years, but the new main house was only two decades old. Although I’d lived seventeen years in the same room in Leningrad, I didn’t want to go back there or to Baku. I didn’t know whether Babushka or Uncle Vladimir were still alive. It was irrelevant to me.

  Sasha said he’d turn a blind eye when I helped the girl cross onto the base but he wanted money in return.

  What will you do with Finnish money? I asked, since we only used rubles on the base.

  You’re so naive. Don’t worry, I’ll find a use for it. Two hundred marks and I’ll turn my head.

  At that time, I didn’t know if that was a lot or a little, but I learned from Rauha’s expression when I told her. I was standing on the sand strip, raking it, and she was standing right near me on the other side of the barbwire.

  And the same amount for you? she asked.

  No, for me just a smile, I said and reached across to stroke her cheek, ignoring the barb that caught ahold of my sleeve. The girl didn’t push my hand away.

  You’re nice, she said. She pronounced her words in Russian unlike anyone else. It was like birdsong to me.

  I knew how dangerous this all was, but ignoring the danger made me feel like a man. So what if I was executed because of this girl? There were crazier things to die for, like communism and the fatherland. Those were just ideas, but Rauha was real.

  Tell Sasha that he’ll get the two hundred marks. I’ll give them to you to take to him. When Rauha left, she blew me a kiss. There was no way to kiss through the barbwire.

  They came two nights later with the money and waited on the other side of the line while I took it to Sasha. Of course we were forbidden from leaving our guard posts, and of course we ignored that rule. Sasha looked away as the Smeds family walked over the sand strip and through one of the openings in the wire we used when we raked. I was so afraid I nearly fainted. In the dusk they walked the kilometer to one of the hills and saw their home. I watched the three figures: the girl’s tall, slender father, Albert; her mother, Alma, who was as small as her daughter; and the girl herself, Rauha. I was seeing what homesickness meant.

  When they came back, Albert asked why I’d helped them. I didn’t know how to answer.

  I think you’ve taken a fancy to my daughter, he said. I blushed.

  After that, I was transferred to the Lake Humaljärvi day shift, even though I didn’t want to go. I longed for Rauha, but I couldn’t think of any way to see her. I couldn’t just go poking around other guard posts during my free time. Fortunately there was Sasha.

  That girl came looking for you, he said one night. I told her where you are now. She told me to say hello. How does she know Russian?

  I didn’t want to talk about Rauha with anyone, even Sasha. She was something that belonged to me alone. Still I suggested to him that he could pretend to be sick and I could promise to cover his shift. Our commander had a taste for vodka and was easy to fool.

  After working double shifts for three days with no success, I finally saw Rauha.

  I’ve missed you, she said.

  Me too, I said. I kissed my fingers and pressed them to her cheek, and she let it happen. I decided I had to get somewhere with her where we could be alone. The danger of being seen together in the open border area was too great.

  In the fall we began to hear rumors that Porkkala would be returned to the Finns, perhaps as soon as the following year. The base was restless. No one wanted to go back to the Soviet Union, me least of all. Finally, on the eleventh anniversary of the Moscow Armistice, on the nineteenth of September, 1955, we learned that the Porkkala Naval Base would be returned to Finland in January.

  After hearing this, I went to the border to wait for Rauha. She came, her face glowing.

  I get to go home, she said.

  I have to return to the place they claim is my home, I replied. Away from you. I don’t know where I’ll be t
aken. No one does. But wherever it is, it will be the wrong place because I won’t be with you.

  Come over the border, she said. Come and stay with me.

  That isn’t possible, I said. If I try to cross the border, my comrades will have to shoot me. I don’t want to force them to do that. And the Finnish authorities have returned deserters before. But maybe I could swim. Maybe I could swim over on Lake Humaljärvi. I could hide in the rocks, pretending that I’d drowned, until it’s dark enough to come out.

  When? I’ll get a boat. I can row to Storholmen Island to wait for you. Then we can row together to shore. That isn’t too far to swim. I’ll arrange it all.

  I believe you.

  Rauha was just a girl, but she knew what she wanted. You know your mother. When she decides something, that decision sticks.

  The autumn nights were cold and I wasn’t a good swimmer. In addition, I had to stage my drowning during my guard shift, which meant leaving my uniform on shore, so I wouldn’t be recognized as a soldier on the other side. I decided to at least keep my underwear on, but everything else, including my footwraps and boots, had to stay. The guard shift ended at three. I staged my drowning at two. I left my clothes on the shore and threw my gun in the water. On the previous evening I’d talked about how much I liked swimming, even though I had trouble with cramps sometimes and was afraid of slipping on the rocks around the lake.

  For several hours I hid, shivering, in a damp, mossy crevice where I could barely turn around. I didn’t dare to climb out until it was dark enough. As I climbed, I tore a long scratch in my shin, which stung in the water. I didn’t know whether my clothing had been found. The rocks were cold, and my body was stiff with fear and the chill. The water felt frigid. I tried to slip into it with as little sound as possible, but I lost my footing and caused a splash. I tried to stay underwater, but I couldn’t hold my breath for long. When I rose to the surface, I heard Petrov’s familiar voice issuing commands in Russian: “Tšto eto?” I knew that the searchlight would find me soon, then would come the shots.

  I swam for my life. That’s the only way to describe it. I swam, fearing with every stroke that I would lose my strength, that the water would swallow me. It’s hard to swim quickly and silently at the same time. The searchlight flashed on the shore, but no shots came. Maybe Petrov trusted that the Finnish authorities would handle me.

  When I got near the east side of Storholmen, I saw a boat. It began gliding toward me like a dream. I was so cold I didn’t think I could make it. When I finally grasped the side of the boat, I was so exhausted I couldn’t climb in, and when Rauha tried to pull me up over the side, the boat took on water. Finally she ordered me to grab the rope on the stern and she would drag me to the island. My arms were so cold and tired I could barely hold on. I’ll remember the number on the side of that boat, seventeen, until the day I die. Some of the fishermen in the area had permission to work in the border waters, but only during daylight hours, and the boats they used were numbered.

  On Storholmen, I crawled ashore like an animal. Rauha wrapped a blanket around me and rubbed and shook me until my blood started to flow again. She gave me clothing and a thermos of hot coffee. I hadn’t eaten since morning, and I was trembling with fear and hunger. I was embarrassed that I’d made Rauha row us to land by herself, but I couldn’t have done it.

  I’m fine, she said. We have a bicycle we can ride to where my family is staying in Innanbäck. Father will take us to Karjaa tomorrow, and we can go by train to Turku. They’ll start looking for you, so it isn’t safe to stay here. You can’t speak Russian. You have to learn a few words of Swedish tonight. And later you’ll have to learn all of it. You’ll become my second cousin from Kokkola, Viktor Smeds. The parson of the Swedish parish in Kokkola is my father’s cousin. He’ll add you to the parish register. They did that after the Civil War when members of the Red Guard fled to Sweden, which is another thing we can do. We have family near Stockholm. I’ll teach you the language.

  I listened as Rauha spoke, and through the darkness I could only make out her silhouette, not her face. Perhaps I fainted, perhaps I fell asleep, but when I woke up we were already on the shore of the mainland. I told Rauha that I should ride the bicycle and she could sit on back. She refused. In the end we took turns riding along the potholed roads in the trembling light of a flashlight. A couple of kilometers before Innanbäck, the batteries ran out.

  Don’t worry, Rauha said. I know the road. I’ll get you there.

  Inside the family’s dwelling in Innanbäck there was hot soup waiting. I’d never eaten anything better. After I’d finished, I had some learning to do. Thank you. Good day. Good-bye. Swedish was a strange language. The bed they put me in that night was soft.

  Albert’s cousin from Kokkola came to visit. He rode here with some acquaintances, which was why he didn’t arrive until the middle of the night. That was what Alma told the neighbors.

  I managed to sleep for a few hours, wishing Rauha was next to me. The morning train from Karjaa left at eight o’clock, and Albert drove us there in a Ford, which he had borrowed from a neighbor.

  From Turku you’ll go to Kokkola, where my cousin, the parson, will then take you to Sweden in his motorboat, he said. Sometimes it’s good for priests to know smugglers.

  Rauha took care of everything. She bought the train tickets; she set out our food. We couldn’t speak Russian on the train, but Rauha pointed things out through the window. House. Car. A man. I nodded and repeated. I’d never studied a foreign language, but to my surprise it wasn’t hard. Later I learned German and some Finnish too.

  The parson was waiting at the Kokkola station. He looked like Albert. We didn’t share a common language, and we could only speak Russian in the sacristy, behind closed doors. Look, this is the parish register, he said. This will give you a new life. There’s space on this year, at the end of November in thirty-eight. What day do you want?

  The twentieth, I said to Rauha, since it was my real birthday, although in April of ’35. It would be easy to remember. I became three years younger than I was.

  You were born in a sauna, mother Johanna Smeds, father unknown, the parson said. Apparently Johanna had gone to Sweden and died there several years earlier. As long as I didn’t return to Kokkola, no one would ever doubt my identity. Since I was now only seventeen, I needed a guardian. Albert would do.

  These certificates attest to your identity, the parson said as he handed me some papers. When you turn twenty-one you’ll have to apply for a government identity card. Conscription is in two years. Take care that you learn Swedish by then. Rauha will teach you.

  That night, Rauha and I were housed in neighboring rooms. The parsonage was cold, and I couldn’t sleep. What if the authorities found me anyway? There was no way this would work. I knew nothing about Finland. I didn’t know Swedish or Finnish, and I didn’t know anyone but Rauha. I didn’t have a penny of Finnish money, and I didn’t even own the clothes on my back. My only hope was Rauha. Rauha who knocked on my door and came to me, who comforted me and stroked me and kissed me. How do we get married in Finland? I asked her. I belonged to the church now; I’d been baptized and gone to confirmation school. Did I have to start believing in God? What I wanted to do with Rauha was forbidden before marriage.

  For three days we hid in the parsonage, where we sat in Rauha’s room and talked. My name is Viktor. I’m from Kokkola, but I live with my mother in Uumaja. I want to move to be with my relatives in Inkoo. My girlfriend’s name is Rauha.

  In the fifties the world was different. Few had a television, and of course the newspapers said nothing about a soldier who had escaped from the Porkkala base or drowned in a lake. They did look for me, and even went as far as Innanbäck. I asked who Rauha borrowed the boat from, and she said she hadn’t borrowed it. She’d stolen it. No one knew.

  On the fourth day we traveled to Vaasa and then by boat to Uumaja and from there by train to a farm near Stockholm that was owned by Sten Jansson, a member of Rauha’s
family. He’d give us work and let us stay for a while. There I learned the language that would become my mother tongue. I loved this language, because Rauha spoke it. Rauha, my new life.

  It wasn’t an easy winter, and I wouldn’t have survived without Rauha. I was ill and couldn’t work, and I had nightmares. I was so afraid. Jansson was an old bachelor with a taste for drink, who worked us too hard for starvation wages. All throughout the winter we followed the progress of Porkkala’s return to Finland. First we heard that only reporters and soldiers could go there. Later, in the spring, permits would be issued to civilians.

  We’re going home! Rauha exclaimed, but I didn’t have any home but Rauha.

  When word came in a letter from Albert that the family could move back to Smedsbo in the spring of 1956, we quit our jobs. Old Man Jansson didn’t like it and leveled all manner of threats at me. I waited in terror for him to expose us to the authorities. All through those first years I was afraid, and the only place my fear faded was in Rauha’s arms.

  Albert and Alma were at Smedsbo on the very first day possible. I wondered what had happened to my few possessions, whether my comrades had taken them or thrown them away. I never knew. We arrived at Smedsbo in April, nearly a year after I first set foot in Finland. I already spoke Swedish quite fluently, but I was afraid of speaking with strangers.

  I’ll just say you’re shy, Rauha promised. Still, I feared being found out, but no one asked anything. Sten Jansson drank himself to death six months after we left. The animals had gone untended, and we mourned the cows who’d starved to death and the dog who’d been choked by his own collar more than we mourned the man.

  I survived the move, and I even survived my military service almost two years later. Albert tried to convince me to apply for a deferral as a farmworker, but I wanted to get past it as soon as possible since it was what I feared the most. I was assigned to the shore batteries at Upinniemi. We did a lot of cleaning up after the Russians, exploring bunkers and mapping out the island defenses. A few times my fellow soldiers wondered how I was so good at guessing how some military detail was organized in the Soviet army. Of course I didn’t guess, I knew. That made me smile inside. In the army I suffered pneumonia and had to spend two weeks in the hospital. Rauha came to see me when she could, and that was where I proposed.